Rediscovery Day Two: Musical Tastes

Rediscovery Day Two: Musical Tastes

My music tastes have drastically changed through the years. Well, sort of.

Before fifth grade, I didn’t really listen to music on my own. It was pretty much whatever was playing in my parents’ car, and also High School Musical. Well, I was introduced to music (and YouTube) with “Fireflies” by Owl City. Then in sixth grade, I got into Justin Bieber. That was all I listened to–Fireflies and Justin Bieber. By seventh grade, I had branched out into One Direction, Bruno Mars, and even some rap. Don’t judge me.

In eighth grade, I had this music-changing realization that pitch-correction exists. That drove me away from pretty much all pop music ever (which is sad, because there is some good pop out there). I wanted music that I could relate to, so I got into the screaming “there is no love” stuff. Also some classic rock, which is good. But mostly the darker stuff. I developed an unnatural hatred for the music I used to listen to, and I liked to shove in people’s faces that I hated what they listened to and that they should stop. I did that for several reasons. Here are some (not in any order).

  1. I was ashamed of my old self and wanted to destroy any remnant of who I was.
  2. I was angry with myself and wanted something to take it out on.
  3. I was angry at everything and everyone.

I want to make it clear that I no longer care what other people listen to. If someone loves One Direction, or even Nicki Minaj, I’ll let them do that. Everyone has different preferences, and criticizing them for liking a different genre or style would be like criticizing them for wearing a different brand of clothing. I’m not an angry little fireball anymore. Live your life how you see fit.

Back to the music. By the end of eighth grade, my music tastes softened, along with my heart. I got back into Coldplay (always been a Coldplay fan, always will be) and into some New Age-y relaxing music. That stuff is beautiful! I discovered The Eagles, Chicago, Bob Seger, and others through listening to the radio.

Now, I like almost anything. I don’t typically listen to the screaming, angsty stuff anymore, but I’ll give it credit for being well-done. My attempt to destroy my old self only ended up broadening my tastes, which are now quite eclectic. Bread is still the best, though. I love their sweet, melodramatic melodies. I’ve always had a romantic and borderline melodramatic personality. Bread appeals to that side of me. I also love Coldplay. Listening to Coldplay makes me feel like I’m flying.

Okay, and a confession. I like the song “Wrecking Ball” by Miley Cyrus. Sometimes we all like that one song that we don’t have a reason for liking, but we just like.

I’ve got to get back to listening to Bread. And eating bread. And bread pudding. Yeah, I just really like bread, don’t I?

Rediscovery Day One

After my period of numbness, my life sort of took a one-week pause. Something big was going to happen, I could sense it. This pause was from March 29th to April 4th. (I know, I’m big on dates, phases, and eras. If my life were a book, I’d annotate and analyze every page from birth to present day. This is a result of lots of introspection.) Anyway, the big thing happened. I was blasted with a powerful stream of inspiration, feelings, and discoveries. I guess all the emotions I’d lacked for the past few months all came flying at me at once. Anger! Happiness! Sadness! Joy! Everything! Feelings! On the weekend of the 5th to the 7th, I finally discovered the beauty of simplicity, the inspiration in everything, and most importantly, myself. On the 8th, I realized that I could write about all these wonderful discoveries! And so, six months ago today, this blog began.

Since early July, emotional crap has been building up. Now, I’m taking another period of rediscovery and growth to wash it off and start afresh. I have a feeling I’m going to have to do this periodically for the rest of my life, which isn’t a bad thing. These times are good, and I learn a lot from them.

Today was the first day of rediscovery. Instead of using free period to go on Facebook, I wrote. I wrote the first thing that came to me. This is what came out…

Hi, my name is Abigail, and I love sweaters. Really. Especially old, slightly dusty ones. I dress a little like my mom did in the 1980s, yet I’m only fourteen. That’s probably because half of what I wear is pulled from her closet. And I don’t care, I really don’t. I put my own spin on classic button-ups and polo–it’s called denim. I love denim. Jeans are really all I wear anymore. Those, and yoga pants. I’m not afraid to be a common teenager in fitted tees and yoga pants. Still, I can’t go a whole school week without pulling out the navy striped Ralph Lauren sweater or the dusty rugby shirt I found in the attic. It’s instinct, I think. Something deep in my genes draws me to my parents’ old wardrobe. And L.L.Bean.
     Okay, now that I’ve spent a paragraph rambling about clothes, I’m going to ramble about the four seasons. (Not the band. I mean the actual seasons–spring, fall–you know.)
     I adore spring. It’s the time of my birth, a time of rediscovery and pure creativity. Unfortunately, I run out of outfits during this time. As previously mentioned, I’m a huge fan of sweaters, denim, and dusty old rugby shirts. (Oh, and layering. Give me a polo and a cable-knit sweater, and I’ll love you forever.) This isn’t possible in spring, really. I have to make do with tee shirts and jeans, maybe a light floral pattern if I can find it in my closet. At least I can bring out the seersucker. I’ve been wearing seersucker since I was a fetus, practically. It’s October now, and I’m still hesitant to put it away for the season.
     Gah! I’m supposed to be talking about seasons, and I here I am talking about clothes again! Focus, Abigail, focus! 
     Summer. School’s out, and there’s more time for friends, so I guess that’s a plus. But the heat is sickeningly encasing. I don’t think I’m designed for the heat. Sure, I love me a great day at the beach, but that’s my limit. I’ve experienced the grossness of sweating, the inability to cool down, and heat exhaustion too many times. Summer, to me, is just spring that’s trying too hard. I don’t want a poser season. I want the real deal. 
     Am I making sense? No, probably not. 
     Autumn. Oh, how I love autumn. She is the deeper, more mysterious sister of spring. She brings pumpkins, rich colors, chilly air–and of course, lots and lots of sweaters. Hot chocolate. Halloween and Thanksgiving. The list goes on and on. Where spring sings and hums, autumn dances. 
     Winter isn’t as beautiful for me. I tend to become depressed more easily in the endless freeze. When it doesn’t snow, there’s nothing except frigid wind and short, bleak days. The leaves are no longer colorful, the pumpkins are dead, and sweaters have to be worn under thick, sweat-inducing parka-like things. I can’t seem to find a fashionable coat that is adequately warm. Last winter I wore sweaters with my pea coat and decided to bear the icy nip. 
     There’s one thing that saves winter from being “nature’s depression.” (The more you think about it, that’s what winter kind of is.) Christmas. More specifically, eggnog. I can almost taste the creamy drink in my mouth right now. In December, I’ll come home from school and pour myself a tall glass, sit cross-legged on my sofa wearing a thick sweater, and gaze at the Christmas tree in blissful delight. I can’t wait. 
     January and February are bleak, though. No holidays then. Well, there’s Valentine’s Day, but let’s be real here–I’m fourteen. I don’t need a boyfriend, I don’t want a boyfriend, and I wouldn’t date a guy if he showed up at my front door with roses, chocolate, and a Bread* record. 
     Alright, maybe the Bread record. I’ll date you if you give me a Bread record. 

*Bread was a soft rock band popular in the 1970s. Their melodies and harmonies are romantic, soothing, and absolutely gorgeous. I’ll post a link to a song tomorrow.

Thank you, by the way, for all your support. This blog wouldn’t be anything with my wonderful readers.