I really screwed up. I shouldn't have picked that Iggy Pop album when I felt I needed something sponge-y. I have a tendency to remember and relate to the adventures in my life to the music I was absorbed by at the time. If I play Sketches of Spain, in my mind I am in Florida again and it's 1986. If I play Tin Machine, in my mind I am remembering a cold winter wind blowing in from the Atlantic while I stumble along Virginia Beach in 1990. Iggy Pop is different for me, I hear him and I am simply young once more.
To think back on nights that now seem reckless, when I was more in control than I realized at the time and closer to the razor thin edge of control than I could now muster; is a powerful memory to resurrect. Striped to the waist, all sinew and lean, moving in angles using math I cannot use anymore.
It is remembering that I saw beauty in the ugly, order in the chaos, and the golden ratio in nothingness. To see the city's ripped backsides was a call to roam forbidden streets.
I'm now battling atrophy on several fronts. I have to keep it at bay for as long as I can. It is there, though, and it seems to sense I am a prime candidate for a future host. Music to inspire you in such a struggle is easy to be found, but listening to something that takes you back several decades to reveal a lost bit of self, can be a bit defeating.
Next time I put Iggy on I'll be better prepared. I'll let Iggy be my standard bearer when I am stronger. I am trying to get there.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment