Like being married to a beautiful woman who’s sick all the time.

Like being married to a beautiful Russian woman who doesn’t speak a word of English, doesn’t like me and lies about the house all day scarfing unusual ethnic food, running up a huge phone bill with long-distance calls then goes out at night for a pack of cigarettes and returns at eleven the following morning hungover with a fresh tattoo (“Property of Vladimir” in Gothic script) on her ass.

Don’t mind me, I’m just trying to devise a proper simile for my cello-learning experiences thus far.

Cello is proceeding wonderfully. I still love the instrument; the love remains unrequited. My continuing frustration has been mitigated by several things lately, however. One is simply noticing that despite it all, I am making progress. I can hear notes, whether the intonation is right or not, but beyond that I seem to be rather unmusical. Or I was expecting too much to start with; I know that I am too impatient. I think that after all this time, though, I should be able to figure out a piece without my teacher having to tell me every picky little detail of the tune. You know – where each finger goes for each note. It’s in fact not all that bad, but it seems that way. Perhaps the increasing complexity of the pieces I’m learning (currently a few Offenbach duets) makes it seem more static than it is.

Positive cello experiences: Gamma’s friend was over. I was practicing. “What’s that beautiful music?” she asked my wife. She asked if she could watch.

Another day: another Gamma friend came into the room to watch. “Wow! That’s the biggest fiddle I’ve ever seen!!”

Someday I’ll have a positive cello experience that doesn’t involve a six-year-old girl. Not that there’s anything wrong with them.