Disobedient digits

I have heard, or perhaps read, that if you cannot see your feet and a third party touches one of your toes, you will struggle to correctly identify the toe being poked.  I think most people are fine with the big toe, but thereafter are only accurate to ±1 toe.

I can believe this of toes, they are a long way from the seat of power (especially for we taller folk) and are mostly imprisoned against their will in shoes or sneakers.  Rarely are they allowed to operate independently of their fellows.  Such small acts of rebellion against central authority are only to be expected.

Fingers, on the other hand (and indeed the first hand) are molly-coddled their whole lives.  Only being gaoled in gloves or mittens to protect them from being nipped at by Jack Frost.  They have been given individual names and roles and are often invited to star in their own right.  As an occasional, if very bad, pianist my fingers have been given a lot of responsibility.  Indeed, often when seated at the old joanna, they seem to know where to go even when management hasn’t got the foggiest idea and is in a state of panic while the notes seem to dance across the staves.  I’ll admit that the ring finger can be a little shy, and doesn’t like to go anywhere without at least one of its two companions for company but, in general, I thought I could trust my fingers to follow basic instructions.

However, my attempts to master the guitar have made all to clear the limitations on my control of my own hands, especially the left one.  Even when I am staring right at them, the fingers of left hand still fail to follow even basic instructions.  When moving from G to D, I want to pivot on my ring finger: it, alone among its colleagues must not move and yet more than half the time it wanders off across the neck on some unknown mission of its own.  When playing scales (oh yes, I am teacher’s pet), I want all my fingers to stay close to the strings and yet they wander off like children on a school trip: worse actually, as they do so even when directly supervised.

I am far from convinced that I possess free will, but am increasingly sure that my fingers do.

Still, despite this mutiny by my own phalanges, I am making slow progress with the guitar.  At a gig last Sunday, while watching Jonny Phillips play I could recognise several chords and even more standard chord shapes.  Some of these, given a decent run-up, I can actually play: though there can be quite a long wait between chords (and a fair few extraneous sounds produced): it would be as well to bring a book to any gig at which I’m performing.  I can even speak somewhat knowledgeably about inversions and root notes, having been shamed into re-reading The AB Guide to Music Theory Part I following my stumbling attempts to identify broken chords at a lesson.  I think my guitar teacher now finds my attempts to create new chords from first principles (one note and string at a time, while visualising a piano) somewhat amusing and I strongly suspect I am his only student obsessive enough to try this.

Later at the same gig, there came a distant ray of hope.  The frankly amazing Marty O’Reilly made reference to ten years of his youth (mis-)spent in a shed with his guitar, smoking pot (him, not the guitar) as the source of his condign mastery of the instrument.  I don’t have a shed and am not entirely sure psychoactive substances will be a help – let’s face it, I already fear that my fingers are out to get me – but I’m only two months in to the process, so there remains the very real possibility for improvement by some point in my sixties.  In the meantime I thoroughly recommend going to see Jonny and Marty – the latter came perilously close to bringing a tear to my eye (something which music almost never does) – and imagine that one day (probably roughly cotemporaneous with the heat death of the universe) I might sound like that!

Mon(bl)ogamy

I thought we had something special, something precious – but clearly I was mistaken.  The long-term, loving commitment I believed we shared has been shown to be nothing more than a romantic fantasy on my part.  Yesterday, to my horror, I discovered that some of you have been reading other blogs behind my back!

It’s no good you claiming these other blogs meant nothing to you or that you can change.  I think we both know better.  You don’t see WordPress as a matchmaker or duenna, no you see it as some sort of brothel of the mind!  It exists just to deliver some cheap tart for you to read and then cast aside – just a way to satisfy your carnal, reading urges.

After crying myself to sleep last night, I have come to realise that this isn’t my fault and I mustn’t blame myself.  I must be strong, I must learn how to carry on!  I will survive!  I have no desire to live in a soi-disant “open relationship”, but I suppose I must learn to extract a modicum of joy from our tawdry literary couplings – at least until I can find a more sustaining blog relationship.

All of which foolishness reminds of how little progress I have made on my promised dating “project” (viz none whatsoever).  As I commence my fiftieth orbit of our local star I have resolved to tackle this lack.  If nothing else, the delay (coupled with my recent Playdate – not a real date) has brought insight.  Whilst I clearly am planning to date for the amusement value and to provide much needed content for GofaDM, what I am most seeking in a date is…

… an audience.

You have been warned!  But at least I am being upfront about this.  I’m not hiding my desires behing a screen of seeking companionship, long walks or perhaps “something more”.  I want someone to listen, laugh where appropriate and provide encouragement for more of this sort of nonsense.  Any takers?