Runcible Blog

I've been without my primary email account for the past three weeks or so, and I can't say I'm missing anything.  I have a couple other accounts and considered sending an email to everyone I know informing them of my other addresses, but who am I kidding?

I look at missed connections and wonder if someone might've missed a connection with me, but then I realize that I never seem to leave the house these days, and when I do, I blend right into the sidewalk.

I've got no interest in meeting people or dating, yet I still crave the experience of knowing someone and being known in return.  I want to skip the small talk and zip myself up into someone else's skin, in the best possible way.  Tear down our walls and build a park out of the rubble.  Run down the toilet paper roll and stare at each other through the tube.

Solitude is a hair shirt, indeed.

I've had the taste of milk in my mouth today.

The sound of my building drives me a little crazy, but hearing the T rolling underground makes me feel like a part of the machine.

I'm unworthy of the sounds my guitar makes.  The cracks on the top are already getting worse.  I am inadvertently killing it.

Everything will be fine.

I had several very vivid dreams last night, including an explicit one about Ali that caused me to wake up.  I guess I miss the idea of her more than the reality of us, which never really developed as I'd naïvely hoped.

Man, the brain can really mess with your head...

Yesterday, I signed a form surrendering the parental rights to my one year old son, Henri, whom I've never met.

There's a lot more I could say about it, but I won't. Maybe someday he'll come looking for me, punch me in the face, and listen to me tell the rest of the story.

Earlier this year, I bought my first real acoustic guitar and remarked that it sounded lousy, but I liked it. Well, after noodling on it occasionally since then, I've learned that I would've been better off with a classical guitar because I never use a pick and have trouble with strings that are so close together (the bassist in me hasn't gone away). Also, the lousy Yamaha has continued to sound lousy, with frets that wear down at an alarming rate.

After trudging through the rain earlier today, I stopped in at Sandy's to see what inventory he had and fell in love with this wonderful guitar. It's a Goya F-11 made in Sweden sometime between 1963 and 1965. Designed as a "folk" guitar, it has a slightly narrower neck than a classical guitar, which works really well for me and my ladylike fingers. Although the higher action will take some getting used to, the flat, well-carved neck already lets me play fingerstyle stuff much better than I could before. I now have even less to blame on the instrument for my suckiness as a guitarist!

I was so enamored with the bold sound and comfortable feeling of this little bugger that I didn't even care about the cracks in the top. It's lasted 45 years already; I'm hoping I'll be able to take care of it for the rest of its life. The price was right, too — it was cheaper than the Yamaha. Truly, this Goya is a gem. If I could cuddle with it, I would. Barring a more intimate relationship with F-11, I think I'll just enjoy playing it and will see how well I can harness its potential.