Practice

Holy shit that shit makes sense.

I sucked last night.
I played with a few friends in a bar, as I'm prone to do on Tuesday nights...a funk quartet, a quintet of blues when I lose my shoes and step to the stage. Usually I bring it, unabashed, fashioned from funk and stone and the thick viscous grit of a thousand broken men's lifetimes, blown across the reeds of my Lee Oskar diatonic.

But last night I was feeling a little too sensitive, a bit too broken from a day of exhaustion and a momentary loss of integrity at evening's end. Head fulla hops and thc I took everything personally, and coupled with my recent lack of practice, I fell short, and everyone present witnessed the tumble.

I got to experience my sense of entitlement. I sat back and watched as small waves of anger lapped against my sands, spurred by little triggers.
As others stepped to fill the solos I wouldn't take, I got angry, thinking, "NO. This is my time to shine. I'm on the stage. I'm with the band."
When another singer walked in the door I thought, "NO. You're not supposed to be here. I'm singing tonight. I'm with the band. "
The bratty little child inside held on tight to this sense of entitlement...just because I'd been invited to show up, I felt that all others should step down...EVEN IF I WASN'T WILLING TO STEP UP.
And of course, the Big Mama laughed and sent me home broken, feeling the pain of those thousand other lifetimes, that I may know my own.

Thank God I dropped into the witness. Even as I sucked and blew, I laughed. This too shall pass. I dropped into my body, and felt that this wasn't gonna shake so easy, so best to rest and write.

Breathe...

These cats are good. I'm gonna have to practice to keep up.
Thank God.