My Self Image

Nova Scotia.

The love of my life; my life.

She helps me find my voice, express, find my true self.

I speak through her with no one to criticize.

Spruce and rosewood, Canadian-born, just a year old, found, adopted, loved.

My precious baby! Save the finish!

The Beatles are heard through her resonant vibrations, the one Zeppelin I fly to please the crowds. Also Morel, Giuliani, Pujol’s strident tones are played; my teacher’s work, a birthday song to the Impressionist to impress them all.

I outgrew all my former loves: all cedar, some borrowed, some old, all well-played, nearly all gone. A year on some, three on others. All rich, bassy, deep, too mellow for my bright ideas on dark instruments.

Some smaller than others, some shortened, all beautiful, one broken.

Then Nova Scotia appeared in the day!
I tried others, my teacher said maybe, this other one’s better; too expensive, not good enough.

I saved up through my work on my other baby, my baby grand. I made enough money to buy a love to last me a lifetime. I hope.

I worried and wondered.
Several days: try this one, try that, compete.
Come back and repeat.

Another one sold!
The luthier packing!
I tried her again; liked her more and more: brightness on spruce, never played.
By me nor by others.
Mine all had been cedar…

The end of the week came:
I pondered again.
Consulted and dreamed and pondered and then:

I bought her.

My love; my life.
Bought just once: her sister was gone already: snapped up by the hungry crowds who live on cedar: I play spruce.

Rosette hand-laid; special bridge made
For this particular event. For me!

She follows me everywhere.
Not on planes yet: too scared.

Protection needed for her beautiful smell, her beautiful sound, her beautiful mind non-existent except by my hands.

The love of my life; my life.

Nova Scotia.

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