English Paper #1

Greetings,

This quarter I am taking English 102, which is a pre-requisite for my BAE program at EWU.  The class is advanced composition, and so, in response to all of the face-to-face compliments I get on my writing, I have decided to post every paper I write this quarter.  

For the first assignment, we were to write a descriptive paper about an object of our choice.  It was to be no more than one page; and it was to capture the essence or soul of the object with one paragraph for each of the five senses.  I chose my guitar pick for my object.  Enjoy:

It's a smaller pick than most of the others I see.  A short and stocky thing, it carries its own Napoleonic complex with it and attacks the strings with gangland brutality when I let it.  Its red color is faded and blackened a bit - an old fire truck left in a junkyard to rot.  The edges are filed down like the blade of an old family carving knife handed down from one generation to the next.  It is a seemingly insignificant tool whose usefulness can only be truly appreciated by the one who wields it.

My guitar pick is a security blanket.  I cradle it; and its sharp, pointy edge rests almost uncomfortably on the inner part of the first joint on my index finger.  Its thickness radiates confidence - a warthog when other picks are gazelles.  When it's time to play, its small size lets it bury itself like a prairie dog between my thumb and index finger, its tiny, pointed head peeping out to nibble at the strings.  The raised plastic logos on top are Velcro to my fingers ensuring that I won't drop it no matter how softly I hold it.

It's not a cigarette, but it satisfies my oral fixations all the same.  Its taste is so subtle that most would say it doesn't exist - but I know its taste like I know the taste of pizza.  To my teeth it is every bit as soothing as the cap of a Bic pen is to a nervous secretary taking down minutes for the big meeting.  It has a bitterness to it from hanging out with the nickels and pennies in my pocket, and my tongue can't get enough as it rubs the pointed edge - back and forth, back and forth.

Its own odor is insignificant.  When I see it, though, I smell a fog machine on a dingy stage.  I smell dust particles burning in the intense heat of stage lights.  Then, after a hard night's work, it reeks of faceless, drunken women in the crowd about to embark on one more regret, or the sweat of my brow, or smoke creeping into the bar from the patio outside.

Glory is the sound it makes.  When its tiny protruding edge rakes against muted strings an entire drum line erupts to punctuate the perfect high note.  It responds to every minute shift of my fingers, letting me paint the moan of a weeping lover, the ire of a scorned child, or a kiss from Heaven itself.  It has been the sound of a host of angels singing "Holy, Holy, Holy!" and it has been the snarl and belch of the Devil himself.  It sounds like my heart and it sounds like my soul.

I am the Reverend Humpy and I have approved this message.