And I Am (not) Telling You, or, It's a Think Piece

There's this song. It has a kind of simple, effervescent quality, and an lovely inertia that makes it feel proper to start it over as soon as it finishes. One listen turns into two or three, sometimes more. It's a song you want to fill up the last leg of your walk home. And to start you off again the next morning.

So this song occupied a good space of time in my life at the beginning of last year. Partially for the above reasons, and partially because lyrically it was somewhat fitting for things going on in my life. A little bit of musical zeitgeist, if you will. Maybe a little bit of spell-casting, too. Or not.

And then it was kind of over. In part, I stopped listening to it because I picked up other CD's; the usual stuff. Moreso, the extra meaning and circumstance I'd attached to the song had, in retrospect, begun to prevent me from enjoying it.

I think I stumbled upon it again last fall, shortly before moving back to America. Again, one listen turned into multiple. But this time it was a sort of purging and reclaiming - I walked around enjoying the tune once again.

And all that sappy stuff. But, anyway, I like the idea or feeling of having a relationship with a piece of music. Much like a person - there are times when you don't want to see anyone else, and then times when you want to see anyone but. Some songs feel like the biggest, most intimate truth, then suddenly feel like a lie. And then feel like maybe the secret wasn't ever really for you, but it's a good secret nonetheless.

Me and this song, we hang out for a while every few months. I still think the song is beautiful, and worthy of perpetual rewind (I've listened about five times as I type this). But now it just makes me think of all the things that have a little over a year. And all the things that could happen in the next year or so.

It's not Hudson, by the way. Or Holliday. I'm not that corny.