Down The Rabbit Hole
The stream is endless, and I am grateful. Actually, it’s probably not really endless. Someday I will have seen and heard everything there is to see and hear. That will be a sad day. So I pace myself.
There are hundreds of photos, recordings, and videos that exist of my husband Pete. He has so many fans, and he was always open to posing for a photo or signing an autograph. Countless people shot video of him performing–often they just shot video of his hands so they could take it home and use it as an instructional lesson. Thanks to Facebook I see something new almost every day. So much of it I’ve seen before, but there’s a great deal that I have not. I get incredibly excited when it pops up first thing in the morning when I turn on my computer.
But I don’t watch–at least not right away. Because once I start, I cannot stop. It’s Lays Potato Chips for the heart. I can’t eat just one. I resist the urge because I’m not disciplined enough to watch just two minutes of a fifteen minute video. It’s all or nothing. It has to be delayed gratification. Engaging is an investment–there’s no halfway point.
The instant that I hit the play button all bets are off. Nothing else gets done. My eyes are glued to the screen. My heart is glued to the screen. I feel myself leaning closer and closer to the screen. I love to watch his hands on the fret board of his guitar. The sight of that always draws me in–it always did. He had such a light touch–lightning fast and clean. I’m still mesmerized. Then I see his eyes, his confident grin, and that’s it. Nothing will be accomplished today. So I just can’t watch–not until I can carve out the time and really invest myself. I can’t have anything else on my plate. I go down a rabbit hole. One photo to another. One video to another, and another, and another… I just freeze and watch like I’m in a trance. My heart races. His commentary still makes me laugh. He smiles, then I smile back.
It reminds me of why I loved him as a player—why I loved him as a person. Such sweet torture.
