Junkie
A and I had a running gag that when we were “dying” of laughter, we would bequeath our guitars to each other, because it was all over for us, and whom else would they go to but each other? After awhile, he didn’t even have to tell me, “I’m dyin’ here”; he’d just say “Take the Tele. She’s yourn.”
Perhaps a morbid bit of joking, but certainly it indicated our intentions, and of course, we never thought we’d be in a position for it to come to pass, not for a long, long time, anyway; I figured by the time the Tele was mine, I’d be too old and arthritic to play her. Of course, the very existence of this blog tells you how that turned out.
I screwed up my courage in an early e-mail response to his brother, who had said he hoped he’d get to keep the 12-string, and I mentioned to him that A always wanted me to have the Telecaster. There were multiple instruments at A’s place, but I only wanted the one, the one he loved most. I never got a response from him about it, and I know that time period was, and is, a blur for me, so perhaps my request got missed, rather than ignored. I figured I’d have another opportunity to bring it up, but that opportunity never presented itself, and I just couldn’t ask apropos of nothing; it seemed creepy, and I didn’t want to be even marginally creepy with these people I’d just met under the most horrible circumstances, and whom I wanted to hold on to if I could. I hoped at some point someone would think to offer me a memento, or ask me if there was anything I wanted of his personal effects, which included many gifts I’d given him, and some of my personal property I’d lent him, mostly books. That never happened though, and if I didn’t have it in my possession when he passed, I wasn’t getting it. It still hurts; I won’t lie to you.
When it became clear that there was no way I was going to get the guitar, E suggested I buy one just like it, and I appreciated the suggestion; it came from a very kind place in his heart. And I really did think about it, but after awhile, I decided that what I wanted was A’s, the one that he loved and played and touched, and any other one would just be a placeholder, a sad and ultimately unsatisfying attempt to kid myself. I wanted to play his guitar; a different one would just be an electric guitar I would be unlikely to play.
I didn’t think seriously about getting another guitar until recently, when major hand, wrist, and forearm problems made playing my acoustic guitars nigh on impossible, and certainly not pleasant. I have an electric that is easier to play, but very heavy, and I’ve been having a shoulder problem, too. And I remembered A’s Tele, and how it was so easy to play. And then I went to Wisconsin and played B’s Stratocaster (same company), and my fingers remembered, too, how easy it was to play, and I decided that perhaps I could do with one after all. And I would get the Tele in his honor.
I had a bit of debate with myself, though, because I realized that I’d really prefer a different color than his, if I had the option. It’s a little laughable, how much trouble I had over that point, like I was betraying him if I got anything other than what he had, but so it was. Of course the color I wanted would quadruple the price. But then I found one on eBay that had everything I wanted at the right price. It was a sign, so I bought it. It arrived last Thursday.
It was part accommodation of my physical issues, part retail therapy, and part homage to the man who was instrumental (pun intended) in my becoming a guitar player, and a guitar junkie to boot; this is guitar #7. But I find that I really like seeing a guitar like his hanging beside his pictures. It seems right.
The lack of mementos all along has forced me to reckon with the lesson that all these “things” are merely symbols of the man, and one symbol is probably as good as another, even if I ascribe magic to the things that were his that would make them so much more desirable. Though a guitar is not just a thing; it’s a relationship. And while it’s a symbol of him, and the guitar I wanted but could not have, it is a symbol of healing, too. Because early on, I wanted to leave everything in state, and get exact copies where I didn’t have the original. I couldn’t imagine doing otherwise. I so desperately needed things to be the same, even if I had to create the illusion that they were, even though I knew there was no way they could be.
But as I’ve grown stronger, I have been able to do things, or in this case, have things, that are remembrances of him, but with my personal mark on them, and I think that shows healing. Like working out in my shop. I like being out there, because he worked all day in his shop, and I like having that connection. But what I’m doing in my shop is very different than what he did; he would’ve never spent days sawing shell and gluing his fingers together with superglue; he wasn’t a big fan of inlay on guitars, actually. It is the same with this guitar: it is a remembrance of him, but it is all my style. I think that’s probably healthy. These things echo the past, but exist in the present with an eye toward the future. It is about him; but it is also very much me.
I feel varying degrees of comfort with such actions, to be honest. Despite all the progress towards recovery I’ve made, in a very real way, there’s a big part of me that has never left the morning of July 17, 2006, when my world fell apart. The weeks and months fly by, and yet I know I’m still as much there as I am here. I really just want things the way they were, with him playing his guitar. But I know that is impossible. So ruling out the impossible, I consider my options. I don’t regret getting the guitar, even though it’s not his. It is what it is. The fact that I’m good with that must mean I’m moving with this. I don’t say “moving on.” This is my life; I cannot move on from myself. And he is my love. I would not leave him behind.