The day promises. Not much, but days always promise.
The air is damp, the voices continue freely and unafraid. Around me is detritus, stasis. Boxes half-opened and several not tampered with. Not representative of the past or anything because the past was never neatly packaged up like that (except when it was). The music that plays is someone else’s playlist. Very difficult to determine notions of ‘good’ and ‘bad’ faced with overwhelming evidence that all taste is tribal, contextual anyway. One of my students love Nickelback and she acknowledges that this is not a cool admission. The only reason people say they hate Nickelback, I tell her, is because the social media hivemind has determined it is OK to hate Nickelback. Likewise, Ed Sheeran (something I freely admit to being part of). Why is it OK to laugh at Nickelback and not Foo Fighters? Objectively… ah now. There’s the rub. Objectively.
I still have no songs for you. I write in the gaps between the vast yawning chasms.