Wherever I go, there I am.

Jun. 25, 2005 at 6:07 AM (MST)

(Last modified: Jun. 25, 2005 at 6:11 AM)

The name of a violin is a precious thing,
If you speak it or even sing,
I would have to give you everything.
My violin’s name is –ah, but that would be telling!
(adapted)

I read somewhere that in some religions, it is believed that a thing’s power is closely linked to its name and that anyone who speaks the name gains control over the thing in question –be it a sword, a demon, or even a god.

Relatedly, when a warrior’s sword broke in battle, it was believed that an enemy had learned the blade’s secret name.

Speaking of names and breaking things, fellow violinist.com blogger and kababayan Putch Panis posted a blog entry recently on the gut-wrenching feeling that probably all violinists get when their instruments fall apart.

We share a close bond with our violins, not unlike the relationship that warriors of old had with their weapons.

Giving something a name makes it unique and personal. It’s a verbal affirmation of the object’s intimate connection and endearment to its owner.

Oh, there’s magic involved all right. But not necessarily supernatural.

So, one day, I set about giving my violin a name. It’s old and brown, and one of my teachers used to joke that it looked like a cockroach. So, occasionally, even today, I affectionately refer to it as "my ipis." (from the Filipino word for cockroach).

I did try giving it a proper name, though, but nothing seemed to stick.

And then I realized that my violin is so much a part of me that I just couldn’t name it. It’s like a hand, or a foot, or a nose… (Of course, it’s quite possible that there’s someoune out there with an appendage named "George" or something, LOL)

And so, my violin has remained nameless.

Now if only I could actually get to PLAY it better…

(Reposted from my alternate blog at www.violinist.com/blog/tajax)

Jun. 19, 2005 at 9:13 AM (MST)

Yearning

I don’t know if I’ll ever be like my professional violinist friends.

They tell me that they practice about four hours each day, and even that sometimes doesn’t feel like enough for them.

There was a time when I told myself that I would persevere in practicing at least an hour every day. Even if it killed me.

I tried and tried, but I only burned myself out. I was like a runner waiting for my second wind, feeling my muscles aching and throbbing and telling me to stop even as I pushed on in the faith that, if I persevered long enough, I would be rewarded with a renewed burst of energy.

It never happened.

Instead, I found myself growing increasingly dissatisfied with my playing until I was forced to admit to myself that I just couldn’t practice that long, that hard.

So I put my violin in its case and left it there. And it stayed there. For days and weeks.

And then, one night, in the silent darkness, I felt a yearning to play. It was an urge that came inexplicably, unbidden. Perhaps it was an agglomeration of memories of past loves and half-forgotten disappointments. Perhaps it was the loneliness, or just the biting silence of night. Perhaps it was restlessness. Perhaps it was grief. Perhaps it was nothing.

What was clear to me, however, was that my fingers yearned to touch my violin with the trembling excited expectation of one about to explore his lover for the first time after a prolonged separation, or an absence of years.

Suddenly, my violin felt more familiar to me that it ever was before. It yielded to my touch as if it, too, waited expectantly so long for this moment.

And so I played.

As lovers always are, it wasn’t perfect –but it was divine. The music that came forth was imperfect, yes, but nevertheless full and rich, forged as it was in the heat of yearning and tempered by the loving acceptance of its own shortcomings.

It was an act altogether nasty, brutish, and short –altogether human yet, at least in its yearning, divine.

______________
INTERLUDE: It’s midnight Philippine time, and I’ve just gone through three hours of Writer’s Hell translating portions of a Filipino textbook into English. Thirteen pages down, about a hundred more to go. I needed to do some creative writing before I bust. Still, everthing I said holds true. Pardon the cheesiness.

Please be to my faults a little blind.

(reposted from http://www.violinist.com/blog/tajax/)

Jun. 4, 2005 at 7:38 PM (MST)

Leaving Marks

I’ve always loved thrift shops and secondhand book stores. There’s something romantic about an old piece of furniture or a yellowed book that makes me wonder about its provenance.

Once, I came upon this worn-out, dog-eared book of select poems by Neruda. What got to me wasn’t so much the reading material itself but the beautifully handwritten dedication on the flyleaf: "Dear ______, I will always love you. _____" it said simply.

Who were these people? Where are they now? Are they still together? Do they have children?

I realized that everyone leaves a mark in the world, though not always writ large for all to see. We leave a little bit of ourselves with everything and everyone we touch.

And then I think of my violin.

Itself a secondhand instrument, my violin came to me with a repaired crack on its belly and a chipped scroll. I’ve also made a few marks of my own since then.

I wonder, years from now when I’m gone, if the violin’s next owner will notice the small notch in the scroll from when I carelessly bumped into my music stand?

Or if anyone would figure out that the glued bit on the right f-hole is from a repair job after I (again, thoughtlessly) played around with my bow’s screw in the hole?

I cringe a little when I remember these things. They remind me that I should be more careful on the marks I leave and the impressions I make, especially on people.

For better or worse, though, (and I hope it’s more of the former than the latter) I have added something to my violin’s character. Irrevocably and indelibly, I’ve become a small chapter in its life and whether or not it is a significant chapter depends on how I act from now on.

Next time you see a used violin, take the time to look it over carefully. Each spot, each nick, each dent has a story to tell.

It took me quite a while to jump on the ‘Blog bandwagon. I just found it odd that a lot of my friends were using their ‘blogspace like a diary or something… I’d always hear them say something like "Gee, I posted a nasty comment about ___. I hope (he/she) doesn’t find my ‘blog."

And I thought, Jeez! What’s the point of writing online of you don’t want people to read it?? Nagsulat ka pa.

But I guess it’s a case of diffrent strokes. A ‘blog, like the Internet itself, is an empowering medium but how one chooses to use the medium is a personal decision.

Having said that, I have two blogs up and running. This one and my violinist.com blog (http://www.violinist.com/blog/tajax/). My friendster blog is for general ramblings, while the violinist blog is for, well, stuff about or related to violins.

I think of my friendster blog as a more encompassing one, which is why I re-post entries from my violinist blog here but not vice versa.