I don't know why...

A friend of mine introduced me to her guitar the other day. Those who share at least some of my eccentricities do not merely show people our instruments. We introduce them, because they have names and transcend the station of the inanimate objects that . I have introduced you to my dear Ophelia in this space. You haven't met Louis, my trumpet. But I digress. I got to meet a pink single-humbucker guitar in the shape of an SG by the name of Sydney. Named of course for Syd Barret, who is/was even dearer to my friends heart than mine. But the name had to be Sydney. Guitars are, of course, female, despite what one may say of the necks as a phallic symbol. Disregard that; it's a red herring. Just look at those curves

And also regard the tenderness with one must treat a guitar. Even those who thrash about with it must have supple fingers.

In case it actually needs to be said, guitars exude sexuality in exactly the way that Cooper was accused of doing so long ago. This, and the unmistakable female identity of the guitar is what will make any possessor of good sense and gynophilia drool out most of their body's water content at the sight of a female guitarist, and the rest of it if she proves deft in its arts. The ability to absorb (or as is pertinent here, re-absorb) moisture through the skin is what keeps the denizens of coffeehouse open mics alive. At one such event I witnessed an Irish girl playing the guitar and singing sweetly in her accent. I'd have surely made a point of getting her number had my brain been in a functioning state afterwards.

One who is a habitual namer can hardly resist the obvious impulse to anthropomorphize. It's been done in reference to a guitar before

I look at you all; see the love there that's sleeping
While my guitar gently weeps
I look at the floor and I see it need sweeping
Still my guitar gently weeps

I found myself wondering what it must feel like to be a guitar. If George Harrison's guitar (and Pia I'm sure will note, Eric Clapton's as it was his guitar that graced the studio recording of the song on the White Album) wept, what does that say for the others?

I don't know why nobody told you
how to unfold you love
I don't know how someone controlled you
they bought and sold you

Do they posses some perspective that tunes them in to the sorrows of the world? Surely when their voices ring out it is oft the essence of those sorrows that is emitted. But does it come from the instrument or the musician?

I look at the world and I notice it's turning
While my guitar gently weeps
With every mistake we must surely be learning
Still my guitar gently weeps

What of Ophelia? While I try give her as much attention as I can, she still spends much of her existence sitting on her stand, in wait. And how would it be to be on the other side of what does occur when we are together? I try to draw from her the sweet melodies that she was born to let forth. I strive to make her voice erupt in its utmost beauty as I caress her neck, hold her body close to mine... But my ministrations are inexpert. And I can only imagine her frustration--she who has screamed with delight in the sensation of more masterful fingers

I don't know how you were diverted
you were perverted too
I don't know how you were inverted
no one alerted you

Were she not dependant on me for her voice to be audible I have no doubt she'd tell me what I needed to do to satisfy the desires that most certainly build in her as she sits awaiting my hands. But alas, such inability is her curse, and I share in it. Though if she could find her voice on her own would I be of any use?

I look at you all see the love there that's sleeping
While my guitar gently weeps
I look at you all
Still my guitar gently weeps

She yearns for more artful manipulation, but knows that the path will not be traveled hastily. I want to satisfy her, but no matter how much I give she will always want more; deserve more.

If you'll excuse me...