NOTES FROM THE SOLITUDE

I've just had an incredible night.
I saw her wearing a red skirt and a black t-shirt.
She smiled from the middle of the crowded lounge, waving gently her eyes towards me.
I was playing my 'bandoneon' to a small audience in a friend's house.
She had a quiet spirit and her body remembered a statue of white marble.
I just glanced at her. I've never been so much of an artist when it comes to dealing with women.
Not that I have problems with them. I just don't care.
My spirit is naturally wild and I always try to maintain a distance from others.
Some of my friends complain that I get lonely and isolated, but the truth is that I love to be alone, to rest along the endless days in the comfort of my humble house.
I have a siamese cat. She's called Fatty and it's an incredible animal. She hunts all the time, unlike me.
I study most of the day and night I spend with myself.
I compose during the early mornings. It's when I feel in touch with some kind of very special energy.
My studio is everything to me, when I'm there I lose track of time and when I stop listening and recording my songs, the day has passed.
It's about midnight and a half and the audience is plenty of rich and wealthy gentlemen from the high society.
I don't care about them. I look only at her and I close my eyes.
The violinist is one of a kind. Excellent musician, extraordinary friend.
He's a serious man. Single and lonely just like me.
He goes deep into the strings and let the feeling guide him.
We have a very special connection. We don't even talk to each other. We just feel and play.
The guitar player is more like a star. He likes to be watched and has a strange mood.
I try not to care, but sometimes I get annoyed and suddenly stop playing.
My heartbeat is high. I need a drink to smooth things out.
She's still there at the same spot. She just joined me with her eyes and her wet lips.
I forgot how beautiful she was.
I ask myself "from where do I know her"? I don't remember.
The waiter fills my glass with chunks of ice and then drops the whisky.
I think about the music they're playing, the emotions and memories attached to it.
I feel her looking at me as if she was asking something incomprehensible. Or is she waiting for me?
After finishing my drink I came back to the setting.
I grab my instrument. It's hot. I feel its weight. I sit down. She's still looking at me. Her eyes look like two emmerald stones.
It's a kraftswork to join this two in the middle of the song. They're in two different worlds and I'm trying to get in both.
No more sounds touch my ears. My spirit rest peaceful through my fingers and the tiny keys.
Like lightnings droping from the sky, my hands start to break through their notes.
I'm alone in the set. There's nobody else there.
One more night, one more concert to all this aristocrats.
Silent rooms and quiet nights. That's what I need. That's what I got.
My payment is in my coat's pocket. She's waiting for me at the front door.
My breakfast is ready. She's gone.