It may surprise regular readers that I’m writing about playing a guitar. Actually, I spent quite a bit of last night playing one, enjoying it immensely.
And I don’t mean that kind of aimless, three-chord strumming people do on the street when busking, I mean proper full-on Spanish guitar completely with furiously moving fingers and impossible chord changes.
Of course, I did all this while asleep.
For some reason, this pianist (yes) dreamt that he could play the guitar. I was in a famous person’s mansion somewhere near the sea – I can’t remember who this person was, only that he was some kind of megastar. I was getting a tour of his mansion and we came to the music room.
He offered me a guitar and I protested that I couldn’t play it at all, but somehow – magically – I started to play. Impressively. He clapped along and we had ourselves a great old time.
Just as I was making my way across the music room to the most stunning Steinway grand piano, I woke up. I can’t say I wasn’t disappointed – I could no longer play the guitar and never got the change to touch that Steinway.
But for a few minutes – albeit in my mind – I was a guitar genius. And it felt good!