Monday 6 June 2011

Diana Ross Syndrome

I was on the train, and listening to Diana Ross & Lionel Richie sing "Endless Love". And then as we stopped at a station, a trendy guy boarded the train and sat down on my right, and a pretty girl sat to my left, and I turned my music down a little. Some part of me didn't want the strangers to hear what I was listening to.

What the hell is that? I'm turning down part of who I am. And for what?

In school you're meant to conform and fit in. A lot of us rebel against it, but we still conform sometimes. It's easier to rebel using Marilyn Manson and Slipknot, because it has attitude, you can conform to something else.

But people shut out the fact they like Lionel Richie and Phil Collins. What the fuck?

I know that these two strangers on the train don't care about me and can't hear my music. But I turned it down. Am I turning down the part of me that likes that music? Or am I turning down the part of me that has endless love in it?

Let's take it to a crazy level.

Let's say the girl sitting next to me finds me attractive, and has no idea what I'm listening to. We get talking, and an hour later we're in Starbucks talking about our mutual love of Tupac and Oasis. Would I keep quiet about the fact I like some Diana Ross songs?

Actually I wouldn't. Everyone who gets to know me knows my music tastes are all over the place. But yet, something in me, some reaction, made me turn the music down. Who in me was that?

I know what you're thinking, you're thinking 'Kid, stop reading into pointless bullshit', or 'Kid, review the new X-Men film', but you can read that on all the other blogs.

Some parts of us we share, some parts we oppress. When did it start? We do it unconsciously all the time, we don't even realize, we shut things out, shut 'em down. And I just caught that little moment on the train, and it made me curious. How often have I done that?

People hide passions that way. You can know someone for six years before they tell you they like drawing. People die before you find their poetry.

Is this nature or is it society? Maybe I should just get some speakers and make the whole train listen to Lionel Richie and Diana Ross.

Maybe what you hide the most is what is really needed. The poet dies without sharing her poetry, when in life all you got were status updates about her cat.

Us humans are strange.

And some part of me wants to shut this down. "Why are you blogging about this shit on a film blog!", says the inner-voice. This is what happens when you begin exploring yourself, you think you're insane. You think you won't fit in.

You care about that stuff after all.

Care to share?


  1. Rest assured, if my future wife doesn't like the fact I listen to Kylie Minogue at high volume on the train, then she's not my future wife.

  2. I am listening.... in on this blog right here!! and I am glad your not turning down the volume on your insights and film reviews, what type of blog would this be without it?

    Endless love is a great song and I have a badly taped VHS version of the movie plus the novel by Scott Spencer how bad is that...!!! lol

  3. I've done this before. I think it's that little part of us that just wants to be liked, that wants to conform even though we fight against it all the time, even though we wish to be different.

    I think it's important to not do this. Do your own thing and be proud. Even if that particular person you sat next to didn't appreciate the delights of Lionel Richie and Diana Ross, there will always be another person on another train who will.

    And that is the beauty of human nature. Great post. Glad I finally came and checked this blog out. I'm your newest follower. :)

  4. Listen to Diana Ross embarrass you, because you think that it for some reason is strange and odd to like that.

    Think of it the other way around: what if the whole world liked your favourites? Would they still be your favourites?

    Isn't it so that we like certain things just because we like to belive that it makes us odd or special. We thrive to be unique under that shell of normal person.