Memories…Like the sharp-edged corners of my mind

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Facebook is a world of pain. I actually went off it for months but then missed the good stuff it is capable of bringing, so I started using it again. While there are many things to rant and rave about to do with the social network, it’s the ‘Facebook Memories’ or ‘On This Day’ feature which has me writing this post.

It’s a bittersweet thing. And, often, more bitter than sweet.

Now, I don’t have her (see picture) and I am heavily medicated. Not in a padded room, but definitely medicated – for what little good it does me.

I have to wonder if she ever sees these…if she ever looks at her ‘On This Day’.

I didn’t mean to her what she meant to me; obviously. I was convenient when she was in need of someone to talk to, more than willing to be that someone, glad to be needed. But, I wasn’t anything special…just convenient. Until my illness got worse and life got harder and then I became inconvenient.

And even though I know all this, I still miss her because she was special to me, not just a convenient-happened-to-be-there-so-you’ll-do person. She was music and laughter and walks in the forest, and…

I know I’m not worthless just because she treated me so throw-away.  I know that. I know. But, I miss her. And, damn you, Facebook. Damn you.

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To Quote Sir Elton John…

“Sad songs say so much.”

Autumn Live at Queen's Park

Yesterday, an exceptionally talented fellow artist, Robin Chapman (seriously, if you get the opportunity to hear this guy, do it) asked me if I was going to sing depressing songs on this beautiful day.  It was a beautiful day, and, yes, I was going to sing depressing songs.  Although, that’s not quite an accurate description. They are written and performed by someone with severe clinical depression, and they reflect a lot of my experience. But, you’re not going to catch depression from them, any more than you’re going to catch my irregular heartbeat.

I have an advantage in that people like sad songs.  Music is a safe place to express and explore what we call negative emotions and life’s pain (and, life is FULL of pain). All the better if you’re good at it (the music, that is).

Yes, I sang sad songs, but I was glad to be doing what I love (even if I did have to wrestle with a keyboard that didn’t want to cooperate with me  – bloody electronic things *&^£”!!! – and everything didn’t go strictly to plan); I was out in the open air, making music for an appreciate audience, and that felt good.

Two moments in the day stand out for me as precious. One was, when the last performer of the day, the delicious Mo Shotter, called me back up on stage to sing some improvisational blues with her.  So, we sang ‘The Queen’s Park Blues’ together. This was a magically spontaneous and pure fun.

The other was when I was singing this song:

There’s a point in this where you see me smile, and it’s where I look into the audience and see my 6 year old son singing my song along with me. It was one of those serendipitous moments, a fixed moment where time stops.

Things had come full circle.

I was on the stage and my child was in the audience proud of his mummy and, very happily, singing one of my sad songs along with me. And, I saw myself at that age, in the audience, proudly looking up at my mother…singing along with the sad songs…’I saw the harbour lights. They only told me you were leaving’…

Pardon me while I wipe the tears. Pardon me while I smile during a very unsmiling song. And, pardon me while I cherish the songs – and the moments – that say more than the sum of their words ever could. Because they interpret what cannot be said, but only be felt.