Emotive Memory

Most musicians have an extended metaphor that they continue to fall back on that runs as a link and works as a humanizer between their albums. Conor Oberst has his Yellow Bird, and Lorde has her thrones. Jamie T doesn't have a single song without the word trouble, or at least one of its many synonyms. I am trying to place my metaphor so that I have something to fall back on. Two years ago, I would have said that it would be to do with the action of swallowing: a stifling of swells of emotion, or a method for the ease of absorbing information. In my head I dream of houses. But they are never mine. I write of roots to ground me. But the ground is not mine. Nor is all that I touch, or see. Perhaps I lack the possessive nature that comes with music. I like to observe, as if a writer taking note to preserve emotive memory. Emotive memory finds its life in many funny and distinctive ways. My eyes are attempting to shut as I type this. I will draw on some emotive memory of today: The heat that was making me pace, and want to melt at the same time. Trees that smell like sperm during Spring. We Have Always Lived In The Castle. French Onion Soup/Sour Cream/Cracked Pepper Watercrackers. $4.95 and the change I had in my pocket. "Please, pay me tomorrow. Please. Please." Paddling pools next to the bowling club. Note. Wine, Noodles, and Vampire Sex. Oliver growing up to quickly, and they don't even know me. They don't even know me.