The violinist

i

I am a sham. I am a fraud. I dispense mistruths. Tricks are played before my audience. Masquerades and illusion are the means through which I unfold the proscenium of honesty while the fly tower behind goes about its drop - drop of deceit. Recognition eludes me.

ii

You feed on the instrument delicate in your touch. Suckle at its vibratory tone, draw fire from the wood that forms its perfect shape. Tap-tapping at eternity in amber silken glossiness, reining spittle and sweat from the horse hair bow – maker of sound, channel of divinity. I fear your talent. I admire your strength. I long for your touch. I am conquered.
You are a terrifying sight, violinist.  You are contrast and contradiction come corporeal.  You are passion and control, wild eyed and demure. You shake with delight and tremble with anticipation.  Coax sound from an instrument so dead to my hand.

iii 

I do not know your music.  I am illiterate in your tongue. I do not feel the strings vibrating - there is no tactile connection to your fingers. No visible purpose to the twitch and strain, correction and position to make the note. Sweet and rich, I cannot see where your music comes from. It flows; relentless, seamless, and formless. It is without source – no fountain or glacier to trace its roots, no spring bubbling out of the rocky earth to point at and say ‘Ah ha! here is the spot from where it emerges! the place it rises from the dead, stony ground. This is the font, the source, the point at which the journey begins! There is the start!’ It is mystery and awe.
Your language is foreign to me – a seven letter alphabet all form and no substance. I see your craft – abundant and clear in the sound and fury you pleasure us with. Your talents create envy and desire in my heart. You are master. You command the machine that rends my heart. Without you the violin is dead – a polished husk devoid of life, empty of sound.
I hate you for your skill. I despise the shuffling groan of the crowd rising to greet your music, the silent shroud enveloping audiences as you perform, the sighs and tears of the crescendo. I hate the passion you command, the sweet release at your fingers. I revile the pale blue satin dresses and black silk ties rustling in ovation. I hate the glowing admiration, the unfettered applause, the bouquet of yellow roses and baby’s breath they present you with when you have left us spent and bewildered.
But I love your music.

iv

It is light as a feather, delicate as the wings of a bird. The violinist has not been kind.  The surface bears scars of frustration and temper. The strings and pegs wear the mark of play. The velvet lining of the case beckons it home. It is lost without the guiding hand. The slave is bequeathed the estate, only to stare at the ruins after the master is gone.

v

The stage is empty but for a case, a violin, and a magician. The magician smiles - a smile illuminating the darkened theatre with ecstasy and perfect, complete understanding.