Thirsty

Home sick again today, I began to clean up my apartment which has become a bit of a wreck lately. Weeknights spent in rehearsals, weekends spent at auditions, mornings a cluster of Morning Pages, meditation and blogging. I’m up at 6:15 every morning, and am still late to work.

So, I began with the bedsheets, the laundry that was washed last week but still remained in the hamper, the clothes strewn on the closet floor, the dross of everyday living.

Back and forth across my apartment, each time, I passed the black silhouette case by the entry way. The case the singer of the band bought for me so I wouldn’t have to carry my bass my its neck anymore.

My bass has sat in that visible corner, tucked in its sheath, for nearly two months, since I quit the band to focus on acting. My acoustic guitar collects dust. My keyboard, shoved in a closet to avoid visual clutter when the 25 y.o. was over.

I went to a music show last Friday night. It’s this fun band my friend introduced me to, and we bought tickets for their SF show nearly the day after I heard them. I hadn’t been to a music show I wasn’t ushering…. well, since I was in the band, I guess. That was one of the fun things about being in the band, was that I got to hear a lot more music. “Lack of music shows” is on my list of “Serenity Moths” I have tacked to my fridge. The list was written at least 2 years ago, and though many are now crossed off, some remain. (Serenity Moths, to me, being things that just eat tiny holes in my well-being; e.g. lack of music shows, no light over my desk, chipped nailpolish.)

It was REFUELING to go to a music show where I could enjoy and focus on the music. I smiled and watched the bassist voraciously, was flattened by the vocalist and shimmied my little tush in my little section. I admitted to my friends who were with me that I missed music. So much. I think I actually had a dream about it last night, come to think of it. But where do you find time for it?

I am still such a newbie at bass, I have so much to learn, dexterity to gain, simple basslines to master. I just miss the endeavor, the trying.

So, you can guess what happened this morning as I cleaned up my apartment between sips of turmeric tea: I slowly unzipped the black case, and said aloud, Hello again.

I tuned it, it was still pretty in tune, actually. And I know how long it’s been since I’ve played, since my nails are all so long again. I pulled out the keyboard from the closet, and laid it on my bed—where Stella climbed up to watch as I tuned the acoustic too, the one that was my high school graduation present that still has the strap from O. Dibella Music in New Jersey.

My nails still so long the chords were hard to make, I played. I played until the skin on my strumming finger got raw. I made up some new words and played my old songs. And felt the vibration of the wood against my coughing, constricted chest.

Sometimes I live without music so long, I forget its blessing. Honestly, I horrifically have sometimes gone months without turning on my iPod, and when I finally do, it’s like an oasis. Like lavishing in a Caribbean waterfall. It opens something, releases something, allows something to enter. I hate that I forget that it does this—and in some kind of masochistic pattern, I deprive myself of its joy.

When will I play? I don’t know. What will come of it again? I don’t know. But for a few minutes, I opened back up to the aching light of it, and I’m sure something was healed.