As I walked around aimlessly contemplating my life and the near certainty that I'd end up living in a dilapidated hut surrounded by inbred cats and saucers of sour milk, I happened upon a music school where a student and teacher were dueling violins.
It was serendipitous, not because the sweet sounds encouraged my thoughts to more positive shores, which it did, but it also reminded me that it was morning tea time and that I should promptly make my way to the tea room for what would have been my thirteenth cup of coffee. And as stood faced with the thought of missing my thirteenth cup of coffee, I supped on the the sounds of that talented young student and felt a bourgeoning urge to join the musician ranks.Spring is surely a perfect time to pick up an instrument. But when is it personally too late? Twenty, twenty-five, thirty years of age? And how long does it take to get good? If middle man Fink has been playing for twenty years and he's still quite ordinary, then what hope have the rest of us got? In twenty years, could I be up to playing a slightly off beat, out of tune, alt-rock-pop cover?
So I guess today's live music experience was subtle, but a wateshed moment. The inspiration to play music means that as an ailing cat woman I might just be up to playing a Cat Power or Cat Stevens cover (because I would probably be really thematic by then and fill the hut with cat paraphernalia, like cat clocks and hobby tech pictures of cats playing with round balls of wool, and music would be no exception).
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SDsxkQk6DWw
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