LOVE

As in palms tightly pressed against each other while our wrists remain flexible swaying in all directions in following the whims of our feet and bodies … firmly holding me in its grip by the neck, the wind of destiny has taken me to many places …

places of emotions …

places of different sunsets,

and almost draging me towards an

unknown destination at its whims.

Regardless of how much I resist, destiny's willpower is far greater than mine.

And so, I surrender to my destiny like the way I surrender to her, and let her decide the next move . Just as in life, when it only seems that we are in charge, in Tango it is the woman deciding the next step … not the man. The man is merely executing those moves … despite its reputation of being so macho - both the man and the dance itself.

And so I let my destiny to carve out my path and if I encounter adversaries on that journey, I now know how to dance them away … instead of grabbing them by their hair flooring them, putting my foot on their throat as I used to do. No … it is far more thrilling to dance them silly … it is a way to mock them. One step back, two steps aside, then four ahead … one short pause and then spin. While all along, when it looks as if I am going to loose my balance any moment falling on my face, all these moves make my foes losing their focus and then … ha! … they stand no chance.

All dizzy by the rhythms … lost in ornamented melodies … intoxicated by the savage sound of the Bandoneon accompanied by the cry of a violin, wrapped in soft cords on
the piano, rooted in the ground by the metronomic strokes of the double base, I am in constant disorientation … except for the accents occurring after each sequence … after each 'Ocho'. Just as in life, which now and then offers me a moment of rest and solace, right before pushing my into another cross road to reach another mile stone.

Perhaps a kiss as brief as a wing flip of a humming bird or as long as the liberation of a butterfly from its cocoon … a short romance confined in a dark smoky bedroom covering a few afternoons or a few years sharing a full life with the woman with whom I envisioned to grow old with, but that never lasted.

My whole body is lifted by my handmade suede Tango shoes with their inch and a half high heels, just as my spirit is lifted by the ecstasy of the first kiss, promising a home in the heart of a loved one.

So I keep dancing and I keep feeling dizzy as I know that once the closing time of this little dark club comes, I have to take my high heel Tango shoes off, and I will be closer to the ground again. And the rhythms will not penetrate my heart no more … and the melodies will not be there to make me tipsy … and that soft gentle hair touching my face and her perfume filling my nostrils will no longer be. So I keep dancing as if it would be my death dance, leaving this world saluting life just as Don Juan recommended Castaneda to dance when his departure time would arrive.

And for the same reason I accept any invitation of a dance. Both on the dance floor and in life.

And I keep living the way I dance.

I now have learned to dance through life with precise steps … choreographed in detail …. Just as a good Tango should be, with perfect timing for its 'Ganchos' and 'Media Lunas'.

I worry no more about the inevitable last bars that the Bandoneon will play, announcing the end of the dance ... I am here NOW … my black suede shoes hand made by some poor Argentinean shoe maker in the outskirts of Buenos Aires are still clean and the heels are still holding and the Bandoneon player is not yet completely drunk as he has only emptied half of his cheap bottle of Ballentine's, so he still can play with razor sharp syncope and sweet phrasings. … and the sound system is robust … and her nipples are still aroused, touching my bare chest through my open black shirt and her hair's soft gentle smell still manages to cover the smell of her sweat as I have exhausted her in both Tangos and Milongas, and her lips are still red and full of blood … ready to burst if I would bite them.

And then there is silence. Dancers who during the dance looked like passionate lovers detach themselves and stand in front of each other a little shy … two strangers who during few minutes under the pretext of an innocent dance, carried away by the magic of music - willingly or unwillingly - dressed and shared their most intimate desires of love on that wooden floor in a few steps … a few swings and a few spins, while holding each others' hands firmly and leaning towards each other as if should one of them let go of the other, she or he would fall flat on the face. But now, they let go of each other.

And outside the dance floor when I see my love of a time that now seems belonging to the Atlantean era, and yet so recent that I deliberately and forcefully make myself to forget the color of her aura, the sound of her sigh, the warmth of her touch and the fire of her kiss, stands in front of me and looks so far away. She adapts a body language of that when meeting a total stranger … while she knows and I know about all the things we already have shared and that there is not one scent, sigh, touch or taste and desire left in her entire being's repertoire that I have not mastered.

And so I play along … I again let my destiny press my neck, twisting it so that my vision no more covers her sad posture.

All my muscles are exhausted in keeping perfect balance and my mind is drained in constantly trying to read her wishes of steps to come … and now with the Bandeneon being hushed, now that there is quietness … I have time to sit down and catch my spirit's breath with a few bourbon.

Just as outside the dance floor when she finally leaves … that love of mine with so many dreams about her all being perished with that last look … I now have time to lick my wounds as I know it now is over, that finally the fat lady has sang her last note.

And some nights when a romance has ended … a dream shattered … a hope vanished, in my loneliness I ask myself where the fuck am I supposed to find the energy to go on for another half a century? But then in the morning, a gentle Bossa Nova or the voice of a friend or a flashback of a cherished memory recharges me to the brim … and I get up and indulge in espressos and inhale the smoke of a cigarette like Ferdinand the bull inhales the smell of a single flower in a meadow in Andalucía, right before being dragged into the ring, facing a 'Toreador'.

Yeaaa … those few bourbons did me good. The piano starts with a solo intro. Before I know it I am back for another Tango or another Milonga … and the whole thing starts all over again.

And so I still go on in life with a huge smile despite all the sadness in the past … all the bitter sweet kisses and the drowned hopes and look forward to the next dance. Just as in a Tango sounding so melancholic and yet so yearning for the future … full of hope, full of anticipation … full of vitality and passion … with an everlasting erection for life, I keep moving ahead with full force.

I will go on and on till I find that special dance, after which I can put my Tango shoes on the shelf … or until it would be my last dance as my number would have come up.

And all along, in protesting while being dragged by my destiny to places and people that I sometimes feel I could have done without, I personify a Tango … with its complaining harmonies, heart breaking melodies and yet powerful rhythms, savage sounds and arousing phrases …

magical and yet simple.

so brutal and yet so tender

As …

My life is … just like a Tango

Mi vida es como un Tango�