I went into starbucks for a green tea latte and ended up getting a Tango CD.
Slightly obsessed no?
This kinda sums it all up for me
...You feel an urge? Touch its pain, wrap yourself around it. Don't put on airs. What you seem must be what you are, and what you are is a mess, honey, but that's okay, as long as you wear it inside...Time is flowing backward and forward into the vortex. From the rooms come a warm air and a choked melody of syncopated gasps. Something throbs...It always had you in mind, your habits, your twitches, the tiny blood vessels bursting inside you when you hide what you feel...It's all a game. You're going to play it too, you're going to dance with the tiger. Don't worry, your life is in danger. Remember your instructions. Listen up. And suffer, motherfucker, this is the tango...
~Piazzolla
Tango was a dance for the displaced, the melancholic strains of the Bandoneón would wind down cobblestone paths as people danced to forget their troubles, pains, worry, sorrow, heartbreak. Or sometimes to drown in them, to surround themselves until they feel enclosed and trapped, to overload the senses until all they could feel were the thousand tiny pinpricks. Until the physical ache threatened to overwhelm and they had reached the threshold. And they would dance. Oh they would dance.
You hide behind the grace and elegance of the physical dance, yet they are channels, beautiful channels for the expressions of inner torment. A harmony of sadness and happiness, dualities of life ever playing with each other, existing intertwined. That is what Tango should be about. Not about styles, or refusals to change "because it is not true tango". Hatred is never a part of tango.
Slightly obsessed no?
This kinda sums it all up for me
...You feel an urge? Touch its pain, wrap yourself around it. Don't put on airs. What you seem must be what you are, and what you are is a mess, honey, but that's okay, as long as you wear it inside...Time is flowing backward and forward into the vortex. From the rooms come a warm air and a choked melody of syncopated gasps. Something throbs...It always had you in mind, your habits, your twitches, the tiny blood vessels bursting inside you when you hide what you feel...It's all a game. You're going to play it too, you're going to dance with the tiger. Don't worry, your life is in danger. Remember your instructions. Listen up. And suffer, motherfucker, this is the tango...
~Piazzolla
Tango was a dance for the displaced, the melancholic strains of the Bandoneón would wind down cobblestone paths as people danced to forget their troubles, pains, worry, sorrow, heartbreak. Or sometimes to drown in them, to surround themselves until they feel enclosed and trapped, to overload the senses until all they could feel were the thousand tiny pinpricks. Until the physical ache threatened to overwhelm and they had reached the threshold. And they would dance. Oh they would dance.
You hide behind the grace and elegance of the physical dance, yet they are channels, beautiful channels for the expressions of inner torment. A harmony of sadness and happiness, dualities of life ever playing with each other, existing intertwined. That is what Tango should be about. Not about styles, or refusals to change "because it is not true tango". Hatred is never a part of tango.
Comments
Post a Comment