My brain doesn’t just talk to me. It sings too. We’ll go through significant periods of time together where my brain will regurgitate music non-stop for hours, days, even weeks at a time.
Okay, I may be exaggerating a bit in that there must be breaks on occasion during the longer stints, but not by much. Seriously. This “music” will even wake me up at night sometimes too. And it seems like it takes nothing at all to start back up again whenever there is a pause.
In fact, as if to prove it’s part of this writing team (and here I thought I was just writing about my brain, not with it), my brain is currently treating me to a rendition of Lionel Richie performing All Night Long – with the occasional mash-up with Kool & The Gang doing Celebration. Not that it’s anything so civil like taking turns, mind you; sometimes it’s interspersed like a shuffled deck of cards but mostly it’s just like a contest to see who is loudest. It’s fun. It’s also a little busy inside my head.
Fun fact – the busy part is true. The part about it being fun – a lot less so.
Sometimes my brain replicates entire symphony orchestras and sometimes it just gives me bits and pieces to work with. No matter how much detail there is, it doesn’t usually do much good unless I can somehow identify or recall the original source material on my own because I can never hum or sing it at anywhere near the level of quality that I can hear during my brain’s playback.
And let’s be clear – I’m just a bit obsessive about knowing things, so having music play on, play on, play on in my head without knowing what it is can be problematic.
Of course, my brain will quite regularly only provide “fair use”-size samples – or other small bits breaking out of black-hole static and fading back again into the emptiness. When that happens, it’s usually frustrating to not have enough to work with to identify the song. A week later, and I am still trying to figure out which really well-known song won the rhythm-matching contest while I was running recently.
After a few days, I was able to say with confidence that we were walking to the rhythm of Wish You Were Here, by Pink Floyd. I’m not sure the Tall Guy is exactly used to pronouncements like these but he loves me and usually overlooks them. Sometimes he’ll even try to help with the song identification if I can give him enough to work with.
I still have no clue which song my brain started playing back for me during the run but in one of my attempts to figure it out by trying to bring up the playback intentionally, it suddenly morphed into My Generation from The Who – an ever-popular contestant when my brain decides to play Medley-Time. I’m sure my brain is just fucking with me in that same way your younger brother used to mess with you by hollering random numbers when you were trying to count something. It makes me think that my brain might be a bit of an asshole at times.
I’ve learned some patience over the years. And I can be persistent to the point of outright stubbornness. It’s sort of like letting a fish run off for a bit before reeling it in. If one lyrics search on the internet doesn’t cut it, try another one later; eventually another word will break out of the black-hole masking full recall and give me what I need to find the song if I keep at it long enough. Making the discovery that the song I’m looking for is Boy from New York City by Manhattan Transfer results in feeling both victorious and deflated.
My brain just says, “fiesta!”
Yep, still an asshole.