fear of music/remain in the light

It's funny that Steve burned those two albums onto one disc for me, and titled it as above. They fit somehow.

So we came home early from the Jazz Convention (or "band camp," as Harry calls it) because of the blizzard and had good food and Harry's friends tackled me into the snow and it was fun and lovely. Now the snow's covered about a foot at the bottom of our windows and the streets are buried. Nobody's outside. No cars are going by. The subway system cancelled its weekend construction plans and I bettered mine to include extra Harry, and Jo's play tonight.

It's so strange to look at the city and realize that for all our skyscrapers and sewage systems and lofty life philosophies, we're just insects in the hands of nature. Ultimately, there isn't really anything we can do about the snow. The blizzard will persevere, either across open plains or through cemented streets, equating them with gorges or canyons. We can plan for snow days, but we can't stop them. Watching the wind drift through the streets makes me feel insignificant. Tweety is scared. She's never seen snow like this. She flying around, landing on my head and then flying off again.

On the bus ride home, I ignored everyone and drifted in and out of sleep while I listened (in this order) to Count Bassie, Sinatra, B. B. King, Jerry Jeff Walker and Bob Dylan. It struck me that I'd barely listened to any music all first semester, and had barely read anything. And while listening to Highway 61 Revisited, I realized that the scope of my intellectual interest had been relatively stagant. I hated the tiny circles that everyone was moving in, but my own thoughts rarely went beyond my classmates, my family and my relationship. I was a self-contained tiny circle. My depression and apathy prevented me from even wanting music or emotions or ideas. I felt dead and I didn't want to be alive again. In a way, I was afraid of feeling too much, except for Harry, who bore the blunt of my confusion. I didn't want to have to feel or think. But listening to music really does make me feel alive again, excited and pensive and true. I thought about the route Dylan's music took and felt like I could see him losing and recovering himself the way I do. Music can be an anchor for the soul, a healing force, as can art and literature. And I need that anchor.