restoring my soul

All I could do today was sleep.

Well, not all I could do; I've grown tired of living like a troll, with the equivalent of hobbit bones and rags and garbage strewing the floor of my cave, so I'm in the process of cleaning. When I'm seldom home and exhausted when I do find myself within my own four walls, it's easy to let things go, things like folding clothes and stacking papers and books. I defend myself by thinking how difficult it would be for a burglar to make it within range of my gun before he or she tripped on something and broke a bone in the dark and woke me up with the howling and screaming. Of course, the way things are going, I'd probably have a civil suit on my hands when his or her insurance failed to cover the accident. Maybe the gun should make an appearance in that scenario after all.

I've decided that I need to listen to more music. This made itself clear to me when I dreamed about it last night -- I was telling a good friend, I don't remember which one, how much it sucked driving my parents' car because it has neither cassette nor CD player (and I am iPodless) and I can't listen to my glorious repertoire of music few people enjoy but myself. So when I woke up, I thought, Why, thank you, subconscious! You're so much more observant than I am. That is one of my problems. I can't live without music, and I've been trying to live without music.

It's like forgetting to breathe; I don't know how it didn't occur to me. Probably because it's something I usually only do in the car -- when I'm driving it doesn't matter how loud I make the volume, and I like the surround sound of the car stereo; at home I only have my TV. I can really belt out the harmonies when the music is all around me and louder than I am; it's thrilling. In my house I usually prefer some state of libraryish zenlike quiet. So when I stopped driving my own car I just stopped listening to music.

Which is dumb. I always feel much better listening to music. My albums, in some respects even more than my books, are my friends. I call the artists by their first names -- Conor, Sufjan, Josh. Different friends for different moods. And few things make me feel better than cranking the volume way, way up to until my heart and my lungs contract in time to The Crane Wife, or Cassadaga, or The Historical Conquests of Josh Ritter.

Mm. Music heals. I'm so glad we as human beings were created in the image of a creative God. We come up with some truly wonderful music.