B.O.S.S. CODE MAGAZINE Issue 10 | Page 34

Carrying on with my life as it passed in stages, blooming from that young child with my fist balled into an imaginary microphone, into a young teenager entering high school, hardly making anything of it. It wasn’t brought to the surface again until I fell a helpless victim to a terribly cliche standard at the rocky age of 15. I was at the peak! The last step before entering this new world of young womanhood that separated me from childish associations as I stood 6 feet tall, and towered over boys my age with my wiry looming presence. When I got my hands on my first guitar, a Simon and Patrick acoustic that glowed with a soft burgundy sunset red, I felt the entire world fall back into my callused fingers. Strumming crappy tunes that put me beyond the living room and onto the stage of imagination, and when I was officially signed up for lessons, it was destined to be the year I would fall back in love with music, or more or less a boy. There’s undoubtedly something electric and mystifying about people who create music. It speaks a strange exotic language of truth, and if you listen close enough you might be lucky enough to get a little of it. From the beginning of our lessons he told me straight up from the start that he couldn’t tell me everything I needed to know, but just enough to get me back on the hook and a foot in the door to something new. Something had to give, for all of this was way too marvelous to be true! My heart crashed when I finally let myself open my eyes and realize he was way ahead of my time. With a leather jacket, black skinny jeans, and a love for his guitar to which nothing else could compete (not to say that I didn’t try!). The saga of me and the rock and roll Elvis man to be came to a halting stop. Bob Dylan once said, “Be groovy or leave, man”, so I don’t intend this to begin with solemn sappy heartbreak, and leave the tambourine man’s motivation hanging high and dry. Pity lingers on at the worst of times to say, but in the end it probably led back to my fascination (or obsession) with the long haired rebellious rockers, and the image of spiritual freedom I long to achieve. Whether it be the boy with the magical guitar, and his soft spoken words of “rocker wisdom”, something inside me clicked on again. Whatever it was, it led me to realize that music had always been there as a lingering first love, desperate for my tender eye, or in this case my tender ear. Rock and roll was revived and took me away in it’s lucid dreams and twanging of shiny guitars. It’s only natural to say a thousand times yes that I want to be in on the