Walking the Spectrum of Light

Ein Traum, ein Traum ist unser Leben auf Erden hier.
Wie Schatten auf den Wogen schweben und schwinden wir.
Und messen unsre trägen Tritte nach Raum und Zeit.
Und sind (und wissen's nicht) in Mitte der Ewigkeit.

A dream, a dream, is our life here on earth.
Like shadows on the billows we float and vanish.
Measuring our steps in space and time,
we are (and know it not) in the midst of eternity.

Johann Gottfried Herder


I used to dance in a large, open room, sunny and mostly vacant. I danced with The Man on the Wall, gazing at his smiley face. At the opposite end of the room, his brother Q shone in gold on the spine of a book. These were my practice partners.

Now when I practice--threading my way among someone else's furniture, stacks of books and magazines, boxes of things to sort through one day soon, area rugs, my briefcase, the cats--now in place of The Man on the Wall is a vertical slit of light.

The light does not come into the room. It lies beyond the length of the dining room, the living room, the yellowed sheers veiling old glass, the deep front porch, the dainty hedge of flowers, the lawn, sidewalk, street.

There in the space around Old Katya’s house, the light enlivens grass and leaves still green with summer, chrome details of a neighbor’s car, warm brick and dull gutters.

I can’t see this clearly; the distance and curtains obscure my view. But I take it on faith, or on this shred of evidence: Where the yellowed sheers are meant to meet, they part just a bit. Through the vertical slit I see brightness.

I stand at the far end of the dining room, my back to an antique pie safe. Inside is the commingled miscellany of generations: switchblades and dried flowers, abandoned address books, champagne flutes and stained hankies.

The doors where they meet form a vertical crack. If you peer through the crack, you see darkness. But it is not dark; it is only less light. If you were to stand inside the pie safe, looking out, through the crack you would see the relative brightness of the dim dining room.

If you were to crawl into the safe, sift through the things that you carry—testing the sharp edges, tasting the dust, pressing dried tears to your cheek—you would not be lost. No. You would remember the crack in the doors, and the enlivening light.

The safe is solid and large, deep with age. Sensing it near aids my balance.

When I practice, I start near the window and walk backward until I bump into the pie safe. Then I shift into forward and walk toward the vertical slit of light.

Last summer, Corina de la Rosa taught me to move my weight from the front to the back of the ball of my foot when I walk backward and forward. In all of tango, this tiny adjustment is my favorite.

I play Canaro. There are two tracks I like for this. The phrasing is perfect: 2 steps back, collect and shift on the and-beat, then forward 2 steps. I like the change of direction, the rhythm and speed of the and-beat, the tiny adjustment, the way the whole thing fits with the phrasing, the front melody and the back one.

This practice has no forward momentum. I do not move down the floor; I do not progress. I doubt it improves my dancing. And yet it is the highlight of my practice. Like a floating stick I bob in the current, there in the dim dining room.

I like the symmetry, I like giving each one its due. Two steps to the dark things I carry, two steps to the enlivening light.

Tango Is Golf

Here is a t-shirt my buddy Keith saw on a golf course:

I hate this game. I HATE this game. I HATE THIS GAME.

(Nice shot!)

I love this game. I LOVE this game. I LOVE THIS GAME.

.

Yes, tango is golf.

Crap

"You seem stiff," Grisha says.

If I don't get it today, I don't know if I ever will.

I don't know if I ever will.

Today Is the Day

This is it. Tango walk or bust!

I have a lesson in 45 minutes. I have been working on this all day on and off, all week on and off since my lesson with Nina last Sunday. I nailed it there--she laughed wickedly while we danced around and around the room.

I love surprises. I'm going to spring this one on Grisha today. Knock his socks off. Why not?

It's about time. Since my first follower's class with Nina last fall, I have been hacking away at the same few, simple things: core, hips, wings, steps.

If I don't get it today, I don't think I ever will.

Robert Fulghum Tango, Part 3: The Upshot

Mr. Fulghum is making his excuses.

My plane leaves at 4 a.m., he says.

Wimp! Apparently he has forgotten the important tango lesson he learned in kindergarten: Take a nap every afternoon.

A lot of people come from Seattle to that Labor Day Festival and they dance all night, Mr. Fulghum adds.

They do, I agree.

He is softening up! Subtly I shift, so the Comme il Faut label on my shoebag swings into his view.

Come on, buddy!

A few weeks ago I was dancing in Seattle and I took a fall, he says.

He's been telling funny stories all night. I smile, ready for the punchline.

He opens his coat, touches his side.

I have two broken ribs he says.
.
.
.

In two weeks he is going to BA for three months. To learn not to fall down, he says.

Safe travels, safe dancing, Mr. Fulghum.

Robert Fulghum Tango, Part 2

I think I am a little bit of a bitch.

Take Mr. Fulghum's most famous essay. It delights me; it's clever and cute and true. As a writer, I admire the hours of brainstorming and winnowing and distilling and honing and wordsmithing required to make such a jewel ...

... even as my Inner Bitch mocks it: You learned everything you need to know in kindergarten? Really? What about "Don't lie"? Where's that on your list, Mr. Fulghum?

I could have used that lesson last Tuesday night. Could have saved me from acting the fool.

Oh, wait. That's my issue, not his.

Ahem. Let's move on.

***

Robert Fulghum is standing before a mid-size crowd, holding a mike.

He is shorter than I imagined, more dapper. Bow tie. Casual shirt. Sport coat. Wire specs. White hair and beard. Roundish. He looks like a Santa who has lost 50 pounds and has taken an off-season job teaching anthropology at the local state college.

I am late. FYI: If Aurora is Kansas, Highlands Ranch is New Mexico.

Mr. Fulghum is telling stories. From young teens to really old people, everyone in the room is putty in his hands. As I take a seat, everyone is laughing.

It's not the snorting laughter you hear when David Eggers or Bill O'Reilly speaks. This laughter has a fresh bouquet, with hints of ruefulness and a soft finish.

Sigh. I am not as sweet as all that.

Give me Annie Lamott with her alcoholic mother or Frank McCourt's sorry childhood or William Styron's visible darkness or Annie Dillard's beetles as they bite and paralyze and suck the guts out of live frogs.

Aromas of dirt and nightdarkness, a full mouth with a complex, round finish.

.

***

.

I have not come to hear Mr. Fulghum read, or to buy his book, or to ask him to sign it. I have come to take him to a milonga.

A month ago, when the Tango Colorado listserv went up in flames yet again, TeacherTom posted Mr. Fulghum's essay, "All I Really Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten." It seemed to help.

By the way, TeacherTom added, the guy tangos. Read his blog.

Robert Fulghum dances tango. He is a beginner. He is addicted.

Hmm-hmmm. My kind of guy.

.

***

.

When the Tattered Cover advertises Mr. Fulghum's book signing--on the same day as TeacherTom's midweek milonga--what could be more proper than to invite him?

Here's a lesson from Tango Kindergarten: If you meet another dancer, help them get their groove on.

I call Mr. Fulghum's publicist. Am passed through to voice mail. The kiss of death.

Nevertheless, on behalf of Tango Colorado, for which I have absolutely no authority, I invite Mr. Fulghum to TeacherTom's milonga.

The publicist calls back. I am to send an email to be forwarded to Mr. Fulghum.

The email goes to the publicist, who forwards it to the literary assistant, who forwards it to the author, who responds to the literary assistant, who responds to me:

"It is within the realm of possibility" that Mr. Fulghum will accept the invite, the literary assistant says. I am to attend the book signing and stand by. Pending media obligations, etc. ...

Translation: Mr. Fulghum would prefer not to commit but to play it by ear. Typical author.

Hmm-hmmmm. My kind of guy.

.

***

.

"She was a player," Mr. Fulghum is saying with broad admiration.

What's this? Santa-Sweetie consorts with That Kind of Woman?

Turns out, he means playful.

Mr. Fulghum is a prankster. He likes to throw out silly invitations to play. He says "Happy Birthday" to strangers. In tense situations, he puts a big red ball on his nose, like a clown.

His stories go on in this vein for a half hour. They're very funny and very sweet. I laugh along with the crowd, but I have more than half a mind on the clock. We need to be out of here by 9:30 or the milonga's a bust.

As he winds down, I calculate how many people are in the crowd, how many are likely to buy the book in hardcover, how many are likely to stand in line to have it signed, how many are likely to chat on and on.

Mr. Fulghum has a generous heart and a genuine liking for people. He takes our picture. More than once he says we are his kind of guys.

He is going to chat on and on. We are going to be lucky to make it out of here in time for the milonga.

.

***

.

The etiquette of these events is straightforward: I must buy the book and I must ask him to sign it. I will give it to my mother, who is about Mr. Fulghum's age and enjoys simple stories of goodness and sweetness and light.

In the midst of planning, my ear catches on

"... Homer."

Come again?

.

"Abestos gelos," Mr. Fulghum is saying. Greek for fireproof laughter. He corrects himself: unquenchable laughter.

But I like the first way he said it: fireproof.

The people of Crete have inhabited their island for longer than memory serves, way before Homer, says Mr. Fulghum.

They have been through every form of mayhem that nature and man can conjure. And they are still standing, with decency and humanity and lighthearted, playful good humor.

They are my kind of guys, he says.

Shadrach. Meshach. Abednego. The Crete-ans would have recognized them, walking unharmed in the fire, surviving the furnace. Aromas of smoke and nightdarkness.

"I believe imagination is stronger than knowledge, that myth is more potent than history," Mr. Fulghum wrote in a previous book.

Mr. Fulghum is not merely a prankster; there is a touch of trickster in him. He is Coyote, using play to reveal truth.

Robert Fulghum Tango, Part 1

“Don’t lie” isn’t on the list of things Robert Fulghum learned in kindergarten.*

But these things are:

Play fair.
Say you’re sorry when you hurt somebody.

Tonight I am going to meet Mr. Fulghum. He’s a tanguero, but that’s not the only reason he’s on my mind.

All he really needed to know he learned in kindergarten, he says.

Me too.

But I have to learn it again and again. Today I’m taking a refresher course.

Last night I lied to someone in Tango Colorado. He guessed my identity and I didn’t want to acknowledge it.

If he were a jerk, I wouldn’t care. But he seems to be a nice person. And lying to nice people isn’t playing fair…

So today I am saying I’m sorry. I spent the day trying to craft it, threw it all out and wrote fast and sincere.

It’s nearly impossible to apologize for lying. Your apology says “trust me!” but your lie mocks the person who would. All you can do is hope for the grace of the person you wronged.

In an hour I am going to the Tattered Cover to meet Mr. Fulghum. If the reading doesn’t go too late, and if tomorrow’s plane isn’t too early, and if he is as addicted to tango as he appears to be on his blog, we will show up at Tom Stermitz’s milonga.

Meanwhile, I will be reviewing those kindergarten lessons. You can review them here.

Barbara Durr's Top Tips for Winning the Eye Game

1. Shut up. During the cortina tell your girlfriends you can't talk now, you need to take care of business.

2. Stay put. Leads note where you are sitting, and they go looking for you. If you roam, you will lose them.

3. Put yourself out there. Barbara demonstrates: She sits up straight, alert and eager. Her eyes scan the room. When they come upon mine, she gives me a direct, eye-to-eye look. There's no mistaking her message. It's courteous and impersonal; there is no shyness or hopefulness in it. It says very directly "I'm available!"

4. Nod freely--but not first. There seems to be a fair amount of nodding involved in the eye game. He nods first to ask and you nod to answer and he nods to confirm the answer. OK. Stop now. You don't want to look like a bobble-head. Smiling is optional. Barbara holds a pleasant and inviting look on her face, but she is not All-American friendly.

5. Keep looking. As the lead approaches, fix your gaze upon him. If you look away, he might think he was mistaken, or you changed your mind.

6. Beware the spillover effect. From any distance, it's nearly impossible to tell who is cabaceo-ing whom. In our exercise, the person I thought I had accepted a dance with went for the woman beside me--while a person I had not even noticed thought my nods were meant for her. Barbara's remedy: Don't stand up until the lead is squarely in front of your chair. This is not only practical, it's lovely to watch him close the space between you.

7. Go for the partial tanda. I've always been mystified when leads ask me for the last dance of the tanda. Seems a little late to get started. Barbara Durr explains: It's a nice way to take a new partner for a trial run. So don't give up just because you don't get the tanda. Keep putting yourself out there until the last dance begins.

8. Give it up whenever you feel like it. If you don't like the music, or if all the leads you want to dance with are already engaged, you can resume that chat with your girlfriend.

9. Make eye contact with leads who are dancing. Yikes! Yes, Barbara says. The leaders are scanning their surroundings as they dance. If you are sitting near the floor, they can't help but scan you. Take advantage of that split second to offer a look of admiration. Then stay put (see Tip #2.)

What Do I Have to Do to Get a Man Around Here?

Gender balance here is seriously skewed, at 8 females to 1 desirable male.

"You're going to have to be more aggressive," Lori says.

Where have I heard that before? In various phrasings from Nina and Kari and TeacherTom and Grisha and on and on and even Julio Balmaceda.

I'm going to go for it. We are all family here, and I really want a little floor time with Matthew.

Forget the cabaceo. I'm taking direct action.

I approach Sibling One of Six. She has had him to herself plenty long enough. I hopefully ask, "Can I have him now?"

Matthew comes into my arms. Immediately he makes a rude noise. Several.

Everyone bursts into laughter. It's because of the family rule:

The one holding the baby has to change the diaper.

Welcome to the family, Matthew C.

Still Sidelined

Grrr.

I need to stop going to festivals. Both times I've been, I've quit tango.

I tell Mary Alice. I want to cancel my lesson on Friday. I want to go in and say I quit!

Mary Alice has been around me a while. She says, "Let me save you five minutes. You're not quitting."

More Must Words

More from Must Words ...

Where connect should be, you find connivance.

Where tango should be, you find tankard.

Where music should be, you find muzhik, meaning Russian peasant.

You Make Sense of This One

Killing a few moments, I am skimming a book called The Must Words, essential words for your vocabulary.

Here's a game: look for words that are essential to me.


Love.

Scanning the list, we come to Lout

Love should be next

In its place:



LSD.

Personal Highlights from the Denver Labor Day Festival

Cool moves. A favorite lead tries out a new move involving interminable suspense, syncopation, off-axis work and a perfect landing. Very cool!

Martin and Shaun, dancing together. She is the princess, dreaming in his arms. He is the prince, taking care not to wake her. They float in a bubble of enchantment, a magic of their own making.

The best cabaceo ever. A buddy looks at me. I nod. He nods back. I nod again. He stands. The woman sitting between us stands, too. I twinge for her. Just two days ago, I was where she is right now; it is deathly embarrassing. But not for her, not this time. My buddy takes her hand as if that were exactly his intent. As she precedes him to the dance floor, he tosses a half-apologetic smile over his shoulder. Then he turns his attention fully to her. They are dancing, completely connected. Yes! This is all the best that tango can be.

Elegant Milonga

A young girl, maybe 10, a stuffed animal in the crook of her arm, walks by the ballroom with her mother. They stop to peer in.

“Go ahead,” I tell them. “It costs nothing to watch.”

The mother strides through the door, the girl hangs back. Her face is alight, her body is tilting toward the door. I recognize that: She is a dancer!

“It’s OK, take a look,” I encourage her. “You might decide to take it up.”

She won’t cross the threshold. She leans in for a quick look. Ricochets out. Looks at me half-accusing. I recognize that, too: That is “Eek!”

This is scotch-and-cigarettes dancing; she has only kissed her first boy.

“Ten years from now,” I tell her. She lets that sink in. The shine returns to her eyes.

Ten years from now: a safe distance, another whole lifetime for her. Then she will be Grown Up.

When she is a Grown Up, she will do many sophisticated things. Drink and smoke cigarettes. Drive a car. Hold a job. All those things that men and women do in the movies.

But that is far in the future; she need not go there now.

Now she steps into the ballroom, stands close to her mom. She is looking to the future, holding tight to her doll.

Turn Off That Dad-Gum Music! We're Trying to Drink!

From the Buffalo, Wyoming, Bulletin: August 29, 1907

The Casper city council has ordered that there shall be no more music in the saloons in that town. The order, we are told, was made at the request of many people. It was argued that when they were having a social drink they could not drink and keep time with the music, and often times they would have to forego their beverage and dance to the sweet strains from the piano and violin, and they did not want it that way, and hence the order of the town council.

A Dozen Memorable Moments of the Labor Day Tango Festival

12. No one beats Jimi. At the alternative milonga, at the end of a particularly screechy tune, Stan steps back. He is nearly limp; his grin is huge. I believe he has just experienced the Tango Trace. “That was the dance of the festival,” he sighs. I preen. “Jimi Hendrix,” he marvels. “I love Jimi Hendrix.”

11. Campy and hot. Dancing in fedora and shades. Today, suave-and-sweet is dark and dangerous, too. Excuse me now, I need to go swoon.

10. Getting a clue. Barbara Durr’s hilarious pantomime of a cabaceo-clueless woman, who will never get a dance at a milonga. Hey, wait a minute! She looks like me!

9. Tango music trance. A woman openly weeping at the deep, holy beauty of the last song of Grisha’s musicality class. As we applaud she hurries to the back of the room, wiping her face with both hands.

8. A new adornment. After two months of tweaking and practicing a new adornment that one of my teachers doubted I could pull off, slipping it into a dance with Stan and then Jane—and they like it!

7. Being Cinderella. Kathleen and Mary Alice fussing over me like Cinderella, altering my dress, poring over an extensive collection of jewelry, choosing the earrings, bickering over the necklace, advising on hairdo, teasing, and assuring me that yes, the outfit looks as beautiful as it makes me feel.

6. A quiet moment. Glenlivet at Jim’s funeral, sharing a moment as meditative music plays.

5. My right foot. The doctor says to keep dancing, if the pain lets me. Andrea advises leather soles for this floor. I have been wearing the suede-soled Delies, because they have lower heels--even though they crunch my toes and stick to the floor, twisting my foot with every pivot. The leather-soled Comme il Fauts don’t do that. A blessing! I can take classes and dance!

4. Fabulous DJ’ing at the alternative and all-night milongas. We talk about connecting with partner, music, floor, room. Little do we know, while we’re doing all that, the DJ is connecting with us.

3. Girlfriends. Getting ready for the alternative milonga together; sharing our nervousness, chewing gum to settle down, entering the milonga in solidarity; huddling under a shared pashmina for warmth; noshing between tandas; joshingly competing for the same lead; mocking the sluttiness of one another’s outfits; admiring shoes and makeup and hair; comparing notes on the out-of-town leads; commiserating over failed cabaceos. … The women who come only to dance miss half the fun of milongas.

2. Watching people, people watching. Working the door, looking in. This is the best seat in the house. No pressure, you can settle into the moment and let it flow. Far back from the floor, you can stare unabashedly at your favorites. The dancers look like exotic fish floating and flowing along. … Encouraging passers-by to stick their heads in, to step into the ballroom and watch. The only thing better than watching tango is introducing others to it.

1. One World, One Tango

In Denver’s Doubletree Hotel, a woman in split sole jazz shoes absently runs through variations on the cross as the elevator ascends.

Crossing the lobby, a man moves with counterbody motion.

At the registration desk, a woman tries to hold her place in line, loses control and glides off in a series of complicated steps.

A man taking an outdoor smoking break practices balanced moves forward and back along a parking curb.

Today, in office hallways and copier rooms, in airport security lines, on sidewalks and at streetcorners, in grocery store aisles, at the bank, in kitchens and bathrooms and hardwood-floored living rooms ...

... in BuenosAiresAmsterdamIstanbulTokyoSanFranciscoAnchorageParis ... in CentralParkUnionSquaretheCheesman Pavilion and, God and love willing, on the Temple Mount once again....

... tangueros and tangeuras are doing the same.

Consciously, absently, intently, carelessly.

Tango runs like thread through the world. Alone or together, in class or practica or milonga, every step weaves a web of connection.

One world. One love. One tango.

The Blind Date from Hell ... and a Little Piece of Grace

7 a.m. Labor Day, or, The Blind Date from Hell

It’s the very last tanda of the very last event of the Labor Day festival. We have been dancing since midnight. It is 7 a.m.

I have just finished dancing with Grisha. He leads me back to my seat. No sooner does he leave than a man who has been sitting quietly by turns and gives me a look.

I know better. Enough is enough. I don’t dance with strangers.

But.

I like this guy’s cabaceo. He is mugging it up. I like the way he has been sitting, very calm.

And he’s cool looking. African American in a crisp, white shirt. Salt and pepper beard. Glasses. I’ve watched him dance. He doesn’t do anything fancy. I think I can follow him.

“I’m a beginner,” I warn him. “You can back out if you like.”

First warning bell clangs. I have sworn off saying that kind of thing. Why do I feel the need to say it now?

He thinks I am being modest. He just watched me dance with Grisha.

He soon learns the truth. We struggle. He keeps jiggling my hand, bending it back.

At the end of the second dance, he strikes a pose. His whole body slumps, he turns his head toward his buddies on the sidelines, rolls his head toward the ceiling.

Thank you [go to hell], I say. I don’t want to torture you further. Good night.

No, no! he says, snapping to attention. We can finish the tanda.

He sounds surprised. I can’t read his expression. He is standing a foot away, and I am not wearing my glasses. Without them I can see only three inches. People think I am joking when I say this. I am dead serious.

Second warning bell. Bad idea to dance blind with a stranger.

We struggle through the third dance. He is still jiggling my hand, bending it back, a little more emphatically than before, a little more energetically than necessary. He orders me to relax. This is an interesting exercise. I try to push through all the crap, get to the connection.

Third warning bell: Anything that goes this badly must end badly too.

The DJ is playing four-song tandas tonight. Neither of us is happy about that. But we are surviving. And this guy insisted on finishing the tanda. I guess if he’s game, I can be, too.

The third dance ends and, without warning, he’s gone. With a stunning economy of movement, he simply walks away. At first I’m not sure what just happened. Then it dawns on me, and my face makes a shape I don’t want it to make—hurt and shame.

I’ve been cut off mid-tanda before, but the lead usually has the decency to walk me to the edge of the floor, to say thank you, to make some attempt to save my dignity. This guy means to draw blood.

Did I not offer him an out? Twice?

That question must wait. Right now I am stranded. I can’t see.

I need to get off the floor before the music begins. I can’t judge distances well with my glasses on. Without them, threading my way through moving couples would be a disaster.

This is just like leading, I tell myself, the first step is the hardest. I pick a direction, make my way to the edge of the dance floor. I can see the line where light wood gives way to dark carpet. I step carefully over.

I am lost.

I can see tables and chairs. They run perpendicular to the dance floor, just like where I was sitting. But they are not the same tables and chairs. When I get to the end seat at the end table (a seat I chose because it’s easy to find), nothing is there. My table was cluttered. Did someone clean the table—and take my glasses? Or is this the wrong place altogether?

I’m not panicking, but my emotions are not helping me think. I take a seat, fiddle with my shoes while I try to calm down and figure out how to find my way back to my glasses.

If there is any irregularity in the carpet--any loose thread or covered cord, any piece of trash that might turn an ankle—I will take a header. And that’s the least of my worries. Here’s the big one: I have no clue where I am in the room.

Even as I’m fiddling with my shoes, hot with embarrassment and awash in emotion, something good is coming on: I am mad mad mad. Three months ago, something like this would have slain me. I would have believed I deserved it.

Now I believe this: There are 100 ways to say anything. The way that you choose to say something reflects your quality.

The way this guy behaved is his bad, not mine.

So what if I’m blind and humiliated and lost in a cavernous room?

I was a Girl Scout. I have been dropped off in the woods with nothing but a map and a compass. I have visited every state in the country, and have been lost in most of them.

I am ready to take this room on.

There are huge black things nearby. I wasn’t sitting near anything like that. There are areas of brightness across the room. These must be the doors, open to the hallway. I was sitting near them.

I stand. Andrey says that when he leads, he walks straight through the follower and she had better get out of the way. That’s the way to do it.

I gather myself, flip the ends of my hair in a pissed-off gesture I haven’t used since seventh grade, and lead myself to the doors.

I find the end seat at the end table. No glasses. A woman is sitting nearby. She wasn’t there before, but I’m pretty sure I’m in the right place.

Excuse me, I say, and ask for her help. She finds my glasses, hands them to me.

***

11 a.m. Labor Day: Aftermath

Breakfast at the Waffle House in Aurora, the perfect greasy spoon ending to the grand finale of festival week, the all-night marathon milonga.

After the last, worst dance of the festival, I am back where I was last fall, letting people get to me, feeling too much.

I am a whipped dog; all I want is to go into hiding, lick my wounds and never be heard from again.

But I’m mad, too.

Cruelty sets me off like nothing else can. I am completely dogmatic about it. A lifetime of religious dilettantism boils down to One Absolute, Universal Ironclad Moral Code:

Be kind every chance you get.

People who practice cruelty are unworthy of a place in the human community.

That’s very judgmental. Very Angel-Bouncer at the gates of the Garden of Eden, throwing Adam and Eve out on their ears. It’s not like me. I am all about moral relativism. Really. Up to this point: Don’t be cruel to others.

As I’m forking up eggs and grits, a corollary slaps me upside the head:

Don’t be cruel to me, either.

Ow! What’s that I feel? Could I be growing a backbone?

As I pay my check and walk out the door, the jukebox cranks up Aretha:

R-E-S-P-E-C-T!

You go, girl.

***

7 p.m. Labor Day … 12 Hours After the Blind Date from Hell

The Monday Night extravaganza at the Blue Ice is one of the corollary activities that spring up around the Labor Day festival. There will be lessons by the region’s most innovative dancers, an exhibition and brief concert.

The place is full of out-of-towners, lingering on a day or two after the festival ends. I recognize one of them:

He is standing at the counter that separates the bar from the dance floor. He is tall and thin, African American, in the crisp, bright-white shirt he was wearing about 12 hours ago, the last time we danced. Small beard, salt and pepper; small glasses, an intelligent look. Handsome. You can’t tell from looking he’s hiding a switchblade in his heart.

Fine. I was not planning to stay anyway.

Near the exit, I bump into Grisha. I saw what he did to you this morning,” he says.

I make a little joke about it. We laugh. Then I flee.

But approaching the car, my thoughts turn rebellious. Blue Ice is my tango home. Am I going to let this guy run me out? What will that do to me next time I walk in the door? How long will it be until I feel at home there again?

Two blocks away, I make up my mind. I am going back in. I’ll sit and watch. I don’t need to dance. I need to not let this guy run me out.

Stopped at a traffic light, I change my mind again. I will dance! I will walk in there fully charged. I will drag Grisha onto the floor. He would go for it; he would make me look great, and he would give it a special effort when we pass by this guy.

This will be fun!

But circling back, I have second thoughts again. If my mind is on the other guy, I will be connecting with him, not my partner. This is wrong on every level: I can’t dance competently if my mind is occupied elsewhere. Even if my partner is in on the game, it isn’t fair to give my attention to one man when I am dancing with another.

My intention is off; the motivation feels underhanded. It is disrespectful to Dance to use it in this way. It feels like I am hiding a switchblade in my own heart.

This is the danger of targeting someone: You focus on them, and then they are in you.

I keep driving. I need to think.

If I dance tonight, it needs to be a real dance, not some snide message tossed off to some stranger. I need to enter it very sincerely. I imagine that kind of connection for a moment, the purity of it. Closing my eyes, I can feel it.

Warm night air flows through the windows. It feels like music. With this sensation surrounding me, I can’t think, only listen.

My heart beats. My stomach growls, making me chuckle. It always has to express its opinion. My chest opens up and I can breathe.

Tangled thoughts, hurt feelings, righteous judgment, vengeful anger. Finally, they all come to rest. I ask myself:

What is it in this moment you want?

I want to make beauty in the world. I want to dance.

Jay Gatsby Would Have Lived Longer if He Had Learned to Tango

Jay Gatsby would have lived longer if he had learned to tango.

It is Sunday night, Labor Day weekend, and the marble pavilion at Cheesman Park is lit like a fairy barge, floating in a pool of blue-white light. This is the light of enchantment, the pure distillation of the three-quarter moon.

Imagine Gatsby.

He stands on the grassy slope beyond the pavilion, outside the reach of its glow, looking on, feeling inadequate and common. He hails from the midwest. He looks like the young Robert Redford.

In the fey light, beautiful people are mingling, dipping and flowing in intricate patterns. The men are dashing, the women light and graceful as orchids. Music pours over them, at once exotic and haunting, mournful and seductive. The effect is profuse, lush and procreant as a Latin jungle.

Shane and I run trippingly across the dark lawn, across the apron with its twin fountains, up the marble stairs and into the light. It is lush and beautiful and we are beautiful in it.

Gatsby sees this: Common people transformed as they ascend the marble steps.

Gatsby throws off his coat and loosens his tie. He bounds up the steps, eager to step into the polished light.

Shane vanishes and Gatsby catches me up in a close embrace. I disapprove, but I don’t let him know it. I let him tread on my feet, and I tell him he’s perfect.

Bred of farmers and lumberjacks and sailors and laborers and marauding industrialists, Gatsby has much to forget to realize his vision of grace. The steps are only the means to this end.

Now he is dancing, now he is convinced of his own beauty.

At last, tired and thirsty, Gatsby steps off the back side of the pavilion and into the potluck. There are long tables covered with food. Coolers with bottled drinks. Red-checked cloths, fake flower centerpieces and candles. Paper plates and plastic forks, paper napkins, plastic cups. All in the dark under the three-quarter moon.

In the reflected glow of the pavilion, Gatsby takes up a plate and forgives himself for loving the coleslaw.