“A drumset is a time machine, literally speaking—a machine for keeping time—though a drummer has to be the clockwork device to subdivide rhythm—to bring the time. In those days, I was not that drummer.” (Neil Peart, News, Weather, and Sports)
And the time machine sitting in my living room transports me to another world, one where sweating is a joy and mistakes a chance for a do-over. Where nothing I do is wrong and the clockwork device holding the sticks is having more fun than anyone else in the room. It’s sheer unadulterated, childlike joy, simple and incomprehensible.
“So today, think about what it is you need and were too embarrassed to ask for. And then go fucking do it. Wear a ball gown to the grocery store. Invite the neighbors to have a picnic on the front lawn. Get that novel out of your sock drawer and publish it yourself. Stand on a bus stop bench and belt out a song for the waiting strangers. Find a playground swing and remember how it felt to fly. Find your red dress. And wear the hell out of it.” (Jenny Lawson, The Bloggess)
I found my red dress. And I’m beating the hell out of it. Your turn.