Yesterday I schlepped out to Brooklyn to pick up a keyboard from a dear friend of mine (and had a chance to catch up a little with his roommate, a friend I never see anymore) and it made me happy.  That seems like a silly thing, I’m sure.  But I don’t have a musical instrument in my house that I can play.  Sure, my basementmate has a guitar, a trombone, a trumpet, and something small and blue resembling a ukelele, but I don’t know how to play any of those.  She also has a drum practice pad, but, c’mon, what am I going to do with that?  I’d be better off with a pair of sticks and a plastic pickle tub.  (Oooh, there’s an idea . . . )  Now, mind you, I don’t really play the piano either, but at least I know what notes will come out when I press certain keys.  No, it’s not a full 88 keys; no, it doesn’t really sound like a real piano; no, it’s not weighted (although the keys are touch-sensitive, which is something); and the sustain pedal is wired backwards (meaning it sustains if I don’t step on it — figure that one out!); but it is something with which I can make music.  And it was free.

You may wonder why this is so important to me. 

I need to make music.  That’s it, plain and simple.  It’s a need.  It’s a creative outlet.  It’s a gift I’ve been given that needs to be cultivated, because if I continue neglecting it, it will probably shrivel and dry up.

Now let’s just pray I don’t drive my housemates up the wall.