This morning, I ran my hands over the hard wood and traced my fingers over its neglected springs. Unable to find my digital tuner, I made an attempt at tuning it by ear using my piano.
I managed to locate my little bar of rosin on my dresser and hesitantly went through the motions of preparing to play the violin. I wiped my chinrest, attached the shoulder rest and checked the tension of the strings. Then I drew my the hairs of my bow vigorously over the bar of rosin I'd found.
I absentmindedly sat on my bed in my underwear and having experience playing the classical guitar, I plucked out G major and D major on the strings.
Pizzicato.
Sounded fairly alright. I picked up my bow and pulled it across the strings.
Double stop.
Two thirds of a C major chord.
Quadruple stop.
The entire C major chord.
Gifted with long fingers and a wide palm, I'd never had much trouble with my musical reach. Even on the piano, on a good day I could reach a nine note chord.
I played notes on the higher string, remembering to keep to the scale I'd chosen.
B string. C#, D, C#, D... trill. I moved my fingers faster, making use of the the convenient placing of my fingers. Vibrato.
I could write love sonnets to the vibrato, gorgeous dissonance you could never play on a piano or any other instrument that isn't stringed. The sound waves oscillated around me as I wavered from high D to C# repeatedly (aural perception naturally favours the highest note in any tune with varying pitches - of course, I would manipulate biological facts to court musical pleasure).
I abruptly brought my bow into a détaché. What else now? My bow moved in rapid strokes of no discernible musical measurement. The fingers of my left hand climbed up the scale of E major, moving note by note every four counts.
I stopped when I completed an octave. And then I began playing my piece.
My all time favourite piece to play on the violin, besides Vivaldi's Four Seasons.
