A few months ago a very persuasive salesman in a Tel Aviv music store sold me a Sankyo silver flute that cost more than I was prepared to pay at the outset, and one that is better than I am. It's a professional level flute, and I'm an amateur level flautist. I kind of regretted the purchase for a day or two. Music stores abroad sell the same model of flute for a good bit less money, but I'm here in Israel, not abroad, and it's a bad idea to buy a musical instrument without trying it out. Besides, there is a rationale for buying from a local brick and mortar store, as they are called, rather than from a web site: it's in my interest as a musician in Israel to have instrument stores thrive and import a large variety of fine instruments.
I've been playing the new flute for a couple of months, and my playing has been improving. And if it's not improving, I know that the instrument isn't holding me back. But surprisingly, I don't love my flute as much as I love my saxophones. When I open the case of my baritone saxophone and see it lying there in the blue felt cushioning, I feel a surge of love for it. The Freudian term is "cathexis":
"the investment of emotional significance in an activity, object, or idea."
I feel zero cathexis for my electronic equipment, my computers and my smart phone, or my stereo system. I feel close to zero cathexis for my car, even though we just treated ourselves to a new car this winter. But I love my saxophones! (Don't ask me how many I have.)
I am working on falling in love with my flute now, hoping that the love will be reciprocated.
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