Last Tuesday, I went to assist Darren at his Yoga on the Labyrinth class at the Grace Cathedral, like I’ve done once before. Amber Field was the live musician. I attend her Free Your Voice workshop on Thursdays, or weird singing class as I explain it to friends. Continue reading “I’ll Sing Soprano”
We play a game at the pre-festival mixer milonga. In exchange for a hard-to-come-by $5, cash only, exact change, the adorable spacey greeter handed me a card, number 3, blue – whatever. Before each tanda, the host announces a rule. Dance with the same color… Blue dances with yellow… Odd with even… Odd with odd, even with even. This adds to the chaos: the room is crowded, the dancers are still unsettled, still arriving, cabeceos scatter about, rarely reaching their targets. I sit out some tandas, scoping out the scene. I dance some tandas, hit or miss, odd or even. That’s fine, I am still arriving.
I sit out. I see you across the room and recognize you. This is the first time I’ve seen you in my life. Sort of. Continue reading “Hello There”
Here, it’s dry, windy, hilly. The brown earth is dry under the feet. The wind blows dry air through the brown grass on the hills, through the hair, under the clothes, under the skin.
Even when it’s foggy, it’s dry. The wind blows the fog away. Continue reading “I Dream of Water”