Age Of Sixteen
Wednesday. A good evening watching whatever is was on television and finally finishing a Netflix movie while playing the guitar. We're ready for our guitar lesson in another hour. By saying that, of course, we've jinxed any pretensions of “ready”, but what the hell. Life is short, don't fret, my instructor is most forgiving and, I suspect, am the least of his student frustrations. Unless I do not have a clue and I'm his only beginner, something I'm more aware of (this clue business) as I grow older.
Up with the alarm, out and back this fine morning, this spare the air day morning under clear and sunny skies. Time to tune the guitar, take one last swipe at the lesson, write this month's tuition check (almost forgot that) and head out the door. I'll go by the supermarket on the way home, kill two birds with one stone.
Later. Went to the lesson, screwed up more than I was expecting (gotta sit myself down and be sure I'm not kidding myself - time on the guitar is not necessarily good time on the guitar, time that improves the skills) and then went on to the supermarket and bought everything on that list. That mental list, which means I probably missed some things, but so far so good, everything so far is in its proper place, I'm set for another week.
The dry mouth and a bit of the close your eyes and see the little sparkly thing associated with the ocular migraines started while driving home, but cleared up pretty quickly in maybe forty minutes and I'm feeling much better now that it's approaching noon. What have I eaten in the last two days I could blame it on, this minor flare up? Nothing on the list: no alcohol, chocolate or cheese. Well, there was some cheese with the avocado omelette. Not much, Swiss cheese, I have them cut it back to half the amount. OK. It came, it's gone, we'll get on with the day and forget.
These things you brought at the supermarket. Any of it on your forbidden items list?
Why, of course. How long have you known me now? Fella?
Later still. A slow day, I must admit. A short nap feeling tired, as in lack of sleep tired, a short walk over to the opposite side of the lake to take a few pictures for this project I've been diddling with, I should be able to finish it off after taking more pictures tomorrow. I don't get to the “other” side of the lake very often and forget what it looks like. Nice white buildings up on the hill contrasted against the water with people walking and running by. My apartment is up there on the left. I should do it more often (hup, hup).
I suspect the rest of the day will go as much like the morning and afternoon have gone, easing into the evening, getting in time on the guitar. I have things to tighten up that became apparent in this morning's lesson. Nothing too terrible, nothing that can't be overcome in a day or two, but a bit embarrassing given how many times I've bombed at the wrong time.
I should probably compare learning the guitar to my first learning to type. How long before I could rip right along? A long time, let me tell you, although I never spent two hours a day practicing on a typewriter in high school. I remember one summer when my mother suggested I take lessons, they were offering them at the local library. What? Learn to type? Back then women did the typing. I had much to learn as did many of my compatriots. I say many, rather than most, as half my generation understood from a very early age about “typing” and “type casting”. They did. An introduction to unconscious assumptions at the age of sixteen.