Bliss Tolerance Level

I wanted to be a cowboy.
I knew that would be the answer to all my problems.
I knew with deep certainty that life on the open range would soothe my soul.
The chuck wagon.
The horses, of course.
They would understand me.
They would accept me.

My poor splintered soul—oh!
It was so hard being a kid 
And being me
At the same time.

OH, but to be a cowboy.
Meant, of course, I had to play the guitar.

I HAD TO PLAY THE GUITAR.

I was little?  Eight?
I begged, BEGGED
My parents
For lessons.

Finally, my mom took me down 
To Angelo Galucci’s music store
On Lackawanna Avenue,
Directly
Across from 
Shooky’s Delicatessen.

Walking into the store…
It was a narrow space,
Narrow and deep,
And guitars
(Guitars!)
Lined each wall.

A gaggle
Of glorious guitars.

For the next eight or nine years
Of walking into that store for lessons,
Walking through 
That gaggle of guitars,
Always
Always
Thrilled 
Me.

Back to Day #1:
We met Mr. Galucci
I said nothing, of course,
Shyness and stuttering
Had won out by then.

He was
Quiet and kind.

We rented my first guitar—
OMG.
OMG.
I can see it today:

Dark brown fake wood,
With a cowboy 
On a bucking bronco
Stenciled on it!

I held that guitar.
I held her close.
I felt her music inside of me.
I felt her possibilities 
Echo deep inside.

That guitar
And
The next.
And the one
After that.

I took lessons with Mr. Gallucci
Every Wednesday after school.
Sitting in his little studio in the back,
With the window
Looking into the store,
So, he could “keep an eye out”.

On folding chairs.
We sat on folding chairs.

He was gentle and quiet with me.
I don’t remember his voice.
OH!
How I remember his silence,
His safe silence,
Exactly what I needed.

And how I remember his music.
How he taught me—
To read music.
To play songs.
To pick out melody from chords.
To play up high on the guitar, too.
That was cool.

I took lessons.
I played in my room alone,
Holding the guitar close,
So close to me.

I whispered words
To songs,
Whispering,
Singing along
With my chords.

Playing my guitar was
So many things:

It was private.
It was secret.
Nobody could
Ever
Be
A
Part of it.

It was too tender.
Too intimate.
Too Mine
To share.

All through high school,
I played.

Then—
I finished high school.

And
I stopped.

I stopped playing.
Just like that.

No privacy at college?
No way to give myself
That pleasure?
Too busy
Trying to figure out
That massive transition?

I stopped.
For two decades?
Maybe three?

Somewhere in there,
I left my really good Gibson guitar
Behind me when I escaped
That horrid relationship
In the Catskills.

AGH!  I just remembered—
Also left behind were
All of Mr. Gallucci’s
Music books—
He would write my lessons in.

AGH.

One of the true regrets of my life.

Eventually I picked up a guitar—
When?  A few decades later?
In Hawaii?  With Dina?
She played.
Always.
Still does.

Not me.
I play for six weeks—
Maybe six months.

I take six years off.

Over and over.
The intimacy,
The intensity,
Opens me up.

And closes me down.

Before the pandemic,
The best experience—
I took classical lessons
With a dear and perfect teacher.

He taught me to play LOUDER,
To claim my sound.

I wept, playing with him.
The intimacy,
The intensity,
Shared!

And that stopped.
With the pandemic.
With life.

And now here we are.
100 years later.

This dance with delight
That I have:

BLISS TOLERANCE LEVEL.

Amrit Desai taught about it—
I always identified.

Playing is just—
Too—too???
Delicious?
Too mine?
Too profound?

Are good feelings
Too intense?

Are hard feelings—
Strangely
Easier?
SO-

I proclaim,
Dear Friends,
With you as my witnesses—

As I eye the little guitar
I keep in my room,
Just in case.

This is my 2025
Commitment,
Me
To
Me.

Each day,
I will say hello
To this tiny guitar
Sitting in my bedroom.

As best I can,
Maybe
I will pick her up,
This little, teeny guitar.

Maybe
I will hold her,
Dust her off,
Tune her up,
Play a few chords.

That’s it!

Nothing more.
Just to say hello.
If more unfolds,
So be it.
If not,
So
Be
It.

The truth is:
I deserve it.

I deserve
That 
Deliciousness.
~~~
Dear Friends,
Do you identify
At all?

Do you relate to 
Anything
In
My
Process?

Any bliss tolerance
Experiences in your world?

Any New Year’s proclamations
For you?
~~~
This is a crazy song.
I found it.
It found me.
Oh!  I know where!!
NPR—it was recommended on my NPR news feed, of all responsible of places.
I played it about 82 times that first day.
Something about it—
I love it.

Is this a song of hope?
Cautious hope?
Almost cynically cautious hope?

Here it is—Madi Diaz, singer-songwriter, and her song, “Kid on Christmas”.