You held my hands…

I have been unable to write after this concert with you.

You love the sound of guitar so I chose this concert for you. It was in the Catedral of our city. Saturday night.

You held my hands during the whole concert. When this piece of Piazzolla was played, my hands were in yours. The music of Piazzolla is one of my favorites. I have always loved tango music. It makes me feel melancholic. Sometimes even sad. I have never wished to listen to Piazzolla and my favorite piece “Milonga del Angel” with you by my side. I wanted to post on my blog right after the concert to describe how I felt. Then I could not so I just kept it to myself.

I wish everyone in this world could have the same moment. The Catedral was magical that evening. You touched my hands right after the first piece. And you did not let them go. During the break, you kissed me lightly on my right cheek, then on my hair and my forehead. I posed my head on your left shoulder. You kissed my hands. The two hands. Indifferently, left then right.

You kept my hands after the break. Now they played Bach. The same magic. Or even more. You moved closer to me. Even.

You held my hands that night, the whole night. You did not let me go. We could sleep in a single bed and still had enough space.

I fell asleep in your arms. My hands in yours. I could still hear Piazzolla and Bach. And also your breathe.

A broken string

photo-91I just broke a string of my harpsichord. I guess I was pulling too hard while tuning it. The string was fragile. The hardly perceptive sound I could hear when it was broken. Made me sore almost. Made me go back to reality. I looked at my now “injured” instrument. I felt sad.

I had spent half of the morning playing on my harpsichord. I played Bach as always and thought of you.

There are people who reach solitude in silence. Others with music. I am part of the last ones. I can spend days and nights with music, seeing nobody, feeling the need of being with no one. I have reached the perfect peace in solitude. Until the day you very discreetly entered my life. You came without knocking the door. You stayed by me but you were so discreet that at first I gave no importance to your presence. Then little by little you took over more territories in my head. I still feel comfortable in my daily solitude. Punctually you gave me opportunities to get to know you. For someone who has been “self-sufficient” for some time now, I felt comfortable enough to get out of my shell.

It was a miracle almost. I enjoyed every minute of it. Like I have always thought, when you live something or when you let something get into you, immediately it will be part of you. When I walk under the rain, the rain becomes part of me. When I fall in the snow, the snow becomes my property. And now, with you, talking, laughing, writing to me, you will be part of me. No matter how strongly we would try to resist.

But a miracle only comes once and never twice. As you will go away in less than a few days. I will then get back to my shell. The solitude was intact. I will be playing again Bach on the harpsichord certainly repaired by then.

Parts of you will be in me, permanently. I have learned in my solitude how to cherish and handle with care this kind of miracle. Even more fragile than a string. And you can have my words for that.

In-flight time

Yesterday I had ten hours ahead in-flight. I had prepared books and work to do, and I was looking forward to having plenty of time ahead to think of him.

One of the music in the radio program was the soundtrack of my favorite movie ever “Love Story”. It was just a movie on love in the 1970s. But I love everything about it. Maybe also because it happened in a campus. In Boston where I had lived for two years. The movie starts with the line “What can you say about a twenty-five-year-old girl who died? That she was beautiful. And brilliant. That she loved Mozart and Bach. And the Beatles. And me.” (extracts from the book of Eric Segal “Love Story”).

Yesterday when I listened to the soundtrack, I thought, if I ever made a movie, I would start it with a very short line: “I love him and I love Bach”. I don’t know what it would be about. But Bach would be there and him too. No matter what.

Ten hours in-flight. With him in my thoughts. As usual.


There is Bach

But there is also Mozart

There are always alternatives

And other perfections

That is the beauty of life

Looking at life from another perspective

Leaving behind my endless obsessions

Could it be my salvation in love?

***Writing this piece listening to…….Bach, Concerto in D minor for harpsichord….*************

Summer and balcony

That summer never came. For some reasons. All these water pouring down from the sky. The temperature hardly went beyond 15 degrees Celsius. She got used to it and she imagined people in her village as well. When there is no more hope, it’s just a matter of time when to get used to a perpetual unchanged situation.

She looked out onto her small balcony. She moved to this apartment two years ago and had never decided to buy a table and chairs for the balcony. She had always known about the kind of summer over here, in her country.  A great summer lasted usually three weeks. She thought it was unnecessary. Then a few weeks ago she finally decided to do like everybody else who has a balcony. She went to a big furniture store and brought back a simple table and two chairs, metallic of course. She could never forget the rain.

There they were. Posed quietly. Plain and simple. Since the day she had brought them home, there had never been one dry day or evening.

First thing in the morning, she glanced at them from the windows. Puddles of water here and there, all over the table. She remembered the eve. She had tried to clean the table, knowing that it could be in vain, but still felt the need to do it.

She looked at them. She might have given them all a name. She had thought of Johann, Carl, Wilhelm, thinking of Bach and his sons. She loved Bach but had never been a fan of Germanic-sound first names. She went for Juan, Philipe, and Carlos instead. She was happy she had personified them.

Her attempt to be a normal woman like anyone else all these years was similar to her attempt to furnish her balcony. Similar to that summer trying to stop the rain like a will of surviving a battle.

That summer never came. She had not been once outside. Juan, Philipe and Carlos had never gotten a chance to dry up. They stayed the whole summer outside in emptiness.

Artists of love

Heaven exists on earth. Indisputable.

Make love to the person you love than more yourself

With Bach music

Make love to the person you trust more than yourself

Let him guide you

Let him teach you

Trust him more

Limitless explorations

Blossomed senses

Flesh is not weak

Lust is nothing

Multiplied vertigos

You look back

Those insignificant one-night stands

There, passive and sad flesh

You look at him now

Blissful and grateful

Now you know

The taste of heaven

And you are home…

Every evening I get back home quite late, after a long day, either after yoga or German class, I always cook something simple. I am not fond of eating cold food in the evening. It takes a bit more time but I feel relaxed when I cook. There is a kind of ritual, I always have dinner with a green tea, in front of the TV. I lost the habit of sitting at a table and eating ever since I have not been in couple anymore. Eating in front of the TV is not healthy apparently but it gives the feeling of having someone talking to you during the meal, or having someone in the apartment. I think people living alone probably have this same habit as me.

But there is always a moment once I finished my dinner, and once the episode of a TV show ended, that suddenly I felt a strong need to talk someone. To share my day, to talk about easy things, about the weather, about anything. But then I also realized that I did not just want to talk to anyone. It became crystal clear that I wanted to talk to HIM. And only him. It’s not just talk, it’s talking and looking in his eyes, those deep green grey eyes. These unreasonable needs were there almost every evening during this winter, while he was away. I could not do anything against it. I could pick up the phone and just call a close friend, if I need to talk. My verbal desire, my need of communication to the world is tightly linked to him. Usually at that moment, I hit the button “play” for another episode of TV show, feeling a bit frustrated, of course.

Yesterday, I went through the same ritual. The only difference was that at that precise moment when I felt the need to talk, I did talk with my voice. And not only in my head. I talked, I told stories, I shared my day. I looked into those green eyes. Because he was there. In flesh and bones. And he listened. I could not stop talking, I had four months of things which had happened in my life to tell him. He listened and swallowed my words. I talked and fell into the depth of his eyes. Sometimes I wanted to say “I love you” in between sentences and words, but I was still a bit intimidated. Sometimes I touched his hands, squeezed his arms, gave him a long kiss on his cheek. I hardly believed he was real. Let alone that he was back.

I put on a Bach concerto, came closer to him, stopped all the words, let him kiss me and undress me. Was I on earth? Was I in heaven? Death, immortality, do I want to live forever for that moment? Or do I want to die right away after that kiss, that touch? I could say “yes” to all these questions.

All I know is I love Bach and I love him. And yesterday evening was one of a kind.

Tribute to a noble profession

I started my day with a sad news. In the mailbox, a grey envelop. For a second, I was scared. Grey envelops never bring good news. I looked at the stamp. It came from a place which did not remind me of someone in particular. I opened it. And it was indeed not good. The kind man who had fabricated my harpsichord passed away a few days ago, at the age of 66. I was affected by the news.

I always have a deep admiration for these string-instrument makers. There is something very special about this profession. It has more to do with a passion for music than to make money. Besides, they are so rare.

Early December last year, when I was looking to purchase a harpsichord, I hardly found ten of them in all over the country. Then I went to this atelier, the closest to my city. That Saturday afternoon was heaven for me. The atelier was in an old house near the station. Mr. Käppeli (the manufacturer’s name) lives in the house and made it his atelier apparently. Three entire floors with harpsichords. He showed and explained to me each of them. He had let me try each one. All were made by his own hands. The one of the Italian period, painted in a beautiful dark red, produced a warm sound, yet the clavier was hard to play. The British harpsichord, in a pastel green, with flowers inside as ornaments, was distinguished. Its sound was languishing, like the voice of mermaids, sitting on some rocks, far away in the ocean. The French one, I remember, was smaller, with double keyboards, gave a pompous, slightly acute sound. They were all marvelous. My favorite was the one in the attic, not yet finished. A well-known harpsichord concert performer had ordered it. He said it would take him some more months to complete the work. Everything was hand-made. Each tiny piece, each string delicately posed. I just wonder if finally he had had enough time to finish it. Six months had gone by.

I chose a small spinet, which is manufactured exactly the same way as a harpsichord but much smaller. I did not have enough money  to buy the “real” harpsichord and it was also a matter of space for my flat. But I was happy with my choice because it was a good deal for a beginner. The sound was perfect. My teacher told me to always choose a hard clavier, which I did. A harpsichord needs as much care as a human being. Special attention is involved. The room must be humid by 50% so during the winter, a humidifier is required. No direct light should be on the instrument. But it was a real pleasure and it was my Christmas present. My spinet weighted around 60 pounds. I remember I helped Mr. Käppeli carrying it up to my flat on the second floor. He showed me how to tune it. I did not know that harpsichords have the same mechanic as guitars.

Today my spinet is orphan. I have discovered the most wonderful instrument. It has a special meaning to me because  when I am sad and lonely, my only remedy to that is practicing, playing hours and hours and it is the only moment I forget all sorrows.

When I started harpsichord after twenty years of piano and was completely carried away, my stepfather said to me: “It suits you well, I think, because this instrument is distant, cold, in a strange and noble way. The piano is more warmhearted. Harpsichord is like a silent movie and piano the one with dialogs. It suits you because you are cold and distant. You never let them out, your emotions, right?”.

I took the day off, practiced Bach the whole morning. Sorrows could not escape. I kept it all inside. My stepfather was right.