Moving Into The Closet

“The Doppler Effect: The sound of anything coming at you~ a train say, or the future~ has a higher pitch than the sound of the same thing going away. If you have perfect pitch and a head for mathematics you can compute the speed of the object by the interval between its arriving and departing sounds” ~Wallace Stegner.

For some reason, I have noticed a great number of small birds chasing after large birds, in the endless sky. One in particular, flying west over I-5 , a hawk with a long and limp snake hanging from its violent beak, with two small birds in pursuit. It seems that each time I leave the house I see this chase played out again and again, something I have noticed so rarely in the past. Have I really become that much more observant?

A broken bird’s egg I found in the woods today, was the best color of blue in the world. A blue that only nature could own. A blue with infinite soul. This I believe, this specimen of color, is why we make art on some level.

As I have not played my Rickenbacker for some time, as I did so today for several hours, it is an amazing guitar, one that I should offer more love.

Speaking of guitars, last week, while working on fence repair with my father, the neighbor who shares said fence came out into his yard to see “what the hell was going on?!?!?!?” Namely, why the entire fence seemed to have disappeared. After explaining, Bob and I began to speak of music. It turns out that he played flamenco for many years. Anyway, to shorten a long story as the saying goes, this Bob mentioned casually that he had a Les Paul {one of the guitars I covet most, and do not own} from 1981 that has NEVER been played. NEVER? {about an hour it turns out}

I of course proceed to ask him if he would like to sell said guitar. He says “sure, why not. Come take a look.” It is perfect. Fucking brilliant. It is black and brilliant and perfect. I tell him regretfully that I don’t have enough money to offer him what it’s worth, but that I’ll love it and play it and make much music on it, and so on. I offer him $1000. He says that he needs to find out the current market value. I tell him it will certainly be more than $1000.

We speak later, at which point he informs me that the current market value is about $3000. He laughs. He then proceeds to ask me If I can pay it. “No,” I say, watching as my daydreams of playing this on various songs, and various live settings and candlelit nights go tumbling through my hands.

He then says, “Well, I guess I’ll put her back in the closet.” Bob is 84 years old. Why anyone would feel compelled to keep a guitar in their closet for twenty five years is beyond me. It find it so utterly depressing that this beautiful instrument is sitting there in that closet, where it may sit another two decades instead of having someone play it. Guitars are not made to sit in closets. Anyway, I’m out. Perhaps I’ll have more money in a year or so, and look him up again. Who knows? I even had places that it would fit on a new project I’ve just begun, all worked out in my head. A new project that I am too tired to write about. Bedtime. And dreams of black guitars in closets. They are like children, needing the warmth of hands. They cry out and beg for love. For what are guitars without hands? Or feet at least. Something. Anything. Anything but the closet. I wonder what the sound of a guitar moving into the closet sounds like. Is it different from the sound it makes coming out?

Posted by jeff pitcher at June 16, 2005 11:10 PM

....................................