There are few things I enjoy more than the feeling of interconnectedness amongst people. You know, finishing sentences, long cerebral discussions (sadly, as I grow older, these get fewer and fewer), and little existential proof that we are not just amoeba floating through some kind of time tracked void of lightness.
I was thinking earlier of being down in Richmond a few years ago. Patrick used to live just outside the reaches of urbania, in a place called Powhatan. My brother and I would go down periodically to visit and to escape our awkward adult lives in DC. We were driving back from a climbing gym where Pat worked, Dan climbed, and I contemplated getting exercise, on a very sunny late autumn afternoon. The trees were mostly stripped bare of any last jagged sandpaper leaves, yet strangely the fading sun was quite warm, zipping about in my old VW through once lush Virginia backwater.
Listening to a mixtape a friend had made the previous year, we came about "New Paths To Helicon Pt. 2" by Mogwai pulling out of a gas station and turned it way up. Just as the droney mellow part gave way to the ethereal noisebath that is the second part, we passed into a portion of road lined with trees. The strobing effect of the sun through the trees coupled with the ambient wail that is New Paths to Helicon nearly tore my scalp off with goosebumps, adrenaline and near epileptic sunlight.
I said something like "holy crap!" to Dan, he responded with an exasperated "I know…"
It was a moment that justified my love of music, needing no explanation other than cutting down to the tendrils to a place where there is nothing left but sound and light.
Reading: "Steven King: On Writing"