justintubbs
Oct 10, 2012
Writing Feedback / 'Time of judgement' - college essay [2]
He points his finger at me, the finger that signals the approaching time of judgment. Armageddon. It's time to play my solo.
My hands, twitchy and sweaty, struggle to pump out the remaining chords before the solo starts. 4/4: 1, 2, 3, 4, 2, 2, 3, 4, 3, 2, 3, 4. Accents on the 2 and 4, Freddie Greene style. Each beat brings me closer to the time under the spotlight, and I wish I could slow them down. I'm in a time paradox, the moment is coming so fast everything feels so slow, as if some extra dimensional tormenter is bending the laws of time so he can relish in my panic. 4 beats before I start: the drummer rolls, the horn line crescendos, and I use every ounce of will power to force my muscles to stand me up.
My heart races faster than the upbeat jazz song behind me and my mind goes numb. My legs feel like mush under me, and it feels like they will collapse.
And then, for forty five seconds, I'm in a completely different world. A world of paradoxes, where it feels like I'm on the stage for hours yet when I sit back down it feels like it went by in a second. Where I'm intensely aware of the feel of skin on string and on wood, and of chord changes, yet I'm not thinking about a single thing. I'm as frightened as I've ever been, yet oddly confident and comfortable. For me, playing guitar destroys the self. All of the chatter in my mind drains out of my hands and into my guitar, which has become an extension of my physical body. There is no "Justin" anymore. There is just my mind, hooked up with the electrical impulses of nerves and the contractions of finger and wrist muscles to an Ibanez hollow body. The riffs and chords resonate through my bones and travel up my nervous system and reach my brain and I'm not even aware of any separation between me and the guitar, because there is none. Oddly enough, cranking out improvisations on a blues scale at a hundred and fifty beats a minute is pretty meditative.
Applause and "WOOOOS!" of approval from my classmates in the audience. As I sit down I fall back into reality, my heart slows and my adrenaline drops. I go back to pounding out chords, C-C-F-F#-C, the spotlight now casting judgment on someone else.
I can't help but nod my head a bit to the beat, totally relaxed, and the rest of my body does a weird, subtle dance in the chair, one that I hope no one else notices.
I feel good.
He points his finger at me, the finger that signals the approaching time of judgment. Armageddon. It's time to play my solo.
My hands, twitchy and sweaty, struggle to pump out the remaining chords before the solo starts. 4/4: 1, 2, 3, 4, 2, 2, 3, 4, 3, 2, 3, 4. Accents on the 2 and 4, Freddie Greene style. Each beat brings me closer to the time under the spotlight, and I wish I could slow them down. I'm in a time paradox, the moment is coming so fast everything feels so slow, as if some extra dimensional tormenter is bending the laws of time so he can relish in my panic. 4 beats before I start: the drummer rolls, the horn line crescendos, and I use every ounce of will power to force my muscles to stand me up.
My heart races faster than the upbeat jazz song behind me and my mind goes numb. My legs feel like mush under me, and it feels like they will collapse.
And then, for forty five seconds, I'm in a completely different world. A world of paradoxes, where it feels like I'm on the stage for hours yet when I sit back down it feels like it went by in a second. Where I'm intensely aware of the feel of skin on string and on wood, and of chord changes, yet I'm not thinking about a single thing. I'm as frightened as I've ever been, yet oddly confident and comfortable. For me, playing guitar destroys the self. All of the chatter in my mind drains out of my hands and into my guitar, which has become an extension of my physical body. There is no "Justin" anymore. There is just my mind, hooked up with the electrical impulses of nerves and the contractions of finger and wrist muscles to an Ibanez hollow body. The riffs and chords resonate through my bones and travel up my nervous system and reach my brain and I'm not even aware of any separation between me and the guitar, because there is none. Oddly enough, cranking out improvisations on a blues scale at a hundred and fifty beats a minute is pretty meditative.
Applause and "WOOOOS!" of approval from my classmates in the audience. As I sit down I fall back into reality, my heart slows and my adrenaline drops. I go back to pounding out chords, C-C-F-F#-C, the spotlight now casting judgment on someone else.
I can't help but nod my head a bit to the beat, totally relaxed, and the rest of my body does a weird, subtle dance in the chair, one that I hope no one else notices.
I feel good.
