Last night, my niece and I went to the cinema to see Man on Wire and were completely blown away. You need to see this film. It is a most extraordinary tale of art, passion, faith and possibility. I guarantee it will purge you of any trace of smugness or fear, for ever. Well, for at least an hour. It certainly cleared me of both in relation to carpe-ing my diem, upping sticks and prancing off to BA for six months to brush up my tango. However, if you'd like a second opinion, you could do worse than read Peter Bradshaw's article about the film in the Guardian, Friday August 1, 2008.
Philippe Petit's coup reminded me of words I'd once come across that engraved themselves on my mind, in a speech wrongly attributed to Nelson Mandela, because he had once quoted them:
"Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure.
It is our light , not our darkness, that most frightens us..."
(Our Greatest Fear by Marianne Williamson from her book A Return To Love)
Is my thought for the day. Now, put that in your banned and socially unacceptable pipe and smoke it. Be inspired. And get on with your day.
Sunday 24 August 2008
Tuesday 19 August 2008
Falling into place
Aaaooooo! [Howls at moon] Things are looking up! I now have a den to hole up in as soon as I get to BsAs. It's in posh Palermo, near all the milongas, with a tango-dancing psychologist, no less - yeah baby! I get to have all my needs satisfied at once.
As I'm going to be hanging round there for a while, I want to socialise with Porteños, not be restricted to fleeting encounters with passing tourists or lost in space. She will be my gateway, my runway, my take-off into BsAs society. She'll gen me up on her city and I'll do the same for her when she visits London. We'll also be leaking languages into each other as I need to brush up my Spanish and she, her English. Right now, we can just about understand each other's emails.
It came about through good, old-fashioned social networking - she is a real friend of a real friend of a real friend, as opposed to a Fakebook acquisition or some fictional correspondent invented by a bored thirteen year old. I had been prepared to arrive there with no plans, to take a taxi to San Telmo, stop at a wi fi café and browse the net for my new home over a breakfast of chocolate con churros - that might have been tedious, rather than adventurous, when lumbered with luggage and full of sleep. Speaking of which, I need to go out now and buy myself a lightweight laptop and tri-band phone, whatever that is.
Hasta mañana, or pretty soon...
As I'm going to be hanging round there for a while, I want to socialise with Porteños, not be restricted to fleeting encounters with passing tourists or lost in space. She will be my gateway, my runway, my take-off into BsAs society. She'll gen me up on her city and I'll do the same for her when she visits London. We'll also be leaking languages into each other as I need to brush up my Spanish and she, her English. Right now, we can just about understand each other's emails.
It came about through good, old-fashioned social networking - she is a real friend of a real friend of a real friend, as opposed to a Fakebook acquisition or some fictional correspondent invented by a bored thirteen year old. I had been prepared to arrive there with no plans, to take a taxi to San Telmo, stop at a wi fi café and browse the net for my new home over a breakfast of chocolate con churros - that might have been tedious, rather than adventurous, when lumbered with luggage and full of sleep. Speaking of which, I need to go out now and buy myself a lightweight laptop and tri-band phone, whatever that is.
Hasta mañana, or pretty soon...
Monday 18 August 2008
In praise of ponytails
Life is gorgeously unpredictable. Yet it is a universal perversion to speculate, anticipate, expect. I expect I shall meet a man with a ponytail in Bs As. I expect the city is peopled with them. Certainly, a fair few of the Argentine, male tangueros in London sport a ponytail. So that would be a fair assumption to make.
Of course, it has to be worth the name. There is nothing wrong with having a few sweaty strands tied back in a rubber band, but that is not a ponytail. I am talking abundance. There was a fine ponytail at the milonga yesterday; it belonged to a North London man. I obsessed a little about it as I drifted off to sleep. What is it about the ponytail that grabs me? Let me see.
Perhaps there is a subliminal connection with horses and it triggers the awe and doting first experienced in the context of riding, as an adolescent girl. As children, a poem my sister and I would recite over and over again with ever-increasing gusto, was the unabashedly romantic The Highwayman, by Alfred Noyes:
"Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hoofs ringing clear;
Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear?
Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
The highwayman came riding __ riding __ riding..."
Then again, maybe I associate it with the gallantry of the courtly tradition, honour and valour, Lancelot and Guinevere, the knight at arms rescuing damsels in distress. Maybe, like so many nice women, I'd really rather be La Belle Dame sans Merci toying with the heart of a palely loitering knight with a ponytail. But I haven't researched this at all; perhaps they never wore ponytails, other than in school plays.
Few men wear a ponytail, nowadays, so it has to be a deliberate choice, which suggests there is an unspoken declaration going on, something like: Look at me. Enjoy me. I am a magnificent male. It intimates confidence, which is always attractive; possibly vanity. Though it might not be not everyone's cup of tea, vanity can be both entertaining and endearing in a man.
And here, I must quote the song, My Conviction (from Hair, the musical ):
I would just like to say that it is my conviction
That longer hair and other flamboyant affectations
Of appearance are nothing more
Than the male's emergence from his drab camouflage
Into the gaudy plumage
Which is the birthright of his sex
There is a peculiar notion that elegant plumage
And fine feathers are not proper for the male
When aaaaaaaa-ctually
That is the way things are
In most species
And then there is the heady experience itself that escapes description: the luxurious sensation of connecting with a man in tango, your hand resting on a masculine trapezius muscle cloaked in the lush silk of his mane.
Then again, perhaps I just like the way it looks fanned out over my hips.
Mmm... Come right back!
Of course, it has to be worth the name. There is nothing wrong with having a few sweaty strands tied back in a rubber band, but that is not a ponytail. I am talking abundance. There was a fine ponytail at the milonga yesterday; it belonged to a North London man. I obsessed a little about it as I drifted off to sleep. What is it about the ponytail that grabs me? Let me see.
Perhaps there is a subliminal connection with horses and it triggers the awe and doting first experienced in the context of riding, as an adolescent girl. As children, a poem my sister and I would recite over and over again with ever-increasing gusto, was the unabashedly romantic The Highwayman, by Alfred Noyes:
"Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hoofs ringing clear;
Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear?
Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
The highwayman came riding __ riding __ riding..."
Then again, maybe I associate it with the gallantry of the courtly tradition, honour and valour, Lancelot and Guinevere, the knight at arms rescuing damsels in distress. Maybe, like so many nice women, I'd really rather be La Belle Dame sans Merci toying with the heart of a palely loitering knight with a ponytail. But I haven't researched this at all; perhaps they never wore ponytails, other than in school plays.
Few men wear a ponytail, nowadays, so it has to be a deliberate choice, which suggests there is an unspoken declaration going on, something like: Look at me. Enjoy me. I am a magnificent male. It intimates confidence, which is always attractive; possibly vanity. Though it might not be not everyone's cup of tea, vanity can be both entertaining and endearing in a man.
And here, I must quote the song, My Conviction (from Hair, the musical ):
I would just like to say that it is my conviction
That longer hair and other flamboyant affectations
Of appearance are nothing more
Than the male's emergence from his drab camouflage
Into the gaudy plumage
Which is the birthright of his sex
There is a peculiar notion that elegant plumage
And fine feathers are not proper for the male
When aaaaaaaa-ctually
That is the way things are
In most species
And then there is the heady experience itself that escapes description: the luxurious sensation of connecting with a man in tango, your hand resting on a masculine trapezius muscle cloaked in the lush silk of his mane.
Then again, perhaps I just like the way it looks fanned out over my hips.
Mmm... Come right back!
Sunday 17 August 2008
Connecting
This is my blog - una inquietante mirada, (a disturbing look) at my latest bid for world domination. Because, let's face it, world domination is what it's all about. Ain't it the truth? It is what drives us - even the suicides, the feeble-minded and the genuinely lovely people of this world.
On this occasion, it is about going to Buenos Aires to improve my tango. To be better than. And also because I love tango. Really want to believe that I'll be doing more than eating steak and buying shoes in Argentina, that I'll be loyal to this new love. Being projectoholic, have flirted with loyalty before. See, I'm even avoiding writing "I" too often in order to make you like me, so you'll read on. World domination. Just can't help myself.
I'd like to share the adventure with you. I want you to read it as if it is written for you alone and I'd love you to respond. I'm booked to fly out on 4 September. Gimme glove. Y'all come back, now.
On this occasion, it is about going to Buenos Aires to improve my tango. To be better than. And also because I love tango. Really want to believe that I'll be doing more than eating steak and buying shoes in Argentina, that I'll be loyal to this new love. Being projectoholic, have flirted with loyalty before. See, I'm even avoiding writing "I" too often in order to make you like me, so you'll read on. World domination. Just can't help myself.
I'd like to share the adventure with you. I want you to read it as if it is written for you alone and I'd love you to respond. I'm booked to fly out on 4 September. Gimme glove. Y'all come back, now.
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