The setting sun dispatches its last shimmering beam of light through a wide and open window. Transforming the bright, white walls into a play of trice and wonder. The door is steadily opened. A man, dressed in preparation for a funeral, enters. He heads to the hard, black case laying on the floor. Smiling at it generously, while shedding his second skin and opening through sheer vulnerability. Standing, as he was born, in white nonentity.
Slowly he opens the case. It accommodates a dark-brown piece of ambition. Gently he hoists the violin and its concomitant bow. Holding them both against the orange light, in dire aspiration of what duality will create at this opportunity.
He swings the bow through the air, slow and calm. A swift strife on a clear and completing piece of rosin, sets in motion the preparation. A soft but determined spin to straighten the extension of his will, ends it.
The wooden beauty is placed in firm grip between his shoulder and chest. Finally the restless can rest his head on her comforting surface. A last deep breath and the movement can begin.
A tone arises. Long and deep, trembling, but constant. Menacing and admonishing, it fills the room and blackens the view. It holds in approaching intolerability. Then ere breaking, moving aside, granting room for smaller, lighter successors. They are faint, almost silent. Crooked on spruce and maple. Gaining in strength, sometimes slightly, sometimes heavily disorienting a well-educated listeners ear. As they gain in force, the man begins to move. His body in reluctant pursuit to match the instruments humming vibration. First tapping one foot in a slow tact according to the melodies humble bargain, then waving his legs, haunch and chest in minimal commotion.
The melody proceeds inexorably. It gains clarity. The instrument tells its story, the bow lays in precipitousness and the mans body dances a standing flow in rough emotion. They collectively get louder and taller, brighter and smaller in perfect combination. The affect in pure harmony with ambiance. A short interval of perfection lets him drown in sorrow and joy and wild exuberance.
The composition becomes overwhelming. The tune avoids determination and trembles in virtue of its deficiency in arrangement. But the fire is lit and burns through their marrow and innermost parts. The bow is kept up high, flying over the strings, raging frenzied on immortal and revived tree. A mind-set to fulfill its prophecy. Dedication to the end. In squalling, yearning they burst in an instance to grief-stricken fulfillment, to ardent, mellow agony. They burst into oblivion and climax.
The drained dilettante sinks down on one knee. The harassed instrument now resting on his foundational leg. The weary bow clinging to a loosened grip. Sweat pearls running down his body, falling in elongated time onto the floor. The moon relumining the room. His hair covering a strained face in wet wisps. Moaning and severely gasping for vital air.
“You ruined my dress.”, she sighs throughout heavy-breathing.
He replies in unfolding passion and final serenity:”You complete mine.”