061205

I miss my guitar

Right now I’m listening to a man playing classic rock tunes in the Seaport. It reminds me of how much I miss my guitar.

I’m not that good, but there’s something about picking up a guitar any playing that’s theraputic. It reminds me of all the times I drove back and forth to work and school in my 1983 LeSabre with the analog radio (with the clicky buttons) turned to the Beatles, LedZep, or Piny Floyd, trying to keep the other drivers from seing my lips move. Dang it, I know the words to all the songs this guy is playing.

It also reminds me of my Christian punk rock phase. I listened to all the crappy little indy and Tooth & Nail punk bands. I wanted so much to be a punk, to be a crappy little rock star. But you can’t do that when you’re a perfectionist. Unless I’ve practiced something ’till it’s “real good,” I hate having people listen to me. Because “real good” meant “perfect” to me, I never played for anyone.

One of the things I’m trying to drill into my head is that nothing I do can be perfect. If I write something, it won’t be the greatest story ever written no matter how much I want it to be. I was talking to someone earlier today and I called New York a “meatgrinder.” It’s actually more of a forge. It’s a big place with lots of people, and to be noticed you need to work hard even if you’re work isn’t “perfect.” If you jump into the forge, you will either be tempered and purified or incinerated. Obviously I hope to survive or I wouldn’t be here.

When I played the guiter it wasn’t perfect, but it was not bad. What I write is not perfect, but it’s pretty good. The trick is learning how to press ahead in spite of a lack of perfection. Obviously if I was a poor writer that would be foolish. But I’m not. I’m pretty good.