the night of the match: el partido y tu ojos de cielo

Songs and film tell the epic nights ravelled around a match, this memory is about one match not so long a time ago, a match where I danced a night and a storm away.
Buenos Aires was charged with the expectations of the match to come, the spring afternoon got sucked into the night where Argentina had to fight to gain its place into the championship. The town quickly emptied in the evening and we all hardly noticed the thick and heavy clouds. When the wind started to sweep the deserted streets, I was already in the guest house. I lied down to recover a bit of energy for a night out at the milonga, I did not even remove my high heel pink and red shoes, feeling like a doll waiting to go down to his ball. I did not watch the match and in a rave-like siesta,  I started to hear far away all the forgotten windows clattering in the tension of the match. Baires was holding his breath and in this place of passion sweat and blood, the clouds must have sucked up the electricity, the atmosphere charged with emotions and in the middle of silenced sighs of hope and fear , of beers waiting to be opened, of cries and relief. The match ended and as to reply instantaneously the clouds burst open , all the relief materialised in streams of water pouring down the streets , all the souls sweat together and fell back in town. I took a taxi and went to the milonga , the taxi driver told me the result and i sighed too thinking of a happy smile going down from the bus uttering  a "maybe I'll come to the milonga tonight, after the match" half door,
and then with my doll shoes, a springtime flower shirt tied below my breast and my heart to give, I entered the milonga. And it was the most beautiful tango night I have ever danced, a night suspended between my furtive glances at the door and the clock,  and my eyes closed while I abandoned to the dancers, letting my legs learn the earth and the ground. I danced and danced , light as plume and as heavy as the promise of maybe not love but surely not dream,  of lips to encounter of smiles to change and eyes to be close , of softness imagined between two hands and two faces, between the sky and the ground, a heart offered  for the slaughter and the party and the feet rooted to the ground. The ripening pleasure of the body mingled with the expectation that is not yet a desire for a smile that was not turning up yet. But still I was there and I danced , because every promise of love can only be danced, because the swirl of my skirt could be the festoon welcoming those eyes when they would come in. I cannot imagine another way of explaining what tango is if not this sweet mixture of a hope sure to be fulfilled and that fear that already knows. Every step in the ballroom, every smile exchanged, your body gets lighter and your heart is heavier. On and on you cannot ever stop to feel, embrace and wait . Live suspended in a dream. And I have never danced again any better than that night, where my life was leading me through steps my sweet dancer had taught me that afternoon. Never my body had been that supple to listen and respond, my legs so long to round up like silk. Never I had so glown when closing my eyes and being seen.
The night closed out on tu ojos de cielo and the cumparsita.
The sky was clear again, the rain had gone. I went walking back to the guesthouse, the dream had evaporated, and the world had been washed new... the dreams of the night before trickled away in the gutters ...i was not in the least disappointed

more pieces from old paris moments

melting in the air in between two places, we walk swiflty living the life of shadows , living the dream of everyday

Would you like my old disc player? come and have a tea 

outside and inside , still and moving, hot and cool , shadows and light , everything is inside the other

feel like blooming?

just a couple of weeks ago the wind was diminishing me and now i feel like my heart is swelling and my senses catch the newly born smells in the springtime. The clear sky and reassuring rays brings the promise of a summer and ripened fruits, long evenings to pluck and heat to cool off in the nights. I do not know where such fullness and bloom come from, I am just so happy that in these days where I type on a computer, where I trickle my thoughts my body and my soul have not forgotten how to answer eagerly to the call of springtime. So no matter how many i-stuff one can have or play with, still one can not help but respond to nature. So good to know, from the inside.

the man with the pigeons

suddenly the end of summers makes way to the chilly wind: the drastic change is one of the feature of the north and many a times the foreigners get caught out in the street with their sandals and sleeveless shirts, bare arms to the newcome autumn. 

One reason more in addition to the stench from the pigeons that was pushing me away from the man living in the corner between Leroy Merlin and Pompidou. With in the eyes the pictures from one movie in the beaubourg, I would probably have wished to walk past him fast and gain back the metro or even better a warm living room. I just could not move and stayed.

He was chasing away pigeons or was he embracing them ? this misery to my eyes was quite piercing, but I did not want not be human, not to witness his strange dance while the night was falling. The place was coverd in guano , as if being on the street in the first night of autumn were not enough , he had to make his place among the awful fat birds. And then again, he seemed to merge into them into a strange tragic desire to disappear. 

The night fell and everything was getting dark.

Strange as it may be , it was not that cold in the main street where the other tourist were trodding. I still wonder if he is so abandoned, can he become like one of those birds? does he want to ? to forget his humanity ? and what is humanity ? I have never seen him since, I just hope I will still have the courage to watch, to stay there with him, even at distance , the next time I see him caught in the night. 

A paris summer potpourri: from august 2009

Some pieces of memory triggered by a friend looking for Paris pictures: one summer I was walking around with my almost new camera to carve paths in the town and reading Paris music through lens. 

Going around I found in a courtyard pegs left alone by fresh sheets , still shining colours in the silent courtyard.

A market in Charonne, shoulders and wooden ships to conjure up other horizons hidden in the concrete buildings of an almost suburb.

Intoxicating sun in Menilmontant; the plunge down is like to dive in the town, everything is possible up here.

Getting caught in the neighborhood party, children and grown ups dancing; they all probably share the same level of happiness in different ways of showing.

Everybody has his own way to tango and being together is always as fun.

Abdul, a violinist from Ethiopia: the white hair seemed to infuse experience and wisdom around him, in the pavement up to the trees. He touched his heart when he spoke of his country, when he said he was a violinist. His lips easily opened up in a smile and told me to go away with a couple of book from a large pile in front of him: I tried to say I had already too many in my house, but he did not want to hear and added "to give is good for the heart, and the best thing to give is knowledge"

a lady caught up in a moment of relax

In place Saint Marthe , the children were hypnotised from the cabaret-like show going on.

the evening falls gently and you get trapped for that moment in twilight caught in your world: be it waiting somebody, be it your thoughts or your memories or maybe somebody on the phone inviting you in his or her world.

A glimpse from Saint Marthe square, the children outside the restaurant keep running up and down the street; it is late in the night, it must be summer !

Last one is the best one of all: going home hands in hands, the rare privilege of knowing where home is and having somebody to bring or being brought by.