Of actions and sunken necks.

So I borrowed my son's guitar for the weekly lessons and was troubled by the pain in my *fretting fingers.  

(*i.e. the fingers placed on the fretboard at various position on the strings in accordance to the stipulated chords to produce the sound.) 

This pain is the bane of all novice guitarists who are not accustomed to the repetitive holding of chords in practice or play.

"Your action could be too high", said the Teacher.

"Okay" Like I know what he was talking about.

"Take your guitar to Joshua. He will give you an assessment and recommendation." The Teacher gave me Joshua's address and off I trot to the guitar specialist.

"You have a sunken neck," Joshua declared as he peered at the guitar which was lying horizontal on his diagnosis table. "Your action is too high, right?"

I looked up in alarm. I must look the part, you understand? We're talking about a sunken neck here, for crying out loud.

It would cost an arm and a leg to get the neck fixed so Joshua recommended a new one. 

Not knowing a great deal about guitars, I asked if they had a Yamaha. 

"Well, Yamaha used to produce very good guitars but that was a long time ago. These days they have lost out to their competitors," said Joshua.

"As a beginner, which guitar should I get?"  I asked.

"Kepma. Made in China using very high-end technology. In China, they ranked third after Martin and Taylor." 

I've never heard of Martin or Taylor guitars but I figured they're probably related to Dean Martin and Taylor Swift. (Apparently not!) The long and short of this story is that I ended up buying a Kepma.

We had a jamming session shortly after this and my Teacher gave my guitar a thumbs-up although it was made in China. What's a jamming session, did someone ask? Well, that's a gathering where everyone brought their musical instruments to sing and play.

Several months later, I upgraded to a Martin Dreadnaught Junior.  

By the way, when they say that your action is high, they mean that your strings are too way up above the fretboard. That's why your fingers hurt when you hit those chords. The ideal height is between 2mm to 2.8 mm depending on which of the six strings we're talking about.

Shadows in the dark

Loud voices in the dark startled the sleep out of me.  A woman's guttural retort shot through the darkness.  The cuckoo clock downstairs struck to announce the hour. I counted to four and was pleased for it meant that morning was near.  But the clock continued to strike. Five is good, I thought. It is a good hour to rise, drink some water and read the text messages on my phone.  I frowned when the clock continued to strike the seventh for it certainly did not match the darkness outside my window. I stilled my mortification as the count continued until it finally stilled at 12.  - Midnight!  How utterly disappointing to be awaken long before morning, and how annoying to have to initiate the whole process of getting to sleep, all over again.

The woman's angry retort sounded nearer. I deduced that the voices came from Eddie's (not his real name) house.  He lived in a house directly across the road from the window of my bedroom upstairs.  Unable to return to sleep, I walked towards the window and peered into the darkness.  The neighboring houses were in complete darkness.  A little light illuminated Eddie's porch where a small sedan was parked. Outside his gate was a sinister looking black SUV.

I was right, but of course I was right.  The drama came from Eddie's house.

In my books, Eddie and his family were a dubious lot.  There was the middle-aged man with the permanent snarl and an unfriendly gait who stared fixedly at me when he made his first appearance outside my gate where he parked his car and crossed the road towards the house.  All my warning bells rang. This was not a pleasant man, I thought, as I looked away. Then there was the middle-aged woman with the domineering mien and haughty condescension who would not look at me as she directed her maid to climb up a small ladder to reach the papayas I planted outside my house.  Such a contentious couple, I thought and thought no more of them.

And then, there was Eddie.  He was a young man who wore many faces. There was the smiling face who gave us the Ambarella shrub now growing outside our house.  Then, there was the angry face starring daggers at the sweet young thing who left his house one hot afternoon in another man's car.  Eddie was also the amicable face with the toddler in his arms who stopped outside our gate to exchange goo-goo-ga-gas with our dogs.

Call me curious when I stood at the window peering out into the darkness at this unearthly hour.  The angry exchanges had intensified.  The middle-aged couple was out in the garden not that I could see them clearly.  It was dark so all I saw were two silhouettes arguing at the outer corner of the garden.  Suddenly the woman raised her right hand and smacked the man across his cheek.  His reaction was instant. He struck her. She collapsed onto the garden ground.  I was shocked beyond words.  The woman remained wailing on the ground.  The man extended his hands to lift her up.  She stormed into the house wailing as she went. High above them, at a small window on the adjacent house, a blue light blinked in the dark.  It continued to blink for about 30 seconds after the incident.

More indecipherable sounds came from inside the house.  The black SUV previously parked outside the gate left the scene and then returned.  It did this two more times until finally, for the third time, it rested opposite the gate on my side of the road.  Then the gate of Eddie's house was thrown wide open, the little sedan parked at the porch rolled out into the darkness and out of sight.

I did not understand what had happened and was of half a mind to check with the family who lived adjacent to Eddie's house but the blue blinking lights stayed my curiosity.

This had been a most peculiar night.  The non-closure of an inconclusive drama accompanied by little blue blinking lights had a numbing effect on me. I turned and tossed in my bed, the usual precursor for the slumber which wouldn't come ...

... thanking God in His benevolence, for the serendipitous mediocrity in my simple world.