Slave to the rhythm

I am a prodigy of percussion. I am a master of meter, the titan of tempo, "le roi du rythme". I am the captain of cadence, the boy with the beats. And I know, I really do know, that the best way to express my art is to hit everything upon everything else all the time. The ring of my wooden screwdriver upon the air conditioner, the pleasant knocking of toy trains on the table, the timbre of a cast iron pot banged on the floor, these are sounds the world needs to hear, and understand, and appreciate.


And yet, Mama and Dada and AuntK just don't understand. They fail to appreciate the perfection that is pounding a wooden spoon on the table leg, or a sippy cup upon the chair. They don't seem to understand the joy of experimentation that comes from testing what noise a toy car makes when it is hit against the stove, or the soothing sonorousness of pretty much anything hit against the floor. Yes, I know we have downstairs neighbors. Yes, I know it's 7 am. They love me for my art. I'm sure of it.


You see, Mama, Dada, AuntK, these "noises" as you call them are not just bangs, not just crashes, not just booms or clangs or clanks -- they are a part of the music of the ages, the primal beat that rumbles so softly in my psyche and must be released for the world to enjoy.  These are the sounds of my soul. And every time you tell me "STOP BANGING!" in that tone that only just hints of exasperation, know that you are not only stifling my creative instincts, but that you are robbing the world of the craft of my composition, a symphony of such sublimity that even if I had the words, I could just not express it. Sigh. I am a virtuoso of vibrations, unappreciated in his time.