Wherein She Waits (and Has Lackluster Practice, and Blames the Moon)

Today I finally wrote an email to Bryan, my Shambhala friend who teaches guitar lessons. I saw his fiancee this weekend and she told me he just took a studio in Williamsburg--my neighborhood--and is open for business! (I'm so excited, because I didn't really need to be hauling my guitar on the G train to get to his place in Fort Greene.) So now I'm just waiting for him to respond. Soon after that: our first lesson!

I practiced tonight for about 40 minutes but it wasn't great. I came home early from my Buddhist studies class (skipped the discussion) because I was feeling lousy. I thought I wanted to practice, but when I got here my practice was lackluster.

At the risk of exposing my woo-woo nature, I think it has to do with the full moon. As my friend J. mentioned the other day, "We know the effects of the moon on the ocean . . . and humans are 80% water. You do the math."

In Which She Relates Her Practice to Sitting Meditation (Don't Roll Your Eyes)

My practice sessions last night and tonight have been fantastic. Every day I'm impressed by how much the previous night's practice has helped me. Last night I started teaching myself the chords for Romeo & Juliet by the Indigo Girls. I had already mastered my G and C (my switching between them still isn't perfectly smooth, but I'm getting there) and was relatively proficent at my A minor. All I really needed to learn was F.

Not as easy as it sounds, grasshopper. The F is a somewhat difficult chord because it requires the use of all four fretting fingers, across three different frets. Last night I could barely get it, much less use it when I needed it in the song.

(Which, incidentally, makes Romeo & Juliet a good song to learn it on, since the rhythm allows for some pregnant pauses between chords.)

But tonight, I was halfway through the song before I realized I was hardly struggling at all with the F. Instead of it taking last night's 3 seconds to contort my fingers into position, it took me only, say, 1-1/2 seconds. Marked improvement in just 24 hours.

What's so interesting about this is that I'm seeing for the first time in a very long time the fact that practice makes perfect. There is only one other thing I practice regularly in my life: sitting meditation. And yes, over the course of the two years I've been meditating my practice has gained much more stability, clarity and strength. But practicing to make "perfect" is an impossible goal with meditation. By our very human nature, we are incapable of being perfect at watching our breath.

Moreover, with meditation, improvement is often very hard to see. One day I'm able to be present and open-hearted for several minutes at a time, while the next day I can't disengage from my thoughts for even a moment. There is no steady movement forward. Over time the "curve" of my practice is going up, but from day to day I often feel like I'm backsliding.

Guitar is not the same. So far, anyway, every single day I've been able to see improvement. I can actually use what I learned yesterday when I practice today--and that offers a real feeling of accomplishment. It reminds me of learning French the semester I was in Paris. I'd learn a word in class, or from my host father, and then all day long I'd find myself using it (irregardless of whether it was truly appropriate for the context). I spent the semester watching in wonder as my grasp of the language became stronger and stronger.

I'm learning a different language now, one that I hope will serve me even better than my French (which is now laboring beneath a thick layer of rust). I know that it will; it already has.

Eh bien, cela m'a dèja fait trés contente.

In Which An Idol Falls

You are so not going to believe this, people. You know "Jane Says" by Jane's Addiction? One of perhaps the best songs ever written about a prostitute who just can't find love? The song I have always thought was born of Perry Farrell's sheer genius? Well get this:

Two.
Chords.
In the whole freakin' song.

The band would have you believe that Nothing's Shocking but I beg to differ, my friends. This is, in fact, shocking in every sense of the word. Worse, the chords aren't even hard! G and A! G and A! THAT'S IT! So much for Dave Navarro as guitar idol.

I'm actually quite upset about this. I may just have to go away to Spain.

(When I get my money saved, that is. Gonna start tomorrow.)

Wherein She Practices Until Her Fretting Hand Looks Like a Crab's Claw

That C-to-G and G-to-C chord maneuver is killing me. First of all, there are no "reference" fingers between those two chords--i.e., you can't say "the middle finger stays in place while the other two move." It's all three fingers moving at the same time, from here to here.

When your fingers aren't yet strong and/or used to these positions, practicing this maneuver can result in severe cramping of the fingers. Last night I was practicing my two new favorite songs and when I'd get to the end I'd have to literally shake the cramps out of my hands.

All this complaining is, however, for naught. The truth is that I'm thrilled to have these chords in my ever-growing repertoire. I can now play, in theory at least, the chords for one of the songs that made me want to learn how to play guitar in the first place--Following My Compass by Kristen Hall. Not that I have the dexterity or rhythm to make the song sound, well, like a song. But that will come in due time, my friends. In due time.

Chapter Seven, In Which She Gets Rid of the Chapter Headings

I just had a vision of, someday, having to title an entry "Chapter 467"--and realized that it's my crazed book-publishing brain that felt the need to use chapter headings on my entries. This is, hello, a blog. Not a book. The chapters are no more.

Chapter Six, Wherein She Takes Her First Lesson (Oh, Alright, It Was Online)

After my adventure on Saturday, I started thinking that it was time to get some real guitar instruction. First of all, I seriously coveted Paul's ability to finger-pick and realized that, at the rate I was going, I wasn't going to learn that fancy-pants stuff . . . like, ever.

Secondly, and no offense to Dylan or Emmylou, I was getting sick of my tripartite playlist: Tangled Up in Blue, The Maker and Where Will I Be. Every night, that's what I was playing, pretty much in that order--and, oddly, I seemed to be getting worse at all three the more I played them.

Paul had given me the card of someone named Anthony, who apparently gives lessons and is fabulous. (His website scares me, though.) I also have a friend from the Shambhala Center named Brian who teaches, and is the nicest human being ever. So I got options, baby.

But last night, at around 9pm, neither Anthony nor Brian was in my apartment. So I did what any 21st Century Guitar Girl would do: I went online.

Lo and behold, About.com has a neat little series of (the most basic of basic) lessons for guitar. By which I mean they can teach you G, C and D--and then give you a set of songs that you can play all the way through just using these chords. I know my D chord well, but the G/C alternation proved somewhat tricky for me.

(Hey, I heard that snicker, you. Yes, I know that G and C are probably the two most-often-used chords in guitar playing, and the fact that I was having trouble with them tells you how much of a neophyte I am at the moment. But someday--someday!! Lay off, now.)

So that is how, at 9:45 last night, I found myself strumming away at Leaving On a Jet Plane and Brown-Eyed Girl.

Sigh. Even I feel sorry for my neighbors.

Weekend Guitar Adventure: The Re-String

Saturday I got up early, slipped my Oscar Schmidt into her new black canvas carrying case and took her on her first trip to the city. The subway was running funkily (thank you, L train) so it took a good 45 minutes to get to the Guitar Center on 14th Street, but the trip was worth it.

Sidenote: you get lots of interested looks when you're a girl carrying a guitar on the subway. I could almost imagine all the hipster guys around me wondering....does she really know how to play??

The answer is, of course, no. But someday soon! I mean it!

Anyhoo, after making it through the Gestapo at the front door of the Guitar Center (they took the guitar all the way out of the case, looked inside it, wrote down its details, my name, asked me pertinent questions, blah blah blah--all before I even entered the store) I was directed to a small counter just inside the door where three cool looking guys were hard at work repairing electric guitars. They were the Guitar Tech guys, I was to find out, with Paul as their fearless leader. Paul was closest to me when I arrived so he gave my acoustic the initial look-see. With little to no effort on his part, he upgraded me a full $30--from a basic re-stringing to an overall tune-up. Sigh. I'm such an easy mark. But I do believe I got my money's worth, especially since he let me stand there and gawk while he did everything. I even took notes.

While I was there, he tightened my tuners, gave the instrument a thorough cleaning, made an adjustment to the . . . I can't remember what the name of it is, but it's that little plastic ridge thing just north of the pins, that holds the strings up off the fretboard. Most importantly, he gave me lots of tips on the care and upkeep of my little beauty.

Some of the more interesting details I learned while standing there: it turns out there was a spider living inside the guitar (ick); one should wipe down the strings with a cotton t-shirt every time she plays; lightweight strings are easier to play if not as resonant; one should only use lemon oil on the fretboard of her guitar; Paul gets parking tickets all the time. He got one while I was there, in fact.

He also suggested a guitar instructor he knows and trusts, which was great since I think I may be ready for some real-live help.

The only embarassing part was when he handed the guitar to me to test out the new strings. And I couldn't play a damn thing. Not after watching him and his two guitar guys trying out the instruments there and effortlessly picking and playing. My little strummed Tangled Up in Blue wouldn't have lasted five seconds in their company.

For now, it seems, I am the Guitar Girl only in the privacy of my own home. But someday--someday!--the world will know of my great talent.

Thursday Practice Complete

Thirty minutes, three new chords.

In other words, fuck heartache. The Go Go Guitar Girl is back.

Chapter Five, In Which She Discovers the Effect of Heartache on the Will to Practice

In a nutshell, it annhiliates it.

Interlude on My First Guitar

Every guitar player I've ever talked to remembers his or her first guitar. That Fender his Dad bought him for Christmas in 1987; the dusty acoustic she found in the attic, a relic from Mom's hippie days.

Me, I got my first guitar from my sister.

It was a week before the Christmas I was turning 10 years old. I don't remember what I wanted that year--probably something along the lines of a Forenza sweatshirt, or a new sticker book. What I do know is that nowhere on my wish list was there anything remotely resembling a mandolin-sized, nylon-strung, blue plastic guitar with Smurfs all over it.

I repeat, I did not ask for the Smurf guitar.*

My sister and I were hanging out under the Christmas tree, shaking and pinching and sniffing the packages we'd gotten for one another, daring each other to guess what was inside.

She was ten, turning eleven shortly after the holiday, and had a ten-year-old's skills at gift wrapping. That is to say, she had the square gift and the rectangular gift down cold. But the oblong gift with the long skinny neck and the whiskery, protuding string-ends? Notta so much. When I happened upon it in the obscene gift pile, I had an inkling, pretty much right away, that it was a kid's guitar.

A kid's guitar? Surely not. There was no reason I could think of that my sister--my sister who was practically my twin, we were so close in age and circumstance--would have given me a kid's guitar.

A) I was not a kid. I was turning ten. I didn't even watch the Smurfs anymore!

B) I had never expressed any interest whatsoever in learning to play the guitar.

"You got me . . . a guitar? A . . . Smurf guitar?" I was incredulous.

A Smurf guitar was the kind of gift a parent might pick out for the kid of a friend of the family. It was an educational gift; one that required actual work to operate. It was not a toy. And it was not a Forenza sweatshirt.

It was, in my mind, not the kind of gift an almost eleven-year-old girl had any business giving to her almost ten-year-old sister.

I'll spare you the details of the fight that ensued. Suffice it to say that if we were to attempt a contemporary renactment of the situation, the part of the Guitar Girl might be played by Bart Simpson, while the part of the sister would be played by one of the Flanders kids. Basically, I got all freaky on her, and she cowered in the corner protecting the innocent Smurf guitar from my slander.

"Why on earth would you ever waste my Christmas gift money on this?" I demanded. "You can't have thought I actually wanted it! What were you thinking? Did Mom put you up to this??"

Okay, I admit it, even at ten I could be a bitch.

But still, I felt entirely justified. I was waiting for her to plead temporary insanity ("it was the flourescent lights at Target! I lost all control of my judgment!"). Instead, she looked at me wide-eyed and injured. Yep, she whipped out her world-famous "You are hurting me deeply, sister" look. As a kid, that one got me every time. (Who am I kidding--damn thing still works.)

When I calmed down from my rage and incredulity long enough to recognize the look, I was suddenly overtaken by guilt. So I did what any generally kind-hearted ten-year-old would do after she excorciated her sister for giving her a gift she would never want in a million years.

I backpedaled like mad.

"Actually, Mr. M. (our elementary school music teacher) was just telling me the other day I should learn how to play the guitar!"

"Really, I didn't want a stupid old sticker book anyway. I have a million already!"

"Blue is, after all, my favorite color. How thoughtful of you!"

The backpedaling continued right up until Christmas day, when I opened the gift for real and pretended--for our parents' benefit--to be surprised and delighted by it. The next day it took its place in the City of Lost Toys that was my bedroom, somewhere between the Babushka Babinka doll I never played with and the Fisher Price record player that had, the day before, been replaced by a bonafide stereo. (Clearly Santa knew I wasn't a kid anymore.)


*NOTE: Over the years there has been some question over whether the guitar was actually a Smurf guitar or simply a guitar that happened to be Smurf blue. I admit that I have yet to find verification of the existence of an official Smurf guitar online, but I did find a Smurf drum set--and what good are drums without lead guitar? I believe this case is closed.

Chapter 4, Wherein She Holds Her First Concert, Albeit for a Captive Audience of One

Last night V. came over, so as to avoid spending the evening at her own place--which is just down the block and filled to the brim with stinky-boy roommates. Little did she know that she was actually being lured into the Guitar Girl's web. No sooner had she arrived than I picked up my six-stringed weapon and began regaling her with the three songs I know.

V., being the diplomatic type, was very complimentary. That is to say she complimented my voice--and stayed far, far away from the question of my guitar abilities.

For my part, I found myself trying really hard to play better than I usually do. And oddly, it seemed to work: I believe I played better with her there listening to me. Which makes me wonder:

If a Guitar Girl plays while there is no one around to hear her, does she really play at all?

Chapter 3, In Which She Merely Talks About Practicing, But Does Not Practice

Last night, over drinks and guacamole at the inimitable Rosa Mexicano, my dear friend and I discussed the blog, my practicing, and my numb fingertips. I was all set up to come home and brush up on that C chord that I haven't played since college. (Believe it or not, none of the songs I'm trying to learn at the moment includes a C. Very strange.)

Instead, I came home and futzed around on my computer for a while, looking for love in the online personals those kids are always talking about. Now there's a time-suck if I've ever seen one.

And just like that, it was 10pm.

"Ten o'clock?" says the good little angel. "Not so late. You still could have practiced."

"But there's a baby next door!" counters the bad little angel. "Does tiny Carmine really deserve to be wrested from slumber just so you can learn another damn power chord? And what about that friendless photographer upstairs? Every day is an exercise in not drawing his attention! The last thing you need is him coming down here to give you pointers!"

And that, my friends, is how Good gets pinned to the mat by Evil.

Wednesday Practice Complete!

I did it! Another 40 minutes. It's pretty amazing that I can see myself improving, even from last night.

I'm starting to incorporate an "up-strum" (note: not the technical term) in with my regular "down-strum." Stop the presses: the genius is emerging.

On the other hand, I'm losing all sensation in the tips of my left pointer, middle and ring fingers. There is, it seems, a price to be paid for the honor of becoming a tried and true Guitar Girl.

Interlude On the Piano

When I was 7 years old, my sister, aged 8, started taking piano lessons from Mrs. Bastian in the neighborhood across the street. I remember very little about that period other than my intense jealousy that she had been offered the option of doing this special thing, when I, myself, had not. I stewed and whined about it for what had to have been months before my mother finally gave in and let me take lessons as well. The only caveat was that I had to promise to practice.

It was a devil's bargain, but I made it.

What I remember about those piano lessons has nothing to do with piano:

• the interminable half-hour waiting for my sister's lesson to be over.
• the cheesy Cape Cod sand dune painting on Mrs. Bastian's kitchen wall.
• the precarious climb to the m&m jar she kept on top of a bookcase.
• the little ice-skating scene she laid out at Christmas time.

Back home, I remember sitting on the piano bench in our large cold living room, not playing. I remember Mom's voice calling from the kitchen, "Why do I not hear anything??" I remember receiving significantly fewer of Mrs. Bastian's congratulatory stickers than my sister, who was practically born playing the Love Theme from Ice Castles.

The only song I learned in the entire year I took lessons was "The Snake Dance." This was, it turned out, a cleaned-up title for a not-so-clean tune. Namely, the one that starts, "There's a place in France/Where the ladies don't wear pants."

I didn't realize there was a problem with "The Snake Dance" until I started pounding it out during coffee hour after church one Sunday. I can't remember a time, before or since, when my mother moved as quickly as she did that morning.

It took only a week or two for the bruises--inflicted by the piano lid--to fade from my knuckles. My interest in the piano did not recover so quickly.

If I could not play "The Snake Dance," I would not play at all.

Chapter Two, Wherein She Considers Not Practicing Today

It is Wednesday. I have had this blog for a whopping 24 hours and it's already doing it's job: making me feel guilty for not wanting to practice the guitar today.

Let me say that practice is the reason I have gone 29 years without playing an instrument. Practice is . . . hard. It's, like, work. Work appears to be something I'm rarely willing to do if I can think of any way to get out of it. i.e., if I am not:

a) being paid for it, or

b) being graded on it,

I really see no reason to offer the energy to it.

Tuesday Practice Complete

I told myself I'd play for at least 20 minutes, and instead I played for 40. Where Will I Be, The Maker and Tangled Up in Blue. Not that any of the above would be recognizable to anyone but me.

I am happy.

Chapter One, In Which She Explains How She Became the Owner of an Acoustic Guitar

The guitar I now hold was purchased for $110 at a music store in my Midwestern hometown, approximately eight years ago.

I obtained said guitar the summer after my sophomore year in college. I had spent the first half of that summer at a camp in Michigan, shepherding a dozen 15-year-old girls through five weeks of angst. (And I do mean angst. Four out of twelve of my campers had noticable eating disorders; I had to institute the rule that not while living under my roof was anyone to be caught eating yogurt with a fork.) While there, I fell head over heels in love with another counselor, who played a mean guitar.

Let's be honest, it's not hard to fall for the player of a mean guitar. Guitar players are, by their very nature, more attractive than the rest of us.

I spent the second half of the summer mooning and crying and spending the pittance I'd made at camp on a guitar, a case, a book of Peter, Paul and Mary songs, and approximately six guitar lessons wherein I learned absolutely nothing I can recall today.

Back at school, I decided I'd learn to play on my parents' dime--by taking a legitimate for-credit course in classical guitar.

Classical, acoustic--whatever. It was pretty much all the same, right?

Yeah, no. Only after renting a nylon-strung instrument and being shown by my octogenarian professor the very not cool classical guitar posture did I realize what I'd gotten myself into.

I wanted to learn Indigo Girls songs, fer chrissakes. I didn't care whether my prof had once eaten tapas with Andreas Segovia.

Luckily, by second semester my body found an out for me. Thanks to that ass-backwards posture, I developed acute tendonitis in my left shoulder. I must admit I was giddy the day I discovered I'd have to bid my old prof adieu.

The classical guitar went back to its home--a guitar store in Silver Spring, MD--and my barely-used acoustic found itself, along with my dreams of becoming a tried and true Guitar Girl, packed into the back of my closet. Somewhere between a crate of old photo albums and that other dust-gatherer, the sewing machine, my steel-stringed beauty nestled in for a long winter's nap.

Introduction, or How She Became a Go Go Guitar Girl...and Other Fancy Stuff.

Once upon a time, in a land far, far away from New York City, there lived a young girl.

She was as remarkable as any young girl--that is to say, she wasn't remarkable at all. She had her likes (getting muddy, playing with stray dogs) and her dislikes (being left out of four-square at recess, pumpkin pie).

And then, she had her loves: clothes, especially whatever was in her sister's closet; food, especially those items she was not allowed to have; and singing. Always, always singing. Singing in the shower, singing in the street; singing in the car, at the dinner table, in her sister's ear while said sister was trying to watch TV.

As you may have guessed, my friends, that little girl was the Go Go Guitar Girl. And now her love of singing shall finally come to full fruition before your very eyes. This blog shall chart the realization of a lifelong dream: the dream of learning how to play the guitar, so as to accompany herself while she sings.