Shoes tell a story. Many stories.
Walking back to my hotel through the nighttime madness and splendor of the city, I felt the hope that dancing always brings, the hope of not just enduring despair but leaping over it.
My wish for all my loyal readers and for the world at large in this fresh new year.
I find my solace in all my familiar places, none more familiar, or more comforting, than the Country-Western songs I listen to on KUNM or KSFR.
There are so many obligations, so many treats and distractions, that I have failed—until now—to change my life to accommodate the books I still want and need to write.
So where will I wear my red velvet boots? Certainly on Saturday night to my beloved dance studio here…
I am now reading, and occasionally wrestling with, what might be call the collision—or the creative cooperation—of two minds, essentially different: the mind of the writer and the mind of the editor.
Doris Duke practiced with Martha Graham’s company in New York and proudly wore their black satin jacket with her name and the company’s name on the back.
I will dance—we will dance—as long as we have feet and legs under us, and that is all that matters.
Today’s Spanish newspaper announces that the bailout from the European Union, a sum of money too large for me to imagine, is going to happen, although a woman I spoke with yesterday says no one knows where the money is really going-probably to the banks, as in the U.S.