Brainbeats

One spring day, a coke in hand, sunglasses on my nose, I go to the zoo with second graders. Mid bus trip, my mind slips into surreal waters; children, parents, movements, sounds become more fluid. Kids lean over seats and teachers laugh at the wide highway, driver hunched and steady -- we are immersed in the opulent dance.

I have this feeling another time with a crowd of New Yorkers steaming full throttle down Broadway. Our symphony moves from light to light, beat to beat, rest to rest, with each player's unique touch on the instrument.

I wait with a sick child in the emergency room. I used to work here. Nurses and doctors buzz past each other, or stop to discuss, buzz to the next bedside or chart the night's fandango on a giant board. Or is this a team of coaches splashing game plans on the wall? When I was the suited worker, I was too invested in minutiae to feel the game unfolding.

I'm in this zone again with three artists painting images and sound on a canvas known as Crooked River Groove. We know and do this job: perform our music on a stage. Our live audience consists of engineers who document our show. Four cameras roll across the studio, the sound board hums. I find a silent grace in the TV crew's concerted movements. Their calm intensity draws me out beyond the bounds of nervousness or self-regard. Their sphere of creativity incapsulates and magnifies my own. Our host, Professor Wiggins, tells us we've done well connecting with the electrons -- a worthy phrase for all the times where time is nearly still, slow motioning the neurons in our minds to span millennia as every true performance tends to do.