Rorschach.

I used to sing in the car all the time.  Somewhere over the past year I stopped, turning instead to the dulcet tones of NPR, letting my right brain slumber undisturbed. But recently I started again.

I have always had the irrational thought that my iTunes — or my Amazon MP3 player — was psychic.  It picks up on my mood.  So now, looking at the emotions conveyed by the songs that come up, I have to wonder what they mean.  They keep communicating…

Restlessness.

“Together we’ll could break this trap, We’ll run till we drop, baby, we’ll never look back.”  Bruce Springsteen, ” Born to Run.”

Wistfulness.

“I wanna be a producer, ’cause it’s everything I’m not.”  “I Wanna Be a Producer,” The Producers.

Angst.

“The past is stronger than my will to forgive, forgive you or myself, I don’t know.” “Shawn Colvin, “Shotgun Down the Avalanche.”

Fear of death.

“And it’s go, boy, go, they’ll time your every breath, and every day spent in this place is two days nearer death.”  Great Big Sea, “The Chemical Worker’s Song.”

Anger.
“There’s a pain in my chest but I wish you the best, ah.. F*** you!”  Cee Lo Green, “F*** You”*

Panic.

“Help me if you can I’m feeling down, and I do appreciate you being round…”  The Beatles, “Help.”

Wanderlust.

“And the people who love me ask me, when will you be back in town, and I answer quite frankly, when they stop building roads, and all God needs is gravity to hold  me down.”  Allison Krauss and Union Station, “Gravity.”

All of these songs reverberate with their own fierceness and odd determination (other than possibly “Help!”).

I realize that there is a tremendous amount of confirmation bias going on, that I only am hearing the songs that are resonating with my own feelings — still, I wonder what my iTunes and my brain are telling me.  Maybe it is because it is October, which brings its own issues, as much as I love it.

October is a strong, restless month.  Maybe it’s rubbing off a little..

*There is of course the expurgated version of this song, but it is far less cathartic.  I was playing it once, and the Not So Little Drummer Boy was very scornful. “No, mom. Just no.”

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