Stone Log 1

I turned on my iTunes and played Baiba Skride playing Bach. I jumped in the shower, and while soaking in the almost-too-hot water, I contemplated what the creation of the violin must have been like. I imagined it started from a mere accident. A horse trainer who happened to rub a horse's tail on some piece of metal. I hear the shrill echo of the sound produced piercing through my senses, my soul. It was as if a bright light had gone off and left an imprint of the sound in my chest. I must have it. I must have it. I must have it. I watched a random pair of hands crafting a crudely made, wooden object, something that resembled the same basic shape of a violin, but the hideousness of which one would never be able to tell that the fine piece of craftsmanship we see today shares a hereditary link with the crude contraption. But that contraption was pure. Created for that single purpose, rough and unevolved, eagerly wanting to go somewhere unknown.