A Requiem For Eleanor

Adrift in eternity; my mind fogged. Hazy from that moment, so now ... yet so long ago. A single moment stretched over a lifetime.

Sitting there on my worn bar stool soaking in an ambience of Space … Negative Space. A vacuum laced void breathlessly awaiting - Fullness of Song.

The familiar tear in the vinyl scratches my leg - Like an old hound wanting attention. I take in the ambience.. breathing in atmosphere. Flourescent lights flicker in the dimness like a weak disco ball circling above: Strobing the room like an old flickering black and white film rattling through an ancient projector.

Weaving a spell to ensnare the unwary. Trapped spirits dancing to her tune:
Spinning over a well worn dance floor. Cracked, splintered by many thousands of treading feet: Swaying, dancing, jumping, shuffling. Lost in Eleanor's magic as Blues … Spiritual and Rapturous … Flow from a graceful neck. Jazzy harmonics insert into negative space with ambience of a mystical choir. A choir composed of unearthly musicians playing a perhaps damned angel’s demonic tune of loss, love, redemption. Wearing tracks of history into the tired wood.
Erratic shadows flirting, flitting. Tugging at my eyes, begging me to come play.
Like musically inclined haunts, flickering in time with my erratic pulse.

Unique scents, yet so familiar: stale beer, old sweat. Mixed cocktails stirred with dreams. A room with a century of history. A room as old as myself.
With my arthritic hands, aching joints earned daily over seven and a half decades. Birth to …, denouement.

Nostrils distended, I take in the familiar fragrance. Scents of desire. The smell of despair. Countless phantoms haunt this room. Spirits of wounded souls who wandered here: Meandering upon their own path, seeking to find a haven from the tempest. Desirous to lose themselves in whiskey and blues …, One last time ... for old times sake.

Here I will play one final time. Here where my very essence had been scoured into the walls. Peeling with the paint. Every note strummed scraping a piece. Each ragged chunk ground into the surface of the old plank floor where I played to rapt listeners.

Time and again, over decades I strummed my fingers raw, bloody. Fulfilling my destiny of spackling souls in need of comfort. Tempest tossed souls in need of fulfillment. Now fulfilled.

Ready to be passed on, Eleanor calls to my center. Begging me come hither. Her lyrical voice breathy with need. A silently screaming voice that has captivated me; held me in thrall from that first moment only yesterday, sixty years back. Back when I was an eager young blues man begging for the chance to touch her - intimately. To stroke her lusciously curved back. Lose myself in her cavity.

Opening up her case I lift her by the neck. Lovingly I caress her body.
Callused fingertips stroking her smoothness. Gliding like oil on burnished steel.
Quicksilver Fire Burnt Cold like ice.

I pluck at her heartstrings. Fumbling, stiff, yet limbering up like an aged athlete preparing for one final race. Arthritic knuckles loosening. Melancholy melody of regret unfolding.

My eyes close as I lean into her. Her musical tones waft through the air: Elegantly gracing the room with sublime presence. Nostrils quivering at an elusive heavenly scent, I breathe in her smell. My soul soars with the notes.

My very consciousness soars, departing my physical self to float through the roof into the clouds above. Entwined in the wind. Dancing one last waltz with angels beneath watchful lunar gaze. Eternally youthful eyes set in lined, careworn face observe from above as dancing fingers fly. Weaving a whimsical blues tapestry. Filling every memory-stained crevice.

This old lady has been a constant companion. My support in times of strife. She was the first true love of my life. Eleanor I named her. Most believe the label, that gorgeous name, cas to honor John, Paul, George, and Ringo - from the beautifully classic ‘Eleanor Rigby.’ In truth, Eleanor was named after “THAT ONE GIRL” in high school.

Many a night Eleanor kept me from sinking - drowning into an abyss of despair. Holding my head above the crashing waves. Other times she led me to heights of bliss as my fingers strummed.

Some said Eleanor played me. They may be correct in that. Eleanor's redoubtable soul is stronger than mine. Her’s is a soul meant to carry the ages:
Which she has done sublimely. Since I learned my first actual song. First heard the right combination of sorrow drift forth from her to soothe my regrets.

Eleanor has always had the power to captivate. To work her insidious way into minds and hearts. The moment that I first strummed her is the moment in which my very essence changed. Changed irrevocably ... My future set. Subservient to the gods of music as embodied in this matriarchal old guitar.
Her sound sometimes a balm ... Sometimes a thunderous storm. Others a cool breeze on a summer night.

Lost in oblivious harmony I drift along. Finally, my eyes open. Eleanor lies across my lap. Sublimely, comfortably, ensconced she fits like a favorite pair of jeans. Her arm, smooth, graceful body worn in all the right places to fit perfectly from years of lying there as I caressed her.

Behind the bar old John stands, mesmerized, lost, dreaming his own soliloquy. I smile. He nods. John resumes polishing the gleaming bar. Acknowledging my sacrifice, yet giving me my space for this sad farewell.

Eventually Eleanor allows my fingers to cease. Final blue notes drift into eternity. Here where she played to worshipful crowds. Year after year. Decade upon decade. Here in this hallowed, musty old venue where The Blues were king, Eleanor is reigning queen. Her pick the crown jewel.

My days of blending harmony are coming to an end. Jazz, blues, occasional bluegrass. Slowing. Ceasing. Arthritic fingers unclench, temporarily youthful and pliant: Begin to once more clench up.

Unnoticed, unacknowledged ... teardrops fall, marring Eleanor's succulently smooth cherry finish. Spotting, spreading. Salty, tangy, sad, yet so sweet. Soaking into her as my own spirit has been consumed. Our long history as lovers is ending. A heartfelt sorrowful joy. Our parting amicable but sad.

Next to me the euphoric young musician. Watching in awe. Listening with rapturous ears. His fingers dancing in time. Caught up in the power. This young, hungry, talented musician touched with the spirit as I once was stares, ensnared in Eleanor's musical web.

With a wan smile I lift Eleanor from my lap. I feel the warm, worn spots where she has stroked my thighs. My legs ache with loss; cold seeping in. Gently, lovingly, I grace Eleanor's neck with one final kiss before passing her on to her new lover.

Holding Eleanor out to the young blues player, I silently say goodby.

Without another word I stand and depart. I can't bring myself to listen to another ... Another man stroking my life's partner. Intimately cradling her neck. Another lover’s fingers strumming her heart strings. Bringing forth those haunting notes of lustful euphoria.

As I reach the door a new note fills the room. A note of youthful exuberance. A note of high expectation and joy. A mournful note of final separation, confirming a new lover taken.

I close the door behind me. Aching tendons, strafed knees, whispering promises of further visits. Grimacing, I pass - alone - quietly - into … Negative Space.

Goodbye Eleanor Whom I Have Loved.

My six decades blissful marriage to my worshipful soulmate …, over. Having lasted a single moment. Now comes the cascading tears as I mourn the Dearly Departed.

My song is done.

Yours continues.