I will start with a caveat: “maybe it’s just me but…”
I have a thing about music. I am enchanted by it, infatuated almost. I fall hard and fast for intricate lyrics and complex melodies or a simple but powerful combination of the two. I will go through a phase of listening to the same playlist or album every day for months, blissfully content and fulfilled by it. Then something happens, and one day, it’s just over. Yet still, in months and years to come, when I hear one of those songs, I can immediately identify the set of memories and experiences it lovingly accompanied.
So that’s me and my connection to the mystical sounds that support a billion-dollar industry. Another “fun fact” about me is that I also tend to get overly attached to people with whom I bond over a love for music–and a specific type of music, even. But like all other relationships, those eventually turn sour at some point, and the music we once treasured ends up stained and abandoned. At least until my heart heals enough to listen without longing and the happy fog of nostalgia sets in. 🙂
Anyhow. I went to a concert last night by one of the IU Jazz bands, and it was fantastic. And it got me thinking about “aftertastes” of the friendships in my life. Most of them, as I said, didn’t turn out so well. When the connection died, I was left with a sad or hurt or bitter taste that I didn’t know how to process. I realized last night, though, that it’s not universal. Jazz seems to be an exception: although the person I most frequently associate with the genre (though not the first to love or introduce me to it) is no longer a part of my life, letting the music wash over me was a thoroughly pleasant experience, and remembering that friendship actually brings me a smile.
I’m not sure what it is, and I’m not sure why that friendship is so different. I could be that I have just become so different that its effects on me are dulled. Either way, I am not about to complain! I intend to continue savoring it for as long as the aftertaste endures.