Should Auld Acquaintance Be Forgot?

I was pondering this yesterday.
I mentioned my clear-out, did I not.

Well, I have this box, as in 'actual physical box' where I keep a stack of e-mail print-outs. In the olden days these would have been LETTERS, handwritten and all, I know, I KNOW.... (sigh). I also have a seperate file in my e-mail account named Correspondence... you get the point, right?
Wow, so she gets e-mails....
Those are the reminders of the past. Part of my past. Pleasant and not so pleasant. But that is just how it goes. Nothing extraordinary about it. There is nothing at all about it that could be called special or even extraordinary.
In fact they are so unremarkable and non-specific to my life right now that I have not bothered to look at them in almost 2 years.
I knew they were there.
I ignored both boxes as well as one can.
I could not bring myself to a) burn the contents of cardboard box and b) delete Correspondence folder.

After a friend told me she got wheepy when finding old postcards from "that bastard" (her soon-to-be ex-husband), after I told her I still have most of the e-mail conversations saved or printed out, (yeah, perhaps a touch obsessive.) she simply looked at me questioningly. Why?!
I don't know.
Because I thought some day I would get them out and re-read them and I don't know LEARN something...?

Well, you HAVE learned something already: he was a shit. he was not good for you. Not even close to good enough. You were not even in the same category. So there's your lesson for you.
MOVE!
ON!

Part of my inability to let go is vanity I think.
It's pathetic but I do believe I wrote some pretty witty and insightful stuff then. And so naturally I want to hold on to those musings, keep them.
Again with the posterity!
I am sure yesterday it was established that no one gives a shit. The world keeps on turning. With or without some idiotic e-mails written over 2 years ago.
NO ONE CARES!
Believe it, girl. What you are up to in your little head is so inconsequential, it is elaborate to even say/write that it is in fact inconsequential.
So why does the human mind obsess on occasion about the ickle things in one's life?
Perhaps they were not so ickle.
Perhaps - and I realise that not so much with shock (because I have guessed this) but rather with a certain tiredness - this chapter has not been closed, for the sole reason that it has not been dealt with in an appropriate manner.

Maybe this is the time and the place. When it comes to digesting, dealing, sorting, this is a good place as any. It does not matter really (see above).
But what does matter is moving on. Moving away from the past with all one's faculties still intact and, what is more, with one's head screwed back on.

Let me start then, at random.
This is after all just me rambling. About . . . stuff. That's happened. That's never been aired properly and thus has been left to fester and boil. It is about time it was set straight:


I thought revenge, I thought doom, I thought bunny-boiling. Which is a normal course I do believe.
Well, not the bunny-boiling - but I am making a point here.
The point of anger. Something I have only ever allowed myself for moments, for tiny alotments of time.
In order to be able to say that I am mature and I get it, it didn't work out.
In order to be able to be the strong one that moves on, I held on to this anger, in effect holding it back. For fear of totally falling apart.


WHAT A CROCK O' SHITE!

Things Fall Apart - as The Roots so wisely said - and people fall apart, too - as I am sure anyone has noted once or twice in their lives but just did not bother to make an album about it.

Void, I am sorry - I will have to stop here.
Whatever excuse you accept.... oh right, you don't give a shit... ha, I forgot for just a sec.

Anyway, be back soon.

The John . . . Going On A Bit...

The Place: a bar
Name: The Void
Actual Fact: No one cares since it's the Void


I am now officially pledging the Fifth. In my case it should be the Sixth. I.e. THAT part in the universal law of Wine Drinkers Solitary And Anonymous that refers to the state of inebriation (i.e. units of alcohol) of the individual in question and in connection to that the inability to be held accountable for what was said and/or written in said state of inebriation.
SUCH a good thing that we are talking VOID here.

Alcohol makes you both naive and wise. (Really what it does is simply lower your inhibitions.) (Oh good, pointing out the obvious here.)
I believe this is why people tend to say that children and drunks speak the truth. (As above.)
As to speaking the truth - I honestly cannot say that I am or, IF I was, which?
Literary studies taught me, there is never only ONE truth. A complete and utter philistine would now utter something like: Makes you wonder just how much Shakespeare and the likes were drinking. Well, our beloved Mr. Pope, I am sure, was always anything but. A drunkard that is.

I am partial to the occasional drink. Especially on a New Year's Eve when there is nothing better to do and no one around. (May be turning into Bridget Jones. Must check for further signs.)
There is some kind of list of classic and highly appropriate things to do on this night in particular. Fancy dinners, friends galore, lavish parties, countdowns and toasts, and not forgetting auld acquaintance(s) and days of auld lang syne.
And you know what, this lady is in no mood to tick any of the boxes.
I love me some red wine, some sherry, too.
I shall dance and skip and gyrate and whirl like a dervish.
I may remember this and forget the other.
I may cry and laugh, joke and swear.
I shall be talking to myself a little. Aloud. Like me, myself and I were three different people.
In my mind I will be dancing with John Mayer in my kitchen. Slow dancing to some old Gershwin number.
I'd even pretend to have on a fabulous gown and my hair'd be sleek and simply wonderful.

In the end, all it ever really is is make believe.
The new year is the old year is the old is the old is the same old same old.
It's crushing. It is devastating. Nothing ever really changes. No one ever really changes. That is what is called the universal experience of being human. That is why, Mr. Mayer can wax poetic about the mundane and the easily forgotten and overlooked.
We carry on.
Regardless.
Whether we have learned anything or not.
It simply does not matter. Because the world does not stop turning just because we break a leg, a heart, a crown.
The world does not give a shit.
I wonder whether that is something to take into 2014.
To take into consideration at least.
At last!
Because, for sure, this lady has not in the past.

It is that kind of knowledge that eludes you for a long time and screws with you continually.

So make sure you got that down!

For posterity and all...

The John (An Entry Far Too F***ing Long-Winded For It's Own Good)

I am not talking about toilets
I am talking about Mayer's John.
Say about him what you will I love his music. Straight from Room For Squares it's been a lot of jumping around in dark rooms on Friday nights, a lot of inebriated nodding and swaying, a lot of crying and the occasional shout of SING IT, MR MAYER! Because I know he knows.
Yup - that is what OUR relationship is all about. Honesty. Understanding.

Sometimes my cynical self goes something like this:
Good thing, JM is around - he goes on Soul Searchers and comes back with bags of knowledge so you don't have to. Of course, I chide this part of myself and retort, that really what JM is doing - and kindly so - is to provide a soundtrack to life, not so much his, exclusively, but  - since we are all experiencing basically the same thing - a large portion of "us".

Coming to think of it - I am not a musician, I am a language person, so the notes and riffs and the whole composition which I am sure are fascinating, are way beyond me.
But still I believe JM is a poet, too. In the literal sense of the word.
Is that too much?
Not sure.
Am I singing praises where they are not deserved?
No clue.
What I know is that his words - and I know, too I am mixing metaphors here - think of it as COLLAGE - are like snapshots.
And WHAT do you mean by that, Ms.? Pray, tell!
Well. He highlights a mood, a feeling/emotion - a quick observation, a hint of something, nothing lasting, just a thought. And that is what photographers do, right?
Both capture something. Something intimate. It's like looking at the world through their eyes. Cliché, I know. Can't think of a decent metaphor. Am not Alexander Pope after all. So there.

 - FIFTH BEAKER - I would like to mention this, Void, and though I know you are as unforgiving and uncaring as ever and in ANY way possible, I am STILL recording it!
... for posterity... or whatever. That is a contradiction in terms I know... but hey it is New Year's Eve and I am on my fifth beaker.

I have lost my train of thought completely - not that it was ever there... mark that down to beakers and heavy drinking. So sorry.

I was - in fact - advised to take up drinking to get myself in the proper creative mood. If writing would not come - and I think it was meant as if Creativity is reluctant  - then "seduce her by all means possible".
I believe that was to say: Take charge. Get drunk if need be and coax her out.
Her?
Her?!
Anyway - a healthy drinking habit is said to have been beneficial to many a literary endeavour. Not so much the liver, mind you.
But! This is a story for some other time.
It's a good one.
It's Christmassy and all in the "Spirit of the Holiday" and "Good-will-toward -men (and women, clearly)-malarkey.

Back to Mr. John Mayer. Who is as flawed as the next person. So?
I think what really matters and is the only thing that should matter - since he is a songwriter and musician first and foremost - that he has an ear as well as an eye - and perhaps, most of all, he has a heart.
'coz it takes a heart to be bothered in the first place.
By the every-day. By the minutiae of a so-called ordinary life. By the insecurities of growing-up. By Love. By breaking-up. By Not-knowing-what-the-hell-to-do-with-the-rest-of-your-life. The list goes on.
JM is a archivist. A diarist. A snap-shot-taker, for lack of a better word.

For some reason I am a little worried that he might be offended, arguing that it takes so much more than just clicking the button in the right moment. His recording is both a challenge of words and of notes and keys. And while writing that I am not even sure what that means.
I think it tries to touch upon the fact that both lyrics as well as music are involved in this particular artistic process.
Be that as it may, in cometh the laywoman:  - Both are a kind of a language, right?