All the things I want to do.

   Maybe it's the curse of youth to be idealistic.  Maybe coming to terms with reality is part of becoming an adult - to face the fact that you just can't do certain things given constraints like time, physical and mental limitations.  I don't really want to be an astronaut, I would just really like to see space.  I'm sure the time will come when it will be possible for me to do so, so I'm not too worried about that.
   I'd like to write music, but for some reason I've yet to unlock a door in my brain that connects melody and word.  Maybe that will just take time, too.
   I love to move, so a dance or Kung Fu class is always satisfying, but finding the time in my crazy schedule for either is a near impossibility.
   Maybe I ask too much.  Should one expect to have the time for some of the things that makes one happy if one's schedule is filled with so many money-earning duties as to make one completely incapable of partaking in one's passions?  Maybe It's not that I ask too much, maybe I ask too often.  Maybe my head is so full of questions there's no room for answers.
   Perhaps the questions need time to reduce on my mental backburner, much like a sauce cannot be rushed but allow to simmer away, one ingredient slowly blending into another until they are one in the same and inextricable.  
   I want to invent something.  I want my creativity and problem-solving to work for me.  I want to learn a language - I've always had a propensity for language - musically-minded people do, so I've read.

   I'm twenty-five.  I've been told I'm an old soul.  I feel old.  I feel worn out.  My time is done, time to move to the side and make way for the new generation with their pad computers and their fucking twitter and all the other distractions that keep us from realizing our true potential as creators.  The time for idealization is over.  The world won't be saved by me so I might as well shut the fuck up and wait for whoever wants to get their fingerprints on this train wreck.  Maybe it's just time for sleep.

A little tip from the Pork Chop Express on a dark and stormy night..

   I have been working my tuchus off these past couple weeks.  Double after double after double.  Waiting tables for 14 hour days at Becco, training at the Breukelen Coffee House, slogging through slow nights at Pop Art Bar.  I haven't seen Chetta after sundown in two weeks. I tell myself I'm working so hard so we can get on top of expenses, no longer have to live paycheck to paycheck, and to hopefully eventually have free time available to make art for love (which may even attract money, meaning most time could be free time).
   How does one stay sane with this back-to-back-to-back work lifestyle?  When I find out, I'll let you know via tag you in a Facebook note.  Until then, though, I revel in the few minutes I can find to engage in my passion: on my breaks between doubles (ranging from a half- to two hours), or on a sparsely peopled subway train or platform, I pull out my Andante practice pad and Vic Firth 5As (which I carry in my bag wherever I go) and tap away to anything with a steady beat - my ipod, car alarm, or the second hand of a public clock.  Buying Stick Control For the Snare Drummer was probably one of the best decision I've ever made for music, and I've only progressed to halfway down the first half of the first page in the month I've owned it.
   I combat my vague fear of pissing any surrounding people off with incessant tappa-tappa-tappa by playing controlled pianississimo paradiddles and double-stroke rolls, shifting sticking around (RLRR LRLL, RLLR LRRL, RRLR LLRL and RR LL RR LL, LR RL LR RL, respectively).  I try to concentrate on how good playing makes me feel, to let it envelope me like an electric blanket (or a cool breeze, if it's a hot day).  I realize that every worry drips away from me when muscle memory takes over and I can rest comfortably in the space between the beats of the simplest rhythm.  I can't help but imagine a warm golden sunlight emanating from me, splashing invisible contentment on the walls of wherever I happen to be.  And no matter how dark and dank my surroundings or my mood, I have a feeling the contentment remains when I leave, maybe for someone else to enjoy.
   So I make the time.  Even with my nonstop work schedule of late, I've found dependable pockets of time that I can spend doing what I love to do and, more importantly, getting noticeably better at what I love to do.  Hopefully my talent will become valuable when paired with a good attitude, professionalism, well-placed contacts and a healthy dollop of luck.  Speaking of which, anybody know anybody who knows anybody who is wanting for a professional, easy-going, well-adjusted, talented percussionist for whom no gig is to small?  I might know a guy..