Outside, grey & white clouds were intermingled amongst a clear blue sky high above clumps of eucalypts & various shrubs of melaleuca, callistemon & acacia growing in a park-like environment outside the library. The air smelt earthy, pungent with rotted gum leaves lying around the base of the shrubbery, while over in the grass beside a timber fence, small button mushrooms grew where not many people bothered to look.
The atmosphere inside the modern library building, which had long windows looking out on the native parkland, was noisy as young children sat on chairs & floor over in a corner listening to a story read by one of the staff members. The young woman was quite animated speaking almost too loudly as the very young amongst the attentive group, fidgeted looking up with awe at the coloured illustrations in the opened book, held up for all to see.
A special fundraising event was taking place over the main part of the library, where stands of various books on fiction & other categories were stacked, their spines clearly labeled with a small sticker informing the would-be reader as to its genre. As the morning progressed, more & more mainly older ladies gathered, chattering in small groups.
A musician of some renown had quietly organized himself on a chair & started to tune his guitar. The instrument he handled with care & familiarity, it being made of a rare wood from Spain many years ago. After a short time, the musician seemed satisfied & began playing one or two folk classics. Then, unbeknown to the gathered ladies & a few others, he struck the strings with his right hand, the left choosing carefully exactly where he was to clarity the order of notes that sounded as if he was playing in one of the world's greatest auditoriums. His right hand flew across the silvery strings, picking them clearly with concentrated gusto, his eyes modestly watching his left hand, safe in the knowledge he knew exactly what notes had to follow the ones before. His mood calm but intense, lost in his own music. He played for everyone, he played for himself, he played for the world to listen, he played with the care of a maestro, perfection flowing with a strong rhythmic count of the Farruca. Ladies sat with their backs to him, chattering, eating from small plates of sandwiches. Others sat close by, drinking coffee or tea their plates covered in pastries or cake. They twittered on like birds while a small child clambered around them, the cakes covered with pink icing disappearing, the coffee consumed at various intervals after a little more conversation.
Ladies, why do you not hear the music? Why do you not pause for just a moment & hear the beautiful notes that fill your ears - fill the air with passion, melody, rhythms & tremolos - not to mention the Arabic overtones or the imagination of the dancer as he imitates the movements of the matador, flowing from the hands on these strings? There are only six of them, yet what they feel, what they are imparting is the virtuosity of a master at his craft. Stop, for just a moment, don't you hear what fills the atmosphere? Have you no conception of this instigation of complex notes?
The right hand of the musician is now fulfilling his dedicated understanding of flamenco, he is an artiste of unimaginable tradition & quality striking the notes clearly & concisely, each carefully chosen & executed. You cannot see the swiftness of all that is undertaken, the controlled technique, his left hand in perfect balance as it selects & seeks out the exact notes. The unequivocal vibrancy he imparts, the walls are hearing, something of exquisite pleasure, but the walls don't feel, or have a soul, don't have ears like you do ladies - it will flood through you but you won't let it - you don't stop, pause for a moment to listen to the music created - it would capture your souls, but you have none.
A pause now in the music, the strings calm & still, the musician's head lowers in a quiet resigned way, unaffected by his surroundings. His music for now, has ceased. The instrument of considerable rarity remains on his lap, arms casually resting around it while a photographer approaches with a task in hand, to take a few photos of the musician accompanied by a lady carrying a tray laden with small cakes decorated with pink icing.
The musician is patient, resigned even & smiles in a placatory way, accommodating both the photographer & the generous-around-the-waist lady, the latter encouraged to get close in to the musician with the tray of cakes. It will all be explained in next week's local paper.
After a pause while the last of the young children vacate their story time in the corner of the library, the musician resumes his correct playing position on the chair & re-tunes his guitar. With a satisfied expression to himself with all the seriousness of an artist at work with his craft, he resumes with flamenco music, capturing the very essence of Granainas, with no recognizable rhythm, but a magnificent show piece with beautiful tremolo passages & melodies. The musician continues with a twelve beat structure from which all traditional rhythms are performed. His fingers flowing, striking & drumming, beating, tapping & picking, all making the sound of a configuration well performed & mastered to perfection.
The ladies, with their backs turned, ate more cake & finished their coffee.
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