Music is whelming.

Not overwhelming, or underwhelming. A steady flow of the stuff in between.

I remember having a few conversations about this very thing with some of you about how there is just … so … much. So how do we compartmentalize it all?

We all (I think), for the most part, are living in places where there is a lot of sensory input. And more often than not, I will try to make some sense out of the orchestra of brake screeches near the Light Rail, or the wind wisps over Sloans Lake, or the palpable silence of a snow day, or the cello being tuned at the Mercury Cafe, or the baby laughing on the carpeted floor in my home.



These are all sounds. These are all whelming.

I’ve been trying to do a lot of growing up in January. With the change in altitude, with the change in temperament, with the change in friends and music and more and more family additions and winter wear. But even still, with all these new sounds considered, we all have to remember our Radio Flyers: the wagons that carried us around, perhaps speedily, or with ease, but always with the people who pulled you along.

I want to fly down these concrete streets. I want to look back and see everyone, everyone there ever was, up the hill we’re all about to fly down. And I want to feel like this flight doesn’t end.