When I write for the blog, the words have recently started out in a note taking application called “Obsidian”. I like it primarily because it writes in plain text. When starting a new post, I invariable name the file with the date, and then the name of the day until I think of something better.
Tonight’s post’s initial title is “Saturday Night” - so guess who’s now humming Whigfield’s one-hit wonder, and knows he will now be humming it for the next few days. So will you. You’re welcome.
It says something about the way I typically write that I don’t have a clue what a post is going to be about until I’m writing it.
I just launched Spotify, and asked it to play “Saturday Night”. Maybe if I listen to it, it will drive it out somehow?
I need a playlist of 1990s dance anthems. Ear worms. For some reason the memory of a box-set of dance music I once owned just climbed from the catacombs of my memory. The box was branded with the logo of a club called “Miss Moneypenny’s”, with a picture of Melinda Messenger in a silver lycra suit on the cover.
Isn’t memory odd. The things we have seen, heard, watched, read, or experienced get stored away for years - decades - with the happenings of every subsequent day, month and year piled on top. All it seems to take to recover any of it is a sound, a word, or a smell.
I can almost imagine my brain as an old curiosity shop or library - filled with a ramshackle collection of curios, junk, and brick-a-brack - overseen by a Professor Quirrel type character - who hears a sound or tastes the air, before holding a finger up and racing off into the labyrinthine catacombs before returning with a tome of memories - a bound volume of a place and time with an embossed binding and ribbons tied across it’s pages.
I can smell the library, even though it doesn’t exist.
I love the smell of libraries and second hand bookshops.