Friday, June 29

Lonely Heart Breaks

It is not often. Seldom has it happened that two hearts break in one instant and for one and the same reason. If it is the consequence of an instantaneous madness, it needs to be highly contagious. This is never the case. Hearts break only when alone.

I have not yet seen a broken heart that was able to mend its hurt or to reverse. A broken heart may sometime forgive but it never forgets.

Curiously enough it is like that tale of an angel who falls to earth, the one who breaks a heart can never return to its heavenly place.

Falling out of love is no disgrace. It happens. It may be due to change: in him, her, life, needs, desires and wants and all other things that we care for and have nothing to do with the person to whom we once said "I Love You".

Whatever might be the case or cause, "love" is not a binding contract, it is more a matter of let's wait and see how it goes.

A stream that keeps going with the promise of one day reaching the sea is not always lucky to witness the waves or to be joined and engulfed in its eternity.

May be that is why Tango is such a bliss. It allows everyone a glimpse, and a foretaste of what it may be like joining the waves, being part of the sea.

In tango it is said there can be no "heart-breaks"; the tango is said to be a madness that is in fact bliss. That blissfulness is what makes it an addiction and no wonder that we find it to be contagious.

Tango is an affair but unlike the one in life - the one outside the milonga walls - this one carries with it a contract. It states: "The outcome is always known to parties involved, the tanda does end, the songs will each finish and non keeps getting repeated just for you or the one in your arms, and the embrace... well that one can either become a memory to keep someone in mind or at its worst one is allowed one's best to disregard and not to recall and this is no crime."

In our heart-of-hearts the truth is often different. In some rare occasions, there is that someone, the one who stirs a storm in our mind. The embrace would then feel like a hot desert whose burnt skin is being kissed, and caressed with pearl-droplets of rain. One can sense it, the touch, the scent, the feel, the conformity, and the care. The dream of our heart, the desert, being adorned by wild flowers in all colours of pink, blue, cyan, white, purple, and red - bloody red, will drive us away from our reality, we arrive at the edge, and someone keeps telling us to jump! Don't fear!

These combined create a blissful moment of unattainable perfection, and in our very imperfect lives this causes us sometimes to commit a mistake, by default. This is really no one's fault.

Once the actuality hits us again, and again, and....again the blissfulness leaves us and we feel drained, we pretend "It never happened".

Those longing glances across the floor, they become careless sometimes, and tell their own story: the tale of an angel who fell and does not know now how to return.

The only cat who loves you back!


One day we will be heard!
One day everyone will join us.

A bad gancho can really hurt!!!
The only cat who loves you back!

Tuesday, June 26

Not the Wagon But the Project!

In the gobbledygook of names and chaotic mess of the world's music scene, it is usually only the business men and their "party women" who keep track of music trends. They know the book of the "who is who?" and "what's its what?" better than the rest. The reason is simple, it is because they depend on their knowledge of the CD sales and/or the revenue of the ticket offices in which the fat ladies do not sing but dispense the extortionately priced tickets of the live gigs instead.

However there is an exception to the above here in the UK and that is when we have the annual good news of the awards on the World Music front. It is done by the station: Radio BBC3. This month it presented its awards for the World Music 2007.

The Radio BBC 3 offers a chance to its listeners to champion their choices or to familiarise and be introduced to what else is popular around the world. The mainstream music DJs and the influencers of trends and taste do take notice and often discover a taste for something very different that originates from the Global World Music rather than the western pop culture music channels which are the norm.

The competition has entries from all over the world. From Africa, Southern Europe, Latin America, Asia, Far East, Middle East, and many other distant lands as well as the fusion with the known popular western music.

What was surprising this year was that "Gotan Project" was nominated, and won under the Club Global entry (FRANCE/ARGENTINA).

Personally I believe that the contemporary tango dance-world owes a great deal to "The Gotan Project" and its music. Fortunately many who were in denials of this for the last few years and also dismissed the Gotan's music as sloppy fad have now all been proven wrong.

What is even more fascinating is how some dance "instructors" and "organisers" who till not long ago made very harsh and dismissive remarks about anything to do with NEW tango have now changed their tune. Many of them have now jumped on 'The Project' and its band-wagon. They run weekend and even week-long workshops on whatever they can sell with the terms of "Tango" and "New" combined. A suffix or prefix, with a few high kicks and " 'shebang': it is done!" and whatever the language these are spelled with and/or written in that does not matter - as long as it works. By the way this is not a complaint about them and the band-wagon they are now on - it is an observation. The complaint only belongs to those who part take in the projects, and if they like it then that is also fine.

There is however one specific comment I need to make here to distinguish that those who all said "Gotan" and "New" are all bad news, don't they need to say sorry to Gotan and alike? They have all suddenly discovered the pull of the currency and the "djering"to account, (...and guess what?) they proclaim to have been an expert on the NEW all along. These experts now tell us: "We always believed in them being great & fun!"

There can not be much surprise on these, the band-wagon is now running, "Jump On!" is what we will hear from these "New" experts from now on!

Maybe all those who revere and religiously advocate only one school of thought – be it in tango or in life in general– they often find themselves wrong footed, and lost at times. This is no exception either to that sum.

The bottom line is best here when I say that I am very pleased to see others join in, 'yes!', them too. It is about time that we all realise that there is no religiosity to tango, none! If money and its projects help to bring some around to this change, so be it. The tango is best when it is well mixed, the old, the young, the classics and the new.

Once again let us congratulate the winners of this year: "Gotan Project"- Number 1 in their own category. If you like to enjoy their music: live on stage, here is their link from BBC Radio 3.

The only cat who loves you back!

Friday, June 22


Whatever enters my mind can not be tossed aside.

But the thought therein; I can not confront.

What shall I do when I'm unable to scream for you?

- Separation,
- Separation,
Free me from this separation!

Whatever language's spoken;
Separation exists;
(From an Azarbaijani folk song.)

Big hearts speak the same language wherever we listen. In all of our little world, there exist only one truth: "the innocence of it all".

The only cat who loves you back!

Saturday, June 16

Today, tonight, and this dawn!

Today I phoned. She was not home. "My love, I miss you so much, as I have done for these many years" I said.

Today I phoned. He was not home. "My love, I miss you so much, as I have done for these many years" I said.

Maybe she was asleep. Maybe he was saying a prayer in the chapel.

Maybe one was, and maybe not the other...

"Before the Dawn"
by Federico Garcia Lorca

But like love
the archers
are blind

Upon the green night,
the piercing saetas
leave traces of warm

The keel of the moon
breaks through purple clouds
and their quivers
fill with dew.

Ay, but like love
the archers
are blind!

Tonight she phoned. I was not home. "My love, I miss you so much, as I have done for these many years" the message said, "Maybe you are asleep! Are you? oh well!, maybe you are not there." and here the message ended.

Today he phoned. I was not home. "My love, I miss you so much, as I have done for these many years" this was the message he wished he had said, instead the message read: "Maybe you are asleep! Are you? oh well! maybe you are not there."

Still dark, but the dawn is not far away, I know. That is when I got home.

I have exhausted my body in tango and my feet are sore. I can not resist it: cheering up my soul further by watching the sun rise. Another dawn.

They must both be awake by then; it would be a blast of joy to find them both at home.

I will phone them a little while after this morning's sun-rise. They may be getting old, but sometimes they, too, wake up early, and talk of missing those they love till dawn.


Thursday, June 14

Priority & Option

“Never allow someone to be your priority while allowing yourself to be their option”
....but some of us never learn!

The only cat who loves you back!

Monday, June 11

Saturday Paseo

do not grow in the sea
neither is there love in Sevilla.
You in Dark and the I the sun that's hot,
loan me your parasol.

I'll wear my jealous reflection,
juice of lemon and lime-
and your words,
your sinful little words-
will swim around awhile.

do not grow in the sea,
Ay, love!
And there is no love in Sevilla!

Saturday Paseo: Adelina by
Federico Garcia Lorca

Sunday, June 10

The Vampires of Love

She had walked in, totally innocent it seemed. He had watched her from the moment she came in. He had chosen her and she did not know that she had entered his game, his world, and soon she'd be playing something that she would be concurrently a participant and the trophy for.
Since it was the norm from the moment any human finds cognition of life, in parallel there begins a deep desire also for love, he therefore believed there existed no woman or man, either young or old, who would refuse to welcome a drink from this sweetest of charming poisons of all: "love".

He would offer her this burning gift in a scrumptious looking chalice: an embrace. His embrace ensured there was never a wasteful chase, his new victim would be delivered to him not long after she was spell-bound and had her eyes closed. She would be captured. She would become another - one other belonging to that tribe - just as soon as the pleasure of his passionate poison sank into her heart.

He never felt any shame, neither regret nor one moment of indecision for spreading his fixation, his passion and obsession of this game. New victims were just another recompense for having had his soul penetrated by his transgression for wanting the feeling of 'love'. That was how he was himself captured and imprisoned.

He did not belong to any priesthood, but amongst these "Vampires of Love", he was always gentle and seemed kind. This distinguished him from them and all.

He took her into his arms, with care, passionate, accompanied with gentleness and warmth. These were his known charm. She hesitated briefly at first, stopped and confessed to what had been one of the reasons he had chosen her for: "I have never done this before!" He smiled at her and reassured her that all will soon be fine. Her scent, smile, and warmth of touch had made him more determined to see her captured and won by him alone.

He knew he was being scrutinised and watched by all those who sit, watch, and circle the hunt. Some would wish to be her, in her place, and some others would wish him to fail. All these made his seek of his pleasure more intense, strong, and he knew he would succeed, he always had in the past therefore would and will have any times.

Soon she would experience 'the touch' – and the shining stars that she never thought she could reach to touch, would be hers to hold - remarkable, incredible, the poison of love through touch always succeeds if it is done right; a mystery like no other in the universe of physics.

He knew exactly how and what she would feel. The awakening of her soul to the pleasures of surrender; allowing love to be seeded within her, and to let it grow by feeding it these crazy turns and moves unlike any she had before. She would forever feel the pleasure that got under her skin this evening.

Soon she learned how to harmonise, to change from within, to give in through control, and bind herself to an emotion that came to live in her soul . Her metamorphosis had begun - he knew this and continued to carry her further along - the transmutation of the shy and the inhibited girl to a beautifully unrestrained woman. Now she wanted to live this new person: gregarious, to enjoy more; she concentrated and tried harder to become akin, closer and one with him.

She began to feel herself gently moulded, she did not object but in fact allowed herself melt further into his chest, into his warm embrace, the longer it passed the closer she held him. She wished more of him to touch hers, she did not know what it looked nor did she care. Her smiles told other "vampires of love" that she had become his, his new addicted victim of "love" - gradually their eyes were averted from him and her, the hunt was over and the prey was no longer.

In some moments of playful rest she looked up, started to talk but would not let or want herself to part his hold. She was told by him not to express her "thanks", "the pleasure was all mine" he said. She laughed and said "but how could you possibly mean or think that? This feels great; you gave me this gift, something I have never had!"

She had walked into this place - totally innocent maybe! - she was no longer expecting herself to remain as that. Into this tribe she was initiated by him: a man who insisted not to be of any priesthood; amongst "the vampires of love" he was the one who enjoyed being gentle and kind.

She would never experience a similar sensation after this night, not even by him to equate anything she had sensed tonight. He knew this since he could also remember the evening and the woman from whom he took the chalice and drank the poison.

The only cat who loves you back!

Friday, June 8

You Remain

As a perfume doth remain
In the folds where it hath lain,
So the thought of you, remaining
Deeply folded in my brain,
Will not leave me; all things leave me -
You remain.

Other thoughts may come and go,
Other moments I may know
That shall waft me, in their going,
As a breath blown to and fro,
Fragrant memories; fragrant memories
Come and go.

Only thoughts of you remain
In my heart where they have lain,
Perfumed thoughts of you, remaining,
A hid sweetness, in my brain.
Others leave me; all things leave me -
You remain.

"You Remain" by :
Arthur Symons (
1865 - 1945)

Thursday, June 7

My Letters

Naturally things cannot in reality fit together the way the evidence does in my letters; life is more than a Chinese puzzle.

- Franz Kafka, Letters to His Father

Tuesday, June 5

Private Dancer (Part 4)

She knew for a very long time that she must not change anything about herself in the world but only 'the world' as it shaped itself around and about her. "Oh! only if!" she wished, "if she could, how better and lovely it would be!"

"Forever!" had come in those moments of 'every-now-and-then', and now maybe gone, but "the happily & for-ever-after!", in her surreal she substantiated these, she was still waiting these patiently, these promising words shall arrive and enter her life, to be delivered in a big parcel sometime soon. She could believe - as she sometimes did - if she only waits, and/or tries hard and long, nearly for enough length of time, then they would come.
"the happily & for-ever-after!" will come bearing with them some name, a name that she had somehow known all along, they would then knock on the window of her heart, call her name and shout out "It is you I am looking for! Don't you know me? well it is me and it is time, "How do you do?", please follow me along the rainbow colours on the dotted line!"

She did laugh out loud and listened for the rose scented words that followed "I have seen you in some heavenly dream, seeking you there now I find you here...., together and now... I know we belong." How could she find her way through these foolish thoughts.

She continued to play, "There must be a way, some way to make the dream stay, change, turn it into 'the real'. She must change them, away from their living norm: 'the surreal'". These daydreams of hers they never ceased, they drove her high and then let her very gently down (she continues to live in both her paradigms).

She loved letting her day dreams grow, blossom and then go, sometimes to vanish from her mind soon after they lived briefly, like bubbles in a bottle of sparkling wine, everyone enjoys them but the bubbles do not belong and that is why they are there looking ridiculous for a few moments, and then they are bashfully gone.

Her soul always takes snapshot of her daydreams before they are ignored to die, and files them under the header of "Reflections" - just before that of "Recklessness". This is a much better arrangement. It is very safe, and with 'reflections' everyone lives their lives without any harm.

The Sun was directly overhead. Bright. The luscious green of the tree tops just outside her window on the second floor, waving their branches, greeting her playfully like small children waving at people from the windows of a slow moving bus, repeating this every time when she glanced up. She enjoyed their game, and loved the sound of their rustle, she thought they make it with such joy.

It was in another city and some other time that the leaves' rustling noises were one of her most favourite sounds there too. Every afternoon, past her lunch times, she would listen for them, carefully and there, they were - making the crackles and crunching noises that only trees and leaves can compose, telling the world of their stationary dynamism, describing "the colour green" one of greatest wonders of nature.

In a place where she had left behind her childhood times, there were many tall trees, two standing right outside her bedroom window. Those tree tops had a different kind of colour green. They were a gentler kind of green, a bit more friendly with the rays of sunshine going through them with more intensity and for much longer periods of times. Those leaves were a little less selfish, and a bit more respectful to the Sun - never garish, more like bashful green if there is one.

Always, in the distance, through every window and above every wall or house she looked, there stood this incredibly tall and massive mountain. In the mornings, at dawn, the Sun always came up from its right side. It climbed those ridges at the mountain tops. At first slowly, but it always gained speed as it began to rise further up. It was always suddenly too high, a burning disc too bright, impossible to look at. Children knew that Mitra (the God of Sun) punishes anyone disrespectful who stares at her very long by making them blind.

The mountain would change its colours as dawn happened, it looked more glorious with many shades of green at its skirt near the bottom with variations of colour brown in the middle till it reached the grey, near the top, just before the white began and itself disappeared into the blue.

These colours would also change by the sunshine. The white and the grey mist, the silver and sometimes darker clouds, they were asked to lift themselves up, to stroke themselves and to caress sideways but moving up against the mountain's vast front, and rub themselves against the mountain's many sides.

In her childhood days she always wondered how sweet it should taste: the white snow, placed always on the mountain top. Melting the snow in her mouth; tasting it, mixed with different summer fruit flavours, her Mum could make them if she could get her some. Especially when it was far too hot, she would daydream these with a big smile on her face.

In those slow stretching hours, in the scorching summer afternoons, whenever she played under the shades of their home's tall trees in the yard, or outside where she was forbidden to go - but she did. Often she would sneak outside, having to struggle to open the big iron gates, quietly disappearing into the forbidden side - into their street, where there was always more fun, laughter, screams, and singing aloud the words to the naughtiest of school yard songs.

In the street there was friendship who lived just next door. Her best friends, Layla and Meera, lived there, their brothers too. They used to sneak out just like her. Everyone had to be careful. It was important not to get caught. The punishment was always harsh and given to any one seen out or caught. This was unfair because she was the most careful one.

They would risk it all for loving to play the game. Risking a punishment, putting everything down on the line just for the love of the game - those days it was the hopscotch, - and today she was not sure, maybe it is the same game known just by some other name.

It was during those times that she learned about God. She would look up at the mountain, wishing to share some of the God's lollipop. After all it was so large, abundant, permanently wedged at the very top.

God's lollipop was not something any child could ignore, but...God remained selfish, she never shared – unlike herself, Layla or Meera who always did and never asked for or expected to hear any thanks when they shared. It is only God who never shares, how can she have so much of everything and behave so shamefully mean?

The girls always shared, even being told off was less hurtful when divided. She never complained - they were never as careful as she was for not getting caught, she was often punished not for her own fault.

It was nearly mid afternoon.

She woke up from a cat nap on her sofa. This was her precious day off, her Sunday. This was the only day of the week that was always fully planned for but rarely ever followed.

She had to meet up with her friend whom She had promised to be there for, to listen and to share.

All her Sundays were cramped with endless routines needing her time and efforts. Something more urgent than washing up always came up, she had tried, she had told herself many times this is the last time that she lets chaos rule all things around her.

She knew she must abjure. It just never worked out that simple. This time it was 'getting mixed up in friends' affairs', suffering some of their pains, that is how she made friends.

This time, and not unlike many other times, it was a break up - again, the mess of broken hearts, never easy to mend even when they share.

She is ready to leave, just before she closes the door, she has to rush back in. She runs to the bedroom, picking up her dancing shoes and shoving them down her hand bag, she tells herself "We might as well. To risk some more when there's nothing to lose, that is the best game in town. We must both go out. After the early tears and the late laughter we share, we must tango some of the night away."

She felt she would need her tango-fix later to clear her mind, make herself ready for the week that is yet to come. Her feet beckoned her to stroke a dance floor, with those rhythms and sounds she adores.

An embrace that promised her to dream is all she wished for as she made her way down the escalators to the train. An embrace from someone who could also understand her and her memories, someone without paradoxes and complexes but of harmony and knowledge of what it means to share.

(....Private Dancer continues!)

A Short Tango Story by MilongaCat.

Friday, June 1

Mind the Gap!

"Mind the Gap!" it said again. The last train to somewhere, not sure where, came, stopped and soon was gone. Hardly anyone around. We were still dancing on that platform.You had much earlier insisted "This floor is good for dancing tango!".

Earlier on - I could see it in your eyes, wanting us to. "The DJ's gone home now!" I teased in reply. "I am serious! This floor is good, I'll sing you a tango, and we shall dance the song. ...till the next one, a few minutes time. Common don't be shy! Humour me, dance with me here ... now, just one small tango song! " you said these and persisted. My objections were all ignored.

You embraced me jokingly, fooling around at first, but soon your spell was on. We danced to your gentle voice and more songs followed your earlier one. Some people stopped, they watched us from near and some from far. Some smiled, a few pretended to ignore the scene but almost everyone was curious as to what was going on - "Look! They are dancing tango - in the underground!? "

An old man offered his looks of envy. A younger woman transfixed her eyes admiring the turns, the embrace, and the total abandonment, us: a couple dancing for themselves, lost in their own world. Some other woman wished herself a dream like the one you and I were living as she saw it, there and then at that time. "May be it is time to leave him behind, live my life and taste what love should be like." she thought these as she watched you and I dancing our tangos on that platform late on a cold Thursday night.

We continued dancing, and you went on singing, whispering your words and melodies, what lovely and beautiful songs.

No one rushed past, fascinated by this, many stood around - for a little while at least if not for very long. Their life briefly synchronised with ours. Almost all were quiet near us except that woman who laughed aloud. She wanted to be heard as she said "These two are very cheeky! They must be foreign, no? That's what they do if they love, they dance everywhere, I have seen some before dancing cheek-to-cheek in the park!"

Some Japanese tourists mistook us for buskers , they took photos of us dancing, and were not very sure if they needed to leave us some money or not.

You ignored everything and all. You did not take a blind bit of notice of what went on. You just wanted to dance for your love of tango and mine.

The only cat who loves you back!