Previously on my Tale Of Three Guitars: I actually start with no guitar but singing in a church choir and not wanting to play the piano. Then, I become a rebel and buy the ugliest bass you’ll ever see, start a band only to watch it come undone after the first gig. I have more luck with my second band, thanks to which I have my first lick of rockstardom, until high school ends and I have to leave the country. Next, I sell my first guitar for a ferry ride (to Finland)which, somehow, brings us to a story of
30 Birthdays And The Second Guitar
Slide your eyelids shut, inhale through your nostrils, and let me time-travel you to the morning of Friday April 11th, 2008. Imagine the heavy, dusty boots of a delivery guy climbing up the concrete-grey staircase of an Eastern European post-soviet film studio, cursing under his breath, smelling of yesterday’s vodka, hug-dragging an uncomfortable, unconventional, shapely package. He moves down a somber corridor, scanning the numbers on the doors, looking for the one marked on his order. He finds it, it’s wide open, it’s a production office for one of the many movies being shot somewhere around the studios. Three people sit behind desks in the room, the delivery guy doesn’t knock, he pants his way in and plants the thing in the middle of the coffee-stained carpet, staring, waiting for the bitch who had the brilliant idea to have such a thing delivered by mail to jump up from her chair in utter delight.
That bitch is me, and the funky thing that looks like a Blues Brothers’ guitar case fucked a postal package and gave birth to this, is what I got myself for my thirtieth birthday. Continue reading →
I leave the bedroom quietly, shut the door like I’m not even there. It took me so long to get him to fall asleep, nursing, he must have sucked for almost half an hour. I step into the bathroom, lift my shirt, and estimate the damage. I take the needle from the complimentary hotel sewing kit I keep handy on the shelf, clean it with rubbing alcohol then get down to it. The first time I had to do this I sweated profusely, the needle slipping out of my fingertips and my heart pumping like a traumatized squirrel’s. Continue reading →
It’s strange. Whenever I return from any trip lasting longer than a few days, my home shifts. I walk in, tired after being shaken by one plane, two buses and a train, I drag the backpack, cabin trolley and duty free purchases across my threshold and… the ceiling feels somewhat higher. The living room smells different, the plants are a bit wilder, and I find myself being a bit scared of what I’ll see under the toilet’s lid. In the fridge there is a bunch of lemons cuddled in a fluff of absinthe-colored mold. It’s almost as if my home wants to warn me that time passes even when I’m not around and that things can happen in the emptiness. And the time I did not spend in these four walls, these two weeks I’ve been away, I didn’t freeze-frame them, they are gone. I chose to be elsewhere, the loss is mine.
At the beginning of the Seventies my parents bought a villa by the sea on the Italian island of Sardinia. It was one of those low white buildings you see on Mediterranean postcards, with a flat roof which served as a terrace, enclosed in a cocoon of raving bougainvillea. For the entirety of our childhood, every single summer, my mother and the three of us moved to that house from the early days of June till about a week into September. It was a raw paradise of rocks and secret beaches, everything was Continue reading →
In Which I Sell My First Guitar For A Ferry Ride (To Finland)
It’s 1997, I’m 19 years old. I leave my parental nest and move 1256 kilometers North, to Poland, to study cinema. (My) luck wants that the city where the Film Academy is located is also where my maternal Grandmother lives. My parents find this marvelously convenient and it’s agreed that, until I figure out whether or not I am fit for this film life, I’d stay with her. Trying to describe my Grandmother’s persona in a sentence or two would be unfair to her great complexity, but because this story is not about her let’s just say that If Gary Oldman as Nosferatu in Coppola’s cult-ass Dracula had a female version of himself, that would be my Grandma. Only, with much less hair and absolute zero sex appeal. She’d torture me by waking me up at unsanitary early hours (6 am on Sunday morning!?) because it pissed her off that someone was asleep in the house when she had already risen. She’d prepare meals for me then sit and stare at me making sarcastic remarks about how ugly I look when I chew. Needless to say, she did not allow any bass-playing in her house and as it was not easy to take my guitar and amp out for a jam, for the first whole year of studies there was nada Rock’N’Roll.
Once upon a time, three godzillion years ago, I was not yet a Mom. No, I was a smooth and juicy young gal who liked her sexy time very VERY much. Especially when it was with the man who later became Papa Blues. Indeed, from the very beginning of our lust affair, we both agreed that when it comes to bedroom acrobatics, we don’t necessarily like vanilla all the time, we are into variety and experiments, and we are not at all afraid of getting our freak on once in a while. Believe me, it was FUN.
But then, from all that FUN obviously, we accidentally became parents and stopped having sex completely (sort of). That’s why nowadays I often find myself revisiting the memories of those good times that were and recently traveled back to the night of our second anniversary. The night we decided to celebrate by going to a sexpo. I wrote this story down and was MINDBLOWN that the kick-ass BLUNTmoms found it worthy of being published on their site. Here is a little excerpt (consider it foreplay): Continue reading →
These last few days saw the passage of two necessary landmarks I trip on every single year. On April 1st I celebrated 13 years since the day of my graduation [yes, I graduated on April Fool’s day – now I know it was a full-frontal omen] and on April 11th – yesterday – I celebrated 37 years since the day of my birth.
I love to count time. When I was little, I had this habit: I would take mental photographs of moments that struck me particularly and hold them in my thoughts as time-trackers. I would count back toward them and try to dissect the strange feeling it gave me to see that something present and real would morph into past and eventually fall out of my memory, gone.
I took one of the mental photos I remember most clearly on the day of my brother’s christening. I was 9, we had already left the house to go to church when I realized I forgot my purse. My mother allowed me to go get it, I dashed back into my room and stopped cold at what I saw. Continue reading →
In the previous episode of this Tale Of Three Guitars, I told you the story of my first band and our first, and only, epic gig. Click this link if you need to catch up. If, on the contrary, you belong to that crowd of 12 people who DID read it already, you may think that I will now finally tell how did that first date with the seedy bartender go and whether it turned out to be a beautiful love story or not.
Well, I won’t.
At least, not now. Because this story is about guitars and not boyfriends. All you need to know for the moment is that the bartender trip was real for about six months, marked an important turning point in my youth and then ended up crashing with a miserably hollow thud in a coffee shop behind the train station, over two cappuccinos and a borrowed copy of Kerouac’s The Dharma Bums.
Last time I told you the story of how the love of music awakened in me and how, on a sweaty teenage afternoon, I came to the conclusion my life would *have* to be about playing the bass from that moment on and forever.
Quite a few months went by from that day of awakening to the moment I actually held a bass in my hands. Months that I spent in lucid daydreaming of how incredibly cool I would look on a stage, how confident and mean, rocking the shit out of them strings. How I would pinch them, pick at them, slap them furiously and pace like a wild sexy thing across the stage, adolescent mojo oozing out of my every pore. In my daydreams, the guitar I was holding was black and shiny, fierce, scary, something that only a tough and mighty girl could know how to wrangle. Something like this:
My adventures in Rock’N’Roll started quite askew and not very early at all: I was eleven when my mother decided I must learn to play the piano.
No-one plays the piano in my family. No one plays any other instrument for that matter or is even remotely able to sing, so I have no idea why my mother came to such conclusion. She probably just assumed that, because I seemed to display the buds of creative inclinations, I needed to hold such skill. In order for this to happen, my parents rented a piano which was delivered by three strong men riding a truck and placed right next to our dining table. I believe their idea was I would eventually be able to entertain their guests with sonatas in B-major while they digested their desserts sipping on Fernets.
So when it comes to co-sleeping, we know already how it ended. But there are quite a few other parenting matters that I feel strongly about, mistakes that I do NOT want to stain myself with as a mother and I think it could be interesting to see how these work out in the future, when confronted with the reality of things.
* NO SUGAR! * Call me a maniac, but I do silently believe that refined sugar is poison. And by that I mean a downright toxic substance, an addictive drug with no nutritional values whatsoever. Does this mean that I don’t do sugar? Yeah, this means that Continue reading →