a good drumbeat is like, love...

It’s funny how you can get used to another drummer’s beat: How the lives of two people can compose syncopated harmonies like Baptist quartets, and improvise like jazz quartets providing safe works of art out of life for one another. My drummer left for Carnival this week, and I had all these plans. Were it not for the fact that midterm exams are next week, yours truly is relegated to a reluctant but eventual Georgia winter instead of slurping sweet cherry juice from an impromptu icy under a skin baking sun while strolling down Fredrick Street to the sound of sweet and festive steel pan. Since I can’t soak in the sun on Maracas beach, I decided this is my opportunity to really catch up on my studies and prepare for tests. And maybe, I could finally read that copy of Iola Leroy my advisor gave to me, and begin another short story. I’ll get on the treadmill everyday. Go to that cute little tea shop in Virginia Highland. Go window shopping, work on the abstract for the English conference, and begin writing my research paper on Ellen Glasgow, and…

The first day and night I felt strangely paralyzed. I always think I could get more done if I just had more time to myself, but ironically I’m finding that I have to struggle even harder to move, with my rhythm section missing. Going to class is easy; automatic. It’s the time in between time, the space between the spaces that feel so bereft. And, its’ very quiet, save for the TV and the clatter of shuffling cards on computer solitaire. I wrote down all of my deadlines for the week and stuck them in my mirror so I couldn’t forget. I have a Georgia government exam in the morning that I will be studying for. And I have been getting on the treadmill. It won’t be long. My drummer will be back soon, and I’ll be back on key.