On Tango

In tango, bodies merge and surrender to each other.
They glide like herons together, walking here, walking there, floating,
stalking into and through each other with slices of legs and sharp turns,
and the thrust of chests whirling around the centers of each other’s gravity.

Bodies listen to each other with an acutely piquant agonizing sort of ecstasy.

The melancholia of the churning music,
with its scattered notes and jolts of bandeon and sudden shifts,
is mood evoking of sweat-streaked cafes deep in the heart of an older Buenos Aires.
These phlangent shifting vapors of music hold and bind a pair together
in heart-stroking tender yearning, while the movement drives this longing ever deeper into the souls of the dancing dyad.

Tango drips into and through a person. A step. Slide and slide.

The nectar of life flows with tango. Each rythym is a placement into space, a projection into time, and an abandonment to it all.
It is an entering into time and a complete obliteration of it.

It is precision and wildness.

It is contraction concentration constraint
encased in

volatile eruptions of intensity.