Post 32: Music is the key.
I’m trying to be glad all over, but the drugs don’t work.
Right now, I find myself listening to Idioteque by Radiohead, drifting into its haunting chaos.
Music is my only true prescription.
What soothes my soul might not suit yours—but that’s the point. Music is for everyone. It meets us where we are and takes us somewhere else entirely.
I’m at peace in the discord of Kid A. It’s dystopian. Immersive. It’s not about melody or love songs. It’s not meant to be liked. It’s meant to feel. And it feels like me.
For me.
Alone.
Music has always been there. It’s the thread running through my life—aside from the deep love I hold for My Darling, of course.
I remember Leaving on a Jet Plane on the car radio, in mum’s rusty Morris 1100. No seatbelts. Floor panels you could see the road through. Jimmy Young signing off with “TTFN.”
I remember church organs so loud they rattled bones, choirs straining to reach heaven with off-key harmonies.
It all left a mark—far more than the ministers or schoolteachers ever did.
Let’s be honest: I’ve never contributed well to harmony.
I was front row in the alto section once—more for attendance than ability.
“He’s punctual,” they’d say, “but…”
Thank God that era had no TikTok.
No footage exists of me mangling hymns or spinning around on roller skates like a disco drunkard.
Our generation got off lightly. No cats falling off TVs. No birthday faceplants.
No digital clutter filling cloud vaults with moments we’ll never rewatch.
But my tapes, my vinyl, my stack of CDs—those are treasures. Tangible and timeless. Free to store. Easy to enjoy. No buffering required.
Eclectic doesn’t even begin to cover it.
Metalhead? Yep.
Roller disco? Absolutely.
Burgers and drum’nbass in seedy joints? Been there.
Proms in castles, bagpipes in highlands, indie, prog, funk, punk.
I’ve enjoyed to it all.
But I always come back to the layered landscapes of prog-rock and the poetry of indie rock.
These days, My Darling and I mostly choose to travel to see our current favourite songstress Leddra Chapman live—Cardiff, London, Milton Keynes, wherever the music and she takes us.
There’s nothing like live music.
(Unless you’re stuck behind someone who knows every lyric and wants you to know they know them.)
I sing too. Quietly. Not quite a second alto anymore. More of a tenth tenor.
———
Today I’ve promised myself—and My Darling—a walk.
The first since the pulmonary embolism.
A short stroll outside.
Hand in hand.
She’ll lead the way.
But we will travel together.
⸻
Still in limbo.
Still asking questions.
Still standing.
PS
It’s the weekend and I want some peace but I have sent two emails today.
One escalating my frustrations over the lack of response and guidance from my local oncology department, the other to ask questions regarding the second opinion about my cancer treatment to different, not so local, oncology department.
Enjoy the weekend everyone.
