The missing string and the shooting star
It has been a beautiful day. I dove this morning, twice. The water was crystal clear and the visibility was approximately 25 meters with a complete flat surface.
The boat trip until Formentera feels like a morning delicacy under the Sun, and a light breeze caressing the small surface of naked skin that the neoprene suit allows resisting the heat until arriving to the dive site. An unexpected conversation with an unknown diver that narrates his adventures on water ski in the Netherlands wakes me up completely and the boat is just full to its right capacity to feel just space enough and avoid danger or being hit accidentally by a diving tank.
Once we finish diving we start heading mainland and my stomach begins growling and hunger taking over. I cannot wait to have a good lunch and a nap in the afternoon Sun. A well deserved Greek Goddess rest and a good conversation with a friend that I did not see for a long time.
The night comes and a deep indigo blue floods the skies, pierced randomly here and there by a mantle of vibrant and incandescent stars, that seem to constantly wink at the curious observer. And I feel tired and unmotivated. But an excitement flame burns inside as I only have a few days’ holidays and just round the corner as the holidays come to an end the humdrum Nordic cold is awaiting me.
I have been feeling quite low on energy lately, in a victim like consciousness state. Why me? Why was I so unfortunate that I had to lose some of my beloved ones so early in life and when they were still so young, and sometimes feeling that complete happiness or some personal achievements are out of my reach because there is something missing in my life? Sometimes I feel like a slave of the system and somebody that because of what he/she is gone through is never going to have complete personal satisfaction.
We arrived then walking to “ La Finca “, a restaurant with a performing stage, in the middle of the village, really nearby where I am staying. It is in the center but in a retired, quiet and dark place, where the streetlights pollution has not yet touched the mantle of the night and even the white milky way of starts draws an everlasting frozen smile in the infinite void.
We get there through a dark lane and we arrive at the parking area where some low lights are already visible. Murmurs can be heard mixed with laughter among some guitars arpeggios. The night seems promising, mysterious and romantic. We walk between the trees and bushes and come into a garden full of wooden tables, sofas and a couple of bars, one for ordering food and the other for ordering drinks.
The illumination consists of candelabrums from which multicolor wax cascades fall due to the successive use of different color candles. It gives the place a look of tidy carelessness that makes it a very cosy place.
On the left hand side there is a wooden bar with several stools and the entrance to a one floor only building that looks like a rustic winter cellar, with stone walls and virgin dark wood decoration. At the bar there are several groups of people drinking what they seem to be beers and mojitos. On the right hand side there are several wooden tables and a couple of sofas, one in front of the other, with no specific order what it suggests and negligent and artistic nature to the place. The small states arises in the center of this all.
On stage there is a boy with wavy hair at the length of the shoulders tided to the back with a thick blue band. He is playing and singing the Oasis song “ Wonderwall “. He has a deep and slightly torn voice, which seems to point to a continuous use of tobacco.
We walk and leave the stage on the right and we sit in one of the sofas sets, each of them for two people. One of the sofa sets is already occupied by a man probably on his 50s with hippie appearance due to a tiny braid that hangs from the right side of his head.
We order a couple of cold beers, the most delicious drink after a sand and sea day. An Italian boy sits by my side, one of my friend’s acquaintances. He is also a diver and starts a conversation about diving regulators. He tells me how he has an old 80‘s regulators that he needs to maintain. I find the conversation deeply boring and I try paying attention to the boy that sings on stage. When I have successfully managed avoiding the Italian boy conversation and focus on what is happening on the stage, the man with hippie appearance interrupts me and asks me in English; — Why do not you go on stage and play? I gaped and asked him how he knows that I play a musical instrument, to which he replies that my friend has told him that, she is sitting close to him.
I told him that I am not ready, that it has been just since short time ago that I am playing guitar and that I have not played at all during the last days. I start getting very nervous and thinking that I should maybe try to get on stage and play and on the other hand I do not know where I could hide. I tell him also that I play music in fact as my friend has told him and that my specialty is classical piano. He keeps on insisting several times and I continue focusing my attention on the music on the stage performance. When the music on stage decides to take a break, the man with hippy appearance takes the guitar and sitting from his sofa starts improvising some blues melodic lines that sound like music from the spheres. He is surprisingly good. The younger musician comes back to the stage and starts singing while the older one plays the backing part, adapting the songs to a bluesy type of melody. They go on and on playing as the night goes on. At the end it seems that the public is not paying us attention any more and they pass me the guitar and I start playing and singing : “ Dust in the wind “ and a couple of people get close to me to tell me that I have a very beautiful voice. I feel overwhelmed because I have lots of doubts about the use I give to my voice. I also cannot conclude the song as because I do not remember the bridge chords I stop trying to remember It., instead of going on with the song omitting it. I get the same when I try to play “Where is my mind “and “Disarm “. But then the younger musician takes the guitar and starts playing “Disarm“and I follow singing. They told that I should not worry that they also have the same and they forget some parts of the songs sometimes and the lyrics. I feel really good that people that seem to be so professionals also forget parts of songs and they also forget the lyrics and that they think something I am doing sounds good because there is always a voice inside of me that whispers that I am not good enough, that I can always do it all better.
I stay with the two musicians while they talk and the youngest one starts singing songs that the hippy music makes sound bluesy.
At the end a man, with completely white hair and bright eyes gets close and asks me if I live in the island and also asks me if I usually sing. He tells me that he thinks my voice is very beautiful and he brings us a guitar with a missing string, the lower E string and pass it on to the hippy musician that starts playing it and to tell me that guitar is an instrument you can even play with one string.
I observe him and I find pleasure and I wonder how someone can extract so beautiful melodies from a guitar with a missing string. The young musician pass me his guitar and starts playing the twelve bar blues chords progression while the other one improvises on the minor pentatonic scale.
I cannot avoid thinking about life and how we can compare it with a guitar with missing strings. The missing strings can be any incomplete aspect of our lives, like in my case the lack of my beloved parents. It can be that we are missing a string in the instrument of our consciousness and or daily life, but that does not stop us from being able to play a beautiful melody.
The night advances and it becomes 4 o’clock in the morning and the restaurant owner approaches us to offer us “ limoncello “ and to tell us that he is going to close the place. I reject his offer as I am planning to dive tomorrow and I do not want to be under the water with a hangover. I say good — bye to the musicians and we make an appointment for another day before the end of my holiday.
The restaurant owner walks with me to the exit and leaves in the dark as a black hole lane that leads me to my friend’s apartment where I am staying. When I am formally him kissing him good — bye I comment on the beauty of the night sky and just at the precise moment when I point to it a shooting star crosses it.
I close my eyes and I wish very strongly with all my strength that I want to be listened in all corners of the universe to be able to play awesome melodies in my daily like, no matter how many irreplaceable strings my I have.
I thank that beauty of the night and I go to sleep feeling a huge faith in my personal power.