Keeping in line with my procrastination-based life philosophy, I have not yet bought my ticket to go to Spain. True, I have not gotten my visa yet, but I'm pretty sure that I have done everything possible I can to ensure that I will actually get one. So it's safe to say that I should probably buy my ticket to go to Spain now.
I also have not yet looked into a place to live yet. My parents have asked me several times whether I have, indeed, found a place to live yet. This is their job; as parents, it is their job to make themselves as "parenty" as possible, and acting parenty they are by asking me whether I have found a place to live yet. What they fail to understand is that I care not to preoccupy myself with such flippant nuisances - living situation; where my money is going to come from; legality of my resident status. I would much rather spend my time pursuing any number of diversions, such as trying to better myself as a person, and other things like that.
No, fray myself not with worry will I, nor speak sentences in a normal order will I. Instead, I will meditate on the nature of our tenuous, flawed existences.
I will preoccupy myself not with the price of Spanish rent, but with whether the E Aeolian scale will sound as epic on a Spanish classical guitar as it does on an American electric guitar. My guess is that it most definitely will, and its epicosity and grandiosity will be unparalleled.
I can see it now: myself, seated on the edge of a Renaissance-era marble fountain, its facade having been cracked and chipped by the rapier of time, and in my hands I will be cradling a honey-colored gut string guitar. Not long ago, this hypothetical guitar was surely and delicately carved out of several pieces of exotic wood and assiduously assembled by the most storied luthiers in all of Valladolid. Or perhaps it was made in a factory in Laos and callously carried across plain and sea by a cold, multinational shipping conglomerate. The guitar's origins are not important. But what is important is that while I am cuddling with my new Spanish hacha, from it will be reverberating dulcet, melancholy chords and arpeggios, musical testimony to the aching and dire heartstrings of my soul. And of course, all the damas and caballeros and chiquitos alike of the ciudad will sally forth from their rustic abodes and wonder who it is that is conjuring up such celestial tones, so dripping with lascivious allure yet the flits of the melody remaining so angelically chaste. And then-, then these uncultured campesinos will be intrigued - enraptured - by the fog of mystery shrouding the Stranger. Who is this prodigal visitor, serenading them, luring them in, and so alluringly and foggily shrouded in mystery?
And I'll give them a wink, a flourish of minor chords and diminished tension, and then roaring merrymaking will surely commence.
