Watching One Trick Pony at night circa 2006, hanging on every frame, acquiescing at the message of artistic purity and to thyself being true. All this, but to wake up early the next morning and carefully dress and prepare for work. How very rock 'n roll, I remember thinking.

My emotional reaction to popular song is so varied that I think any concise summary of what the music is "about" can automatically be dismissed. But we can certainly identify some common threads and themes. Here's one: Defiance, be it artistic, political, spiritual, emotional. Rallying against injustice, or ignorance, taking a stand against the march of time, or man. So much of the mythology is built around specific instances of this: acts to free the body, substances to free the mind.

What does it mean, then, that I find myself at once so taken with the music, and yet live a life that is the complete opposite of what it prescribes?

The obvious response -- that it offers me something I secretly aspire to -- is, I can confidently say, plainly wrong. I'm rather comfortable with the principles I've chosen. In fact, sometimes, I suspect my feelings for those who've sold their life to the music is something close to pity. Wastrels, I secretly think, chasing something ephemeral. In fact, life on the straight and narrow is not as bad as they might imagine. Yes, it's not just a purpose, but imagination they lack.

This probably also explains why I respond to a certain strain of country music -- Puritan values, and the damnation that comes from straying away from them. Life spent in fear of a moral code, where Defiance is not against the mere laws of man, but against God, and also, an Idea. Freedom of the spirit, rather than the body or mind. A much better deal, because as those ever-wise wordsmiths reminded us, freedom sometimes isn't all that different from having nothing left to lose.

Love Goes On!

There's a cat in my alleyway.

Six words, and in my head I instantly finish the tune, the song, the album. It's the voice, I think -- the plaintive tone, and the vaguely tragic image of that poor tabby lying denied of its only reason to rise and face the day, that gets to me. I know this feeling, I know it from before -- the resigned pessimism of "You're a Big Girl Now", the harmonica weeping as Nick Cave farewells "Lucy", Lou Reed's sad embrace of the night on "After Hours" -- I remember the time when these sounds and words built up a fantastical inner world, with reams of lyrics and lines saved up for the occasion I would need them. (Knowing what I do, now I wish only that I had collected even more.)

I won't say all that time spent in devotion to song was right and proper. But I liked those silent times spent in thought. I also won't claim they signify a depth of feeling forbidden to others. But I can say that they signify a sustained intensity of feeling that I haven't seen put on display by anyone else. So while I'm not against opening up, doing so all at once might be something the world is not ready for. All I can do is drop hints, leave a trail that leads to the secret life I have been living for so long, and ask those I know: is this really a door you want opened? What you'll find is no enlightenment, nor particular insight into my world or person. But if purity of feeling is worth as much as purity of thought, I have something wondrous to show you.

You couldn't give the first
And didn't save the last;
So now I only dance
When dreaming of the past.

Can someone be so scared of facing reality that they just watch as every opportunity passes by? Evidently, yes. These writings are proof of that. Not that I know who exactly is writing this, because these cannot be my thoughts. Haven't I convinced myself that, fundamentally, I don't care for humanity? Then why is every other second spent in thought of one particular human?

Perhaps there is something to reincarnation after all. I know I am damaged, but how can that explain the entirety of my experience? The thought that all these years of suffering could be the result of a deeper, more elemental sin that I have committed, is vaguely comforting. It could be that I am meant to proceed with this belief, and convince the Spirit of its place in my universe. Or it could just be another of increasingly disturbing delusions. And destroying a life other than my own is a step too far.

I know I shouldn't spend time getting so invested in stories, imagining them as forking paths in lives that could have been. I know that what I ought is to look ahead, to make something of the life that actually lies in waiting, not the ones I passed by. But though I know that fantasy will not take me to anyplace good, I cannot see anything better on offer.

I'm searching for words, but also for feelings. Because I know I must be feeling something now, only, it can't seem to make its way to the surface. It is too crowded up here: I find myself in a surfeit of thought and emotion. How much more can I fill this well with no one to empty it? At present, the answer seems to be: not a drop more. So with a full heart and light head I survey what is left of the world around me. Songs, stories, sirens, all beckon for my attention, attempting to provoke me into response. But I dispatch them with unquestioning resolve. It was all fun while it lasted, believe me; but now it is time to move on, and stop falling victim to the vagaries of emotion. Instead I shall learn to look straight ahead, pretending to occupy the space I am standing in, and wait for a purpose to make itself known.

Self-deprecation is occasionally funny, and consequently can be useful as a social device. But I know it's also profoundly cowardly at times, the cheap joke offered in lieu of action or effort. Why do I just shut off in front of other people? Because I live in fear. All this self-effacing is much easier than actually trying something new, expending the energy to do something, rather than just observing the world from afar, carefully crafting words that aim convince myself how special my thoughts are. But I know that it is, sadly, not true. Sounds that echo around endlessly can seem the most beautiful melody when it is all you hear.

This is why I value socialising. Sometimes, it seems the ultimate form of sobriety -- it convinces you you are no one.

Why do I find myself constantly on edge, in battle with my mind? Because if I lose that fight, I have no guarantees anymore. Every second could be the last spent in everyday reality. I had a moment today where I glimpsed into the counterlife that waits patiently, as my resolve was slowly weakened and I considered revealing my thoughts to the unwitting companion of that hour. Fortunately, I succeeded in suppression, because who knows what would have happened had I succumbed? None would be spared the terror and beauty of what I have seen. Images and words from lives that did not happen, songs and voices that the world can never hear.

Sometimes it actually seems possible to leave everything behind and rejoin my fellow man. All that I need is to stop remembering, right? How hard is that? It is only through repetition that one becomes convinced of something. When taken out of the rut whose eternal return I know all too well, I am reminded that there is an infinitude outside what I do and can ever hope to know. Somewhere in there must be a way out. All I need is a reason to start searching.

Amateur Hour

Hearing a large portion of the Sparks catalogue in succession after a long hiatus, I'm tempted to make grand statements about the impossible brilliance of the songs. Specifically, what caught my mind this time was that the lyrics are surely some of the finest ever recorded, not only featuring one of the most mordant senses of humour in popular song, but being the embodiment of a lifetime's worth of frustration and bitterness. The thought that life can always be more unfair than you perceive it -- how nonchalantly it is all put to a glorious melody and beat.