I played a fiddle gig last night in Monson, Maine, reachable only by means of egregious, semi-plowed, hilly, slushy, slidey, dark roads negotiated at a top of speed of 25 miles per hour. For some reason a hundred other people also came to this show. Perhaps they walked.

I forget: did I mention that I'm in a band now? Our name is String Field Theory, which strikes me as hilarious since the band members include (1) a farmer, (2) a speech therapist, (3) a contractor, and (4) a poet. Nary a physicist to be seen, but we do like strings and fields.

Anyway, it feels good to be back in the music saddle. I like these guys, and I like ensemble work, and I like musicians who are happy to play together rather than concentrating on outdoing one another (a poisonous characteristic of young, ambitious classical musicians who are vying for orchestra seats). The downside is that I spent much of last night fingering fiddle licks in my sleep, which, while not exactly analogous to those nights I spend dream-proofing academic texts, is neither restful nor interesting, especially when the automaton reactions of muscle memory prove that my ganglia already know the fingering by heart (and isn't that a comical mixed metaphor?).

Here's a poem from my first book: an attempt to explain what it feels like to be a skilled sixteen-year-old violinist who is beginning to hate playing the violin but doesn't want to admit that to anyone, least of all herself. It is hard to be so young yet so responsible for the desires, ambitions, and pride of the adults who manage one's life. I found the pressure of that pride almost unbearable, and it has taken me all the rest of my life to find a comfortable resting place for this uncomfortable talent.

Violin Lesson

When you are eighteen,

Mr. Kowalski straddles the piano bench

you will marry my son

            in this shrouded house under rain.

and we will drink cognac together

Cars hiss by on the street.

and you will win the competitions,

I did not practice the Sevčik, Hrimaly, or Dont,

so you must forget this laziness.

but fingered silent thirds like nightmares.

Your work is terrible.

            The violins on the piano tremble. The room

You shame yourself.

            smells of sad people, counting the minutes till freedom,

How can we continue

            wasting our talent on sleep and tears.

if you do not love your work?

[from Boy Land & Other Poems (Deerbrook Editions, 2004)]