The Guitar

I love this guitar. A 1940 OAHU Hollowbody. It brings a royal presence to my humble apartment. I bought it thirty years ago at a very dear price but then money was not a problem; things are a little different now. Reminds me of that Dylan lyric - "I used to care but, things have changed." Simple lyrics with a powerful, kind of ominous feel.
Things are a little different now. That's an understatement, but I have learned to live my life in an understated way. Collecting guitars was a passion for me because to me they are works of art, beautiful in design, unlimited in potential; if you work hard enough at it, playing a guitar can open up a direct path to your soul. I don't say that lightly, having taken many different approaches to enlightenment. Most of them were self destructive and counter productive but it did not seem that way at the time.
Everything happened so fast that piecing together memories is an inexact science at best. Booze and drugs combined to blur the lines, but it really was a wild and unpredictable ride. Seems like I went from struggling to flying to falling behind in a heartbeat.
I picked up the guitar at a time when a small crack in time led to a revolution in music, lifestyles and attitude. I practiced that thing until I bled. Obsession lead to success for me and before I was really aware of it there were four other guys around me and 20,00 people in front of me. Blew my mind at first, but you can get used to anything, especially with drugs, booze and ill intentioned women to help you along.
Somewhere along that continuum I started collecting guitars, and it was done out of love.  My financial advisers insisted that the instruments were a good investment, a hedge against inflation,a guaranteed retirement fund, and they encouraged me to buy wisely. Advisers come with the territory when you become rich and famous; so does being treated like a child. These guys didn't understand a goddamn thing about music or the beauty and originality of instruments and they really didn't care about me. They did care about their commissions so they were always in my ear. Sorry to admit, decades down the road, they were right.
My house was huge, a mansion really, with unused rooms I never even visited. There was plenty of room for the guitars and the collection grew. I rarely got to look at them or play them because we were on the road so much, but I knew they were there, like children, and I took a great deal of comfort from that.
The mansion was the first to go. You get blind, so caught up in the insanity of it all that you forget that, just as you rode a wave of change, others would come behind you riding a wave of change, making you obsolete. You don't notice it until it's too late and suddenly you're playing reunion tours to much smaller crowds. Drugs, booze and ill intentioned women eat money, and suddenly your bank accounts are much smaller too.
Selling off the guitars was humbling. I hated to do it and avoided it for as long as I could afford to, but reality is a mother. As each one went, the pain inside me grew. You never anticipate the fall, and it is excruciating when it comes from glorious heights.
I live alone now in a one room apartment. It's not really cramped because I don't have a lot of stuff. Royalties trickle in, but we got screwed by management, which is the way of the music industry. I have enough to live on but my manager lives better, which tortures me when I allow my mind to go there.
I won't give up this guitar; it's the only one I have left. I care for it like a baby but I never play it. My skills have eroded to the point of embarrassment; the guitar deserves better. Still I have my ever present bottle of Jack and this beautiful piece of art  to please me. I don't go out much because, really, I have done it all. I don't need crowds or noise or company to validate my existence. There are memories, at least the ones that still live inside me, and the satisfaction of knowing I lived one hell of a life.
That's more than most people will ever have.