My Busted-up Seagull Guitar
Interdimensional existence via stringed instrument
I have this busted up Seagull guitar that I recently pulled out of storage. A coworker recommended I talk to a luthier they know, and somehow it felt right to bring it out again. It’s been quite a few years so I’m a little surprised the time has finally come around.
After spending a late evening trying to break it out of the locked guitar case (I found the key after a frantic five minutes), I was astonished to find it still plays. It even keeps tune — a weird tuning, mind you — but long enough to play some stuff in my own company. I suppose I could play it for others as well, if they’d sit for it. It will certainly come with some stories.
Unfortunately, this latest luthier (this is the second one I’ve consulted) was not very optimistic, and in fact referred me back to the first one I had consulted, who was also not very optimistic. There is, however, a third one to call, once I muster up the courage to hear what he has to say.
In the meantime, there are some steps along a street sidewalk that beckon me to come sit and play my busted up guitar. In particular, these are steps across from a train station where I once said goodbye to the person whom this guitar belonged to. His memory lives through this guitar, as he is gone now — he died young at age 29. It is hard to believe it was eight years ago already.
There is something very interdimensional about playing a broken guitar that still plays across from a train station where I said goodbye to someone for nearly the last time.
Life, existence, resonance. Sound that transcends time and space.
It is as if me and this guitar need to do this, to find a comfortable afternoon to play on the street sidewalk in the sunshine. I need to clean it up a bit first, the scars can’t be helped but all that dust has got to go.
And miraculously, it still plays, as will I.
Essay 009 of the 0100 series.
© Dawn Nelson, 2022.
