Getting older, not getting wiser

(Originally written 02/01/09 - 08/01/09)

I look to the clock in the bottom hand corner of the screen. It’s 23:59. I carry on playing my guitar, trying to come up with a decent sounding riff. One that hasn’t been written by somebody else. I’ve been playing the guitar for about half my life and have rarely spent any of that time playing my own music. It’s time for a change, I think.

I look again. It’s 00:01. I am officially 25 years old.

This is only the second birthday I’ve had away from home. And seeing as I’m only nine minutes into it, I think I can leave the critique until the day is done.

Away from home. What does that even mean anyway? I’ve never really felt at home in Newquay. The vast majority of my time at home in Newquay is usually spent imagining what lies for me out of town.

It’s like with the music. In Newquay I’ve played open mic nights since I was about 16. Pretty much all of them (barring one or two) were spent playing covers. That is what is popular, that is what works well. Also, I’ve been busking for a similar amount of time. Likewise, playing covers. That’s what works. That’s what pays well.

When I started learning to play the guitar I saw a Beatles cover band while on a family holiday in Tenerife. It seemed odd to me for someone with so much creative talent to devote their time and energy emulating someone else’s hard work. Yet here I am almost ten years down the line caught in the exact position. I’m not playing open mic nights or busking. I have no reason to play songs that aren’t mine. It is time for a change.

Olivia made a rather simple fact that I’ve never really thought about abundantly clear earlier. She said that business is providing something that someone doesn’t have, but needs in exchange for something else. I’ve never really been business minded. Hence, as a musician without any of my own material, I’m nothing more than a humanoid jukebox. I don’t want to be one of those. Vacuous peddlers of plastic pop from televised talent shows never got me playing the guitar. It was real musicians, who had something to sing about that got me playing the guitar. Fuck, I need to stop talking about playing the guitar and play the bloody guitar.

* * * * * * *

I think I did stay up for a little while playing my guitar, coming to terms with how old I am, moping and all that. It wasn't until the evening that my age and experience really shone through.

At about 8pm my friends Anna, Piot, Karaś came over to drink some vodka. It's something of a national drink over here. So we sat around the table and talked bollocks and drank shot after shot of vodka. You know, the same kind of drinking that is done around the world.

At about 11, Piot and Karaś made for the exit, explaining that they had some studies to do or something. I can't really remember. Within minutes of their departure we were blessed with the arrival of more of my friends. Instead of just bringing a copious amount of alcohol like my first guests did, my friend Żuk shows up with a bag of weed. 'We should roll one each!' He tells me. Yeah, sure why not, what harm can that do?

As I take my final drag on the joint, the penny drops. Rather, instead of the penny it's the vague outline of sobriety I have left in my body. My bed has about five people sat on it, yet I manage to roll back into a spot behind my girlfriend's back to obscure myself from the view of the party. After about five minutes of lying down, gripping on to the bed for balance, I stumble into the bathroom and release the contents of my stomach into the toilet. Out of my senses, I allow my girlfriend to put me to sleep, in my housemate's bed (mine has half a dozen people sat on it). My birthday is over.