Confessions 2: Don McQuixote

Don McQuixote OR Celtic at its worst
by Jill C.

I really do tilt at windmills. Often. Usually with National Geographic in my hand. While listening to Celtic folk music. The windmills are directly linked to the bagpipe solos. They grow taller and more ferocious as the music swells faster and faster and louder and louder. My feet leave the ground. My heels meet in midair. My arms and magazine flap. The coffee cup is luckily stationary on the table, for if it was in my hand as well, the contents would surely be flung across the room. The cat gives me one bewildered look, then leaves the scene. He is certainly embarrassed to see me like this.

I dance like a drunk old man. Proudly. Alone. The truth is that I'm not any better than that. My days of contemporary willow swaying ended at age thirteen. I have never mastered ballroom in the slightest. I have not the skill to honor Celtic Woman through anything but meditation and sleeping on an airplane. High Kings deserve a crowd of hundreds on a cobblestone street breaking into a spontaneous, yet perfectly choreographed folk dance involving many changes of partners and spins-without-stepping-on-feet.

And then there are the Humors of Piping. And they are meant to be just that: Humors. Fun and joy and heartfelt dance without rules. Tilting at windmills is just fine. Improvisation is such a part of folk music. The true folk music that is played with friends for fun, not for an audience. The kind where mistakes make the music more perfect. The kind where coffee is spilled on the cover of National Geographic, and it's not a tragedy, but a joyous memory. The kind where old men kick up their heels in pubs. They may be drunk on ale, but they are also drunk on music, happiness, experience, love...

The crusade for a healthy and modern world is trying to pull this image out of being, like a tablecloth from under a feast. Celtic at its worst, that must be replaced by beautiful women singing Billy Joel songs in perfect harmony. But Don McQuixote is pure joy. Tilting at windmills brings a smile to my lips. Even when I fall on my arse, I'm still laughing in the end.
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