DionysianFest

It would have been easy to blow it off and stay home, rest up from a day of gardening, be a rational animal and read a book. But did I do the rational thing, fellow homo sapiens, follow the path of moderation and leave partying to the young?

Hell no.

It was still early by the time I had pulled enough weeds for one day and moved some stones from the front yard to the back. I scrounged some stakes and tied up the small but growing tomato plants with old shoelaces. I even took a short nap on the Adirondack chair. I had plenty of time for a quick shower, change of clothes, and salad with Gven on the patio. She had spent all day at a yoga workshop and was, well, spent and not in the mood for ComFest. So I went by myself.

The weather was perfect, finding a parking place was easy, and the walk from Italian Village was even pleasant. I walked around a little before getting in line for a tall mug of pale ale, then ran into a friend by the jazz stage. We hadn't seen each other in a couple of years - since the Thursday after-work basketball ritual came and went - and I guess we'd both changed a little. He has a different job downtown now, but he's still playing softball with the same team he's been on for like eight years, so there is some continuity in life. He didn't get into other life-changing events except to say that he's doing more writing and less drinking as he assesses the state of his life and health.

My friend moved on to find the other people he had arranged to meet, and I parted ways to find the other people I had not arranged to meet. A band I like was just then taking the stage honking, wailing and moaning, but I only listened to one tune before wandering off while it was still light outside. On my way nowhere in particular, I heard the sound of drumming and followed it to a circle of folks tucked away in the small tent village. Some were drumming, some dancing, some just swaying back and forth. I'm a swayer myself.

Eventually a familiar face appeared, a woman from church who has done a little drumming herself. "So these are your people," she said. I said I didn't know. We talked a little bit, I met her friend, and they went on their way.

Little did I know. While swaying, I accepted someone's offer of a spare drum, and pretty soon I was into it. I switched off the first drum for a pair of bongos, which I found harder to play and be heard. I left and came back. Then a seat in the circle opened up, and a bigger, louder drum found its way between my legs, the owner's only request being that I put a piece of cloth between the drum and the ground. That's when things started cooking. I can't say for sure whether the energy level went up a notch or whether I just felt it more since I was more a part of it.

But this is just me writing about it long after the fact, and writing about drumming is like singing about architecture is like dancing about poetry is like...an incommensurable medium of discourse. You had to be there. A couple of drummers start small, a couple more add volume, a few more bring in complexity, and when it really heats up, the dancers leap into the circle feeding on the rhythm and giving back their own. It goes on for a while like that, and then it comes down to rest.

It was equal-opportunity revelry: lots of young men, lots of young women, a few older men, a few older women, all sizes, shapes, and colors, some doing an ego trip but most just taking part. Good clean fun with a whole lotta shakin'.