Mi Guitarra... del Amor!

My Guitar ... of love
Lately I had felt a tugging at my soul. Something was missing from my life. I felt like I needed something more. Romance perhaps? Passion? Something to make the birds sing as the world burned. It dawned on me then what I needed to make this happen.. Flamenco

Oh yes, I had saw those Spanish masters slap and beat their instruments with gleeful insouciance on the net. Shamelessly strumming and pounding at their guitars in a way I could barely fathom.The music spoke to me, nay it sang and I thought, yes, this is what I need. Perhaps with this I will find the romance I have been seeking Yes, Flamenco would help me.

Special Delivery
I swiftly ordered a guitar online and waited. Days passed until one morning the doorbell rang and to my delight it was a swarthy delivery man with a guitar shaped box. He pushed the box into my hands gruffly and made me scrawl my sigil with a little plastic dibber on his 1980's touchscreen computer. He left, rather hastily. Perhaps he wouldn't have been quite so hasty if could even have begun to imagine the romantical adventure journey I was about to undertake. Perhaps even he would have pled to come with me, Robin to my Batman or Lacey to my Cagney as I brandished the guitar within the box to the heavens and demanded that the gods let me join their pantheon as the shining Lord of Love; Bandolero Flamenco they would call me and beckon me to play for them in their many pillared temples.

But the gods must wait.

I unwrapped the guitar in awe that something so powerful could be wrapped so simply. As if it were a trinket, a bauble of which men young and old would buy at its ridiculously cheap price and strum once or twice before consigning it to a dark corner of the bedroom. Pulling it out every now and then for a lackluster twang before guiltily hurrying it back to its rest.

Once clear of its wrapping I gasped at its beauty. Mottled chestnut and maple teased the eye and the fingerboard glistened almost wetly like the dew on some freshly sewn Canadian grass. I strummed, just once but the resultant cacophony made me realize this needed some fine tuning before I could begin my romantic journey. I gave it a week of gentle ministration, teasing the strings tighter and tighter till they could do naught but sing in perfect shades of tune.

Love.. actually?
I knew it was time when I picked it up one day and gave it a simple strum/slap. The resultant melodic bark made my cat shed all of its fur in one fell swoop and the long dead cherry tree in the garden spontaneously burst into blossom. I took my guitarra and went to my lady love. She lived four doors down and had rebuffed my advances on a number of occasions. But this time I was ready. She answered the door to my rat a tat tat and stared agog at my peacock feather hat, one of the best I owned.

I began to play, a simple arpeggio on those gossamer nylons. She made to speak but I began to dance and play with increasing speed and passion. My percussive strumming pounded the air and I stamped my feet in a staccato counterpoint to my furiously flicking fingers. I whirled and it seemed the world gyrated and danced a jig with me. My vision blurred and at, last I was spent, my fingers ached and I stooped, panting unable to carry on - no longer in thrall to the music. But when I opened my eyes she was gone, the door coldly closed. And it was then I realised that I had loved and lost but I could shed nary a tear for her nor myself. I had the guitar now. There were bound to be others. "Mucho pescado en el mar" an old flamenco master had once said... Oh yes... mucho pescado en el mar.