I don’t know when, but once upon a time I started to occasionally pretend a movie was being filmed while I was living my life.
But it only happens when I’m listening to music. And my movie had its heyday during the approximately 520 days in 2006 and 2007 two times each day, 38 minutes at a time, riding the F train between Brooklyn and Bryant Park for that thing called a commute. With my IPod on its highest volume, and my earbuds in tight, I rocked out internally to whatever scene I imagined was being filmed. It worked especially well when I stared longingly out the window of the subway, direction-less at darkened tunnels flashing by. If I was sad, Cyndi Lauper was belting out True Colors, on repeat. If I was pensive or feeling defiant about my job, Belle and Sebastian sang my anthem. When I was feeling subversive, or condescending towards my fellow riders… well, I’ll let you guess. Certain songs meant that I was supposed to burst through the opening train doors to freedom, and strut down the platform. Others meant it was time to begin a new same day like Bill Murray in Groundhog Day. I forced the downloads of as much Top 40 as I could get, but secretly preferred the indie rock that was Bryan’s own life soundtrack.
Last night, on the spur of the moment, we went to see a friend play a great show at the Soho Revue Bar, off Piccadilly Circus, that wild, untamed Times Square-ish beauty of a place. His friend played after him, very catchy, and I couldn’t help but dance around with my two momentarily new Kiwi girlfriends.
Bryan and I are in awe of all our friends who are musicians, whatever level of current success, or instrument of choice. They all sing, play or rap the soundtracks to their own movies, but I often pretend they’re mine too.