Tuning In

Articles

Holly Winter
Living The Life Of Holly

Tuning In
Apr. 21, 2003

I needed to get out. I called a friend or two. Well. It wasn’t really a proper call. It was one of those fast calls where you dial fast, leave a fast message, hang up fast, then quickly throw the phone under the bed. I know. I don’t have to ask anyone permission to go out alone. But. I was sort of in a quandary. I needed a good laugh and Darlin-man was busy. (Honey. Don’t take that the wrong way.)

My only plan for the evening was to make myself a piece of blueberry toast and cut it into small triangles. I know. I needed help. I consulted the newspaper. It promised me that an Adrian Legg guitar concert would be a sure laugh. Ok. I was game.

Yes. I went alone. Incognito. I love going places by myself. That way I can take the time to tune in to people. It really is fun. You know. Eavesdropping. Listening to what others are saying. I know. Others might wonder why I am not involved in some telling conversation of my own. Oh. I have plenty of those, believe me. But. Sometimes I like to sit back and observe the world around me.

My friend, Steve, loves eavesdropping even more than I do. He is more selective about the location of our table in a restaurant, than he is about what kind of food that we eat there. He looks to sit near chatty women, fully expecting to glean important, juicy tidbits from their lives, as their gossip floats over the divider between our tables. While he sits, listening intently to what they have to say, he makes me have long conversations out loud with myself, so that he can better listen to them.

“So.” I say to myself, “I have a hang nail growing out of my pinky toe that is so bad that the doctor thinks he will have to amputate my entire leg.” And although Steve is facing me, he is listening intently to every detail of the conversation at the next table. (I know. And they say that men don’t know how to listen. Hey. They just don’t want to listen to the chatter going on at their own table. They want to listen to what is happening elsewhere in the restaurant. Believe me.)

At the next table the woman is saying, “She says that he is worth losing everything for. It seems that he knows how to…”

Her friend cuts in. “The woman at the next table has to have her leg amputated. Isn’t that terrible?”

Yeah. I know. Steve gets mad at me, too. I’m not supposed to spark their interest in MY conversation. That ruins the whole thing.

“I might as well talk to you myself.” He sighs, disgustedly.

“Sorry.”

The lights click on. Curtain opens. Adrian walks out. He sits down and smiles at us. He is holding his guitar in his hand as he fusses with some props for a moment or two.

He charms us right away. “Luckily I brought my glasses. Sometimes I forget them. It is times like that when I have to wonder if I am the one who is live, and it is the audience who is pre- recorded.” We relax into laughter and sit politely as he starts to tune his guitar.

We don’t mind. We have been to lots of concerts where the musician tunes the guitar on stage. Wait. He isn’t tuning. He’s playing. No. He’s tuning. No. He’s playing. Oh. He is playing a tuning song where he is messing with the tuning and playing. Man. Nobody is laughing now.

We are mesmerized. I forget about the blueberry toast. I forget about eavesdropping. The man sitting next to me has lost the hyperactive tendencies and appears to be fully tamed, even calm. The room is in a total trance. Adrian politely ignores the change of climate, as a good host does. You can tell that he has done this before. He doesn’t mind that we are only now relaxing into ourselves.

He finishes and lets us clap for a while. He sits with his guitar on his lap. It isn’t a prop. It isn’t a place to put his hands. It just is. “This next song is one from my bad title period that lasted a long, long time. I’m too embarrassed to tell you the name of it.” He says, sheepishly and starts to play. It isn’t jazz. It isn’t blues. It isn’t folk. I can’t find a category. Then the notes start to carry me and I no longer care.

The stillness in the room is stronger than I have ever experienced at any concert, anywhere. I let the softness absorb me. A total relaxation takes over my body as the music drifts me over the edge of the never-before-heard-this-tune syndrome. Wow. Could this be peace? The song does end and I am filled with a confused dismay. Surely there is some mistake. Nothing that good can end so easily. Can it?

He spends the evening toying with our emotions. Sometimes making us laugh at stories, other times quieting us to a very slow elderly jig. He reminds us that we are simply putty as his fingers find expression on metal strings.

“Do you want something light or something dark and searching?” He asks, playfully.

“We want everything.” Comes the reply.

“Of course you do.” He says, as definitively as Willy Wonka, dolling out chocolate bars.

He told us how he tried to write a blues song. He said that he had to search down deep inside for the soul to write such a song. He thought that perhaps he would find the inspiration he required in his children’s tribe of guinea pigs that they raised at their family home in England.

One day the Alfa male guinea pig stood up to his killer cat. He had us laughing hysterically, as we watched him mimicking the toughest of the guinea pigs. I will never again look at a big furry rodent the same way. Yet, even after these lovable guinea pigs pass on, he can’t seem to write a sad song.

“Whenever I get down, I just pour myself a cuppa tea, and I’m fine again.” He sighed with a twist of his head. Then he smiled and played his song, Not Remotely Blue.

I sigh and slouch down in my uncomfortable seat. Yup. I am home here. Because. For me. This is what life is all about. Tuning in to the things worth overwhelming myself with. I take a deep breath in, hoping to digest some of that song Not Remotely Blue. Because. Tonight is that kind of night for me.

You know. Not Remotely Blueberry toast.

About the author: Holly Winter is a teacher and a writer and a flight attendant living in Denver, Colorado, USA. She can be reached at her website or email: Holly@livingthelifeofholly.com

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