Friday after school, I pulled Olie from under my bed, unlatched and opened the old wooden guitar case.
Spaz knew, and he’d never kept a secret in his life. What an idiot! Why didn’t I just deny it? Now what could I do? Sometimes when I played, it was like my mind went blank, and I’d figure things out that I didn’t even realize I was pondering. I needed to think.
Joel said practice wasn’t as important as playing. He was sneaky that way. He’d always find out what a student wanted to play the most, and taught that. Usually it had to be a simplified version to start with, but he said that bought him time. A lot of kids wanted to learn new stuff, songs that Joel didn’t even know. He said he’d teach himself how to play it, so he knew how to teach somebody else.
He claimed that he was burdened with master’s mind. He had internalized so much that he no longer thought about how to play something, which made it hard to explain to others. He said that learning something new all the time kept him close to a beginner’s mind.
He also said that guitar isn’t an easy instrument, and takes some powerful incentive. Fortunately, girls like guys who play guitar, and that’s why so many teenage guys persevere – they’re highly motivated. While I wasn’t out to get any groupies, I had to agree about the perseverance. I had to get my fingers just right so the strings didn’t buzz or go thunk.
I could strum and do a little flat- picking, but was starting to figure out fingerpicking, too. I worked on that a while. When the house was empty, I was brave enough to sing along out loud. Ever since my voice changed, it never sounded good to me.
No answers came to me. When my fingers got sore, I finally quit. I’d long ago developed calluses on the fingertips of my left hand, but the picking fingers were still tender. I could understand why some people wore fingerpicks. After dampening the humidifier in the bathroom sink, I gently laid Olie back in his case.