|This was painted entirely with Infinite Painter on my tablet|
This is one of the last suggested songs, and I've been sitting on it for a while. "She's A Whore" by the Poxy Boggards is a rousing sea-chanty like song of well...good old dockside ladies of the even'in. Since I didn't want to write about any real kind of sexual prostitution (I'm not squeamish, it just didn't click for me), I decided to settle on another type of selling.
The selling of childhood memories.
While writing this, I mostly listened to a folksy singer-songwriter I came across: Laura Gibson. Give her a listen. Seriously.
For the Price of a Memory
I'd started out busking in the loud echoing halls of the subway, letting the strains of my guitar reverberate over the graffiti-lined tiles and pitching my voice to sing over the bustle and clickity-clack of commuters. That much I remembered. But the longer I busked, the more I noticed averted gazes, as if I'd become some unmentionable invisible person, no matter what I wound up singing about. If I sang about love, the scrabble of bored tourists only seemed to fly by me quicker. Some kids jumped pylons even as they tried to dip from the money in my guitar case. If I dared to sing about hopelessness and death, it at least garnered a few scowls. Whenever I nodded to a donor, they always looked away as if afraid they'd get caught being generous.
But when busking wasn't enough, I'd had to think of other ways for money. When that wasn't enough, I had begged, but the scorn in people's gazes had made me think of pawning my guitar instead. But I couldn't. Not the guitar my dad had given me. The one with the wonky tuning pin that groaned every time I tuned the high E string and the bridge that felt like it would fly off the body at any moment to slap me clean in the forehead. The red enamel had long flaked off of the outside leaving it a sort of faded woody blonde with smatters of fingernail polish-like red. But it was mine. It was all I had.
Turning to hooking at the time had seemed like worse than begging. My memory now was so fuzzy in places, that I was certain I'd Sold bits of my memory of how I'd turned to the life.