Music, dreams, parents, poems ...

I was listening to 'On The Radio' by Regina Spektor [great artist she is, lots of power vocally and emotionally, full of everything] and miming playing the piano as usual [or what I imagine to be playing the piano, as I've never played one seriously] but as there actually were keys of some sort in front of me I found myself tapping out a nonsense sentence, the words of piano, if I actually could play the piano and had been hitting the right keys rather than hitting the keyboard to the beat it would have been beautiful and artistic.
Thinking about it in more detail, it was kind of symbolic. Here I am trying to put everything into words, even music, which can never be put into words. Since I have no musical talent I turn instead to writing, which I do have [some kind of] talent for. Scribe for a a generation. And thinking about in even MORE detail, it was definitely symbolic. Whenever I'm upset or disappointed over something, writing fills the void. Even vacant blogging like this, that no one will ever read, is something.
Also listening to Death Cab for Cutie and Neutral Milk Hotel. And I've started listening to a Belle & Sebastian CD that someone gave me years ago, and that I never listened to because I was a mainstream-music listener. [I'm ashamed to admit it even though I was about 13.] It is really good, and gives the kind of thrill that comes with discovering something wonderful which has been in your CD stack or bookshelf for a long time. Exactly how I felt when I read Fear of Flying [my favorite book. Read it. Read it. Read it] and discovered all that world of irreverency, a word which I didn't think applied in any way, shape or form to my parents' bookshelf, where that particular masterpiece had resided for the years before I found and adopted it. It is now officially mine, and the bright yellow cover is something which makes me happy.
I realized that although it is my favorite book, I haven't read it for months and months. I haven't listened to my favorite band, The Dresden Dolls, for days now. Maybe almost a week. I haven't spoken to my best friend in weeks either. There was a time when I would read Fear of Flying for comfort. I remember my dad being out with his girlfriend [whom I hated] one night, and I stayed at home and read the book. Amanda Palmer's voice is like a friend to me ... I hear Dresden Dolls songs in my dreams sometimes. I've heard 'Half Jack' in a beautiful dream about taking my family to a forest on Christmas and weaving for them a kind of gossamer castle out of dewy spider's webs. And I heard 'Sex Changes' in a dream where I was actually playing the piano [my unconscious screaming that I should learn how to do it instead of pretending in dreams and mimes] in my grandparents' house and considering opening a music school for children. I forget exactly what the school was to be called, but it had the word 'Tree' in its name. Anyway, back to the point. I used to also talk to Emily every day and she was [and still is] my first port of call in troubled times ... I guess what I'm trying to say is that your favorite things or people are the ones who are there for you when you NEED them, when you're upset. Affection only as need ... it's an interesting concept, albeit one that has been explored before. A friend in need is a friend indeed, and all that.
Mick is writing new songs. He sent me one, 'Hope And Despair' and although it's only forty-six seconds long, it's beautiful. Absolutely floating ... and yet heavy at the same time, hence the name I suppose. Anyway, it only enforces my conviction that there is nothing Mick can't do. He is afraid to read my poems, however, because he "would rather continue to be under the illusion that you are perfect." It made me think - does writing make one appear flawed? I suppose so. Especially poetry - poetry exposes all the poet's flaws for anyone to see. I understand Mick's unwillingness, and I remember what an uncomfortable feeling it is to read my father's poems, to see his flaws, in love with the illusion of the father, illusion of the image of perfection.
Speaking of poems, and parents, here is a beautiful, still, peaceful poem that my mother wrote when she was in Year 9 or something ludicrous like that ... how can anyone write like that? why can't I write like that? all the usual ...

Spider

Small spider, curled, eight legs brown,
And hung in clear air.
Held like a drop of water vapour
Unsupported, unattached.

But how does he stay?
Why is he not blown
By the fierce gale of my hot breath?
And how does he climb
With all legs whirring,
Up a ladder which no one can see?

He climbs the web of air
He walks on the atoms
And journeys over vast uncharted regions.

If we could, but would break out,
Crack open this heavy shell,
Leave our touching, grabbing selves.
We’d climb the wind
Run on air
And sleep in the net of the stars.