Long, winding, ranting, and babbling . . . How did I forget how hard it was to get here? To do this? How did I forget how elated I was just to be asked to dance? And then to be able to finish a single tanda without pain? When did the picture of how I wanted to dance become more important than the dance, and the leader, in front of me? It seems lately the stronger the emotional need I feel in the moment for tango, the more brittle and unyielding I become in my experience of it. Granted, it was a hard week. A terrible week. Bad news turning to worse news turning to unthinkable news. Plus, I had run out of the medication I use to control pain - and a clerical error (combined with my own poor follow-up) kept me from getting a refill for another 3 days. It was so easy to forget how bad that feels - it had been months since I'd been in that much pain. It's so hard to do the simplest things in that state. Sentences get disjointed. My memory fails me. Trying to explain to my nurse how...
"El infinito tango me lleva hacia todo" - Borges