I sit in my music room, looking at the symphony of instruments that lie
before me. I see the cheap violin that I played for four years,
but gave up because I no longer felt like practicing. I see the
grand piano that I played for eight years but stopped playing for the
same reason. Then I look down at my lap, and I see my guitar, and
I remember why I stopped playing those other instruments. I begin
to play a Pink Floyd tune and smile recognizing why this instrument
even after all this time still feels new to me.
I carry my guitar down the creaky backstairs of a
Cockeysville music store. A kind-faced, middle-aged man greets me
at the door furthest from the stairs. I walk into the dim room,
take a seat, and take out my guitar. The three of us, him, my
guitar, and I, sit as he lectures me about guitar basics. He
shows me a G chord, and awkwardly I try to finger it like he
does. The sound my guitar voices is murky, yet shows
promise. He acknowledges in a subtle manner that I need to
practice; I agree without question. But, during the following
week I play for hours, but never practice. On the rare occasion I
did practice, I would play so many wrong notes that the guitar seemed
to be telling me, in a dissonant tone that I needed to do as my teacher
said. At the end of the next lesson I would hear the same
command, but still not bother to practice as he told me to. This
was not out of rebellion or angst, but because I found infinite joy in
hearing the repeated twang of a simple song I had learned. I
preferred to bask in it's puerile radiance for hours on end than
practice what my teacher told me to.
I carry my guitar out of my mother's car and up to
Al's front door. The guitar is heavy, so when the door opens, I
rush inside to put it down. We chat for several minutes, but
quickly succumb to our desire to play the instruments that lie by our
sides. We plug into his amps, turn up the distortion, and drown
out everything else.
His mother calls to us, "Turn that noise down."
Al sarcastically answers, "Okay mom," closes the door, and turns up the amps.
Guitar is not the focal point of our friendship, but it is a very
important piece. I remember how when we first started playing we
could barely blend at all. But now, after all these years playing
together in friendship, and in music, we rarely hit a wrong note.
I come home exhausted from a day of school, track
practice, and musical rehearsal. I walk at a slow pace to the
music room, sit down and pick up my guitar. In this tired state,
what I hear come through the amplifier is insignificant -- I focus more
on organizing my consciousness so I may be able to do my homework
later. The notes I play are slow, randomly picked, and rarely
keep a sense of rhythm. The guitar seems to sing a tune about
soldiering on. As I play, my thoughts become murky, turning into
a background fuzz, my song picks up tempo, and I begin to feel the
emotion my guitar sings. After several more minutes my guitar has
persuaded me to get to work. I get up from the black chair I was
sitting in, get my backpack and start my homework.
There are periods where I rarely touch my guitar for
several weeks. The guitar sits, on its stand, ready to be played,
but is not called upon. When I do pick it up after not having
felt its embrace for several weeks, I am reunited. Not with the
smooth touch of the wood, or the firm, defiant nature of the strings,
but with my soul. The guitar hums golden notes that ring clear in
my memory and in my heart. At this moment, I realize that all
this happiness and comfort are available whenever I want. Not
specifically no my guitar, but on any guitar, anywhere.
She greets me at the door with a big smile and open
arms. We march down to her basement and sit in her lime green,
almost too comfortable chairs. I pick up her guitar and start to
awkwardly strum some chords.
"What song is that," she asks.
"Something I wrote," I answer quietly, trying to play it cool.
"Can you play it for me?" She asks, now sitting right next to me.
I can not deny her request and proceed to play and
sing a song about unspoken affection. The guitar seems to say the
right things, for she is giggling with pleasure. I take note of
this, singing and playing with more confidence.
"I wrote that song for you," I say after I finish, shaking everywhere but on the fretboard.
"I like it," she answers smiling more broadly still.
These are the last words we speak to eachother for
five minutes, the guitar has made both of us dumb. But, soon, I
play again, and we are able to talk.
I sit at my computer with two feet on the
gray-carpeted floor and in my hands, an acoustic guitar. Looking
at the paper I have just written, I begin to play. I hear a
pleading music teacher asking me to practice, I feel intense bonds of
friendship, I am rejuvenated after a hard day's work, I gaze into that
girl's big blue eyes. I am home again, where I can control the
music I hear, the music of my life.
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oriolesazb's blogs, last updated : January 27, 2008
