When They’re Hot They’re Hot
My head turns too easily when I see them these days. At this stage of middle age, I’m beyond the point of being able to control it. I fall, if only for a moment, with every single one I look at. The blonde ones, the ones with red on top, even the black ones. I love the auburn ones. If they’re bejeweled a bit with the shimmer of shining metal against their faces or along their necks, they steel my eyes more quickly. The contrast of silver up against the faces of the black ones is striking. I love the look of gold on the neck of a blonde.
I like when they have curves too, and I don’t mind admitting that. The curves are what I notice first, even before I see their faces. Not that I have anything against the thin ones with nice angles and clean lines. I want to caress them. I don’t want to hurt them, just hold them – to let my hands enjoy their bodies while my eyes appreciate their faces. Natural selection made me this way.
When I hold one in my arms, I soon have an impulse to impose my will on her. Sometimes gently, other times I imagine hardcore play. I even desire to throw them around a bit. It can be rough and still not be hurtful you know – still filled with love, appreciation, and pleasure. There are times I fantasize of striking them just so I can hear them scream or weep.
I like the idea of owning them; mine to enjoy whenever I want, or to lock up when the mood no longer suits me. My decreasing morality suggests I could never be with just one. The thought of having a different one for every day of the week makes my heart race. Still, I resist the idea of having too many because I know they deserve better than me.
No Dedication For Old Man
Sure, I can navigate through a few chords, but I can’t do much with them. That’s okay, just seeing a guitar and holding it in my hands sooths me. Despite that I have owned and sold many guitars in my life, I can scarcely play a lick. I’m just an unworthy man who appreciates that kind of company. I enjoy looking at and holding guitars almost as much as I enjoy listening to them – even if I can’t play.
Though I have never had the discipline to learn to play one, I have always had a supreme appreciation for the art of guitars; how they sound and how they look. I know I’ll never really play the guitar and I’m okay with that. My priorities are elsewhere, writing, cycling, and my weightroom to name a few. There is only so much time in the week. However, just knowing guitars exist offers much richness to my life.
Bowing Down To The Art And The Beauty
One thing I can do, that I always do, is to honor those who play so well. I listen to guitar music every day of my life. A variety of styles and genres to be sure, but listening to a guitar is as central to my life as exercise and writing. I currently own two guitars, and I hold them just about every day. I squeeze out a chord here and there, but Stroodle shrugs, hides, and I desist in favor of the real artists. If I never release a decent note from a guitar I hold it’s not a waste. It’s just nice to hold them and appreciate their aesthetic and their touch. Music, I often say, is like sex and pizza, there’s no such thing as bad, only different levels of good, even the butchered music I attempt.
Ghosts And Inspirations
What I really appreciate about the guitar though, are the marks they have left on my soul by the thousands of players I have heard since I bought my first record, Harry Chapin’s, Taxi when I was in the 3rd grade. I owe a lot of people a lot of gratitude for the ways in which they have enriched my life; my daughter, parents, brother, and friends. In my day to day though, I often feel like I owe the most to the artists and the ghosts who have soothed my soul through the years by creating the soundtrack of my life.
I can’t imagine a life without guitars, and am grateful for the women and men who have played them so sweetly. Without those musical brush strokes through the years, the canvas of my soul would display a more bleak picture. When life gets rough, I turn to exercise or writing to feel better. Just as often, I turn to the precious art of guitars. The power of music has wings. The sound of a guitar is where fingertip athleticism intermingles with inner poetry to form a beautiful conclusion. That they look as beautiful as they sound is the cherry on top. Be well.
Though I have heard thousands of guitar solos in my life, many intricate and complex beyond comprehension, not one has touched me more than this brief and mild work of Sonny Landreth. Please take time to view the video below, listen, feel, and enjoy…