La Nuit Blanche

I recently found this article, from a medical study at UC Berkeley:

“Male sweat boosts women’s hormone levels”
Published 02.06.2007

“Androstadienone, a derivative of testosterone that is found in high concentration in male sweat, and in all other body secretions, has garnered the most attention. However, though its effect on a woman’s mood, physiological arousal and brain activity suggests that the chemical is a possible pheromone-like signal in humans, its effect on hormone levels was unknown.

“Wyart and Sobel set out to test whether androstadienone affects hormone levels as well, focusing on the hormone cortisol. Cortisol is secreted by the body in times of stress, priming the body for “fight or flight.”

“…the women who sniffed androstadienone reported an improved mood and significantly higher sexual arousal, while their physiological response, including blood pressure, heart rate and breathing, also increased. This was consistent with previous studies.

“In addition, however, the UC Berkeley researchers found that cortisol levels rose within about 15 minutes of sniffing androstadienone, and remained elevated for more than an hour.”

Ok.

Maybe I should reconsider the sweat thing, and kick up my tolerance level for it a notch or two.

Couldn’t resist posting that video, haha. ;)

Also, a possible remedy (sent to me via Jez):

Lynx Anti-Perspirant

More on health and tango Johanna’s post):

“A Tango a Day Keeps Heart Attacks (and Other Diseases) Away”

Now I remember why I got into all of this.

Tonight was amazing.

Every tanda was luscious, smooth, my feet sparkled, tapping like jewels skipping on water (hours of adorno practice paying off?), feet were quick, they didn’t flop (ankles getting stronger?), my chest was up (posture improving?), my walk was long, the lines felt clean, shoulders relaxed, hands relaxed, connection was even, balance was stable (moving from center!), didn’t wobble once, didn’t bob up and down (the floor is my lover), the men smelled wonderful, they were subtle, they were musical, they were creative, they danced even as they stood still.

I even timidly experimented with my voice, putting emotional energy into the dance, strength into my walk, passion into my cadences, and the leaders actually felt it, and they danced the way I was yearning to dance, because they heard me!

Wow. They heard me.

Ok, now shutup and go to bed.

. . .

..

.

(They heard me!)

Was thinking of going to a milonga tonight, but…

Decided to spend some time with dearly missed friends, instead.

Ever since I got hooked on tango, I have been neglecting them. During this past month, they would call me out, invite me over to gallery openings in Chelsea, book signings in SoHo, that 1920s classic at the cinema, slam poetry readings, TheDanger at Speigeltent, the Daft Punk concert, a marionette production of the Faust legend, midnight cappuccinos, live jazz at a favorite winebar in Brooklyn… And I would say, no no no, I need to tango tango tango. Turn down an invite to the Daft Punk concert? I am definitely obsessed.

God, have I missed my friends. And I have missed this city, and the many mysteries it has to offer in Non-Tangoland.

I am just realising how rare it is for someone to decide to start dancing. And to keep up with it. To take the time to go to group classes, practicas, save money for private lessons, shoes, workshops, to battle through hours and hours of humbling experiences, the few unfriendly cliques, the few grumpy old men, the occasional arrogant tangueristas, discomfort with one’s feet in four-inch heels, frustration with one legs, arms, shoulders, torso, neck, head, facial expression, balance, posture, flexibility, sweat.

And all this to (someday) experience three minutes of sublimity. To become, for the duration of a single song, a living, moving, breathing, impromptu work of art — that elusive perfect tango, when “two becomes one.”

I am sure the beauty is worth it.

But sometimes, I wonder why I am I putting myself through so much suffering? And to top it all off, I go to milongas alone. I walk through empty streets alone to find unfamiliar addresses, I enter warm dimly lit rooms filled with unfamiliar faces, I dance with some strangers, some smell nice, some feel bad, some tangos are nice, some are nightmares, and then I go home alone, utterly disillusioned with my dancing. I don’t even need to say goodbye to anyone, because I don’t know anyone. It’s sad. On my walks back home through the empty streets, I imagine the situation from an outsider’s point of view, and it’s kind of pathetic. I haven’t felt so pathetic since highschool. I don’t think I’ve ever encountered another woman who comes to the milongas alone, even the other beginners come together.

I wonder if there’s some mysterious way to make friends that fast. Friendship comes so slowly to me. I’m shy. I’m possessive of my privacy. When I was little, my family moved around a lot, over three continents, six cities, I went to three different highschools. I used to hate that I was always the new kid to be made fun of, to tease because I was so quiet, and so lost. Then as I got older, my solitude had become indispensible to me.

When I first came to this city, I used to go to the cinema alone. I went to the galleries alone. I went shopping alone. I went to bookstores and fleamarkets alone. And I loved it. I was swept up in the romance of starting my own life in a huge metropolitan city, the poetics of glistening streets and darkened buildings during storms, the frenetic energy surrounding me as I stood in the midst of bustling crowds, the cavernous space of underground nightclubs filled to the brim with a vibrating bass, where I would dance till dawn, and I felt so free.

It took me years to set down my roots, I went to school here, I have loved men here, lived in every neighborhood, witnessed the rise and fall of local hangouts, seen the face of this city change with the seasons, little pockets of cherished memories hang from every corner of this town. And it took me a long time, but I’ve since formed a few extraordinary friendships…

And I was neglecting them because of the tango. I was beginning to feel lonely without them. I was homesick for them, and they all lived within a distance of 3 subway stops! It was time to take a break, to stop worrying about the dance connection with strangers, and reconnect with loved ones who know me well.

So, for those of you in New York City, here are a few non-tango related offerings, for your living pleasure:

TheDanger – Art Ate New York
NYC Noir at the Film Forum
The Chemical Brothers at Hammerstein Ballrom
Stephen Shore exhibit at the International Center of Photography
Kohei Yoshiyuki opening at Yossi Milo Gallery
Spiegeltent at South Street Seaport
Johannes Dokchtor Faust by The Czechoslovak-American Marionette Theatre

Ok, just one thing tango related: live tango music Monday nights at:

Cafe Moto

These will do you good.

.

“Tous les malheurs des hommes, tous les revers funestes dont les histoires sont remplies, les bévues des politiques, et les manquements des grands capitaines, tout cela n’est venu que faute de savoir danser.”

(All the ills of mankind, all the tragic misfortunes that fill the history books, all the political blunders, all the failures of the great leaders have arisen merely from a lack of skill at dancing.)

-Molière, 1670