top of page
  • Emmy Bitonti


“Percussion and brass, measure 144! Just percussion and brass.”

I watch his hands wave to count them in as I sit in the front row. His lonely snapping was replaced by the playing of a team of musicians. I look down at my flute, and a distorted reflection looks back at me.

This may take a while.

My crystal clear vision slowly blurs. My surroundings become fuzzy, the details vanishing into colorful blobs. The blaring brass bells compete with my brain, trying to keep me conscious. The percussion supports them with its volume, just trying to keep tempo. The different notes and layers and aggressiveness wrap around my thoughts, trying to restrict their growth and prominence. Yet they overpower, and I zone out of my environment and into myself, my thoughts, my feelings.

On the outside, I’m sitting second chair, staring at the tile floor with seemingly much intent. But I’m not really there; I don’t know what’s happening around me.

The whole band plays at once, shaking my brain and surrounding me with music that wakes me up. The flute next to me sings into my ear.

…What measure are we at?


Recent Posts