Like cement, that is what it feels like. Like cementing firm a friendship before the time comes to say goodbye, to move on in life, perhaps in terms of geography or perhaps just because it is for the best really. And maybe this is what the term lovesick is for? Not the real obsessive compulsive, manic, tearfully full-on psychological definition. Simply the pop song summertime heartbreak version... and no one will really understand and that is probably for the best too.


So, as therapy, this evening I finally restrung the Jazzmaster (with strings that are long enough). And though we are still in the horrible tuning-all-over-the-place stretchy new strings stage, there is something so beautiful about the sound of brand new today strings. A single note becomes a chorus of angel twinkling harps, the bottom end is pianoey and warm and the top sparkles like the dew of childhood. But as time wears on we forget just how beautiful beginings can be. Like a fresh dawn becoming mid morning indifference or the warmth of bread from the oven that slowly goes dry. And just as that happens it is easy to get used to something, like retuning our ears to dull, over-played guitar strings.

I don't know if there is a point to this. Sometimes ideas spill out and turn into sentences, which is probably why I started record collection. But perhaps the thought is something along the line of 'don't let the intoxicating excitement of novelty - a new record, a new pair of shoes, a new lover - make a mockery of reality'. Because true love is not the strings on the guitar, it is the guitar itself.