Warp and Weft

A few months ago, some of my Family got together (as you do) to hang out and eat and drink and be merry. The night was a casual one, but some of them are blessed with the Gift of music-spinning and they had brought their instruments to the get-together with them. I'm not kidding when I say I couldn't not write something, I just wish what came from me was anywhere near as wondrous as what they created.

Following is what I ended up writing that night. Thanks guys. :)

October 22, 2010

He arches over his guitar, the neck cradled between his fingers as his other hand delicately caresses the strings across its belly.  His eyes are closed and he turns his head so his ear rests against the neck, the notes thrumming through his head to resonate against his soul.

She perches on the edge of her seat, waiting only for the right spell of notes to free her from the cage of wood and strings and set her flying against the ceiling.

It is so hard to capture the precise angle of his arm against the body of the guitar. The tilt of his head as the notes reverberate within its spaces. The distance he stares into while he weaves a net of sound. Above it, dancing on a wire of notes strummed tight and melancholy against the ceiling, is the weft of the violinist, an intricately woven creation that drifts effervescently in a cloud of its own making.

The music is spinning a spell of sound. Her eyes narrow in concentration, the impromptu symphony cavorting in whorls and leaps and minor keys around her head. She smiles, a terse lifting of her lips, but her eyes are ecstatic as she looks into the distance, the notes collecting in a loom of sound as she continues to play, her bowstring the shuttle that pulls a pattern from the hanging sheaves of notes.

It’s a spell of music they have spun, a pied piper tune calling you to dance. You too must create. Or perish.