Time slips away like water through my cupped hands as I scramble to clean up and change,

—Only to realize that the moment I was chasing has already dissolved.

It lingers in fragments, half-forgotten words, the scent of rain on pavement, or the warmth of sunlight,

—That’s now just a memory on my skin.

It flows in strange currents, sometimes dragging slowly, like a lazy river, and other times rushing by in a flood, sweeping me off my feet,

—Before I can catch my breath.

I try to hold on to it, taking pictures, writing in journals, filling up calendars,

—Doing whatever I can to preserve the moments before they vanish.

Birthdays, sunsets, old conversations,

—They blur together into snapshots in my mind.

But even as time slips away, each moment is still a chance

—Brief, fleeting, mine to hold, if only for a little while.

Standing behind the brass and woodwinds, a timekeeper of the orchestra, the percussion section is ever subdividing. Not flashes, nor noise, nor coughs, nor wrong notes … nor even time signature changes can deter the unstoppable marching of time kept - a treasure - whithin the percussionnists cranium. Suddenly, the 258 bars of rest come to an end and, sticks fluttering over the timpani, the percussionist rolls to a fortissimo culmination! And rest….

Dark ink on white pages guide this meditation through Dvorak's 9th symphony, an exploration of the enticing new world. As the strings, tripleting along the 4th movement, march toward the infamous mezzo forte piatti note, cymbals gleam in the stage lights, ready for their solo. In an instant, a crisp crash of brass pierces the calm air and glides along seven counted beats. The smell of leather straps and pencil lead mix around stand number 3, and Dvoraks musical exploration goes on.

All the while, the 4 other stands stand by, counting, savoring, listening to the choral in front of them. Every note is an opportunity for flight, above their too tight dress shoes, above the wobbly music stands, above the poorly placed lights shining at just the right angle to simultaneously blind the players and leave the sheets of to-be sounds in darkness. It sounds like a doozy, but it is an amazing journey, truly. A journey across chords, notes, tuning changes. A journey through time, beats, but also instruments. A journey through the fascinating art of composition, interpretation, performance and listening.

The symphony ends, 45 minutes later. It felt like nothing, but simultaneously everything. Still standing, the percussion section can stop subdividing.