Well, it happened again...

Was in a music/folkmusic forum chat room, talking with some online friends there, about a song I'd recently polished up and written. In an earlier discussion with these same people, I'd mentioned that I can't really hear rhythm easily, that I have trouble hearing when the rhythm of the words and music match up, when I'm trying to write. And they were saying that this new song matched up perfectly, and I was saying, yes, but I had help.... yada, yada...

One of them said that I then should listen to blues or led zeplin for ideas. I said it's not ideas I have a problem with, but a quirk in the brain that I can feel (feels a bit like a rhythm version of dyslexia -- folks with dyslexia can speak and hear language just fine, but when they read or write it, letters switch around... I can hear rhythm just fine and can sing in rhythm, but when I try to match a specific note to a beat, or clap along, I can feel it flip-flopping in my brain).

I then made the mistake of mentioning that I think it has something to do with my cerebral palsy, and what started out as a discussion of different musical ways of thinking turned into the two of them suggesting treatments for me, and how isn't it wonderful that I'm getting better than I was when I was younger (which I'm not... I'm just older)...

Grrrr.... I don't want to walk.... I don't need to be "cured" or "treated" or anything. This is the body I was born with.

I have blue eyes.
I have brown hair.
My toes curl when I brush my hair.
And I lose track of rhythm when I try to clap.

This body has carried me through nearly 39 years of life, and I wouldn't be the person I am without it. And I like the person I am.

Why do so many people try to "comfort" me by suggesting that I may be more like them, someday?

[*] song can be found, here (I hope):
http://www.mudcat.org/thread.cfm?threadid=53293&messages=13

Now that I've vented, and figured out how to make that link work

No longer frustrated... just sleepy.

[Martha Stewart]Venting is a Good Thing[/Martha Stewart]

Sweet dreams and sweeter wakings, all!

(no subject)

DRABBLE FOR THE DAY:

Harold stared down at where the morning paper should be --
but wasn't. Most mornings, he satisfied himself with silently cursing
out the paper boy for having bad aim. Today, the
aim had been perfect. But it wasn't a newspaper on
his doormat. It was a tiny, golden box with a
bright purple bow. Harold should have known better, perhaps. But
men like Harold assume the world owes them. He picked
up the box and opened it. There was a flash.
"Where am I?" Harold asked. There was no answer. Atoms
in a basketball aren't used to questions, and can't answer.

---
Note: in my head, Harold ends up in the dimensional space between the atoms in a pinball machine ball... but that would've taken too many words, so a basketball will have to do...