Six Strings

I wandered aimlessly down center street, glancing through the windows of small, random shops. A shoe repair, a small community theater, a greasy diner. After a while, I happened upon a little guitar shop, and my hand independently introduced itself to the large brass door handle. The place smelled of fresh wood, which was being shaved and painted into the shapes of beautiful handmade guitars. My feet echoed on the old wooden floor, as I was alone. Each instrument was in a different stage. Some without a neck, some prior to being painted, some nearly done: and all had tags with the names of their future owners. I kept walking and came to the finished, glossy products hung proudly, but lonely on the walls. I hesitantly approached them, my eyes admiring their perfect shape and appearance. My fingers ached to touch them, but the fear of any potential inflicted damage stilled their twitch. I held my breath, to avoid fogging up the glossy finish, and moistening the wood with condensation.

"Can I help you?" A worn-looking man with silver hair pulled back into a long, yet masculine ponytail approached, without a smile. He had piercing eyes that seemed to see right into the very deepest darkest corners of my soul. His wrinkles came from worry and tough times, and any hints of laughter were now extinct. I'm not sure if I was still stunned from the gorgeous instruments, or his unique appearance, but I was only able to stammer something about looking for a guitar, and a cheap one at that.

He brought me over to another wall, which displayed guitars that looked much more ordinary: a sharp contrast from the previously viewed, so beautiful that their sound could almost be heard with only the effort of a glance. "These are the cheapest we've got. They start at $350." "Did you make them?" He gave me an insulted and defensive look. "No, these are imported. The ones I make start at $1200 and you've got to wait at least a year to get your hands on one." He gestured at the guitars I had been drawn to when I first came in.

$350 was about $300 too much for my budget. But even if I could afford to splurge, I wouldn't buy just any old guitar with those fantastic, handmade guitars in existence. I couldn't explain how I knew, but each had a story. Looking at them told me pieces of that silver-haired man's life. Pieces that I almost felt guilty discovering. Like he was allowed to see my soul, but his was too painful, too personal to be shared.

I left the place, empty handed, my pocket just as heavy as before, and somewhat in a daze. The sun seemed much brighter, but perhaps it was just the contrast from my short visit in the dark life of the guitar maker.

Maybe we should've let the elephants keep their ivory...

I almost didn't include this one in the blog, but I realized that I write a lot better when I know people are going to read it. Even if it is just the one or two that actually do.

Warning: This one's a little dramatic. Not for the frequent eye rollers.

Hangnails are on the bottom 15 list. Also is the feeling of when you slaughter a brilliant piece of music in front of a lot of people. Tonight my ward had a closing social/talent show. I wanted to be involved, but didn't really know what I would do. I put on the list "probably Piano something-or-other" which meant by default Rachmanninoff's Prelude in C# minor.

I started taking piano lessons when I was probably about 5. My mom was a piano teacher, and insisted that I continue with them until I graduated from High School. I've taken lessons on and off again since then. But this piece, I've known for years now. I love it. There are moments in it where only the soft pedal is down, and I'm barely touching the keys, and there are parts where I'm pounding on the piano until my forearms ache with the amount of force I exert. I play it best when I'm angry, and I almost always feel better after I've finished. It's therapeutic for me.

I went to the front, gave a little intro, and sat down at the bench. A hundred pairs of eyes were staring at me, and I felt the blood rush to my face before I had even begun. The first few notes were perfect. The mood was set, and there was so much potential for me to communicate the kind of emotion that I believe Rachmanninoff intended. And then the first wrong note came. And the second. And the third. Pretty soon I was stumbling and confused. I felt like I had just had a lobotomy and that my occipital lobe (responsible for memorization in muscle memory) no longer was a part of me. My fingers shook and hesitated, and everything went all wrong.

After stumbling a bit but trying to keep going, I skipped to the next section, which is one that rarely gives me trouble. But my frustration due to messing up in the first place distracted me, and I found myself stumbling again. I just wanted to cry, or die, (or something else that rhymes with "I") but I had to keep going. I thought for a minute that I could salvage it... that it could get better. I thought that I could perform the rest of the piece with the greatness that I knew I was capable of, and hopefully the crowd would forget about the first part of the piece. But I stumbled again.

This horrible pattern continued: skipping to a new section in the song, skipping over these beautiful notes that Rachmanninoff crafted together so well, skipping over elements of music that have such power to move and to communicate. I interrupted the awkward pauses when I was trying to continue with comments like "Um... sorry everyone, this wasn't planned" or just saying "Sorry" again and again. I knew my teacher would cringe if she had heard me. You never say sorry, or anything during a performance. You just keep going and hope that nobody noticed the mistake. But everyone noticed. It was choppy and crude and ruined.

I reluctantly let out the last few chords, after what seemed like an eternity of utter humiliation, and I returned to my seat. Despite the loving applause from the audience -- people who are my friends and don't really care if I make mistakes -- it was all I could do to hold back my tears. My eyes were brimming each time anybody talked to me, even long after the show was all over. They came to me, complimenting me, telling me I was so brave to get up there and keep going, telling me I played wonderfully. I knew they had good intentions, but I couldn't help but think that everyone just felt so sorry for me and felt like they had to say something to make me feel better. But they made me feel so much worse.

It's like when I was young and I played on the playground during recess, and I'd get hurt somehow (inevitable for a young rambunctious child). Sure I'd be in pain, but I could hold all the tears in, just as long as no one would notice me or put me on the spot. But pretty soon someone would "kindly" ask me if I was okay, and the attention and embarrassment would start the water works. I hated that feeling. So pathetic, so ashamed, such a little girl. So on my bottom 15 list.

I felt so much pain when I wasn't able to share Rachmanninoff's incredible piece with others just because of my own self consciousness or shyness. It hurt, because no one knew that I knew this piece. It was my piece. And I wanted to play it. A piece that I love so much, and I killed it. Call it damaging my pride, or damaging the ear, call it whatever you want... but I call it tragedy.

Live Free or Die Hard (2007)

Last night I thoroughly enjoyed a man flick, starring Bruce Willis as the invincible, macho John McClane. It had amazing cinematography and really sweet graphics. I also appreciated the comic relief, and the clever lines. I really like intense movies: ones that make me jump but aren't horrifically frightening and don't give me nightmares for the next few weeks. The film had the ability to make me believe the crazy feats and effects, even though my brain knew it was pretty unrealistic. For those who have seen it, the scene with the Kung Fu half-asian girl and the elevator shaft was the only part that I really scoffed at. I mean, being hit by that car at that speed and not even breaking any bones? Come on!

Spoiler:

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That part at the end where McClane kills the bad guy by shooting him through himself because the bad guy is behind him!?!?!? Crazy. Awesome. Perfect ending.

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Anyway, I was pretty impressed, and also surprised that I liked it so much. There I was, watching this manly, violent, explody-type movie with some guys, instead of begging them, "Couldn't we watch the 5 hour Pride and Prejudice again? I love that movie, and want you guys to suffer through it while I watch the whole thing just for that part at the end [SPOILER again] when they realize they really do love each other after all! Please? And while we do that we could put together scrapbook pages and paint my nails."

As much as I liked the movie though, I was kind of scared that it didn't bother me how violent it was and that there was a lot of cussing. Being from Utah, I haven't been constantly bombarded by cussing as some are. Sure I heard it at school, but I often knew what group of people would be saying all the expletives, and what part of the hall (literally- my High School was like one big long hall) to hum my favorite hymn. But in the past week I've twice experienced people that I'd never heard swear and didn't expect that they would, surprise me. It's been strange, and I didn't say anything, but It shocked me, and a lot more than when I hear swearing in the movies. It's sad to me that slime is so commonly found in the media -which influences our culture, thoughts, emotions, and behaviors so much! (Don't get me started on this... I could go on forever.) And it's even more disconcerting that I can let the words just wash over me when I go to see a movie, and don't even consider walking out or being offended. I know some people that would definitely think twice before watching so much violence or hearing such language. I feel like it's just so expected, that it doesn't bother me anymore. I see that a movie is PG-13, and it's as if I think, 'Okay, this one will probably have some bad words and some "parts". Bring it on!'

Music is dangerous too. I usually know where the bad words are (if there are any) in my favorite songs, and I'll run over to the CD player just in time to mute that one word. This would be great if my mind didn't automatically fill in the word that has been silenced. I think what works best is to make up new words and think/sing them loudly. Something funny and irrelevant like peanut butter and cheese fries. Hmm... I think my stomach is speaking through my blog... clearly I'm hungry. :)

I wish I had an automatic media guardian in my mind that just wouldn't process or understand or hear bad words or parts in the media. Or maybe I wish I had the courage and ability to realize when I should stand up and refuse to allow my mind to be influenced by such garbage.

PS: I'm learning Blackbird (The Beatles) on the guitar. Yay!

PPS: Don't get me wrong. I loved the movie. :D