La Nuit Blanche

I talked with my umma today.

If there is one person on this earth I would describe as my soulmate, it is she. And she is the one who got me into dancing tango, did you know?

I got her a pair of 2.75 inch pewter-colored Comme Il Fauts for Mother’s Day. No woman can have too many beautiful shoes, no matter what her age.

The above photograph of her was taken three years before my birth. At the time, she was 23, younger than I am now. She is still the most youthful person I know, and she has carried her beauty gracefully and naturally (and, I may add, almost supernaturally) into her age.

Let me have inherited a single thimbleful of her courage and strength, her passion and capacity to love so deeply, her delicacy in thought and subtle layers of understanding, the natural grace with which she acts and speaks in everything, and the savagery of her wit, quick as lightening and sharpened to the thinnest blade — and I would consider myself a beautiful woman.

Happy Mother’s Day.

yesterday was new york’s first snow.

it was also the centennial of the brassiere.

so i thought of my two favorite girls in san francisco…

the apple is red,
red forever the leaves where memory, like water,
seeps and sinks,
ever beyond two layers,
unnoticed and unobserved.
the horns of autumn are lifted beyond the woods,
compelling and sweet.
the frost moves, covers and bites in silence.
september sends down to us its message,
a yellow leaf whirling in ecstasy,
before sleep,
before death.
the dragon fly lights on the grey bark of tree
and is gone to some distant point of sky.
where does the round moon live?

where does the round moon live?
are the trees afire in the crimson sunset?
the eye is seen and remembered through other eyes.
the horizons are numberless as falling drops of rain.
the eye opens,
the first silent movement of the day.
the eyes are not related in unison.

-Excerpt of a poem by painter Mark Tobey, 1952

Artist: Diane Arbus, “Identical twins, Roselle, NJ”, 1967

Man: Would you like to dance?

Nuit: Ok. :)

Man: Wow, I remember you from a loooooong time ago. And I remember how incredible of a dancer you are!

Nuit: (Uh oh.) Errr… I think you might be mistaking me for someone else! I’ve only been dancing for 6 months. Well… 6 and a half.

Man: (Uh oh.) Errr… Oh, uh… I’ve been watching you dance tonight, and you look great! I am sure it was you!

Nuit: Oh. Ok. :-)

Man: Shall we? :-)

One tanda = last tanda.

Man: You are incredible!

Nuit: :-))))))

Man: For a 6-month old!!!

Nuit: :-|

Man: Thank you.

Nuit: Thank you.

:-(

For the record, the man above was super sweet and encouraging, complimenting me after each song, with interjections such as, “Beautiful! Just beautiful.” and “Mmm, that felt very nice indeed.” But I could tell he felt like he was in a tight spot.

I had a lot of fun last night, nonetheless.

The music was so good, I didn’t care if I sucked!

Cheers to incredible DJs. Sometimes, they are the only saving grace of the night…

P.S. You know when you’re really absorbed reading something and you hold your cup of coffee to your face and keep tilting it all the way back, until you’ve realised you drank almost all of it, but it’s too late, and a tiny drop falls into your nostril? Yeah, well. I hate that.

P.P.S. In the above photograph, I love how the twins are wearing differently patterned stockings. And how the floorline is at a skewed angle.

P.P.P.S. Do not watch the movie “Fur.” Avoid it like the plague. It really really really sucks!

P.P.P.P.S. co.mments sucks. Their server is always down! Ok, now to get some work done. Good-bye.

Bonne Anniversaire, my darling.

I couldn’t send you a one-way ticket to New York (um, maybe that should be my birthday present?)…

(So I sent you a telegram, instead.)

And all the lovesick, heartached, single women out there in the world.

…me included.

…on est encore à Venise.

What Alessandro had in mind?

hehe…

Rio di San Barnaba, Venice Daily Photo

When I landed in New York, I immediately asked my friend to take me to the Friday afternoon milonga. I could have dug through my luggage for my CIFs right then and there. Anything to keep me from being homesick about my new love, Venezia.

Instead, he drove me home, and I fell asleep, exhausted. Only to dream about sciabolati and the sounds of the boats creaking on the water, Italian inflections echoing off the canals at dawn. And sharing morning cigarettes and bedtime bowls of tea with two of the most beautiful women I have ever met, on the Fondamenta Ognissanti…

“Memory’s images, once they are fixed in words, are erased,” Polo said. “Perhaps I am afraid of losing Venice all at once, if I speak of it. Or perhaps, speaking of other cities, I have already lost it, little by little.”

-Italo Calvino, Invisible Cities

I woke up at 6am, it is pouring rain over here. Hopefully, the streets of Manhattan will flood themselves and transform into quiet lagoons by the time I step out to attend my favorite Saturday morning practica.

I’m back.

P.S. I guess I’m the only one who hasn’t been blogging while away. :) I don’t even know where or how to begin.

P.P.S. Some of you can expect a postcard in the mail. I hear it takes a couple weeks to arrive in the U.S. though…

Here I come!

24 hours till lift-off.

Purple tights — check.
Blue lipstick — check.
Black mascara — check.
Floppy green headgear — check.
20 pearl necklaces — check.
Silly white frou-frou dress — check.

Kiss you when I get back on the 26th.

Ciao bella~!

Ça veut dire quoi, la raison d’être d’une fleur?

Dawn had broken when he said: “Sire, now I have told you about all the cities I know.”

“There is still one of which you never speak.”

Marco Polo bowed his head.

“Venice,” the Khan said.

Marco smiled. “What else do you believe I have been talking to you about?”

The emperor did not turn a hair. “And yet I have never heard you mention that name.”

And Polo said: “Every time I describe a city I am saying something about Venice.”

“When I ask you about other cities, I want to hear about them. And about Venice, when I ask you about Venice.”

“To distinguish the other cities’ qualities, I must speak of a first city that remains implicit. For me it is Venice.”

“You should then begin each tale of your travels from the departure, describing Venice as it is, all of it, not omitting anything you remember of it.”

The lake’s surface was barely wrinkled; the copper reflection of the ancient palace of the Sung was shattered into sparkling glints like floating leaves.

“Memory’s images, once they are fixed in words, are erased,” Polo said. “Perhaps I am afraid of losing Venice all at once, if I speak of it. Or perhaps, speaking of other cities, I have already lost it, little by little.”

-Italo Calvino, Invisible Cities

I am going to be floating along bubbling canals amidst the creaking of a gondola.

In 22 days.

With two loverlees:

Poupette et Poulette.

(Which makes me… Pirouette?)

Don’t ask us how it happened.

There is no how in magic — it just is!

The result of which will be three pairs of clicking, stockinged feet, echoing along the Piazza San Marco, mourning for the sinking of this city of dreams.

We will be thinking of our tangueras and tangueros.

Tell me a wish, and I’ll whisper a prayer as I throw beads of murano glass into the lagoon for you.

Ask it of me, and I will send you a hand-written picture post-card.

I shall, perhaps, sprinkle a few drops of the ever present water flowing through the heart of this city, in hopes that its fiery tears will reach your hearts too.