There’s a common guitarist’s saying:
your fretting hand shows us what you can do,
your picking hand tells us who you are.
I spend half my time trying to decide
what that means for me, and half my time
working to make it true,
hoping that by doing that,
I’ll understand it at last. It’s all there is —
fretting and picking
all night and day in a dream
of one perfect run that explains
me to myself. Not that I’d then
set it aside, of course;
I cannot imagine such a pursuit
leaving me unchanged.
I’d have no choice
but to start again and find out
what I could do, who I was now
as a result of learning those things
an instant before. Fretting, picking,
listening. Who am I? What can I do?