That’s A No, Hun
Standing solo at the microphone, she begins to strum the guitar she bought when she was 16. That summer job paid for it, and while it may not be a six-string paragon, it means the world to her. With a sentimentality common among artists, it is her most trusted and prized in her assortment. The instrument has never fallen out of tune, and while the strings could use a replacement, it still sounds the way it did all those years ago. From the moment she brought it home, it was hers, and never would it belong to someone else. It would be her guitar forever; no Martin or Taylor could ever take its place. It's travelled with her across the country and all the way back again. On the raised stage, it’s just her and her acoustic, strumming soft melodies across lovelorn states. She’s magnificent and seraphic; the bright lights above do her little justice, as she is bright enough to see in a darkened bar, playing the later hour amidst the regulars and wannabes.
A deep breath precedes the lyrics of an original. One she wrote in her room of a time more recent. She’s taken her act on the town, singing words the audience hears, but they can’t understand. The same way you have no idea of what I’m writing. It’s a language only we can cipher. Little do they know her words are true and played for a pair of ears that will only hear them by recording. “That’s a no, hun.” A short clip of two seconds is all I’m allowed to hear, and with it holds my answer to redemption. Six months have passed, and in that time, I’ve failed to catch up to her pen that writes songs the same way I scribe stories. Full of truth and full of double meaning, full of disappointment and full of premature exposure. With my head in a bottle then and my heart in heaven now, I aim to undo wrongs that I committed. She was present and responsible, but I’m fine with the atonement if it means a second chance. What good is a writer if all his words are empty? What new good could I commit when the past is chock-full of this regret? The song continues past my permission to hear it, allotted for only two heartbeats, wider than the width of the Blue Bridge over Reed Lake, all done up in her Sellwood attitude, no more land to give. All in all, that’s one hell of a way to do it. I almost wish I would have thought of it, but I could only feign to be so clever. Earnest in my try, but a lick I have to take after all, the wreckage I left is a mess, a mess I’m just now discerning. She wasn’t the first; my hope is she’ll be the last. I’m wondering if it’s a matter of feeling like I’ll never really change, like I’ll be trying my damndest to undo all these knots, loosening these cinch points, but even if I could, is it the short bursts of emotion I’m most addicted to?
Some things just don’t wash out, the dye cast, introduced to new fabric, a stain on freshly laid linen. The grounds pressed French, the water muddy, muddy like the recollection of a wet brain, the blood spent and spilled. There’s no refund for this pain. She said she’s no longer in the business of trusting words, and I can’t rightfully blame her. One may only commiserate shame enough to replace their own before it’s a method to make up for lack. Maybe it’s all too forward. I should have kept a tight lip concerning the past, as the gravestone is still legible, no confusion as to who lies where and for what. God forgives, but man seldom forgets. Only halfway up a calendar, the wounds are still new, the brambles haven’t risen up, the roses are just beginning to bloom.
On the stage in her white dress
I trampled boots all through her snow
To the stage with a new song
A song of love and under tones
In a new life
New songs
A life I’ll never know
Welcome Advances - Vittorio Reggianini
