THE GUITARMAN

You see him on the street, his long hair, his black jeans, the boots and everything seems to say: "I have seen the devil, trust me on this." I can't do anything about it, as I follow his music, his gentle guitar music, that sweeps around my heart. I see him in the motel, every night on the road, see him playing alone in the room, where faces have been. Where people maybe thought about love, about suicide, where was cut the last line fo life in a cheap bathroom, dying thoughts and letters with words, so cruel. He was singing them now. But what do I know, haven't been on the road for a while. I'm a stranger in a strange land, he sings and I want to follow him there to this land, he sings about. The fingers are crawling over the throut of the guitar, like spiders, fast, as he let the instrument cry. I knew, he was going to die, he wanted it so bad and I just could stand there, weep, as he was telling his story. It was full of miracles, full of dreams, where all was somehow so grotesque, that you hoped, there wouldn't just gleam the truth, the one, that you couldn't deny! "In my arms was just the fate, a cruel thing, that stabbed me in the back, as I was lying there on the bed, seeing the faces of my sisters, which died long ago." His words, so soft, like the last breath he was describing. To that he let the melody hessitate, trying to flow into a darker mood. I had no choice, as to listen until the end. "Rain was knocking at the window, my heart was crying, as I saw this guitar. I looked at the blackness of the instrument and than I just grabbed it, drew it to my heart and started to play. I have seen the devil in that night, but I wasn't afraid. He told me about a deal, I just had made. Playing forever, or dying in an instant. But I couldn't stop playing and so I became the guitar man." It was fascinating. His lyrcis where no lyrics at all. It was a story and he sung it, to the whisper of the guitar, to every note that was bleeding into the late day. As the sun was going down, I knew, he was insane. But does this mean, he was telling lies? His eyes where so black, like opals, but he was seeing me, as I stood there. He looked at me, and it was like a mirror, a picture of myself, what I wanted to be, what I had to become, to save my life. I knew, that I was destined for palying this guitar, for becoming a legend of my own. I whispered: "Let me play that damn thing." He laughed, and the solo he played to this sounded like broken glass. It was disgusting, it was like thousand gods and demons where making fun of me. But I was earnest, I wanted to be a giutar slayer, I knew it now. And now you see me standing there, playing on and on. Every day, every night, telling you this story. Do you hear me? I was the one, I'm telling about, I'm singing about and you will be the next. I knew it as you came closer, as the sound was drawing you near to me. Just one solo, and than you will play, right? -the end-

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Veröffentlicht auf www.literaturzone.org The Guitar Man / 11.08.2004 / Shortstory Romantik Bewertung/Kommentare The Guitar Man (2007) - mnebeling.blogspot.com

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