Really though, I haven’t always been such a bitter old
wench. If nostalgia hasn’t obscured my self-image too entirely, I was actually
quite an enjoyable companion and conversationalist in the old days — honest,
curious enough to listen and generally nonjudgmental (okay, that last one is
the nostalgia) — and by old days I mean pre-Hiatus, or roughly two years ago.
We (yes, you and I!) could possibly have had a pleasant little chit-chat about
which new film we wanted to attend or respectfully exchange opinions on any
album released within the last couple years as if it was “current” — and all without me ripping your throat out
for assuming I’d want to discuss such an inconsequential topic as music with a
fellow mortal such as you. Plus, if I’ve never heard of it — or especially if I
have — it’s probably not worth clouding the moment of precious free time in
which you’ve cornered me. What’s that you say? I’m afraid I don’t understand;
my only known words belong to an exclusively awesome dialect known as sarcasm.

Most veterans of music writing that I know look back on
their time with an almost pitying fondness that’s often worse than the
overpuffed importance of those still immersed in the practice. Entertainment
journalism is widely considered the least pressing of the journalistic
practices, wrapped up in romantic details too specific to the artist or
isolated scene in question to solve any major political problems or expose
social injustice or otherwise better the world for those more unfortunate than
we.

And there is probably enough bad music writing (thoughtless,
lauding press releases disguised in vague quirky-talk) to back up this
brush-off a thousand times. But what I try to keep telling myself, tossing the
front page aside for a sleepless night of squeezing chord sequences for meaning
and attempting to wrangle the impossible debate of what makes something good or
bad, then assembling a self-satisfying string of perfect adjectives to form
sound-imitating literary music of my own (or something retartedly optimistic
like that), is that art is ultimately what the rest of all that “important”
crap is for. Why try to be free, try to survive, try to better our economic
situations if not to finally just enjoy the rewards of human creativity?

So you see my dilemma. After being holed up in a dark room
atop the Student Center (otherwise known as the Internet) for two years, trying
to prove to myself there’s a purpose in tanking classes and relationships to
obsessively write and design shit nobody even sees, I’ve become this confused,
foggy-brained introvert — half wistful prophet and half music snob
(coincidentally the two types of people I think I hate the most). Then there’s
this over-analysis of self to top off
the mix with a seal of doom. So if I’ve brushed you off or alienated you with
wordy pretentions, as I tend to do — maybe it’s only because I’m jealous. I get
so caught up in writing and thinking about it that I forget to be part of it —
I, the artless, who makes a life of observing and deciding the art of others.

In final review of myself, Hiatus Editor: two very
enthusiastic thumbs down, but a few extra stars for effort, I suppose. And now
to the three brave souls taking my place this winter. Christ: You’re a better
man than I. Thanks for putting up with my Wednesday-evening breakdowns, and
good idea resisting my party pleads to stay home and watch movies instead. Koko
Kisses: You made me remember what it feels like to be genuinely excited about
music, and I want to fucking talk about it again. Seriously. Sonia (who could
be heard saying, as I glared at a bloodied page of reads, “I hope Hiatus
doesn’t turn me into a bitch”): You’re beautiful, and there’s no doubt in my
mind you’ll keep the pages beautiful, no matter how you may doubt yourself.
I’ve been there; it sucks, but there’s nothing like the feeling once you’ve
made it out alive. Now pardon me while I hobble out like the old sap I am, off
to a country where I can’t speak the language and Hiatus is nothing but an
absence; where, with any luck, I can start acting like a normal person again.
And maybe even liking it, just a little.