Wednesday Night Music

As Wednesday Night Music (and I know how lame that sounds) was winding down, I fell asleep (passed out) on Jim’s sofa.  I suppose if I were a true Southern Lady, I would be just a tiny bit embarrassed, but I’m not.  I got drunk on purpose, started drinking wine while I was writing a hasty post to “Madness, Mania and Muddlement" yesterday afternoon.  

On my way to Jim’s house, I drove to Gould’s Inlet to watch the full moon rise over the Atlantic.  Clouds were thick on the horizon and the moon was not visible, but the light and energy from it painted the seascape in tones of pink and purple and navy blue layered above the deep green of the water.  As the sun set on the other side of the island, I sat on a bench overlooking the beach and Village Creek, smoking and thanking the universe for Parrish’s survival of his latest suicide attempt.  

I carted myself, along with my newly acquired cabasa, over to Jim’s.  No, it’s not a sausage.  It's a hand percussion instrument, a large wooden spool with a handle on one end.  There are metal beads strung around the spool, and you can shake it or move the beads with your hand.  It sounds like a rattlesnake.  I got tired of being a groupie and decided to join the band, so I’m learning to play it.  If you click on the link above, you will see a demonstration by an expert and learn it can be fairly simple or very complicated to play.  I’m starting out simple.

I’ve written about Wednesday Night Music before, so if you follow this blog, you know the regulars:  Jim, Bob, Steve and Janice, Marnie and me, although if Marnie doesn’t come home soon, she’ll have to reapply for groupie status.   

We have guests drop in from time to time, and the last two sessions have been outstanding.  Last week, Don Mike came, bringing his harmonicas and his flute and his tub base.  He loaned me his cabasa, and it’s because of him that I decided to learn to play it.  

Last night, Rory and two other former members of the band, Flood, Bob and Don, came too.  Rory set up his drums and Bob played electric guitar while Don grooved on his acoustic.  They are wonderful singers.

The deal is this:  we go around the room and each person takes a turn choosing a song.  After a short consultation about the key, the musicians take off and play and sing.  Anyone who chooses to sing may do so.  It’s a perfection-free zone, so if you’re like me and occasionally forget the words or slide a little out of tune, no one cares.  Dancing is optional, and I’m the only one who does - with the refrigerator door.  Music and dancing are my therapists.  

It is one of the most creative and healing endeavors in which I have participated.  Think about it.  A room full of artists, sharing their souls with one another by way of music is a beautiful thing.  I’ve said it before.  Every week I come away energized and optimistic and healed.  Maybe Wednesday Night Music isn’t so lame.  After all, that’s what it is.

Even at 1:30 AM, nursing a headache and feeling like I was run over by a bus, my soul was refreshed and I came home and wrote for two hours.  The horror of watching Parrish shackled and handcuffed and taken away in a Sheriff’s car to the hospital in Savannah* was washed away by music.

I am indeed grateful to these caring and sharing people who are in my life.  I love them all.

© 2014 cj Schlottman

* See “Madness, Mania and Muddlement”