My Tango Diaries

Most of our assumptions have outlived their uselessness . Marshall McLuhan Tuesday at Texas French Bread Milonga with Glover Gill Glover Gill at Texas French Bread Bakery's Tuesday Milonga As always, I had so many wonderful dances with generous, gifted and warm-hearted tangueros at TFB. What is it about that place that brings such a beautiful feeling? I was in a state of joy from just about beginning to end. A tall tanguero arrived from out of town. We had danced before, but I was a little bit greener then. (Okay, I'm still green...) I couldn't quite remember - did we dance close? Was I still keeping my distance then? Seems like ages ago . . . He asked with a nod, and I accepted. At the edge of the crowded dance floor, he offered his close embrace. I wonder if he noticed I was relieved. The music started and in a moment I found it - the sweet spot on his chest. I could hear the music through him. Even the crazy Santana piece later. (Things get a little wild tow

Warming up the floor at Texas French Bread Bakery. Pure bliss. Coming home from the Texas French Bread Bakery milonga . . . My skin and clothes smell like coffee, baked bread, and men's cologne. Es la dulce vida . . .

There is always going to be someone better at what you do, than you are. There's always going to be someone prettier, or smarter, or faster, or stronger. That's the way of the world. But no one can be you , better than you. Get a sense of your self, who you are and the way you are in the world. There will never be anyone else exactly like you - so get that right. From March 28, 2010. Notes I never published, but meant to, from an amazing lesson with Darryl Gaston and Phyllis Williams . Darryl was standing in front me, scowling slightly, searching for the right words. He felt like he was looming over me, though truly he's not that big. He just feels big. He fills the room, he's so present . I fought the urge to back up. (Like so many followers, I was "forward phobic" - I couldn't walk forward into my partner without hesitating, or back weighting.) "When you walk forward, I want you to walk into me," he spread his fingers over his chest, "int

They held me like they meant it . I received a cabeceo from far across a dance floor that nearly knocked my socks off. I waited , I surrendered , and I found my tango. I stopped trying to dance, and started looking for the sweet spot . I'll be honest, I don't know how to do it in open embrace. I don't know how to find it. In close embrace, it's all I need. It's everything I need. The sweet spot is, for me, that place on a man's chest that, when you connect, you get the most information. Not just about his lead but about his music - what he's hearing in the music, how it's affecting his breathing, his heart beat, the intention radiating through his torso. Once I've found it, even the tiniest changes are completely clear. Now, instead of evaluating and analyzing, all I do is listen to my partner's breathing, and feel for the "sweet spot". When those elements come together, I have no idea what he's leading or what I'm following

Due to popular demand (thank you, my friends for much needed clarity on the subject), I am reposting this. I should have trusted myself, and my readers, more. It is beyond my ability at this time to express the thoughts any more clearly than I have. Truly, I regret that it upset a reader and a friend. However, it was a mistake for me to remove this post. In doing so, I questioned not only my ability to say what I needed to say, but my own right to say it. It won't happen again. For better or worse, my posts on this blog stand because they mark a place in my journey. And right now, this is where I am. Here is the original post. Every so often I repost the link to Twists and Tango's "Tango Husbands, Boyfriends, and One Night Stands" . My favorite part, the one I'm constantly reminded of, is this: " Tango Husbands: They are consistent, faithful, tried and true. Their lead never fails, their connection is always spot on. They know how to not only make you look go

(Picture courtesy of morguefile.com .) Disclaimer.... I am not Associated Press and I am not 'reporting' from the milongas. Bloggers (who are not citizen journalists), essayists, memoirists, describe things less literally and more creatively than their journalist counterparts. I'm no exception. Most of the time when I'm referring to characters at a milonga, or in a class, or at a festival, it is actually a combination of many people, local and distant, online and off, and many incidents, of mine and others', distilled into one snapshot to capture a moment, or an emotion. It's a painting - not a photograph. Occasionally people have asked me to relate their story in a more general way because they don't want to publish under their own name. I've done that too. I made a mistake in thinking that was understood and for that I apologize. I hope this has clarified things a little bit. If not, feel free to send the pitchforks and torches an email to infinitetan