Harana

I've been playing the guitar again. An ex-girlfriend taught me a few notes and a couple of songs on a red guitar that she bought for me on my 22nd birthday. Two years later, I buy a second guitar for my 24th birthday. Its sort of an ode to my lost love. Everytime I touch the strings I think of the woman who so patiently introduced and instructed me to the beautiful world of music. I can close my eyes and see her watching me ever so tenderly like a mother watching her child take his first steps. She would encourage me, and nurture me no matter how slow I would pick skills up. Painstakingly she would lift every finger and place them on the fret board until I could do it on my own. Secretly I hated it. I normally pick things up rather quickly and to be schooled like a retard was a bit of a blow to my pride. Having her take so much time and put so much effort and give so much praise turned me off to playing. Whenever I could I would stash the guitar in a closet and happily let it gather dust.
Two years later for reasons unknown I retraced my steps and picked up the guitar anew. Without anyone poking and prodding me to practice I've been learning chords, songs, and to some extent creating my own music. I find myself looking out into the distance as I pluck away at the strings knowing deep down inside that I need not look at my hand for my fingers will find their place on my guitar's neck. I can close my eyes and play and hear the love in each note. I can hear the frustration too. I can hear two years passed and an infinity in front of me. How beautiful is it to strike that chord?
Lately, since I'm trying to sleep when the rest of the world does; I've been sitting out on my stoop in downtown Jersey City at around 2am or later just strumming my guitar. I look up at the night and listen as the sound of Isabel (That's what I've christened my guitar) floods the silence much like stars drown out the darkness. The sound of her voice brings me peace. The sound of Isabel puts me to sleep.
But in all honesty, as much as I play for myself I want to play for someone. I have a chest full of emotions and guitar that can sing of my wanting. Often I look across the street at the brownstone fronting mine. Up on the third floor is a light that stays on when all have turned out.

I imagine my Rapunzel is there and the sound of my strumming is the call to her freedom. I play for that light, for the idea of a woman, that can hear my heartbeat in the chords that I strum. I imagine that she can hear each note, loud but hollow, needing just a little more warmth. I seek a woman that can inspire me to make music and not just play a series of chords in longing.

Can she hear it? Whoever she is, can she hear me? One day that light will go out, but the door will open and I'll find out that she's been listening to the sound of my loneliness all along. And when that happens my calloused fingertips will reach out and know the softness of her flesh from the cold cutting strings of my Isabel.

Red's day off

Even I need a day off. How convenient that my first day off in a loooooooong time be spent watching the Yankees play the Angels in Yankee Stadium. The sky was dark with looming rainclouds just beyond the horizon, but it seemed like the brightest day I've had in weeks seeing the people gather towards the entrance with such anticipation. I've never gone to a baseball game so the entire vibe was new to me. I'm glad that Alison was there to introduce me to the experience. Alison is a die hard Yankees fan and all of her rah-rahness started to rub off on me. I heard that Yankees fans are something else, now I know for sure. Stepping out into the box seats overlooking home plate and first base, I took my first look at the plush green field marred only by the baseball diamond and entrenched by a sea of people. It was beautiful. If I were a lesser man I might have shed a tear. (Thanks mom.)


I'll never forget the sound of the Star Spangled Banner being played by the Marine marching band echoing across the field and into the stands. It seriously made the hair on my arms stand up. How much more American can you get? Baseball at Yankee Stadium with the Marines playing the national anthem, followed by a gourgefest of hotdogs and beer and screaming a slew of profanities at the visiting team. It was seriously a patriotic good time. Early in the 5th inning with the Yankees down 4-1 the storm clouds gave way to an outpour of which I've never seen in NYC. It rained like a typhoon from Manila. Fierce, unforgiving, and relentless the water came rushing down upon everyone forcing a rain delay that left everyone scrambling for cover and soaking wet. Luckily, Alison bought us official Yankee ponchos to keep us dry during the downpour. It worked to some extent. And so like the diehard fan that I was for the day I sat in my seat through the rain soldiering on patiently for its' finish so that the game could continue.

That was not to be. It rained like it was its' job for about two hours. Finally Alison and I decided to call it a day and head back to the city, but not before taking a photo opt behind home plate.

Overall it was a wonderous experience, one I'll never forget and will partake in regularly in the years to come.