The last couple of days, a sickeningly talented guitar player and song-writer surfed our couch, stole the neighbours’ wireless, detailed his plot-twisted life, and generally fascinated the fuck out of me. Debbi’s guitars lay strewn about the house, usually within reach of somewhere you’d set your ass. This guy would reach out, grab a guitar, and play — whatever, anything, everything — speaking as fluently with a chunk of wood and wire as poets with words or lovers with bodies.
A couple of years ago, the world’s shittiest girlfriend sold 15 years of musical equipment for drugs. He hasn’t had a guitar since. Watching him play guitar, it’s hard to imagine it’s been so long since he played, or that it was even possible for someone like that to not have a guitar.
He says it’s killing him, not having one.
Several friends have been moaning about their work-a-day jobs and overrun dreams. Maybe it’s the weather, or tax season, but the Muse has everyone filing returns on their souls. You’ve been loaned some talent, and you have to pay that shit back, with interest.
But it’s not that easy. We want to make something real, one lump some payback for the proffered destiny we’re too scared to follow. Regular payments might be better.
Ghandi said, “whatever you do will be insignificant, but it is very important that you do it.”