The end of the world

…is every day.

There are times when I think what I’d do at the end of tango. A cup of tea, silence, bath, obsessing, analyzing, desiring or simply sleeping. And what if it doesn’t come back, what if I wake up and all my dance shoes are gone or I don’t know how to dance it anymore? What if I go to tango bar and it has disappeared. A world without tango, a sudden lack, a void as huge as the one I had before tango? Who’d fit in? What would I put there in the place of misplaced pain and desire, anger and envy and fear of loss of youth and life and love…. Would I regain innocence or find myself farther away? Would I embrace strangers on the street sporadically for lack of tango flesh? And would I do what people do in the songs because I cannot live it in a dream anymore?

And would it matter the least bit to worry of all this today if tomorrow won’t be the same? We can never worry enough. The human brain is just a pain, we say and do at cross purposes pretty much always and even if we do wrong, we fight being wronged and we meddle and fuss with trivia like one cell organisms in a boiling puddle on a hot day in August. Saving grace in the face of worry, trepidation in the spring sun, love making in the wake of war, striking out of desire, rejecting out of paranoia, marrying your favorite dance partner, drinking milk instead of whiskey, crying at funerals…. We just cannot settle for any kind of ending, but we are afraid to dream and fight for continuation. Us, humans and tangueros in particular are so stuck on getting stuck in the moment that any idea of life as a cycle and living with the seasons is intolerable, dangerous, scary and grotesque… and so we end up flapping round in our own little puddles…. We just get stuck like I did the other day and I played Tormenta over and over and over again…

And everything is gone forever so why worry about holding on?

Well, for once sweet loves of my life: I don’t know, but I won’t dump my emotional trash on any single one of you because we all got our worries, and mornings are wiser than nights.

Ternura

It is a beautiful word, a bit sad too, it sounds like tortura, but of a different nature. The torture of silence, of potential, of nothingness, of the one missing, the dark side of yearning … it gives a face t what has none.

Ternura… I split myself open. Ternura… I wait in the silence of time, away from the regular people, in the corner of my mind, where day never comes even when the sun is out. Ternura… for the moments beyond language, when a heavy feeling sinks your feet in the mud of your own being. Ternura… I am tender to you, pull me out, be tender to me.

It occurs to me, ternura does not come out of nowhere. It is not like art, not a creation. It comes from an impulse from outside. Ternura is a response, not a state. In fact, there are ways to lay the path to that place of incomprehensible, impenetrable softness. A silence of peace that is at the same time death. How do we know what it brings?

I never thought of it this way, but it is written all over us, dancers, tender, needy creatures. We look, we touch, we move and we smile con todo passion y ternura… It is a sad kind of joy. It is a response to what is inside and outside. Somehow I cannot imagine that joy brings out ternura. That feeling, that heavy, unbearable crack in your being…. That comes from a lack, from a different place. Me muero de ternura por ti is a question, an appeal, a claim…. but not a gift.

Did you ever think it this way, precious ones? Did you think that your sweet ternura is more than it is? The whole of humanity needs it, but why? What we exchange is a different kind of pain in every tango. It is like taking your own cross and putting it on another’s back, while they give you theirs. Ternura is like…. I open myself up to disown my pain and accept yours.

And have you thought of the balance dear ones? Have you thought of what you give and what you receive? I think you ought to… Ternura is a very fine exchange…. Dose it.

Ternura… waits for you at the end, where it all starts, before time, before tango, before you ever thought that some day you will long for anything or anyone, when there was nothing but you. Were you then one of the dead or the living?

Split Man Personality Disorder (SMPD)

And who would blame him?

Women want to be desired and to be the only one…. The problem is of course, one woman wants all men. Men are ok to share in a mediocre way, but women never settle. It’s gotta be me and all others must go to hell. We have a math problem here, because if all men have to desire one woman only at all times, then the women have got to agree to one important rule: having this or that man should be cyclical and we have to have NO MAN AT ALL periods. Release one from time to time… Let him fly. Or do we need reverse objectifying? You can imagine that creating a second double standard within the existing one is like…. a spiritual suicide. And then you wonder, what happened to the good old tango?! Wherefore art and love and love for art and art for love and the love of desire, and wow, desire is like….. DAMN! I am going manic! All these man and women and women and men, and desire and wanting and wanting and ay ay ay ay yayyyy….

Yes, we have the tandas to secure exclusivity but…. hey, desire knows no limits and the flesh wants, the brain explodes, the smell hits your nose and then all you can think of is “ok, that corner is good for bringing her there to feel her closer, or near the bar I can steel a kiss, or actually there is a nice bottle of wine home in the fridge but she might dislike the mess…. but oh, wow, oh wow, she is like a candy I have never had…. when can I taste more. Wow, can we shower together?”

And it goes on and on and on…. women tapping on a good man’s shoulder. And good men want to be liked just like good women. In general, good people want to be liked.  then, unfortunately you have evil people…. they want to possess…

The problem with men is: they don’t know the difference. They go for intense… Beware, chicks, because intense can bring you the hug of death…

Slutty girls, shy girls, what’s the difference?

The trashy tangiera post:) It had to happen after watching so many of my comadres, huerquitas and friends, aunts, grandmas, Lolitas, pre-menopausal, post-natal, crazy hormone expressionists….girls, women who dance and want to be cuddled, wanna feel special, wanna be stars, pretty, talented and just… want to see someone look at them and lose his sleep, appetite, peace and health…

Yes, I know who you are…. and I know what you do and you know that I know and we both know… I watch you a lot and my mind keeps boiling.

Whatever got into you to wear this pornographic outfit at a milonga, I mean…. do you want people to imagine you being impaled on a penis at any given moment you make a step or quiver your hair? Yak Woman, have self respect. How do you expect people to respect your skills whatever they may be if all you show is your non-skills? Seriously, flesh is good, but there won’t be anything to spice it with. Dancers are refined creatures, especially the voyeurs in tango. We need fantasy, we don’t need nudity, not in that setting. Just think… is it worth objectifying yourself that much. If you now come and tell me that it is your great pleasure to lose all this time adorning yourself, making yourself pleasant to look at, fixing your hair, getting your nails done, choosing the best color dress for the shoes you got… If you told me you enjoy it that much that you cannot live with a bit of extra time and the natural feeling of your skin being the home of your body and your body being the home of your heart… Well…. I’ll just shoot myself and give you my blessing to go with the “free blow-jobs for attention” sign on your back.

But the thing is: I don’t buy this bullshit. I want to save you the embarrassing moment you walk in somewhere with your brilliant outfit and heavy heart and come out with the feeling of being ridiculous and empty. Think, women, think if you want to be ladies, dancers, objects, persons, individuals who are worth loving and who know how to love. IN TE GRI TI. This is the word for all of us. We all struggle one way or another. But please, don’t do the catty slut thing, it hurts you most of everyone else and you know that too…. To hell with trashy stuff, get creative, sophisticated sex appeal is priceless. Focus, focus!

I like women. In fact, everybody does… and because of that, the universe is busy shaping our minds, bodies and emotions. Of course, if you refuse to fit the ideal pornographic outfit (which no doubt works miracles) you will have to come up with alternatives. That is hard but so much more your own beauty, your own worth, your own zest and flavor, your own sweat and pleasure… 

I talk, I wish your pretty eyes would be pretty for you. I wish that when you look at the mirror you’d just look at yourself as who you are not at yourself the way a man or a competitor would. Sure, sure, all this is embarrassing, but it is true. Look at yourselves. You must have something pretty inside, behind the facade, under the Lancome and the lace – there is your truth… That is not worth dressing up like an underground club toy.

Ah yes, and burn that ridiculous ‘Drakula-bite-my-ass-please’ outfit.

Flesh

Indeed, there is something about desire that provokes fear and fascination. Flesh. The living part of us, the material part of the ego, the tangible force of life, the shame, the angst, the pleasure and not a single drop of wisdom.

We are given these bodies to push ourselves through life, to search for closeness, to long for unity, to fear illness and old age, to hide in, to lose ourselves… to feed our dreams, to depart from the real, to return to when the night dies… to cry when we ache, to find shelter, to realize that some things we will never know…

Sometimes desire is so strong and sometimes it feels as though we’re not living. The flesh wants and it wills, we have nothing to say – the body acts in the night of our knowledge. Sometimes we run after it only to witness a massacre of dreams. Our flesh knows not of dreams, hopes or aesthetics. It’s only purpose is to live, to take, to invite, to grab, to devour, to want and to want and to want.

Where does it stop dear ones? What makes you humble in the face of pleasure? What stops you of embracing this or that stranger in a symbiotic cage? … Because, dear lovers, the more we love, the less love is left in the flesh… To pace desire, to love with grace is still… art. Can you release the beasts in you in order to make art without killing them, without losing yourselves in their yellow eyes? Be gentle with each other, be just a little tame, be real because the body never lies. Stay on the edge dear ones, between the day an the night…

Longing

You think it is simple and it is. That is where we have emotional certainty. There is always something missing – the smell of your first lover, the warmth of the sun at the end of winter, the illusion of unconditional care, your own heartbeat when you think of the object of your desire. Nothing comes so easy as longing… Nothing hurts so much when it’s missing. To long is to live, to have reasons to get out of bed in the morning, to leave the safety of your home and walk away into the mist of the horizon that promises only one thing – not exactly what you longed for….

My sweetest, dear tender ones… If I knew the recipe to graceful longing, I would share with you the gift of certainty and rid you of learning. But tell me, what would you do with yourselves in this life if you were not continuously looking for ways to avoid hurt, memories and the future?

And tell me, is tango the only way to soothing your restless untamed hearts? Beware, dearest, nothing is as it seems, be true to your desires, do not adopt the longing of another because that will make you lose who you are.

LUST

Down the paths of my desire, the animal in me is waiting.

I know that yours is waiting too. Most likely we recognized each other long before we met. I know I was in your dreams, I know you remember. And when we finally laid eyes upon the other, that warm tingle in the palm of your left hand started. Were you afraid?

The smell of each and every dancer is different, but you… You were all around and inside, a violent osmosis – the kind that gives so much sensation that all sense is lacking. One touch numbs the body and mutes the mind.

And now, ladies and gentlemen, you are facing your dark sides – you are no longer your own masters, because before humanity, there is LUST.

Savior

Clementine: Too many guys think I’m a concept, or I complete them, or I’m gonna make them alive. But I’m just a fucked-up girl who’s lookin’ for my own peace of mind; don’t assign me yours.

Joel: I remember that speech really well.
Clementine: I had you pegged, didn’t I?
Joel: You had the whole human race pegged.
Clementine: Hmm. Probably.
Joel: I still thought you were gonna save my life… even after that.
Clementine: Ohhh… I know.
Joel: It would be different, if we could just give it another go-round.
Clementine: Remember me. Try your best; maybe we can.

On Love

You think you know what it’s all about, but it has a soul of its own and it speaks beyond language, body and mind, and beyond tango. It is a little animal, hatching inside you and it will gut you if you don’t gut it. Or you can learn to live with it, like a chimera, a parasite, a nightmare you remember since when you were 4… You cannot without it, but it pains you oh so so so much. And yet, it propels you through life, the presence or lack of it.

No, no. I don’t want to possess the desire of everyone, I don’t want it all for me, why would I want that? Shallow love is for the cowards. I get attached to my pet. It’s like a gray dove – when it is silent, it is ugly, but when it sings, that’s all there is. The way it looks attracts me, because it is imperfect and fragile, it’s powerless in the face of the universe, but when it sings that’s all there is to life – my dove, my one and only, who can make me forget time and space.

Stay with me… I’ll tell you more.

Scopophilia