The Promise of Tango
During the days spent in the southern Spanish lands my appetite was whet.. for dancing .. entwined but distant.. passion seeping through the seems of carefully crafted poses.. the tension of beautiful strangers, the fantasy of intimacy.
Tango, Flamenco, red and black, and fire and earth. I long for it already and still.
Watch Vengo and hear the gitana Caita's voice cry out. Yasmin Levy and Sheikh Ahmad Al-Tuni, and the haunting wind instruments. Dancing on pick up trucks and arabic carpets under olive trees and next to the uninhabited lakes we drove around. All songs from the soul, about homeland, the heart, sadness, longing, a place of belonging. I remember the straight faces at the open air concert at the fort in Cádiz, deceiving me into believing that the people around me weren't touched by the music. I closed my eyes and felt engulfed by the rhythmic clapping pulsating through me, I was surrounded by it, I heard nothing else. Not even the music, only the passion expressed though intricate and call-and-answer clapping. I was profoundly touched. I listen to the Bularías from Jerez, and I am not afraid of feeling; I long for it.

Today I re-discovered something that jilted me out of my haze, something that triggered my heartstrings and made me want to discover music, made me want to make and share music, made me want to rediscover the ways in which music inspires me and shapes me.
Her name is Hindi Zahra, and when I hear her, I want to be her.
Childish I know. But I want to never lose childish innocence, I hope to regain more of it as days and weeks pass, and to allow it to blossom. Aspiring to be someone I admire, I pray will keep me rooted and help me grow. Roots Tango. aahh.