Moments
I sit for a while and just enjoy the music.
They are playing a blues in A. Bobby points to another guitar and to me. I pick up and put the guitar strap over my shoulder. I touch the strings; it’s mic’d up. Through a little distortion pedal.
I’ll be where the music is playing.
This is no game.
No joke.
Fuck that.
Buried beneath the city, Buried beneath the ground. Buried inside us.
The world steals. Dignity. Hope. Life.
Fuck that. Fuck off. Fuck you. Fuck. Fuck.
Bobby nods at me, and I play that guitar with every ounce of life that I ever had.
I run up from the G on the E string, up to the high string… I feel them… the strings… every note.
We’re in a moment.
The world stops.
The noise stops.
And we are alive.
I hit the strings till my fingers bleed.
I remember the little room where I first picked up a guitar. Nights alone. Playing. John Lee Hooker Springsteen Steve Earle Rancid
To here
Life Love Connection.
I nod at Bobby, and I play the chords as he takes a turn, and he can really play. A blizzard of notes and then nothing but soulful, bluesy bends.
Then Rachel comes back in.
We can take a place. A moment. These guitars, And make a place of our own.
The little crowd cheers. Someone shouts from the bar.
“Here, yous can fucking play!”
I thank Bobby and Rachel.
They invite me down to the open mic and I of course say I will be there. I get back to my seat and for a moment I just breathe.
I finish my drink and walk outside.
It’s fucking raining. Of course it is.
This is part 6 of my book Shelter.
(c) Paul Andrew Sneddon
