I get an email from one of The Five.
The Five are my favorite leads, the ones I can dance with when I'm too flaked-out to dance with anyone else. If I go to a milonga and dance only a couple of tandas all night, and it's with a couple of The Five, I go home happy.
I number them in the order in which I first danced with them. This one is Three-of-Five. You will have to keep them sorted from the six siblings.
Three says, Hi, I am in Florida.
!!!
So am I!
Got shoes?
Grrr.
Monday, March 31, 2008
Halfway to a Blessing
On Boomer's Booklist (boomersbooklist.blogspot.com), I read a quote from a tiny book called Springs of Japanese Wisdom:
"After 3 years even disaster can prove a blessing."
I have been in tango a year and a half.
Whoo-hoo!
"After 3 years even disaster can prove a blessing."
I have been in tango a year and a half.
Whoo-hoo!
One of These Things Is Not Like the Other
When Six-of-Six was a baby, we watched Sesame Street together. We played the games, acted the skits.
We especially liked the chef with the pies. This is old-old Sesame Street. The chef stands at the top of a flight of stairs. "12 Cream Pies!" he announces and falls down the stairs.
At one corner of our living room was a flight of three steps. At the top of the steps was a landing. At Six-of-Six's instruction, I would stand there. He would name a number. "Seven cream pies!" I would announce in my tres chic French accent, then tumble down the stairs.
"Your turn!" I'd say.
I swear I got twice as many turns as he did. Sweet young boys are tyrants. Big sisters are pushovers. For the child, there is something hilarious and sneakily satisfying about ordering the older sister to fall down the stairs. We loved it all--him bossing me, me taking his orders, falling and laughing in a welter of imaginary cream pies.
.... : )
Ahem. Let us move on to more serious things.
One of the games oft-played on Sesame Street is One of These Things Is Not Like the Other. You look at two items or pictures. You identify the differences. Here Bob is wearing a hat; there Cookie Monster has crumbs in his hair.
It's a standard exercise to teach observation skills. We did it on worksheets when I was in preschool. Mildly interesting. Easy. Very Important to develop Critical Thinking Skills, which America's Young People need in order to Compete in the Global Economy.
These kinds of games lead to other amusements: Six Degrees of Separation. Men Are from Mars, Women from Venus. Hannity and Colmes.
Children's games with a grown-up veneer.
What if we take this game to the next level? Move beyond observation to discernment? Teach ourselves something that would allow us to live well in the global village?
Imagine this: One of These Things Is Just Like the Other.
Six Degrees of Connection. Interplanetary Tango. Frog and Toad Together.
We especially liked the chef with the pies. This is old-old Sesame Street. The chef stands at the top of a flight of stairs. "12 Cream Pies!" he announces and falls down the stairs.
At one corner of our living room was a flight of three steps. At the top of the steps was a landing. At Six-of-Six's instruction, I would stand there. He would name a number. "Seven cream pies!" I would announce in my tres chic French accent, then tumble down the stairs.
"Your turn!" I'd say.
I swear I got twice as many turns as he did. Sweet young boys are tyrants. Big sisters are pushovers. For the child, there is something hilarious and sneakily satisfying about ordering the older sister to fall down the stairs. We loved it all--him bossing me, me taking his orders, falling and laughing in a welter of imaginary cream pies.
.... : )
Ahem. Let us move on to more serious things.
One of the games oft-played on Sesame Street is One of These Things Is Not Like the Other. You look at two items or pictures. You identify the differences. Here Bob is wearing a hat; there Cookie Monster has crumbs in his hair.
It's a standard exercise to teach observation skills. We did it on worksheets when I was in preschool. Mildly interesting. Easy. Very Important to develop Critical Thinking Skills, which America's Young People need in order to Compete in the Global Economy.
These kinds of games lead to other amusements: Six Degrees of Separation. Men Are from Mars, Women from Venus. Hannity and Colmes.
Children's games with a grown-up veneer.
What if we take this game to the next level? Move beyond observation to discernment? Teach ourselves something that would allow us to live well in the global village?
Imagine this: One of These Things Is Just Like the Other.
Six Degrees of Connection. Interplanetary Tango. Frog and Toad Together.
What You Can Learn from Reading the Dictionary
Cosmic is an adjective. The alternative form of cosmic is cosmical. (Not cosmological, which puts a "the study of..." twist on the term.)
The difference between cosmic and comic is .... s, a letter which looks like the line that divides (or does it join?) yin and yang.
Five-of-Six edits textbooks on Chinese and alternative medicine. I believe we should consult her on this.
The difference between cosmic and comic is .... s, a letter which looks like the line that divides (or does it join?) yin and yang.
Five-of-Six edits textbooks on Chinese and alternative medicine. I believe we should consult her on this.
40 Degrees of Separation
It is 28 degrees (F) in Denver right this minute.
68 degrees where I sit.
According to Weather Underground, Denver will reach about 45 degrees today.
83 here.
40 degrees of difference, but still we have something in common! Both cities have a 30 percent chance of precipitation today.
Summer showers here.
Denver: Snow.
68 degrees where I sit.
According to Weather Underground, Denver will reach about 45 degrees today.
83 here.
40 degrees of difference, but still we have something in common! Both cities have a 30 percent chance of precipitation today.
Summer showers here.
Denver: Snow.
Saturday, March 29, 2008
I NEED MY SHOES!!!!!!
What was I thinking? Am I insane?
I NEED MY SHOES!!!!
There is a big mirror in my hotel room. There is a CVC store not far from here. I am sure it sells duct tape. I could tape the soles of my shoes and dance on this carpet, even if it is textured in a pattern of blocks in relief, alternating above and below grade. At this moment I'd go for it. If I were careful I would not break my ankle.
WHERE ARE MY SHOES???
In the closet at home, thousands of miles from here, where I banished them four nights ago, after a disastrous tango night. I had considered bringing them along on this trip. But not after last Tuesday night. Good riddance!
In a punishing mood I dropped the shoebag on the floor, pushed it with my foot into the closet. HA! That's the way to show those shoes who's the boss!
I would have liked to give the shoebag a swift, hard kick. That's the thing to do! But ... I am at a loss. I would only be doing it because I have the impression that's what people do, and I wouldn't do it well, lacking both coordination and the ability to move quickly, and so I could go through the motion in a careful, slow, self-aware way. It's not convincing.
Sometimes when I am in a punishing mood, I listen to rock music with a powerful, driving beat. I believe this is what anger feels like. Sometimes when I am frustrated or anxious, I move with a burst of tightly focused energy. For example, I might type hard and fast for a few minutes, or scrub the bathtub vigorously. These actions feel good in my muscles.
I think that I understand why people become angry, to feel that forcefulness, and why they act violently, because the release of vigorous motion of their muscles soothes them. This is channeling power: receiving it and sending it forth. I do this every time I breathe. I am aware that I do it every time I breathe mindfully. Of what am I aware? Cosmic power, passing through.
Perhaps this is the allure of anger, the urge to tap into Power. In the three big religions of the western world, divine anger surely vies with divine love for center stage. Perhaps engaging in anger is one way people claw their way closer to the Divine.
It is commonly believed this is true of dance as well.
I NEED MY SHOES!!!
I NEED MY SHOES!!!!
There is a big mirror in my hotel room. There is a CVC store not far from here. I am sure it sells duct tape. I could tape the soles of my shoes and dance on this carpet, even if it is textured in a pattern of blocks in relief, alternating above and below grade. At this moment I'd go for it. If I were careful I would not break my ankle.
WHERE ARE MY SHOES???
In the closet at home, thousands of miles from here, where I banished them four nights ago, after a disastrous tango night. I had considered bringing them along on this trip. But not after last Tuesday night. Good riddance!
In a punishing mood I dropped the shoebag on the floor, pushed it with my foot into the closet. HA! That's the way to show those shoes who's the boss!
I would have liked to give the shoebag a swift, hard kick. That's the thing to do! But ... I am at a loss. I would only be doing it because I have the impression that's what people do, and I wouldn't do it well, lacking both coordination and the ability to move quickly, and so I could go through the motion in a careful, slow, self-aware way. It's not convincing.
Sometimes when I am in a punishing mood, I listen to rock music with a powerful, driving beat. I believe this is what anger feels like. Sometimes when I am frustrated or anxious, I move with a burst of tightly focused energy. For example, I might type hard and fast for a few minutes, or scrub the bathtub vigorously. These actions feel good in my muscles.
I think that I understand why people become angry, to feel that forcefulness, and why they act violently, because the release of vigorous motion of their muscles soothes them. This is channeling power: receiving it and sending it forth. I do this every time I breathe. I am aware that I do it every time I breathe mindfully. Of what am I aware? Cosmic power, passing through.
Perhaps this is the allure of anger, the urge to tap into Power. In the three big religions of the western world, divine anger surely vies with divine love for center stage. Perhaps engaging in anger is one way people claw their way closer to the Divine.
It is commonly believed this is true of dance as well.
I NEED MY SHOES!!!
Friday, March 28, 2008
Note to Self Riding Hotel Elevator, Polished Marble Floor and Mirrored Walls
A boleo done well is a beautiful thing, no doubt about it, and that cool new hip action Grisha showed you last lesson certainly gives it a fine, fancy flourish that is lovely to see in the round but is perhaps difficult to explain as the doors unexpectedly open.
The Flash by Italo Calvino
It happened one day, at a crossroads, in the middle of a crowd, people coming and going.
I stopped, blinked; I understood nothing. Nothing, nothing about anything; I didn’t understand the reasons for things or for people, it was all senseless, absurd. And I started to laugh.
What I found strange at the time was that I’d never realized before. That up until then I had accepted everything: traffic lights, cars, posters, uniforms, monuments, things completely detached from any sense of the world, accepted them as if there were some necessity, some chain of cause and effect that bound them together.
Then the laugh died in my throat, I blushed, ashamed. I waved to get people’s attention and “Stop a second!” I shouted, “there’s something wrong! Everything’s wrong! We’re doing the absurdist things! This can’t be the right way! Where will it end?”
People stopped around me, sized me up, curious. I stood there in the middle of them, waving my arms, desperate to explain myself, to have them share the flash of insight that had suddenly enlightened me: and I said nothing. I said nothing because the moment I raised my arms and opened my mouth, my great revelation had been as it were swallowed up again and the words had come out any old how, on impulse.
“So?” people asked, “what do you mean? Everything’s in its place. All is as it should be. Everything is the result of something else. Everything fits in with everything else. We can’t see anything absurd or wrong!”
And I stood there, lost, because as I saw it now everything had fallen into place again and everything seemed natural, traffic lights, monuments, uniforms, towerblocks, tramlines, beggars, processions; yet this didn’t calm me down, it tormented me.
“I’m sorry,” I answered. “Perhaps it was me that was wrong. It seemed that way. But everything’s fine. I’m sorry,” and I made off amid their angry glares.
Yet, even now, every time (often) that I find I don’t understand something, then, instinctively, I’m filled with the hope that perhaps this will be my moment again, perhaps once again I shall understand nothing, I shall grasp that other knowledge, found and lost in an instant.
From: Numbers in the Dark, a collection of short-short stories by Italo Calvino
I stopped, blinked; I understood nothing. Nothing, nothing about anything; I didn’t understand the reasons for things or for people, it was all senseless, absurd. And I started to laugh.
What I found strange at the time was that I’d never realized before. That up until then I had accepted everything: traffic lights, cars, posters, uniforms, monuments, things completely detached from any sense of the world, accepted them as if there were some necessity, some chain of cause and effect that bound them together.
Then the laugh died in my throat, I blushed, ashamed. I waved to get people’s attention and “Stop a second!” I shouted, “there’s something wrong! Everything’s wrong! We’re doing the absurdist things! This can’t be the right way! Where will it end?”
People stopped around me, sized me up, curious. I stood there in the middle of them, waving my arms, desperate to explain myself, to have them share the flash of insight that had suddenly enlightened me: and I said nothing. I said nothing because the moment I raised my arms and opened my mouth, my great revelation had been as it were swallowed up again and the words had come out any old how, on impulse.
“So?” people asked, “what do you mean? Everything’s in its place. All is as it should be. Everything is the result of something else. Everything fits in with everything else. We can’t see anything absurd or wrong!”
And I stood there, lost, because as I saw it now everything had fallen into place again and everything seemed natural, traffic lights, monuments, uniforms, towerblocks, tramlines, beggars, processions; yet this didn’t calm me down, it tormented me.
“I’m sorry,” I answered. “Perhaps it was me that was wrong. It seemed that way. But everything’s fine. I’m sorry,” and I made off amid their angry glares.
Yet, even now, every time (often) that I find I don’t understand something, then, instinctively, I’m filled with the hope that perhaps this will be my moment again, perhaps once again I shall understand nothing, I shall grasp that other knowledge, found and lost in an instant.
From: Numbers in the Dark, a collection of short-short stories by Italo Calvino
Thursday, March 27, 2008
Mommies with Soft Voices / Note to Self / I Hope
Mommies with Soft Voices
I admire mommies who use soft voices. You are in Paris, at the Louvre. You see a woman, well-dressed and composed, curly-haired angel in tow. The angel makes a move—to poke the Mona Lisa in the eye, let’s say, with a wet, sticky finger. Maman bends low, strokes the child’s hair, whispers a word. The child allows her wet, sticky finger to be wiped on a fresh linen hanky. Happily she clasps maman’s hand. She cocks her head just like maman. What a pretty still-life they make, gazing at the Mona Lisa gazing back at them.
You can always be the maman to yourself that you wished you had.
Sure. Why not? I give it a try.
No, no sweetie, no tango now, I say to my reflection in the mirror.
In 30 minutes I am due to network with a room full of management consultants. These are big fish in my little pond; it’s my job to go fishing among them for ideas and authors.
But…
There’s a big mirror and the bathroom is spacious. I have no mirrors at home. I strike a pose.
No, no sweetie, I say. Change clothes now.
I take off my shoes. In stocking feet on slick tile, I can pivot.
Oops! Almost. If I adjust my alignment …
No, no sweetie, I say. Get dressed now.
One more. No, wait. One more.
Now! sweetie, I say.
Pulling things off and on, I power up the laptop. It contains my full collection of tango music—all three CDs of it. I put it on shuffle.
Doing makeup and hair, I play Name That Orchestra! This one is Canaro, this one DiSarli, this one Pugliese.
Are you ready yet, sweetie? Inner Maman gives my hair a little tug.
I do not want to go. I don’t like meeting people. I would rather stay here and …
Now, dammit, sweetie!
* * *
Note to Self Riding Hotel Elevator, Polished Marble Floor and Mirrored Walls
A boleo done well is a beautiful thing, no doubt about it, and that cool new hip action Grisha showed you last night certainly gives it a fine, fancy flourish that is lovely to see in the round but difficult to explain as the doors unexpectedly open.
* * *
I am coming off an awful night of tango. Two hours ago, 35,000 feet over Nebraska, I swore off tango for two weeks. It helps that I am out of town without shoes.
* * *
I am right where I have always been. I start from so far behind that my best effort only brings me up to the starting gate.
How do you know when to quit? How do you know when it’s time to say with a self-satisfied air, “I gave it my best shot. I’m done now”?
I would gladly keep at it if there were any real reason to hope I might one day dance well.
Well, there it is. Hope: another name for stubborn. Springing eternal, it won’t let me cut my losses. You wouldn’t believe the ridiculous, worn-out hopes I can’t shake. I still hope Barbara will walk through the door. I am not stupid; I know the rules. Still, my hope won’t let it go. It could happen. When pigs fly. When I dance well.
No. I didn’t mean that literally. Not that last bit. That would be stupid. I am not stupid. I hope.
* * *
Bah. Springtime, the season to miss Barbara. That is sooo last year. I am tired of this cycle. What portion of old grief is habit? What of hope?
* * *
I am discouraged, but not fatally so. It is just that I thought I was making good progress, and on Sunday night I felt I danced very well, and on Tuesday I could do nothing right, and so I believe I have been deceiving myself.
Also, I am not good at being coached. When I hear, “This is what you need to do differently,” I hear “You’ve got it all wrong again” and “Give it up, you miserable, incompetent wreck who will never amount to anything and by the way, sweetie, have you noticed you are having a really bad hair day?”
What is the “it” I am to give up? Hope.
I am mostly only this way with physical things. I can take criticism of my writing—seek it out, in fact, in critique groups and workshops. But when it comes to shooting pool, say, or kissing, I am not a good sport.
Keith was an avid coach. He loved teaching and sharing his discoveries and inventions, and he loved me. But I could not play pool with him. And FYI, guys: when it comes to coaching a woman on kissing, good luck to you.
It is a truism that women tend to take criticism to heart much more than men do. This seems unfair. I believe it’s time for the sisters to stand up and take action.
Are you with me?
Go on now, sisters. Be brave!
OK. I’ll go first.
I may suck at tango. I may have terrible hair days. I may lack the spatial reasoning and small motor coordination required to knock your stupid balls around. And about the other (courtesy Mary Chapin Carpenter): Shut up and kiss me!
I am not a worthless, incompetent wreck. I hope.
* * *
I am hurrying to meet with the management consultants, striding through soft, pretty, oceanside air.
After a day on a plane, it feels good to stand up straight, to take long, stretchy steps. It feels like hiking, like swinging along the open road.
That elevator ride perked me right up!
In my head I am butchering Pugliese. He is OK with that. He was a socialist as well as a musician. I believe he would prefer a person humming badly to no humming at all. Music for all!
Last time I traveled Grisha said, try this: Walk like a dancer.
I put my cool new hip action into it. La Jumba!
Everything is illuminated. There is spring in each step, eternal.
I hope.
I admire mommies who use soft voices. You are in Paris, at the Louvre. You see a woman, well-dressed and composed, curly-haired angel in tow. The angel makes a move—to poke the Mona Lisa in the eye, let’s say, with a wet, sticky finger. Maman bends low, strokes the child’s hair, whispers a word. The child allows her wet, sticky finger to be wiped on a fresh linen hanky. Happily she clasps maman’s hand. She cocks her head just like maman. What a pretty still-life they make, gazing at the Mona Lisa gazing back at them.
You can always be the maman to yourself that you wished you had.
Sure. Why not? I give it a try.
No, no sweetie, no tango now, I say to my reflection in the mirror.
In 30 minutes I am due to network with a room full of management consultants. These are big fish in my little pond; it’s my job to go fishing among them for ideas and authors.
But…
There’s a big mirror and the bathroom is spacious. I have no mirrors at home. I strike a pose.
No, no sweetie, I say. Change clothes now.
I take off my shoes. In stocking feet on slick tile, I can pivot.
Oops! Almost. If I adjust my alignment …
No, no sweetie, I say. Get dressed now.
One more. No, wait. One more.
Now! sweetie, I say.
Pulling things off and on, I power up the laptop. It contains my full collection of tango music—all three CDs of it. I put it on shuffle.
Doing makeup and hair, I play Name That Orchestra! This one is Canaro, this one DiSarli, this one Pugliese.
Are you ready yet, sweetie? Inner Maman gives my hair a little tug.
I do not want to go. I don’t like meeting people. I would rather stay here and …
Now, dammit, sweetie!
* * *
Note to Self Riding Hotel Elevator, Polished Marble Floor and Mirrored Walls
A boleo done well is a beautiful thing, no doubt about it, and that cool new hip action Grisha showed you last night certainly gives it a fine, fancy flourish that is lovely to see in the round but difficult to explain as the doors unexpectedly open.
* * *
I am coming off an awful night of tango. Two hours ago, 35,000 feet over Nebraska, I swore off tango for two weeks. It helps that I am out of town without shoes.
* * *
I am right where I have always been. I start from so far behind that my best effort only brings me up to the starting gate.
How do you know when to quit? How do you know when it’s time to say with a self-satisfied air, “I gave it my best shot. I’m done now”?
I would gladly keep at it if there were any real reason to hope I might one day dance well.
Well, there it is. Hope: another name for stubborn. Springing eternal, it won’t let me cut my losses. You wouldn’t believe the ridiculous, worn-out hopes I can’t shake. I still hope Barbara will walk through the door. I am not stupid; I know the rules. Still, my hope won’t let it go. It could happen. When pigs fly. When I dance well.
No. I didn’t mean that literally. Not that last bit. That would be stupid. I am not stupid. I hope.
* * *
Bah. Springtime, the season to miss Barbara. That is sooo last year. I am tired of this cycle. What portion of old grief is habit? What of hope?
* * *
I am discouraged, but not fatally so. It is just that I thought I was making good progress, and on Sunday night I felt I danced very well, and on Tuesday I could do nothing right, and so I believe I have been deceiving myself.
Also, I am not good at being coached. When I hear, “This is what you need to do differently,” I hear “You’ve got it all wrong again” and “Give it up, you miserable, incompetent wreck who will never amount to anything and by the way, sweetie, have you noticed you are having a really bad hair day?”
What is the “it” I am to give up? Hope.
I am mostly only this way with physical things. I can take criticism of my writing—seek it out, in fact, in critique groups and workshops. But when it comes to shooting pool, say, or kissing, I am not a good sport.
Keith was an avid coach. He loved teaching and sharing his discoveries and inventions, and he loved me. But I could not play pool with him. And FYI, guys: when it comes to coaching a woman on kissing, good luck to you.
It is a truism that women tend to take criticism to heart much more than men do. This seems unfair. I believe it’s time for the sisters to stand up and take action.
Are you with me?
Go on now, sisters. Be brave!
OK. I’ll go first.
I may suck at tango. I may have terrible hair days. I may lack the spatial reasoning and small motor coordination required to knock your stupid balls around. And about the other (courtesy Mary Chapin Carpenter): Shut up and kiss me!
I am not a worthless, incompetent wreck. I hope.
* * *
I am hurrying to meet with the management consultants, striding through soft, pretty, oceanside air.
After a day on a plane, it feels good to stand up straight, to take long, stretchy steps. It feels like hiking, like swinging along the open road.
That elevator ride perked me right up!
In my head I am butchering Pugliese. He is OK with that. He was a socialist as well as a musician. I believe he would prefer a person humming badly to no humming at all. Music for all!
Last time I traveled Grisha said, try this: Walk like a dancer.
I put my cool new hip action into it. La Jumba!
Everything is illuminated. There is spring in each step, eternal.
I hope.
Airline Movies
On an airplane at 37,000 feet, a drunk three rows up howling—howling!—over a movie about chipmunks.
No matter. I have Pugliese plugged in my ears and a movie of my own in my head.
Two movies, in fact:
Sunday night at the Avalon. It is a Lake Woebegon night: Everything is exceptional. Magical, even. Every man is gorgeous and a fabulous lead--even the beginners. I am wearing a pretty, lightweight frock that dances with me. DJ Donna’s oddball mix sings out, You go, girl! Kari has been away for weeks; tonight we catch up on gossip. Twice I take off my shoes; two favorite leads convince me to put them back on. By Monday morning I am replete; one stiff, sore, happy girl.
Tuesday night at the Turnverein. At 7, I practice with a classmate; at 9:30 I have a lesson with Grisha. In between I hide in the ladies room, tucked in a corner of the purple velvet fainting couch. I am having a bad hair, bad clothing, bad face day, with a bad case of nerves to boot. In the lesson, I can’t do anything right. My arms are too tense, my back too weak. I walk oddly. I run away with the milonga. My timing is so far off Grisha tries a new leading technique: He says, “Go!”
La Jumba on the iPod, round and round. Movies in my head, round and round.
No matter. I have Pugliese plugged in my ears and a movie of my own in my head.
Two movies, in fact:
Sunday night at the Avalon. It is a Lake Woebegon night: Everything is exceptional. Magical, even. Every man is gorgeous and a fabulous lead--even the beginners. I am wearing a pretty, lightweight frock that dances with me. DJ Donna’s oddball mix sings out, You go, girl! Kari has been away for weeks; tonight we catch up on gossip. Twice I take off my shoes; two favorite leads convince me to put them back on. By Monday morning I am replete; one stiff, sore, happy girl.
Tuesday night at the Turnverein. At 7, I practice with a classmate; at 9:30 I have a lesson with Grisha. In between I hide in the ladies room, tucked in a corner of the purple velvet fainting couch. I am having a bad hair, bad clothing, bad face day, with a bad case of nerves to boot. In the lesson, I can’t do anything right. My arms are too tense, my back too weak. I walk oddly. I run away with the milonga. My timing is so far off Grisha tries a new leading technique: He says, “Go!”
La Jumba on the iPod, round and round. Movies in my head, round and round.
Monday, March 17, 2008
Lesson from the Irish Peace
from The Cure at Troy
Seamus Heaney
Human beings suffer,
They torture one another,
They get hurt and get hard.
No poem or play or song
Can fully right a wrong
Inflicted and endured.
The innocent in gaols
Beat on their bars together.
A hunger-striker’s father
Stands in the graveyard dumb.
The police widow in veils
Faints at the funeral home.
History says, Don’t hope
On this side of the grave.
But then, once in a lifetime
The longed-for tidal wave
Of justice can rise up,
And hope and history rhyme.
So hope for a great sea-change
On the far side of revenge.
Believe that a further shore
Is reachable from here.
Believe in miracles
And cures and healing wells.
Call miracle self-healing:
The utter, self-revealing
Double-take of feeling.
If there’s fire on the mountain
Or lightning and storm
And a god speaks from the sky
That means someone is hearing
The outcry and the birth-cry
Of new life at its term.
It means once in a lifetime
That justice can rise up
And hope and history rhyme.
Seamus Heaney
Human beings suffer,
They torture one another,
They get hurt and get hard.
No poem or play or song
Can fully right a wrong
Inflicted and endured.
The innocent in gaols
Beat on their bars together.
A hunger-striker’s father
Stands in the graveyard dumb.
The police widow in veils
Faints at the funeral home.
History says, Don’t hope
On this side of the grave.
But then, once in a lifetime
The longed-for tidal wave
Of justice can rise up,
And hope and history rhyme.
So hope for a great sea-change
On the far side of revenge.
Believe that a further shore
Is reachable from here.
Believe in miracles
And cures and healing wells.
Call miracle self-healing:
The utter, self-revealing
Double-take of feeling.
If there’s fire on the mountain
Or lightning and storm
And a god speaks from the sky
That means someone is hearing
The outcry and the birth-cry
Of new life at its term.
It means once in a lifetime
That justice can rise up
And hope and history rhyme.
Sunday, March 16, 2008
Tango Smackdown! Part 2 Game Set Grisha
It is the late part of early evening. I am standing alone in the dim light at the edge of the dance floor, waiting.
I am breathing. I am sending my awareness to the parts of my body that plague my dance most: hips, axis, center. And stomach, where the butterflies are nervously milling. It won’t take much to stampede them.
This is a cold, lonely, anxious moment, waiting for the next dance to begin. In milonga or practica, group class or private lesson, it is the same: You stand alone, and you don’t know what’s coming.
This game, Tango Smackdown!, has taken a turn. It started as a lark, harmless mischief. Writers are always engaging in wordplay, throwing words together just for the joy of what happens. That’s what I have been doing with the music. But Grisha is as earnest about music as I am about writing. He knows something, and he has developed a line of thought around it. With my lighthearted game I have presented him with a teachable moment. He wants to demonstrate his line of thought, he wants me to get it. Now I am out of my depth. I don’t know where he is going. I don’t know if I can keep up.
I like this. I am an adventurer of the moment! I am eager to see what comes next. I like learning new things. I like people whose passion for something compels them to share it with others. And I am cold and lonely and anxious.
Hurry up, Grisha.
One year ago today, when I was striving to be invisible in the embrace despite my inability to totter more than two steps without falling onto my partner’s chest, Gaia whispered something to me.
A few minutes later, I found myself dancing with Glenlivet.
I reported what Gaia had said. “I am going to be a badass dancer.” I laughed, delighted by the absurdity of it.
“You already are,” Glenlivet replied.
He was not lying, really. He was doing that affirmation thing: Say your aspiration as if it were true and before you know it—voila! Also, he is a big guy. It’s possible that my falling over felt to him like a strong presence in the embrace.
I am not enamored of primitive Africa. Masks and drums and savannahs and such. The animals are OK, if you like that sort of thing. The little literature I’ve read is like all folk-lit: a mixed bag. I am especially not into primitive styles of music. With a nod to ancestral influences, I’ll take Motown any day of the week.
So when Grisha says “Bach … cantata … African drums” I don’t expect much.
He hurries to get into the embrace as the music begins.
Badass isn’t the metaphor Gaia normally used to convey the quality of a follower’s movement.
Normally she used the word lioness.
I cannot describe this music Grisha has chosen. There are voices: this is a cantata, vocal music. There are drums. There is something more, something flowing. It is not primitive. It is the music you might hear if you could hear music in outer space.
There is one thing I aspire to in tango. I see it in Julio and Corina, Demian Garcia and Carolina Bonaventura, Cecilia Gonzalez and Federico Farfaro, and a host of other performers. Locally I see it in Nina and Grisha and Nick and Tara and Brian and Deb. I see it in Geno, whomever his partner may be. David Hodgson is a master of it—in his own way, of course.
It is this:
Two strong entities facing off, entering in. Creating a shared pool of power, tapping into it. Taking what rises, shaping it, offering it up to the next moment. Oppositional but not adversarial. Well-matched. Each giving as good as they get.
Once I saw David Hodgson and Glenlivet dance a few steps. They were royal, like elephants. Each brought all his power to bear. When they moved, you felt they carried the world.
Something about the lioness metaphor bothers me. What is it? Love the color. Love the taste in male partners—arrogant, with great hair. Love the coiled power.
But, except when stalking zebras, chasing them down and tearing their throats out … what does a lioness actually do? She appears passive. Is she smart? Does she dream? Does she ever stand up to the lion?
If a lioness danced tango, would she be a badass?
With the first note of the music, I take leave of my senses.
Normally when I close my eyes I see nothing. Now I see darkness quite clearly. It is substantive as plate glass; it is deep and clear as space; it is pitch-black.
There is someone on the other side of the embrace. I recognize the quality of the intent, the shape of the movements, the size of the steps, the degree of pressure in the arm across my back. But this is not Grisha my teacher.
Grisha my teacher is scary. It is his job to throw the unexpected at me. I don’t trust him, I don’t trust my ability to catch what he throws. Every second I dance with Grisha my teacher, I teeter on the edge of disaster.
But now I am not dancing with Grisha my teacher. Now I am dancing with Grisha the Fabulous Lead.
One mark of a fabulous lead is that he dances to the follower’s skill level. Grisha is doing that, he has made us well-matched. And I am right there—I could not be more present right there—than I am right this minute.
Grisha is a musician. When he dances, he becomes a body of music.
People go moony over the tango trance. You can have all that you want. Why would I want to float off in a dream when I could stay grounded right here, wrestling an angel?
When Grisha advances, he is tracking me down. When he retreats I advance upon him. I stalk him. I stalk him!
I have no axis or wings, no technique. I cannot feel my feet. My butterflies have fainted. My center is nowhere near my third rib; it is lodged right where it belongs. It is bearing down with serious intent.
Am I a lioness? A badass? No.
I feel my partner’s power coming my way. I feel my power rise up to meet it. The music sings. We are a body of music in motion.
I am breathing. I am sending my awareness to the parts of my body that plague my dance most: hips, axis, center. And stomach, where the butterflies are nervously milling. It won’t take much to stampede them.
This is a cold, lonely, anxious moment, waiting for the next dance to begin. In milonga or practica, group class or private lesson, it is the same: You stand alone, and you don’t know what’s coming.
This game, Tango Smackdown!, has taken a turn. It started as a lark, harmless mischief. Writers are always engaging in wordplay, throwing words together just for the joy of what happens. That’s what I have been doing with the music. But Grisha is as earnest about music as I am about writing. He knows something, and he has developed a line of thought around it. With my lighthearted game I have presented him with a teachable moment. He wants to demonstrate his line of thought, he wants me to get it. Now I am out of my depth. I don’t know where he is going. I don’t know if I can keep up.
I like this. I am an adventurer of the moment! I am eager to see what comes next. I like learning new things. I like people whose passion for something compels them to share it with others. And I am cold and lonely and anxious.
Hurry up, Grisha.
* * *
One year ago today, when I was striving to be invisible in the embrace despite my inability to totter more than two steps without falling onto my partner’s chest, Gaia whispered something to me.
A few minutes later, I found myself dancing with Glenlivet.
I reported what Gaia had said. “I am going to be a badass dancer.” I laughed, delighted by the absurdity of it.
“You already are,” Glenlivet replied.
He was not lying, really. He was doing that affirmation thing: Say your aspiration as if it were true and before you know it—voila! Also, he is a big guy. It’s possible that my falling over felt to him like a strong presence in the embrace.
* * *
I am not enamored of primitive Africa. Masks and drums and savannahs and such. The animals are OK, if you like that sort of thing. The little literature I’ve read is like all folk-lit: a mixed bag. I am especially not into primitive styles of music. With a nod to ancestral influences, I’ll take Motown any day of the week.
So when Grisha says “Bach … cantata … African drums” I don’t expect much.
He hurries to get into the embrace as the music begins.
* * *
Badass isn’t the metaphor Gaia normally used to convey the quality of a follower’s movement.
Normally she used the word lioness.
* * *
I cannot describe this music Grisha has chosen. There are voices: this is a cantata, vocal music. There are drums. There is something more, something flowing. It is not primitive. It is the music you might hear if you could hear music in outer space.
* * *
There is one thing I aspire to in tango. I see it in Julio and Corina, Demian Garcia and Carolina Bonaventura, Cecilia Gonzalez and Federico Farfaro, and a host of other performers. Locally I see it in Nina and Grisha and Nick and Tara and Brian and Deb. I see it in Geno, whomever his partner may be. David Hodgson is a master of it—in his own way, of course.
It is this:
Two strong entities facing off, entering in. Creating a shared pool of power, tapping into it. Taking what rises, shaping it, offering it up to the next moment. Oppositional but not adversarial. Well-matched. Each giving as good as they get.
Once I saw David Hodgson and Glenlivet dance a few steps. They were royal, like elephants. Each brought all his power to bear. When they moved, you felt they carried the world.
* * *
Something about the lioness metaphor bothers me. What is it? Love the color. Love the taste in male partners—arrogant, with great hair. Love the coiled power.
But, except when stalking zebras, chasing them down and tearing their throats out … what does a lioness actually do? She appears passive. Is she smart? Does she dream? Does she ever stand up to the lion?
If a lioness danced tango, would she be a badass?
* * *
With the first note of the music, I take leave of my senses.
Normally when I close my eyes I see nothing. Now I see darkness quite clearly. It is substantive as plate glass; it is deep and clear as space; it is pitch-black.
There is someone on the other side of the embrace. I recognize the quality of the intent, the shape of the movements, the size of the steps, the degree of pressure in the arm across my back. But this is not Grisha my teacher.
Grisha my teacher is scary. It is his job to throw the unexpected at me. I don’t trust him, I don’t trust my ability to catch what he throws. Every second I dance with Grisha my teacher, I teeter on the edge of disaster.
But now I am not dancing with Grisha my teacher. Now I am dancing with Grisha the Fabulous Lead.
One mark of a fabulous lead is that he dances to the follower’s skill level. Grisha is doing that, he has made us well-matched. And I am right there—I could not be more present right there—than I am right this minute.
Grisha is a musician. When he dances, he becomes a body of music.
People go moony over the tango trance. You can have all that you want. Why would I want to float off in a dream when I could stay grounded right here, wrestling an angel?
When Grisha advances, he is tracking me down. When he retreats I advance upon him. I stalk him. I stalk him!
I have no axis or wings, no technique. I cannot feel my feet. My butterflies have fainted. My center is nowhere near my third rib; it is lodged right where it belongs. It is bearing down with serious intent.
Am I a lioness? A badass? No.
I feel my partner’s power coming my way. I feel my power rise up to meet it. The music sings. We are a body of music in motion.
Tango Smackdown! Part 1
(A follow-up to Five Little Pieces)
* * *
Having rung the bell, I wait for Grisha to answer.
He opens the door. I follow him across the small studio.
A handful of CDs cases clack in my bag.
Heh-heh.
* * *
Grisha makes tea while I put on my shoes. I am always losing my blood sugar, and tea thick with honey brings it back fast.
Shoes on, tea made, Grisha asks, What would you like to dance to tonight?
Well, I say, reaching for my bag …
* * *
In my practice time, I have been experimenting with Baroque music. Grisha says it is the kind of music that is closest to tango. Something about the complicated structures.
I don’t hear it. I hear only that Germanic beat, so regular you could set an atomic watch to it. After a while, it wears on my nerves. I don’t see how you can dance tango within that four-square, tyrannical beat.
I enjoy Baroque music. I know it well--the greatest hits anyway. Vivaldi’s Four Seasons, Bach’s Brandenburg Concertos. These are the kinds of pieces you play when you are doing double duty as a violinist and viola-ist in the eighth grade chamber music ensemble, cobbled together from the stragglers left behind when the rest of the orchestra moved on to high school.
Our little band of string-sawers played like nobody’s business. This Bach was fun stuff: easy and quick. Our conductor dug up a harpsichord, brought it to school. She let us look under its hood. She played it with us. We were brilliant!
It was the best season of my six-years-too-long violin career. I was an orchestral cross-dresser, a viola-ist trapped in the violin section. For one brief, shining moment I lived the dream. Then I too moved on to high school, where there were already plenty of viola-ists, including my sisters, and I was busted back to violin.
I digress. But before we leave this point forever, let me just say for the record that, when at the age of 10 it was time for me to progress from piano to strings, had my mother not dreamed up the hare-brained though possibly accurate notion that I was being a little sister idolizing the older, viola-playing sisters when what I needed was to establish my own orchestral identity (though I love the low notes and hate the spotlight, which makes me a good candidate for viola all around) and had she not given me her own hard push into the violin section--where I languished happily because no one challenges the very last chair of the second violin section for her seat (a challenge being an instrumental duel played out before the whole orchestra, all eyes and not a few snickers on the combatants as each in turn plays a piece of music never seen before, the conductor declaring the winner and sending the loser down the row of chairs, this challenge business being how you work your way up the ladder of chairs until you are the First Chair, or Concert Master, and get to help tune up the orchestra before the concert begins and wear to the Christmas concert a bow tie that lights up, even if you are Jewish, and piss off the conductor, who not only gives you detention but busts you back down to last chair of the second violins [thus bumping the girl in the last chair up to the second-to-last chair], where you promptly begin your climb up the ladder again, challenging that girl who looks scared of her own shadow and has a crush on you to boot)--I would have willingly practiced.
Tonight, I am challenging Grisha.
* * *
… I brought some music to dance to.
Grisha’s hand, enroute to the computer, screeches to a halt. He has anticipated my usual demur and is about to queue up the first song.
Not so fast, Grisha. You said, “Challenge me.”
Game on!
After weeks of picking through my CDs I have chosen
Boccherini’s Minuet from String Quintet in E Minor
Bach’s Minuet and Badinerie from Orchestral Suite 2
The Enchanted Lake scene from Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake
Set Swan Lake aside for the moment. I aim to hit Grisha with my best Baroque shot. Boccherini it is.
I pull out the CD out of my bag.
Uh-oh.
Not until this moment does it strikes me: I have made a serious tactical error.
Grisha is a Real Musician. Classical guitar, concert performances, international competitions, college instructor, web site, CDs, high-culture groupies at the stage door. Oh yeah, he’s all that.
The CD I am pulling out of my bag is called Weekend Classics: Light Hits. It’s part of a six-CD set, the kind you find under the Give the Gift of Music! sign in the discount stores at Christmas.
Light Hits means excerpts made famous by their use in TV commercials and Bugs Bunny cartoons. Immortal art for the postmodern crowd.
This was a brilliant plan when I came up with it. After all, you can’t dance tango to a full classical work.
Take Vivaldi’s Four Seasons: 44 minutes. Of those Four Seasons, take just one, Spring. At 11 minutes, that’s not a dance, that’s a tanda!
Or take my favorite, the Brandenburgs. All together: 2 hours. Take just my favorite concerto, number 3: 18 minutes. Take just my favorite bit of number 3, the allegro: 6 minutes.
You’re better off with the Bugs Bunny Boccherini at 4:14.
Grisha looks dubious. I think he is judging this CD by its cover.
I turn it over, show him the playlist. Boccherini is number 1. I doodle-do a few notes.
He turns away.
Bach, he says decisively.
It’s a piano piece, very pure. One by one the notes fall in line. No chords. No fancy fingerings. No straying from the beat. Schoolroom music. This is what I loved to play as a child, loved its soothing regularity, the purity of putting one finger here, then here, then here. Was there sound, too? It did not intrude on my pleasure. I was enrapt in the pressing of keys.
And now the feet pressing. The steps fall into place one by one. Grisha is keeping it simple. I want to enjoy this, but I am not in the mood to dance simple.
The song ends. We step out of the embrace. Grisha looks over with a “How about that?” kind of look.
I shrug. It’s no Boccherini.
Grisha heads back to the computer. He is not giving up. He is determined to make his point.
He peers at his screen, scanning a playlist with thousands of songs.
He says the words “Bach” and “cantata” and “African drums.”
…to be continued
… as soon as I come to my senses
* * *
Having rung the bell, I wait for Grisha to answer.
He opens the door. I follow him across the small studio.
A handful of CDs cases clack in my bag.
Heh-heh.
* * *
Grisha makes tea while I put on my shoes. I am always losing my blood sugar, and tea thick with honey brings it back fast.
Shoes on, tea made, Grisha asks, What would you like to dance to tonight?
Well, I say, reaching for my bag …
* * *
In my practice time, I have been experimenting with Baroque music. Grisha says it is the kind of music that is closest to tango. Something about the complicated structures.
I don’t hear it. I hear only that Germanic beat, so regular you could set an atomic watch to it. After a while, it wears on my nerves. I don’t see how you can dance tango within that four-square, tyrannical beat.
I enjoy Baroque music. I know it well--the greatest hits anyway. Vivaldi’s Four Seasons, Bach’s Brandenburg Concertos. These are the kinds of pieces you play when you are doing double duty as a violinist and viola-ist in the eighth grade chamber music ensemble, cobbled together from the stragglers left behind when the rest of the orchestra moved on to high school.
Our little band of string-sawers played like nobody’s business. This Bach was fun stuff: easy and quick. Our conductor dug up a harpsichord, brought it to school. She let us look under its hood. She played it with us. We were brilliant!
It was the best season of my six-years-too-long violin career. I was an orchestral cross-dresser, a viola-ist trapped in the violin section. For one brief, shining moment I lived the dream. Then I too moved on to high school, where there were already plenty of viola-ists, including my sisters, and I was busted back to violin.
I digress. But before we leave this point forever, let me just say for the record that, when at the age of 10 it was time for me to progress from piano to strings, had my mother not dreamed up the hare-brained though possibly accurate notion that I was being a little sister idolizing the older, viola-playing sisters when what I needed was to establish my own orchestral identity (though I love the low notes and hate the spotlight, which makes me a good candidate for viola all around) and had she not given me her own hard push into the violin section--where I languished happily because no one challenges the very last chair of the second violin section for her seat (a challenge being an instrumental duel played out before the whole orchestra, all eyes and not a few snickers on the combatants as each in turn plays a piece of music never seen before, the conductor declaring the winner and sending the loser down the row of chairs, this challenge business being how you work your way up the ladder of chairs until you are the First Chair, or Concert Master, and get to help tune up the orchestra before the concert begins and wear to the Christmas concert a bow tie that lights up, even if you are Jewish, and piss off the conductor, who not only gives you detention but busts you back down to last chair of the second violins [thus bumping the girl in the last chair up to the second-to-last chair], where you promptly begin your climb up the ladder again, challenging that girl who looks scared of her own shadow and has a crush on you to boot)--I would have willingly practiced.
Tonight, I am challenging Grisha.
* * *
… I brought some music to dance to.
Grisha’s hand, enroute to the computer, screeches to a halt. He has anticipated my usual demur and is about to queue up the first song.
Not so fast, Grisha. You said, “Challenge me.”
Game on!
After weeks of picking through my CDs I have chosen
Boccherini’s Minuet from String Quintet in E Minor
Bach’s Minuet and Badinerie from Orchestral Suite 2
The Enchanted Lake scene from Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake
Set Swan Lake aside for the moment. I aim to hit Grisha with my best Baroque shot. Boccherini it is.
I pull out the CD out of my bag.
Uh-oh.
Not until this moment does it strikes me: I have made a serious tactical error.
Grisha is a Real Musician. Classical guitar, concert performances, international competitions, college instructor, web site, CDs, high-culture groupies at the stage door. Oh yeah, he’s all that.
The CD I am pulling out of my bag is called Weekend Classics: Light Hits. It’s part of a six-CD set, the kind you find under the Give the Gift of Music! sign in the discount stores at Christmas.
Light Hits means excerpts made famous by their use in TV commercials and Bugs Bunny cartoons. Immortal art for the postmodern crowd.
This was a brilliant plan when I came up with it. After all, you can’t dance tango to a full classical work.
Take Vivaldi’s Four Seasons: 44 minutes. Of those Four Seasons, take just one, Spring. At 11 minutes, that’s not a dance, that’s a tanda!
Or take my favorite, the Brandenburgs. All together: 2 hours. Take just my favorite concerto, number 3: 18 minutes. Take just my favorite bit of number 3, the allegro: 6 minutes.
You’re better off with the Bugs Bunny Boccherini at 4:14.
Grisha looks dubious. I think he is judging this CD by its cover.
I turn it over, show him the playlist. Boccherini is number 1. I doodle-do a few notes.
He turns away.
Bach, he says decisively.
It’s a piano piece, very pure. One by one the notes fall in line. No chords. No fancy fingerings. No straying from the beat. Schoolroom music. This is what I loved to play as a child, loved its soothing regularity, the purity of putting one finger here, then here, then here. Was there sound, too? It did not intrude on my pleasure. I was enrapt in the pressing of keys.
And now the feet pressing. The steps fall into place one by one. Grisha is keeping it simple. I want to enjoy this, but I am not in the mood to dance simple.
The song ends. We step out of the embrace. Grisha looks over with a “How about that?” kind of look.
I shrug. It’s no Boccherini.
Grisha heads back to the computer. He is not giving up. He is determined to make his point.
He peers at his screen, scanning a playlist with thousands of songs.
He says the words “Bach” and “cantata” and “African drums.”
…to be continued
… as soon as I come to my senses
Saturday, March 8, 2008
Have You Heard About B Flat?
B flat is a lovely note, but it's not one you'd pay more attention to than, say, F sharp. That is another lovely note. Even middle C has its own kind of charm: solid and guileless, like a midwestern farm wife.
But there's something about B flat. It makes alligators crazy, and, astronomers say, it emanates from a black hole in outer space.
Here's the catch: Nothing escapes a black hole. Not sound, not even light. Hence the name.
What is it about B flat? No one knows.
Read about it here.
But there's something about B flat. It makes alligators crazy, and, astronomers say, it emanates from a black hole in outer space.
Here's the catch: Nothing escapes a black hole. Not sound, not even light. Hence the name.
What is it about B flat? No one knows.
Read about it here.
E-bay Dude
Can you feel your feet? I ask the man sitting at the desk facing mine.
We are in the Business Center of my apartment complex's clubhouse, using the computers.
He is Ebay Dude. He is at the computer day and night. I am here at all hours--10 p.m., midnight, 2 a.m., 6 a.m., 4 p.m.--to check my email or drop a line on the blog. After nearly a year of meeting this way, we have become familiar strangers.
Tonight I am writing madly. He is bidding, listening to the music from Spaghetti Westerns.
It is the middle of the night. The building is deserted. It's cozy and comfy. I feel the urge to make a friendly overture.
Hey, can you feel your feet? I venture.
I can wiggle my ears, he says.
We are in the Business Center of my apartment complex's clubhouse, using the computers.
He is Ebay Dude. He is at the computer day and night. I am here at all hours--10 p.m., midnight, 2 a.m., 6 a.m., 4 p.m.--to check my email or drop a line on the blog. After nearly a year of meeting this way, we have become familiar strangers.
Tonight I am writing madly. He is bidding, listening to the music from Spaghetti Westerns.
It is the middle of the night. The building is deserted. It's cozy and comfy. I feel the urge to make a friendly overture.
Hey, can you feel your feet? I venture.
I can wiggle my ears, he says.
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
Friday, March 7, 2008
Picking Up the Pieces of My Mind
[Read this first: A Post-Leaping Man Piece of My Mind]
Strew your ideas like jackstraws.
Study the mess.
See nothing but your failure to achieve coherence.
The one hundred thousand times this has happened before never prepares you. Muses are fey in every sense of the word, and if there’s one thing you can learn from Tolkien, it’s that the fey can be a bitch.
At this moment it is impossible to judge whether you only now have begun to suck, or you only now begin to see clearly.
Bad Poet! Disaster. Bereft.
Breathe.
Have a snack.
Have another.
The rules of the game are the same for jackstraws and writing: Pick up the best, leave the rest.
There is no present use for these images, ideas. They sink below the surface, holding their shape. One day you’ll go fishing. Something big will leap into to the boat. Or, you will throw out a line and catch something apt:
The head as a raw egg, elliptically spinning.
The yolk-center, holding together as it careens.
The body a self-published gallery of memories.
The rune: ancestry and inheritance written on the body.
Mute evidence of our histories, written on our bodies.
Everything is real.
Be vigilant.
Trust nothing.
Strew your ideas like jackstraws.
Study the mess.
See nothing but your failure to achieve coherence.
The one hundred thousand times this has happened before never prepares you. Muses are fey in every sense of the word, and if there’s one thing you can learn from Tolkien, it’s that the fey can be a bitch.
At this moment it is impossible to judge whether you only now have begun to suck, or you only now begin to see clearly.
Bad Poet! Disaster. Bereft.
Breathe.
Have a snack.
Have another.
The rules of the game are the same for jackstraws and writing: Pick up the best, leave the rest.
There is no present use for these images, ideas. They sink below the surface, holding their shape. One day you’ll go fishing. Something big will leap into to the boat. Or, you will throw out a line and catch something apt:
The head as a raw egg, elliptically spinning.
The yolk-center, holding together as it careens.
The body a self-published gallery of memories.
The rune: ancestry and inheritance written on the body.
Mute evidence of our histories, written on our bodies.
Everything is real.
Be vigilant.
Trust nothing.
Thursday, March 6, 2008
If you call The Car Guys, they will ask for your name and then shout “No last names!” as if your identity must be protected at all costs.
It’s a funny shtick and it enforces a good rule: On a radio talk show, its best to avoid getting too personal.
This rule has many corollaries, of course, because in addition to “No last names!” protecting your identity requires:
No phone numbers.
No email.
No coffee, no dinner, no drinks.
No running into you on the street or at the store.
Good heaven, no parties!
No talking about yourself.
No asking about me.
No “What do you do for a living?”
No “How was your day?”
No chatting for more than three minutes.
No flirting.
No innuendoes, no double entendres
No complaining when I walk away mid-dirty joke, even if it is also mid-dance.
No unnecessary physical contact.
No holding hands while the teacher talks.
No wrapping your arm around my waist as you walk me back to my table.
No staying in the embrace between dances.
No cabaceo, what the heck, no eye contact at all.
None of that cheek-kissing stuff.
Good grief, no hugs!
No carpooling.
No walking me to my car.
No holding the door open for me, then following me out.
I come and go alone. Always.
There is good reason for this: Nina scolds me for dancing excessively with a couple of leads. People will notice and gossip, she warns.
I say, Notice this:
I come and go alone. Always.
No asking me to dance if I don’t know you already.
No asking me the next logical question.
No laughing as I sit back, stumped.
You have a lot of rules, my friend Karen says.
Not really. Those are just corollaries. I have only one rule:
No making friends.
I didn’t join tango to make friends. I joined because Shane said it’s a good dance for introspective people. That means you stay over there on your side of the embrace and do your thing. I’ll stay over here and do mine.
I like open space, inner and outer. Boundaries arranged in series create a buffer zone that preserves my open space even when I am standing inside the enclosure of the closest embrace.
The first time a lead asked me what I do for a living, I gave him a look so fierce he nearly ran when the teacher called “Change partners!”
The next time someone asked me what I do for a living, I told him. I asked him back. I let him buy me a glass of wine. We chatted. I do not regret it.
The first time someone I didn’t know asked me to dance, I was so unnerved I left the building. Grabbed my things and left. Grabbed all of the things I had brought with me but one: Shane.
The next time someone I didn’t know asked me to dance, I said yes. Gritted my teeth and enjoyed it. That was Stan. I do not regret it.
I know what a slippery slope is. I knew it when I took the first step.
I have traveled many a slippery slope. Who hasn’t? You can pick your way, and not every path leads down.
But I am not picking my way along the path I intended. In the past week, I’ve broken almost every one of my corollaries. More to the point, I have broken my rule. The only rule I had. I wouldn’t say I’ve made a friend yet, but I am not preventing it. I am allowing things to unfold.
“I’m your friend,” Kari reminds me.
Yes.
Well.
Dammit.
What am I supposed to do with a friend?
More to the point, what am I supposed to do without my rule, its many corollaries, my boundaries in series, my buffer?
You, stay over there on your side of the embrace for now. I will stay over here on mine.
It’s a funny shtick and it enforces a good rule: On a radio talk show, its best to avoid getting too personal.
This rule has many corollaries, of course, because in addition to “No last names!” protecting your identity requires:
No phone numbers.
No email.
No coffee, no dinner, no drinks.
No running into you on the street or at the store.
Good heaven, no parties!
No talking about yourself.
No asking about me.
No “What do you do for a living?”
No “How was your day?”
No chatting for more than three minutes.
No flirting.
No innuendoes, no double entendres
No complaining when I walk away mid-dirty joke, even if it is also mid-dance.
No unnecessary physical contact.
No holding hands while the teacher talks.
No wrapping your arm around my waist as you walk me back to my table.
No staying in the embrace between dances.
No cabaceo, what the heck, no eye contact at all.
None of that cheek-kissing stuff.
Good grief, no hugs!
No carpooling.
No walking me to my car.
No holding the door open for me, then following me out.
I come and go alone. Always.
There is good reason for this: Nina scolds me for dancing excessively with a couple of leads. People will notice and gossip, she warns.
I say, Notice this:
I come and go alone. Always.
No asking me to dance if I don’t know you already.
No asking me the next logical question.
No laughing as I sit back, stumped.
You have a lot of rules, my friend Karen says.
Not really. Those are just corollaries. I have only one rule:
No making friends.
I didn’t join tango to make friends. I joined because Shane said it’s a good dance for introspective people. That means you stay over there on your side of the embrace and do your thing. I’ll stay over here and do mine.
I like open space, inner and outer. Boundaries arranged in series create a buffer zone that preserves my open space even when I am standing inside the enclosure of the closest embrace.
The first time a lead asked me what I do for a living, I gave him a look so fierce he nearly ran when the teacher called “Change partners!”
The next time someone asked me what I do for a living, I told him. I asked him back. I let him buy me a glass of wine. We chatted. I do not regret it.
The first time someone I didn’t know asked me to dance, I was so unnerved I left the building. Grabbed my things and left. Grabbed all of the things I had brought with me but one: Shane.
The next time someone I didn’t know asked me to dance, I said yes. Gritted my teeth and enjoyed it. That was Stan. I do not regret it.
I know what a slippery slope is. I knew it when I took the first step.
I have traveled many a slippery slope. Who hasn’t? You can pick your way, and not every path leads down.
But I am not picking my way along the path I intended. In the past week, I’ve broken almost every one of my corollaries. More to the point, I have broken my rule. The only rule I had. I wouldn’t say I’ve made a friend yet, but I am not preventing it. I am allowing things to unfold.
“I’m your friend,” Kari reminds me.
Yes.
Well.
Dammit.
What am I supposed to do with a friend?
More to the point, what am I supposed to do without my rule, its many corollaries, my boundaries in series, my buffer?
You, stay over there on your side of the embrace for now. I will stay over here on mine.
Monday, March 3, 2008
A Piece of Five-of-Six's Mind
-------------- Original message ----------------------
From: One Heart Dancing (aka Four-of-Six)
> I wore a very sexy outfit to tango last night … Never again. If a guy asks me to dance, I want to know that he's asking me, not my outfit!
From: Five-of-Six
I want to see your outfit. And, if someone asks you to dance when you are wearing it, they are still asking you for several reasons.
1. It is you looking hot!
2. Someone else could put it on and people wouldn't ask them to dance (especially if they weren't a human female).
3. No one would ask the outfit--it wouldn't be able to move as good as you if you weren't wearing it--in fact, it would have no backbone, which means it would be pure mush and melt all over them and act like they would fall on the floor if it wasn't for him rescuing her (female dress), and we know if someone is asking you, they don't want someone who is too clingy, can't carry on a conversation, participate in the moves, etc. in other words, you have backbone and it is obvious!
So, when I come wear the dress. If someone asks that dress to dance without you--I'll chase them out of the establishment!
You gotta love it when your baby sister goes to bat for you. And offers to chase guys out the door—in her wheelchair!
From: One Heart Dancing (aka Four-of-Six)
> I wore a very sexy outfit to tango last night … Never again. If a guy asks me to dance, I want to know that he's asking me, not my outfit!
From: Five-of-Six
I want to see your outfit. And, if someone asks you to dance when you are wearing it, they are still asking you for several reasons.
1. It is you looking hot!
2. Someone else could put it on and people wouldn't ask them to dance (especially if they weren't a human female).
3. No one would ask the outfit--it wouldn't be able to move as good as you if you weren't wearing it--in fact, it would have no backbone, which means it would be pure mush and melt all over them and act like they would fall on the floor if it wasn't for him rescuing her (female dress), and we know if someone is asking you, they don't want someone who is too clingy, can't carry on a conversation, participate in the moves, etc. in other words, you have backbone and it is obvious!
So, when I come wear the dress. If someone asks that dress to dance without you--I'll chase them out of the establishment!
* * *
You gotta love it when your baby sister goes to bat for you. And offers to chase guys out the door—in her wheelchair!
Sunday, March 2, 2008
A Post-Leaping Man Piece of My Mind
A raw egg in its shell, that is my head. Spinning. Sluggishly. Elliptically. The center holds, but it careens.
I cannot walk straight. Nor see so. Every single thing is foreign and new, even the keyboard, even the floor.
There is a knot on my forearm. It is gentle rose-mauve fading to green and soft yellow. A bruise? The manifestation of a sunset I loved? The body holds memories, why not display them?
There is a long, fine scratch down my back, as if a scalpel drew its line lightly.
When I rub my wrist it hurts deep inside. Not like a muscle or tendon. Tender, like sunburn.
The veins on the back of my hand trace a rune! How have I missed that all my life? What does it say? (What does yours?)
I have no memory of bruising or cutting, nor inside-out sunburn. No memory of runic existence.
I can't deny the physical evidence but can't name its source, either. Bruise and scratch and burn, these signs have no history, no context. They are mute.
And what about the rune?
I have vague memories. Impressions. Colors and lights. Bodies. Scents Drums. A belly dancer named Good. A wooden floor, the boards worn smooth and heaved. A metal grate in the floor. Silver tinsel. Night sky. Stars. Bad poets shouting.
This is Leaping Man.
Trust nothing. The earth opens and swallows. Nothing is solid, everything is real.
In consciousness matter coheres. Be vigilant. When your mind wanders, everything does.
This is not my brain on drugs. Or drinks. This is my brain on me. I blow my own mind.
I cannot walk straight. Nor see so. Every single thing is foreign and new, even the keyboard, even the floor.
There is a knot on my forearm. It is gentle rose-mauve fading to green and soft yellow. A bruise? The manifestation of a sunset I loved? The body holds memories, why not display them?
There is a long, fine scratch down my back, as if a scalpel drew its line lightly.
When I rub my wrist it hurts deep inside. Not like a muscle or tendon. Tender, like sunburn.
The veins on the back of my hand trace a rune! How have I missed that all my life? What does it say? (What does yours?)
I have no memory of bruising or cutting, nor inside-out sunburn. No memory of runic existence.
I can't deny the physical evidence but can't name its source, either. Bruise and scratch and burn, these signs have no history, no context. They are mute.
And what about the rune?
I have vague memories. Impressions. Colors and lights. Bodies. Scents Drums. A belly dancer named Good. A wooden floor, the boards worn smooth and heaved. A metal grate in the floor. Silver tinsel. Night sky. Stars. Bad poets shouting.
This is Leaping Man.
Trust nothing. The earth opens and swallows. Nothing is solid, everything is real.
In consciousness matter coheres. Be vigilant. When your mind wanders, everything does.
This is not my brain on drugs. Or drinks. This is my brain on me. I blow my own mind.
A Little Subversion for Leap Day
Friday, Feb 29:
I am dressed like a word I can't say.
This is a sociopoliticocultural act. I am shifting the paradigm, appropriating its power. I am subverting the patriarchal objectification of women. Owning my sexuality
and
I am wearing a costume. I love costumes!
The pants are bikini-low-slung and fit like tights. When I move, the pschedelic patterns woven into the fabric shift and shimmer. The top is red: close-fitting and boat-necked, long-sleeved, modest as usual ...
to the end of my breastbone. Then the fabric parts, sloping sharply away to long tails in the back.
Picture this: When I am dancing close embrace, you see the modest back. Then the embrace opens: Surprise!
I am not subverting the paradigm. I am giving it panache.
I am dressed like a word I can't say.
This is a sociopoliticocultural act. I am shifting the paradigm, appropriating its power. I am subverting the patriarchal objectification of women. Owning my sexuality
and
I am wearing a costume. I love costumes!
The pants are bikini-low-slung and fit like tights. When I move, the pschedelic patterns woven into the fabric shift and shimmer. The top is red: close-fitting and boat-necked, long-sleeved, modest as usual ...
to the end of my breastbone. Then the fabric parts, sloping sharply away to long tails in the back.
Picture this: When I am dancing close embrace, you see the modest back. Then the embrace opens: Surprise!
I am not subverting the paradigm. I am giving it panache.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
