TheLegendsLeague

It’s 3:29 AM here in Toronto. I’m listening to Norah Jones, “Feels Like Home” and I feel more awake than I have in a few weeks. The atmosphere in my kitchen is a lot like the atmosphere in my room at my old apartment. I’m sure nobody can hear me right now, and I’m quite certain that there are only a handful of you that are listening once I hit the publish button on this latest insert. Pardon me while I switch the kitchen light off and flick my desk lamp to give in to the ambiance. (…Ah. That’s better. Moving right along).

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I spoke with someone at the office the other day about how difficult it is to break up with someone whom you have lived with and shared love with. He said something that really brought me back to when I broke up with my daughter’s mom. He said, “It didn’t really hit me that this was going to be the hardest thing I would have to do until we started divvying up the music. Like, who takes the Billy Holiday? You know? Who takes the music we played when we first took our son home from the hospital?”.

As the silent mornings, 5 hours at the marketing agency, silent afternoon streetcar ride, 6-7 hours at the youth program, silent night streetcar ride, 2 hours of work at home routine starts to ware and ware on me, I’m noticing myself struggling to listen to music. I’m noticing myself more likely to keep everything quiet in my home. I keep the television off. I don’t ever use my iTunes. I don’t like hearing people in the lot behind my apartment. I don’t want to hear anyone in the hallway. I’m likely looking through my peephole if I do hear someone out there. I jump at every sound I hear. I miss being able to control when I am bothered and by what I am interrupted by, and I miss not feeling like everything I hear is bound to be a question of what I can do for someone else. And because I miss these things, I have put myself in a predominantly silent shelter. It’s piercing.

Over the last week I have tried to change this routine. I wake up in the morning and let Breakfast Television play while I run around like a chicken with it’s head still on. It plays until I look at my stove clock and realize I’ve spent so much time getting ready that my head is on the floor and I’m frantically trying to find which pair of shoes has my orthotics in them. I bring my iPod with me to work again, usually listening to Silversun Pickups, Death Cab, Jack Johnson, MF Doom, or anyone whose lyrics give me reason to be happy that people have voices. Sometimes I revert back to Buhloone Mindstate, or Donuts, or the self titled Slum Village album, that, while not a lot of people’s favorite SV album, shows how severe Elzhi can make things for a bullshit rapper near you. I’ve tried to bring myself slowly back into the world of sounds that are pleasant and appealing rather than sounds that are pestering or seeking approval for my latest design.

What’s interesting about our relationship to music is no different than being an anglophone in the gut of Paris, Italy, or a small village in Peru. We are involving ourselves with a mental dialog that doesn’t include opposition or conflicting opinion. We are surrounded by flocks of people whom we cannot communicate with comfortably. We are foreign and frustrated by how close we are to one another, but how far away we are from understanding each other. But then there is this landscape, this environment, this ambiance that captivates us and speaks to our need for reflection. The ocean doesn’t say anything directly at us, but it speaks to so many of our thoughts. And in response to this relation of sounds and emotions we nod our head, we close our eyes, we cry, we dance, we hold one another, and in moments of sheer bliss, we keep our shades on in the club and pour Grey Goose down the throats of groupies. Yes. I said it. The throats of groupies. I’m sure Norah Jones can relate.

The thing with having spoken to so many psychologists and psychiatrists growing up is that I am used to these non opinionated dialogs. I am used to speaking freely about what is on my mind and not worrying about the response. There’s just an understanding that what is coming out of my mouth is the honest truth. And I will not be shot down for it. This is why it’s recommended that many people speak with shrinks. It’s nice to know that you can air things out to someone who is supposed to be speaking beside you and not against you. And here is the inverse of our relationship with our music. The difference is that the music we enjoy under particular circumstances is the music that reflects an artists ability to speak to an emotion or scenario that an individual has experienced. Our attachment to our dialog between listener and song is that we don’t have to speak our minds, it is being so well spoken to already that we understand that while we may walk in a country that does not accept us wholly, while we roam the streets of a community that cares not for our opinion, while we struggle to make it through our 9-5’s, 10-10’s, 1-3’s, or dead time in East Detention, we are clearly not alone in our struggles to be accepted for who we are in a fashion that is without bias. Music provides us with this acceptance.

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It’s now 5:04AM. I took some time while writing this to clean my house a bit and light a few candles for my wife, who was just coming home from work. Norah Jones has played through, as has Yesterday’s New Quintet’s, “Stevie”. And I’m back to silence. There’s something about my thoughts on foreign land being a metaphor for our regular lives and landscapes acting as our soundtracks that now, under silence’s watch, has got me ready to go back to bed - When it comes time for me to find my way home, I still haven’t found anyone who understands me enough to point me in the right direction.

DAY TWENTYSIX RESULTS:
Day Twentysix Weight: 168.7 lbs.
Emotionally: I’ve forgotten the sound of my voice when it’s just there for conversation.
Appearance: This morning I looked crazy skinny. It actually shocked me.
Level Of Temptation To Cheat: 8 out of 10.
Cheat Beers: 0

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