Postaday for May 15th: Green-Eyed Monster. Write an anonymous letter to someone you’re jealous of.
Dear So and So (I forgot your name, sorry).
I’m a pretty good writer. But you’re a better guitar player. If I was rated a 5 on a scale of one to ten for writing, your guitar playing would be a 10. If I was rated a 7, your ability to play would be a 12. If I was somehow granted a 9 on that scale, your facility for just picking up anything with strings and making it holler would be a 19. And I hate you.
Okay I don’t really hate you. I met you at my cousin’s bachelor party. You were some guy he knew back in the day when he was a rock and roll star. Back then, you guys would play music and drink and do drugs and get laid and do pretty much everything I wasn’t doing while I got on with my life. Not cause I chose to, but because I couldn’t do anything else. I can’t hold my liquor and drugs terrify me and mine’s not the type of essence that makes the ladies eager. But hey I’m not complaining. Not about that.
I’m not jealous of all the fun you guys had. Not at all. I swear to God I’m not. I’ve got a good life over here. Listen to me, you little shit. I am not jealous of the things those magic fingers bought you. I’m jealous of the fingers and the fingers alone. This is the truth. In fact, if I had fingers like that, I’d have no time for sex and drugs. Just rock n roll.
Is that why I don’t remember your name? Why you were at the bachelor party, but not the wedding? And people don’t know where you are, if you have a job right now, a roof over your head, a warrant out for your arrest? Because all you do is play all the time? You pick up your guitar and just work the strings for a few hours and hum to yourself while the world spins and crashes and burns around you? Sign me up. That’s what I want.
I have music in my head all the time. And I have no way to express it. I think maybe it’s the opposite for you. I think maybe there’s nothing in your head. Or at least not much. Look, I know I’m no Mozart, but then neither are you. You’re a guy with fabulous muscle memory. You’re a guy for whom the logic and science of music has been hardwired into the very fibers that run from your brain to your fingertips. I guess I should take solace in that. If you’re no Mozart, I don’t have to be a Salieri.
We hung out for a few days and I listened to you play and you were amazing. I asked you about bands and songs and albums and you sort of shrugged it all off like it was no big deal. No big deal! You should be locked in a room, with nothing but bread and water and a pot to piss in and about a thousand digital tapes to record on. People who can do what you do don’t get to shrug it off.
Look, you were a really nice guy, actually, personable, good sense of humor, listened to my stupid jokes and responded with genuine laughter. All things considered, I think you deserved to do all that partying and womanizing back in the day. Somebody’s go to, and it might as well be a decent fellow like yourself.
But god damn it, I wish I’d never met you. That’s a lie too. I’m lucky I got to see you in action. I hate you. You’re amazing.