Fa. Fa. Fa. Do. La. Mi. I love this partiture I play. By the beloved Bach, it brings back memories from long ago. A melody mixed with emotions, sweet and sad at the same time. Challenging experience when I was a child, especially when no one understood what I was going through and what I wanted to say.
Sol. Fa. Mi. Re. Even harder to figure out when I became an adult and even harder for adults to understand me. The soul remained childish among Bach’s compositions and, therefore, musicians. My soul embraced my mind’s bipolarity and recomposed chords with the Great Talents. I create music. I hear my own notes. So many recessions and depressions. Keys of Sol, Fa, and Do.
I have a partner who loves me. He supports me. He is different from me, normal. He knows about me and takes responsibility. He is a man with needs like others. Yet, he loves me, and I can see it when he patiently sits and listens to the Bach I play.
His usual activities do not include a concert or a piano lesson. Instead, it includes music from the coffee shop and a backgammon lesson. The ordinary man who supports me says he loves me. He also loves the passing women in the coffee shops but always returns to me.
Fa. Sol. La. Si. La. Sol. Mezzo Forte, moderately loud. That’s how I love him. As it goes and gets stronger, it gets stronger. Nerves, voices, and notes get stronger. I can’t stand the ups and downs, ups and downs of music, just like my love life. I can’t bear to know how he goes around with them. I can’t bear him kissing ordinary women.
He knows no madness, no paranoia. He turns and changes his mind unpredictably. I waited for him for hours with Bach playing in my head, like an obsession. I pass it between my fingers all day, thin and pointed metal, the piano entirely tuned. Finally, he arrived, and the lies were composed arrogantly inside his mouth. Fa. Re. Do. Re.
I attacked him. I hated him, and I yelled at him. The notes were louder inside my head, mixed with lies and scream. The tuning fork threatening inside my hand before his eyes, he begged me not to. He won’t look at any women but me. Beethoven was deaf.
Do. Si. La. Si. Do. I play my favorite Bach piece. He’s listening from the sofa. The notes cover the sad undertones of his voice. He sits fearfully still and listens, the ability I left him with. It’s too late for regrets. He can’t see. His eyes were taken out by the tuning fork, leaving two red gaps in their place. Do. Si. La. Si. Do.
Created by Diana Chemeris
Story in Greek: