Friday, 04 September 2009

• Expressions of Love

  I've always been on the reserved side of expressing affection with others. A handful of friends have instated conditions on greetings and salutations. They insist on receiving hugs. I'd imagine when forced I may be one of the worst huggers in the world. Just ask my mom. Actually, she went for a reading with a Spiritualist who indicated I am the type of person who is "gifted" and my psychic sensitivity makes it difficult to touch others without absorbing their energy. Have I lost you yet?
  
  I enjoy my personal space. Yet at the same time, once the magic switch is turned from off to on, I can be one of the most physically affectionate people on the planet. I'm thankful for such discretion with this magic switch, particularly on weeks with moons like we had yesterday. Otherwise I might as well sign up to be one of those kittens in a cage up for adoption along Broadway on bustling Saturdays.
  
  This evening, choosing to self-medicate with a vodka tonic and a 1973 guitar, I did the unthinkable. I listened to my own music out of curiosity. I had forgotten about this song I wrote and recorded nearly two years ago. "The Vineyard." What a sappy, emotionally charged, lonely song that just begs for someone to welcome me into his arms after an episode that took too long to turn on my magic switch. This is not coming from a source of self-indulgence so much as an unexpected acknowledgment. Here I am, with my moniker of "Miss Diatribe," bathing in intellectual critique, pithy comments, and occasional (or semi-frequent) bitchiness, equally guilty of creating sanguine, lyrically-driven melodies that come with their own violin (courtesy of the talented musicians on Craigslist). I'm a complicated mess. I'm a mixed bag of fireworks smuggled over the New Hampshire stateline. The easiest way for me to express those deep emotions is through this odd yet instinctive manifestation in a song. And while I've been impatient with those who don't "get the message" from said musical masterpieces, how else could they react? I mean, a song... really? Bring on the Velveeta tonight because it won't get much cheesier than that. But it is what it is and only with time have I managed to cloak the daggers of my self-protective words in conversation with the truths that come through my songs. I'd imagine songwriting has been a backwards form of therapy that not only saves me a therapist bill and a few scripts of Lexapro, but also can occasionally affect the lives of fellow nutsos in a positive way. (Er... did I really just call my fans nutsos? I think I did. But anyone who would consider his or her self a fan of mine would be comfortable with that term. Or so I hope. My formers always were). So... um... thank you, Universe?
  
  While other people implode or paint or jog marathons and train for the Olympics or kick the competition's ass in their chosen vocations, I'm looking for the next melody or vocal note or lyric to act as a razor into the soul of the one(s) who have inspired my song. Okay, maybe songwriting isn't always as sappy and flattering as this blog initially led you to believe. I tricked you. But songwriting does the trick for me in a way that my years of journals (which I hope will someday be discovered after I die and lead a generation of degenerate youths towards a movement of... well... who the hell knows what'd my entries would drive them to do? Give women more world power?) cannot. And while some of my formers, or victims, may have not felt the rainbow of love and loss showering from my songs, I think that maybe we're all guilty of not acknowledging how others express their love. I've been harsh on those who use money, but if their intention is in goodness, then what the hell does it matter if they shower you with roses, tens and twenties, or a late night serenade?  Or maybe it's in simple actions like the occasional phone call or text to just say "hello" because anything more feels like giving away too much. I can relate. Hugging sucks. And admitting that hugging people makes you uncomfortable is about as lethal as telling people where you are most ticklish. The most devout hugger will merely hug longer and tighter in a persuasive manner to fully demonstrate what you're missing out on. I think the Spiritualist would argue that such dedicated huggers are really messing with my chi.
  
  But the point of this blog is that maybe the action means little. Maybe the words that tag along are just as futile. It's the intention that counts. And if we could read the intentions with people a bit more, there'd be more empathy and less miscommunication. It might mean a more peaceful state of being.
  
  

  • 11:55 PM
  • 73 Views
  • 2 eProps
  • 2 Comments