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For some reason lately, whenever I hear music, I stop and take notice more. It might be because we hardly ever play loud music around the house, or even just music in general, here, but that wouldn't explain the weird feeling that I get of being transported. Like, I have to stop what I'm doing and tuck myself into a nice cozy bed of memories that I'm transported to when I hear a particular song. Or songs.
Like for example, when hearing songs from "Country to Country" (that obscure country-music tape that came out when I must've been 11 or so), I get real melancholy, and I mean REAL. I get that feeling that comes from being sad and lonely and THEN being flat down in bed. I can remember being in a trundle bed shoved against the window, turning that tape over and over, looking out the window at the roof covered with pine-needles. Opening the window and feeling the freezing winter air against my blazing hot skin. I feel 11 years old.
When hearing Simon Rugley songs, I'm reminded of the days when I was 12 years old, sleeping in a single bed with two teenage girls (because we WANTED to, for some odd reason), and exercising like wild-women. I remember jumping on the bed and doing crazy things (like not those "Oh we're so crazy that we're fun and adventurous" kind of crazy things, ACTUAL "whoa that's pretty nuts" things).
When hearing songs like "It's Gonna Be Fine" and "These Kinds of Questions", I'm reminded of a certain person with whom I spent the best part of 3 years--roommate, best friend. We used to common-pot our money and sleep together in the same big huge bed, go on walks together every day and sit in our special places eating special snacks. It was one of the most painful experiences of my life to have her move away from me, get married...I guess that's what happens when your friend is 6 years older than you.
Hearing "Deck the Halls" (only THAT particular family-made version) I'm reminded of years when we huddled around weak dynamic mics and sung our lungs out, usually some combination of vastly varied heights like Steve, Gabe and I sharing one mic, trying to swing back and forth and clap and look lively whilst trying to actually be heard. Those were fun. Funner yet, swinging big golden skirts with El and trying to "take it easy and enjoy Christmas". Somehow the older you got the funnier Christmas became, with everyone stressed out and giving up. El was one of those people that shared that twisted sort of sanity with me, where you survive by laughing at everything. There was nothing too terrible to laugh at.

Those are the kinds of songs that take you away.
But then there are the kind that bring something to you.

Like LJs. For some reason, listening to them, regardless of personal preference as to style or vocalist, etc, I can really appreciate them for what they are. They're the sort of songs that don't get fixed to any one place, they get attached to a feeling. And every time I hear a particular song, "Beyond Compare" for example (which was and is one of my favorite songs), I feel the same sweeping feelings. I don't want to talk about feelings that wash over you like a wave, cause then that would make me sound corny, but it's true sometimes. Maybe feelings that wipe over you like when you're walking through those bead door-curtain things. Or a feeling that drives over you and leaves tire-marks on your leg.

Dad and I are always commenting on how music was so much a part of our home. No one really needed an MP3 player because someone ALWAYS had an MP3 player to plug into the speakers, wherever we were--in the car, waxing the floor, cooking dinner. There was always music playing so loud you could hear it in either house. Or you could mosh to it on the way to our witnessing spot. We had people that would come in and turn it down a bit secretly, or that asked if we could turn it down during quiet time, and we despised those people (in small amounts).
But then you move and you realize how quietly some people live. And then you get so used to having no music blasting everywhere that you begin to crave it. The other day Dad was cooking and had some music on and I was just standing there listening. I realized how hungry I was.

Basically, yeah.

I don't think before I had what you could really call moments of "reflection" or any sort of deep, deep memories. I don't think I comprehended what people refer to as the sanctity or beauty of memories, until just recently, when I started making a whole slew of memories that are completely different and almost entirely detached. Then you start looking back at the last things you used to do like as if they were part of a movie you really enjoyed once upon a time, or a dream you had that you always mull over in your mind, wishing you could write it down and make a novel out of it.