"If music be the food of love, play on..."
I am mad. Completely and utterly mad. In fact, if it were the 16th century, I would probably be in the bottom of some small basement cell in a monastary on some two acre small island in the middle of the Pacific Ocean.
But it's not. Today is the age of the uber-cool virtual world, where anything you say will be broadcast to the entire world, or at least, those with internet connexions, or even, those who aren't blocked by such governments and authorities that filter out words like fuck, arse, cunt and girls.
Yes, and in this uber-cool virtual world of today, I don't go to a monastary, I don't turn to religion, I don't turn to doctors, psychologists, psychiatrists, brain surgeons, idiots or imbeciles. Instead, I turn to the incredibly powerful therapy of the internet to vent my complex and often strange emotions and fits.
Frenzied searches in the past led me to writing programs, pornography, YouTube, Gutenburg, more pornography, political forums threads, flame wars, the IMDb forums, more flame wars, dating websites, chatting to 67 year old men in those dating websites resulting in an incredibly hilarious log of the conversation involving sticky keyboards, rulers, floppy disks and the odd hard drive cumming all over the place, Nation States, Conservapedia, the Westboro Baptist Church, President Bush, Presidents of the World, Presidents of the Internet, BBC News and the Wikipedia.
My latest frenzied search for mental release has resulted in a site which has popped up on the grid for me before, but this time, I actually tried it out, to see what it's like. I liked it, so I downloaded the client and I happen to be using it right now.
Last.fm is an incredible resource for writers. And I consider myself a writer of sorts. Random, lyricless music helps me to write - and I've found a radio station which suits me perfectly - 'ost'. I have to skip through Marilyn Manson every so often, admittedly, however, it tends to be more than satisfactory, catering for me music which doesn't feature in my collection however does give me some good writing momentum.
The quote which opened this post is the very first line from a play called "Twelfth Night" by a reasonably famous playwright name William Shakespeare (Shakeshafte?). I love this line in a way, because although it mentions one emotion, it encompasses all that is amazing about music - it's the gateway to emotions. Many has been the time when the music more than the soppy montage in a chick flick has made shed a tear or two. Music tends to hit a certain part of the brain where emotion is confined; it breaks open the cell door that confines them and let them do what they should never be allowed to do - run riot.
Or maybe, should emotions be allowed to run riot? A moral dilemma, I would have to say. If you let all you emotions run absolute riot, you would have the most loving, caring, sympathetic, psychopathic mass murderers on this planet. Talk about creepy.
Anyhow, that's enough of my riotous madness. I'm listening to 'Jack Sparrow' by Hans Zimmer, I have to do a college assignment and until next time, good night and good luck.
