I started learning to play the guitar when I was in the sixth grade. Guitar lessons then became an hour of amusement once a week when we harassed our poor teacher. The artist in us hadn’t awoken yet. Needless to say we quit. Our teacher ran off to New Zealand and our mother realised that she would never find a teacher willing to instruct the demonic children that we were.
I started again in the 12th grade. I must be honest, this time I tried. The worst period of my life, also known as the “competitive exams” phase ended this learning. Also, I was, how shall I put it, Awful. Apparently, my little finger did not move fast enough. Or so the new not-so-frightened instructor informed me. With a heavy heart I passed on my guitar to my brother, who could sing and strum at the same time.
Today, after an eight year exile, upon trespassing into my brother’s room I came face to face with my precious. If I have ever believed in supernatural forces, I did then. Excalibur, yes, I was twelve, I called my guitar excalibur, called to me. And let me tell you playing slow, old songs on a guitar you love with no instructor to criticise you after years feels Awesome. 🙂