I have had a month off the cello.
“I am just as happy writing” I say, blissed out in my fig shade glade, or with the cat on our bed, tip tapping away at something which might be a book one day.
Then we argue.
I take my instrument in my hands and begin to play Bach’s first suite: The unspeakable is spoken, secretly. My bow tells the truth without hurting anyone, without me having to stand naked infront of anyone. The cadences are perfect in their imperfection. The feel of gut beneath horsehair is satisfying yet agonising. The major key is terribly melancholic. I am dancing…. Dancing…
Julian produces a zen lemon.
What do other people do?