Quote of the week

"You will always be lucky if you know how to make friends with strange cats"
—Colonial American proverb.



Borrowed from The house next door"

For more adorable pictures of cats visit this site

Thru the wall

While looking for Handel’s ‘Sarabande’ from the Suite in D minor for solo harpsichord at youtube I stumbled upon this ad:



Haven’t seen it in ages. Still, I do remember how exhilarating I found this video the first time I watched it back in 2002.
Didn’t buy the jeans though.
PS.While we are at it: the UK Lilt Odyssey spoof is not to be missed.

Hiatus, interrupted

I have at least five unfinished posts pending but right at the moment I just can't find strength to think any thought to the end. It might have to do something with autumn suddenly planting its cold, nacked heel on my throat or the fact that my life doesn't allow much room for dancing.
I missed out on the Tango Argentino Festival Wuppertal almost completely save for two milongas.
I've been reading a lot though as it's one of those activities that aren't tied to time.
And I'm getting this travel itch again. Sometimes I don't even know what triggered this tugging feeling in the pit of my stomach: a picture in the newspaper, a bout of wind - but there it is, tugging away.
However this time it occured when I found one of the old snapshots showing me laughing with the head thrown back, the elegant nose of Flatiron building behind me.
There were times in my life when every second day I would drive out to the airport and watch planes taking off. I looked at the timetable and imagined stepping out of the pot-bellied airbus in the city with the name I couldn't even pronounce properly, let alone find them on the map.
Right now I'm not even sure I would want to explore something new. My skin thinned down to the point of disintegrating and even if I wanted adventure, I could take in just as much.
But I would love to go somewhere sunny.

Why should we take it easy?

I love Emiliana Torrini. For those of you who have never heard of her - read on.
She is a beautiful, gifted woman who possesses the extraordinary ability to nail things down with just few simple words.
Some time ago I met up with one of my non-tango friends. These occasions being ever so rare, I did my best to avoid even mentioning tango, but then he asked. I admit I can get pretty emotional at times and I might have gotten carried away a bit. But after a while he made me stop dead in my tracks by just saying in an amused way, "Come on,you are not serious, are you? Take it easy. It's just a hobby".
There it was, as fluffy as clichés generally go.
How often in our lives do we hear those magical three words? Take this easy
and take that easy.
You know what?
I wish I could, but on the second thought – I'm afraid, I don't want to.
Neither tango, nor anything else in my life.

Look at me when I'm not looking at you...

This picture was taken last year in Parma, Italy, where I spent some time working. As you might have noticed, I'm not much of a photographer. So I mostly rely on keepsakes made of memories and chunks of my imagination, boiled down to words. They let swirl themselves at will like pieces of stained glass in a good, old kaleidoscope.
Trying to capture the visual side of life often leaves me frustrated. It obviously takes a better artist to be able to strip the covers off the things, leaving them bare, but not naked.
However, there were two dogs, waiting for their owners outside of a small bakery. The woolly one seemed very quiet, almost serene, while the other one (evidently a "she") was leaping around desperately trying to catch attention of her pal. She undertook every possible effort to draw his attention to her: barked, whimpered in the tiniest voice, and stuck her moist black nose into his fur.
Her eagerness wouldn't let him (it was definitely a "he") soften towards her whatsoever. His slightly averted face showed no signs of acknowledgment, let alone joy.
I watched them, spellbound by a display of such human feelings. Briskly whisked away by an impatient, very hungry friend into the restaurant on the opposite side of the street, I still managed to take out the camera and make a couple of shots.
Everything and everyone was caught moving and my heavy, old-fashioned "Canon" gasped disapprovingly before coughing up the flash. The shot isn’t much in terms of quality , but I like the direct, white-hot swiftness of desperation in the outline of her body and the cautious remoteness in the shape of his.
Good news for every woman on this planet - she was able to restore her dignity after all (that I happened to witness as we settled for a meal outside – so I could watch on the drama unfolding in front of my eyes).
How? Nothing easier than that:
The very moment she gave up and looked another way his head perked up: having lost her curiosity for him, she became a subject of his interest.
Did it ever happen to you? Did you sit the whole damn night in the milonga without ever getting noticed, but the moment you unfastened your shoes, a bunch of guys swarmed by, looking at you incredulously: "You are not already going, are you? But why? And I was just about to ask … You know, it was pretty a busy night".
Not for me, no. But then, you must have been pretty busy to notice that.
Lately I've noticed a fine difference in a general attitude toward me at local milongas. I don't dance better, but considerably more and with better leaders. There is nothing new und improved about me, just same ole, same ole. . But I'm ready to let go and everyone here seems to feel it.
So at once I climbed a step up the ladder of the tightly knit pecking order of the local tango community.
Funnily enough,now…When I'm about to leave for good.

Speaking in hands

This video shows Uliana Lopatkina, one of the most versatile Russian ballerinas of a new generation, in rehearsal.
I saw her once live and it was every bit as impressive as this short glimpse into her daily routine, caught on film.
Amazing hands, huh?

Feet on fire

Does it get any faster?
Or wittier?
I wish I could take lessons with her.

"I've got such heaps of wishes, I've only said a few..."

Do you know that when you see a rainbow, you should make a cross on the ground, and then make a wish? It will come true.
Yesterday I saw a triple rainbow.
I made just one wish. But I should have gone for three, right?
Would have been a safe bet.
Life is filled with lost opportunities.

Do you like to be alike?

Do you have a Facebook account? And if that’s the case, have you come across the Likeness application? Come on, admit it, I know for sure that you have:-)
For those of you who don't know what I'm talking about: this silly applet lets you take a quiz to find out how much you are like/unlike your friends and one's asked to answer ten questions to some random subject. Afterwards the answers are evaluated - et voilà! - you find out that you are "Twins" or "Peas in the pod" with someone.
How do you feel about it? Do you like being alike?
I know it's a bit daft to give it a first thought, let along the second one.
But it made me think nonetheless.
As a teenager I bore some resemblance to a child star well-known in the country I was born and brought up in. She came across as a sweet, lively girl. It also went without saying that for your average school boy she was the greatest thing since sliced bread.
So the first time my friends pointed it out to me, I was absolutely psyched. My greedy little mind seemed to discern undreamt-of possibilities in it. So I did everything possible to look more likeher…up to the point of even studying her mannerisms. And for some time it made me more popular.
But bit by bit I became weary of it. I didn't want to hear "Wow, do you know you look exactly like…?" anymore.
I longed to be me again.
At the end of the day most of us are bound to find out that being ourselves is easier than pretending being someone else. It also applies to tango. How often do we notice people on the dance floor who are ready to go to some mighty lengths to look like their teacher, their friend or – last but not the least - their foe.
Some time ago I watched the show of a considerably well-known couple. Twenty seconds into their performance I already thought I was hallucinating, because what they danced was an exact copy of this choreography (I'm aware of the fact that I just outed myself as a freakish freak with too much time on my hands, but yes, I watched this video once or twice:-) Whatever.
It was almost offensive as they seemed to me talented and sassy enough to come up with something of their own.
My fellow bloggers have already mused repeatedly about things like woman's style in tango and the world has surely had its share of Chico wannabes.
For many of us it's just a part of the learning process. But some get stuck forever in an endless circle of copy-pasting someone else's moves and lives.
I think sometimes it's easier to grow up and out of whatever one's been holding dear and start thinking, living and dancing for ourselves.
I'm ready to embrace my "alikeness", as long as it's all mine, coming straight from my soul. Because that's one thing that makes every one of us unique, isn't it?
Silly quizzes notwithstanding.

One fine summer day

Aren't these flowers just stunning?
All pictures were taken today within a radius of about quarter a mile of my home.

There may be trouble ahead

Right at the moment there is more on my plate then I can eat: family, work, not knowing where to, numerous ifs.
All life and no game.
But sometimes it's just about facing the music, isn't it?




I can't believe it's been ten years already.

A home at the end of the world

I’m a big city girl by birth and at heart.
But if I weren’t, I'd spend my life living in this house.
And which one would be yours?

"And Oh, how happy shall that future be!..."

Last night I didn't get much sleep, as my old neighbour tried to torch his flat.
Officially he was busy microwaving some rolls, but as it happened to occur around midnight, he must have forgotten all about his hunger and fell asleep. The rolls were reduced to cinder, the fire alarm went off and we spent half the night airing his kitchen and scratching what left from his dinner-not-to-be into the waste bin.
He is a sweet old man, who keeps forgetting my name but never misses a beat when it comes to flirting with me.
Each time we would meet in the staircase, he'd straighten his back (I can almost hear his fragile vertebrae uncurling) and flash his false teeth. I would slow down to let him cram out his old, carefully polished chat-up lines. Sometimes he gives me a toffee and watches me unpeel the sweated-in wrap from the sticky surface of a candy.
In his youth he must have been quite a ladies man.
In the morning the air on our floor was still thick with fumes. My hair is reeking of smoke because I was way too done in to wash it.
That's not what I intended to write about. You see, my thoughts are all over the place. I must be really tired.
Anyway.
I'm an avid IGoogle -user. Lazy as I am, I couldn't find a better way to organize my favourites.
My igoogle- page is packed with your blogs, but also lots of neat&nifty gadgets.
It tells me about the weather in BA, supplies youtube news, it countdowns hours left till the clock-out and sometimes I calligraph little mean things about my boss onto the little yellow notes one can magically make disappear.
However, on IGoogle one can now get so-called "artist themes".
I tried a couple of motives before tripping over the pig of happiness and now have a confession to make.
I love Edward Monkton and his interesting thoughts.
The person behind these designs is a well-known poet. He is also a courageous man, who happened to have successfully fought cancer while doing his finals in Oxford.
Besides he knows everything about women's profound relationships with chocolate and shoes - and isn't afraid to tell you so.
Now I'm sitting at my desk, and the sheep of destiny is grinning at me, promising me a happy future.
And for once I do believe it.

...The world is a stage

My relationship with opera music has been somewhat ambiguous. The reasons were plenty, the most important of them being that I've been an opera singer for a major part of my life. I grew up listening to this kind of music. Later I had studied it, loved it, lived it.
Yet, I have never regretted my decision not to pursue this career.
"Don't look back!" was a motto I lived by.
Although I hadn't stopped singing altogether, I rigorously cut back on it. For a long time I did my best to avoid music theatres. Apparently it was way too close to home and I was at home.
Now I'm cautiously groping my way back to the path I once explored with such fervour, it nearly destroyed me.
I took it easy at the beginning: went to some recitals, took a couple of lessons again, and worked on technically tricky things– just for myself, without any pressure from outside.
Last year in September I ventured out to Metropolitan's Lucia di Lammermoor". It was great, yet I left feeling uneasy: my throat felt tight as if I had spent tree hours competing with Natalie Dessay. In my mind I stood on the stage again, carefully forming tones and phrases, reliving something I always aspired, but never came really close enough to. I was taken back with surprise and also annoyance.
I guess I wasn't ready then.
But Sunday afternoon I went to small theatre in the neighbour town to hear Giulio Cesare in Egitto.
It was a nice performance with a superb young singer, from whom I'm sure we'll be hearing a lot more in the future.
And for the very first time in ages I thoroughly enjoyed it.
At last I was just a spectator.
I guess I've moved on.




Here is an (unfortunately) curtailed vesion of " V'adoro, pupille", sung by the one and the only Tatiana Troyanos.

Squaring the circle

Do you remember that hilarious short story by O. Henry called "Squaring the circle"? If not, do read it. You won't regret it. It's about a feud between two Kentucky families that "flourished for forty years”. The last two Cumberland feudists, helplessly lost in NYC, meet "in the angles of Broadway, Fifth Avenue and Twenty-Third Street" and shake hands, relieved to see a familiar face . There is a human twist to it as to any other O. Henry story which makes it applicable to … well, anything.
Bear with me, there is a point to the tale.
Friday night I went to a far, far, far away milonga. I had a personal reason for wanting to break away from my tango routine. Recently I got caught up in a tangle of other people's relationships, but instead of taking sides I just went into hiding. I would write it off my chest, but don't yet know how to.
Anyway, on Friday night I found myself out of my natural habitat.
It was a nice enough place: small and snug, smooth timber floor, a friendly DJ and decent music.
The only problem was that no one was there apart from two or three older couples working on their cool moves.
I decided to give it an hour, before calling it a night. So I slumped back into the armchair and closed my eyes.
As I opened them again, I didn't believe whom I saw.
There is one leader in our tango community. He is very good and - borderline arrogance aside – treats those "beneath" him relatively friendly. But he would never, ever dance with me, because he considers me to be waaay out of his league. To make sure that our kind doesn't get any wrong ideas about it, he tends to give us this glazed over "Oh, you here?" - fake smile - moving swiftly on” routine. Most of the time I find such conduct fairly amusing. Once he caught me out bitching about such kind of behaviour, and although I never got as personal as to mention his name specifically, he knew enough to ignore me from then on.
I still don't know how he managed to end up there, in this godforsaken milonga. Hunted by his own devils, I suppose.
He lumbered indecisively by the entrance.
Then he saw me and his face virtually lit up. He waved (I had to look around to make sure he really meant me) and crossed the dance floor to give me a kiss.
And then I laughed. I couldn't help it.
Because exactly in this moment the short story about two foes stumbling upon each other in a big strange city came to my mind:
"Howdy, Cal! I'm durned glad to see ye."

The inner side of a birch tree leaf

This one is for you, tangobaby

The world has turned green over night.
One had seen the signs: the hesitant silvery haze that draped the tree silhouettes, air thickened to the point of curdling and the spidery bones of transmitter masts cutting into the pale blue mass of an evening sky.
Spring looked coyly from behind the curtain of rain, teased small yellow flowers out of the ground. But still, it seemed to be postponing its big arrival.
Until now.
Yesterday I was running late for my train so I took a shortcut through the small park nearby. It had looked transparent for so many months:being at its outer end, one could already see the outline of the railway station, old lopsided benches scantily seeded along the way.
But yesterday for the first time in months everything was flooded by the tide of green fuzz.
Finally all the buds broke out, bursting into life. I held my face into the damp mass of leaves, their skin wrinkled and tender like the one of a new-born.
As I did so, a distant memory worked its way from the pit of my stomach into my brain.
I must have been four years old and visiting my grandparents. In the backyard of their house there was an old birch with branches hanging low. In the morning I used to snick out the house and hide there. I talked to my plush dog. I scribbled into my colouring book.
But mostly I just sat there holding my face up high, letting the old scruffy tree caress me.
And then my grandma called my name and I emerged from beneath it, bedrizzled with morning dew, with stray leaves stuck in my hair.
This time of a year I'm always haunted by childhood memories.
As if all the smells, feelings and recollections that laid brittle and lifeless during winter, thawed out at once and now hang suspended in the air.
Before long they all will evaporate in the musky heat of summer. But for now, I wander around surrounded by them.
My memory is pretty good, yet selective about how vividly to display bits and pieces of my past.
Some of them look sepia-coloured and washed-up along the edges: from a safer distance I observe faces and places long disappeared.
But some of them are so vibrant they leave me gasping with happiness. Sometimes this joy is so intense it hurts me.
But nonetheless these two or three days of a year are worth waiting for. Worth living for, for that matter.

Dining and w(h)ining

Couple days ago I met up with a friend. We'd been pretty close in the past, but had eventually drifted apart. Still, over the years we've got into a routine of doing a bit of catch up now and then. On such occasions we'd get moderately drunk and talk about how our lives were going exactly according to plan and what lousy plan-makers we obviously were.
Two years ago she got married. Her husband is a wealthy businessman who made his fortune in the early nineties. He is slick, polite and keeps his cards close to chest. We get along well enough.
On that day I was tired because of some minor emergencies at work, but I didn't want to let her down: we hadn't seen each other for, give or take, seven months.
My friend looked gorgeously fresh, but pissed off. She told me that her little sister stood her up earlier even though they were supposed to go looking for new bedside lights or something and how she hates going shopping alone.
I suggested a little restaurant close to my work: my colleagues and I go there sometimes. It's tiny, tucked away in a back alley, almost completely hidden from the public eye: one has got to know it to find it. It looks smart: minimalistic, yet in dramatic black and purple, with a narrow smoky mirror on one wall that makes the room look bigger.
As we went in, she took a look and pulled a face.
- What's wrong? - I asked.
- Well, nothing. - But she wrinkled her nose in disapproval.
- Don't you like it here?
- Well…now that you asked … it looks so juvenile.
There we go.
I mean, Sunday morning I woke up with a zit on my chin. It was so huge I'm sure it would have talked back if spoken to. Same day I had a row with my mother (basically about nothing, but it was a fierce one nonetheless) and ate a whole box of old pralines I stashed away three weeks ago in the futile hope that they'd have the decency to disappear before I'd get hot and bothered about my life again and butcher them to wraps.
But does that make me juvenile? Well, maybe.
I let the remark pass anyway. Mainly for the sake of the evening that was laying ahead. Plus it rained and I didn't want to get soaked while looking for something more appropriate.
– Come on, - I urged her. - Give it a chance.
Reluctantly she gave in. We found a table; an easy-on-the-eye girl appeared, bringing along the menu cards and a basket full of crispy fresh bread.
My friend took her time going through the menu. I settled for a glass of red wine. She asked for some special sort of water they didn't have. After much ado she ordered an Insalata Rucola.
-Won't you have some wine? - I asked. - Are you pregnant?
- Are you crazy? We are leaving for Bali next week. I couldn't afford it.
I chuckled. – Come on, it won't burn a hole in your wallet.
Now she was talking in a patient tone that made me want to bounce all around the place.
-I'm talking about calories, dummy. Besides look, they don't even have a wine card here.
Yeah, right. Silly me.
She has never exactly been the whippiest hippie ever, but easygoing enough to drink a beer straight from the bottle, maybe even spill it. How things change.
She went on talking about bed lights, and how she was looking for a lampshade in some particularly bluish blue that apparently doesn't exist, but it can't be, can it? - Because look, the cushions I bought last month – they were exactly that colour and absolutely gorgeous, though it took ages to find them.
I drifted off and back to her soliloquy without her noticing as much.
- And what have you been up to lately?
Her question caught me off guard.
- Well, not much. - Somehow I couldn't come up with anything interesting to say.
She sniffed suspiciously at her plate then stabbed the lonely little rocket leaf that strayed from its friends in distress with the fork. She nibbled on it and pushed her salad aside.
The waitress reappeared. My friend handed her plate back.
-The parmesan was way too ripe. For this kind of salad one is supposed to take a younger one. Now we are done with starters, I'd love to have… do you serve beef? But make sure it's not a beef jerky on arrival.
As the girl darted off (not without giving us an evil eye) my companion turned her attention back to me.
- Are you still dancing?
- Oh, yes, – I answered.
- Really? - She looked uneasy.
- Why not?
- Oh, well, I don't know. I always thought that sooner or later you'd kind of grow out of it. Like, move on.
- I don't know. Do you think I should?
- Well, yeah. After all it's not something you are going to do till you are all old and rusty. I mean, wouldn't it look a bit pathetic?
Our food arrived. I ordered another glass of wine.
…She let her beef congeal on the plate in front of her, while musingly watching me eat.
- How is your fish?
-Oh, great, great. - Discretely I moved my plate closer to the table edge: I was half expecting her to fork in my potatoes so she could start moaning on my behalf.
By the time we ordered coffee I was exhausted, craved my bed and some crappy book. Finally, the waitress brought our check over.
-Let my pay. – I grabbed my purse.
- Please, don't. Don't, - my friend said. - I'll pay, ok?
She left a generous tip.
The rain stopped, but the humid air wrapped itself heavily around our shoulders.
-You must be hungry. - At once I felt guilty.-You didn't eat much. Next time you choose where we go, ok?
Oh, no problem. - She smiled lightly. – Anyway I haven't been eating much lately. - She slipped into silence for a moment. - Sorry if I was a bit on a whiny side today. Sometimes I just can't help it. - Briefly she turned away and I noticed the almost girlish thinness of her neck. - Doesn't it suck to be so … She was looking for a word.
- Mature? – I threw in quizzically.
She glared at me and then we laughed.

The kindness of strangers

My car has finally broken down. Nothing unexpected, yet rather unpleasant.
I've been thinking about getting it fixed, but it wouldn't pay off in the long run, so I'm looking for a new one. I wouldn't have any reason to rush it, if not for tango. I can easily reach my office by train; my parents live a stone's throw away. But – surprise, surprise – carpooling is turning out to be quite an issue.
At the moment I depend on the kindness of strangers.
And boy… some kindness it is.
Last weekend I stayed at home. Not voluntarily so. I called not one, not two… five people. I told them about my car and kindly asked to take me with 'em. I collected my share of excuses all right. It went like that:

I don't know yet if I'll go. (Well, as I happened to hear through the grapevine, she did after all)
I would take you, but I'll be paying a visit to my parents beforehand.
I could, but I don't know yet if I’m going to drive back or crash at my friend's.
It has nothing to do with you. I just don't do it.
The best one came from a guy I've known for ages. I called him at home, then on his mobile, left messages. Oh...he called back. Monday morning.
- Sorry, honey, saw your caller ID, but didn't feel like calling back.
Felt a bit low, didn't fell like talking, all that buzz, simply wanted to be by myself. What's up?
- So – you didn't go dancing?
- Well, actually I did. Why?
- Nothing. Forget it.
- Oh… ok. And how was your weekend? Up to something naughty?
These are people I interact with on a weekly, at times daily basis. So what is it about? Independency? Privacy? Self obsession? Are we bound to remain strangers to each other, no matter how often we dance together?
We’re sweat- but not car sharing.
They know me well enough. I'm not much of a nuisance. I would pay for gas. I would sing a nice song for them (I'm a good singer, mind you), but only if they wanted me to. If they want me mute, they can stuff a sock into my mouth (as long as it's a clean one). For Chrissake.
I'm ranting away, I know. Right now I'm going cold turkey, tangowise I mean. I live in the middle of an industrial nowhere. The only milonga in the hick town I subsist in closed down early this year. The next decent one is thirty km away. Surely I can reach it by train and bus, but it would take at least four hours on the whole. And no, it’s not an option, not after work, not at night.
I’m trying to look on the bright side of life though. Over the weekend I watched “Waitress”, “Rendition”, “American Gangster”, “The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford”, “Don’t come knocking”. That’s what I call a major movie catch-up. Some of them I even enjoyed.
And I contacted a carsharing firm this week. So I’ll be fine apparently.

„Raise your head and don't look at the floor”

Over the last couple of days I’ve been feeling a bit low. While browsing youtube, I came across this video. Here is Carmen Micaela Riso de Cancellieri, known as Carmencita Calderón, the long-time tango partner of legendary El Cachafaz. Celebrating her hundredth birthday.

How could I never have seen it posted before?and how amazing is that?

From her mother she learnt: “Raise your head and don't look at the floor”.

I should stop complaining, really. For the next seventy years anyway.

(My) plummy dress...

I’d kill for the dress that Renee Zellweger was wearing at the London premiere of "Leatherheads". Seriously.
Marchesa girls keep outdoing themselves.
PS.Well,the man at her side isn't bad either.