South Park Self

dark side of the moon

This is so weird. One of my music-acquisition projects lately has been to gradually acquire copies of all the stuff I used to listen to in undergrad, mostly on evil bootleg tapes which have subsequently lost all relevance, technologically speaking. Today, Pink Floyd's Piper at the Gates of Dawn arrived. Listening to it is a very strange experience, because, while I don't think I've heard this album in, gosh, probably fifteen years, it's still utterly familiar to me - more so than music I listen to regularly at the moment. It's as if I heard it yesterday. Something in the sound is hardwired into immediacy rather than nostalgia.

I'm wondering if this is about simply being in your early twenties: the experiences you have then are particularly vivid, they impress themselves on you extra hard because so many of them are new, taking those first steps into adulthood. It's not as if Piper is particularly significant to me, it's a background sound track to a fairly generalised sense of time and place (Honours year, the Twickenham Rd house). Dark Side of the Moon was much more a personal-totem album, it'll be interesting to see if it feels as immediate, once I've actually persuaded Loot to find me a copy.

Talking about moons and dark sides and things, I had truly bizarre werewolf dreams last night. We gatecrashed, literally, a huge, swanky, eighteenth-century mansion by the simple expedient of driving a limousine straight up the driveway and crashing it in through the front door. The place was full of werewolves, all hairy monster-men in eighteenth-century costume (rather Cocteau feel, in fact, although colour rather than black-and-white - lots of orangey browns). I was with some unspecified quest-partner, male; we were really rather evil, or possibly surrounded by evil and rather desperate. At some point I killed a woman by strangling her, rather inefficiently: I had to do it a couple of times because she kept coming back to life, and eventually we dumped her unconscious form into a giant excavation which was conveniently in the garden, and piled earth on top of her. Later we locked another woman into a sort of giant cage with all the werewolves and waited for them to kill her; it was somehow important that she died in pain. In retrospect, all of the above is probably stuff I shouldn't tell my therapist. Or should tell my therapist. If I had a therapist. Memo to self: don't acquire therapist.
  • Current Mood: contemplative introspective
  • Current Music: Pink Floyd, Piper at the Gates of Dawn