personal writing piece
Tango Dream Sequence
The moment my partner draws me into the tango embrace I am transported into a time before I was born and a place that I have never been.
He puts his arm around my waist, we tilt our heads in repose, and as I wrap my arm around his shoulder, lean forward, and rest my hand on the back of his neck.
We touch foreheads.
Then I close my eyes and let the tango take over.
In my mind I’m at a tango salon in Buenos Aries, dancing with a gaucho. I hear the bandoneon play, and I get emotional. Astor Piazzola’s “Libertango” is playing, my favorite. Everthing is blurring now… the smell of the bordello, the sweat and smoke, the dark lighting makes all the other dancers seem like ghosts in black fishnet stockings and hats cocked forward, moving in and out of shadows. The Lufando, the lauguage of the criminals they use in the tango songs, sounds sad and passionate. Even though I don’t know what the words mean, I understand the words.
The moment my partner draws me into the tango embrace I am transported into a time before I was born and a place that I have never been.
He puts his arm around my waist, we tilt our heads in repose, and as I wrap my arm around his shoulder, lean forward, and rest my hand on the back of his neck.
We touch foreheads.
Then I close my eyes and let the tango take over.
In my mind I’m at a tango salon in Buenos Aries, dancing with a gaucho. I hear the bandoneon play, and I get emotional. Astor Piazzola’s “Libertango” is playing, my favorite. Everthing is blurring now… the smell of the bordello, the sweat and smoke, the dark lighting makes all the other dancers seem like ghosts in black fishnet stockings and hats cocked forward, moving in and out of shadows. The Lufando, the lauguage of the criminals they use in the tango songs, sounds sad and passionate. Even though I don’t know what the words mean, I understand the words.
posted by michelle @ 11:50 AM
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