Salsa Dancing Quotes

Dancing is creating a sculpture that is visible only for a moment.

My feet are dense with dance. I move like I’m wearing concrete boots and I’m trying to tread water. If the music is salsa, I may start gargling.

The job of feets is walking, but their hobby is dancing.

You try every trick in the book to keep her. You write her letters. You drive her to work. You quote Neruda. You compose a mass e-mail disowning all your sucias. You block their e-mails. You change your phone number. You stop drinking. You stop smoking. You claim you’re a sex addict and start attending meetings. You blame your father. You blame your mother. You blame the patriarchy. You blame Santo Domingo. You find a therapist. You cancel your Facebook. You give her the passwords to all your e-mail accounts. You start taking salsa classes like you always swore you would so that the two of you could dance together. You claim that you were sick, you claim that you were weak—It was the book! It was the pressure!—and every hour like clockwork you say that you’re so so sorry. You try it all, but one day she will simply sit up in bed and say, No more, and, Ya, and you will have to move from the Harlem apartment that you two have shared. You consider not going. You consider a squat protest. In fact, you say won’t go. But in the end you do.

Sometimes in life confusion tends to arise and only dialogue of dance seems to make sense.

Marriage is not kick-boxing, it's salsa dancing.

Dance less in motion and more in spirit; awaken the dreamer within.

Caution not spirit, let it roam wild; for in that natural state dance embraces divine frequency.

If movements were a spark every dancer would desire to light up in flames.

Dance as the narration of a magical story; that recites on lips, illuminates imaginations and embraces the most sacred depths of souls.

Show me a person who found love in his life and did not celebrate it with a dance.

Dance is the timeless interpretation of life.

If spirit is the seed, dance is the water of its evolution.

Life is an affair of mystery; shared with companions of music, dance and poetry.

If you opened the dictionary and searched for the meaning of a Goddess, you would find the reflection of a dancing lady.

Don't breathe to survive; dance and feel alive.

Music does not need language of words for it has movements of dance to do its translation.

Dance to inspire, dance to freedom, life is about experiences so dance and let yourself become free.

Through synergy of intellect, artistry and grace came into existence the blessing of a dancer.

It does not matter how sweet you can sing a song of love. You must know how to dance along with it. You can't dance "salsa dance" on a "reggae song".

DANCE – Defeat All Negativity (via) Creative Expression.

I dance like I have a chip on my shoulder. I dance salsa.

Dance resides within us all. Some find it when joy conquers sorrow, others express it through celebration of movements; and then there are those... whose existence is dance,

Soar like an eagle beyond skies of heavens reach; as wings of dreams dance with winds of reality.

She who is a dancer can only sway the silk of her hair like the summer breeze.

Dance is the ritual of immortality.

I thought you said you didn’t want to salsa dance. And Dean Di Laurentis only does what he wants, remember?” He shrugs. “I am doing what I want.” My eyebrows knit together as I wait for him to clarify. “I’m making you happy.

When the melody plays, footsteps move, heart sings and spirit begin to dance.

One step, two steps, three steps; like winds of time experience joy of centuries, when movements become revelations of the dance of destinies.

You like salsa, though?” she asked, looking incredulously at him. “Sure I do. I get to grope and show off a beautiful woman while I choose the steps and direct the dance. What more would a controlling bastard like me want?

Dance is that delicacy of life radiating every particle of our existence with happiness.

Burdened no more is soul for whom life flows through dance and not breath.

Happy birthday, Nicaragua. I drank a toast in the best rum in the world, Flor de Caña Extra Seco. Mixed with Coke, it was called a Nica-libre, and after a few glasses I was ready to take on the salsa champions and knock them dead. I went outside to dance.

Jose: Do not drop me senor Jeff:i wont drop you,jose Jose:then i be jose jalapeno on the floor Peanut:do a little tap dance and we got salsa! Jeff:Thats terrible! Peanut:not with the right chips its not Jeff:stop it! im sorry jose jose:its okay jeff: okay Jose:ill kick his ass later peanut:i'll turn ur ass into guacamole jeff: stop it! peanut: i will stir u with ur own stick! jeff:stop it! peanut: this is the way we stir the guac stir the guac stir the guac. OLE!!

(Note to anyone considering joining a class: there is no need to turn up in full Strictly Come Dancing salsa outfit including fake tan. Everyone just wears jeans. Briefly awkward.)

Hearts shall dance once again; when canvas of ice is painted with the brush of skates.

Transcend the terrestrial; surpass the celestial, from nature’s hands when you receive the sublime pleasures of dance.

World seems like a void of silence every time footsteps are deprived of dancing shoes.

When a dancer performs, melody transforms into a carriage, expressions turn into fuel and spirit experiences a journey to a world where passion attains fulfillment.

Life is a dance, You waltz or you Rumba, ChaCha or Salsa, But whatever you do, Make sure you know the steps Even if you have to make up your own.

Make dance the mission every moment seeks to accomplish.

There isn’t a dance that can compare to the gaiety, the timing and cohesiveness of hand maneuvers, the provoca-tive movements in unison of an upbeat salsa dance. The sweating, the writhing bodies, the facial expressions; the start of a moderate sensual beat climaxing in the middle to a crescendo and then ending with a slower consummation is like making love in its most exquisite form.

Spirit is a child, the tune of dancing feet its lullaby.

Burdened no more is soul for whom life flows through dance like breath.

She has become so irritatingly optimistic ever since she took up salsa dancing.

It was too quiet all evening. I ate cold pizza and drank too much wine. The box said that I should pair it with chimichurri sauce and salsa dancing. The box was going to get British murder shows and like it.

What do you want, Allie? Tell me one thing you’ve been dying to do but haven’t gotten around to doing.” Her forehead furrows as she thinks it over. “Well. I’ve been wanting to start a new cleanse, but I keep putting it off.” “I have no idea what that means.” “I go on these juice cleanses a couple times a year,” she explains. “It sucks, because you’re stuck on a liquid diet for two whole weeks, but you feel so much better afterward.” “You’re a fucking weirdo. Pick something else. Something normal.” She pauses, deep in thought again, and then her expression brightens. “I’ve always wanted to learn how to salsa dance.” Fuck. That’s such a chick thing to say. “Then do it,” I tell her.

Limit not to only five, when the divine gifts the supreme sixth; the sense of dance

When Linda danced, her body twisted and swayed in a hypnotic motion which caused envy among her dance friends.

CAN I BE PUERTO RICAN? If I was born in Brooklyn? If I’ve never been to Puerto Rico? If I mix my English with my Spanish? If I cop quenepas from the Chino spot? If I don’t know the Boricua national anthem? If I can’t name our national heroes? Can I be Puerto Rican? If the closest I’ve come to the beach is la pompa? If I can’t dance salsa? If all I got is a feeling? Can I be Puerto Rican? If all I got is a feeling?

Audience of angels descend in the ambiance reciting praises in your glory, when you wear your dance shoes, when you arrive at the stage and with every step you take beneath your feet heaven moves. That is the power of dance.

Young and beautiful crowds filled the myriad bars and clubs in El Poblado, in the heart of Medellín. Amid the hypnotic sound of Latin music, vibrant colors swayed back and forth across a tiny dance floor as I walked into the Iguana Roja, or Red Iguana, salsa club.

After his initial homecoming week, after he'd been taken to a bunch of sights by his cousins, after he'd gotten somewhat used to the scorching weather and the surprise of waking up to the roosters and being called Huascar by everybody (that was his Dominican name, something else he'd forgotten), after he refused to succumb to that whisper that all long-term immigrants carry inside themselves, the whisper that says You do not belong, after he'd gone to about fifty clubs and because he couldn't dance salsa, merengue, or bachata had sat and drunk Presidentes while Lola and his cousins burned holes in the floor, after he'd explained to people a hundred times that he'd been separated from his sister at birth, after he spent a couple of quiet mornings on his own, writing, after he'd given out all his taxi money to beggars and had to call his cousin Pedro Pablo to pick him up, after he'd watched shirtless shoeless seven-year-olds fighting each other for the scraps he'd left on his plate at an outdoor cafe, after his mother took them all to dinner in the Zona Colonial and the waiters kept looking at their party askance (Watch out, Mom, Lola said, they probably think you're Haitian - La unica haitiana aqui eres tu, mi amor, she retorted), after a skeletal vieja grabbed both his hands and begged him for a penny, after his sister had said, You think that's bad, you should see the bateys, after he'd spent a day in Bani (the camp where La Inca had been raised) and he'd taken a dump in a latrine and wiped his ass with a corn cob - now that's entertainment, he wrote in his journal - after he'd gotten somewhat used to the surreal whirligig that was life in La Capital - the guaguas, the cops, the mind-boggling poverty, the Dunkin' Donuts, the beggars, the Haitians selling roasted peanuts at the intersections, the mind-boggling poverty, the asshole tourists hogging up all the beaches, the Xica de Silva novelas where homegirl got naked every five seconds that Lola and his female cousins were cracked on, the afternoon walks on the Conde, the mind-boggling poverty, the snarl of streets and rusting zinc shacks that were the barrios populares, the masses of niggers he waded through every day who ran him over if he stood still, the skinny watchmen standing in front of stores with their brokedown shotguns, the music, the raunchy jokes heard on the streets, the mind-boggling poverty, being piledrived into the corner of a concho by the combined weight of four other customers, the music, the new tunnels driving down into the bauxite earth [...]

After his initial homecoming week, after he'd been taken to a bunch of sights by his cousins, after he'd gotten somewhat used to the scorching weather and the surprise of waking up to the roosters and being called Huascar by everybody (that was his Dominican name, something else he'd forgotten), after he refused to succumb to that whisper that all long-term immigrants carry inside themselves, the whisper that says You do not belong, after he'd gone to about fifty clubs and because he couldn't dance salsa, merengue, or bachata had sat and drunk Presidentes while Lola and his cousins burned holes in the floor, after he'd explained to people a hundred times that he'd been separated from his sister at birth, after he spent a couple of quiet mornings on his own, writing, after he'd given out all his taxi money to beggars and had to call his cousin Pedro Pablo to pick him up, after he'd watched shirtless shoeless seven-year-olds fighting each other for the scraps he'd left on his plate at an outdoor cafe, after his mother took them all to dinner in the Zona Colonial and the waiters kept looking at their party askance (Watch out, Mom, Lola said, they probably think you're Haitian - La unica haitiana aqui eres tu, mi amor, she retorted), after a skeletal vieja grabbed both his hands and begged him for a penny, after his sister had said, You think that's bad, you should see the bateys, after he'd spent a day in Bani (the camp where La Inca had been raised) and he'd taken a dump in a latrine and wiped his ass with a corn cob - now that's entertainment, he wrote in his journal - after he'd gotten somewhat used to the surreal whirligig that was life in La Capital - the guaguas, the cops, the mind-boggling poverty, the Dunkin' Donuts, the beggars, the Haitians selling roasted peanuts at the intersections, the mind-boggling poverty, the asshole tourists hogging up all the beaches, the Xica de Silva novelas where homegirl got naked every five seconds that Lola and his female cousins were cracked on, the afternoon walks on the Conde, the mind-boggling poverty, the snarl of streets and rusting zinc shacks that were the barrios populares, the masses of niggers he waded through every day who ran him over if he stood still, the skinny watchmen standing in front of stores with their brokedown shotguns, the music, the raunchy jokes heard on the streets, the mind-boggling poverty, being piledrived into the corner of a concho by the combined weight of four other customers, the music, the new tunnels driving down into the bauxite earth,

What’s your favorite part of the trip?” “I don’t have one.” “C’mon, there must’ve been something.” “I took a weekend trip to Caño Cristales. I liked seeing the different colors of the river. It was like a liquid rainbow.” Many of the students had spent their time traveling around Colombia on the weekends. No one had a car, but we could hop on a plane for fairly cheap and fly into different areas such as Bogotá, the country’s official capital city, or Cali, the salsa-dancing capital of the world. Amanda had even convinced me to fly with her to the seductive, sizzling city of Cartagena. We climbed the fortified walls that had once protected the city from pirate attacks and watched the sunset. The entire city had a Miami-style skyline and, after the sun went down, infatuation seemed to bloom into fever and take hold of the city. At night we could hear the clink of rum bottles and mojito glasses in cafés on almost every street as moonlight picked out the silhouettes of softly swaying couples. We walked for hours along the coastal city streets. Candle flames beckoned from the dimness of nearby baroque churches.

to go on adventures with you. -          Music and dancing: these provide an easy excuse to invite her home later (e.g., “Let’s go back to my place, and you can show me some of those salsa dance moves”). -          Where she wants to travel: this provides her with good emotions and gives you an easy chance to bring up possibilities for the future (e.g., “Mexico? That settles it—we’re hopping on a flight tomorrow

At the time, there was a little Cuban place on the corner of First and First just a few blocks from the walk-up where I lived. They accepted no reservations, crowded you around little Formica-topped tables, and buried every entrée under a pile of rice and beans. But shortly after 11:00, they’d start pushing tables aside, a salsa band would assemble near the bar, and everyone in the place would get off their keisters and dance, whether they knew how to salsa or not. Now, that was a night out!

I see the search for objectivity in the social sciences as something along the lines of Zen enlightenment: I don't personally expect to achieve either of them, but I do find the pursuit worthwhile.

Learn Best Zumba Fitness, Aerobics classes, Hip Hop, Western Dance, Contemporary, Lyrical, Salsa, Party, Bollywood, Bhangra Dance academy for kids in Mohali.

Movies, music, TV, images and even food have become perfected to such an extent that it’s hard to even remember the way things used to be. We look at computers more than we look at the outside world. It may be true in some sense that movies and TV are more entertaining now, although I don’t personally think so. Magazines think they need to Photoshop their images to keep selling copies. There is no defense for artificial food whatsoever, and the problem with artificial music is that the public doesn’t realize that what they’re listening to is not real. It’s not human. The use of live instruments in recordings and in live “concerts” is so rare now that young people (especially in the United States) don’t have hardly any idea whatsoever about how to dance to live music of any sort. They don’t hear human salsa bands, string quartets, jazz bands, funk bands, rock bands or solo instrumentalists anymore. We have enough DJs. We need more high-level live music. There

Good afternoon, residents! A reminder that our salsa dance class starts in ten minutes.” “Shall we go to that, Gram-Gram?” I said. “A lot of times, meeting someone in person is best.” “Only women go to salsa dancing.” “Maybe you should become a lesbian, then. It would solve that pesky life expectancy problem.

Well, I like you in either form,” she said, giving me a shy smile. “In fact, sometimes I like your wolf form better. He’s more cuddly.” “Oh, too bad about that.” I shook my head. “I can change right now for you but I’m afraid it might ruin our plans for the evening.” “Plans?” She looked at me doubtfully. “We have plans?” “Uh-huh. How do you feel about salsa dancing?” She bit her lip. “Um… it sounds great but… you dance? Really?” I gave her my best mock offended look. “I’m not as much of a Neanderthal as you want to believe. Yeah, I dance. I’m pretty fucking good at it, if I say so myself.” “Well, I’m not any good at it but I’m willing to give it a try.” Her face fell. “Only I don’t have anything to wear.” “Yes, you do.” I went back out to the porch and picked up the package I’d left outside earlier. “Hope you like it,” I said as she ripped into it eagerly. “My sister picked it out. She owns a boutique in Tallahassee.” “Oh!” she exclaimed as the dress my big sister had picked came into view. It was a short, shimmery thing with a draped top and a low cut back. There were shoes to match too—strappy little heels that would make her long, lovely legs look like they went on forever. I couldn’t wait to see her in them. That is, if she would wear the clothes and shoes my sister had picked—I wasn’t so sure because suddenly Taylor had tears in her eyes. “You don’t like the outfit?” I asked anxiously. “I can send it back. I—” “No, no—I love it.” She sniffed and blotted her eyes with a paper towel from the holder. “It’s just… so sweet. And it’s the first time someone else has picked my clothes in years and got me something I really wanted to wear. Thank you, Victor.” She put the box with the clothes and shoes on the counter and stood on tiptoe to put her arms around my neck. “You’re so sweet to me,” she whispered in my ear. “So sweet and kind and generous.” “You deserve it,” I said gruffly, hugging her back.

I pop in every now and then to comment on the show, but for the most part I sit back, stop thinking, and enjoy a group of pretty twenty-somethings pretending to be teenagers, making astronomically bad decisions and learning from their mistakes. Every once in a while, a troll account will take over the chat window with screaming caps or strings of emoticons, and the account Forges_ of_Risht appears to block them. A message from Max appears on my phone. Apocalypse_Cow: forges, reporting for duty with the banhammer. MirkerLurker: Excellent work, soldier. Apocalypse_Cow: see, there’s a reason you hired me for this job. MirkerLurker: Yeah, so Emmy doesn’t have to do that and take care of the website. Apocalypse_Cow: har har. MirkerLurker: But really, great job. No one wields the banhammer quite as well as you. Max sends more emojis. A lady dancing the salsa. Nail painting. A lightning bolt.

O wayfarer! Yearn finds quench, not in meadows, seashores or altitude of mountain peaks; but when being becomes dance.

Drink kool aid and eat fried chicken like you're black, jump borders and wear sombreros like a Mexican, snort cocain and dance salsa like a Colombian, surf big ass waves like a Hawaiian, ride on fluffy lamas like a Peruvian, drink tea like a British muhfucka, be sexy like a Brazilian Chic, nuke motherfuckers like an American, and don't give a fuck like a Drunk Russian!

O wayfarer! Yearn finds quench, not in meadows, seashores or altitude of mountain peaks; but when being and dance are one.

Mr. President, I hope that the ghosts of every Puerto Rican who died at your hands in this catastrophe haunt your dreams each night, dancing an all-night salsa party in your twisted mind.

What kind of styles? There are circle dances inspired by Salsa, and others inspired by contemporary dance type moves, reggae, classical music and jazz. Everything can come under this umbrella, all with the idea that this is a social dance. We don't have to perform and we don't have to be perfect. We’re doing it for the way that we feel when dancing, the togetherness and connection.

I don’t care if you live by the motto: let the chips fall where they may, but don’t you dare spill the salsa. Not unless you’re holding it while we’re enjoying romance in motion known as salsa dancing.

It was apparent that her husband had no intention of joining her at any of her dance classes, so his complaints were futile.

The salsa class had been a miracle for Linda. Her only regret was she hadn’t learned to dance years ago but better late than never, and she intended to make the best of it.

Jade realised that being everyone’s best friend took time and effort, so she had learned to be a great listener. Her friends thought she was fun to be around, but she was unhappy with her weight. Jade had never met a man who respected her and had convinced herself that her body was the issue.

Figs: Bananas and apples may win the popularity contest, but figs are like the quiet girl next door who turns out to be a salsa-dancing neurosurgeon. And dried figs are even more remarkable. Figs have a tremendous amount of fiber, a thousand times more calcium than other common fruits (by weight), 80 percent more potassium than bananas, more iron than most other fruits, and a potent blast of magnesium—all for around 30 calories a fig.

Life is too short. I do not have time to talk to the attractive woman’s unattractive friends first or to learn how to dance salsa to meet more women. If I see a woman I find interesting, I walk straight up to her and tell her so

When she asks what you do, you can say, “I love to lay down the moves on the salsa dance floor, but I also analyze businesses.

Some feet are made for racing, but some special feet are made for dancing.

Dancing is like you having a romance with yourself.

I thought you said you didn’t want to salsa dance. And Dean Di Laurentis only does what he wants, remember?” He shrugs. “I am doing what I want.” My eyebrows knit together as I wait for him to clarify. “I’m making you happy.

It did not take us long to realize how deeply misguided our fantasies were. All too quickly, we discovered that salsa is a sadistic style of dancing created for the purpose of making middle-aged men feel ridiculous. Salsa requires an array of sensual hip movements that we found structurally implausible. We managed to perform this beautiful dance with all the seductive force of Al Gore giving a lap dance.

She sounds like she wasn’t expecting us, like we’re two acquaintances from her salsa dancing class who she only invited out of politeness and, shit, now suddenly we’re the first guests to arrive at her party.

I look around the front lobby of the dance studio, then meet Dean’s twinkling eyes. “I thought you said you didn’t want to salsa dance. And Dean Di Laurentis only does what he wants, remember?” He shrugs. “I am doing what I want.” My eyebrows knit together as I wait for him to clarify. “I’m making you happy.

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