Drift Away

 

Though he was never a musician, my dad loved the drums.  He loved a good beat and rhythm and one of my fondest memories (to pop back in my head) was one evening when I was little.  There must have been music playing.  Probably a Saturday night, because if my dad wasn't working, he would be home playing his records and enjoying more than a few spirits.  I can't recall what the exact scenario was, but I remember I was sitting in the chair and my sister was on the sofa across from me.  I must have been tapping away in time with the music, which caught my dad's ear.  Next thing I remember is my dad, with a huge smile across his face, teaching me to keep time as well as using different surfaces around me to make different sounds to better accompany the music playing.  He then turned his attention to my sister, attempting to teach her the same.  All I remember following that was his frustration because my sister just couldn't get the beat down.  

"Look at your brother!" he said loudly, "Keep time like he is."  She never got the hang of it as the song and record had come to an end.  My dad returned to his spot at the kitchen table.

I don't know how old I was then.  Frankly, I'm surprised something so random, like that, would spring back into my head, unless it was because of the documentary I just finished watching on Netflix.

I've watched a couple documentaries on drumming and percussion.  This one just randomly popped up on my Netflix when I was searching for another title.  The description tickled my fancy, so to speak, and I pressed PLAY.

The documentary interviews a wide menagerie of professional drummers who all discuss techniques, practices and inspirations.  It's really a fascinating documentary and I'd recommend it to anyone.  While I was watching the film, though, a tear came to my eye.  The tear fell down my cheek because I realized my dad would have loved to watch this film.  Maybe even sit with me while doing so.  The commentary he might have added to make the doc even more special.

I'm not a religious person.  I wish I was, but I can't.  I'm too logical, but if Heaven does exist, I hope it has Netflix.  I'd love to sit down with my dad.  Catch up and maybe watch a drumming documentary or two. 😊

Proclivity

Many o' thing will pop into my head throughout the common workday.  In order to keep myself alert, I often will sing quietly to myself, or as in the case this morning, hum a (somewhat) familiar ditty.  This morning it was something from The Doors, although I'm not familiar with what it was exactly, nor do I know for certain that it was a song actually performed by The Doors.  I'm not a fan, nor have I ever been a fan of, Jim Morrison.  I don't know why, but I suspect it has something to do with Oliver Stone's biopic, The Doors (1991).

This practice has been a common habit, or proclivity, for quite a long while.  Almost since my first day on the job more than a year and a half ago.  I've often joked that the radio in my forklift is broken and there's only one song that repeats in the disk drive.  My forklift doesn't have a radio, nor do most of the rubes I work with, have the mental fortitude to comprehend even the most basic of humour.  Sometimes I feel so alone at work.

In addition to humming and hawing over a wide menagerie of musical entities in my wheelhouse, my mind also has a tendency to question that which I see around me.  Like for instance, despite the temperature maintaining itself at a painful subzero level for most of the day, why the f*ck was it snowing from about three o'clock on?  The environmental weather is all topsy-turvy today.  Completely illogical.  Another avenue that my mind ventured down today, actually involved the word proclivity.  Although, I will admit, at the time I wasn't a hundred percent certain on exactly what the definition of the word was, but imagine my delight when discovering that it's meaning actually corresponds nicely with this subject matter.  However, here is where my mental skew takes it's ugly turn, as it often does when I'm concerned.  On the other hand..., what the hell?  The English language, for all it's luster and beauty, can be a little intimidating and f*cked up, too, for all intense purposes.

Proclivity [proh-kliv-i-tee] /prōˈklivətē, prə-/. The word is defined as, by www.Dictionary.reference.com as: a natural or habitual inclination and/or tendency; a propensity or predisposition: as a  proclivity to meticulousnes...  In my mind, this inventive word which originated in Latin, actually takes a much more bastardized and sordid meaning, while in my fleeting care.  To me, Proclivity sounds like a communicable disease.  (Example #1) :  "I hooked up with that attractive Asian chick Saturday night, but now, it seems, she's given me a scorching case of Proclivity!!"  Luckily, Proclivity is treatable.

During the final moments of my workday, these absurd thoughts gave me cause to chuckle and smile quietly to myself.  Discovering more creative avenues, I continued on with the harmless charade, knowing full well that I'd be adding this subject to my plethora of previous blog ideas and subject matters.  

In further testing my own creativity, I came up with a second scenario which tests the strength and multiple use of this interesting word.  (Example #2) : "I hooked up with that attractive Asian chick on Saturday night, but I seem to have contracted some sort of a scorching rash!  Luckily, the doctor says I only need a few shots of Proclivity for a speedy recovery."  I wish I could buy stock in the company that produces Proclivity!