Home Is Where the Guitar Is
We have always liked to believe that home is where the heart is. Gill Scott-Heron would most likely agree to disagree, with his melodious rendition replacing the ‘heart’ with ‘hatred’ – with the verse laced with fine illusion and delusion of heroin. Take some PG-rated-materials out and replace it with a ‘guitar’ again. What better way to keep up with GC-H’s tempo, with an instrument that he would love to flaunt along with his awe-inspiring lyrics! Indeed, home is where the guitar is.
I have been changing my places of stay. My real home keeps calling me though I have traveled one million miles away from there. Everything is different from those days when I bought my first guitar, from an old local junkie, when I was 14.
B–– sold me the Reynold’s acoustic at 250 bucks then; by a rough estimate, he must have got nearly six–seven shots from the deal. He was a real crazy fellow. Once he had snitched rice – rinsed and ready to be cooked from his home – just to pay for his costly habit. Last summer, I stumbled across him, newly wed and with a toned body. He is clean and works as a counselor in a rehab centre.
Back again, life has never been the same. I had lost the guitar a loooong time after some of my friends took it to the Koubru, one of the highest mountains, back in Manipur. It has pilgrimage sites at its peak, enjoys a showery weather and is magically beautiful. And their wonderful trip was written all over the mucky and slightly broken sound box of the guitar.
Now, there is another unplayable guitar lying in one corner of my place, and another plan to buy a new one soon. Whatever the implications, it reminds me the fact that home is always, in reality, where the guitar is. An impression much, much better, though I would just pretend not to believe, it is usually where the hatred is, just like Gill Scott-Heron used to croon.
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| Home is Where the Hatred is GILL SCOTT HERON Image from http://dangerousminds.net/ |
B–– sold me the Reynold’s acoustic at 250 bucks then; by a rough estimate, he must have got nearly six–seven shots from the deal. He was a real crazy fellow. Once he had snitched rice – rinsed and ready to be cooked from his home – just to pay for his costly habit. Last summer, I stumbled across him, newly wed and with a toned body. He is clean and works as a counselor in a rehab centre.
Back again, life has never been the same. I had lost the guitar a loooong time after some of my friends took it to the Koubru, one of the highest mountains, back in Manipur. It has pilgrimage sites at its peak, enjoys a showery weather and is magically beautiful. And their wonderful trip was written all over the mucky and slightly broken sound box of the guitar.
Now, there is another unplayable guitar lying in one corner of my place, and another plan to buy a new one soon. Whatever the implications, it reminds me the fact that home is always, in reality, where the guitar is. An impression much, much better, though I would just pretend not to believe, it is usually where the hatred is, just like Gill Scott-Heron used to croon.
An unfinished portion of Allen Ginsberg's America in poster
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