“I dreamt four nights ago of clock hands descending from the universe like rain, of the moon as a green eye, of mirrors and insects, of a love that never withdrew. It was not the feeling of completeness that I so needed, but the feeling of not being empty.”—Jonathan Safran Foer, Everything Is Illuminated
So, I wrote a while ago on here that I was going to keep this blog exclusively about the music I write/record/whatever. Well that didn’t necessarily happen. But, I will still use this as a medium through which I advocate when I accomplish something new.
The pseudo-summer weather did something interesting today. It was was song-like, almost, the way the temperature and the breeze and the color of the sky brought me back to a different time, and I felt like I’d hibernated through the fall and winter months. Did they happen as a mere flash in the pan, like a dream?
The most recent summer months brought to my palette a taste of hopeful passion, of freedom, invincibility.
Today, the warm wind from an open car window at dusk, whipping my hair in my face, brought forth an empty feeling where these misplaced tastes may have manifested. I remembered them. But I could not experience them.
How I miss it. How I miss the cliche emancipation I knew, for once in my life.
Winter is over, and I find myself unexpectedly longing for its bleakness. Never would I have thought that I’d miss it. It was the most stabbing nothingness a season has ever proved to entail. But it fit. The warm weather, the warm feelings, the late taste of freedom; they find themselves uncomfortable in their old home. They do not belong.
I want to run from the bittersweet flavor of summer, and from the bittersweet thoughts that arise. I want to escape from the rigidness of winter, and from the horrible nothing laying to rest.
And there is no place in the calendar for a person with no place.
“She was a genius of sadness, immersing herself in it, separating its numerous strands, appreciating its subtle nuances. She was a prism through which sadness could be divided into its infinite spectrum.”—Jonathan Safran Foer, “Everything Is Illuminated”