Cellist Ruth Phillips is in Salzburg, and today she wrote the kind of meditative, evocative post that I have come to love her for.
We arrive at the fugue, and the bass, the indomitable Alan Ewing, enters softly from right behind me. I am trying not to push the sexual metaphor here, but his voice actually does pour into my ribcage like schlagsahne, lubricating my insides, and it’s celtic ring actually does inject golden decibels into my soul like royal jelly… The tears come at last – a crystal fountain released from within. Any breakfast annoyance is, naturally, instantly replaced by adoration.
The breaking up of her heady prose with phrases like I am trying not to push the sexual metaphor here give me the impression that she isn’t putting on airs…that she actually talks and thinks in trance-wonderment.
It’s absolutely charming.