Falling Up

Today I decided to sell my collection of books from over the years at the local bookstore. I hated losing some of these precious novelties that are impossible to find nowadays, but I also hate the sound of my mom nagging at me to get rid of them in order to create more space in my room.

Little does she know that the newly created space will soon be filled with something just as useless again. Probably another instrument or something.

I almost snapped my lower spine in half just carrying the huge box-load of books to the store. A random lady was kind enough to get out of her way to open the door for me to the bookstore, but she couldn't help me walk down the flight of stairs to the buyer's desk in the basement, even if she wanted to.

As I slammed the box of books on the desk, the lady behind the desk glanced over, took a quick scan of the heaping amount of books, and started to examine each book. This was a good time to awkwardly meander throughout the store.

As I was flipping through an anthology of John Donne, the lady called me over to the desk. Apparently there were some dried up four-leaf clovers in my copy of "Falling Up" by Shel Silverstein. No, a leprechaun did not sneak those in there along with a pot of gold while I wasn't looking. Although that would have been legit.

I softly laughed as I remembered how these little dried up wonders ended up in this book. It was years ago when I was too young to stay at my house alone, so I had to accompany my sister to her soccer tournaments with my mom in such atrociously hot, empty, and boring cities around Nor-Cal. In one of these places I found a patch of four-leaf clovers peacefully swaying in the warm wind near a baseball field. An refreshing oasis in such a scorching plain. A reminder that gifts and blessing are always present even in the most unpromising places.

Using my mom's tip of drying flowers in old books, I slid them in between the pages of "Falling Up." I apparently forgot about them and didn't realize that they were still in there until this day, just how I often forget to give thanks to what He has given me, even for the most simple aspects.

She asked if I still wanted them, and I nodded, carefully placing each delicate clover in my palm. I made my way upstairs and outside the store. I looked over each clover one last time, and allowed the wind to scurry them away, being carried by the wind's breath, away to some other place where perhaps another young fellow like myself a few years ago will encounter these same clovers. It was time to realize the blessings and simple memories that even those torturous soccer tournaments could bring, and often I forget about them until it is too late.

Hopefully those clovers will bless someone else's life, someone who will actually realize the beauty around him/her.

And to my luck, when I turned around to walk back in the store, I immediately saw a familiar face that I haven't seen in many months.

;)

"When words fail, music speaks"

Just the other day (last Monday I believe) I ventured down to Guitar Center on Van Ness Ave. in San Francisco with a couple of ol' high school chums. Despite Guitar Center being the Wal-Mart of guitar stores, I still find it guilty-ly (I just created my own adverb. Take that Shakespeare) entertaining to meander to a given Guitar Center and not only window-shop at high-quality and pricey guitars that I cannot even own in my dreams, but to even grab at them with my pudgy paws and play the living life out of them hours at a time, getting my smudgy fingerprints and drool all over them in the meantime. Seriously, even Donald Trump would gaff at the prices of some of the guitars they sell in shops.

Thinking this was going to be another such given day in Guitar Center, I hide over in the bass guitar section in order to avoid the nosy and useless guitar salesmen(women) trying to sell me a way overpriced instrument. It's ironically funny how clueless and oblivious these people are to the instruments they're trying to sell. $3000 for a guitar I haven't even heard of? Just get a MIM Fender, upgrade with DiMarzios, throw on some D'addarios and you're set.

After funking around with the basses, I decide to head into the acoustic guitar room. I've always loved the atmosphere in these rooms. A nice sliding door that cancels most inside noise out, leaving me and some pretty nice guitars to create some beautiful music. Not to mention the slightly romantic dim lighting and wooden floor just add to the majesty. I'm quite a happy camper in these rooms.

I immediately grab the most expensive guitar on the rack (must have been at least $3500) and start jamming as usual. I'm totally enthralled in the moment until some random dude walks into the same room. A little thing about music store manners: if you see a person in the acoustic room already, being in there as well will just create awkwardness.

When he walks in, I immediately stop (out of embarrassment) and slightly groan to myself. While fumbling over a Breedlove guitar, I start strumming some Pearl Jam chords to myself. His ears all of a sudden perk, and he responds to me in a French accent, "Pearl Jam? I love them!"

"Yeah, good ears!" I say to him, slightly sheepishly. He grabs the Breedlove, and jams along, following my progression. He then starts to sing, in such a deep yet beautiful and soothing voice. Imagine Elvis with some grit in his voice. Yeah, he was that good.

We jammed for a good ten minutes, just us, and I discovered that he was a French tourist in town for a couple of weeks. This initially awkward encounter ended up being one of my most magical musical experiences. It really made me think of the reason why I loved music; because music has no judgments, and is able to universally communicate and speak to everybody and anybody, whether you're a Frenchman who's married and in his late 20's or a teenage Asian-American from the Bay Area. It was the first time I didn't mind anybody else in that acoustic room.

"When words fail, music speaks." - Hans Christian Andersen