This is the very first post on Featherglass, whose original name was Don’t Dream It’s Over. I thought I’d make this a sticky post for a while as it explains why this blog exists. If you haven’t already read it, I hope you enjoy it and find a bit of yourself in it. If you’ve read it before, well, some things are worth doing over again. 😀
For some time now, I wanted to explain why this space was first called “Don’t Dream It’s Over.”
Because when all is said and done, sometimes the thing that captures the essence of who a person is can be described by a song, a piece of music, something that is like a breeze: Here now, gone in a moment, yet somehow always there, on a neverending loop in the heart.
If you scroll down and hit the play button, you’ll hear the cool riffs of an electric guitar, simple and laidback, opening the song Don’t Dream Its Over, by Crowded House, an Aussie band from the late 80s. It’s not the actual video, because of copyright, so just enjoy. Don’t Dream It’s Over is a tribute to days gone by, of life spent in a beloved house bathed in warm sunlight, of childhood memories, of growing up in a more carefree time.
When I first heard the song, it was summer in Indiana. I was 19, and I only had a few classes to go to in a campus that was quiet and where summer students like myself had the whole college town of Bloomington to ourselves.
This was Crowded House’ first big hit in the US and it got a lot of airplay. I remember long cool evenings riding pillion on a friend’s motorbike, passing fireflies in darkened bushes by the road, going late-night supermarketing, tanning by the pool on weekday mornings when I didn’t have classes.
So what do reminisces about college and a 21st century blog have in common besides the name of a song? Maybe it’s a deepseated longing for a more carefree time, when things were less complicated, and one could imagine being curled up in a corner of a wood-panelled room, bathed in non-destructive sunlight, asleep.
It’s a reminder to me, today, when our speedy lives take precedence over the simple and uncomplicated, that there is a space I can retreat to, where I can be ignore the urgent pounding on the door.
Where I can pretend I am today what I was in a not-t00-distant past: Dreamy-eyed, in no rush to build an empire (no matter how small), or strategise a career path, or hide behind masks.
Of knowing, without a doubt, that between old friends nothing is over, that there is something there that cannot be affected by change, no matter how far, or how few the conversations are in between the silences.
Ephemeral threads of dialogue that can be easily resumed as if no time has passed and everything is as it were since the last time. Of implicit trust and belief in who that person really is, the part that, no matter what transient life brings, remains changeless.
It is in the heart that these things stay.