Doumbecky

So. I camped. I survived. I'm home, and showered, and re-established in the land of electric lights and climate control and made-for-cable SF miniseries. This is all good.

The event was.... well, it was. There were people, and there were tents, and there was court. There was a lot of court. People got awards; some of the people were friends, and I was glad to be there for that. There was enough sun and enough thunder and lightning to sate me for quite some time. I managed to almost completely avoid getting sunburned; on the other hand, I also managed to almost completely avoid seeing and socializing with most of my friends, who for the most part legitimately had more important things to do than pass the time of day with a minnow like myself. I tried my best to make myself helpful, which was more or less unsuccessful, and when that failed I settled for trying to be unobtrusive.

Once both the sun and the dramatic thunderstorms had both passed, I wound up getting pulled into a nearby gypsy encampment to watch the drumming-and-dancing. It was beautiful and artistic and it fit in with the mood and the site, and the only negative thing for me was being unable to participate in any way. It's not a style of dancing that I know at all, I have less than no musical ability, and I've long ago let go of the pretty myth that the audience's mere presence is a form of participation. I have no doubt that I could learn to dance like that, given time and lessons and dedication, but I was in a mood that required immediate gratification, which was nowhere to be found.

So I stumbled off to sleep, confident that the sunshine and fresh air would make everything better the next day. Unsurprisingly for those who know just how solar-powered I truly am, it did.

Morning came. Sunshine came. Breakfast came and went, and I was wandering around aimlessly, halfheartedly packing, when a friend started noodling on her doumbek. Filled with a combination of curiosity, hunger for social interaction, and a desire to get out of packing up the tent, I flopped down beside her and asked her to show me how to play. She handed me the drum and told me where to hit. I settled it on the ground, then in response to her frantic gestures of wrongness, tried to readjust it onto my lap. My first cautious tap on the thing's head produced a flat, twangy bonk. Undaunted, I took a deep breath and tried again. The drum promptly rolled off my knee.

Another friend with a bit more experience stepped in at that point, and handed me a drum that seemed to like me a bit better. He showed me how to hold it between my lap and my arm, and how to shape my fingers, and how and where to strike. I gave it one more try, figuring that after three failures I could walk away without feeling like too much of a quitter.

boom

And it sounded right. And it felt right. And I tried it again, and it was right again. And after that, it was just a matter of convincing my hands to catch up with the rhythms in my head. Slowly at first, one at a time, making sure I could get the right sound in the right shape and at the right time, then once I had that outline established, inserting beats where they seemed to fit best, until it felt like I was building a dance out of the sound and the motion of my hands....

Wow.

I'm still not a musician. I'm still not even particularly good, but after 20 minutes of practice at my first lesson, I know enough to know that this is something I like. It's a way to connect with music that I've never found before - not a replacement for dance, more like another dimension of understanding. And while I need another hobby like I need an invigorating encounter with intestinal flu, it'll be worth the investment of time and money if I get to feel like that again even once.

All things considered, I'd have to call the weekend a success....