After last night’s self-induced disaster I realized that I needed to get serious. The first thought in my head this morning was “the point is to have fun”,. This is harder to remember than any tango sequence.
To get things back under control the first step was obvious. Ice cream for breakfast. Breakfast is at 14:45 but that’s not the point. The ice cream was served by an Australian wearing a San Francisco t-shirt.
But I had already figured out where I went horribly wrong last night. That hit me with the first lukewarm sip of yesterday’s stale yerba mate, long before I arrived to Berlin Homemade Ice Cream and dug into their nutty brown sheep’s milk cheese ice cream with Madagascar vanilla and pecan.
I fled from the threshhold of a milonga last night because the room lacked power. It does freak me out to be in that lifeless onda. But I have to remember that throughout this trip my dancing has transformed rooms like that. Armin and I would have changed that room. Be the angel, not the victim.
My back ochos may be ugly, and my shoes uglier, but I do set my Mark free, and when they can forget about me and go for it, their power charges the atmosphere. So long as the dancing is about control and containment, the men are repressed. But when they can stop retaining themselves and their partner, they can feel. And express themselves. It’s not about my dancing, per se.
I’ve seen girls who dance with a lot of power. That’s a spectacle. I’m talking about something else. It’s about the mark’s freedom. I’ve been saying this for a long time, based on glimpses. Now I’ve seen it illuminated.
