tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-61374577170492183502024-03-13T03:20:24.134-07:00Musings and RuminationsRandom picks of my published and unpublished creative writing.Michele Kadisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07098687099175186214noreply@blogger.comBlogger19125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6137457717049218350.post-70241681235409945902013-04-03T12:34:00.002-07:002013-04-03T12:34:57.693-07:00Cold Cafe
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It was so cold. Like every day. Grey and cold and if you
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went out without a hat because it was now April. <o:p></o:p></div>
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It was her first year in Berlin. So many things here were a
first. The roommates. The language. The change in her career. But she was fine
with it all, nomadic and adapting. The only thing that rankled was the lack of
a man. The cold weather was bringing it on, this need for a warm body to press
up and into. <o:p></o:p></div>
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She was exploring streets. She’d heard of a café and found
it quite near to where she liked to go. It was small and the coffee was as good
as they’d said. She sat facing the wall near the door, reading. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Two women and a man entered. One woman was older, perhaps
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She observed, as she does, rating his beauty over her coffee
and book. He didn’t appear to notice. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The café was so tiny that there was no room. They decided to
go and the women went first. She took off her glasses, in a gesture familiar to
herself… a prelude to flirting. He noticed and then she knew that he had
noticed her before. They saw each other and as he let the two women leave, he
looked into her eyes and gave her a complicit smile before he too was gone. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<!--EndFragment-->Michele Kadisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07098687099175186214noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6137457717049218350.post-2650223767892397562012-12-23T23:11:00.000-08:002012-12-23T23:11:00.872-08:00Notes From a Sea Turtle<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-FOVB5cTyaCE/UNf_TLL_QwI/AAAAAAAACC4/JtO3Vj0C0qs/s1600/belly.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="203" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-FOVB5cTyaCE/UNf_TLL_QwI/AAAAAAAACC4/JtO3Vj0C0qs/s320/belly.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br />
heavy...<br />
she weighs something<br />
yet floats<br />
buoyed by the water<br />
<br />
swimming <br />
she quests..<br />
moving around rocks<br />
and carried<br />
by currents<br />
<br />
at times she rests<br />
unbothered<br />
on the ocean floor<br />
as fish scurry by, busy<br />
<br />
she loves the manta rays<br />
the octopi<br />
the bigger breeds...<br />
they go on their way<br />
in a certain rhythm<br />
balanced by their arms,<br />
wings...<br />
these appendages<br />
that make them as amphibious<br />
as she<br />
even when they don't arrive on shore<br />
<br />
on the sand<br />
out of water<br />
she is not<br />
as convinced...<br />
she feels vulnerable<br />
more apt to<br />
pull her head into her shell<br />
and wait<br />
until the tide of voluntude<br />
pulls her back in<br />
to her element Michele Kadisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07098687099175186214noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6137457717049218350.post-48901289674540284552012-12-23T22:55:00.002-08:002012-12-23T23:14:08.519-08:00Speak the Truth<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/--oSksPMlNZ8/UNf8OYG_PjI/AAAAAAAACCo/EUhuSVIyiHQ/s1600/images.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/--oSksPMlNZ8/UNf8OYG_PjI/AAAAAAAACCo/EUhuSVIyiHQ/s1600/images.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">speak the truth...</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">say the simple thing</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">don't say something else </span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">just because</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">you're shy about </span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">the real expression</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">experiment</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">with honesty</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">and innocense</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">give others permission</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">to do the same</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">say the first thing</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">that comes to heart, </span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">not mind... </span></div>
Michele Kadisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07098687099175186214noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6137457717049218350.post-45342349907737610722012-11-29T08:11:00.002-08:002012-11-29T08:11:42.470-08:00 The Song to Love’s Door<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-5NBvavHBvZ0/ULeJC-H8UgI/AAAAAAAACBs/ROfvUtdW2CM/s1600/nightstreet.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="272" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-5NBvavHBvZ0/ULeJC-H8UgI/AAAAAAAACBs/ROfvUtdW2CM/s400/nightstreet.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
It was a very hot night and I couldn’t sleep. I hadn’t seen my boyfriend in several weeks, as we had decided to take a break after a bad fight. I was in a strange town, feeling lonely in the efforts to regain my self again, not being able to shake the strange sensation of singleness after being a part of a couple for so long.<br /><br />I had work to do in this town, which was strong and good medicine for me, as it always is. Physical and engaging, teaching dance has always helped me focus and find my way back to center, corporally, psychologically, and spiritually. My days healed me, but the nights left me raw. <br /><br />Just before dawn I decided to leave my hotel to walk, to feel my body in space, to try to stop my thoughts and the constant beat of my heartache. There was a sliver moon still, and I took to the street, not knowing where I was going but needing to wander. A church spire was there for the orienting if I needed it, and the town was small enough to keep me contained. I wanted to get lost, but not entirely. <br /><br />There was a tune in my head that kept my thoughts away from my boyfriend and the dark sensation that this might truly be our final end. I focused on the wordless song, not knowing where it came from. It was a sort of folk melody, and I had no idea how it entered, seeping through my pores to calm me and create a rhythm for my walking. <br /><br />Up ahead a cafe had just opened, and I walked inside. Sitting at a little table, I was the only one there. A woman came out, I ordered, and she brought me my tea. She then disappeared into the back where she turned on the radio, and the song that had been in my head began to play. I asked her what it was and she said she’d never heard it before. <br /><br />I walked back to my hotel with this tune playing itself over and over throughout my body. I slept and when I awoke, the phone was ringing. It was my boyfriend, saying he’d heard a song that day that felt like it was coming from me, that he loved me, and that he wanted to follow the music to my door. When I asked him what the song was… Michele Kadisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07098687099175186214noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6137457717049218350.post-79912615837395985962012-11-16T05:46:00.000-08:002012-11-16T05:51:06.757-08:00....colder<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-SWW3nhNQoxM/UKZDgGNeOOI/AAAAAAAACBc/7m6RNMLZn_c/s1600/images.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-SWW3nhNQoxM/UKZDgGNeOOI/AAAAAAAACBc/7m6RNMLZn_c/s1600/images.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
In Berlin you earn the summer....Michele Kadisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07098687099175186214noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6137457717049218350.post-25686025090075046072012-11-13T07:39:00.000-08:002012-11-13T13:22:06.857-08:00Allure<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-JECyqe3Y0sA/UKJpb7RFoJI/AAAAAAAACBI/nexR0Z47LMA/s1600/allure.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-JECyqe3Y0sA/UKJpb7RFoJI/AAAAAAAACBI/nexR0Z47LMA/s1600/allure.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
She had no idea that she was beautiful. Ripe, with the glow from twenty-three year old hormones that were swirling and dancing throughout her system like dust caught in a golden sun. <br />
<br />
She was taking the train from London to Paris after arriving from New York. It was 1973 and the fast train was in the planning stage, still not built and not to be built until 1986. She was off to Paris to meet her lover whom she had met through a college friend. <br />
<br />
Her lover had moved to Paris to set up a life for them there. He had left the year before and they had sent fervent telegrams back and forth, long distance calls that couldn’t end, and numerous trips back and forth when the yearning became too much. She was coming to him against her father, liberated and flying forward in a rebellious ecstasy. They had money. Her lover’s dead father had left him a small inheritance that they would consume in a year. <br />
<br />
She was guided onto the train by a porter who carried her two heavy suitcases. She found her seat, and was instantly noticed by a number of excited men whom she ignored. She turned to the window, brimming, burning, knowing that this journey was to take her into a next future that would reinforce the way she wanted to live. <br />
<br />
A man entered and sat opposite her. A seemingly quiet man. Elegant, handsome, monied. Quite older, but so attractive. She was never interested in older men, so it was only an observation. But he caught her looking at him and placed his blue eyes on her like a man, not the boys she was used to. <br />
<br />
She read to avoid him, but he was intoxicated and couldn’t stop himself from drinking her in. There was a palpable tension in the compartment until he asked her if she was hungry and if he could treat her to a meal in the dining car. She was hungry and curious, and it was good to break the silence, so she agreed.<br />
<br />
He wore an exquisitely cut steel gray suit. She wore a blue dress, slightly off one shoulder, and high beige heels. His hair was cut impeccably. Her hair was a wild blonde gypsy-burst around her head and shoulders. The dining car was in first class.<br />
<br />
They ate and talked. He asked many questions and she was flattered, flushed, young, a blossom to him. He became awkward, stricken by her unconscious allure… the scent of promise, the deep fragrance of hope and possibility.<br />
<br />
They went back to their seats, she, shaking a bit in her high heels, slightly drunk from the crisp white wine and self-conscious, realizing her power and not having the grace of experience to support it.<br />
<br />
She dozed in her seat over her book. The man read his paper, attentive to her, watching and remembering his youth. He breathed in the scent of her and it hurt.<br />
<br />
They arrived at the Gare du Nord. She was to stay with a friend of a friend as her lover was out of town until the next day. The man offered to help her with the taxi, and she accepted. <br />
<br />
They arrived at the building and were buzzed in. It was a walkup, with steep stairs. Gallant and expectant and wanting to be with her until the last, the man took the suitcases and they began the journey up to the waiting apartment. It was on the forth landing that he began to feel faint. His heart was beating too hard. The feeling in his right arm was fading until he felt the sharp pain leading from it to the center of his body. In panic she ran up to the apartment for help. He was gasping for breath. <br />
<br />
It took her so many years to realize the cost of her allure. That the trail of her scent could kill a man. <br />
<br />
But he didn’t die. His wife was called and he was rushed to a nearby hospital. He went alone in the ambulance. He had just been helping a tourist who didn’t know Paris. His wife would understand.Michele Kadisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07098687099175186214noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6137457717049218350.post-4343766992422205422012-11-08T00:31:00.000-08:002012-11-08T02:48:07.794-08:00I am a Turtle<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-NajVLeqiAxc/UJtomyqqyQI/AAAAAAAACAo/uBEpDXH-urU/s1600/images.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-NajVLeqiAxc/UJtomyqqyQI/AAAAAAAACAo/uBEpDXH-urU/s1600/images.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<br />
Its always the beginning that is different, and even when disguised by excitement of the new and fresh, it challenges.<br />
<br />
Adjustments to having no root, even in the face of being the Turtle, where everything I need is here, beneath my shell. And this shell, not hard to penetrate, but instead welcoming, inviting new friends in, new loves, new sensations.<br />
<br />
But I am the newcomer and even if the people around seem welcoming, there is history to be made here, and this comes to haunt late at night when alone in a tiny bedroom in a house that isn't mine and in a land where there are no known references to pull from.<br />
<br />
And so a sudden nostalgia. Things back home look delicious and much more favorable. That little brownstone pad in Brooklyn with a local cafe around the corner, and good friends just a phone call or a subway ride away. This, even knowing that I'm going to give this new city in another country a real shot.<br />
<br />
Plans. Not just to find another place to live here, one where I have more autonomy in the space, but also plans for Thailand, an escape from my first winter in Berlin. Having a dear friend with whom to plan and take this journey softens all, but there is still, of course, this sensation of being the blown dandelion puff... floating in the wind, weightless.<br />
<br />
Its a sensation I've drawn in. I wanted it. I wanted to be "blissfully homeless" for a while, and of course there is a price. But its not a bad price. I'm free. I have only a few things, and in Thailand I will have even less. I have a job, dance studios that want me to teach, new friends around to grow relationships with... a different feeling than when I arrived in Buenos Aires years ago, in love and not knowing what aches I was in for before I built myself new.<br />
<br />
Now I am a turtle. A sea turtle, using the water to find my way around obstacles, managing myself in this element to circumvents rock and sunken ships, navigating towards a new idea of home.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Michele Kadisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07098687099175186214noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6137457717049218350.post-51564673152057196592012-11-08T00:28:00.001-08:002012-11-08T00:28:23.849-08:00Friendship...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-3OL8jhEJMtw/UJttDX5ExYI/AAAAAAAACA4/3J0zUpnLiLg/s1600/under.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="222" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-3OL8jhEJMtw/UJttDX5ExYI/AAAAAAAACA4/3J0zUpnLiLg/s320/under.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
I can't be sincerely playful with someone I'm not deep with first.... Michele Kadisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07098687099175186214noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6137457717049218350.post-57430153720600111322012-10-01T21:17:00.000-07:002012-10-12T08:02:09.103-07:00...on love<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-CR1AEmdaIhs/UGpqlny_F3I/AAAAAAAAB-0/5JVuloedpKQ/s1600/self+love+spiritual+tree.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-CR1AEmdaIhs/UGpqlny_F3I/AAAAAAAAB-0/5JVuloedpKQ/s1600/self+love+spiritual+tree.jpg" /></a></div>
<div style="color: #232323; font-family: Arial; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="color: #232323; font-family: Arial; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">What a test it is always, to love another, especially when so many influences abound. From the moment we are born, we are completely taken over by society's definition of what love should be, affecting us on a visceral level as it often confuses us with its norms. </span></div>
<div style="color: #232323; font-family: Arial; font-size: 13px; min-height: 15px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="color: #232323; font-family: Arial; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Society says that we need one mate, that once we have this person we must be with him or her all the time, that space and mystery cannot possibly be a necessary ingredient to preserving love’s power, and that certainly love of one’s self must remain a secondary thing. </span></div>
<div style="color: #232323; font-family: Arial; font-size: 13px; min-height: 15px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="color: #232323; font-family: Arial; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Add to these already confusing mandates our personal questions and limitations, and love gets all tangled up in a wild and unforeseen web that manhandles and distorts it into something altogether unrecognizable.</span></div>
<div style="color: #232323; font-family: Arial; font-size: 13px; min-height: 15px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="color: #232323; font-family: Arial; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><b>Finding the Balance</b></span></div>
<div style="color: #232323; font-family: Arial; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">How is it that this most precious thing has the power to torment us at the extreme? It holds us in the palm of ecstasy, keeps us awake at night wondering about it’s contradictory facets, and roots itself in the deepest place where it rests like a perfect unwavering jewel, or a lethal serpent waiting to bite. Where is the balance?</span></div>
<div style="color: #232323; font-family: Arial; font-size: 13px; min-height: 15px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="color: #232323; font-family: Arial; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Finding balance in love seems easier with experience. It is then that we find that the healthy answer to love’s call is when we are in true communion with our selves; when we radiate out from a central point of balance to embrace the other without judgement, without expectation, and without demand. Careful to not give one’s self over to the other with too much romanticism, we can hold the truth of love and loving with a much greater sense of ease.</span></div>
<div style="color: #232323; font-family: Arial; font-size: 13px; min-height: 15px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="color: #232323; font-family: Arial; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">The sensation and illusion of merging through love is the intoxication.The power of sex is the highest example in that one moment of losing the self that we all yearn to prolong. </span></div>
<div style="color: #232323; font-family: Arial; font-size: 13px; min-height: 15px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="color: #232323; font-family: Arial; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Perhaps we can equate the idea of losing the self with dropping the ego. It is the ego, in reality, that causes us all the pain. Our ego needs to feel that we are number one and the only one. Our ego needs to keep a close grip, not permitting the necessary spaces in between to allow love to naturally ebb and flow. When we are not whole, all the good intentions in the world will fade before that one thing that holds us in its power, which is the ego, not love. </span></div>
<div style="color: #232323; font-family: Arial; font-size: 13px; min-height: 15px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="color: #232323; font-family: Arial; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">When we are in balance, love liberates, love enlightens. It is love that fuels every moment and movement in life. When we drop our need, we let its full strength shine to heal us, rather than wound us. By dropping fear and attachment, we allow love to maintain its great mystery. Then when love comes knocking, one’s center is whole enough to be untroubled by its huge and miraculous dance. </span></div>
<div style="color: #232323; font-family: Arial; font-size: 13px; min-height: 15px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="color: #232323; font-family: Arial; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">It is in this state where we feel at home inside ourselves enough to radiate and accept love without being thrown off by ego. Then, when that rare being arrives to trigger our hearts into action, and we feel that extraordinary bliss along with its heightened brightness coursing through us like an exquisite fever, we can bathe ourselves in its gorgeousness while staying present enough to know what it is... and what it isn’t.</span></div>
<div style="color: #232323; font-family: Arial; font-size: 13px; min-height: 15px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="color: #232323; font-family: Arial; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Maybe this is love's job... to confuse and confound and alter and open and provoke, all in service to helping us cherish our essence while we explore the great and beautiful presence of its eternal mystery.</span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><br /></span>
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><a href="http://www.lionesswomansclub.com/post/1096/">http://www.lionesswomansclub.com/post/1096/</a></span></div>
<div>
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><br /></span></div>
Michele Kadisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07098687099175186214noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6137457717049218350.post-43643732101740219062012-09-10T17:26:00.001-07:002012-09-10T17:26:17.531-07:00…with pen in hand.
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<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ZCUGdVyGDeg/UE6E3OxxfTI/AAAAAAAAB9U/AwEmwKukdww/s1600/images%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ZCUGdVyGDeg/UE6E3OxxfTI/AAAAAAAAB9U/AwEmwKukdww/s1600/images%25282%2529.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Pen and paper… the tools of lovers, poets, writers, or
anyone valuing the delicacy, seduction, and power inherent in language and
expression.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Gone are the days when touching pen to paper united sender
to receiver, with every letter, a stamp of palpable emotion. With each symbol
formed, a reflection of the sender’s soul was imprinted, allowing the receiver
to feel all the closer for it. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
No longer do we feel the character and emotion of the writer
through the shape of a word.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Today
we text, we email, missing the blemish of a fallen tear, a sinuously formed
sentence, or the fury of an irregular slant. In a world where it is easy to
misinterpret the message without the assistance of script laden with
intangible, yet felt emotion, we need to work all the harder to express our
hearts. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When writing with pen in hand, there is a sense of limitless
time. We luxuriate in the formation of a thought, scribbling it down furiously or
painstakingly applying each letter to create the sentence that corresponds.
When we write a handwritten note or letter, we are saying that we value this
time where we can sit and make tangible our thoughts in a way that is
commensurate with the value of the receiver.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Perhaps the best gift you can give a friend or a lover is
the gift of a classically designed fountain pen. In doing so you say you value
a deeper kind of communication, and that you have faith that he or she is up to
the task. By honoring someone with this confidence, you are saying the
friendship and love you share speaks of its own eternity. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Michele Kadisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07098687099175186214noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6137457717049218350.post-63379146533930316042012-09-10T17:13:00.003-07:002012-09-10T17:13:37.581-07:00Campaigning for Intimacy
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</div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-C7qXNSlowyM/UE6BMtk7EDI/AAAAAAAAB80/weXJhBgfAwY/s1600/1563919992_3ba56a7043_m.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-C7qXNSlowyM/UE6BMtk7EDI/AAAAAAAAB80/weXJhBgfAwY/s320/1563919992_3ba56a7043_m.jpg" width="169" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="textexposedshow">Gone are the days of private
conversations that implied that you were dining with someone special who
deserved your full concentration. Instead we are in the constant presence of an
aural battlefield that forces even the old guard to lift its voice in defense
against public enemy number one: the rising decibel level.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As someone who loves to dine, I'm finding it increasingly difficult
to eat out in public places. The appalling proliferation of shrill, piercing voices,
whose tonality cuts through space like the sharpest knife, puts an immediate
stop to any intimacy you wish to have with<span class="textexposedshow"> yourself
or your dining partner. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<span class="textexposedshow">Vocal coaches speak of a chest
voice and a head voice when training singers, with these vocal paradigms
supported by the muscles of the diaphragm. Today, voices seem to come from the
adenoids, with the added insult that they are applied to sentences often ending
in question marks, even when they are statements. And these voices, like well
placed weapons of mass destruction, have the ability to cut through distance
and loud restaurant music as they compete for attention.</span></div>
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<span class="textexposedshow">Where did this tonality come
from? Why does it usually originate in 20 and 30 year old women? Why haven’t
parents or teachers addressed the phenomenon? Just listen to many of the stars
of the new TV shows, or even young newscasters. Their voices are painful. What
happened to the celebration of a husky, sensual, or just a plain old normal
voice? When I asked a pair of twenty-something women if they could hear how
high and oddly pitched their voices sound, they said they knew they spoke too
loudly, but didn’t understand what I was saying about tone. When I gave them an
example between theirs and a pitch more naturally placed, they asked how they
could achieve this. I said, go to a vocal coach, or ask yourself if you’re
trying to please someone (a man?) and stop!</span></div>
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There was a time when people desired privacy. But of course,
that was before the ascent of the cell phone and feeling like you needed to
yell to be heard. And then came reality TV where everybody feels that they now deserve
more than fifteen minutes of fame, wherever and however they can find it.<span class="textexposedshow"></span></div>
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<span class="textexposedshow">The extreme need to be heard
without listening is creating a rampant insensitivity to others. The rise of ‘Social
Media’ instead of “sociability” is killing the soulfulness and authenticity
that should be the essence of conversation between friends, lovers, and even
adversaries. Bad enough that many people feel their lives are validated through
tweeting or posting on Facebook, instead of being truly present in the moment.
Now those of us who wish to enjoy living out in the world are being forced
inside by a new universe where conversation has become transaction and self-promotion.
And of course this happens not just in restaurants, but everywhere that the new
public gathers. </span></div>
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<span class="textexposedshow">I propose to create a
counterculture that campaigns for greater sensitivity. Let’s hear it for the
modulated voice that celebrates give and take, understanding and empathy, being
present in the moment, putting ego aside, and best of all… intimacy.</span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">For The Lioness Gazette </i></b></div>
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<a href="http://www.lionesswomansclub.com/post/1009"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">http://www.lionesswomansclub.com/post/1009</i></b></a></div>
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Michele Kadisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07098687099175186214noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6137457717049218350.post-8871385965811312112012-09-10T17:10:00.000-07:002012-09-10T17:16:52.651-07:00The Art of Listening<style>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YWppInb6s-c/UE6C6GSBXkI/AAAAAAAAB9E/OSfnWnn_ERo/s1600/69060578_665a252aa7_m.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YWppInb6s-c/UE6C6GSBXkI/AAAAAAAAB9E/OSfnWnn_ERo/s1600/69060578_665a252aa7_m.jpg" /></a></div>
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Great women listen. </div>
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They have nothing to prove. </div>
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They know who they are. </div>
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Of course, this applies to men as well. </div>
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Listening implies not rushing time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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A good listener weighs carefully the response, without
directing the conversation back to the self. </div>
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It is about understanding and respecting the need of the
other, allowing the energy to remain there until the subject changes naturally.
</div>
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A listener is a good partner in conversation, keeping the
flow where it needs to be from moment to moment. </div>
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The art of listening has to do with honoring the speaker. It
is generous, true, and authentic. It quiets the ego and helps deepen the
association, the friendship, the romance. </div>
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As beauty is said to be in the eye of the beholder, we can also
say that one becomes beautiful understanding that the “You” is more important
than the “I.”</div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">For the Lioness Gazette</i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><a href="http://www.lionesswomansclub.com/post/1039">http://www.lionesswomansclub.com/post/1039</a></i></b></div>
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Michele Kadisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07098687099175186214noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6137457717049218350.post-32161021036073529592010-04-14T16:04:00.000-07:002010-04-14T16:05:07.899-07:00EssenceBeneath the coded level<br />Of known things<br />Is the mystery<br />Where we truly reside…<br /><br />Holding the truth<br />Not contained in our daily <br />Language<br />We find ourselves, untended<br />In our raw and pure state<br />Meeting <br />In lightMichele Kadisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07098687099175186214noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6137457717049218350.post-70629349475237155722010-04-14T16:03:00.001-07:002010-04-14T16:03:34.279-07:00Solofalling into my center<br />finding<br />the flat, strong places<br />insideMichele Kadisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07098687099175186214noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6137457717049218350.post-74741721467980745762010-04-14T16:01:00.000-07:002010-04-14T16:02:28.293-07:00Duetthe way she<br />nestles and curls<br />folding into all the hollows<br />filling in<br /> his space<br /><br />soft and yielding<br />she’s a baby tiger<br />and he…<br />a power point…<br />the axis around<br /> which she windsMichele Kadisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07098687099175186214noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6137457717049218350.post-63345827686880060722010-04-14T15:51:00.000-07:002012-09-10T17:39:38.991-07:00A Cubist's Dream <link href="file://localhost/Users/ruff/Library/Caches/TemporaryItems/msoclip1/01/clip_filelist.xml" rel="File-List"></link> <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:documentproperties> <o:template>Normal</o:Template> <o:revision>0</o:Revision> <o:totaltime>0</o:TotalTime> <o:pages>1</o:Pages> <o:words>128</o:Words> <o:characters>734</o:Characters> <o:lines>6</o:Lines> <o:paragraphs>1</o:Paragraphs> <o:characterswithspaces>901</o:CharactersWithSpaces> <o:version>11.1287</o:Version> </o:DocumentProperties> <o:officedocumentsettings> <o:allowpng/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:donotshowrevisions/> <w:donotprintrevisions/> <w:displayhorizontaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:displayverticaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:usemarginsfordrawinggridorigin/> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--> <style> <!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:"Times New Roman"; panose-1:0 2 2 6 3 5 4 5 2 3; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:50331648 0 0 0 1 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman";} table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-parent:""; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman";} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style> <!--StartFragment--> <br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-yv_DYEA7JYk/UE6G7QAQbvI/AAAAAAAAB9c/KzvqYLwxCRg/s1600/View+from+the+balcony.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="179" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-yv_DYEA7JYk/UE6G7QAQbvI/AAAAAAAAB9c/KzvqYLwxCRg/s320/View+from+the+balcony.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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A Cubist’s dream, with buildings rising willy-nilly, squares and rectangles fitting into each other like a broken puzzle. </div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-8RO5wIp1YGg/UE6HX3WdMQI/AAAAAAAAB9k/Q7fykGEpqng/s1600/La+Calisita.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-8RO5wIp1YGg/UE6HX3WdMQI/AAAAAAAAB9k/Q7fykGEpqng/s320/La+Calisita.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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But this is only from the balcony, for there are more aesthetic views to be had from my windows. There is the park at the side of the house, with its carousel, the wide expanses of green where people walk their dogs, stroll, and enjoy some ephemeral minutes of city rest. There are the jacaranda trees, blooming a thick purple and shedding their color over the newly placed white tiles that make the pathways. </div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-EOSBHg9M6q0/UE6H1XN_fsI/AAAAAAAAB9s/W4iLSHaSNxA/s1600/Atardecer.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="211" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-EOSBHg9M6q0/UE6H1XN_fsI/AAAAAAAAB9s/W4iLSHaSNxA/s320/Atardecer.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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But it is to the back window that I mostly turn. The Cubist patterns that cut across flaming skies, the antennas making vertical line cuts upwards. The front view is the obvious one, but this one, expanding across my wide balcony allows me to see into others’ lives, placing me in the world of quotidian humanity at its daily tasks.</div>
<!--EndFragment--> Michele Kadisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07098687099175186214noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6137457717049218350.post-2295043126151610262009-12-29T04:41:00.000-08:002012-09-10T15:37:58.879-07:00Recent Articles and Blog Posts<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">ArgentinasTravel</span><br />
<a href="http://argentinastravel.com/597/tango-feeling-the-metaphor/">http://argentinastravel.com/597/tango-feeling-the-metaphor/</a><br />
<a href="http://argentinastravel.com/636/salsa-classes-buenos-aires/">http://argentinastravel.com/636/salsa-classes-buenos-aires/</a><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Chefs Without Frontiers</span><br />
<a href="http://www.chefswithoutfrontiers.com/">www.chefswithoutfrontiers.com</a>Michele Kadisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07098687099175186214noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6137457717049218350.post-60284842788071646552009-07-17T17:40:00.001-07:002009-07-17T17:40:16.285-07:00Woodstock RevisitedWoodstock Revisited is in the bookstores and doing extremely well. Look for my story entitled, "High Flying Bird."<br /><br />For more information on the book, here is their website.<br />http://www.woodstockstories.com.Michele Kadisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07098687099175186214noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6137457717049218350.post-53360774285555283202008-07-25T09:40:00.000-07:002009-07-17T17:46:51.786-07:00Tango<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_5XeMD4ovwbk/SIoCy24zYZI/AAAAAAAAAIw/9nehmWAGciQ/s1600-h/Dusty+boots.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_5XeMD4ovwbk/SIoCy24zYZI/AAAAAAAAAIw/9nehmWAGciQ/s200/Dusty+boots.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5226993390267359634" border="0" /></a> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;" align="center"><b style=""><span style="font-size:14;"><span style="font-size:130%;">Marvelous Night for a Moondance</span><o:p></o:p></span><br /><i style=""> <o:p></o:p>for www.argentinastravel.com<o:p></o:p></i></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><b style=""><i style=""><o:p> </o:p></i></b><o:p></o:p><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">So there I was—a more-or-less intermediate level tango dancer, with all the bravura that a lifetime of other dance techniques has given me, which means the tendency to show off when I don’t know what I’m doing.<span style=""> </span>I was in a very popular class of what is conveniently called “<i style="">nuevo tango</i>,” signifying that everyone is young and experimental and in this case, pretty good.<span style=""> </span>We were learning some complicated steps and finding new possibilities with each different partner and I was trying to hold my own along with everybody else. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">After the teachers demonstrated the next sequence, I looked around for my next partner.<span style=""> </span>I felt someone standing next to me, waiting for me to turn and catch his eye.<span style=""> </span>Dirty nails, fraying socks, greasy hair, bad teeth - there he was, my next potential partner, shooting me a charming, inviting, cocky smile. With a confidence completely unfitting to his appearance, this scruffy mix of pirate and street urchin grabbed me and we took off.<span style=""> </span>The less than satisfying olfactory experience was daunting. Was it a combination of motorcycle grease and meat empanadas, or some other exotic mixture that defied speculation?<span style=""> </span>I figured it was just a dance or two and then I’d be on to someone more hygienic.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">We danced.<span style=""> </span>His lead was unleashed, untamed, and exciting, which fit right in with my own wild nature.<span style=""> </span>In minutes we created a force field that was dizzying.<span style=""> </span>We didn’t separate until the end of the class.<span style=""> </span>When I close my eyes it was everything I had always expected tango to be… feeling totally lost in an embrace, lost in the music, and resonating with the liberation and ecstasy that comes with the surrender to both.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">At home that night, I kept wondering why my luck was such that I’d found a potential tango partner so unpolished, so raw, so funky.<span style=""> </span>I wanted someone subtle, sexy, handsome, clean; someone who would make me feel like the act of the dance was the act of making love; someone tall, dark, with deep soulful eyes, beautiful strong hands to embrace me, a mouth for kissing, and the requisite unstained clothes.<span style=""> </span>I was determined to find this someone with the chemistry I needed for my reality, and this was certainly not that guy.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Three classes later, Tino and I were still were dancing together.<span style=""> </span>He’d wait to drive me home on his dented, rusty, half painted 1997 Honda while I took my time changing shoes and socializing with friends.<span style=""> </span>I was testing him, hoping he’d get annoyed enough to change his mind so I could be free to find my dream match.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">There was going to be a seminar that I couldn’t take alone.<span style=""> </span>I knew Tino had no money and I said: if you want to dance, and if you want to dance with me, you’ll find a way.<span style=""> </span>I was really trying to be a bitch so he’d ditch me and I’d have an excuse to find someone else.<span style=""> </span>He found the money instead and we began to make a friendship, practicing after classes in a little studio downtown.<span style=""> </span>I looked forward to being enveloped by him, this earthiness that added to the raw creativity we generated as we danced.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">One day Tino asked if I’d like to dance with him at a party way out in the suburbs, beyond where he lived.<span style=""> </span>I could meet him at the train station in his home town with the unlikely name of Morón and he’d pick me up on his motorcycle. The seduction of an adventure called…how could I say no?</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">It was to be an outdoor party, so I dressed casually in jeans, a leather jacket, and my old black Spanish cracked-leather boots.<span style=""> </span>I met him and we took off on his bike into the night, into the wind.<span style=""> </span>There was no helmet, and I let the mascara run down my cheeks as my hair flew wild.<span style=""> </span>On and on and on we drove, through the empty countryside, past open fields of pampas, small towns with golden lights burning in living rooms as couples drank a last glass of wine before bed, past a lonely kiosk out in the middle of nowhere, past towns with tiny markers:<span style=""> </span>Ituzaingo, Merlo, Paso del Rey.<span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span>I was way beyond my <st1:place st="on"><st1:city st="on">Buenos Aires</st1:city></st1:place> circle of comfort, with a relative stranger on a sputtering motorcycle that with all its ferocity, could break down at any moment, stranding me on the edge of nowhere.<span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">It was well after <st1:time minute="0" hour="0" st="on">midnight</st1:time> when we spotted fires up ahead.<span style=""> </span>We turned onto a small road in front of a church where the celebration was being held to commemorate the newly erected spire.<span style=""> </span>There were glowing coals and jumping flames, barbecues with what seemed like hundreds of people eating, drinking, and dancing around them.<span style=""> </span>And everyone, from four-year-old to the grandmothers, was dancing the beautiful Argentine folk dances, “Chacarrera” and “Samba.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">We skidded onto a gravel path and parked the bike.<span style=""> </span>The hugging and kissing that so marks Argentine culture commenced and my guy had about a million friends. All of them gave me equal treatment, which was gracious, open and loving. I stood there in wonder as families, couples, teenagers, communed in this starlit, moonlit, timeless night.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">We strode over to help ourselves to <i style="">choripans</i>, succulent sausage grilled over the coals, dripping with fat and flavor that saturated a chunk of bread, making a mere sandwich into a feast.<span style=""> </span>Tino was on a serious budget and treating our journey as a date, he splurged and bought us a carton of cheap red wine that tasted better than any vintage label.<span style=""> </span>We sat on the ground devouring our midnight picnic as if it was manna from heaven. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">The atmosphere was redolent with the smoking fires, sweat from dancing and drinking, and the crisp country air. <span style=""> </span>I was in awe of the freedom and simplicity of this delicious setting as I sat with choripan juice dripping down my chin. I felt at home, welcomed and unafraid.<span style=""> </span>There I was, the only blond in the crowd of country folk where no one seemed to notice or care that I might be from an entirely different place, let alone, perhaps another planet. We were all just human beings drinking in the sensuality of being together in this magical night where no judgments were made.<span style=""> </span>Here was a setting that authenticated my existential philosophy of living in the moment.<span style=""> </span>For me, it was a kind of liberation that comes with feeling anonymous in a world where the only important thing is living life to its fullest.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_5XeMD4ovwbk/SIoEokjT4sI/AAAAAAAAAJA/L2UzR906saw/s1600-h/folk+singers.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_5XeMD4ovwbk/SIoEokjT4sI/AAAAAAAAAJA/L2UzR906saw/s200/folk+singers.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5226995412569940674" border="0" /></a></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">And then my former perfectionist, <st1:state st="on"><st1:place st="on">New York</st1:place></st1:state> world knocked at the door of my momentary transport into bliss. “You are going on in 15 minutes,” a woman said…and at once I understand what my friend meant when he asked if I would dance with him at the party.<span style=""> </span>He didn’t mean hang out and dance…he had actually<br />arranged for us to perform!<span style=""> </span>In one heinous reversion to my strict professional self, I recoiled into a place where flexibility became impossible.<span style=""> </span>I was furious.<span style=""> </span>“What are you thinking? We’ve only just begun to practice!<span style=""> </span>We’re amateurs!<span style=""> </span>I don’t know the music!”<span style=""> </span>I went on and on.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Tino looked at me calmly and smiled and said, “I only wanted to give my friends a gift … they don’t expect much, but they know I’ve been taking classes.<span style=""> </span>I thought it would be fun, but if you feel uncomfortable, its okay, we won’t dance.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">He was way too kind and understanding and open and calm and in the moment and this made me even angrier.<span style=""> </span>I hadn’t worked all my life to become a professional dancer to have some pipsqueak from Morón remind me not to take myself so seriously!<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">It was ugly … me, that is. I sat down while Tino went to tell the organizers we weren’t dancing.<span style=""> </span>I took a breath and looked around. <span style=""> </span>Here I was in this generous, loving place acting like the Diva I’m not. Why was I here in <st1:place st="on"><st1:country-region st="on">Argentina</st1:country-region></st1:place> anyway?<span style=""> </span>What exactly is my definition of adventure if not to grab the moment as it comes?<span style=""> </span>And what is more beautiful than being in the moment, something I always preach and found myself absolutely not doing?<span style=""> </span>What the hell is perfection and why is it so important?<span style=""> </span>I took off my leather jacket and ran to tell Tino I’d changed my mind.<span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">It turned out that we were the featured dancers of the night.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">By now the crowd had grown to even greater dimensions.<span style=""> </span>Stoked with good spirits, they were open, receptive, and expectant.<span style=""> </span>There was total silence as our names, with great gravity, were announced.<span style=""> </span>Slowly we walked to the dirt stage.<span style=""> </span>The crowd sat on wooden bleachers slightly above us, silenced as we made our entrance.<span style=""> </span>In my mind I thought for a moment of my stiletto-sexy ‘Comme Il Faut’ super fashion tango shoes, my rack of gorgeous high-slit dresses hanging in my closet, my fishnet stockings and the drop earrings that sparkled beneath the low lights of the <i style="">milongas</i>. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">All that shopping and here I was in tight, dirty jeans, a tank top, hair untamed, <span style=""> </span>and Tino, worse, of course!<span style=""> </span>But none of that stuff mattered, I realized, and in a way it was so much better… the way we looked gave our dancing an urgency and spontaneous presence. <span style=""> </span>And besides, no one cared.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">We took in the audience with gravity.<span style=""> </span>We took in each other with the depth of clandestine lovers. The music began.<span style=""> </span>It was a tango I’d never heard.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">And so we danced.<span style=""> </span>We danced in a dream where I was aware only of the universe we were creating, just us two… me whirling in a containing, protective embrace, the dust flying up from our boots.<span style=""> </span>We danced as if we were making love for the first time, as lovers who knew no other reality, lovers who were only present for this moment.<span style=""> </span>And in one split second flash, I suddenly realized that here I was, a New Yorker dancing in the middle of nowhere on the other side of the equator, in the deep romantic night, far away from home with a virtual stranger who, in this three minute dance, was my lover, deeper and more rarified than any I’d ever had in my life.<span style=""> </span>And I realized that this, this, was tango and that all the adornment in the world would never make the dance more sacred or more valid. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">The rotation of the earth stopped when the music ended.<span style=""> </span>We made our bows with drama and flourish, and then turned to each other with a mutual blush that turned into an embrace that seemed to last forever.<span style=""> </span>We walked off the dirt stage hand in hand, to thunderous applause.<span style=""> </span>I was shaking from head to toe from ecstatic aftershock.<span style=""> </span>At once I looked round for Tino, whose hand had slipped out of mine.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">I found myself alone, blindly fielding congratulatory embraces and kisses from hopeful lovers to be.<span style=""> </span>At once I heard the gunning of the bike.<span style=""> </span>Tino handed me my jacket. <span style=""> </span>I reached in my pocket to put on my long-forgotten sunglasses, jumped up behind my guy, and like cool lightening, we evaporated into the beckoning moonlight.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_5XeMD4ovwbk/SIoFiMx3unI/AAAAAAAAAJQ/5p4vap49tpk/s1600-h/close+embrace.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_5XeMD4ovwbk/SIoFiMx3unI/AAAAAAAAAJQ/5p4vap49tpk/s320/close+embrace.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5226996402620971634" border="0" /></a> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;" align="center"><br /><b style="">Feeling the Metaphor<o:p></o:p><br /><span style="font-size:10;"><span style="font-size:85%;">for www.argentinastravel.com</span><o:p></o:p></span></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;">It is already five years, and here I am, still living in <st1:place st="on"><st1:city st="on">Buenos Aires</st1:city></st1:place>, inside the next incarnation of my very long career in dance.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: 150%;">I was a budding ballerina at three, blossoming into the real thing and then moving into Jazz, a more accurate expression of my nature at the time.<span style=""> </span>My career took me through a prolific life on stage and then into teaching and choreographing, with my base in <st1:state st="on"><st1:place st="on">New York</st1:place></st1:state> and work all around the world.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style=""> </span>I moved to <st1:city st="on">Miami</st1:city> and one day was called to choreograph for a television series being produced in <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">L.A.</st1:place></st1:city><span style=""> </span>Could I create a tango?<span style=""> </span>With my usual bravura, I said of course, found a maestro, and tried to absorb what I could in three days.<span style=""> </span>Fortunately it was a comedy scene where the few steps I learned could translate into something that worked!</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style=""> </span>After the shoot, I needed to apologize to the art form.<span style=""> </span>And so, in ecstatic penance, I began learning the dance for real.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style=""> </span>Tango is not easy.<span style=""> </span>It requires a sharing of energy, sensitivity to the musical phrasing, and as a woman, attunement to the nuances of the man’s lead.<span style=""> </span>The steps are incidental, actually.<span style=""> </span>But most teachers teach steps, so steps are what I learned.<span style=""> </span>The great challenge that I presented to my teachers was how to release the powerhouse of energy my body held from all the years of dancing on my own.<span style=""> </span>I am a dynamic dancer as opposed to a lyrical one, and all of the strength and control that I have absorbed through years of rigorous training is apparent in my every move.<span style=""> </span>And… this does not serve Tango, at least in the beginning stages.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style=""> </span>Tango is walking.<span style=""> </span>Feeling the ground.<span style=""> </span>Finding and maintaining one’s center and balance.<span style=""> </span>This equates perfectly to finding one’s equanimity in life.<span style=""> </span>And it translates to dancing in partnership without losing one’s own bearing.<span style=""> </span>And so, the first metaphor was revealed.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style=""> </span>The old style of Tango, the Milonguero style, has the woman more dependent on the man, relying on his strength and guidance.<span style=""> </span>In response, he supports her, showing his power and confidence in the embrace as he guides her every move.<span style=""> </span>This style is so obviously the reflection of the conservative cultural attitude between men and women, which has existed for time immemorial.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style=""> </span>My first difficulty came with this style.<span style=""> </span>Learning to rely on the man when I am so independent, surrendering myself so that I could be light enough for him to guide me, and yet grounding myself so that I would not fly off like an ephemeral ballerina with all of her energies flowing upward out of the body’s center… these were my challenges.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style=""> </span>After a year of classes in the States, I realized I needed to go to <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Buenos Aires</st1:place></st1:city>.<span style=""> </span>But I would not go until I felt reasonably sure that I could somewhat hold my own on the dance floor.<span style=""> </span>Finally I went for ten days and a few months later, went back again.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style=""> </span>My encounter, up to this point, was with Milonguero/Salon style Tango.<span style=""> </span>Slowly I was finding my way inside the energy of the “two.”<span style=""> </span>My body was adjusting to a lower sense of gravity and I was moving more through my solar plexus where lies the seat of our emotions.<span style=""> </span>This area was becoming the platform for my body, allowing my feet to be planted firmly on the ground and less in the lifted manner I had acquired through Ballet.<span style=""> </span>Slowly I was feeling old defenses melt as my femininity began to expand, surrendering myself to the man, feeling lighter and less resistant to being guided.<span style=""> </span>I watched myself shed some of my masculine force and felt my growing femininity through the power of doing less, not more.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style=""> </span>The second day of my second visit I met my first partner, and we began to work with the concept of energy rather than with steps and figures.<span style=""> </span>We danced with my hands on his chest, we danced chest to chest with no hands, and we danced without touching at all, with me following his energy only, or he following mine.<span style=""> </span>The dance began to take form as a dialogue, rather than as a monologue given by the man, with the woman basically nodding in response.<span style=""> </span>I now could have a voice – a voice as yet without its own style or flavor, but a voice nonetheless.<span style=""> </span>We worked almost exclusively in this way, rarely thinking about steps.<span style=""> </span>I began to see the possibilities of my own expression as a woman who could yield without losing her center, who could follow without losing her own lead, and who could meet the man on equal footing without sacrificing her femininity.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style=""> </span>Time brought me another partner along with classes in another style, incorporating a technique that revolves around the spiral.<span style=""> </span>In this technique the body can work with greater elasticity, going in and out of a close embrace position where greater creative movement becomes possible.<span style=""> </span>I began to see how I could incorporate my own vocabulary from other dance forms into the Tango.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style=""> </span>But I still had restrictions in my body that needed to melt.<span style=""> </span>The new challenge was to create channels through which information, physical information as transmitted by energy, could flow freely so that any subtle impulse by my partner could be felt.<span style=""> </span>I began investigating the subtly, the hypersensitivity that can be developed in the body to make one a better “listener” and “receiver.”<span style=""> </span>In this way I also saw the possibilities of transmitting my own responses more rapidly and with greater finesse.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style=""> </span>As the body becomes more fine-tuned, so does the heart within it.<span style=""> </span>Through my discoveries in Tango, I find myself slowing down in life, tuning in to the details and finding an inner focus away from personality (the dynamic) and towards essence.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style=""> </span>Like everything, Tango is a process.<span style=""> </span>I am deeply in the process, learning to let go of resistance, learning to listen to my partner without losing myself, and learning to transmit what I feel through the music and by way of deep, subtle energy that I can now identify inside myself.<span style=""> </span>I am trying not to use my muscles to drive my body, but rather to find the flow through impulse and response.<span style=""> </span>I feel more and more like an instrument as I develop this natural, organic way to move through space.<span style=""> </span>And beautifully, as is requested by Tango, I have learned to feel the palpable third energy created by two souls in their embrace.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p>Michele Kadisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07098687099175186214noreply@blogger.com0