Walking the Spectrum of Light

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

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

Johann Gottfried Herder


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tango Is Golf

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

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

(Nice shot!)

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

.

Yes, tango is golf.

Crap

"You seem stiff," Grisha says.

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

I don't know if I ever will.

Today Is the Day

This is it. Tango walk or bust!

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

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

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

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

Robert Fulghum Tango, Part 3: The Upshot

Mr. Fulghum is making his excuses.

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

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

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

They do, I agree.

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

Come on, buddy!

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

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

He opens his coat, touches his side.

I have two broken ribs he says.
.
.
.

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

Safe travels, safe dancing, Mr. Fulghum.

Robert Fulghum Tango, Part 2

I think I am a little bit of a bitch.

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

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

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

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

Ahem. Let's move on.

***

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

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

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

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

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

Sigh. I am not as sweet as all that.

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

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

.

***

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

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

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

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

Hmm-hmmm. My kind of guy.

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***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hmm-hmmmm. My kind of guy.

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***

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

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

Turns out, he means playful.

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

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

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

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

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

.

***

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

In the midst of planning, my ear catches on

"... Homer."

Come again?

.

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

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

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

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

They are my kind of guys, he says.

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

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

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

Robert Fulghum Tango, Part 1

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

But these things are:

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

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

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

Me too.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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