When Dreams Repeatedly Die and Resurrect
Are they truly dead, or do they just take on a new form?
A few days before I wrote this, I sold the last guitar in my axe arsenal on eBay. Upon emerging from FedEx with an empty hand truck, I was suddenly socked with this stark feeling of finality on the walk home.
Something about the whole transaction felt eerily symbolic despite a lack of memory in taking this particular guitar onstage, unlike the others I sold in the past year that got far more mileage. But it was still the very last one and now I’m completely axe-less. I was hit so palpably with this sense of closing a door, unlike the plethora of other items I’d been gradually selling to simultaneously help finance my move to Los Angeles and have fewer things to pack and insure.
Why was I selling my old basses and guitars? The container I’m renting for my move is far smaller than a truck with a 2,000 pound limit, like we’re doing a modern version of Oregon Trail and loading your wagon in Independence, except this isn’t a dysentery-ridden exercise in anti-indigenous violence. So I have to be selective about what I take. Moving is also an expensive ass-ache and while I make pretty good money, it helps to have as much padding as possible.
