Bad Review

My Nathan asked his 9-year-old son what his favorite part of the play was.

“None,” he answered. “I liked it all the same.” Then, upon reflection, he added, “Except for the dancing with no clothes. My eyes rolled back to my brain, my hands went on my face, and my head went between my knees.”
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Ladies Night, Family-Style

My family made up a group of 11 for my show Saturday night! I was surprised by tears that threatened to roll when the curtain rose. The Overture was well on its way, but that curtain lifted and I was ready to cry! It meant so much to have them there.

I’ve never had such a large crowd rooting for me all at once. Mom really came through for me. I asked her to bring “all the girls.” 2 aunts came with 1 uncle, my GRANDMA, all 4 nieces, my sis, sister-in-law, and mom. ❤

My aunt made fun of me for not acting at all. “I’m uniquely qualified to play a neurotic showgirl,” I agreed. (One reviewer wrote, “The real standout is Adelaide.” She doesn’t need to know it’s not an act.)

Tech week was officially the worst of them all. They kept us after midnight every night before opening! One night I got home after 2am! I was livid. The next day, 2 hot box dancers fainted onstage. I was one of them. When they advised me to take care of myself, I nearly walked off. Let me SLEEP! And when am I supposed to be feeding myself (or shopping for groceries) if you keep me for 7 hours after I work 8?

I’m still annoyed.

I’ve never rehearsed for 7 hours when I wasn’t getting paid. This is community theatre. You have no right to ask more than 3-4 hours after work, and whatever you like on Saturdays. Or you start sooner. I wondered from the beginning how they thought they were putting on such a big show in less than 2 months. I was furious to be proven right, and then completely dismissed and mildly chastised.

“You have to take care of yourself.”

You better take care, right now!

Then we opened, and it all went away. Really! (I was surprised. I was over it.) I felt united, excited, and full of togetherness and nerves.

I was terrified. I’ve never felt less ready to open, but we just needed our audience. There’s nothing like that symbiotic energy. It’s magic!

I love this part. “Guys & Dolls” is just great, classic American musical theatre, and Adelaide is my love song. You know what else? I’m good in this role. I don’t know why. I’m not the best dancer, singer, actor, anything, but I have heart.

I guess that’s it. I feel it. I’m not faking. You can feel me all the way to the rafters. I hold nothing back, and theatre seems to be the only place that’s appreciated.

Also, I’m hilarious. I got props in the review for comedic timing. In any case, I crack myself up. (A friend described me in 1995. “The thing I love about Christie,” he said,  “is she laughs harder at her own jokes than anyone.”) There’s one other guy whose ad libs are funnier than mine, and we’ve been vying all rehearsal long. (He’s cute and divorced. I checked his Facebook. He’s also Mormon. I checked his garment line.)

More than anyone, my Nathan has become a dear friend and confidante. I love him. I love that he’s on the planet. I love that he’s raising children. He’s been so kind to me. He’s a kind, good person who humbles and inspires me.

Theatre has been so generous since my return at 40. I hoped to be a dancing secretary in the ensemble of “How To Succeed,” and I got Hedy Larue! That was far beyond what I expected. I just wanted to play. To feel that particular expression of creativity again. Meeting Maurie, my director, is forever one of the greatest gifts. She builds people up.
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I did “9 to 5” for Maurie 2 years later, upon request, just because I love her.
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“Avenue Q,” at a community theatre in UTAH? Come on! Bad Idea Bear? Best part!
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And now Adelaide, who’s all I ever wanted. Everything else has been a surprise and a freebie along the way. I’m so fortunate. I’m proud. I enjoy my talent, finally, and I feel honored by the generosity of those who chose me and worked with me.
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I don’t know when I’ll do another show. I’m satisfied.

In 2018, I’m looking forward to centering and simplifying. I want to sing for old folks again. I’m excited for yoga, belly dance, Afro-Brazilian/Samba (easier on the body than full-on African), drumming on Saturdays, online piano lessons, guitar (songwriting will fall out of me if I just commit to getting those callouses and chords), and mastering the didgeridoo after 10 years of knowing Marko. It’s all right there, and I just sat on it.

I’m not sitting anymore.
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Hard Day

Rehearsal was rough. These things happen. There was technical difficulty that pushed us behind by an hour and a half, and our music director was left to scramble to fit everything in after that.

First, let me say how much I love this woman. She is indomitable, and delightful! It was an example of “rolling with it like an adult” that I needed to see right now.

That being said, she quite accidentally ended up keeping me at a rehearsal that never even got to me. In total, with drive time and rehearsal hours stacked together, I spent 6 hours of my day to rehearse for no more than 20 minutes, and when I got home I had nothing left.

I’d hoped to come home to a nice solar-cooked meal, ready to tidy the house and pack just one box. Baby steps, but progress I could feel good about. Unfortunately, I couldn’t get my scattered self to settle or do anything more than pace and move piles. I thought I’d be done by noon, but didn’t get home til 3, and my solar cooker didn’t get the rotation it needed, or the seasoning, it seems. I was demoralized by the failure even to feed myself like a grown-up, and spent the rest of the afternoon searching online for apartments or roommates with no luck, consequently worrying (panicking), and eating junk – chips chased by cookies – ’til I felt sick.

THEN… Jax let me know that he and his new, perfect, InstaDreamFamily would be stopping by to pick some things up and introduce the cute 10-yr-old kid to the cat they’ll be ripping away from me. It had, until today, given me a modicum of pleasure to imagine Jax’s beautiful boycat Ollie with a sweet little human boy.

They didn’t pick some things up and “meet the cat.” They plaaayed. Like, forever. In the house, in the yard, in the garden. I couldn’t hide from their joy, and I started to freaking lose my shit. I went into my room to cry alone, but it soon became clear that if I didn’t stop crying soon, I wouldn’t stop at all tonight – or for days! Who knows? – so when it got quiet and I knew they were outside again, I peered out of my room looking for Jax.

I was sick. My heart was pounding. My stomach was in knots. I thought I’d just breezily poke my head out and ask Jax to come “look at something.” Luckily, he was inside right then and I safely started crying in front of him alone, without disturbing anyone else or humiliating myself. I asked him, “How much longer?” and he was put out.

Look, I get that you own this home, but I live here, too. And there’s a difference between stopping by and shoving your family fun day in my face. (I had appreciated the “heads up.” It had been a herculean task to get that much from him, but I was grateful.)

Less than 2 months ago, we were still talking about our possibilities for family planning! It killed me to endure their bliss today. What don’t you understand about gradual exposure? He’s such a jerk! Just rude! He’s so inconsiderate, literally doesn’t even consider me. He never did, and I’m so ashamed and embarrassed that I didn’t have the sense to notice it before he traded me in for her. I was pretending with a man who not only did not love me, but didn’t even think of me! Even when he was here!

I did so well. I was actually grateful for a do-over with his lady love. When he brought her home for their first [only] overnight here – that he didn’t alert me to because, again, I never occur to him – I wasn’t able to meet her graciously. I didn’t throw shade, but I couldn’t manage anything beyond a terse, “Hello.” I did force a half-smile, but I wished I could be… different.

I mean, at bare minimum a decent housemate would let me know there would be a Walk of Shame in the morning. “FYI, just because you live here,” kind of thing, right? The real truth of that morning’s Walk of My Shame was a feeling of, “You’re out. She’s in, and here it is in in your face, no warning! ‘Cause the joke’s on you, stupid girl who screwed her roommate and then got screwed.”

Do you think maybe I ought to be aware that there’s a stranger in my house? If, for no other reason, than to give me the option, upon waking on a Saturday morning set to deep clean my home, not to sing out loud, talk to “the cats,” and humiliate myself in front of a woman who didn’t mean to but absolutely DID humiliate me.

Not even an fyi? Any flexibility there? No. A haaard NO. Got it.

Jax never cared about me at all.

Today, I extended my hand to her and apologized that I’d been unable to greet her more warmly then, and she accepted very kindly. A little too happily for my desolate and lonely mood, but she’s a nice enough girl.

(As far as I’m concerned, she sounds a little dumb, frankly. Jax – God knows why! – told me about how sweetly she was pitying me one day. “But she’s so pretty,” she said. Like, is that supposed to make me like her? And – yet again, the dismissive pressure to be different than I am – pretty girls aren’t permitted to feel pain? Duh!)

So here they are, playing, laughing, loving, lingering, and I’m in so much pain. How long would they have stayed? If I hadn’t said anything, my heartache wouldn’t have entered his consciousness at all. Not one thought for me.

Right now I feel like I hate him again, and I hate that!

A lot o’ tears and melancholy tonight.

And I can’t find a place to move! With nothing. I got rid of almost everything when I moved in here, and now that’s what I’m left with. Alone.

I did not get here alone, but I get to be here alone. And I hate him for that today.

By the way, I’m just gonna be catty about the way that girl was dressed. You could never convince me that that outfit was not showing the ex-girlfriend who’s got the man now. Those were the tightest, tiniest underwear-masquerading-as-jean-shorts I’ve ever seen. And a crop top.

Just wear a bikini next time, and spare the pretense. Honestly! I get that you love showing your shit. And she looked great! For real. But that was a “Who’s got him now?” moment if I’ve ever seen one.

I mean, I wear booty shorts. At home. Those were panties I would wear at Burning Man, except for the tacky denim styling. She wanted to show her goods to me as much as anyone. I really don’t trouble myself with her much, or even begrudge some woman her joy, but that was no mistake. That was for show, and for me.

She’s cute. She didn’t look awful in her waaay-too-tight short shorts, but I certainly wouldn’t walk around in public like that. And I wear crazy shit! But congratulations, and all that. Wag your little hiney for your fat man – who’s down over 20 POUNDS since meeting her! – and make sure I see without doubt that you won.

Got it.

For my part, I haven’t worn make-up in months, except to the audition. I knew they were coming, and I didn’t even brush my hair. ‘Cause I don’t give a shit and I’ve got nothing to prove! I’d gone to rehearsal with wet hair, and was left with that fuzzy, unstyled nest look, without product and not a stitch of make-up. Not even lip stain to boost my mood or compete with her age. I don’t care. I just want to live my life and be left alone by people who took my Everything, and left me to wallow in it alone and bawling. It was an illusion, of course, but I didn’t see that until they got together and took it away.

I’ve never cried so much in my life. That’s the truth. It’s been almost 2 months of tears. I am so tired.

Just get your shit and go. You know what? That’s how I feel about it now, and I’m letting myself feel it, dammit! Yeah, it’s your house, but it’s my home. You’ve already become a plug-n-play Daddy and moved out. So get out! And don’t bring your shit-smelling sunshine to my safe place and shove my nose in it. Unlike you, I have nowhere else to go! I’m crawling out of my skin as it is!

Give me an ever-loving BREAK!

One last thing that I haven’t permitted myself to even think about until today is this: This girl – I sympathize with the things I know about her history that Jax SHOULD NEVER HAVE TOLD ME – ran away from an abusive relationship in the Midwest, after a trauma she endured in April that’s too horrifying to mention. She proposed to Jax after they’d known each other for FIVE weeks – and for 3 of those, she had gone back to the abusive ex who followed her out here! If you don’t see red flags all over this girl… Well, shit.

And it’s none of my business, so I haven’t even permitted these dark thoughts. I don’t want to spend my time hoping for their demise. I don’t hate that girl, and I loved Jax once. I want people to be happy, generally. These people, I just don’t want to see again.

There’s more.

I do feel a tremendous amount of guilt for the judgement in my heart on one issue: SHE HAS A SON. How dare you bring a man you do not know into a child’s life without any assurance that he’s not as effed up as the last guys you’ve dated? Do you know how much danger minors are in under the same roof with men who aren’t their fathers? Risk goes up further when he’s not even step-dad. Obviously, it doesn’t matter beyond her own romantic fantasy how “dreams” can become a nightmare for an innocent child!

She met Jax on the 4th of July, and they’re already shacking up. You’re a mother!

At that point, I’d stop dating, get my shit together, and care for my son. Period! That precious boy should be the only man in her life, not the men who come calling when that ass gets waggin! I’m sorry. It’s none of my business, but it was in my face, and that makes me mad. I was molested. I know danger. Single mothers are targeted by bad men. You should be more vigilant than any parent! Shame on that mother.

It just so happens that she hit the jackpot with Jax. He’s a reliable man, strong, hard-working, likable. I can’t think of a better step-dad to guide and mentor that little boy, and heal some of the things he’s seen that he didn’t choose. And Jax is in love with this girl, like he never was with me, so she won’t have the problems with intimacy we had. Jax unconsciously eliminated all invitations for closeness by coming home from work (in actual dirt) and marinating in his own stink, with headphones in to plug me out, until I gave up and went to bed alone. Nothing in his behavior invited intimacy or fostered love. I’m the idiot who thought we could make something work from that.

I’m the girl you fuck and leave behind when the Primrose Family moves to town. It sucks. He didn’t do it on purpose or with malicious intent, but that’s what I’m left with.

Geez, do you think he has a type? The girl you rescue, maybe? She obviously plays the damsel in distress much more cleverly than I do. He gets to feel like the protector, and why shouldn’t he? He is that guy!

For that young mother playing fast and loose with a 10 yr-old boy’s safety, that’s pure luck, and I sorta don’t have a whole lot of respect for her. I know, I know, it’s easy to judge when you’re not a mother, but that’s risky behavior, bottom line. A vulnerable child can’t choose for himself. He’s at her careless mercy. They’re lucky Jax is good.

As for this messed-up girl, Yours Truly, I’ll die before letting you see how scared I am, and how much I crave tenderness, without any ability – STILL – to generate it, offer it, or accept it. It’s just how my violent childhood shaped my energy into a sometimes very-aggressive response to intimacy. I push you away when I need you most.

Jax and I were both unapproachable, and stupid enough not to notice long ago how pathetic and hopeless we were. I’m embarrassed, bereft; he’s on to “next.”

It kills me. So that’s where I am tonight. With monstrous emotions of hate and envy eating me alive AND a prayer in my heart for this woman who stole my dream, and for her sweet boy who’s going to love the cat I’ll miss more than Jax.

I don’t hate Jax or his girlfriend. I don’t wish them ill.
And I hate them both. And hope they fail.

You know, the easy stuff.

One Big Union

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So excited to see this show today! Joe Hill was a labor activist and musician who was executed 100 years ago for a murder he may or may not have committed. This Plan-B Theatre original play contains Hill’s own songs, recently released to the public domain, and also highlights his work with Elizabeth Gurley Flynn, who visited him in jail here in Salt Lake, and went on to co-found the ACLU.

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Elizabeth Gurley Flynn was the inspiration for this 1915 battle hymn.

Plan-B is the only theater in the United States that produces entire seasons of original works by local playwrights, with emphasis on socially conscious themes and issues. It’s owned by one of my dearest friends and his husband. http://planbtheatre.org/

It’s a relevant stage experience, following a week that has seen boys at a local football game chanting, “Grab her by the p*ssy!” and a white van trolling Rose Park, a Salt Lake City neighborhood rich with immigrants, screaming, “Trump is President! Build the wall!”

Don’t mourn… ORGANIZE!
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*****

It was amazing! Very emotional at times, as they were describing precisely what we’ve been living with this week and for the last 18 months.

I have to go to more shows at Plan-B! I’m so cheap. I always say, “Next time,” and next time never comes. If nothing else, I should be supporting my friends. The real reason, of course, is that theater transforms us! It makes us think, laugh. It gives us a break from everyday and all that that entails, but it can also light the fire of our own creativity. Above all, theater connects us. This was wonderful.organize

Interesting Conversation

My friend and I went to brunch Sunday (after failing to win lotto tix to Book of Mormon Musical), and an interesting conversation ensued. Or maybe not so interesting. Rather ordinary, really, but my mind is ablaze with a new idea.

The conversation began when this friend confessed his fear of dying, which I don’t share. (Fear of pain, most definitely.) I’m excited to see what’s there and be able to fly. 🙂 I like it here so I want to stay as long as I can and take in the beauty, adventure and learning, but I’m so into perfect, pure love that Afterlife represents to me, I can’t wait to swim in it. I mean, fly.

As an Atheist, my friend is frightened of the Nothing after leaving our bodies. I said that, having considered that possibility, I’ve found myself still to be unafraid of death. Without consciousness, I won’t notice I’m not around anymore. What’s to regret? “But I can’t imagine it,” I went on to say. “Energy doesn’t end. E=mc2. It becomes mass and vice versa. Mass proves my existence as energy. I couldn’t end if I wanted to. I’ve been organized in some way around a fiery ball. I can’t stop being, with or without a body.”

“Yes,” he replied, “but energy doesn’t have to have consciousness when organized in other ways.” To him that’s terrifying. To me, it’s not. In fact, it’s quite exciting. It bolsters the idea that we’re all connected, to each other, the trees, the stars.

I hope I’m still sentient. If not, what’s to miss?

That got me to this: Manifestation (Law of Attraction, “The Secret,” if you must) … Do you have to have an after-life belief system in order to participate? The simple answer is no, of course, but synchronicity and intuition are so closely tied to my angels that I can’t imagine those gifts coming from nothing, existing purely as a byproduct of my resonance as a breathing thing. In fact, they feel like a very real hug from a crew of loving cheerleaders who celebrate every time I get the message.

I understand that the way I interpret my experience doesn’t apply to anyone but me. I like to say I’m Christian, because my orthodoxy bears my name. 🙂 I don’t need anyone else to believe it, and it benefits me whether it’s real or imagined. But… Interesting!

I hoped my friend could make peace with the finality of death and no longer be burdened by the worry of it in life, and added, “but I still can’t imagine it.”

Funny, ego.

Can it be ego alone that sees me as too important and vast for my consciousness to end? Well, yeah, it can! But if my ego can be wiped away in 80 yrs, then so can my ancestors, and I have one among my angels. I can’t be convinced that she’s a figment of my imagination, because genealogical records prove her existence. She started all of this for me. I had no idea what was happening, except that I was on fire! (Burning in the Bosom, Mormons call it.) My angels are not winged warm fuzzies. Abigail Smith Abbott (b. 1806) introduced herself to me when I was ten. “Hello, Daughter. We’re here.”

I know they’re real. I’m willing to be honest, though. I believe they are. Huh. That made something very clear for me. That is definitively what differentiates me from the flock I left. Mormons have to know, and declare it. “I bear my testimony.” they say. I can’t.

Happily for me, I don’t care. I don’t need sureties in order to enjoy the rich relationship I have with my angels and a loving Universe, which very much responds to the energy and thoughts I choose. I expect to arrive in 40+ years at another between-life phase. I imagine a whole lot of, “Oh yeah! I can’t believe I forgot that! Oh wow, I learned exactly what I chose Christie for. I rocked that round! Next I’d like to learn…” But I don’t know, and I love it that way. “I bear my testimony that not knowing is true.”

I dance in the Question Mark!

(Oh, and I got a ticket to the show at the evening lotto. “I get everything I want!” Manifest!)B of M Capitol resizeeverything is energyThe laws of physics apply to Atheists, too! I can’t believe I had to think so hard to “allow” that, haha!

Adelaide

I am so angry! I’ve never had an audition like that. In failed auditions before this, I’ve been able to take responsibility and, though bitter, there is some comfort in that. But there is NOTHING I COULD HAVE DONE TO WORK WITH THE ARROGANT ASSHOLE THEY HIRED AS ACCOMPANIST!!!

I am so angry!!!

I gave him my music, clearly-marked in red ink, and led at the tempo I desired, as I spoke/sang it at the tempo I desired. He raced through.

“Much slower,” I requested.

“Right,” he lied. I took him at his word and trusted that he was just marking it.

I’d crossed out the melody, and showed him myself that all I wanted was a simple, rolling beat behind the “liberties I’m taking with the rhythm,” I said over and over and OVER. “I’m not singing it as written.” He insisted on the melody, as written. “But I’m taking liberties here,” I said again. “I’m playing with the melody and the timing.”

“That’s fine,” he assured dismissed me. And I took the stage. My moment to commune with the pianist was over.

He gave me ONE CHORD and broke into the fastest train-wreck he could engineer, playing exactly as he wished, exactly against my instructions. I fought for my tempo; he fought for his. HE STOPPED ME IN THE MIDDLE OF MY AUDITION!!!!!!!!

“Let’s get this how it goes,” he snapped.

[“It goes how I say it goes! It’s my audition!”]
“Thank you,” I said. “Please. Much slower.”

Naturally, it was as fast as before. He won. I sped up, denied every characterization I had prepared to introduce myself to the panel, to give them the vision of Adelaide in me. And she is in me!

I asked for a torch song. He played so fast I had to SKIP A MEASURE to get back in time with him! It was the most unprofessional theatre experience I’ve ever had.

I’m seething. The arrogance of that man! I might be a volunteer, but he was PAID TO PLAY MY MUSIC THE WAY I PREPARED IT. I insulted his sensibilities, asking a glorified talent such as Himself to cut out his own bells and whistles and let me shine. Who was I? The person you were hired to accompany, that’s who! What I requested was very simple. I could play it. Therein lies the problem, methinks. It was beneath him.

He was the professional, but I paid for it.

I was so well-prepared this time. I had such delicious comedy juxtaposed against a languid rendering of a “Cry Me A River,” and I was so ready. There would be no beating myself up afterwards for not bringing all the preparation I could to the only role that’s ever mattered to me. It’s no wonder they couldn’t see Adelaide in what I brought to the stage yesterday. What was supposed to fill a full minute took less than 30 seconds. I suppose there’s some consolation in the brevity of my humiliation.

I’m furious, and still mystified as to why they asked for a 60s jazz standard for a famously 40s musical. I should have gone with the other number I keep in my pocket. It suits the show. I sing it as written, and might have avoided making myself an enemy unto God Gary, Piano Purveyor of Cooperation or Catastrophe.

*****

You know what? I’m taken back right now, to last weekend and the honor I had to study under Mabiba Baegne, who communicated so well how one respects another. Another individual, another culture, any Other.

How should I have responded? What could I have done?

At Merveilles Utah, many were inclined to do the moves as we knew them. We wanted to match the rhythms more closely to our interpretation. We wanted our lessons Westernized. Mabiba stopped us every time, without the slightest denigration but with unapologetic commitment to her own integrity.

“Listen,” she said without words. “Watch,” she spoke without breath.

I felt honored to honor her by doing what she showed me, as nearly as I could. I felt humbled and grateful – joyful! – to try what I didn’t initially want to do. I appreciate more than ever people who see beyond themselves, and pray that I will always remember this feeling when my own ego comes out to play.

*****

Ha. Know what Mabiba said about jerks? “There will always be people who get in your way. You drink; you pee. They’re in the dirt, behind you.” Go on with your life.

He’s yesterday’s waste. Being robbed a real chance at Adelaide is today’s sorrow, still. I think I’ll have a glass of water. Seems the river hasn’t reached its bank.

*****

Amazing. Journaling works! Or Mabiba’s advice really made a difference. You know how that is: People say things and they sound inspiring until you have to apply them. I wrote that Sunday morning, then went to brunch with my best friend who’s visiting from Texas. We never spoke of my anger or upset, though she knew I’d cried and didn’t get a call-back. We visited with her sisters and parted company. And I was fine.

I tried my hardest to work with someone unwilling to work with me. I treated him with the dignity I deserve. I feel sad that I didn’t get a chance, but I feel good. I’m a decent, talented person. His aggression and rudeness have no lasting effect on me.

I’m hopeful again. The character breakdown for Adelaide is “35 – 45 years, strong comedic role.” I don’t look my age. 😉 I have 10 years yet to get that part somewhere. And I will.

Soli for Solstice!

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We started a new session today. 2 new things happened. First, I could not get my part. I don’t prefer to play any of the 3 drums in dunun. I’m not very good at it and I’d rather do djembe, but, struggle though I may, I always eventually get it. Not today. We ended the segment before I ever found my “on” switch, you know? That’s a little frustrating. It’s very frustrating, actually, because the rhythm wasn’t that hard! It was simple, conceptually, but I just couldn’t put the 2 hands together. Yet. I will. So, there’s that. No biggie.

Next, oh man! I rolled for the first time today. Ha! Quinn taught us an arrangement with rolls. That was intimidating! I got it, but not consistently. It’s very exciting to imagine how far he’s gonna push me this time. Wow!

No longer do we brush-up on mechanics and technique. We warm up with a rhythm we already know, and jump straight into something unfamiliar. Quinn called today’s accompaniment “the building blocks of solo work.” What?! No way! I don’t see myself ever tearing it up freestyle with a steady chorus backing me up – except in musical theatre, hehe. Maybe I should. Maybe I should start to imagine myself as a bad-ass drummer.

What an awesome class. It pays me back again and again and again. I love djembe!

Speaking of theatre, today this quiet girl teased me (a great drummer with killer rhythm). It doesn’t take long for me to let loose, and I’m used to these people now. I have no idea what I said, but she laughed and laughed. “That was so dramatic!”

Oh. That.

I know I’m theatrical, but every once in awhile it surprises even me how over-the-top I must be. I don’t think I’m that animated, verbose, outrageous, but… people do. 🙂

I love these people. I love djembe!
_____

Soli is Malinke, from Guinea, played for male initiation.
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