Searching for the reasons why I feel my writing is as essential as breathing for me, I looked at what I like in life.
I have a passion for narratives, tales, characters. In books and films, give me stories I can follow, give me well constructed characters. Give me profundity of personality and longer accounts. I love reading and watching TV series and movies; I love talking to my friends and following their lives and my favourite subjects are relationships and discussing the intricacies of how the world works.
Following that logic, I have discovered that I write to be part of the construction of people’s narratives, to influence (even if it happens to be in a small way) their choices and fate.
A fuzziness invades me every time I hear someone laughing at something I wrote, or when they say that something I created influenced their lives in a good way. I write to promote positive change and accept that sometimes it can be seen in a negative light.
I know, from experience, that changing the path of our lives is very difficult and I wish to share my stories to help creating courage in my readers to change when necessary and always move forward in their own lives.
The other day my friend saved my life when she compared my job with a partnered dance.
‘Imagine your boss is your dance partner, and for the time being he is the leader. While the music is playing your best chance of enjoyment is relaxing into that leadership and following.’
It is very easy to follow a great leader.
But if the guy is a bad dancer, you may be in for a challenge.
You may have to step with him rather than with the rhythm of the music, endure his silly pa‐pa‐pa singing completely out of tune with the song; stop when you should move, turn to the other side, be kind to yourself when you make many mistakes and step on other peoples’ feet and, most of all, understand you will have your limits and sometimes you will say ‘NO, I won’t dip as you want because I feel that I am going to fall’.
Sometimes working is exactly like that. The best thing to do is relax as much as you can, follow the leader while the music is on, or until you reach your limit, find something to enjoy about that moment, and try not to get stuck in the sense that you should be doing something else (like sticking to the rhythm of the music).
Thinking about this, I have come to the realisation that this advice is valid for life in general.
You won’t have amazing dance partners every day, actually most of the time you will be thrown into the strange dances of the day to day life, with the girl who is preparing your coffee, the life partner, the children, the employers and the employees, and if you relax into the leadership of fate or reality, you will have a better time than resisting the movements of life.
When you resist the bad dancer, you end up in a war… it’s not worth it.
The deliciously tacky bachata music is one-two-three-fouring louder and louder.
“Te aaaamooo” sings the song.
The first couples are venturing onto the dance floor and I’m on the sideline typing as quickly as I too, can be free to Bachata the night away.
There is some excitement, the feeling that reminds me of a time when I was starting to venture into the Latin dancing world. Finding my dancing feet, my heels’ balance, recovering my life’s passion for dancing. And for the first time learning that dance can encompass sensuality too. Discovering the perfection of moving in unison with a partner…
I hope this is a special night. I’ll will pray to the Goddess of Dance & Fun that a lot of guys ask me to dance, and at least one dance tonight is one of those that go into my own personal hall of fame, those that fill your mind and you keep dancing for years hoping for another one like that.
Thirty‐three, thirty‐four, thirty‐five, thirty‐six… and she fell to the floor.
After thirty‐six fouettes, pain reached a new level, way beyond unbearable. Unbearable she could take any day of the week. To be a ballet dancer was never knowing absence of pain. This time it was different.
She would do whatever it took. Life wasn’t supposed to be like this. Finally she went to the doctor.
‘Couldn’t I just cut it out?’
The doctor looks at her with startled eyes. He seems to need some recovering before coming back to her.
‘You could. I wouldn’t do it though; I don’t think you would like the consequences.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘In fact, you would have to change your whole life to be without your big toe.
It is essential for your balance. Possibly you would no longer be able to continue to be a ballet dancer. Possibly another type of dancer, maybe. I dare to think you cannot do these ballet point shoes without it.
You could be the first in the world to do it, still a huge challenge.
Even walking won’t be the same.
Your identity will be changed, there will be a discovery will have to be made on “who am I without my toe?”’
She thinks furiously.
‘But why!? Why is it doing this to me? I just want to get on with my life!’ She exclaims.
‘I understand your frustration’ The doctor replies.
‘What I’ll ask you instead is what have you been doing to it, to make it so angry at you?’
‘Just dancing!’
‘Just dancing… Really?’
‘Well, the nail fell a few times. But it grew back every time.’
‘How many times, specifically?’
‘Four .’
‘Four. You lost your toe’s nail four times and didn’t think your toe needed some attention, some better care?’
‘No, it’s how toes are.’
‘No, they are not!’
‘I mean, ballet dancers’ toes are.’
‘Are they? All your ballet friends are at the doctor, right now, considering chopping their toes off?’
‘No. Just some of them… some stop dancing too because of the pain and the points.’
‘Ok. So what do the others do differently?’
‘They have such ridiculous patience! They bind their toes in bandages before each class, toe by toe. Then they clean them after each class and re‐do the process. It takes a long time.’
‘Hummm’ is his only comment. She continues:
‘And they’ve bought gel protectors to put inside the shoes, my teacher said it is for the weak, not for real dancers.’
‘Do you think that protecting yourself and your health is a weakness? That your teacher is thinking straight here?’
‘I’m strong! And I don’t have time for this ridiculous caring of small toes!’
‘Or patience?’
‘Or patience. I have more to do.’
‘When you don’t have time for your body, your body obligates you to create it. Your toe has been showing you something is not right. That it needs better care, that something has to change. Right now, it doesn’t feel safe. It feels like you will chop it off at the first chance you’ve got. So it is giving you pain. It is on defensive mode fighting for its own existence.’
‘What do I do?’
‘When you got here you told me you are willing to do whatever it took.’
‘Yes.’
‘Would you, even, be willing to let it go, the idea of cutting the toe off?’
‘Maybe, yes.’
‘Then, I won’t cut it off. I won’t do it because it would be irresponsible of me.
It would be the quickest and apparent easiest solution.
But the consequences could be life shattering. So I ask again: whatever it takes?’
‘Yes.’ She agrees, But she pouts.
‘You will have to be good to yourself. Not only to your toe. Stop the punishment. No dancing for a month, at the very list.’
‘A MONTH???! NO WAY! I have a performance and…’
He cuts her off. ‘A month. Yes. That is what it takes. Forfeit the performance. Then do everything differently. Eat carbs. Do yoga – with no shoes. Meditate. Build patience in every way you can. Challenge yourself in the areas you don’t do it as a dancer: being calm, being happy. Eat something for goodness sake! And then, take care of your toe, every day,
Four times a day. Change the bandages and clean it thoroughly as I’ll show you in a minute.
Soak it every time in hot water, “feed it” the right medicine I’m prescribing.
Also you will have to wake up every night, put an alarm for midnight, and repeat the process.’
‘Waking up? You are kidding me aren’t you?’
‘No, I’m not kidding. This is what it takes, and by the way, this is real sacrifice, pain for the greater good, not inflicting yourself unbearable pain over and over again purposelessly.’
She rests silently. The doctor continues…
‘The nail will fall again and, if you do it right, will regenerate once more. There will be pain, but the pain will diminish every day. By the end of the month you can go slowly back to dancing.’
‘Yey!’ She exclaims in a very small voice with false excitement.
‘I feel I have to tell you one more thing.’
‘What?’
‘You may find out you don’t want to continue being what you were until now.’
I haven’t been dancing much, but I still go out at least once a week, attend some classes, dance at empty beaches or in a candle lighted living room.
What I have been doing more is writing. I have just created my own writer’s website: www.taniacreations.com
Although I have been really busy there are things I cannot miss: Every forró party in Sydney.
I always feel like a child in a candy shop when I see what is happening there. The Sydney Bachata Festival should have some great surprises. I was dancing last weekend and I had a great time dancing zouk.
From some of the dances I had, the only pointer I would give all dancers in any kind of couple dancing is : “it is a couple dance!” That means you have to interact somehow with your partner.
The idea is not to be freakish, staring at each other’s eyes all the time, but you must interract, make eye contact sometimes, be there in spirit, not just in body.
Some tips to enjoy couple dances are:
Be present to the dance, to the moment, enjoy every step.
Respect your partner, dance with them, no-one else on the dance floor.
Don’t dance thinking of whom you will ask to dance next.
Stop analysing the other couples on the dance floor.
Allow some eye contact, every now and then.
If the movement is sexy, flirt lightly, with humour.
Interact with her shines or notice that she is interacting with yours. It will make you both have a lot more fun and will increase your sensuality as a dancer ten times!
If something goes wrong laugh or smile.
Never blame your partner, and take responsibility for your mistakes, always be gracious.
Make sure you never do something over your ability so you don’t hurt yourself or your partner.
Be aware of other people so you don’t bump or step on other couples on the dance floor.
Then, you follow your dreams. I am engaged with mine!
Brazilian Dance styles are invading Australia and the Sydney Salsa Congress 2010 will have a Brazilian Room every night of the event.From 28th to 31st January 2010. Samba, Gafieira, Lambada/Zouk, Forró and Capoeira are spreading and thousands of dance fanatics are getting into their groove. If you have never been to the congress you are missing out on the biggest event of Latin Dance in Australia, one of the top 3 in the world. It is an amazing experience, more than 5,000 dancers in the parties, more than 80 shows and 75 workshops. Three days of dance classes and four nights with shows then parties that will go into the night. The energy is fantastic and there are different options of tickets. You can choose from one night to the full passes for the whole event. I’ll see you there!
Here I turn to the “masters” and to me they are the writers of this genre, this style of writing about day to day, making fun of day to day incongruous occurences, back in Brazil: Mario Prata (my personal master), Luiz Fernando Veríssimo, Arnaldo Jabor, among so many others.
From them I take the strength and the courage to say what I think: in capital letters and a large font.
After all, we would all be doomed without courage. Mario Prata would never have released a book about a pimp and his prostitutes, would he? Anjos de Badaró is a great book!
And the daily columns in many newspapers and media would be doomed to monotony, to what is agreeable to all and absolutely no fun!
I say all this because I was criticised for my last article {link}, because there are parts of Australia I find amusing. I will confess all I wanted to do was to hide and cry.
Instead, here I am again, smiling and all.
To prove my love for my Aussie Land here I will write a few new incomprehensible details.
Good details, but still incomprehensible!
The ridiculously organised crowds: New Years Eve in Sydney is a good example. There is no shoving, no screaming, no mess. The people bring the sleeping kids in arms and prams, and they manage to be 1 millimetre away from you without touching anything. When the inevitable happens everyone always say sorry.
The signs in car parks in shopping centres that advise you to “lock your car” were one of the first things to get my attention when I first arrived here.
It crossed my mind simply: how come you have to remind people to lock their cars in the car park? We would never consider otherwise back home.
The buses’ timetables: I would be dumb stricken to see written that the bus arrives at exactly 10:17. All I could think was: impressive!
I know it is not totally perfect but just by having a time table that states time like 9:23; 10:17; 11:54 is a serious indication of what we can expect: precision. In my homeland I would go to the bus stop and someone would simply say it all in a few words: the bus comes around once per hour. The acceptable margin of error would be one: one hour more or less.
No doubt one of the best nonsenses I have ever experienced was to be given money back from taxes by the Australian government. Only if you come from a land where a lot of corruption happens you would truly appreciate what this means. I would never believe it possible if I hadn’t seen it in my account myself.
I can now criticise Brazil with confidence, because saying you don’t like a part doesn’t mean you do not love the whole. I love the Brazil I carry with me, I’m proud of being Brazilian and having been born there. I love Australia, the new home. I have worked hard to be its proud citizen, even if I do not like Vegemite!
I love this Aussie Land, especially Sydney that is now my home. I’m very glad to be a new Australian Citizen.
Although I have multiplied my Brazilian love to include my new nation there are some things around here that do not make any sense to me…
Foodwise:
Avocados are not for sandwiches. I try to explain to the natives that that is not how you are supposed to eat it, I think when avocados arrived with no instruction manuals someone thought the nice green colour would do well with the bacon in bread. But they are actually much better as Avocado Frappes, Mousses and blended avocados with sugar (not salt!); Mouth watering hum?
No Australians ever agree with me.
Vegemite:
Most South Americans have tried the bread with the chocolate colour paste expecting a sweet sensation on the taste buds. Only to be almost knocked out of the chair by something salty, strange and very strong.
‘What kind of pie is this?’ I ask. ‘Cheese pie.’ Says the nice lady. ‘Ok, may I have one, please?’ One minute later I’m back: ‘Sorry, I believe you sold me the wrong pie. This is meat.’
‘Of course it is, they all are! It’s a cheese meat pie.’
It was the traditional meat pie with a thin layer of cheese between the filling and the pastry.
In Brazil a cheese pie is made of cheese and pastry only, no meat. It’s a cheese-cheese pie.
In transport:
The changes of drivers in the middle of the bus route do not make any sense to me.
The first time I saw it I thought I had gotten the wrong bus and it was the final stop. I stood there on the tip of the bench, all packed, ready to go. But no one else moved, not even to look to the front. So I waited while the driver packed and left with money box and all, and a new driver got comfortable, set up the bus, restarted it and we all got ready to continue the trip. I find it hilarious every time.
Another incongruous thing is the same route number for buses that go to different destinations. I have found myself in North Sydney more than once having taken a “175” that usually goes to the city. I think they like to create crazy people, several times I thought I was losing my mind.
Another absurd is to be able to go to the city using one bus and not being able to catch the same bus to go back to the same stop because the bus will only stop there if someone is there trying to catch it, as some of the express lines do.
Lose-trolleys: the champion non-sense:
Supermarket trolleys: the ones from Australia are the drunkest ones I’ve ever seen. In my motherland the two back wheels of the trolleys are locked, that means you have much more control over the thing. I know there is always someone that will think the trolleys are much better here, but to that I can only answer: “are you serious?!!”
This is what my father heard when he arrived at his new fraternity house, where he was going to live while studying for his bachelor’s degree.
He went to the backyard to find four blokes trying to get the pasta out of the pressure cooker after leaving it cooking for a long time.
To be the eternal hero of the house and to be protected above everyone else, it took him only one phrase:
‘I can cook.’
And he truly does like a master! I love the story of how he was inspired into learning.
It was one of his first fishing trips without his mom, with all the mates camping next to a river. He arrived to find his cousin holding a pot of boiling water, over the camping fire, while his uncle holding the 5k bag of rice pouring the grains directly into the water. Even being only a teen he knew one thing:
‘This is not how my mom cooks rice!’
They made an agreement with the troupe in the tent next door to clean fish and all they needed and be their slaves for the rest of the trip if they cooked for them, and that’s how they ate that week.
That was when he decided to learn how to cook and survive anywhere. During Uni he cooked everything, his only rule was that any strange meat had to be dead and clean!
He never questioned the origin of the meat or the talking about missing cats, chickens and ducks in the neighbourhood.
The downside was sometimes to be awaken at three am by a bunch of hungry guys whose sobriety was highly questionable.
From my dad I learned most of my secrets. My sister and I cook as he does: no recipes, using all the leftovers in the fridge, creating food out of thin air in fifteen minutes.
That is the result of countless Friday nights seated while he pampered us with delicious food as well as from family meetings and weekend’s lunches and dinners.
We learned from him a lot of other things like the power of common sense, how to enjoy life, how to be calm and rational in difficult situations.
He passed to us the best Guardian Angels on Earth and Heaven. Dad is the kind that gets his Angel to send a mechanic, in the middle of nowhere when the car breaks down.
I also learnt with him how to live happily every day. What I didn’t really learn was a secret he keeps from his time at the Uni. Once he started telling me some story but finished mid sentence:
‘Youngsters are naughty, some of the things that I’ve done…’
I’ve been trying to get the full story out of him for years but all I get is him to blush, start laughing and playing “mute”. He doesn’t say a word. I think I will never get this secret out of him!
taniacreations.com 