Last Nite...every time I write that the Strokes melody streams through my cluttered head. A head that cleared after I knocked it against my bedroom wall around midnight. But I think it helped.
Earlier I had loving picked up my neglected guitar. On a recent whim I tuned it believing that I would remember how to play and improve on those skills? Maybe you have to practice after you tune it. With my tabs in front of me I stared and concentrated and the only music made was Tyler's laughter. In any case the plucked strings resonated harmoniously as Tyler brushed his quick fingers across them.
Inspired (or jealous) I asked him to teach me. We began with a difficult little number The Format calls On Your Porch. Ok, only difficult for me as I'd suddenly dismissed what a guitar was and how to hold it. My left hand awkwardly wrapped around the instruments neck. Though I can't tell you what cord I played I can say that my wrist looked distorted and broken. My right fingers slowly curled as I clumsily tried the finger pick.
After many bewildered looks and lifting and placing my hands and fingers, Tyler gave up and smiled at me with the patience of father and his toddler. It was at this patronizing point that I traded him my guitar for my computer. Vaio in hand I felt more confident and began moving my fingers in a steady, rhythmic keystroke. Natural.
Oh, wondering about the cleared head? That happened as I showed-off multitasking by writing, texting and IMing. Eric sent me a link for my favorite holiday. I jumped off my bed, screamed like a little girl and slammed my head against the wall. Tyler just glanced up from his reading of the journalist’s dictionary.
Casualty update—my crippled hand hindered the typing of this account which was brought to you by the scrambled remains of my brain.
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