tango is good, but i need cash

oh my god, Yoyo Ma's version of Astor Piazzola's Milonga del Angel. soft, sensual and sultry. imagine seduction. gossamer curtains billowing. imagine making love. the clouds parting for the moon. imagine heartbreaking parting. waves swelling and crashing against the shore.

i think it means words or utterances, milonga. milonga actually came before the tango, but somewhere along the way the two became almost interchangeable, and then some tango music had titles like Milonga del something something, and some milonga had titles like Tango del something something, too. but it's all tango to me.

i remember the first time i saw a live tango performance, both dance and orchestra, by argentina's national dance theatre company. (they were like the bayaninan dance troupe in argentina, pero all of them looked and acted like they weren't real people, like they were forever being filmed for some old black and white movie, or at least that's how they seemed to me anyway). this was in some dance fest in spain. and i know we were supposed to act like professional dancers, on a par with all the other groups, but i couldn't help it, i became a fan. what was i to do? i was sixteen - young and innocent and burgeoining with awe at every newfound knowledge of the world (excuse me, it's the music making me write in such a silly, romantic way). i remember standing at the side entrance, watching the tango in secret, instead of preparing for our own number. and i remember not fully understanding the performance, but finding myself crying and crying anyway. i had to pretend i had a tummy ache from all the gazpacho, to explain the crying. i couldn't find it in myself to put on a show, after watching such a marvelous one. for nights i fancied myself in love, with whom or what, it didn't matter. i was in love, and i knew it. and i finally understood the word orgasm after watching another tango performance. and i guess that was the beginning of the end of my dancing days. i didn't have enough discipline, and pride in my own. i wasn't patriotic, i was told. i did not belong to the stage. i became a spectator.

it's interesting how some of the most important memories or bits of personal knowledge never find their way into our writing. for some reason, i have always jealously guarded my tango memories against the emerging vulture-fictionist in me, sucking me of everything i hold dear, and turning them into bland, tepid stories. or maybe i'm making this all up. i really don't know or have anything. maybe i am the story. and i have no memory.

help, i need a job.