I get songs out of the ether. They slip out and wave when I need them most. I tend to replay music to death because certain 'albums' will be soundtracks to chunks of my life. This one slid right out of the past tonight and kissed me on the cheek. Seems I needed it.
I've spend the better part of 39 years (come December 1) trying to please those looking on. And I'm learning every day that slips by that that's a hunormous waste of time. I've known it for a while, but it's hard to break old perfectionist attitudes, especially self-imposed ones. My worst jailer is me. My worst warden is self. I'm trying to focus on how I feel about stuff only. And those closest to me. The people who form the nucleus of my life. It's hard for me. I'm sort of a rabid people pleaser who likes to appear in whatever pretty package the onlooker expects or desires. It's kind of exhausting, though. I think I might be embarking on a slice of life titled: Cutting Self Some Fucking Slack...
So this song is in my head on a loop at the moment (though The Black Keys are my current work soundtrack). I'm taking a bit of time off this week to enjoy the fam. It seems well deserved and hugely needed. I hope you and yours have a superb holiday where you can sit back, stuff yourselves whether it be turkey or tofurkey or turkey-like-substance burritos from the 7-11. I hope it's full of laughter and fun and peace and sharing.
As an aside, Phil Collins was huge when I was a freshman and sophomore in high school. I do think that Face Value and No Jacket Required are at the top of my formative years play list. I thought he was a sexy motherfucker. My friends--all Tom Cruise and Emilio Estevez addicts--laughed at me. But I was a word whore, English Lit centered, GT student then and to me, anyone who could write lyrics like that and sing them so you felt the tug and pull of emotion in your belly was...well, a sexy motherfucker, no matter the package. That's how I roll to this day. I don't care if you're wrapped in a short man in a suit with an accent and thinning hair or a six foot six athlete. It's all about the innards. No turkey pun intended.