Indulge me, if you will, in a moment of avarice; for things, yes, just as it seems, but moreso for states of being, for selves I never was—but may yet be: for Blesséd George tells us it is never too late; and Blesséd Shakti points the way; and Blesséd Julia advises us to surround ourselves with these "images of abundance," on the theory that seeing leads to being.
The National Reso-Phonic Style "O" is simply one of the most beautiful and strange musical instruments ever crafted. And a tool (which is what a guitar is, after all) should be pleasing as well as functional.
Now, in days gone by, O Best Beloved, when this world was young and I had all my hair, I wore gaudy shirts and listened to The Church and dreamed of music that roared like the ocean and sang like the wind. I dreamed of '68 Fender Custom Telecasters. Perhaps you've seen the Pink Paisley model—James Burton played one for years—but I've always had a soft spot for its lesser-known companion, the Floral Blue. It brings out my eyes, don'cha know.
Dreaming also of an acoustic-electric nylon-string classical, with a single cutaway and a full-scale neck. I love the classical guitar; I love the snap of the strings beneath the fingers, the sweetness of the tone, the finger-stretching broadness of the neck—it's so responsive, but requires such delicacy and discipline. As my playing has developed over the years from hard, primitive strumming to a more deft, almost pianistic approach, it's become clear to me that this is the instrument I've been working towards.
There's no picture now, because I haven't found it yet. But I'll know when I see it. Or, more properly, when I play it. And I'll know me, when I am who I should be.
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