Dingsi @ Dreamwidth

I wanted to make my first post of 2012 but DW ate it. It was something about plans for two meta communities, wanting to visit people in meatspace, and how I celebrated New Year's Eve with my sister and her boyfriend who are a very different goth generation from mine but I can tell them things and give them stuff. We talked a lot and watched movies and ate pizza. They left with my incense sticks, skull candle holder, skeleton mirror, sterling silver skeleton-in-a-pentagram necklace and a smaller version of my black winter coat. It was great.

Hugs to you all. You made my life better and I hope we'll all still be around in 2013, living, loving, and journaling.

This entry took me two hours to write and it doesn't end the way it began. It's also long. I'm afraid that's the best warning I can give.


With "fire" I mean "finished cataloging my CD collection", of course. Minus four or five soundtracks, but at that point I didn't care anymore. I'll add them next week. The whole project took almost two years -- delayed a bit by moving the index to Dreamwidth, almost exactly a year ago. It was a hassle sometimes, but it was bitterly necessary, because with almost 450 "general" CDs and some 200 more stored away in my two DJ cases I was starting to lose track of what albums I already owned, or which version (reissue? limited? with or without bonus material?). So next time I place online orders or visit a store, I have a list to rely on.

Currently I'm uploading tracks for later (legal) use at a mixtape site, and boy, I've missed this. I wanted to make it quick, just upload what I need, but most times I end up listening to the songs anyway.

I've always had two best friends in my life: books and music. Take one of them away and I'm going to wither and wilt from the inside. But it's hard to explain what music means to me. With books, it's easier: it's about things like access to information, the physical pleasure of touching and shelving and smelling books, the stories to disappear in, or how the school library always meant safety to this child because the bullies never went inside.

Music, however, is that thing that reaches into my ribcage and squeezes my heart directly. Visiting concerts is the closest thing I have to what I would describe as a "spiritual experience". Which might be a simple sensory overload of sorts, I don't know. Sometimes there's that feeling like my chest is just... widening, and at the same time there's a pressure inside like those seconds before you start crying, but it's nice. Like, I once wrote in my music blog about a radio channel, "oh crap now they're playing Adorations by Killing Joke and I'm almost crying". It sounds terribly cheesy even to my own ears, and of course there were no actual tears streaming down my face, but the emotional tenseness was there. Being touched. Yearning. Certain melodies, bass lines, musical styles can reduce me to a puddle of emotions, and I wish I could explain it, but I can't. Every time I try to talk about music, words fail me.

My father was a musician. He composed on the piano, gave guitar lessons and in the 80s was a member of a new wave/electro/experimental band, back when keyboards and sampling were still relatively new. (They weren't very successful.) I'm using past tense because I don't know if he's still alive, and I'm not sure I even want to. He wasn't the best of dads. He could leave me alone in my playpen for hours while he disappeared into the studio, and stared at my mother with wide eyes when she came back and got furious - what's the deal, I was fine, wasn't I?

I used to adore him when I was little. Nowadays it's hard to keep seeing his good side. But no matter how crappy the genetic material might have been - manic depression, schizophrenia, and alcoholism ran in his side of the family, and my mother's side had no qualms using Ending Up Like Dad as a threatening spectre of utter failure - I could never pretend that my knack for music wasn't his gift. I was crappy at reading notes, but was keen-eared when it came to melodies or rhythms and could play songs from memory. I dabbled a little in various instruments -- flute, melodica, keyboard -- but couldn't keep up interest outside lessons. But I started collecting music, and later books and magazines; mostly but not exclusively related to the goth and darkwave scene. It took another decade until I found out that I loved being a DJ.

It only lasted for a few years. The times were chaotic because my life was. It could be amazing or frustrating, often during a single evening, and eventually I burnt out when the heap of assorted problems collapsed over my head. There was a lot of shit going on, but in hindsight, it was still an important phase of my life. Ambivalent, but important (which leads to entries with titles such as "Five reasons I don’t miss being a DJ... and five reasons I do"). I don't think I have enough of the qualities necessary for subculture DJs in my area to carve out a space on my own: I'm shy, I tire out easily in large crowds, I'm bad at selling or advertising myself, my technical knowledge of the equipment is lacking. I work best in teams, as a musical lancer or genre specialist to contribute to the playlist and beam happily at guests when they come up to ask me about the song that's playing, then writing the title on bat-shaped cardboard cutouts I have prepared at home. But there hasn't been a team for years and I'm not sure there ever will be again -- perhaps that window has closed. (I still daydream sometimes, though, that someone asks me to support them.)

In the meantime, I settled into the role that I filled out best: the enabler and go-to guy for finding good music. Friends lovingly nicknamed me their "music dealer", and it's making me proud. This is the part I always loved the most: spreading appreciation for certain bands and music genres, making people find new favourite bands, recommending songs they might like. It fills me with joy. This is why having an 8tracks account is such a big deal for me: I can make mixtapes again and direct people there.

Still, sometimes I feel... disconnected.

I don't know why it is that I have this need to be a mentor of sorts. I'm aware that I'm already a mentor-ish person to some people, and I'm fucking grateful for that honor (curse word used deliberately to deflect feelings of, uh, emotional feelingness). But that specific niche in my life -- as an ex-goth, as a music geek, as an archivist -- still feels like it hasn't been properly filled yet by anyone. I don't mean that I have no-one to talk to... but the talks are fractured, you know? One friend to share music with and snark about the annoying parts of the modern goth scene. Another friend to talk about indie bands and concerts. I have a favourite party and people to go with. That's awesome. But the parts don't make a whole.

There are still those evenings when I feel like jumping out of my skin in frustration.

I can't remember if anyone ever asked me to see all those goth-related newspaper clippings I own, or for one of my music-related books to borrow. I can't remember if someone ever asked, do you know how the Cologne Schwarzbuntentreffen started? Sometimes I'm scared that I'm collecting all those things for naught; that when I die someone will throw those articles away and sell my CDs for a few cents each because they don't know, or don't care, what it's all been about. In my mind, these things are as close to a legacy as I can think of. Sometimes I'm worried nobody will want to carry it.

That's not how this entry was supposed to go. I just wanted to wax poetically about music.

You know, perhaps I just miss my friends. Perhaps I miss the tiny sliver of fame that I had, because my self-confidence is still so shaky. Perhaps I'm feeling helpless and angry that my former colleagues never ask after me, or that several persons I was hoping to reconnect with never got back to me or ignore my invitations re: chat and a beer. Perhaps all of this had a bigger impact on me than I was willing to give it credit for, and this is the first time in years that I'm in a position to actually reflect on it and count my losses. Because when you need to make a rigorous cut to survive, it isn't any less painful.

You can never go back. I'm not sure that's a bad thing, and even less sure that I would be happier or healthier if I went back there, but sometimes I want to go anyway.

Still tired. Also, bleeding and cramping, so I decided against having my blood sample taken today, and will instead do that on Monday. My mood is... um.* Let's just say I'm feeling exhausted pretty quickly and what I'm currently craving the most = playing Diablo2 some more and having unbeliavably sweet things such as tiramisu or tangerine cream cake. Like, for comfort.

So, this is not comfort food, but a comfort entry.

( This got longer than expected. Behind the cut: bread, pictures, thoughts on my goth years [sort of] and my sister's taste in music. )


* No, not just because of menstruation, though there are some rather reliable consequences in my case, because generally speaking one thing it does NOT is make me feel good.