Tango is all about connection, they say, and the first thing to connect with is your body.
I read Woman: An Intimate Geography several years ago. Written by a New York Times science writer, the book was more than 400 pages. For a week I couldn’t put it down.
“Get a load of that!” I’d say to myself. “Wow! Can you imagine? That’s really something,” I’d say. The creatures described were wondrous beasts, their physiology beyond imagining.
I wasn’t trying to connect with my body but others' brains. A yen for intellectual camaraderie had led me to think that reading the same book would give a group of strangers something in common.
I found no point of connection with the women in the group, nor with the beings described in the book.
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
Ah, much better now.
Did I mention that it was 5 degrees Fahrenheit (-15 Celsius) when I left Denver?
I am at a conference
You may have been to a conference before. Big exhibit hall, all the vendors showing their best bells and whistles. Lots of suits plying their trade with jokes and candy and PowerPoints and video. This conference is like that.
You need a strong stomach to handle it.
Take the exhibit hall. Row after row of vendors. Most have candy. One has brought in a tabletop oven and is baking chocolate chip cookies. The people paying their own way flock to the sweets. (Not me. I am on an expense account, and there is coconut mousse in the restaurant upstairs.)
Next up: Something dark and tired lying on a plate. A quick second look confirms it.
Eeek!
It is raw steak.
Not the nice, fresh thick steak you might find at a foodie convention. This meeting is for veterinarians.
Would you like to see our laser scalpel in action?
Eeek!
You need a strong stomach to handle it.
Take the exhibit hall. Row after row of vendors. Most have candy. One has brought in a tabletop oven and is baking chocolate chip cookies. The people paying their own way flock to the sweets. (Not me. I am on an expense account, and there is coconut mousse in the restaurant upstairs.)
Next up: Something dark and tired lying on a plate. A quick second look confirms it.
Eeek!
It is raw steak.
Not the nice, fresh thick steak you might find at a foodie convention. This meeting is for veterinarians.
Would you like to see our laser scalpel in action?
Eeek!
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
One-Word Note to Self on experimental use of natural foods to create fresh citrus scent in the tub (which, while commendably Green, certainly takes a
whole lot of lemons) which, after a 2-hour nap/soak, advances you along the cosmic path to compassion for all living things by rendering you painfully at one with the aquatic beings harvested and shipped to fine Mexican restaurants:
Seviche.
Seviche.
One Heart Cooks Up a Little Something
If you want something good to eat at my house, head for the bathroom.
In my kitchen, it’s slim, boring pickin’s: V-8, oatmeal, pickled hot peppers. A freezer-burned package of hamburger with one tablespoon missing. A handful of lemons left over from Christmas.
In the bathroom: Lemongrass. Sesame oil. Grapefruit. Rosemary. Almond oil. Pecan oil. Sea salt. Lavender and more lavender. Ginger and orange. Cloves.
Even the ants are confused.
For a few weeks this fall, they flocked to my bathtub. They congregated around the soap dish as if it were a picnic. Every day began and ended with mass murder.
The ants never attempted the ascent into the soap dish, and soon they stopped coming around altogether. Did the smell of ant-death overpower the fresh citrus scent? Did the ant-engineers finally convince the movers and shakers that they couldn’t haul that colossal bar of soap down their hidey-hole?
With the ants squared away, I love my bathroom. I love the scents. Dipping into this and then that. The spectrum of textures, opulent variations on the rich-and-silky theme. The surfeit, the indulgence. I spend hours in the bathroom every day.
Not so much in the kitchen. I drink a lot of V-8. Mix it with a can of beef broth and call it soup. Sometimes I go wild and fix a plate of walnuts and olives and pickled hot peppers.
I like to experiment. I like oatmeal seasoned with savory herbs and hot pepper. Someday soon I will like baked pudding made with sweet tamales in place of bread.
I like asking What if? I like changing one thing. I like crossing lines.
The line between kitchen and bath has always been fuzzy. The tales of the Arabian Nights are filled with women lounging in pools scented with flowers and herbs.
Some Italian women use olive oil to soften their skin. Some Native American women used bear fat. In the 1950s, American women used mayonnaise to condition their hair.
Eggs, oatmeal, honey, sugar, tea, cucumbers, yogurt—all of these have found their way into the bathroom.
I have lemons left over from Christmas. I also have pickled hot peppers.
In my kitchen, it’s slim, boring pickin’s: V-8, oatmeal, pickled hot peppers. A freezer-burned package of hamburger with one tablespoon missing. A handful of lemons left over from Christmas.
In the bathroom: Lemongrass. Sesame oil. Grapefruit. Rosemary. Almond oil. Pecan oil. Sea salt. Lavender and more lavender. Ginger and orange. Cloves.
Even the ants are confused.
For a few weeks this fall, they flocked to my bathtub. They congregated around the soap dish as if it were a picnic. Every day began and ended with mass murder.
The ants never attempted the ascent into the soap dish, and soon they stopped coming around altogether. Did the smell of ant-death overpower the fresh citrus scent? Did the ant-engineers finally convince the movers and shakers that they couldn’t haul that colossal bar of soap down their hidey-hole?
With the ants squared away, I love my bathroom. I love the scents. Dipping into this and then that. The spectrum of textures, opulent variations on the rich-and-silky theme. The surfeit, the indulgence. I spend hours in the bathroom every day.
Not so much in the kitchen. I drink a lot of V-8. Mix it with a can of beef broth and call it soup. Sometimes I go wild and fix a plate of walnuts and olives and pickled hot peppers.
I like to experiment. I like oatmeal seasoned with savory herbs and hot pepper. Someday soon I will like baked pudding made with sweet tamales in place of bread.
I like asking What if? I like changing one thing. I like crossing lines.
The line between kitchen and bath has always been fuzzy. The tales of the Arabian Nights are filled with women lounging in pools scented with flowers and herbs.
Some Italian women use olive oil to soften their skin. Some Native American women used bear fat. In the 1950s, American women used mayonnaise to condition their hair.
Eggs, oatmeal, honey, sugar, tea, cucumbers, yogurt—all of these have found their way into the bathroom.
I have lemons left over from Christmas. I also have pickled hot peppers.
Monday, January 14, 2008
Hello, UK'ers
I have an equal number of readers in England and Denver. Maybe it's time to take a tango field trip...!
When Confronted with the Irrational We Must Not Laugh
I believe that when confronted with the irrational, we must not laugh, even when laughter is richly deserved.
--Gary Shteyngart, Absurdistan
Friday, January 11, 2008
I Am a Tango Lesbian
I am a tango lesbian. This comes as a surprise, because I am normally quite straight. But I cannot deny that evidence and logic clearly point to it:
When it comes to tango, I am a lesbian.
Ladies like hugs, TeacherTom says again and again. (I don’t.) This move or that will make a woman’s heart go pitter-patter. (Not mine.) This move is excruciatingly sensual. (Yikes!) He instructs the women to throw our arms around the stranger standing beside us, to wrap our arms about his neck. When I resist, he smiles indulgently.
“Soon you will like it,” he says. (Fat chance.)
One teacher orchestrates a group grope in which, in an incantatory tone, he urges us to feel one another all over, caress the skin, knead the muscle, cup the neck, stroke the fingers and palm, the tender wrist, the soft underside of the arm. He instructs us to take one another into a full embrace, to inflate our lungs, feel the pressure of breasts pressing chest, feel our hearts beating through the thin barrier of clothes and muscle.
Ahem. I hate to break this up, but…
…give me a good, hearty handshake any day.
A handshake is cordial. You look the person in the eye and press the flesh firmly to say “You’re all right.” That’s a nice way to talk to a stranger.
I talk to strangers this way all the time.
For example, in my church, when they “pass the peace” (air kisses, a vague circle of arm around shoulders, the exchanging pleasantries and blessings), I stick out my hand.
“I shake,” I say.
My pew-mates assume some deep personal scar, but they have given up trying to fix me. After you have humiliated a few hug-bullies by straight-arming them in front of their friends, the rest get the message.
Once when I said, “I shake” to the person beside me, he began to twitch.
“I shake too,” he said.
We laughed together, and it felt like a hug.
Just to be clear: I hug whom I please. I throw my arms with abandon around most of the people in my family, the friends I’ve known 20+ years, people for whom I feel real affection.
And that’s not all!
At tango, I hug the ones who come at me with open arms, in keeping with the spirit of things. I hug the ones who expect it, whose feelings would be hurt if I didn’t.
I hug Glenlivet because we are litter-mates and I have no other litter-mates left and after a year of dancing, he feels like an old friend. Also he smells good. He has lovely manners. And though he looks like a teddy bear, he feels solid and real
A Glenlivet hug feels like a handshake: masculine and warm and personable. Cordial. A dance with Glenlivet is like a handshake that goes on for three minutes. It does not make my heart go pitter patter. Not much.
My heart goes pitter-patter for the dance. The music and flow. The lead is part of the fabric of the dance, as are my shoes and the floor.
One tango-philosopher told me that men and women join tango for the emotional and physical closeness.
I joined tango because I like to be alone. For all its vaunted connection, this is one solitary endeavor. The lead is alert, architecting the dance, navigating the floor. I am with him a million miles away, floating on the music, eyes shuttered on the world.
The lead is my conduit. I send my energy through him to get at the dance. My body connects, but my heart dances alone. It feels like Outer Space. Wide open. Quiet. There are stars.
I joined tango because this is some serious dancing.
I joined tango for the emotional and physical closeness with that inner-Outer Space.
I don’t find it sexy at all.
In the human social system, sexual cluelessness is more inscrutable and dangerous than lesbianism. At least people know what a lesbian is. Lesbianism bucks the system to get its own piece of the pie. Obliviousness says, “There’s pie?” One proposes subversion, the other, anarchy.
To domesticate the concept, I hitch it to mainstream language. It is the sense of things that matters, never mind the facts. Testing the line on my writer friends, I say: I am a tango lesbian.
“You can’t say that! The Merry Peri scolds. “What will the real lesbians say?”
“Are you?” Melinda asks, point-blank.
That raises an interesting question.
“If you take sex out of the equation, what is the quintessence of lesbianism?” I ask Emily, an out-and-out activist.
“It’s a political construct,” she says.
Now I’m confused.
Let’s just go with the line: I am a tango lesbian.
Here is another line: Tango is life.
If A then B?
There is only one way to find out:
Late, after a long night of dancing, lounging in the dark with a glass of wine, looking through the window at trees and the moon, I check in with my Self.
I like men quite well. I like lots of things about men in general, and I like several individual specimens.
Two in particular have stirred my blood steadily and long. Neither one is suitable. By force of habit I let all that flow by. Very Zen. Very practical. Don’t look in windows at what you can’t buy.
Still. They are the avatars of my desire.
When tango has made me feel an aversion for men, repugnance for close quarters, I use these avatars to check in with myself.
I reach out intuitively to one or the other. I let my mind dwell.
A small floodgate of longing swings open.
Ah.
I let the longing flow by.
This one is not suitable and never will be.
And yet
Ah.
Damn the fates.
Still.
In this moment, on the fulcrum of longing and misery brought on by a member of the opposite sex, I confirm my sexual identity.
When it comes to tango, I am a lesbian.
Ladies like hugs, TeacherTom says again and again. (I don’t.) This move or that will make a woman’s heart go pitter-patter. (Not mine.) This move is excruciatingly sensual. (Yikes!) He instructs the women to throw our arms around the stranger standing beside us, to wrap our arms about his neck. When I resist, he smiles indulgently.
“Soon you will like it,” he says. (Fat chance.)
One teacher orchestrates a group grope in which, in an incantatory tone, he urges us to feel one another all over, caress the skin, knead the muscle, cup the neck, stroke the fingers and palm, the tender wrist, the soft underside of the arm. He instructs us to take one another into a full embrace, to inflate our lungs, feel the pressure of breasts pressing chest, feel our hearts beating through the thin barrier of clothes and muscle.
Ahem. I hate to break this up, but…
…give me a good, hearty handshake any day.
A handshake is cordial. You look the person in the eye and press the flesh firmly to say “You’re all right.” That’s a nice way to talk to a stranger.
I talk to strangers this way all the time.
For example, in my church, when they “pass the peace” (air kisses, a vague circle of arm around shoulders, the exchanging pleasantries and blessings), I stick out my hand.
“I shake,” I say.
My pew-mates assume some deep personal scar, but they have given up trying to fix me. After you have humiliated a few hug-bullies by straight-arming them in front of their friends, the rest get the message.
Once when I said, “I shake” to the person beside me, he began to twitch.
“I shake too,” he said.
We laughed together, and it felt like a hug.
Just to be clear: I hug whom I please. I throw my arms with abandon around most of the people in my family, the friends I’ve known 20+ years, people for whom I feel real affection.
And that’s not all!
At tango, I hug the ones who come at me with open arms, in keeping with the spirit of things. I hug the ones who expect it, whose feelings would be hurt if I didn’t.
I hug Glenlivet because we are litter-mates and I have no other litter-mates left and after a year of dancing, he feels like an old friend. Also he smells good. He has lovely manners. And though he looks like a teddy bear, he feels solid and real
A Glenlivet hug feels like a handshake: masculine and warm and personable. Cordial. A dance with Glenlivet is like a handshake that goes on for three minutes. It does not make my heart go pitter patter. Not much.
My heart goes pitter-patter for the dance. The music and flow. The lead is part of the fabric of the dance, as are my shoes and the floor.
One tango-philosopher told me that men and women join tango for the emotional and physical closeness.
I joined tango because I like to be alone. For all its vaunted connection, this is one solitary endeavor. The lead is alert, architecting the dance, navigating the floor. I am with him a million miles away, floating on the music, eyes shuttered on the world.
The lead is my conduit. I send my energy through him to get at the dance. My body connects, but my heart dances alone. It feels like Outer Space. Wide open. Quiet. There are stars.
I joined tango because this is some serious dancing.
I joined tango for the emotional and physical closeness with that inner-Outer Space.
I don’t find it sexy at all.
In the human social system, sexual cluelessness is more inscrutable and dangerous than lesbianism. At least people know what a lesbian is. Lesbianism bucks the system to get its own piece of the pie. Obliviousness says, “There’s pie?” One proposes subversion, the other, anarchy.
To domesticate the concept, I hitch it to mainstream language. It is the sense of things that matters, never mind the facts. Testing the line on my writer friends, I say: I am a tango lesbian.
“You can’t say that! The Merry Peri scolds. “What will the real lesbians say?”
“Are you?” Melinda asks, point-blank.
That raises an interesting question.
“If you take sex out of the equation, what is the quintessence of lesbianism?” I ask Emily, an out-and-out activist.
“It’s a political construct,” she says.
Now I’m confused.
Let’s just go with the line: I am a tango lesbian.
Here is another line: Tango is life.
If A then B?
There is only one way to find out:
Late, after a long night of dancing, lounging in the dark with a glass of wine, looking through the window at trees and the moon, I check in with my Self.
I like men quite well. I like lots of things about men in general, and I like several individual specimens.
Two in particular have stirred my blood steadily and long. Neither one is suitable. By force of habit I let all that flow by. Very Zen. Very practical. Don’t look in windows at what you can’t buy.
Still. They are the avatars of my desire.
When tango has made me feel an aversion for men, repugnance for close quarters, I use these avatars to check in with myself.
I reach out intuitively to one or the other. I let my mind dwell.
A small floodgate of longing swings open.
Ah.
I let the longing flow by.
This one is not suitable and never will be.
And yet
Ah.
Damn the fates.
Still.
In this moment, on the fulcrum of longing and misery brought on by a member of the opposite sex, I confirm my sexual identity.
Wednesday, January 9, 2008
Monday, January 7, 2008
Sunday, January 6, 2008
Interstice
Who would you be without your story?
Who would I be without yours?
Which came first, the person or the story?
Which one authors the other?
Down with binary thinking! Or is a lie.
The opposite of Or is Vice-Versa.
(I believe in you my soul, the other I am must not abase itself to you,
And you must not be abased to the other. --Whitman)
Are you listening, One Heart? I am about to tell a new story
And listen to yours and (to the reader) yours.
Let us all tell-listen together.
I will tell-listen my story with you.
You, tell-listen too.
Who would I be without yours?
Which came first, the person or the story?
Which one authors the other?
Down with binary thinking! Or is a lie.
The opposite of Or is Vice-Versa.
(I believe in you my soul, the other I am must not abase itself to you,
And you must not be abased to the other. --Whitman)
Are you listening, One Heart? I am about to tell a new story
And listen to yours and (to the reader) yours.
Let us all tell-listen together.
I will tell-listen my story with you.
You, tell-listen too.
Saturday, January 5, 2008
Prologue: Tell-Listen
When a man makes up a story for his child,
He becomes a father and a child
Together, listening.
--Rumi
In the beginning was Story. For every story a soul. You are not conceived in the flesh but in story. The body is the temple where story and soul, like father and child, tell-listen together.
Let us all tell-listen together.
I will tell-listen my story with you.
You, tell-listen too.
He becomes a father and a child
Together, listening.
--Rumi
In the beginning was Story. For every story a soul. You are not conceived in the flesh but in story. The body is the temple where story and soul, like father and child, tell-listen together.
Let us all tell-listen together.
I will tell-listen my story with you.
You, tell-listen too.
Friday, January 4, 2008
Henri Burgson Does Tango
The tools of the mind become burdens when the environment which made them necessary no longer exists.
Henri Burgson
Henri Burgson
Thursday, January 3, 2008
Song of Myself
I praise myself and sing myself
And what I assume you shall assume
For every atom belonging to me
As good belongs to you.
Whitman
And what I assume you shall assume
For every atom belonging to me
As good belongs to you.
Whitman
Wednesday, January 2, 2008
Shhhhhh
Stop the words now.
Open the window in the center of your chest
and let the spirits fly in and out.
Rumi
Open the window in the center of your chest
and let the spirits fly in and out.
Rumi
Tuesday, January 1, 2008
Prayer for 2008
Let the beauty we love be what we do.
There are hundreds of ways to kneel and kiss the ground.
Rumi
There are hundreds of ways to kneel and kiss the ground.
Rumi
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