Wednesday, June 27, 2007

Dancing to a different drummer

Last night, the OGADE band performed at the Fitton Center for the Performing Arts in Hamilton, Ohio. In the darkened theater, about a dozen of us took our drums and flutes and rainstick and crammed into one dimly-lit corner of the stage area. The dundun player had to be careful not to whack the djembists on either side.

Despite the constricted space, the local troupe of belly dancers who call themselves the "Circle of Rhiannon" danced into the center and performed a series of group and solo dances that had everyone fascinated and wanting more.

Obviously the aesthetic and primal appeal of this performance is very strong. The insistent beating of the drums takes hold of the heart rhythms of the audience, and the swirling of colorful costumes and the liberated, sexy movements of the dancers draw the eyes of everyone. As a drummer in the back row, I could see that the entire audience was intent on the action on stage, and many were swaying to the beat.

It is good to have these occasions. Especially, it is good that audiences in the conservative world of Cincinnati have so many occasions to be exposed to live world music and dance.

When I drive around Hamilton with my moonroof open, I am assaulted by country music, country rock, christian(!) rock and hip-hop crap with indistinguishable lyrics played by cars that thump obnoxiously at intersections while waiting for lights that seem never to change. Though I close the moonroof, I cannot escape the monotonous, unimaginative thumping. It is enough to rattle the metal signs that say, "LOUD STEREO: Penalty $500".

Public exposure to live dancing and live music of other cultures helps to broaden the cultural awareness of the local citizenry. The current political climate, in which all things Arabic/Muslim are equated with terrorism demands to be countered by whatever means are available. Multicultural music and dance are powerful ambassadors for acceptance, appreciation, and understanding.

Sunday, June 24, 2007

Mister Resister

More often than not, when I sit at the dinner table with J, the repast ends with an attempt by our cat, Kaboodle, to sit on my lap. Sometimes I rebuff this action. These are times when the day has been long, I am tired, or otherwise preoccupied by some project that remains unfinished.

Other times, I welcome the visit. Quality time with a cat is not something to be taken for granted. Of the four cats, only Kaboodle finds the time to sit on me, or make the attempt, on any regular basis. Evil, the gray cat and master of perverse behavior, greets me in the morning, but only because I am the first one up, and he thinks there is a possibility that I will feed him some treat that I would not dare to give to the others. Even so, his greetings are confined to touching my calf with his tail, and walking between my legs as I try to navigate the kitchen. If all other methods fail, he plops down across what he knows will be my path, and waits.

Kaboodle knows that I am not to be trifled with in the morning. I have an early start in order to get to my job to check the computers before the staff begin to arrive and use them. There is no place for trivial pursuits, such as opening cans of tuna or spreading treats on the floor.

Evil's behavior is in no way endearing. It is a sign of a desperate attempt to gain mastery. He has conquered others in this house. On more than two occasions I have stepped in a bowl of milk that I didn't see, placed on the floor under the overhang of the kitchen cabinet. Once, a can of some kind of meat by-product flew down the basement stairs as a result of similar unfortunate placement. And, since I am the one who spills these victuals, it falls to me, morally at least, to clean them up, thereby subtracting even more minutes from the total available to complete my autopilot morning rituals.

I learned that the milk was a distraction offered up in order to allow the giver a chance to prepare food in relative peace, which is to say, without having to step over a recumbent cat several times.

Given these circumstances, perhaps I should lighten up a little on Kaboodle. She does wait until dinner is nearly over, or my legs are uncrossed, whichever she notices first. She keeps her distance in the morning but greets me with her tail a furry question mark and summons up a squeaky meow whenever I come home. And she is very soft.

But answer me this: why do cats seek out and suck up to the person in the family who is most allergic? I guess they understand that our immune systems are already weakened, so our resistance is lowest.

Thursday, June 21, 2007

To each his zone

I used to think that one day all songs would have been written: all the possible combinations of the chromatic scale would be used up, and all that would be left to do would be to recycle the old stuff, maybe by putting new words to it. Not being mathematically inclined, I would further wonder about the number of meaningful permutations and combinations of English words. Wouldn't there come a time when nobody could copyright a song or a poem or story because they'd all have been written? Ecclesiastes (Koheleth - The Preacher) certainly said so.

That was B.G. Before Google.

Now, we are awakening to the fact that there is a vast amount that is not known, that has never been seen by most of the world's eyes, or heard by most of its ears. It is only our limitations of imagination and creativity that put bounds to our experience. Defensively, we enter the comfort zone, where the strange and the challenging are filtered out.

The urge to pressure others to adopt our beliefs and philosophies and customs, I think, comes from being outside our comfort zone, rather than wanting others to share it. "Mission" comes from the Latin "mittere", meaning "to send". When we are outside our zone, we feel the need to enlarge it to feel safer, so we send out missionaries of one sort or another. Some are people, some are simply messages of various kinds. The main opposition to missions of this type arises when other people are in their own comfort zones, and do not wish to be disturbed, let alone challenged, and definitely not converted.

So in all this time, we have not, apparently learned or accepted that most people like to be left alone, or at least helped to cope with life on their own terms. What is true of individuals is true collectively. Nations do not appreciate being invaded, occupied and despoiled in the guise of being "helped". People get upset when their world is turned upside down by the intervention of power over which they have no control.

It is not that we don't know all this. Deep from within that tiny place called "conscience", there is a voice crying out to us to do what is right; to respond to human need, not human greed. But years of being in a comfort zone of having everything we could possibly need and most of what we could possibly want have deafened the inner ear to that voice. Walls have been built, and continue to be built, to keep out those who annoy us. A wall of bureaucracy is stronger than a wall of concrete. The wall of indifference is strongest of all.

All walls eventually fall. The energy we waste in building them could have been used to eliminate the reasons why we build them in the first place.

Saturday, June 2, 2007

Getting Centered.

Last evening J and I went to a local building on Main Street which serves as the center of Zen Buddhist activities in our city. On the first Friday night of every month, those who like to drum, play flutes or shakers or whatever foregather to exercise their creative muscles.

Symbolically perhaps, the tall old building has a very tall and steep staircase, with a landing half way up for those who may be wish to stop for a while and contemplate the possibilities. There are two: go up or down. To reverse directions would be to give in to the laws of aging and gravity. Onward and upward.

At the top, we entered a room with a sofa, desk and some people from our group. After unpacking J's djembe, I sat for a while thinking about stairlifts and catapults and oxygen masks and pitons while the group discussed its next gig. In the absence of either of the two instruments I usually play (the dundun or bass drum, and the balafon or xylophone) I decided to get up and poke around and discover the Center.

There were two back rooms: one a kitchen with a small cubicle containing an empty cabinet (appropriate) on which a small Buddha sat, a box of matches and some incense sticks. The kitchen proper had a refrigerator and microwave, a huge coffee urn and a poster about how to make donations. A doorway led to the HVAC system/cleaning closet.

Retracing my steps, I passed by the drummers into a very large, high-ceilinged room with large windows facing the street with blinds drawn. A rectangle of mats and beanbag cushions was laid out before the benign gaze of a second, larger Buddha on another cabinet.

No lights were on, but the setting sun provided enough to see a parchment divider screen to the left. Behind it lay a large supply of mats and beanbag cushions.

Like Goldilocks, I decided to try on a few for size. I soon discovered that proper placement of these devices induces a very deep state of meditation, one that some cultures call "sleep". Meanwhile, the drummers beat out a number of patterns, some classic and some improvised. When you lie on the floor like that, the bass beats become particularly pervasive and hypnotic.

Time passed, and we made our way slowly down the mountain.

And from The OaklandNews comes this bit of Zen wisdom: Do not walk behind me, for I may not lead. Do not walk ahead of me, for I may not follow. Do not walk beside me, either. Just leave me the hell alone.