Somewhere, out in the ether in a blog post, I read an entry in which people were discussing music. Going around in a circle, people listed their favorite bands and musicians until, finally, one woman said, “I don’t like music.” Everyone was stunned. And then the author went into a riff about not being able to understand not liking music. I wish I remembered who posted it and where.
In any case, I could relate. It’s not that I don’t like music precisely; it’s more that I think silence is completely underrated. When Steve comes home from work, he always does two things: grabs a beer and flips on the stereo. By this point, I’ve been alone all day working, and I’m happy to see him. But at the same time, the blaring stereo often makes me feel itchy and overstimulated.
This is a problem. If Steve has one passion, it’s music. I’ve often thought that he feels about music the way I feel about books; he can identify any song playing at any given time on KEXP the way I can rattle off authors by title, or title by author. For me, the past couple of weeks have been wonderful; we still haven’t put the stereo back together since getting the floors redone. Steve has been listening to a walkman CD player, and I’m free to enjoy the silence.
I don’t know if this is a phase I’m going through, or somithing more insidious, like a slow progression into being able to tolerate less and less in my personal space. Don’t get me wrong; I listen to NPR and podcasts. But there’s something about music specifically that grates on my nerves.