Inspirational Voodoo

No, not yet. Just a flashback photo from last summer, but soon ...

Is there something in the human brain that responds to the stimuli built into sappy, inspirational songs?



So, I’m driving home from class after a long day, flipping through the radio (because the thousand songs on my IPod aren’t enough,) and I hit on one of the – what? – five stations running De-lilahhhhh in the evening. Yes, She of the low, narcotic voice that brings the romantic, the maudlin, and the neurotic in droves (notice I did not say suicidal or psychotic. I don’t judge). Usually she’s murmuring to or about some lovelorn supplicant who has found their soul in the music or on a matchbook, and I can flip past, because she’s not talking to me.

But, tonight she stops murmuring, and plays this song called The Time of Your Life. Well, I’m driving down the highway and changing lanes, so I am slow to flip to the next, and just like that, some harmonic combination hooks into the reptilian vestige of my brain, and "Oh Please" turns to "Hey, that’s kind of …" without any sort of transition. I at least have enough brain activity left to realize that I’m nodding my head and smiling a silly smile. Great. Next I’ll be adding it to my blog (yeah – laugh it up, Monkey Children).

But I’m not bitter, just ridiculous.

Why do we need sappy, inspirational; tunes? Because, sometimes we need a life line. Sometimes, we let life pull us a little too low for our own good. And, sometimes we let life push us a little too high. And sometimes, it’s not life sending us to either extreme; we jut feel like sinking or soaring. And, that’s fine, until it goes on too long or too far. Then, we have a tendency to act up (or down), and that’s when all the trouble starts.

So we, or God, or the Mother, or the Daughter, plant all these interesting bits of stimuli in our path to keep us on an even keel. Maybe, it’s a song, a painting, a photo, or a poem. A slant of light, running water, warm sun after a long winter. A political sound byte, a religious sound byte, sex (good or bad), food, wine, and we’re back to song again.

Whatever. No really. Whatever.

So, thanks, Delilah. May your name be inscribed in some quiet, echo-y marble hall, where the goddesses are cool and where supplicants murmur your name in warm, round tones.

Happy St. Patrick’s Day, lads and lassies. Be safe, 'cause there's three more days until Spring, and you don't want to miss that.