I am in the thick of transmuting my room from something that looks like a nuclear disaster area, into a state-of-the-art polymathic laboratory/studio/art gallery. One of the greatest things I look forward to is allocating a little time each week to playing music once again -- it wasn’t really until I retrieved all my cherished instruments from storage that I was overrun with the realisation of how badly I've missed creating my own music, instead of just appreciating that of others.
Two walls are lined with guitars, keyboards, and banks of digital bullshit ranging from effects systems to recording gear, and it occurred to me that room is starting to look like that of a musician. Then my line of sight swept further, and I decided that depending on where one looks, one might think it is the room of a pilot, or a mad scientist and inventor, or otaku, or electronic warfare specialist, tree-hugging hippie, scholar, Japanophile, literary tragic or ex-soldier.
I am intrigued at the way in which most of us find it reassuring to surround ourselves with reflections of our own inner universe; in my case, the diverse passions evident in my living space are all quite eloquent comments on my identity.
Even if, for diplomatic reasons, I am compelled to leave the most significant of these to just the faintest whisper.