Objects, emotion and memory

I turn over my hand and discover a mark that I had not seen before. My skin is slackening and its pores seem darker. The contrast with my mainly white edged with pink and blue veined background accentuates the dry lines made by the cold air and too much washing that I have been doing. The mark is redder than the pink in my hands but not so much as to be red. It is a little sore. I put it to my lips and draw it and the surrounding skin into my mouth a little. The wet of my mouth feels vey cool, my finger almost itches. If I diffuse my concentration I cannot feel a difference between the two physical sensations: mouth and finger. That feels good, the soreness is alleviated.

I would hate to lose any of my hands' function. A little of my sight and hearing is already impaired. Ringing, haziness; I notice no defect in the quality of my enjoyment. I have to adjust my habits somewhat but it is no hardship. I pick up my guitar and feel the neck, the frets' repetitive underpinning of the strings, the resonance of the body when I play. I can play. It is a marvel. I love to watch and hear expert players, there is beauty in the pivoting damping flowing that matches the notes and articulation. Nothing can match Bach on the guitar. Limited tool of emotion and expression that it is, sonority timbre and percussive acceptance integrate over a seemingly infinite range. The guitarist’s fingers are so much more than a bow or a piano's hammers.

I begin to play. I can feel the mark on my hand just against the lower neck, catching against the highest string. A few scales, stretches and chords to loosen tendons and create life. And then I am off. Today all is right. The hum of boiler and fan, the chill in my lower back, even the birds and the bell of the village church are left behind. I am submerged in the word of God in a godless universe. Each cadence moving counterpoint fixes time which begins to flow harmonically. Dissonance stretches the relationship rhythm anchors it to oscillating parallels. My moment is momentarily lost. A memory attempts to surface. Recently I have found recollection harder. Yesterday, how could I not be able to remember the name of my favourite poet? An enormous 'Yes' leaps out and then his name follows. We used to read to each other, poetry, newspapers, brief paragraphs a simile for that period of our lives. Now we are submerged in novels read separately, you with your favourites me with mine. I used to write for you until debt caused you to be angry with poetry, which in truth is not much use when a business is struggling. After that I stopped for a while, but not forever, I secretly harbour ambition you know.

I have almost completed my piece. I drove in fog through much of it appearing at the coda with a small element of surprise. I am smiling with joy at a temporary shift in key, I know how it is resolved but that sure knowledge and its impending achievement, memorised notes will make it happen, only amplifies the pleasure and succeeds in persuading memory to subside. There, it is done, the final chord. I put down the guitar and look at my hand once again, the mark has gone.