On Pieces Missing

Yesterday’s discussion with myself in public regarding the rhythm of the word, combined with 36 wonderful minutes of SPRINGSTEEN ON BROADWAY (must make time to watch the rest) has inculcated a notion that, without playing music, a piece of me is missing – and has been for a very, very long time.

Not to say that I have any interest in returning to performing or composing (though I do miss the camaraderie of being a drumstick-wielding cog in a musical organism), but just to keep it as part of myself, to return to a regular piano or guitar or drumset practice with dog-chewed drumsticks and/or a quarter for a pick.

I know – as much as one can know anything in a creative field – that my place, that my voice, is with the written word, but perhaps it’s time to dedicate a small corner of the living room of myself – an end table, perhaps – back to the universal language?