zen drumming
I want to buy a new drum kit.I don't need another drum kit.
These two irrefutable facts, although conflicting, lead me to admit that I probably will purchase another drum kit.
Recent events illustrate to me that although my possibly-bizarre love affair with music is, well, possibly bizarre, I just don't give a crap about a whole lot else.
I'm like a nitrous oxide addict (if such addicts exist). Yeah I have an addiction, but I'm giggling like mad about it.
I look forward to my gig this weekend. Although the bar will smell bad, and the acoustics of the room will be atrocious, the silence of mind that occurs when you lock into the groove is so fucking incredible that even the tired sods at the bar who hate your music seem like herald angels. The halogen lights above the makeshift stage cause winking lights on the rims of the drums, and the cymbals shimmer when you let them rip.
I can close my eyes right now and imagine how I will look down at the snare between my legs. The shadow of my hands holding japan oak will splash in angles across the parchment of the Evans head, and I will know that I am home.
And when you get done, the sweat pouring off of you, you feel like you have just opened your ribcage up and let your heart blast a foot-thick beam of emotion out into the world.
When I play music, I know true beauty. If there is anything I would give people, it's at least some part of that kind of pure joy. I wish you could all feel what I feel.
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