Weapons (no, not like that) 4/4

A

The whir of brushes on the skin and its circular motion transfixes me. This is my save point. 

The stage lights are shining down on me in this concert hall, reflecting off my cymbal and into the back of my mind. The audience is so dark that I cannot even make out the faces in front of me, although I know who is there, I know where they are. I hope He is proud. 

I wish I didn't care. 

This competition has drained me and I know already that I do not win. I try my best but it just appears as if I am young and small, trying to play in the big leagues. Cute at best. I play alright. I choose a band of only women, a goal I set for myself in the last semester to feed the culture. My opposition sees it as a weapon; how can they say no to our batting eyelashes? 

There is a lot of pressure on me tonight. Not necessarily to win, but to definitely not mess up. Playing poorly would reassure everything everyone has thought about me and it has become my life's mission recently to prove people wrong. But I haven’t practiced in the last two months. I've been listening to a lot of WestSide Gunn. I am a woman. None of these things make it clear to the audience that yes indeed, I am a jazz drummer. I am capable. I am even good, at times. 

You’re a woman. Use it., I hear in the back of my mind. 

But I have gained weight and I have bangs now. Men don’t like me the way they used to. They can’t see my eyelashes from out there. 

We are playing “Black Narcissus”. The melody gives me chills and the way my band plays it makes my heart sputter like a faulty engine. It is so incredibly deep and important and I have never felt as if I have done a composition justice the way I am right now. 

I think about His eyes in the crowd, glimmering, wet. I think about my best friend’s anxious face in the wings, he is playing next. I picture my father’s spirit in the rafters staring down at the crown of my head from a bird’s eye view. I do not know who I play for. I do not know who I play to. 

Perhaps it is all me. Perhaps every person in the crowd is just myself in costumes, projecting fears and judgements, perhaps they will all melt into a puddle if I think hard enough. 

I close my eyes as they begin to water. I am so scared, so scared of what I have become. I am hiding behind this giant instrument, praying nobody notices all of my ugly parts, all the bits of rot underneath the concealer. Through the years this music has deconstructed itself into its most evil parts. It is booze, sneers, and sexual advances. It is hangovers and adultery and so far from what beauty it used to be in my eyes. I have gotten so distant from it, in a way that concerns the people around me. But rest assured, I tell them. I am a woman, so the gig opportunities will never cease. And people like me. 

Right?

It is the “head out”, the end of the song. I must focus. I come down in volume and leave space in my playing, letting the melody shine. It breaks my heart. 

My old teacher is in front of me all of a sudden, laughing his big laugh between yawns. 

My friends/strangers are in front of me all of a sudden, loving with big hearts destined for failure.

He is in the crowd. His face and expression is obscured by the lights. I could never read Him anyways. 

Who is this person holding the brushes?

“I wanted to take the time to thank all the professors at Concordia, who nurtured me into the musician I am today. I want to thank my family and friends, everyone who ever came out to a show or a jam night. Lastly,I want to take the time to thank three musicians in particular, who were there at the start of my journey and saw something in me I didn't know was there. I love you.”

After the show I do the rounds, smiling at professors and sort-of friends who congratulate me sincerely. I feel great. I have always loved performing, and this was the first time I have ever performed under my name, with a band that I lead. Everyone tells me I am a great speaker, a great leader. This feels good. 

I do not care about winning. I just wanted to give a good show. 

I see Him, the man who gave me my love for jazz, at the top of the stairs. He says “yeah, man” and then smiles. He shakes when He raises His hands and does not play jazz anymore. He is ill and had to forsake His passion for health. Thinking about it too much makes me cry so I try not to think about Him at all. 

I see the friends I thanked in my closing speech and they tear up when they hug me. I want to revert back to who I was in my first semester so badly that my ______ ___________. I mourn the me that loved Him. I mourn the me that loved the path I chose . I am lost for words and I *******************../   

𐆔𐆔𐆔𐆔𐆔𐆔𐆔𐆔𐆔𐆔𐆔𐆔𐆔𐆔𐆔𐆔𐆔𐆔𐆔𐆔𐆔𐆔𐆔𐆔𐆔𐆔𐆔𐆔𐆔𐆔𐆔

𝇉CODA 

I do not care about winning and so I lose, but I gave a good show. 

There is no such thing as winning in, standing in this moss. 

I write about it time and time again, hoping for some revelation. 

I sit at every cafe I can find and order pour over coffee that costs me $7. 

I write down “who will want to see me play if i am bigger” and I burst into tears.

No, not in public, now. 

I am more depressed the further I look in:

A sisyphean passion, one in which we will never be satisfied in ourselves. 

The further I get from it the more my femininity returns to me, like a dog responding to its name. I will be here forever, I realize. 

The push and the pull, it is everywhere. 

So, I must tie down my little cries and my weapons as if I am bracing for a storm.

I am simply stockpiling for the winters to come.