Tango Life Quotes

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

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.

Never invest in any kind of relationship with anyone who is not willing to work on themselves just a little every day. A person who takes no interest in any form of self-improvement, personal development or spiritual growth will also not be inclined to make much of an effort building a truly meaningful connection with you. A relationship with only one partner willing to do the work ceases to be a relationship. And as anyone who has been there will tell you - it's pointless to try and dance the tango solo.

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.

All myth is an enriched pattern, a two-faced proposition, allowing its operator to say one thing and mean another, to lead a double life. Hence the notion found early in ancient thought that all poets are liars. And from the true lies of poetry trickled out a question. What really connects words and things?

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.

I discovered there was something else I had never considered-Plan C- don't turn to mush, don't leave, stay and resist. Tango's entire point.

DANCE – Defeat All Negativity (via) Creative Expression.

Our evening-long tango of stares had my head spinning.

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.

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.

Sometimes it seemed that she and rudy were two people attempting to tango, sweating and trying, long after the orchestra had grown tired, long after everyone else had gone home.

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.

In our every cell, furled at the nucleus, there is a ribbon two yards long and just ten atoms wide. Over a hundred million miles of DNA in very human individual, enough to wrap five million times around our world and make the Midgard serpent blush for shame, make even the Ourobouros worm swallow hard in disbelief. This snake-god, nucleotide, twice twisted, scaled in adenine and cytosine, in thymine and in guanine, is a one-man show, will be the actors, props and setting, be the apple and the garden both. The player bides his time, awaits his entrance to a drum-roll of igniting binaries. This is the only dance in town, this anaconda tango, this slow spiral up through time from witless dirt to paramecium, from blind mechanic organism to awareness. There, below the birthing stars, Life sways and improvises. Every poignant gesture drips with slapstick; pathos; an unbearably affecting bravery. To dare this stage, this huge and overwhelming venue. Squinting through the stellar footlights, hoping there's an audience, that there's someone out there, but dancing anyway. But dancing anyway.

And what about for the first eight, ten years of his life, when loving parents encouraged his obsession with dragons and secret worlds and animals in vests who poured tea and drove motorcars and who gave him to read Tolkien and Susan Cooper and the Brothers Grimm and Madeleine L’Engle and C. S. Lewis? Is a boy supposed to leave his imagination on the side of the road when he boards the bus to manhood?

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.

Life is like a tango; fortunate are the few who can master it.

Life is like a tango, fortunate are the few who can master it.

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.

Make dance the mission every moment seeks to accomplish.

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

Tango tipped his head back against the bench, staring up at the denim-colored evening sky. This was the most dangerous, the most wonderful, the most daring addiction of all: life.

También ésta es la historia de mi vida, pensó, o parte de ella: buscar un taxi de madrugada, oliendo a mujer o a noche perdida, sin que una cosa contradiga la otra.

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

Sometimes, I recall the little things in life that make the journey more joyful, like the cheerful guy playing the accordion in Paris, on the way to Versailles. Of course everyone has their own perspective, but I believe that music does indeed provide more substance to life, so I dare imagine that one day I could walk through life as in a movie scene, with a soundtrack accompanying and enriching my every emotion, slowly dancing a tango towards one of those "and then they lived happily ever after" endings.

Rosa leaned forward. 'We don't have the least idea what life can be.' 'We don't?' 'No.' 'Then how do we find out?' Rosa wiped tears from Dante's face with her fingers. The gesture was firm as it was tender. 'We plunge.

But maybe that’s not how life works at all. Maybe you’re not supposed to put up so much resistance. Maybe a lot of that is pride and ego and pointless in the end. In which case she’d been misled by all that required reading and by the Die Hard movies.

She didn't mind the sacrifice. It seemed enough for a life, to give yourself to music the way nuns give themselves to God. To vow. To surrender. Only music, after all, made life bearable. Only with music did she feel--what was it? Free? Happy? No, it was something else. Awake.

Sammy is Upoopia!" my baby shouted and clapped his hands, instantly bringing all the furniture in the room to life. Couches and chairs upended their occupants and began to dance around the room recklessly. "Outstanding," Satan yelled as he tangoed with a chaise. "My great nephew is tremendous".

Luego alcancé a comprender que el tiempo nunca se gana, y que nunca se pierde, que la vida se gasta, simplemente.

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

Regeneration followed after death. Growth required change. Life was a constant battle of give-and-take, a bittersweet tango that demanded full participation.

He came face-to-face with the rude paradox fame had dealt him: The secret of his extraordinary art had been his ability to observe human interaction anonymously, thereby gaining insight into the emotions on display in ordinary life--it was his ability to become a fly-on-the-wall that made him famous, and fame had destroyed his ability to become a fly-on-the-wall.

There is a storytelling element in there. The tango form is a little like the blues in that you have a kind of structure. It’s not as rigid as twelve bar, but it's very much a storytelling medium -- and there’s an element of call-and-response, and a particular arc in the musical form, that suggest a story. It's about being in the moment, with the music; and responding to your partner, and the particular feeling and momentum in her body in any one moment. It’s a very concentrated thing; you can’t think about anything else while you are doing it. If you try to hold a conversation, it just kind of falls apart. The music was what really drew me into tango. Everyone knows a few of the more popular tango classics, but once you get into it, there’s such a rich field. It’s astonishing, this kind of miraculous musical form that developed in a very small locality: two cities on either side of the River Plate, in Argentina and Urugauy. It started in the 1880s or '90s, and there are all kinds of mysteries, myths and stories, about how tango started and developed. It was first of all considered really low-life, almost reptilian. Something to be avoided and not talked about. And then it became this word wide phenomena. . .and I could go on talking about tango forever. . . . but its also to do with movement. I try to get that into my pictures: a sense of movement, something flowing through. A while ago, I realised how much I'd been drawing dancing figures in the corners of my sketchbooks for years before I discovered tango!

What am I doing here, anyway? she thought. Walking around on this strange planet. Ahead of her was the vast, gray ocean of the rest of her life. Hers the only ship. No stars, no tango. No moon.

A guy might find a woman attractive but she might find him repulsive. The two must tango together. And LSM is capturing the dance—whereas the questionnaire is just assessing the dancers separately.

That's just how it is. You get halfway through your life and realize you've done it all wrong. You've picked the wrong jobs and followed the wrong dreams. Every decision from your cradle to the counter of an upscale children's boutique in Portland, Oregon gratingly names little fig where you now stand tethered at the age of thirty-seven for thirteen-dollars-an-hour-plus-commission has been all wrong.

And I knew, then and there, that no matter what happens one should never let the negatives in their life become the manifesto of their whole being. It always takes two to tango. Negatives don’t come without positives.

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.

The glow lasted through the night, beyond the bar's closing, when there were no cabs on the street. And so Mathilde and Lotto decided to walk home, her arm in his, chatting about nothing, about everything, the unpleasant, hot breath of the subway belching up from the grates. 'Chthonic', he said, booze letting loose the pretension at his core, which she still found sweet, an allowance from the glory. It was so late, there were few other people out, and it felt, just for this moment, that they had the city to themselves. She thought of all the life just underfoot, the teem of it that they were passing over, unknowing. She said, 'Did you know that the total weight of all the ants on Earth is the same as the total weight of all the humans on Earth.' She, who drank to excess, was a little bit drunk, it was true, there was so much relief in the evening. When the curtains closed against the backdrop, an enormous bolder blocking their future had rolled away. 'They'll still be here when we're gone,' he said. He was drinking from a flask. By the time they were home, he'd be sozzeled. 'The ants and the jellyfish and the cockroaches, they will be the kings of the Earth.'... 'They deserve this place more than we do,' she said. 'We've been reckless with our gifts.' He smiled and looked up. There were no stars, there was too much smog for them. 'Did you know,' he said, 'they just found out just a while ago that there are billions of worlds that can support life in our galaxy alone.' ...She felt a sting behind here eyes, but couldn't say why this thought touched her. He saw clear through and understood. He knew her. The things he didn't know about her would sink an ocean liner. He knew her. 'We're lonely down here,' he said, 'it's true, but we're not alone.' In the hazy space after he died, when she lived in a sort of timeless underground grief, she saw on the internet a video about what would happen to our galaxy in billions of years. We are in an immensely slow tango with the Andromeda galaxy, both galaxies shaped like spirals with outstretched arms, and we are moving toward each other like spinning bodies. The galaxies will gain speed as they draw near, casting off blue sparks, new stars until they spin past each other, and then the long arms of both galaxies will reach longingly out and grasp hands at the last moment and they will come spinning back in the opposite direction, their legs entwined, never hitting, until the second swirl becomes a clutch, a dip, a kiss, and then at the very center of things, when they are at their closest, there will open a supermassive black hole.

I was extremely shy of approaching my hero but he, as I found out, was sorely in need of company. By then almost completely blind, he was claustrated and even a little confused and this may help explain the rather shocking attitude that he took to the blunt trauma that was being inflicted in the streets and squares around him. 'This was my country and it might be yet,' he intoned to me when the topic first came up, as it had to: 'But something came between it and the sun.' This couplet he claimed (I have never been able to locate it) was from Edmund Blunden, whose gnarled hand I had been so excited to shake all those years ago, but it was not the Videla junta that Borges meant by the allusion. It was the pre-existing rule of Juan Perón, which he felt had depraved and corrupted Argentine society. I didn't disagree with this at all—and Perón had victimized Borges's mother and sister as well as having Borges himself fired from his job at the National Library—but it was nonetheless sad to hear the old man saying that he heartily preferred the new uniformed regime, as being one of 'gentlemen' as opposed to 'pimps.' This was a touch like listening to Evelyn Waugh at his most liverish and bufferish. (It was also partly redeemed by a piece of learned philology or etymology concerning the Buenos Aires dockside slang for pimp: canfinflero. 'A canfinfla, you see,' said Borges with perfect composure, 'is a pussy or more exactly a cunt. So a canfinflero is a trafficker in cunt: in Anglo-Saxon we might say a 'cunter."' Had not the very tango itself been evolved in a brothel in 1880? Borges could talk indefinitely about this sort of thing, perhaps in revenge for having had an oversolicitous mother who tyrannized him all his life.)

OK! Let's get started," Mariela announced brightly. "Now, can anyone tell me the meaning of 'tango'--the actual word?" Helen, of course, knew. "In Latin, it means 'I touch." Mariela nodded emphatically. "'I touch.' Or 'I play.' As in playing an instrument only here our instrument is ourselves," Mariela paused, allowing this insight to sink in. "And it means, 'I touch. I touch my partner in embrace," Dan and Mariela faced each other in an opening stance, "also called an abrazo--" and danced a simple eight step. "And I touch my inner life. I touch the core of my essence. Tango is not just learning or following steps." "It's improvisation," Barry said in a deep baritone. "That's right. There's a saying that tango is a 'sad thought danced.' But that's only part of it. It's touching the sadness in you, the pain, yes--but also the joy, the humor, the everything life has. It's touching everything.

Lion was the one who pointed out that naming hotels after Millennial values -- the Truth, the Purpose, the Community -- now that his generation had reached the age where the luxury of billboard ethics had been derailed by the verities of life, might be lucrative. "Aspirational nostalgia," he dubbed it.

How could she love someone she barely knew? A year ago she would have said it was impossible: love was a choice people made daily and longevity was its measure. Love did not crash land in your living room leaving you squinting into daylight, picking through the debris of your former life. Only now could she see that it was sometimes a phantom thing, a stray that wandered the periphery of your life and moved in the minute you opened the door for who knew how long?

I really am quite sure that there is something we’re supposed to do together, that there is more that is supposed to go on between us. Aren’t you? Isn’t there a held breath in your life right now? I’ve missed a few boats already, and I really don’t want to miss this one too. I realize that in that metaphor or analogy or whatever, you are a boat. That doesn’t really quite get what I mean, because I am also a boat. We are both boats and we are both passengers. We should not miss each other.

Kanga e përndimit Kangë Pëmdimi, kangë njeriu të dehun nga besimi në vete Kanga e tij një fe tjetër, me tempuj të tjerë, me meshë solemne, ku prej mëngjesit deri në mbramje shkrihen ndjesitë tmtë njerzore n'apoteozën e hekurit; shpirtënt përshkohen në tymore, të cilat në fishkllim i përqeshen zotit të vjetër edhe qiellit e me re të ndyt' tymi të dendun ndriçimin ia vrasin diellit. Fe tjetër, fe e çmendun e Pëmdimit të mrekullueshëm... 1 ekzaltuem shklet njeriu në delirium të pakuptueshëm. Dëgjon zanin q'i thotë feja. Plagos qiellën, e shpon tokën, i shkyn horizontet e bardhë, zhvesh natyrën - ia heq kotllën. Kult' i tij - kult i zhveshun! Nuk ia bren ma trutë enigmi - e varros, mbi varr ia vë një shej përbuzje o nderimi. Kangë Pëmdimi, kangë njeriu të dehun nga besimi në vete Kanga e tij shpres' e bukur, me flatra të një tjetërjete në të cilën dielli do ndrrojë udhën: ka për t'u lindë nga Pëmdimi - por deh! nga lumnia tash humb kokën rruzullimi. Me një "tango" qejfi tash ia ngatrron fijet zotit të vjetër ka me ia skandalizue të birtë besnikë në planetë të tjeter, Kanga Pëmdimi, kangë njeriu të dehun nga besimi në vete... Le të dëgjojmë kangën që mshtillet në shllung' avulli në pika djerse.

And the horrible thing was: what if they were right? What if she lived her whole life and never really knew what love was? What if it was deeper than she ever imagined? What if she died without ever knowing what she missed? How would she know to even miss it? Love--deep, profound, soul-stirring love--happened on this planet, in this life. And she missed it. On the other hand, her mother had a point: babies were awful. They were selfish, greedy, expensive and ultimately resentful of what they later would decide you had withheld from them. You were, in effect, creating someone uniquely fine-tuned to discern your slightest faults and broadcast them from the highest point.

a good story, I’ll give you that. So, how many times have you done this sort of thing?  Send the inbred trash out ahead on the road to spook up unsuspecting travelers and you all hang back, jerking each other off, waiting to ambush anyone that makes it past them?” The wounded man looked away, ignoring Shane’s comments. “Don’t worry kid, I won’t kill ya today. But if I catch you in a lie, or if I find more of your inbred cousins at this camp, I will make the last moments of your life very painful,” Shane said in a calm voice. “Why are you doing this?” Shane feigned laughter and ignored the question. “What’s your name kid?” “Kyle,” he answered. “Kyle, everything I do, I do for her.” “You kill for her?” “No, I protect her and I destroy anything that tries to harm her—” “It’s right up here, follow the white fence,” Kyle interrupted using his neck to point out a quickly approaching high fence skinned in white sheet metal. The fence was tall and set back off the road. Mounds of stacked cars and other junk could be seen piled high at points. Shane slowed the car and carefully eased over to the shoulder of the road. He put the car in park and killed the engine. Shane sat silently for a minute, hushing Kyle when he tried to speak. He opened the door and slowly walked to the front of the car while listening for sounds. He climbed onto the hood and moved to the roof of the sedan. He could just barely see inside the compound. As it appeared from the outside, it was definitely a scrap yard. Piles of sorted metal were scattered around a central building while rows of smashed and stacked cars made up the far sides of the lot. From

Compassion and communication are both incredibly important in relationships, but most of us use these at the wrong time. If we communicate, it's only in times of conflict, allowing repressed emotions and unsaid worries form into their worst phrasings. If we show compassion, it's only in good times, when we're feeling good about one another and don't feel triggered or attacked. What if we changed our approach? What if we showed compassion in conflict—taking the time to listen, understand, help each other release pent-up emotions? And what if we communicated in good times—taking the time to talk about patterns we fall into, triggers we both have, and how we can work together to break our cycles? Then, we would stop helplessly dancing the same old tango of mutual misunderstanding. Then, we could work on giving one another room to feel, to love, and to grow.

Fake it till you become it. My first Argentine tango was with Lil’ Kim, and again, I was completely learning it as I went along. Now it’s become one of my favorite dances to do. Whenever people say to me, “You’re such a great choreographer,” or I look at my Emmy learning it in my apartment, I remind myself that I came into DWTS with no experience, no education in many of these dances, and certainly no clue how to teach anything to anybody. I simply committed to learning them and then taught them to my partners. I drew upon how I had been taught and what I thought my partners would respond to. I felt my way along, just as they did, till I became the teacher I wanted to be. I threw myself into the effort without hesitation because I had no choice. There were only two options: I could go out there and throw my hands up and say, “Just kidding! I’m a phony,” or get it done. I couldn’t let myself or my partners down. This was the stage I was given, and I always want to be the best at whatever I’m doing. I never wanted my partners to feel they couldn’t rely on me. I had to go in there and make it happen. With that mentality, I found a way.

Anyone familiar with the darker side of life understands that a man who has lost his shadow is like a woman with a dark past who marries: no one is more loyal, because she knows how much is at stake. Whispered words like moans sliding over naked skin. It was in such places that you learned the philosophy of the different races: the melancholy Italians, suspicious Jews, Brutal Germans, and stubborn Spaniards, intoxicated with envy and murderous pride. The spiteful resentment that we women often resort to when we are in pain. Elegance could be acquired through money, education, hard work and intelligence. Doubt is what keeps people young. Certainty is like a malignant virus that infects us as we get older. Spain: that sad, embittered country, reeking of the sacristy and run by black marketeers and mediocre ruffians. The paradise of envy, barbarity and treachery. One of those men who use others as a pretext to talk about themselves. How flimsy the ties are that prevent human beings from lying or betraying. Women are the only worthwhile temptation. Everything else is negotiable. After all, like the rest of womankind, she only needed persuading.

Rμv– 1/2 gμv R = 8πTμv The left side of the equation starts with the term Rμv, which is the Ricci tensor he had embraced earlier. The term gμv is the all-important metric tensor, and the term R is the trace of the Ricci tensor called the Ricci scalar. Together, this left side of the equation—which is now known as the Einstein tensor and can be written simply as Gμv—compresses together all of the information about how the geometry of spacetime is warped and curved by objects. The right side describes the movement of matter in the gravitational field. The interplay between the two sides shows how objects curve spacetime and how, in turn, this curvature affects the motion of objects. As the physicist John Wheeler has put it, “Matter tells spacetime how to curve, and curved space tells matter how to move.”83 Thus is staged a cosmic tango, as captured by another physicist, Brian Greene: Space and time become players in the evolving cosmos. They come alive. Matter here causes space to warp there, which causes matter over here to move, which causes space way over there to warp even more, and so on. General relativity provides the choreography for an entwined cosmic dance of space, time, matter, and energy.84 At

Colonel Melchett silently marvelled at the amount of aids to beauty that women could use. Rows of jars of face cream, cleansing cream, vanishing cream, skin-feeding cream! Boxes of different shades of powder. An untidy heap of every variety of lipstick. Hair lotions and “brightening” applications. Eyelash black, mascara, blue stain for under the eyes, at least twelve different shades of nail varnish, face tissues, bits of cotton wool, dirty powder-puffs. Bottles of lotions—astringent, tonic, soothing, etc. “Do you mean to say,” he murmured feebly, “that women use all these things?” Inspector Slack, who always knew everything, kindly enlightened him. “In private life, sir, so to speak, a lady keeps to one or two distinct shades, one for evening, one for day. They know what suits them and they keep to it. But these professional girls, they have to ring a change, so to speak. They do exhibition dances, and one night it’s a tango and the next a crinoline Victorian dance and then a kind of Apache dance and then just ordinary ballroom, and, of course, the makeup varies a good bit.” “Good lord!” said the Colonel. “No wonder the people who turn out these creams and messes make a fortune.” “Easy money, that’s what it is,” said Slack. “Easy money. Got to spend a bit in advertisement, of course.” Colonel

Homie caught a body Got a naughty shawty Throw her in the trunk of my purple buggati Opps on my tail damn making this a party Firing shots man I think they might’ve got me Bleeding and speeding on the 401 This is hood economics 101 Got that gangsta archetype like Carl Yung Damn making me ask who am I running from? When I know I got balls and a fuckin loaded gun Roll out on the freeway while takin some heat One cop two cop three’s on his feet Yeah bullseye put one his knee Cryin oh please don’t hurt me you know I got family Put him to sleep with nice slick kick As I head to his home to go meet his kids His wife’s crying in the corner as I fire from the hip Yeah there’s heart in this clip I put my all in this shit Leaving their home while unfulfilled Got a taste for killing need more blood to spill God looking down asking me to chill Fire shots in the air tellin him no deal Already dug my grave and wrote my will Therapist tells me just stay home and masturbate man Tell him fuck off you know I’m Patrick Bateman Killers don’t discriminate you know I still kill women Brutally beat them into mush on the pavement Screaming for help with no-one here to save them My life has purpose and I know who I am A cold blooded killer with two glocks in his hands Better run mothafucka you know you stand no chance Cause it takes two to tango and damn I wanna dance

The result was not nearly as vivid to the layman as, say, E=mc2. Yet using the condensed notations of tensors, in which sprawling complexities can be compressed into little subscripts, the crux of the final Einstein field equations is compact enough to be emblazoned, as it indeed often has been, on T-shirts designed for proud physics students. In one of its many variations,82 it can be written as: Rμv– 1/2 gμv R = 8πTμv The left side of the equation starts with the term Rμv, which is the Ricci tensor he had embraced earlier. The term gμv is the all-important metric tensor, and the term R is the trace of the Ricci tensor called the Ricci scalar. Together, this left side of the equation—which is now known as the Einstein tensor and can be written simply as Gμv—compresses together all of the information about how the geometry of spacetime is warped and curved by objects. The right side describes the movement of matter in the gravitational field. The interplay between the two sides shows how objects curve spacetime and how, in turn, this curvature affects the motion of objects. As the physicist John Wheeler has put it, “Matter tells spacetime how to curve, and curved space tells matter how to move.”83 Thus is staged a cosmic tango, as captured by another physicist, Brian Greene: Space and time become players in the evolving cosmos. They come alive. Matter here causes space to warp there, which causes matter over here to move, which causes space way over there to warp even more, and so on. General relativity provides the choreography for an entwined cosmic dance of space, time, matter, and energy.

If someone left you, you had to answer with silence. She bore the scent of a mixture of oriental spices and the sweetness of flowers and honey. Dreams are the interface between the worlds, between time and space. He calls books freedoms. And homes too. They preserve all the good words that we so seldom use. Tango is a truth drug. It lays bare your problems and your complexes, but also the strengths you hide from others so as not to vex them. Saudade. It is the sense of being loved in a way that will never come again. It is a unique experience of abandon. It is everything that words cannot capture. They say that men who are at one with their bodies can sense and smell when a woman wants more from life than she is getting. Another woman found it incredibly erotic when I backed pate en croute. Aromas do funny things to the soul. Habit is a vain and treacherous goddess. She lets nothing disrupt her rule. She smothers one desire after another: the desire to travel, the desire for a better job or a new love. She stops us from living as we would like, because habit prevents us from asking ourselves whether we continue to enjoy doing what we do. Books can do many things but not everything. We have to live the important things, not read them. It was the season for truffles and literature. The countryside was redolent of wild herbs and glowed in autumnal rust reds and wine yellows.

Well, almost. The digit is apparently too thick to enter without also depressing the trigger, so it accidentally fires the weapon into the oncoming enemy squad. But is it really an accident if it puts down tangos? I don’t think so. In fact, I think this proves that premature discharge is just a part of life and clearly has its place.

Still, both Rent and Spring Awakening ultimately use gay characters to bolster heteronormativity. Angel serves as the emotional touchstone of Rent, endlessly generous and hopeful, caring and sensitive. All mourn his death, which compels the other characters to look at their lives and choices. That Angel’s death enables the other characters to learn about themselves replicates a typical (tired) trope in which an Other (usually a person of color or a person with a disability) aids in the self-actualization of the principal character. Also, Collins and Angel have the most loving and healthy relationship, which the musical needs to eliminate so as not to valorize the gay male couple above all else. In addition, Joanne and Maureen sing a lively number, “Take Me or Leave Me,” but the musical doesn’t take their relationship seriously. Maureen is presented as a fickle, emotionally abusive, yet irresistible lover (Joanne and Mark’s duet, “The Tango Maureen”) and a less-than-accomplished artist (her “The Cow Jumped over the Moon” is a parody of performance art).15 In contrast, Mimi and Roger’s relationship lasts through the end of the musical, since Mimi comes back to life. This choice, one of the few that differs from Puccini’s La Bohème (which provides the primary situational basis for Rent), shows how beholden twentieth-century musicals—even tragedies—are to the convention of a heterosexually happy ending.

Why didn’t she know more about computers? That knowledge suddenly seemed more important than feminist theory or eighties’ song lyrics, both of which she was well acquainted with. Computers had risen around her all her life, like a lake sneakily subsuming more and more arable land, but she’d never learned to write code or poke behind the icons or anything like that. She was like a medieval peasant confounded by books and easily impressed by stained glass.

I’m not easy or simple or entirely light. My sunshine dances the tango with my tornado by the light of a blood-red moon. I am daisy chains and cauldron fire. I am the space where shame is shed. I like my desire fast and hard and my sacred so holy you’ll swear for the rest of your life that your body turned cathedral under my hands. If you come to me, come ready to be revealed. Offer me bare skin, not armor. Bring me the whole and holy of you and arrive ready for worship. I am a crystal-clear mirror. Beware, you will not leave me without bearing witness to your own beauty. I fear there’s a damn good chance you’re not ready for what happens next.

2012 My Response to Andy’s Message     Thank you, Andy, for your candidness. I’m sure you will not fail to attract the right man into your life again when the time is ripe, or are you still waiting for my hand? LOL!               On a more serious note, would you like to give your impression of our time in India? I’m sure readers of A Harem Boy’s Saga would love to see your side of the story. I, too, would like to know in greater detail what transpired in your life during our years of absence. As the saying goes, it takes two to tango. I will reciprocate if you take me up on this.☺               Your adoring ex-lover and ex-charge, Young

Cultural Diplomacy—and an Accolade Among Piazzolla’s tasks during his first summer at the Chalet El Casco was the composition of “Le Grand Tango,” a ten-minute piece for cello and piano commissioned by Efraín Paesky, Director of the OAS Division of Arts, and dedicated to Mstislav Rostropovich, to whom Piazzolla sent the score. Rostropovich had not heard of Piazzolla at the time and did not look seriously at the music for several years.7 Written in ternary form, the work bears all Piazzolla’s hallmarks: tight construction, strong accents, harmonic tensions, rhythmic complexity and melodic inspiration, all apparent from the fierce cello scrapes at the beginning. Piazzolla uses intervals not frequently visited on the cello fingerboard. Its largely tender mood, notably on display in the cello’s snaking melodic line in the reflective middle section, becomes more profoundly complex in its emotional range toward the end. With its intricate juxtapositions of driving rhythms and heart-rending tags of tune, it is just about the most exciting music Piazzolla ever wrote, a masterpiece. Piazzolla was eager for Rostropovich to play it, but the chance did not come for eight years. Rostropovich, having looked at the music, and “astounded by the great talent of Astor,” decided he would include it in a concert. He made some changes in the cello part and wanted Piazzolla to hear them before he played the piece. Accordingly, in April 1990, he rehearsed it with Argentine pianist Susana Mendelievich in a room at the Teatro Colón, and Piazzolla gently coached the maestro in tango style—”Yes, tan-go, tan-go, tan-go.” The two men took an instant liking to one another.8 It was, says Mendelievich, “as if Rostropovich had played tangos all his life.” “Le Grand Tango” had its world premiere in New Orleans on April 24, 1990. Sarah Wolfensohn was the pianist. Three days later, they both played this piece again at the Gusman Cultural Center in Miami. [NOTE C] Rostropovich performed “Le Grand Tango” at the Teatro Colón, Buenos Aires, in July 1994; the pianist was Lambert Orkis. More recently, cellist Yo-Yo Ma has described “Le Grand Tango” as one of his “favorite pieces of music,” praising its “inextricable rhythmic sense...total freedom, passion, ecstasy.

Ordinary girls surrender to circumstance, and eventually that becomes the sum of their life. But the universal woman makes her own way.

Perhaps that was life's only way to settle the dust after the enormous storm we had just survived together.

Perdu cleared his throat and announced to the empty car: “Her words were so natural. Manon showed her feelings, always. She loved the tango. She drank from life as if it were champagne and faced it in the same spirit: she knew that life is special.

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

So by nature, most of us are thinking in the past, because we’re using the same hardware and software programs from our past memories. And if we’re living the same life every day by doing the same things at the same time, seeing the same people at the same place, and creating the same experiences from yesterday, then we’re enslaved to having our outer worlds influence our inner worlds. It’s our environment that is controlling how we think, act, and feel. We’re victims of our personal realities, because our personal realities are creating our personalities—and it’s become an unconscious process. Then that, of course, reaffirms the same thinking and feeling, and now there’s a tango or a match between our outer worlds and our inner worlds, and they merge and become the same—and so do we. If

Most people walk through life without ever noticing the little clues all around that something’s not right.” Another toilet lid crashed in front of them and Serge pulled a porcelain splinter from his arm. “In Florida, you just have to filter out the background weirdness.

I’ve decided to totally rededicate my entire life to being a private eye. Your life, too.” “Is this like all your other rededications?” “No!” Serge pounded his fist on the dash. “Those were all spur-of-the-moment impulsive flights of silliness. Like my last idiotic idea of becoming a house hunter. Where’s the challenge?

Technology has just passed our survival instinct, and the country is spinning on a stationary existential axis of make-believe importance: We text about a Tweet of a YouTube video posted on Facebook with a clip of Glee about not texting that we just texted about. Instead of actual life, we’re now living an air-guitar version of life.

Generally speaking, of course, any pursuit of art in camp was somewhat grotesque. I would say that the real impression made by anything connected with art arose only from the ghostlike contrast between the performance and the background of desolate camp life. I shall never forget how I awoke from the deep sleep of exhaustion on my second night in Auschwitz—roused by music. The senior warden of the hut had some kind of celebration in his room, which was near the entrance of the hut. Tipsy voices bawled some hackneyed tunes. Suddenly there was a silence and into the night a violin sang a desperately sad tango, an unusual tune not spoiled by frequent playing. The violin wept and a part of me wept with it, for on that same day someone had a twenty-fourth birthday. That someone lay in another part of the Auschwitz camp, possibly only a few hundred or a thousand yards away, and yet completely out of reach. That someone was my wife.

The better someone is at their profession, the less time they have to spend on their own life;

The Invitation There are lives in which nothing goes right. The would-be suicide takes a bottle of pills and immediately throws up. He tries to hang himself but gets his arm caught in the noose. He tries to throw himself under a subway but misses the last train. He walks home. It is raining. He catches a cold and dies. Once in heaven it is no better. He mops the marble staircase and accidentally jams his foot in the pail. All his harp strings break. His halo slips down over his neck and nearly chokes him. Why is he here? demands one of the noble dead, an archbishop or general, a leader of men: If a loser like that can enter heaven, then how is it an honor for us to be here as well – those of us who are totally deserving? But the would-be suicide knows none of this. In the evening, he returns to his little cloud house and watches the sun set over the planet Earth. He stares down at the cities filled with people and thinks how sad it is that they should rush backwards and forwards as if they had some great destination when their only destination is death itself – a place to be reached by sitting as well as running. He thinks about his own life with its betrayals and disappointments. Regret, regret – how he never made a softball team, how his favorite shirts always shrank in the wash. His eyes moisten and he sheds a few tears, but secretly, because in heaven crying is forbidden. Still, the tears tumble down through all those layers of blue sky and strike a salesman rushing between Point A and Point B. The salesman slips, staggers, and stops as if slapped in the face. People on the street think he’s crazy or drunk. Why am I selling ten thousand ballpoint pens? he asks himself. Suddenly his only wish is to dance the tango. He sees how the setting sun caresses the cold faces of the buildings. He sees a beautiful woman and desperately wants to ask her to stroll in the park. Maybe he will kiss her cheek; maybe she will love him back. You maniac, she tells him, didn’t you know I was only waiting for you to ask me?

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

Buenos aires never showed its scars, never lets its surface be ruffled; it was a city made for forgetting as much as for nostalgia. Certain places in this world, they keep calling you back the way they did in life. They're not homes per se, more like portals, gateways, that propel you on the way they did in life too. Only problem is, the deeper down you go, the more muddled they get. It was a big immigrant cafe back then - lots of tango types getting nostalgic on the bandoneon, missing their homeland. The air was sweet and golden, like honey.

Her mother had sung the moon song to her before she went to sleep, and always said afterward, "You're growing like the moon. Soon you'll be big, soon you'll have your own beautiful life. Full of stars, and ships, and you'll dance the tango.

It is one of the ironies of woman’s life in that she tends to tango her reflexes with the nuances of male proclivities. It is thus, woman’s true feelings get camouflaged in her lullabies of compliance to let her man sink into the slumber of complacency.

The patient suffers; the family threatens; the colleagues frown; the nurse laughs; Death grins; and the young doctor dances a crazy jig amid the tumult, though once he dreamed he would glide along the floor with Death in a perfectly controlled tango.

I think you must ask yourself what will make you happy. Not anyone else. You.’ I stared at her. ‘I suppose you think that sounds selfish, but it’s how I’ve lived my own life. Each morning I wake up and the first thing I think is what can I do today to make myself happy. You’d be surprised how hardly anyone else does that.’ ‘Actually I wouldn’t.’ ‘Most people think only about what they have to do. They don’t stop to ask if they really want to. Me, I dance the tango to be happy, I make love to be happy, look at art, listen to music, wear beautiful clothes, enjoy all my passions as often as I can. I make happiness the thing that matters most.

It's as if some master perfumer and necromancer had foreseen all the broken promises of your life to come, all the pangs of unrequited love and unreturned letters; the torment of watching a phone that never rings; the bright expectancy of fresh hope at breakfast, in ruins by sunset ... it was as if he took all these things and blended them into a single fragrance and called it whatever the French is for Disappointment — Désolé or Chagrin or something.

The tango, by 1914, had been officially declared immoral, and dancers went through its showy steps under threat of being dragged off the floor to jail unless light was visible between the partners and they refrained from doing any demoralizing dance steps, like “snake-wiggling” at the shoulders.

payadas, sung by pairs of country men who knew the life of gauchos and horses abd lassos and dirt, who battled each other through song, caught up in a duel of wits, brandishing guitars and verses spit from their mouths

Het trappehuis hield voor hem op iedere etage een herinnering, een emotie in, iets ouderwets en ongrijpbaars, iets dat ergens trilde in het flakkerende schijnsel van zijn geheugen: een gebaar, een geur, een geluid, een fonkeling, een jonge vrouw die opera-aria's zong waarbij ze zichzelf op de piano begeleidde, onhandig getik op een schrijfmachine, een hardnekkige cresollucht, geschreeuw, een kreet, geroezemoes, het geruis van zijde en bont, klaaglijk gemiauw achter een deur, geklop tegen muren, tot vervelens toe op krassende grammofoons gedraaide tango's of, op de zesde etage, het permanente gebrom van de decoupeerzaag van Gaspard Winckler, dat drie verdiepingen lager, op de derde etage links, nog altijd alleen beantwoord werd door een ondraaglijke stilte.