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Music Is Dangerous

I can’t listen to music all the time. Maybe
because when I really like it, it distracts me out of my normal life and
everything goes to hell.

For example. I put on some
music and go do some boring housework, because while I think of myself as a
writer, most of the time I am someone’s unpaid maid and babysitter (AKA wife
and mother). So I have all this bullshit to attend to, like buying groceries
and ironing and cleaning shit and making sure people eat proper meals and it’s
not terrible, but it’s constant enough to be dull. Also, I’m not very good at it.

With music, I can
pretend this tedium is not happening to me. Tune out the checkout line or the gross
build-up bathtub ring or how my kid eats fruit like a goddamn locust. 

But then I get all
dreamy and stupid. Like the concept of time is gone, and I’m thinking about
ideas and memories and voices from nowhere come at me. I’ll get some idea of what
could happen next in my book. Or a new idea entirely. And I’ll go back to my
writing and fall into it, like it’s a bed and I’ve been on the road for 24
hours.

Except that
doesn’t work when you are someone’s mother. And when you’re supposed to make
dinner or drive to swim practice or whatever. You can’t be a dreamy, unreasonable
slave to your lunatic ideas. 

I never know
what’ll set it off. Some corny-ass country song and BAM! I’m like the dude in The Manchurian Candidate, all
programmed to shuck off my normal life and fall into some other fantastical
agenda. Music is dangerous, man. Stick to podcasts for when shit needs to get done.



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