I sat in my room to write a few journal entries and figured I'd put on Whiskeytown's Pneumonia, since I'd picked it up on the weekend and hadn't listened to it yet. I had no particular expectations, but it took me by surprise. I certainly didn't feel like I was in a receptive mood - I wasn't sure if I felt anything other than confused, tonight.

Last night, Michael asked me what it was I'd like to experience again for the first time (I think it started with films, though I quickly turned the thought to music). The more I've thought about the question, the more I get angry with myself for trying to look back at the past again, but there's one moment (rather than an album or a film) that came to me clear as a bell this afternoon when I looked through the bag of CDs that Steph had just returned to me. I remember a day a little over 5 years ago, spent with two friends who are both overseas now. I brought music to play in the car while we drove somewhere down past Geelong towards the sea - as always, trying to bring new music into my friends' lives. It was violane, the opening track on that final Cocteau Twins album, the one that's like some kind of heavenly explosion of guitars and voices. As it blasted through the tinny speakers in my friend's car we passed a field full of sunflowers, all facing the sky across the road. It was the finest example of synchronicity I'd ever seen, and some days I worry that I'll never see anything like it again.