He plays the strings one at a time, tenderly. It’s personal, almost part of him, part of who he is. His arm looks like it belongs, and his fingers move with ease, as if the guitar’s a lover. Someone he’s known, for years. And so many years.
It’s that feeling you have when someone does something you wish you could do. Is there a word for it? It’s not jealousy. It’s just that you’d like to do that too, and you can’t, and you know you never will.
I love my guitar. We’re old friends, and it’s sort of part of me. But it deserves better than me. It rests in a soft chair in the bedroom. Sometimes I pick it up and work at it. Sometimes I pretend I don’t sound too bad. But these days, it mostly gathers dust. We face off, me and my guitar. Every day.
I’d love it if someone came along to visit, and they said, ‘hey, what’s this, your guitar?’ And they’d pick it up. Tune the strings. They’d strum, test it out with some chords. And then they’d break out in a song, and I’d hear the clear tones and smooth timbre.
Jeff Lynne. He’s a bit of a mystery, isn’t he? The bearded face and smooth voice of ELO. Strange Magic, etc. He wrote and produced and performed with the best of the best…Dylan, The Beatles, Tom Petty, Orbison. But does anyone know what Jeff Lynne looks like? Under the hair and glasses?
I would seriously like to do that hair. I would most seriously like to do that hair. And the glasses too.
It’s the way she enunciates her words. The way she releases her words. How she doesn’t hold back when she launches her words. It’s the way she gives me her heart and the best part of her soul in her words.
Sometimes, when art or writing is off, it’s just off. It could be lack of skill, or it could need more work. It could mean, well it could mean, it’s just lousy. But it seems the ones who do art best, the ones who get what the rest of us don’t, they don’t do it in neat rectangles. Something’s a bit off.
Like that bit of dis-rhythm in Jagger’s moves. You know.
Like the violin, or the stream of thought, that goes there, instead of here.
We want sharps, we want flats. And we want jazz. We want that flash of the unexpected that makes some artists sound off key, and others sound like they are going to take you somewhere special. They are barely holding on and willing to share it with you, wherever it goes. That’s what we want. We want good art, not dumbed down shit, thrown together at the last minute. But if it fits too perfectly, in squares, and rectangles, it’s boring, and we want more. We want someone to give us everything they can find, lying there down at the bottom of the soul, and they’re willing to get past the rules, and the squares, and the rectangles.
Same four walls. Day after day. Sunday’s on the phone to Monday. They’ve got nothin to say. Look around me. What’s to see? Shoes and coffee cups. Your stuff, my stuff. Dust and debris. Laptops, cords. Closed doors. And slammed doors. Words. Words I think up. Words stuck. On the tip of my tongue. You and me. It’s getting to be. Hardly friendly.
closed eyes scenes and sinking dreams inaccessible connections down directionless streets up steep stairs and in random rooms that lead to rooms faded forms difficult and demanding thoughts with no words tangled in the air confused familiarity my hands sweaty turning and reverting escape awake