While I am sad to report that last weekend I was hiking on the south face of Mt. Adams and I accidentally dropped my digital camera in a creek. I was trying to jump across and thought it would be a good idea to throw my pack across first. It made it to the other side but rolled down the bank right into the creek. I dried the camera out but alas the lights are on but there's nobody home.
This means that I will be unable to post pictures of the final stages of my batch of six guitars as I will not be able to afford a replacement until I finish. I will shoot with my old Nikon film camera and I will try to get the images digitized (thats a cool word) and posted at some point.
I am just now wrapping up the carving of all these necks and will be starting finish work next week.
I did take a bit of a break from blogging this spring as i was caught up in work, teaching and parenting my son Noah on my own. But I was inspired by John Hayes's poem on "robert frosts banjo" so I thought i would try one myself. I don't pretend to be a poet but I would like to learn more. I have a lot going on right now and I do feel that poetry and music best capture the human landscape.
When you fit the dovetail
There is a certain amount of hope involved
Take one thin shaving from the cheek
Then look to see if the angle is correct
The neck must fit the body at the right angle
Or the strings will always be too high
When I said I loved you
I knew that it would take some work
If you get the angle wrong the first time
You will have to take it apart
It will never play right – if you don’t
The strings will always be too high
C. Wilson
Sunday, June 14, 2009
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2 comments:
Hey Craig:
So sorry not to have gotten here sooner-- have had a very @#$%&'d week, but things are getting better. I really like your poem--the love that's found in craftsmanship, the attention to detail-- thinking about the dovetail joint & how the made guitar causes the wood to sing-- all good stuff.
Sorry about your camera.
I like your poem, too. Its quiet certainty is very appealing.
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