Oh, exultant night of surprises. Oh, morning of uncharacteristic cold . . .
Oh city of my doing and undoing, where are you taking me?
Pleasantly exhausted today after closing La Na (again) last night. At three am, I came home to my still cold apartment and swapped the new rose for last Thursday's rapidly wilting one, carrying it to the kitchen trash, its leaves and petals in an anti-centrifugal freefall. It is a civilized touch, a rose for every lady at the milonga as she exits into the misty midnight. Something to remember by.
The dancing: a few new fellas, a few embarrassing moments with good leaders (as per the New Shoe Adjustment Phase) and a few surprises. My dear G.I.Q. gave me his most useful criticism to date and we spent a good two tandas laughing at my molinete ineptitude and enjoying the delirium of a week too long in closing. I have lightened up this week (lifting my hoop skirt of little black rainclouds) and perhaps it shows in our new found ease with each other. Lord knows how long it lasts, but disfruta el momento. Carpe the damn diem.
All things being in flux, who can worry at such a fever pitch? For the foreseeable future, I will most likely remain in the red, continue bumbling along with my hopeless taste in men—afraid to death of them like so many tropical bugs—and suffer from every young woman's chronic dysmorphia. But weeks will continue to tick by, whether or not they are enjoyed, whether you be ready or not, skinny or fat, rich or poor, whether or not the leaps are taken, the kisses stolen. In the words of the immortal Dottie . . . "you might as well live."
I'll be the one practicing turns around my desk chair, the one slowing down, squatting in the tepid moment till my fingers prune, smooching under scaffolding and eating my broccoli, because—goddamnit—it's good for me.
Oh city of my doing and undoing, where are you taking me?
Pleasantly exhausted today after closing La Na (again) last night. At three am, I came home to my still cold apartment and swapped the new rose for last Thursday's rapidly wilting one, carrying it to the kitchen trash, its leaves and petals in an anti-centrifugal freefall. It is a civilized touch, a rose for every lady at the milonga as she exits into the misty midnight. Something to remember by.
The dancing: a few new fellas, a few embarrassing moments with good leaders (as per the New Shoe Adjustment Phase) and a few surprises. My dear G.I.Q. gave me his most useful criticism to date and we spent a good two tandas laughing at my molinete ineptitude and enjoying the delirium of a week too long in closing. I have lightened up this week (lifting my hoop skirt of little black rainclouds) and perhaps it shows in our new found ease with each other. Lord knows how long it lasts, but disfruta el momento. Carpe the damn diem.
All things being in flux, who can worry at such a fever pitch? For the foreseeable future, I will most likely remain in the red, continue bumbling along with my hopeless taste in men—afraid to death of them like so many tropical bugs—and suffer from every young woman's chronic dysmorphia. But weeks will continue to tick by, whether or not they are enjoyed, whether you be ready or not, skinny or fat, rich or poor, whether or not the leaps are taken, the kisses stolen. In the words of the immortal Dottie . . . "you might as well live."
I'll be the one practicing turns around my desk chair, the one slowing down, squatting in the tepid moment till my fingers prune, smooching under scaffolding and eating my broccoli, because—goddamnit—it's good for me.
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