heartstrings

1. For more than a decade now I have drifted in and out of a non-committal but mostly rewarding relationship with, the guitar. Ours has been a love affair in continuous purgatory (if you'll humour me such tautology or contradiction in terms). In the beginning there was my parents' policy of zero investment in musical education, and my own of putting studies first. Later on financial independence came, but my way of putting other things first persisted. So I never got those lessons, nor a semi-decent instrument, nor sought out people who shared my happy little distraction. Alas, at last, I have some time (moreover, the prospect of a reliable future supply of same), in which nothing else need be prioritised, and I am casting flirtatious glances in the direction of my long-suffering lover.
2. One evening a few weeks ago I found my Yamaha CG101 inside its bag, decapitated, my 7-year companion come to an abrupt end seemingly without earthly intervention. Perhaps as proof of the amazing human capacity to heal, alternatively of my incapacity to form attachments to anything, by the afternoon of the following Saturday I had brought home a replacement, having forked out more than budgeted but not nearly enough for the one I really coveted.
3. Living in a sharehouse of overwhelming musical ability (x 50%) might be tough on the ego at times, yet in precisely the same way has done me good. Nowhere else would I have so readily gotten off my lazy butt and tried to resuscitate my wilting entanglement, if for nothing else than to be able to contribute at our sporadic family jam sessions.

The combination of the above I took to be an incontestable cosmic sign that I must do something, anything, besides continuing to bemoan a love lost. So last night, my shiny new appendage in tow, I made my way to the outer-city town hall where a group of fellow enthusiasts meet fortnightly to make pleasant noises - and took a seat in their midst.

The commitment-phobe and mountain of lethargy that I am, it was no mean feat to just have gotten myself there. But pardon the dramatique: 'twas the most transcendal thing I've done in a long time.

It has been years since I was last a member of a musical ensemble, not counting the occasional stint at Hubby's behest. In contrast to my former dalliances, in which more often than not I ended up fumbling with a part or an instrument which nobody (myself included) could play - this time I am in my element. I didn't even mind which position I was asked to play (I was able to sight-read all parts), perfectly content to mingle with the talented young man at the front whom I recently saw perform solo, and the teenage beginners at the back.

Next weekend the ensemble will partake in a classical guitar festival (who would've thunk the thing was this rampant locally!). The conductor invited me to wing it and I gave him no chance to revoke the offer. Like, when am I ever not down for playing with (uh-hum...) people less than half or more than double my age; not so much those in between though.

The idea of many serene sanitary grog-free G-rated Friday evenings and Sunday afternoons is more alluring to me than perhaps it should be to someone of my demographic.