4:31pm. Virtual meetings are over for the day. Glancing halfheartedly at my to-do list for work, I note only sub-5-minute tasks remain, work I can easily postpone until tomorrow. I leave my work laptop open, pop into the kitchen and slice an apple, then return to my desk and discreetly open a YouTube window on my iPad.
A subspecies of the scrolling hobby, meandering around various corners of YouTube has been a flavor of Internet downtime that helps retain a facade of purpose; of education and intellectual rigor. While I have recently been in one of my oft-repeated phases of eschewing what I often consider more mindless platforms (TikTok, Instagram), YouTube still delivers a nicotine kick, briefly removing me from the problems of life and work and turning off my brain for a bit.
My YouTube habits typically follow trails of hyperfixations that last, on average, about a month. June was plant-based cooking. July was terrarium design. August was bikepacking. As September rolled around, my (algorithm-guided) path took me back to a previous hyperfixation from last year: banjo.
My draw to the banjo is easy for me to make sense of. I have always loved stringed instruments. I've spent thousands of hours with my viola. Its resonance is real and tactile. Though I have a deep respect and admiration for other methods of producing sound, an invisible column of vibrating air will never quite hook me like the feeling of strings buzzing under my fingers, and the full-body calm that comes over me when all of the sympathetic frequencies of the instrument lock in.
Nevertheless, the banjo represents a nearly unintelligible dialect of string playing to me. The metallic timbre is so removed from the near-human vocal qualities of a bowed instrument. Musical aspects such as contrapuntal voicing, arpeggiation and syncopation (things that at times can be quite difficult to accomplish on the viola without restriction) are intrinsic to the banjo and how it is played. The banjo might not lend itself to melodic or lyrical playing, but that's what I have my viola for.
As with any of my temporary hyperfixations, spending my late afternoon hours watching "5 exercises to practice a Scruggs-style forward roll on banjo" is an indulgence. These YouTube fixations are catalysts for constructing an imagined futures where I too can boast a beautifully constructed terrarium collection, or stories of days out on the bikepacking trails, or a casual roster of plucky tunes on the banjo. The ease video essays and vlogs provide of transporting myself to these potential futures is pleasing and fun. Its sweetness is especially amplified after the days with even more corporate slog than I am accustomed to dealing with.
Nevertheless, I occasionally feel a reaction to these pleasant feelings. A bitterness, or a hardness, that arises when quenching soulful yearning with purely immaterial daydreams and alternate, nonexistent selves. As the hyperfixation loses its hold on me, and the fascination and intrigue becomes tinged with boredom, I develop resentment for my habit of only imagining, and not doing. I am deeply familiar with these grooves and patterns of habit and thought. At times I am resigned to it, and in others, I find myself deeply dissatisfied with the cycle of connection followed by disillusionment.
On this random Thursday, this dissatisfaction gnaws at me much more desperately than I expect. It builds and builds. Driven by a sudden fervor of action, I search "nearest Guitar Center" on my phone. I grab my keys and slam my work laptop shut. I try not to think too hard about what I'm doing; I realize quickly I won't be able to justify an impulsive purchase with reason. I know nothing about banjos, their price points, what I might want or not want, and whether this store even has anything in stock. I hastily google "entry-level banjo cost" to dampen internal cries of caution, shoving all thoughts of planning out. I know that in this case, it is only by quickly grabbing ahold of this sudden impulse that I may end up with a banjo in hand. Too much reason, too much caution, or too much planning will likely result in me letting the desire of this hyperfixation fade like all the others, the barrier of making responsible choices simply too impossible to surpass after the toll of all my other duties and responsibilities in life are exacted.
After a short drive, I pull in to the parking lot and walk into the store a little too quickly. I avoid eye contact with the employees, my quest too fragile to risk a conversation about what I'm looking for. (Scanning the store-wide wall of lime-green, plaid, and chrome electric guitars, I imagine they won't have much to say about banjos anyway.) I make it to the back of the store, where a handful of banjos are leaned against a wall, adjacent to a small home humidifying unit for the acoustic instruments. Grab one and get out! I think to myself, pushing down a growing distaste for my own rashness.
An observant salesman notices me; he calls out from a slightly too-far distance: "Anything I can help you find?"
"I'm looking for a banjo."
He pauses, then walks closer. "I don't really know much about banjos. They're all right here." he remarks, gesturing to the wall next to me. "Do you have an idea of what you're looking for?"
"That one." I blurt out, worried any hesitation will reveal my inner conflict. I point confidently to a Gold Tone AC-1. The top result of my Google search. He grabs the banjo and hands it to me.
"Anything else?"
"Nope, I think that's it."
I make it back to the parking lot, and in the privacy of my car, I finally relax, my rapidly fluctuating brain chemistry tugging at my cheeks, a grin impossible to suppress.
Driving home, I begin to realize will have to deal with this decision in other ways. I know that though my inaction was frustrating me, I would have forgiven it much more readily than I will forgive letting this new banjo lie dusty and unused in the corner of my living room. I think of the new responsibility I've put upon myself, and how the instant gratification of the purchase, now over, can only be followed by the snail-paced, delayed gratification of learning a new instrument. I chuckle briefly. I am impressed with my own ability to circumvent any rational decision-making. I feel like I've pulled off a heist
6:12pm.
I pull in the driveway, and walk slowly inside. I uncover the out-of-tune instrument from its cheap cloth case, and begin tuning. I pull up a banjo lesson on YouTube, and after a brief pause, and a sigh, I begin to practice.
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