My Tango Diaries

Sometimes, I want the music that lies against my skin like silk. Cool, soft, there but not there. I can keep moving, in fact I have to move. Or I want the music that snaps sharp like canvas. Arcs, kicks, flashes. It moves me like a shock. Sometimes I want the music that covers me like lambswool, warm, soft and calm. Its substance lies in the pauses. the silence between notes, the air between threads. I move, but slowly. And sometimes . . . Sometimes I want the music I feel in my chest, like a clenched fist. and like a fist, It demands.

The beautiful stage and dance floor of Austin's historic Scottish Rite Temple, with chairs for the Prom King and Queen per the Prom Night Theme. I used to love tango festivals. At some point, I hope to love them again, but I think it may be a little while. Maybe in small, local milongas it's just that I have a little more time to (try to) remember the people I should remember. To say the things I wanted to remember to tell them, and concentrate on what they say to me. Now, I feel so much more awkward in my interactions with people - and the more people around, the worse it is. At Austin's Yolatango milonga Saturday night, I forgot people, faces, names, and even the context of where I should have recognized them from. Did I meet them in Dallas? Albuquerque? Denver? Here? Have we ever danced? Were they a client? Was I at Albuquerque's tango festival last year, or the year before? The venue, Austin's Scottish Rite Temple, was gorgeous, The music