In theory, theory and practice are the same . . .

In practice, they aren't, as Yogi Berra noted.

Less than one week into the guitar lessons, and I am frustrated as hell. Oddly enough, the fretting doesn’t hurt my fingers like it did some twenty years ago when I was studying classical guitar with nylon strings rather than steel. Well, as I said before, I suck at this. What is maddening is that I have never sucked at a musical instrument. Practice wasn’t practice so much as playing. They gave me a recorder in the 4^th grade, and I could play all the songs in the book by the next day. I was hooked from then on. In the 7^th grade, I got to join the band, I think because Gran-Gran had played clarinet and sax by ear and surely considered music one of the most important things in life. Anyway, the next band day, I could play most of the book. The teacher gave me an extra book to play around with. I never got good at piano, mainly because we didn’t have one at home for the most part, but I could either play it by ear or practice the hell out of music. I guess I have a knack for sight-reading. But chords I do not really understand. I’m thinking maybe I should go back to the classical guitar along with the acoustic and read up on this music theory for the guitar in a book I bought recently.

Kaye, a good piano student who also plays the clarinet and recorder, assures me that music theory will make practice positively fascinating. Maybe, but I like to know why I’m doing something – what’s the core truth behind it all. Just like any other discipline, perhaps more obviously, a real study of music is making order out of chaos. I noticed that the three fields I studied (Math, Computer Science, Medieval English Lit) all try to do the same thing, which is to make order out of apparent chaos. I call that quest for meaning religion. Talking about religion gets me into all sorts of trouble, though, so don’t mention this comment to anybody.

My whole right side hurts, and the only excuse for it I can come up with is that I’ve been holding my body in an unfamiliar position and there are screws in my neck on that side, making it less flexible than it thinks it ought to be. I figure I can overcome it, but my teacher may be dismayed by my lack of progress.

My frustration is partly at my incompetence, to be sure, but, as I say, I don’t get it. It’s just “put your fingers here and strum. This is called a D chord.” One of everybody’s first questions is “Why?” I got frustrated as a teacher over this phenomenon. I wanted them to take whatever I told them on faith, given that you have to start somewhere, and they wanted me simply to pour my knowledge into their ears. Having been on both sides of the desk, or lectern, I realize that most of the onus (at least on college students and beyond, and, ideally, before) is on the student – the teacher can’t do much beyond provide direction and carrots and sticks.

I know I gave out a disproportionate number of sticks in my stint as a teacher. I’d do things differently now.

Well, I guess I’ll drag out the classical guitar, so I can feel some semblance of competence, and then be happier to practice chords.

Music Room!

Yesterday was so busy. Between appointments and re-doing the house (to a point), I didn’t have time or energy to type much. We turned our guest room into a music room for me. I have four guitars, a banjo, a sax (Gran-Gran’s), a clarinet, a flute, a couple of recorders of different sizes and a keyboard. That takes care of the instruments, I think. The rest are electronic stuff and a guitar stool and music stand. And Kaye’s desk. She just uses it as a file cabinet, but moving it out of the room would be a lot more difficult than moving the bed out was. I hope having a “music room” will help me focus. There was hardly room in the bedroom to store all the stuff and practice (or open closets). I've got a framed picture of Joan Baez up and am planning a Dylan and Arlo picture so now I’ll have a place that says “practice!” the way my study says “work” and the bedroom says “sleep” (or read or paint, but there are only so many rooms in the house, and Kaye wants some of them, and we need one we can lock James in when the plumber comes or whatever).

I can’t find such a thing as a sax or clarinet mute. That’s disheartening, especially with the sax. I guess I will literally “stick a sock in it.” For now, I’ll just nap. I'm so tired . . . but grateful for the space!

I guess the bedroom can double as the recuperation room. :P

You Made Me a Pallet on the Floor

My conscience has been bugging me lately. My mother and her husband, a Lutheran minister, just had someone neither of them knew spend the night at the parsonage because he was going to speak to the congregation Sunday about some Christian something-or-other. I said, “Mom, you cannot let total strangers spend the night in your house just because they’ve heard of Jesus!” I mean, who knows, he could still be a lunatic. I know a lot of lunatic Christians. Fortunately, everything turned out fine, and my mother promised never to do that again. I think there must be a Motel 6 or something in the vicinity. The church could pay for the room. That way, the probably nice person could have a place to stay without being inside my mother’s house while everybody’s asleep. I was flashing back to when Memaw let some people stay with her because they were from Panama. Memaw and Gran-Gran were in the Panama Canal Zone during World War II, as my grandfather was blind in one eye and therefore not eligible for military duty. He was in the Civil Service, teaching ESL to the Panamanians while Memaw worked as a nurse and then had my mother. Anyway, the fact that these people were from Panama was enough for Memaw. She let them in. They stayed forever. We weren’t sure that they were actually taking anything (except food), but they were starting to make even Memaw uncomfortable, so my uncle Carl had to show them the door. I e-mailed my brother, Chris, suggesting he do the same for Mom. He’s more dangerous than I am. I would never let strangers spend the night in my house, yet . . . it goes against my principles. One of my favorite songs is by the Weavers, and it goes like this:

You made me a pallet on the floor.
Oh, yes, you made me a pallet on the floor.
When I had no place to go, you opened up your door,
And you made me a pallet on the floor.

I was broke and so dissatisfied.
I was broke and so dissatisfied.
I was broke and dissatisfied and I nearly died,
And then you made me a pallet on the floor.

Oh, yes, you made me a pallet on the floor.
You made me a pallet on the floor.
When I had no place to go, you opened up your door,
And you made me a pallet on the floor.

I don’t want to see this town no more.
Don’t ever want to see this town no more.
But if I ever do, it’ll be on account of you
Because you made me a pallet on your floor.

Oh, yes, you made me a pallet on the floor.
You made me a pallet on the floor.
When I had no place to go, you opened up your door,
And you made me a pallet on the floor.

So don’t turn a stranger from your home.
Don’t you ever turn a stranger from your home, oh no.
Don’t turn a stranger from your home.
The day may come when you’ll be roamin’
Looking for a pallet on the floor.

You may be looking for a pallet on the floor.
You may be looking for a pallet on the floor.
When I had no place to go, you opened up your door,
And you made me a pallet on the floor.

When I had no place to go, you opened up your door,
And you made me a pallet on the floor.

Apparently, my humanity flies out the window when it threatens not merely my safety but my privacy. The fact that Kaye also thinks we shouldn’t let total strangers stay here overnight lets me tell myself that even if I were the kind of person I wish I were, it wouldn’t do any good to the poor people with no place to stay. But it is nagging at my conscience. What kind of person am I? I don’t much like the evidence. Seems I just want to make myself look like a nicer person.