I must
admit my practice session did not go well.
Right notes
in the
wrong locations.
Rests where they did not exist and a
panic I would miss the next measure of
quarter notes on the upbeat. I would try
to catch up with the voices by the next
turn of phrase.
But they
brag on me just the same,
and I feel the shame of someone who receives
what they do not deserve. If only I spent more time
on the difficult passages,
taught my fingers to move in ways they were not accustomed to.
I am my own
worst critic, but I know they can hear the patches
where I fumble, where the time is broken into shards on
the ambient air. I would rather show up to rehearsal with
every bar perfected like the vineyard’s best wine.
I suppose
I can hide my fumbling fingers beneath the
beats of the snare that fills the voids where I forget
where I was headed. Maybe by the end we will be an
ad hoc wedding of the drum kit, bass, and my tentative
tempo. The staccato notes run away from me sometimes and
the drummer only stares. We laugh when it is over and
start again to see if we can keep the time.
I say all
this only because I feel the need to let you know
I am much better about making it up in my head than I am
about transferring it to my fingers. My handwriting is
nearly illegible. I hope my beats will be readable.
