An Open Letter To The Person Who Stole My Guitar From My Van

Here is one of the last pictures of me with my guitar taken as I was recording the "lovemoms EP" tape. Look how happy it is to be in the woods. Pictured stolen objects: Capo, Tambo, Maraca Stick, Journal, Case, Guitar

I was reading these open letters recently and realized the thereputic value in writing them. I decided to write my own:

Open Letter To The Person Who Stole My Guitar From My Van

Hello,

You are the new owner of my guitar. I should say you are the owner of a guitar I once owned until it was stolen from me by you. You'll have to forgive me fumbling for words here - I have a tendency to get confused when I think of possession and ownership. The guitar, made from wood specifically a cedar face, wild cherry body and silver leaf maple neck, came from trees that belong to the Earth, not me. The strings that I just put on days ago, a glowing copper that resonates with perfect sustain, were mined from the Earth, also not belonging to me. The logical side of my brain would like to reckon that you stole it for one particular reason - to flip it to someone who will give you enough money for a small bag of drugs. However, I have asked the logical side of my brain to sit back while I write this. I believe in the good nature of human beings, and for the most part I can trust that belief. I would like to entertain some of the less likely reasons that you stole my guitar from me, like the debate that I just mentioned. Perhaps you had announced that you were going to debate the ownership of my guitar and I didn't receive the memo so the debate was forfeited to you. You would say you earned it like I did. Me, working hard at my job so I can earn money to pay for it at a small shop that I frequent - and you earning it by being born with two gifts, the one suppressing your conscience, and two, a slippery occupational skill that involves working with your hands like the one I developed myself, only yours is stealing and mine is a dental assistant. Side bar: I would like to mention that with any skill you need time to develop your gift- and if it is a God given skill than may He help you refine it in this devil's world that will put you behind bars and thwart the precious years you have to learn. Think of the athletes who break a leg and can no longer compete at the level they once used to - with all that skill, it is a damn shame.

In this debate your points would include that it is made from the Earth, and belongs to the Earth, and not to one owner, but all. I respect that argument, had I the chance to counter I would. I would first suppress your original argument with a talk about the age of agriculture (eg: tilling the Earth for vegetables to trade for other goods like guitars) and how your argument doesn't apply to the society in which we live in. If you were to counter with a point that the age of agriculture is corrupt and out dated no longer applies to the society that we need to evolve into - where people are equal to nature and the word possession is a word that starts wars and prevents peace - you being the revolutionary of this movement are attempting to set a precedent of evolutionary thought with the act of stealing my guitar from my van. At that point of the debate, I would pick up a glass of water and take a final calm sip before I say to you in closing "Is this hand holding this glass of water 'OWNED' by me? Are the cells in my body taking this water through their membranes and creating life and thought and ideas 'OWNED' by me? Surely they are controlled voluntarily or not and are governed with the same consequences as the choices I make. If I dropped this glass to the ground right now (Drop glass for effect- glass and water spill everywhere) would we say, 'the hand that man owns is out of control?' Is the hand owned by me? I say 'No.' I say that just like the guitar that was taken from the van, they are not owned or possessed by me like a bank owns a foreclosed farm - No - but like the cells in my body and my empty hand before you now the guitar is a part of me, as a whole - it is an extension of me and my soul that can be taken and placed under a microscope and removed, but it is a part of me. Please, allow me to continue..." ...but I never got the memo about the debate.

I have never stolen anything in my life except for my roommate's food and beers at a party and it is hard for me to enter your mind. I lie, I did steal a pack of Spider Man collector cards from Super One Foods once when I was twelve and retched with guilt before leaving the store, I threw them atop some produce at the other end of the store before scurrying away. Do you know that feeling too? I feel sorrow if it burns your heart like mine did that day, twelve and capable of knowing right and wrong- and that a wrong act is being done at my hands, affecting the environment that I live in in a negative way- it is not a feeling I would wish for anyone.

But like I said, I give you the benefit of the doubt and put my ego/logic aside for this letter. I make desperate attempts to understand with compassion, please don't play me a fool twice.

I wonder if you are like me and love to write songs more than anything else in the world. I wonder if you took my guitar from my van because you would love to write songs so much that you know that there is no better way to relax from a hard day with just the mere thought that a guitar, THAT GUITAR will be waiting to comfort and provide your spare time with the dear therapy of writing and playing your favorite songs. Hell, man... "spare time?" You make time. Hell, man... "Make time?" Time itself bends for you when you have that guitar in you lap hugging you, holding you, you holding it. "What is the feeling of love, of the touch of a woman you love so much, the way she holds you, the way you touch her skin and make goosebumps, on a perfect night?" you might ask... but then you know the answer when you can express it on that guitar - the greatest feeling of all. I wonder if you are like me.

If so, you might think "what do all these ornaments and things on this guitar mean?" That's what I would think too. Those are the parts of that guitar that are the characters like personality, eye color, temperament, nose shape etc. They were all gifts given to me by beautiful people and remind me some of the greatest times of my life. They don't mean anything to you, no offense, they don't mean anything to anyone like they do to me. I put them there because those moment s inspire me to do what I love to do -write songs - so I put them in a place -my guitar -where I can constantly think about my inspiration, and humbly give it back to the world - you included - in my songs with out asking for a thing from anyone. Not a cent, not a clap of the hands, nope, the thing that makes me truly happy is- well... was- to play that instrument of my love of life for nothing in return but the return of a perpetual love of song. I wonder if you are like me, in that sense... do you want to play a guitar for the love of playing, and that's it?

If so, you might be interested in a few maintenance tips, as nobody, not a one folk, not even the luthier who built it knows that guitar more than I do, so listen up. With proper care you will start to notice the guitar smiles when it is happy.

The guitar likes to play for pretty girls.

The guitar likes it when you bang on it rhythmically in the middle of a song.

The guitar doesn't like hard plectrums.

The guitar doesn't like moisture or my roommates.

The guitar Loves to play outside, in the deep woods, around a fire pit, on top of a waterfall

The guitar appreciates it when you thank it

I wonder if you are even a songwriter at all, but would just like to become one with my guitar. You may have been lonely, searching for words like I am now.... when at previously times like this... when I can't complete my thoughts.... I would pick up that guitar and play a few chords and sing for a moment before I could return to my work with a fresh mind. It is that guitar that plays songs for you, like a wind up box. Give it a strum, and let go of what you think you know, but hold on tight because the guitar will do the rest, THAT guitar will. You may have known that moments before you stole it was that guitars finest hour, oh yes. When we, guitar and I overcame an incredible pain on our finger to play for a group of my friends in the woods. The pain so intense, the venue along the river in the woods, the audience an intimate group of listeners, the songs we wrote together that month for the occasion - it was a perfect storm. We became one, there was no guitar or me, only one instrument. Where one could fail because of inadequately pressing on the strings making a dull note, we became One, picking up that tone and letting it ring out clear. A marriage, a meld, absolutely complete with the songs of our creation, and enlightenment of the best I could do, perfection achieved. Perhaps it was that feeling that you envy, and wanted it for yourself. Knowing that feeling first hand, I say how could one NOT ENVY? For that you shall remain blameless.

That guitar was me and I was it. Together we opened doors beyond the scope of our reality, into the ether of other dimensions to extract ideas and bring them back to interpret in a song, the guitar had the keys to those doors and I tuned them. Like an arm or a leg, the thought of the guitar NOT being apart of me could only occur once it was taken from me by you. I purchased it as a musical instrument, but I pumped it with my heart and poured my soul through it, it changed and so did I, we changed together. We experienced life and wrote about it together. It became an extension of me, not my body, but an extension of my soul. And now it is gone. I'm not writing this to ask you for it back, or to understand why you did it. I guess I have one question that pertains to the vanity of my hard work and now I'll allow my ego to rejoin this letter... When you stole that guitar out of my van, could you tell that you were stealing a part of my soul? Or was it not that noticeable? It wasn't just an instrument of music, it is a measuring instrument of the amount of my soul I put in. Also, one more question, why didn't you take the tape of our last recording together in our finest hour dummy? It was right next to it.

Please take good care of that guitar and it will take good care of you.

Sincerely,

kyle denton

broken hearted song writer