Rosin up the bow in Normal entries

There’s no sound in the world quite as lonesome as a fiddle, except for maybe a violin, but it’s lonesome in a different. Not the howl of a lone wolf on the last night of a hunters moon, not a cry of a boy burying his first love, not the rage of a king as his great hall burns to ash.
Sure a fiddle can get under your toes and set them to a happy jig without you even knowing it’s happening, so can a banjo or an old upright. And a violin can make you think and dream of distant mountains and valleys at dusk. But it’s written for lonesome, like the wolf, when there’s just one you feel all the voices that aren’t there, the longing and loss.
A trumpet can do it, but there’s a taste of iron and poverty, like a back story to the lonesome. A saxophone can do it but it’s lusty, like, sure, you lost your love, but you lost your seed too, like your heart is starving but you want to feed your hungry cock.
A piano might be the least lonesome sound no matter how mean the piece or simple, it sounds like a hundred voices crammed into one mouth. A didgeridoo and a bassoon can get good and damn lonesome but they don’t sound human or canine, it’s like the emotion is there but the expression is alien.

The fiddle can be as lonesome as an orphans birth or grave, a man adrift at sea, the young bride of soldier being handed a folded flag, a drunk in an empty parking lot, and even in an orchestra, when everything stops for the solo and the bow slides across the strings the audience holds their breath and one by one disappear into the place from where they came. When the house lights burn low and the ladies and gentleman put on their scented furs and leave in long tinted cars, the fiddle goes into a somber case, velvet lined like a casket, the bow across it like a gift for the ferryman, and it dreams of lonesome.

Sorry. I thought I was going somewhere, I thought I could tie things together. I thought I was making some grander gesture, some extended metaphor. I think this is it. Sure, it’s larger in my mind, the creature that put it there and I still know where this leads, neither of us knows quite how to articulate it.