I was inspired by my good friend Alex. (found
here.) In his recent post, he wrote about "ambient composition" and how everything around you can be interpreted as music, despite being random. The pitch in the fan, the rhythm of the dryer and the syncopation of a text notification. All are random, but can and do have a musical quality to them.
I'm taking it one step further and perhaps in another direction.
Seeing as how Alex is musically inclined and partial to various pitches and rhythms and any other musical terminology he can drop in a conversation, he naturally notices these things. I'll hear them too, but it's not my forte. What I imagine when I'm sitting here on my couch is what's going on around me. Almost like the
Power of 10 video we watched in junior high. Instead of adding another zero and expanding in an ever growing circumference, I imagine what's happening in the places I've been a part of.
I imagine what I would be hearing and smelling were I at home, in my old room. The sounds of my sister in the living room, watching tv. I hear a muted reality of what she is watching, voices as if they are talking through a pillow, bass frequencies lightly vibrating my floor/the living room's ceiling.
(The changes in pitch, frequency and general quality of sound amaze me, depending on your position and what lies between you and the source. Even listening to a test tone, one can bend the pitch depending on the way you turn your head.)
Then I glance over to a picture of my freshmen mentoring group from Milligan. We all lead different lives, most of us are married, some of us are single, and a couple still need to grow up and apologize for some things. A couple years ago, I may have felt a twinge of sadness, not being able to keep in touch with them. But I've let that go. I'll see them when I see them. No point in losing sleep over people who probably don't worry about not talking to you.
I move from the 8x10 to my wall of various concert posters and snapshots. These posters are reminders of memories that are either prominent in my mind, or just something that I know I did. I find some significance in them, but nothing of emotional importance. (When I packed to move, most of them were thrown out). They're just posters after all, not family heirlooms. So why did I feel a little pang as I tossed them into the garbage? With a strange sense of growing up accompanying it. Even now, my new room at my new house in my new city has a distinctly different feeling than the one in Chambersburg. (I need more pictures of friends though. My parents are bringing the rest of my stuff when they come down this weekend. Pictures will be with them.)
Remembering different facets of my room feels weird. Knowing those elements are no longer together, creating the image of 'me' that I wanted to project. My full-length mirror with more stuff on it than need-be so it didn't serve it's purpose of reflecting yourself back to you. The obnoxious orange and silver dresser my sister and I spray-painted one night. My nightstand that was a collage that was "in development" since 8th grade. All pieces from the past, but not things that I need to take with me into my future.
Future. Damn. It's hazy. But it's exciting. It's something to look forward to. And there's something new to look forward to.
So despite how many times I re-watch Firefly and Arrested Development, I'm eagerly looking forward.
And by "another direction" I mean something almost completely unrelated. But it works.
b.
