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What haunts are not the dead, but the gaps left within us by the secrets of others.
{Nicolas Abraham and Maria Torok

Grief that cannot be expressed builds a secret vault within the subject. In this crypt reposes - alive, reconstituted from the memories of words, images, and feelings - the object ... as a complete person with his own topogaphy.... In this way a whole unconscious fantasy world is created, where a seperate and secret life is led.
{Nicolas Abraham and Maria Torok

notes off the top of my popping head...
Scene of the hearth: where we watch TV, listen to music, adult music whose undercurrents and articulations we may not yet fully comprehend, whilst knowing that it is an adult DISCourse and does contain SOMETHING we hanker after ... just like the discourse of the Parents, the music of whose voices we are also always interpreting or blanking out... full of flare ups, sudden silences, the verbal equivalent of secret looks, so overheard tinkly test card or kids prog music on TV becomes infected or inflected with the same ambiguities we radar-discern inbetween our parents words... 'There's something a bit odd about that music,' some part of us thinks; just like we do with the things parents say to one another...
... and years, decades down the line, later (but much earlier), we don't recall the parents and their n-coded speech, we 'remember' the uncanny theme tune or TV muzak played during long blank afternoons off sick from school (just you and the Mother, tending to your every whim, his majesty the infans...) or when we stamped into our bedroom slamming the door against some kind of commotion downstairs, or cocooned our ears in the night with headphones, against who-knows-what whispers or creak(s) or moan(s)... this house is alive with the sound of mmmusic...

(interestingly, this nostalgie de BOO! may be ruined when the object of this suspended listening maybe reveals themselves to be human all TOO dirtily un-innocently more than merely tackily human: Gary Glitter, for instance...

posted by Ian 1/19/2006 09:54:00 AM

...the acoustic guitar theme to a program called 'rooms', gentle weekday afternoon drama...
Then there is that spectral cusp-of-teenage moment when -- maybe intuiting for the first time the proper import of the music that plays about the hearth -- you try to insinuate something (a song) into the gaps, but all the resonance you've ascribed to it goes quite unnoticed -- it registers only as noise -- and you think (Hamlet & Gertrude!): I'm the only one in the room who can hear it....
the rolling stones and blondie crashing into my eardrums thru headphes when i was 14, blocking out the world
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