Dedicated with love to all musicians who travel towards the four winds only to delight us.
Update 22.09.2011 Dedicated to the one who did not gave up -yeat-to me (the lazy, insensitive, unreliable, uneducated, stupid, undecided, fumbler and unable to put order in her life trouble -maker ”Lillie”):
Robert S. Nahas, President
Writer Services, LLC
My naked body recieves with gratitude the embracement of the bathrobe. The automatic gesture of grabbing the nail scissors. As piano-player, cutting nails is into the job description. Madame Corrine would twist in her grave if I ever forget it. ”Mon fils, comme pianiste, on peut oublier mettre les chaussures, mais le mains!” –she sighed every time when -7 years old naughty boy – I came to lesson full of scratches on the hands after a round of climbing the trees in the park.
Doorman is no longer surprised when I receive the correspondence. My secretary, working from her home, no longer requires me to give her my responses for the e-mails of fans.
But no one knows why I prefer to live alone. My little Sandy will never know that she has done nothing wrong… that I suddenly stopped all communication with her just to protect her… that I cried with her picture in my arms, collapsed on the floor, night after night, wishing I was running to seek her and tell her everything -to remove from her soul the doubt that I ever loved her.
And all because of the damn nail scissors. And my detestable way of living, with my head in the clouds… opaque to anyone other than my art and eager to meet contractual obligations.
What kind of man I was? Why relyed so much for me to climb as fast as possible the ladder of success? Why I did not get sooner that happiness is different than success?
Twenty-seven years old and a world to conquer. Always on the hunt for contracts to fatten my account. Always on the road to an airport, always playing all they asked, ignoring all the faces of spectators. And again on the way to an airport, just like that day, my girlfriend desperately running to keep up with me, clinging to my sleeve – my hand is in my pocket- and my monosyllabic answers to her attempts to conversation. And then going to my charter, almost without responding to her kiss, desperately thrown to my still ceek . I walked confidently in the small plane, gracefully ignoring where I will land or who is the audience. Rustling easy the account statement on the overcoat pocket was all that mattered.
Hope to be continued
(Sunrise nightmare, 24.08.2011)