Still on that European High

I just got back from Europe yesterday. I'm still struggling with the fact that my vacation is over, after months of planning and arranging details. But I'm keeping up with my life philosophy: rather than being sad about it being over, I'm revelling in the happiness that it happened at all. I got to see things so many people have never seen. I've experienced things no one else has experienced. I've eaten some of the most delicious Gelati on a hot, Roman day while walking towards the Trevi Fontana and La Piazza di Spagna. I've had authentic Italian pasta and pizza, and will NEVER forget how amazing it tasted and the way the flavors swirled on my tongue. I've walked in the same steps of an ancient people who were buried under layers of ash and pumice from Mount Vesuvius. I've walked their streets, been in their houses, seen their last moments the way they saw them. I've walked the same crosswalk that the Beatles walked. I've signed my name to the wall outside Abbey Road Studios. I've seen the Cliffs of Moher and learned about Faery Circles.

For the past 16 days, I've really, really lived.

And I've come back to some good horoscopes and guiding words from Rob Brezsny. One particular clip of his horoscope really struck me for some reason:

"A familiar stranger will hand you a Cracker Jack toy and whisper, 'Are we never going to see each other again? Or will we get married tomorrow?'"

I love the open-ended route that quote can take. We don't know what will happen. With the familiar stranger, will we marry tomorrow? Will we never see each other again? Will we speak again and reminisce about long-lost, vague times? Will we lead our separate lives with never a thought of one another?

I don't know. I don't know if I'll ever talk to the friends I made on the European trip ever again. I don't know if Anthony and Trisha will really journey down to Long Island to visit. I don't know if I'll remember people's names a year from now. I don't know if I'll see them ever again.

But for the 16 days they were in my life, I must say thank you -- you made it some of the most memorable that I've had in my 22 years. It doesn't matter if we get married tomorrow or never see each other again; we were in each other's lives, we shared laughs and stories and sights, and that's what I will take with me on this ridiculous journey called life. Thank you for adding to my story and for doing so willingly and so generously.

- May (you experience the world).

I've Got Blisters On These Fingahs!

My pointer, middle, and ring finger on my left hand hurt from the blisters that I've self-induced by playing the guitar so much these past few days. I don't really mind the pain. Does that make me a masochist? Hm. I probably am.

I still suck like a Dyson vacuum though. Despite all my practicing and the blisters and the hours of time put into it. My hand was just not meant to play a guitar I don't think. I can barely spread my fingers across an octave on the piano -- it's that much harder on a guitar, and I can't really stretch beyond two frets on a good day. Also, my left hand is kind of like the "very special" cousin twice-removed of my right hand and is not nearly as nimble or quick (jumping over a candlestick) as my right hand. Maybe I should try playing a lefty guitar. Or maybe I should get one made for kids. I bet I could reach more than two frets' worth on that.

A friend of mine yelled at me for downgrading myself to an electric due to my small hand-span. He told me that anyone can sound good on an electric (and I can even convince myself with a few songs that I'm moderately good and will soon become a rockstar) but that an acoustic is where it's at. There's nothing like the meaty, raw sound of an acoustic guitar. I explained that I would love to learn how to play it properly, but that my hand is the size of a four year-old's. He suggested I look into a Baby Taylor, which .. I may have to do, once I have money again.

So. My fingers are blistered. They hurt. They burn when they're near hot objects (cooking myself dinner tonight was fun). They ache when I touch them on things, rendering them near useless as they're fingers, used for touching. Still .. I guess it's all a good pain. Something about the greater good, sacrificing for the craft, blah dee blah.

I just have one thing to say: this better improve my chi or my in-touch-ness with the musical universe. I like to imagine John Lennon listening from Heaven, cringing every time he sees me grab my guitar and prop it on my leg. I imagine him going, in his Liverpool-ian accent, "Oh for Christ's sake, not 'er again!" and covering his ears. I also picture him hanging out with Gandhi and JFK.

Is that weird?

- May (your wounds heal).