Music practice last night, it felt good to play: placement and technique were all in place. The patterns of chords and scales seemed to flow easily enough. My fingers could feel some scraping along the strings, and they are looking rusty. It is time to re-string. I really like the process of stringing, there's a "craft" kind of feeling, as if you know what you're doing. It feels as if I've just finished building this instrument by hand and now only the final touches remain. I enjoy the sensate-experience of folding the ends through and under the tuning keys, clipping them off, pulling the strings out and away from the body to stretch them, tuning, stretching, re-tuning. Time is not wasted, but enjoyed. Something gets accomplished. I love it.
On a totally different note. Kara looked at me last night, just before brushing her teeth, and says, "Daddy, you're fat." And what did I do? Did I run off into the bedroom, throw myself on the bed and cry like a girl? Did I turn down my nose and reply, "Well, you're fat too … for your age (which she is not)?" Did I pull up my shirt, smack my exposed belly with open palms and (putting on my best white trash) say, "Yep, I'm a regular fat-EE bo-ba-la-TEE!"? No. My first thought was, "Thank goodness she said that to me and not to some stranger." And after that, we had a talk about the tongue.
We have new neighbors, btw. I haven't met them yet. Maybe Lynn-nore can say something about them on her next post. (hint)
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