Since venturing into building guitars, I’ve been looking at everything in my neighborhood (well the wood, anyways) with possibility: that could be a guitar body. The other night, I successfully pulled a piece of mahogany that had once been a fireplace mantle out from a bin a few streets over while I was out walking my dogs. Inevitably, a neighbor is renovating, tearing out the old, sometimes right down to the bricks and foundation.
I’ve got one guitar behind me so far. It was a few weekends of cutting, drilling, sanding, dying, and polishing. I created extra work through my mistakes, and I know where they all live in my guitar, though they are only cosmetic. The guitar sings.
I spent an hour this evening turning the mahogany fireplace mantle into a guitar body. The drone from my tools cut off my Spotify playlist intermittently. “American pills will wreck ‘n kill … automatic weapon … twitching … 50-foot wall of addiction, man do you, do you …” I work in my basement between our laundry machines and the door to the long and narrow strip of backyard. A layer of red sawdust built up over the white tiles and my feet in my Birkenstocks as I routed the cavities and removed layers of wood.
I coughed for nearly ten minutes when I finished, red dust and phlegm. A hot shower got the last specks out of my beard and a cold beer helped my dry throat along. Now I can hardly see the line where the two piece of wood are joined in the middle.
Benjamin Doxtdator, Brussels, Belgium