pigeon

maybe we should just concentrate on playing the rhythms, yeah?

This is a good pigeon (they’re all good pigeons) to have flying in my window this morning, after skipping my self-assigned pigeon task yesterday for fear of not doing it right.

I don’t even know how I’m going to do this yet, how can I possibly get it wrong?

And yet, that’s what I do—I’m not going to define and describe procrastination, because that seems tedious and obvious. But it did occur to me this morning, when I was still unwilling to get out of bed but not quite able to get back to sleep (the sudden loop-the-loop intake of breath and resonant zap of anxiety occurring precisely at the boundary between turbulence and tranquility, every time; and if that fails to wake me back up then here comes a random itch), that my grinding response to my own procrastination, processing without resolving, masticating without digesting, generates something that feels a lot like depression but isn’t, really, I don’t think. It’s more like psychic inflammation.

But what does this have to do with being in Mixed Company, the perfect coffee shop in Columbia, MO, early 90s, before I even knew what a Starbucks was, thrilled at having been invited to play congas with JB, the soft-spoken charismatic percussionist that everyone who would hang out in a place like Mixed Company either knew or knew of?

JB had the good congas, the stratospherically expensive ones with the creamy, tight, smooth skins, the supple shape, the distinguished rims, the ones that go POP! in response to a minimal slap, the ones that THOCK! and hum and sing, that you learn to caress, not merely hit or bang. Of course he did; he was a real percussionist, not like so many of us baby pseudo-nouveau-hippie types hanging around on sidewalks downtown or on campus banging out rhythms, trying to be visible, to each other at least. He must have heard me drum and concluded, at some point, as did the guy I used to work at the car wash with, that “this white boy kinda got rhythm” (different pigeon, another time—and JB was white too btw, that’s not the point here)! So he had invited me to sit in with him one evening when he was one of the featured musicians at Mixed Company, home of assorted freaks and the dispossessed, where we made our own smoothies and nachos, where we could work shifts back in the narrow kitchen for store credit, where we had reusable straws before there was an internet for stuff like that to be trendy on, etc, etc.

See, now I’m getting close to the crux of it, close to this pigeon’s tiny beating heart, and the procrastination is— I’m wanting to— I’m a go make another coffee, hang on, brb.

OK, so we’re playing along, bap-bap-baa, la-la-laaa, whatever, small loose crowd, breezy evening, and you have to realize I only owned one low-end conga at that time; here I was, sitting in this rarefied inner circle with the JB and all these glorious, delicious cowskins within reach, permission granted, begging to be touched, and so—I was! Touching them! Playing all of them! PLAYING them! Playing around, trying things, listening even, somewhat, and at some point JB looks over at me and grins and says, “You’re like a kid in a candy store, aren’t you?”

And, I’m sorry, I’m so, so, sorry—I took that as a compliment. JB had seen me, had seen my childlike delight and affirmed it. This was my candy, this feeling of the skins against my skin, this smorgasbord of rhythmic possibility, and yes, this belonging, this inclusion; this was my candy, and it was real and legit because someone else had seen it and said that and made it real, brought it into this coffee house with people in it. And then he said the next thing.

“Maybe we should just concentrate on playing the rhythms, yeah?”

And I can still hear in my mind the little three-conga melody I had been making up just before he said that. I could play it for you right now.

And it wasn’t even that he wanted me to do something different. It’s that he was so gosh-darned nice about it.

And it wasn’t even that he was so nice about it, it was that in the cafe that night there was this other guy that JB knew and most of us knew of, another real musician, and right before saying that to me, JB, bopping his head along with my cartoonish little song, had given that guy an amused, apologetic smile. To me it meant that they were whatever kind of a thing they were, and I was—something else, not that.

I don’t remember how long I hung in there after that. I imagine I plodded along a little while longer and then excused myself, going back to just being in the crowd, letting JB finish his set unmolested by my peurile monkey thumps.

Did I need to learn about “less is more?” Yes. Am I still learning about that, and about playing with others, and how to take criticism? Yes. Am I still salty? Y— no. Lol. Maybe a little. But you know what? Less so, now, after typing out this pigeon. Because you know what part of this I genuinely never consciously thought about until now? Maybe the uber-cool, airbrushed-poster-worthy, earthy, quietly sexy JB wasn’t perfectly self-possessed either. Maybe the glance he gave that guy was as much “oh shit, that guy is gonna think my set is no good” as it was “oh boy, isn’t this kid dumb, lol, not like us real musicians haha, right?” (Of course he wouldn’t have said “lol” because we didn’t have “lol” then, but ygwim.)

Who knows. You never know. You barely know about yourself, let alone other people. What’s the difference between “my” candy store and “a” candy store? How do you learn compassion for both the bull and the proprietor of the china shop? How do you set a nice table for the monkey, the bull, the proprietor, and the pigeon?

This is how. Now I know a little bit more about how to do this. (Which means I guess it’s time to move on to “work” stuff—good lord, is everything I do some form of procrastination for the next thing?)

Thanks for letting me play with you, JB.