Sep 21, 2011

Rocket band!


Currently, my days are filled with selling worms, finalizing Awful, Ohio, seeking ways to promote Awful, Ohio, working on a website, trying to keep up with this blog (as recommended for the sake of Awful, Ohio), battling with an insurance company to cover liability for a driver who ran a red light, totalling my car, tending to my wife (who often times confuses the duty of "husband" with "servant"), preparing my invention for Temple's Innovative Idea Competition, and a vast amount of other tendings that require my attention.  So, when does the value of "me time" come in?  When am I once again, able to fulfill my existential desires, and commit my being to otherwordly duties that are embedded with my genetic code, distilled from meta-universes?  Well my friends, it occurs as soon as i enter into my home, for 10 minutes a day.  Playing drums has been an intimate hobby for 10 years.  Informally educated, and unwilling to listen to those who believe that they can offer some valuable input, I sit behind the kit like entering a cockpit of a Mars mission vessel, traveling spaceward without the burden of earthly disorders.  Bruised batter heads cover the toms, and wooden sticks splintering from rim shots.  Surely, I am not a professional.  And most definitely, I am an amateur that could sit in for any punk band needing a drummer.  But this 10 minutes of rhthmic relief catapults me from the dungeon surface of planet earth, into the deepest abysmal of solitude, where nothing else exists but the rythmic pulsation that pump from my heart, my lungs, and brain waves, expressed through the rumblings of primitive beats, that echoes down to the core of planet earth, rupturing through the liquidy content of the space and time continuum.  Rhythm is existence.  Without rhythm, there would be no time for the seconds to travel on.  The great philosophers suggest that god is a clock maker, creating time for the members of its creation to swim through.  But what god actually is, is a drummer, beating away, keeping pace and timing for the universe to coast through, circling in perfect harmony, never missing a beat.  


Sure, my Guitar Center Drum Off competition didn't go as well.  I received a consolation prize of a t-shirt with a corny phrase attempting to be clever of "sticks and thrones."  But there was more to achieve rather than the materialistic rewards.  As i played, counting the seconds, keeping in sync with divine rhythm that is required even more so than oxygen for survival, as i progressed further through the skit, displaying my compatibility with the most basic element of existence, more basic than chemicals, physics, and energy, god and i were cool.       

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