"It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing."

I've always liked that line, but I have to admit that I think of its use in Steve Martin's L.A. Story before I think of Shakespeare.

The sound and fury of my life, the one that comes with two kids bouncing around the house, so often jockeying for position (of what, I have no clue), does have a signifying object. Rather, it brings relative appreciation for the peace that comes to me at night. As they sleep, as they dream (of what, I wish I knew), I rest, weary from my day, in the living room. Jazz plays on the iPod and the absence of any sound or fury is the most beautiful thing in the world.

I'm dealing with some stuff that I won't get into here, but I will share this. A friend at work asked me last night if there was a certain artist that I choose to listen to when I'm frustrated or angry. I told him that I had two answers depending on what I wanted to do with my mood. If I want to hang onto it for a bit, I listen to Nine Inch Nails. If I want to ease out of my bad mood, then I listen to early Tom Waits. There's enough poetry in that stuff that I always end up relaxing more and stressing less.

This morning, however, while wondering and reading about existentialist philosophies online, I chose a playlist on my iPod that has a lot of my dad's favorite songs. No Reznor and no Waits, just lots and lots of jazz. I didn't want to do anything with my mood. I just wanted background music with no lyrics to distract me. However, among so much Stan Getz, Chet Baker, and Bill Evans, he's got some a nice collection of pop songs as well. Case in point, a song came on that I needed to hear that I would never have selected in a million years: "Sailing" by Christopher Cross. After a night of purposeful boozing, "Sailing" was the perfect song for reminding me to open the shades, stretch my body, get outside and embrace the day.