Sentimental Sunday — memorial
We had some good times before she left me.
All relationships must end.
Inanimate objects are held under a different standard of humanity than most are accustomed to confronting. They all exist with the burden of purpose, and most often sole purpose. Whether that purpose encompasses a mosaic of options, like a computer, or a singular everyday task, such as a hardboiled egg slicer, they do not feel. When they break, their purpose is not destroyed; their purpose is transfered to other objects. The humanity factors in with the object's purpose, and the human-translated utility of that purpose.
Just as a symbol has no necessary attachment to that which is symbolized, an object has no necessary attachment to its purpose. It's the attachment that is made — regardless of purpose — that gives birth to an object's humanity.
My guitar had a decent amount of humanity. While it was just a collection of wood pieces, metal wires, plastic pins, a long truss rod, several steel frets, and six tinier machines, it had a life. It had character. It's very hard to let go.
I began life of thought by playing guitar. This guitar.
At about 9 p.m. Tuesday, Feb. 26, 2008, my first guitar fell in such a way that the headstock was ripped from its neck. Its strings contracted to complete the death that we'd survived for more than a year now. And while the guitar survived its fall a year ago, there was no surviving Tuesday.
Love songs, hate songs, songs for good friends, songs about nailing chicks, songs about God, songs about Satan, romantic songs, campfire songs, lounging in bed songs, random riffs while cooking, roadtripping in the backseat songs, "Wow, that's a lot of stickers on the back," "Let me tune to your E," "Sounds really warm," I got that a lot, it sounded really warm, songs on the streetcorner, once I earned $14, five cigarettes and a coupon I never used in two hours of playing on the street, songs about getting high, all those hippie chicks, string change, after string change, and string change, Elixirs're overrated, D'Addrinos're fine, GHS stopped making the extra-light G string, singing with Mr. Bradley, Ms. Bradley, with Mr. Brewer, Ms. Callaway, "A Nightengale Sang in Berkley Square," that Jewel song with Mr. Epping's wife, my baby riding shotgun, writing with a pen on the back left a small impression in the wood, the homemade bridge I chiseled, God I loved that thing, it's pathetic, so much of my life, tied to an inanimate object, it could never love me the same way, singing with Mr. Reed, singing with Ms. Schembs, Ms. Schembs ..., I used a toothbrush to clean it, up on stage, you couldn't mike it as easily as the rest, hard to figure, Hey! that was the name of a song I wrote with that guitar, "Hard to figure," passing through tiny Missouri towns, guitar on my back, we watched the sunset, and the sunrise, set up on the sand, stretched in the back of my pickup, 3 a.m., guitar in hand and stars overhead, over the riverbank, clouds drift by, I play for no one in particular, sitting in the forest, fire growing and swaying, everyone feeling right, "Play me a song!", "Let's hear some John Mayer/Dave Matthews/Coldplay/Staind/Nirvana/Pink Floyd/[anything else predictable, anything we'd know but wouldn't care to play, so we'd say "How does it go?", or "What else do they play?", a classic never-fails deflection]!", until I couldn't play anymore, writing songs for no one it seems, only now, realizing, I was writing them not just out of bordom, or just to play, but to live up to the guitar, it had the better end of the deal, after 14 years, off and on, put on the backburner, backburned myself, "Bach-burned," as Mr. Lighter would say, that alcoholic bastard, and the first song, one reason we started playing, "Plush," "Carnival," "Banditos," indian style, sitting in the hallway, back at high school, we'd play with the other kids, out at Flat Rock, that time one kid came to me and asked me what chords were, and we didn't know, and we found out that chords were just strumming a lot of fretted notes, so we were doing them all along, and didn't know it, funny now, thick chord patterns, textured, made alive through simple chord shapes and a strum, like a thick meal, "So thick, you can stand a fork in it!", "Come As You Are" issued to everyone I know who played, playing Third Eye Blind songs with Ms. Marion outside the dorms skipping class on a beautiful day, the red-head with attitude, killer smile, eyes, moves, that I never got inside of, back at high school, I used to keep it tuned a whole step below, I was so low, STP "Silvergun Superman," anything by STP, Semisonic "FNT," I was so young and green, and visiting Ms. Wilson to "give her guitar lessons," God! I was green back then, my first band, 7Axes, there weren't even seven of us, obsessed with Metallica, Joe Satriani, Steve Vai, to the point of social rejection, blazing guitar solos, a few bitchin' parties, the guitar and me, we didn't know what we were doing, it was Rock&Roll, and some of Metallica's guitar solos were meant to be learned backward, and what self-respecting guitar slinger can't say that Angus Young shaped his or her entire musical life, or Joe Perry, for Godssakes! you should feel like God playing those guitar solos in front of the world, that horrible year off, after Crowder, after Ms. Schembs, sitting in the hammock, months spent without you, and when we did play, getting shitfaced and playing the same song over and over, you were in pain, too, Ahh!, remember Winfield, Kan., the place where I fell in love with playing guitar while cumming, few things come close, no pun intended, at one point, every single sticker on the back of the guitar had a story, I can't remember them all now, I remember, though, when I first saw the guitar, Christmas 1996, or was it '95?, bright and new, look at you now, decapitated, I almost want to throw up, I feel it pit up in my stomach, black and volitile, what will I do?, I'll play other guitars, but there will always be something missing, something broken, and very few songs ring true to retrospection, playing music after the bellydance show at Cooper's Landing, the sunset was amazing, the people were awesome, that was good day, I played "Come Undone," A Classic!, how about right before graduation, waiting for my parents to call so we could go, sitting on the balcony of my posh CoMo apartment, playing soft songs signifying end, we knew something was over, "Come and Get Your Love," "The Rain Song," "Heartbreaker," "The Lemon Song," basically any Led Zeppelin song, basically any song, as long as it was good, when we heard it, it was on, and reproduced, I never needed a CD player, a tape player, an iPod, I might never need that extensionalization, never, I've been blessed beyond understanding, to have known you, and I etch this in your tombstone, but you don't have one, you're just a guitar, and no matter what, even if there were a fitting spot in the ground, you'd never be buried, even if there were a fitting fire, you'd never be burned, I can't put flowers at your side, because it means nothing, you only understand music, and my hands, and the last song, ... I had so many more to play ... there is so much of me now dead and not buried or burned by your side, so much, the bubblegum pop music, the 64th notes, the hellish goth emotions, the loverly ballads, classic rock, modern rock, dropped D tuning, the Rock&Roll, jazz standards, fusion, country, modern and classic, Johnny Cash, Chris Isaak, depressed love, that lush life that poured through me, the other half of me, the whole of me, all that really matters, like a drug, Yes!, a drug, like nothing that will ever be the same without, the oldest and best part of me, there was never enough time, there never could've been, so many more songs to play, and even now, so many things I have forgotten, so much that will be forever lost, so much that is condemned never to exist now, so much of my life twisted out of shape, broken off at the head, the last song with you, in retrospect, fitting in a way that will be described for years, maybe, but not quite accurately, never, because it was only music, because you can't grieve for expired utility, only hope that the purpose lives on, ... it's so hard to contemplate never playing that guitar again, so hard to face, so hard for just one simple reason, "Phillip," she hands me a guitar, "Play me a song." So I pick it up, "I wrote this a long time ago, with a good friend."
All relationships must end.
Inanimate objects are held under a different standard of humanity than most are accustomed to confronting. They all exist with the burden of purpose, and most often sole purpose. Whether that purpose encompasses a mosaic of options, like a computer, or a singular everyday task, such as a hardboiled egg slicer, they do not feel. When they break, their purpose is not destroyed; their purpose is transfered to other objects. The humanity factors in with the object's purpose, and the human-translated utility of that purpose.
Just as a symbol has no necessary attachment to that which is symbolized, an object has no necessary attachment to its purpose. It's the attachment that is made — regardless of purpose — that gives birth to an object's humanity.
My guitar had a decent amount of humanity. While it was just a collection of wood pieces, metal wires, plastic pins, a long truss rod, several steel frets, and six tinier machines, it had a life. It had character. It's very hard to let go.
I began life of thought by playing guitar. This guitar.
At about 9 p.m. Tuesday, Feb. 26, 2008, my first guitar fell in such a way that the headstock was ripped from its neck. Its strings contracted to complete the death that we'd survived for more than a year now. And while the guitar survived its fall a year ago, there was no surviving Tuesday.
Love songs, hate songs, songs for good friends, songs about nailing chicks, songs about God, songs about Satan, romantic songs, campfire songs, lounging in bed songs, random riffs while cooking, roadtripping in the backseat songs, "Wow, that's a lot of stickers on the back," "Let me tune to your E," "Sounds really warm," I got that a lot, it sounded really warm, songs on the streetcorner, once I earned $14, five cigarettes and a coupon I never used in two hours of playing on the street, songs about getting high, all those hippie chicks, string change, after string change, and string change, Elixirs're overrated, D'Addrinos're fine, GHS stopped making the extra-light G string, singing with Mr. Bradley, Ms. Bradley, with Mr. Brewer, Ms. Callaway, "A Nightengale Sang in Berkley Square," that Jewel song with Mr. Epping's wife, my baby riding shotgun, writing with a pen on the back left a small impression in the wood, the homemade bridge I chiseled, God I loved that thing, it's pathetic, so much of my life, tied to an inanimate object, it could never love me the same way, singing with Mr. Reed, singing with Ms. Schembs, Ms. Schembs ..., I used a toothbrush to clean it, up on stage, you couldn't mike it as easily as the rest, hard to figure, Hey! that was the name of a song I wrote with that guitar, "Hard to figure," passing through tiny Missouri towns, guitar on my back, we watched the sunset, and the sunrise, set up on the sand, stretched in the back of my pickup, 3 a.m., guitar in hand and stars overhead, over the riverbank, clouds drift by, I play for no one in particular, sitting in the forest, fire growing and swaying, everyone feeling right, "Play me a song!", "Let's hear some John Mayer/Dave Matthews/Coldplay/Staind/Nirvana/Pink Floyd/[anything else predictable, anything we'd know but wouldn't care to play, so we'd say "How does it go?", or "What else do they play?", a classic never-fails deflection]!", until I couldn't play anymore, writing songs for no one it seems, only now, realizing, I was writing them not just out of bordom, or just to play, but to live up to the guitar, it had the better end of the deal, after 14 years, off and on, put on the backburner, backburned myself, "Bach-burned," as Mr. Lighter would say, that alcoholic bastard, and the first song, one reason we started playing, "Plush," "Carnival," "Banditos," indian style, sitting in the hallway, back at high school, we'd play with the other kids, out at Flat Rock, that time one kid came to me and asked me what chords were, and we didn't know, and we found out that chords were just strumming a lot of fretted notes, so we were doing them all along, and didn't know it, funny now, thick chord patterns, textured, made alive through simple chord shapes and a strum, like a thick meal, "So thick, you can stand a fork in it!", "Come As You Are" issued to everyone I know who played, playing Third Eye Blind songs with Ms. Marion outside the dorms skipping class on a beautiful day, the red-head with attitude, killer smile, eyes, moves, that I never got inside of, back at high school, I used to keep it tuned a whole step below, I was so low, STP "Silvergun Superman," anything by STP, Semisonic "FNT," I was so young and green, and visiting Ms. Wilson to "give her guitar lessons," God! I was green back then, my first band, 7Axes, there weren't even seven of us, obsessed with Metallica, Joe Satriani, Steve Vai, to the point of social rejection, blazing guitar solos, a few bitchin' parties, the guitar and me, we didn't know what we were doing, it was Rock&Roll, and some of Metallica's guitar solos were meant to be learned backward, and what self-respecting guitar slinger can't say that Angus Young shaped his or her entire musical life, or Joe Perry, for Godssakes! you should feel like God playing those guitar solos in front of the world, that horrible year off, after Crowder, after Ms. Schembs, sitting in the hammock, months spent without you, and when we did play, getting shitfaced and playing the same song over and over, you were in pain, too, Ahh!, remember Winfield, Kan., the place where I fell in love with playing guitar while cumming, few things come close, no pun intended, at one point, every single sticker on the back of the guitar had a story, I can't remember them all now, I remember, though, when I first saw the guitar, Christmas 1996, or was it '95?, bright and new, look at you now, decapitated, I almost want to throw up, I feel it pit up in my stomach, black and volitile, what will I do?, I'll play other guitars, but there will always be something missing, something broken, and very few songs ring true to retrospection, playing music after the bellydance show at Cooper's Landing, the sunset was amazing, the people were awesome, that was good day, I played "Come Undone," A Classic!, how about right before graduation, waiting for my parents to call so we could go, sitting on the balcony of my posh CoMo apartment, playing soft songs signifying end, we knew something was over, "Come and Get Your Love," "The Rain Song," "Heartbreaker," "The Lemon Song," basically any Led Zeppelin song, basically any song, as long as it was good, when we heard it, it was on, and reproduced, I never needed a CD player, a tape player, an iPod, I might never need that extensionalization, never, I've been blessed beyond understanding, to have known you, and I etch this in your tombstone, but you don't have one, you're just a guitar, and no matter what, even if there were a fitting spot in the ground, you'd never be buried, even if there were a fitting fire, you'd never be burned, I can't put flowers at your side, because it means nothing, you only understand music, and my hands, and the last song, ... I had so many more to play ... there is so much of me now dead and not buried or burned by your side, so much, the bubblegum pop music, the 64th notes, the hellish goth emotions, the loverly ballads, classic rock, modern rock, dropped D tuning, the Rock&Roll, jazz standards, fusion, country, modern and classic, Johnny Cash, Chris Isaak, depressed love, that lush life that poured through me, the other half of me, the whole of me, all that really matters, like a drug, Yes!, a drug, like nothing that will ever be the same without, the oldest and best part of me, there was never enough time, there never could've been, so many more songs to play, and even now, so many things I have forgotten, so much that will be forever lost, so much that is condemned never to exist now, so much of my life twisted out of shape, broken off at the head, the last song with you, in retrospect, fitting in a way that will be described for years, maybe, but not quite accurately, never, because it was only music, because you can't grieve for expired utility, only hope that the purpose lives on, ... it's so hard to contemplate never playing that guitar again, so hard to face, so hard for just one simple reason, "Phillip," she hands me a guitar, "Play me a song." So I pick it up, "I wrote this a long time ago, with a good friend."
posted at
12:01 PM
