Sometimes I stopped under the pergola to listen to the song of crickets. I sat in the semi-darkness on the old rocking chair, hugged my guitar and began to play my chords. Old songs arranged by me, with the memory of what my teacher taught me about music.
Paul… that was his name, the teacher. An old Brazilian accustomed to endless tours on cruise ships. I met him by chance entering a music store.
“I would like to learn how to play the guitar.” Continue reading “Paul’s Guitar”
God! How dusty the road was! For months I was walking across the US coast to coast, with my guitar, my long hair, and my backpack full of books, poetry, and a bundle of clothes.
The Arizona desert smiled at me in all its immense sobriety, with some cactus lost in the vastness of space, almost pointing to the sky above my head.
My songs kept me company along with certain Thoreau’s books. Every new village, lost in an America forgotten by God, seemed to me as crowded as a metropolis. In the drugstores I bought supplies for the following days: some canned beans, dried fruit, and biscuits. Continue reading “Playing my songs”