Chapter Six Crossing Scotland
The Guitar Soliloquy
Haximoto disappeared in a cloud of Scottish smoke and it's not good to question such things as Scotland has more faeries than the Catholic Church has saints. They've been collecting them for about the same length of time. When these faeries make magic, anything can happen as you don't have to be a saint to be a faerie. Some of them delight in catching children who do not listen to their mothers and you know what happens to them, don't you, young laddie.
When the rain started in full earnest, my riding shoes finally gave up the game and holes wore through them. There is no money and no Haximoto so that has meant wet everything going anywhere. This sucks.
There is some marginal comedy as I finally got the most horrendous shoes possible because they are cheap and indestructible. They are slip-on casual shoes in fake brushed suede and look like something someone would wear to a meeting of used car dealers. In combination with the pajama pants, I strike a particularly fetching appearance. All I need now is a flashy cane. Perhaps a top hat to balance the ensemble.
Days have gone to months and still there is no passport. The feeling of being trapped is strangling and there's not much to be done as any playing would reach unacceptable noise levels. The procession of suckness doesn't warrant a long exposition but the perspective of endlessness is real.
The tour has hit the ground worse than ever before. It's so cold that I sleep fully-dressed and have a blanket around me all the time. Sometimes I can cook something and that makes some heat around the gas stove. At times I think I should just leave the gas running and, sure, that would take me out ... with a good chance it takes out the whole building. That's harsh treatment for people who never did anything to me.
My cousin stops by to visit every so often and it's been pleasant as we have had some sweet talks. She doesn't understand what I'm trying to do but that's not unusual as hardly anyone does. Still it is comfortable and pleasant talking with her and it's multi-generational because she resembles my ol' Mother in so many ways. Several days ago, she gave me a book my ol' Mother signed when she could not have been more than five or six years old.
The interludes are infrequent but they are pleasant. There is no way to approach the actual problem as it has existed for a long time. Now there is nothing left except the Galaxy Guitar and knowing all the things I could not do because of her or much earlier guitars in my life. I never went swimming, even in Greece, as I would not risk leaving her insufficiently secured. The proof is in what remains as nothing else was protected well enough but she was.
For more than forty years, the Galaxy Guitar or her earlier sisters were within arm's reach all the time. All my life there has been the quest and that sounds like a movie theme but the Galaxy Guitar is the proof of it and here she sits. Whenever she has been injured, it has been heartbreaking but there are wizards who can fix such things and she lives yet stronger. Some parts don't work quite as well as they did but neither do mine.
Of course it was worth it. There was no question of it from the first time I strummed a guitar and felt the vibration through the body and realized it is alive. Whatever it took to play a guitar, I must do. Whether it was worth it to me isn't the question but rather that question is to her. Did I play her as well as she should be played.
There is no answer and there shouldn't be as maybe then I would stop trying. It's cold and it's horrible and I hate it but the Galaxy Guitar will never be sacrificed to it and the music will never stop so long as I can still bend the strings. Right now I don't know how that can possibly happen but there must be a way.