Beating

Well, it looks like the Ebola scare has finally gotten to me. Last night I dreamt I was somewhere in Asia, with friends, and an ex-girlfriend of all things, as I discovered fields of food had been contaminated by sick monkeys and fruit bats. Guess who had just eaten lunch. Then, just before I woke up, I had a nightmare I was trapped inside a motorcycle gang's clubhouse where a deranged woman on methamphetamines wielding an ax hacked away at the door I hid behind. She couldn't be reasoned with, of course, nor could she be dissuaded. I managed to flee through an adjacent door while she was hammering away with the determined fury of a practiced lumberjack. When I fled though, as I entered the street, I was greeted by 20-foot tall prison fences festooned with barbed wire. There was no escape. Fortunately, I woke up right as I had pressed myself against the gate, hopelessly searching for an opening. I know I said I was going to talk about things that were more positive, and lighter, but it seems my unconscious mind had still heavier surprises in store for me. Okay, now that the fog of sleep has lifted from my weary brow, let's move away from axes and razor wire.

I feel pretty good this morning. I'd forgetton how powerful an effect the gym could have on your health. Our bodies, much like our minds, need to be used, exercised, or else they fall into disrepair and decay. Presently, I possess the musculature of an atrophied geriatric, but soon, soon.

Hmm, what else can I bore you with? I've already talked about dreams and fitness (or lack thereof); I'm running out of ideas. Maybe a happy memory that's only happy to me, or a joke that you just had to be there for. Oh, I know! A story from Saturday:

C and I had just had breakfast, excellent Mexican food paired with several, salty tequila-based drinks. W had been with us but he had to leave before the food arrived in order to make it to a nearby drum session. We told him we'd meet him there after we wrapped up. During the 2-block walk, C produced a small, superfluous joint. I considered not smoking it at all, but then I thought it foolish not to; what better way to walk into a room full of strangers pounding on African drums than drunk and stoned, and white. Once we arrived, awkwardly we pushed open the door from where the music was emanating and found ourselves amidst a room full of beautiful women, all of them dancing as though possessed. The beat, hypnotic and virile, had them entirely in thrall; us too. We stood there dumbfounded and stupid, staring, transfixed and oblivious. When the realization landed that we were obstructing the dancefloor, we scuttled toward the bleachers and remained seated.

W looked entranced, his hands were a blur, flapping and beating like swollen hummingbird wings. The women, too, were mesmerized, moving like animals, deer or gazelles, dancing, jumping and flitting. I felt like an animal too: a tranquilized, sedate snake. I couldn't help swaying and flapping like a flag, tapping my foot like a rattle. Something inside me slithered and hissed with satisfaction while the loud rhythmic beating rebelled against the silence, obliterating it. It reverberated off the air around me, shook my skull until my ego broke into fine pieces, like sand, and my head became a maraca. I was lost in the sound; I could hear the language of the drums telling old, long-forgotten stories, vibrating atoms until we all buzzed as the same truth. There was something profoundly tribal about it; the sense of belonging, of being nothing and at the same time something. Then, as I glanced up, the lead drummer invited me to play. I turned him down, obviously, given I have no experience playing the drums and I didn't want to fuck up the sound they'd created. So they continued, and we continued listening, and the dancers continued dancing.

I can still hear it.