unicidades

That guy was the guy I once loved and respected and cared for. That guy, I thought, was the inspiration for so many drawings on the floor. That guy was dedicated and charming in his own way. That guy had a heavy accent and he made me laugh. That guy had such good energy and disposition. That guy liked buying me flowers and roses. That guy would never leave me or make me feel inadequate. That guy once told me that it didn't matter that the dancing had sucked that night, but that we were together. That guy was caring and sweet. That guy loved my company. That guy called me often to talk about many things. That guy used to worry about me and take me by my hand. That guy used to hold my right hand to protect me from the crowd. That guy was.

I am back from my doctor's appointment and I guess I have good news. I have no major back problem, but my back is too straight due to a mild scoliosis. The doctor said that my scoliosis is probably the reason for the constant pain. He then gave me a medicine prescription and recommended physical therapy for three weeks, three times a week. The doctor told me to buy something called better back , which is something that looks like a pillow for your back. For the feet, he said I have flat feet and there is too much pressure on the big toe, that’s why it hurts so much when I dance. The callus came from applying pressure on that area and he already saw that the bone is getting bigger because of the friction within the joint. The recommendation was to wear something special inside of my shoes. I called the clinic and I do have to have an appointment to have those special soles made. However, the clinic doesn’t take my insurance. I am very glad I am taking action to deal with my back p

It's very different these days: "...When a man had the opportunity to dance socially with a woman he made her comfort and pleasure his first priority, so he would never put himself in a position where he might make a mistake, and make her feel uncomfortable. Men and women did not go to classes together and learn a repertoire of step. No man could assume that when he danced with a woman she would know what movement she 'should' do next. He had to be able to lead every part of every movement. Indeed, the men took great delight in creating coreographic patterns that the follower could not have danced before, as a way of proving to anyone who might be watching how well they led." In: The Meaning And Purpose Of Tango by Denniston. p. 21.

I love perfume, actually I love good* odors, fragrances. I wear perfume every single day, but when some customers come to the reference wearing bad perfume and the odor is so strong it could asphyxiate an elephant, I feel like running away from the library screaming. I wish there was some type of law not allowing those people outside their homes. * I know good is relative and subjective… I hope that my friends don’t feel the same way about my habit of wearing perfume.

Learning a new language is a very interesting thing. Communicating with someone whose skills are limited is a very complicated task. You say tomato, I say tomato. Yeah, I know. It’s not so simple. It scares me to think about life’s fragility and people’s reasons to leave, betray, and detach. I am used to being independent and single. I do what I want most of the time and that’s something I really like. I am proud of my accomplishments: yesterday I did everything I had planned to do and more. It was so nice to cross everything off the list. I was so tired at the end of the day, but I managed to cook a fantastic dinner and take care of some of my personal beauty needs as well. I made lemon-shrimp scampi with coconut rice. The flavors were just right. I am reading “The Meaning of Tango” by Denniston. It’s a fascinating book. I learned so many things about tango from it. I recently read “Fine As We Are” by Algy Craig Hall. It reminds of Splat, the real one. One of the things I did yesterd

I got a part-time job. Sweet news.

It's hard for me to think about my aunts. They were beautiful, but not happy -- unhappy most the time? Is that accurate? They didn't age well. They had bad husbands, for the most part. None of them accomplished personal goals. There's only one of them alive and one of her sons died a few years ago. I miss the idea of a family: having coffee around a big table, talking, arguing, exchanging recipes. Oh, those (good) old times.

Soldier of Love.

The day's going well. I am having a glorious lunch. I'm on call. I'm expecting an e-mail. I couldn't attend A's funeral because I had to be at work today since I was in charge. I didn't bring him flowers. I needed a moment before I went up to see him for the last time. It felt weird. I wasn't part of the family. Most people there were wondering: who's that girl? Why is she here? Then his grandnson came to talk to me and thank me. Many were wondering why it would matter that much to me anyway? I saw his photo from when he got married some fifty something years ago. I saw people talking about what had happened to him. I saw them talking about their nice memories, how they thought he was ready and all the non-sense that people talk when they get together. People who were before just characters in A.'s stories became real. I became real to them. He did live a long life, had two sons, grandsons, I guess he was "happy". I guess his "mi

This afternoon I got a phone call from C. R. telling me that A. R. had passed away in his sleep. He was my very dear friend for four years. He always tried to cheer me up. I do sound selfish talking about him because all he did was to be nice to me. Not long ago, he sat down close to the reference desk and talked to me for two hours. He watched me working. He used to laugh when I got mad at some customers. He knew he was very special to me. He was happily married for 55 years and he was still in love with his wife. When he met me, I had just lost my  mom and I remember the pain we were both in. I got him a birthday gift last year. When I told him it was something tacky he said: great! I love that! I got him a small painting with a message. It really represented how I felt about him. He said that C. had helped him hang it on the wall. He text me a picture of it. It was the only time I got a text message from him.  I called him on 4th of July because that was the day he met his wife

Hi J., Thank you for reading my essay.  I love what you wrote about it too. Not because of an ego thing, but because somehow it touched you. I don't know you, of course, but it means that we communicated and sometimes I miss that. I miss writing something that's going to be read by someone else.  Yes, I don't show my writing to many people. I show it to some people. People that I think will be able to understand and/or appreciate what I write. I also think that most people like lighter stuff and they'd get tired of the stuff I write. English is not my first language and I cannot say that I struggle to write in English (I just go ahead and write - I try not think about it), but I can certainly tell you that I struggled a lot to learn what I know.  Living in the United States has always been a bit bittersweet for me. I don't know why I am telling you all this. I think I've been thirsty for talking to someone who would give me the attention we give to new things.

The air this morning was sweet and warm just like a very ripe fruit. I walked in the parking lot feeling this new sense of freedom. I was reading some of my old posts to try to get some inspiration and I got myself entangled in details of the past. I need to start writing again. I don't mean these short paragraphs that I write here these days. I mean those essays that say nothing. Why do I write if the form (English) isn't that precise, and the content (subject) is always the same? Gloria is the name of the song I am in love with. It talks about a woman rejecting a man's love because he has nothing to offer her and he only wants her because she's arm candy. It's sad, but I find it so beautiful. How she tells him she's not a toy. I wish more women had that attitude. I danced for two hours last night. I am not sure I am improving. Improving is so subjective.

This is possibly the best resource for tango learners in English. Tango and Chaos. I've read a lot of it yesterday and I was able to use some of the stuff he mentions in class. The class was intense and I got home not feeling my feet. I got good hints from my lovely teacher, who is very strict and always gives me good feedback. By "good feedback" I mean instruction. Yesterday she corrected my walking, my knees, the use of my hips to turn...That's all I can think of right now. But it's an exercise of humility to learn tango. On Saturday I went to a milonga and many people complimented us, which doesn't mean anything because I know the people who were complimenting don't know anything about tango. Also, we were the only young couple to be dancing over there. For them, we are a novelty. They see someone with nice footwork and they think those people know how to dance tango. One of the ladies asked me for how many years I had been dancing tango. If she only k

Last night I felt alive. I danced tango for almost 3 and 1/2 hours while taking a class and I felt like I was learning and improving. Time flew by. I always wondered what it feels like to be good at something. I can only imagine what it is like to be extraordinary at something. I wish I could feel that. I can say that that is my blessing or my curse, depending on how you look at it. I feel, I am all feelings. Emotions, you say, are good to some extent. After that certain limit, it's just craziness. I wonder if you're right. Pardon me, though. Being right doesn't really matter to me. What matters to me is to end this non-sense. My mind is tired. I woke up thinking. I went to bed thinking. I think non-stop. Is everybody like that? It's funny how this blog is so self-centered. I don't think of myself as being so self-centered. Somehow here I open myself to a dialog with myself. My therapist said I should not have expectations regarding other people. I regret to info

Maybe it was to soon for her to realize that it was gone. As fast as it came, it was all gone.

Part of my support system is a group of three women who are very different. They all try to help and encourage me. Their lives and backgrounds do not relate at all. Women are so strong and yet sometimes we need someone to give us the world. We represent mini universes. I am feeling trapped, anxious, and depressed. To relegate love to something less beautiful is to kill the idea of love within me. I read those cards and part of me died. Part of the love I had for you died. I see you're pulling away from me. I guess I am either too deep or too intense for you. Or both. Or maybe I am just imagining things. I always do that. My vivid imagination sometimes is a cage. Jail. The blog problem is still unsolved, but at the moment I have bigger fish to fry.