monoceros blogsI'd love to get some T-shirts from here. Problem is they're at a whopping US$30 each, and there're so many cool designs that I can't seem to choose one. So far, my favorites run along the designs, "ITravel Imaginary," "The Future is Unwritten," "No Longer Afraid," and "Art is Superior." Any votes or other suggestions? Of course, I may wind up getting none at all because my sizes seems to have run out.
And for obvious reasons, I like this one. Most days, I feel (and look) like her. Other days, this T-shirt would suit me just fine.
After posting the lyrics to Joni Mitchell's "Both Sides Now," thinking how beautifully it fit the scene in "Love Actually," I read today's poem from The Writer's Almanac and remembered again the story of Karen and Harry.
"After an Absence" by Linda Pastan, from The Imperfect Paradise.
After an absence that was no one's fault
we are shy with each other,
and our words seem younger than we are,
as if we must return to the time we met
and work ourselves back to the present,
the way you never read a story
from the place you stopped
but always start each book all over again.
Perhaps we should have stayed
tied like mountain climbers
by the safe cord of the phone,
its dial our own small prayer wheel,
our voices less ghostly across the miles,
less awkward than they are now.
I had forgotten the grey in your curls,
that splash of winter over your face,
remembering the younger man
you used to be.
And I feel myself turn old and ordinary,
having to think again of food for supper,
the animals to be tended, the whole riptide
of daily life hidden but perilous
pulling both of us under so fast.
I have dreamed of our bed
as if it were a shore where we would be washed up,
not this striped mattress
we must cover with sheets. I had forgotten
all the old business between us,
like mail unanswered so long that silence
becomes eloquent, a message of its own.
I had even forgotten how married love
is a territory more mysterious
the more it is explored, like one of those terrains
you read about, a garden in the desert
where you stoop to drink, never knowing
if your mouth will fill with water or sand.
After five and a half years in Michigan, I'd like to get something to remember Michigan by. Not just T-shirts and softball jerseys, mugs, car decals, or extra copies of my degrees hung on the wall (no, I don't have degrees on the wall; the rest, I do though).
My father was the one who came up with the idea of buying a football helmet. And I kinda like it a lot. The big brother also tells me that Michigan's winged helmet design has a long history. I'll try picking one up if I can cough up the dough. It's going to look great on the shelf.
Both Sides Now
Rows and floes of angel hair
And ice cream castles in the air
And feather canyons everywhere
I’ve looked at clouds that way
But now they only block the sun
They rain and snow on everyone
So many things I would have done
But clouds got in my way
I’ve looked at clouds from both sides now
From up and down, and still somehow
It’s cloud illusions I recall
I really don’t know clouds at all
Moons and Junes and Ferris wheels
The dizzy dancing way that you feel
As every fairy tale comes real
I’ve looked at love that way
But now it’s just another show
You leave ‘em laughing when you go
And if you care, don’t let them know
Don’t give yourself away
I’ve looked at love from both sides now
From give and take, and still somehow
It’s love’s illusions that I recall
I really don’t know love at all
Tears and fears and feeling proud
To say “I love you” right out loud
Dreams and schemes and circus crowds
I’ve looked at life that way
Oh but now old friends, they’re acting strange
And they shake their heads and they tell me that I’ve changed
Well something’s lost, but something’s gained
In living every day
I’ve looked at life from both sides now
From win and lose and still somehow
It’s life’s illusions I recall
I really don’t know life at all
I’ve looked at life from both sides now
From up and down, and still somehow
It’s life’s illusions that I recall
I really don’t know life at all
Summer is here, marked by Memorial Day in the US and by the Great Singapore sale at home. I used to make a summer reading list when I was at school, and thought I'd make one up again this year. There are also numerous lists online at NPR and NY Times (none up yet but there'll be some soon, I bet).
Many of the books on my list are old titles (seeing as how they've been on one list or another at some point in my life) but there are a few recent publications. This list is more like a current reading list, not just for the summer (I'd be lucky if I could finish 20 books in one summer). But with the change in seasons (not that I'm experiencing it now), it's nice to create something new, as if you had a new lease on life. I remember living in cities with marked seasonal changes, and thinking that one of the best things about it was watching the land around me change, and feeling that change deep inside my soul as well. Scents and weather have always had a great effect on me.
So now, I hope to make the weeks ahead a little more summery for myself. My summer reading list -
- The Stolen Child by Keith Donahue - a fantasy for grown-ups. Comparisons with beloved Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell are expected.
- Late Bloomer by C. Tyler - a graphic novel.
- Shipwrecks by Akira Yoshimura.
- Family and Other Accidents by Shari Goldhagen.
- Ethel and Ernest by Raymond Briggs. Another graphic novel about ordinary lives.
- When the Wind Blows by Raymond Briggs. If there had been no "Grave of the Fireflies," this may very well be the most tragic exploration of the effects of war on innocents.
- Be More Chill by Ned Vizzini. Actually a read for teenagers, but it's had good enough reviews to tempt me.
- Sailing Alone Around the Room : New and Selected Poems by Billy Collins.
- The Collected Poems of Stanley Kunitz by Stanley Kunitz.
- Eat, Pray, Love : One Woman's Search for Everything Across Italy, India and Indonesia by Elizabeth Gilbert.
- Awakenings by Oliver Sacks.
- Swing: a Mystery by Rupert Holmes. Probably the most "beach read" type of book on my list, but he writes well.
- Mozart's Women by Jane Glover.
- Twilight of the Superheroes : Stories by Deborah Eisenberg.
- Leave Me Alone, I'm Reading : Finding and Losing Myself in Books by Maureen Corrigan.
- Self-Made Man : One Woman's Journey into Manhood and Back by Norah Vincent.
- The Mind's I: Fantasies and Reflections on Self & Soul by Douglas R. Hofstadter.
- The Pig That Wants to Be Eaten: 100 Experiments for the Armchair Philosopher by Julian Baggini.
- Labyrinth by Kate Mosse.
- Foreign Babes in Beijing: Behind the Scenes of a New China by Rachel DeWoskin.
20 books. Well, one more wouldn't hurt. What's summer reading without some sort of travel reading? Jan Morris's updated Hav goes on my list this year too.
I sure hope the library carries a few of these titles.
This is one of my favorite tango clips. They're masters, of course, and they dance to a Piazzolla composition called "Zum." (Even though Piazzolla's music isn't always popular at milongas, many good dancers still enjoy the challenge of dancing to his music.) I doubt there's any choreography here, since memorized sequences are reserved for stage performances; even at demonstrations, the pros do as all tangueros do - improvise at the very moment, shaping his footwork to the space and song. And it's the mark of a beautiful follower who allows herself to be led into every step without question, just trusting and losing herself in his lead and the music.
Here's another clip by the same couple, dancing to a faster piece, "Milonga De Mis Amores."
Some tango music by a great quartet, Quintango, based in Washington DC. You can get a freebie right here. Yeah, that tune was made famous in Scent of a woman.
In December 2003, National Geographic did a feature on Argentine Tango. I didn't read the article then, but only a few months ago when I found an old copy on Yahoo auctions (I also got from the same seller an issue about volcanoes in Hawaii). The photo spread is wonderful and the writer discusses the tango scene, the history of tango, its music, the way tango has helped Argentines cope with the depressed economy. Online, there're a few more goodies like photos that didn't make it to the magainze pagegs and a presentation narrated by the photographer, Pablo Corral Vega, who made five trips to Argentina to capture these scenes of Buenos Aires and its tango salons.
Argentine tango is what tangueros and tangueras (folks who are mad about tango) call the true tango. The real tango isn't the ballroom or American tango that you often think of when you hear the word "tango." Argentine tango isn't choreographed but improvised on the dance floor; it's a social dance, not really something you watch on stage (there are tango performances though, they're just not the same as ballroom tango demonstrations); nobody cocks their heads or puts roses in their mouths. The tango you've seen in movies like Scent of a woman and True Lies isn't Argentine tango either, but American or to put it crudely, "bastardized" tango.
I suppose my relationship with tango began with music first. I listened to Astor Piazzolla a lot (and even then his music isn't for dancing but listening) because I loved the melancholy in it. Eventually, a musician friend persuaded me to learn the dance itself. After all, Michigan offered courses and at a great deal too - $10 for eight lessons. After my second lesson, I stayed behind for practica (practice sessions for dancers of all levels) and danced with leaders who knew what they were doing. For a follower, being in the arms of a great leader who makes you feel and look good on the dance floor is almost tango heaven. That's when I truly fell for tango (or rather, as many say, that's when tango chose me). I still loved Piazzolla but my ears began to crave more danceable tango music. And that's when I discovered Carlos Gardel, whom the Argentines claim is the main man who defined tango and tango music.
Above all social dances, tango is special because of its history; its music (there are thousands and thousands of songs composed specifically for tango); its strong ties to a city and culture; the exquisite emotions that accompany it (joy, sorrow, pain, nostalgia); the mutual surrender between two people during a three-minute dance; the mystery; the conversation between two people whose sole language is the embrace; and how it makes you remember acutely or forget blissfully. (And one more - the shoes.)
A lot of people say tango is the vertical expression of a horizontal desire (badly paraphrased). But those in the know understand that tango goes by a different set of rules. Sure you surrender yourself to your partner on the floor and have a private, intimate thing going on, but that's all it is. You may never exchange more than two words, and in fact, may be completely wrong for each other off the floor. At milongas (tango parties), many of your favorite dancers are really your pals or even instructors. Earlier, someone expressed shock and concern for me when I said I was learning tango, and I borrowed my explanation from more expert tangueros, Teo and Marsha Bartek:
"Tango is a social dance, and it is a means to express aspects of one's individuality that we usually don't have the opportunity to express in daily life. You have a social venue where you can create a dream world, where you play a role you don't usually have the opportunity to play.
The vast majority of dancers know and understand the unspoken rule that we are all doing this for fun. We understand that when a man asks a woman to dance, he is not making a sexual advance, and he is not necessarily interested in her in any way except as a dance partner.
In tango we agree on a different set of rules, so that we can interact, play, dance, flirt and have a lot of man-woman social fun without it having to mean anything more than what it is - fun playing in the moment. We are just having a good time with no judgments, no attachments, no goal, and no agenda.
Tango is a place for male-female interaction. This "game" between men and women is going on BIG TIME at milongas. Women can express the alluring, sexy aspects of their personalities - wearing sexy clothes, fishnets, high heels, slit skirts - without it meaning anything. It is perfectly acceptable in this arena. Men can play a male role, suave and debonair without feeling uncomfortable and out of place.
In our culture, intimacy is not prevalent in society. Men and women rarely hug or kiss or touch. And we remain a polite distance away from each other. In our culture we usually find intimacy only in sexual interactions. That is why intimacy of any kind is automatically associated with sex. That is why we automatically associate the intimacy in tango with sexual intimacy. We don't realize that intimacy can and does exist without sexuality. Newcomers to tango are often disoriented when they first experience tango. They are amazed that they can be so close to someone while dancing, and then have it mean nothing once the dance is over. But it is true. This is the truth of tango.
The intimate feeling that is an integral part of tango is exactly what attracted us to the dance in the first place. We want to feel like human beings. We yearn to be whole beings, able to think deeply and to feel deeply. We want to go beyond the confines of our particular culture."
DSD, Fatgirl, and I met up for dinner and a movie last evening. While waiting for Fatgirl, DSD and I got a bit of shopping done at Suntec City. I had a $20 voucher for Dorothy Perkins and asked DSD to meet me at the store. By the time I got there, she'd already picked out two tops she liked. I recommended the brighter and sexier (low neckline) piece, and proceeded to find something for myself. The first piece I tried was a pair of black gauchos but they sat so low on my hips I pulled them off two seconds after trying them on. Then I found a black camisole patterned with small white flowers and edged with black lace that actually came in my size. We paid up, zipped out of the store and headed to another. We only meant to briefly admire the shirts in Raoul's store for women, but DSD wound up trying on a red shirt-dress, which she bought only after Fatgirl and I told her to choose that instead of the boring black version. I do like several of the slim fit shirts there, but since I don't work in an office setting now, I have no reason to buy such spiffy shirts.
Dinner was a bit of a disppointment. We had fondue at Swiss Culture, but when you have to pay about $40 for just a pot of cheese and a basket of bread, it affects the enjoyability of the enitre meal. Plus, DSD and Fatgirl were still hungry after we paid the bill. But we had to rush for our movie, X-Men 3, which we were late for anyway even though we arrived on time; it seemed to have started early, a real first in the cinema.
The movie wasn't bad, quite a fun watch, though I wish there were more development on Jean Grey/Dark Phoenix. Much of the plot focused on her, but there was barely any emotional or character development. I did note that when Jean morphs into Dark Phoenix (the film actually refers to her as "Phoenix" and not really "Dark Phoenix," but I want to be a purist here), and her eyes get all inky black, her expression reminds me very much of Carrie in one of her rages. I thrilled at the close-ups of her face - you get to see the slivers of slowly darkening purple veins on Jean Grey's nose and temple.
If anyone's watching this film soon, a word of advice: stay till the end of the credits. You get a little something extra. Oh, and I really like Ellen Page (recently seen in Hard Candy) who plays Shadow Cat or Kitty Pryde. Why? Because she's my height and size, and I love watching small girls make big - she gets quite a bit of action in the fim. She also looks much younger than her 19 years, another trait I have to endure as well (I've come to accept that I look more girlish than womanly).
DSD and Fatgirl left for midnight shopping at Raffles City while I caught the number 10 bus home. I watched four little kids squirm in their seats (changing them fairly frequently too) as they watched baby cockroaches circling their feet and zigzagging along the boards at the back of their heads. Sitting at the back of the lower deck of the bus subjects you to this sort of putrid pressure - your vision following the path of waltzing cockroaches and your pulse racing as you wonder if you'll soon be feeling something crawling up your ankle or tickling your scalp.
I think a flu's coming on.