when life and love are weighing me down, tango might make me feel worse. but sometimes it doesn’t. sometimes i’m lucky and it’s so good it’s like therapy.
tango was never about love. in tango, you’ll see the one you love dance all night with other women — their eyes closed, enveloped in him. in tango, you’ll close your eyes to try and imagine
she told me that the milonga felt like home and i thought — no way. no milonga could feel like home for me when even home takes effort to feel like home.
we talk about our tango addiction and laugh. as if getting in the car at midnight to drive an hour to a milonga was something normal people did.
the way i got over you was by pretending that you were in antarctica. it wasn’t my idea. a friend, seeing my pain one day over coffee, suggested it - and it was brilliant.
Those chicken feathers blew like pillow feathers in the wind. Somewhere in Middle America — maybe it was Wisconsin, South Dakota, or Minnesota — somewhere in big sky country where the horizon didn’t end
My dreamer tries to forget that he’s being thrown into a category with thieves, rapists, and murderers.
excerpted from a collection of essays I wrote in 2013 during my study abroad semester in Mongolia — exploring notions of mother and motherlands