For the past however long my Facebook feeds have been churning with promotional “Addicted to … ” phrases leading up to a performance called Addicted to Bass so addiction has been on my mind for a while. Last night, however, I saw a woman‘s passion in music – her addiction to bass – in every breath she blew into her instrument, in every arch of her shoulders as she inhaled, in every twitch of her lips as she manipulated the notes and brought them into being with her fingers.
The bass recorder. Ever heard of it? Never? No, not that plastic squeaking squealer you tortured your parents with in school … the bass recorder. No? I hadn’t either until last night when I got swept away … there is a haunting, ethereal quality to the bass recorder that almost had me weeping. Or perhaps it was the delicacy with which it was played. My entire day wafted away with every note and I relaxed, smiled, and remembered what it is to be addicted to something.
At home, curled up in bed with the notes lingering in my ears and the thrill of creativity in my heart, I wondered what I looked like when I was writing. I hope that I look as Alicia did: addicted.