Camille Cusumano

Walking the boards this morning, as I’ve done every morning during my NJ stay, between 7 a.m. and 10 a.m. Soaking up the bennies—beneficial rays. It’s my morning kinhin, away from the zendo, my tango away from the milonga. Some six miles and many smiles. Nearly a month, I’ve relished the heat and not missed the cold San Francisco summer. I stay in my sister Terry’s big home in Belmar, two blocks from the Atlantic and its golden sands. The Jersey Shore dominates the map of my memory. It was a bright spot among many challenges in my youth. I’m lamenting that I have only two more days to walk this way.

But if Zen practice has taught me nothing else, it has taught me aeger aegis. Do what I am doing. My favorite bench on the boardwalk simply says it: Carpe Diem.

For the life of me, I can’t fathom why many runners and walkers on the boards would plug their ears and deprive themselves, their senses. I know they are piping huge concert-hall music into their ear drums through thin wires, while I hear only the tinny sound waves, my collateral reward or punishment. But they are blocking out potentially transformative moments. I extrapolate this from a Paul Haller lecture (below).

There is so much to see, smell, feel, hear, and taste along the sea. The waves hitting shore—if you listen raptly you learn to mark the sound of a certain crash that announces the wind is changing course; jibs and masts of beached catamarans playing a “steel band” tune; dune grasses rippling in the soft breeze; gulls, ospreys, and swallows whipping the salty air overhead. Mostly, I love the early light, its glittery dance on the surf or the way sun flows over the old wooden mansions with porches and gazebos. I am born anew each morn thru all of this.

The Jersey Shore smell is a unique mix of salt air, tar, taffy, and brine, often imitated, never equaled. Its singularity goes with the Jersey(Joizy) voice. Snippets harangue me as I walk. I collect them. Three elderly women flirt with a beach entrance guard: “We want your job.” He smiles, “For all the money in the United States.” A woman sings aloud, I think about you day and night, it’s only right to think about the one you love and hold her tight, so happy together. That Turtle song sticks with me through the next hour and it is a fine enough sound track. Imagine me and you, I do . . . To the cell blabbers, I sing another’60s tune, Everybody’s talkin at me, I can’t hear a word they’re saying. . .

The Jersey voice has an unmodulated volume and an immediacy that I have envied all my life (despite being born here). The words are fired (like an automatic weapon) before the brain registers. “Shoot from the hip” was coined, no doubt, in the Garden State. Why it is the reverse for me—my brain’s filter does double duty—is another chapter, but it is why I became a writer. My sturdy filter makes spoken conversation with dyed-in-the-wool Jerseyans one-sided. Which I don’t mind. I am a good listener and eavesdropper. Collector.

One bikini-clad, middle-aged, fiery-redhead woman, in the span of 45 seconds lets me and anyone within 50 feet know her marital strain. “I’m burning (behrning) up—his mothuh nevuh does a damn thing for our kids. And he has the nerve (nehve) to criticize my mothuh.” She repeats this several times, various ways, to a man in a pickup whose voice you can’t hear. I have deleted her expletives. I feel for her, I do.

An obese young woman smiles and greets me. We chat. “I lost 20 pounds,” she tells me proudly. “I’m down to 195.” I slow down to praise her gait and tell her she has a nice waistline, keep up the good work. She compliments me back. Yoga, I tell her. “Oh, I did a yoga class, and I was sweating to death.” Good, I say, means you were working, pushing your limit. I step up my pace, leaving her with a word of encouragement. I’ve been appalled by the prevalence of obesity. It’s a truism that carries its weight (sorry): away from cities, the problem is epidemic in America. But I feel assured this young woman is on the right track.

The red-headed woman, the obesity epidemic provoke meditations on suffering and how lucky I am feeling of late. Suffering in its myriad forms eludes me, for now. Around the Zen Center, one hears repeatedly the axiom that pain is inevitable, suffering is extra. But as a writer, I would add, that suffering is also a diamond in the rough. For now, I am riding calm surf and enjoying glorious swells . . . collecting that of others.

Contemplating that nothing lasts, I am reminded of the most riveting lecture I’ve heard in past  years during the Saturday morn programs at ZC. It was given by Paul Haller and it resonated so much I linked to it at my Web site in conjunction with a post about my Four Tango Precepts.  Two years later, I can still get goose bumps and stirred so deeply listening to Paul talk about Divine Discontent (January 15, 2009, available as podcast).

The highlights: Paul reads two poems, one by Rilke and one by Rumi’s father. He explains how these poems capture our pandemic Divine Discontent, but Paul says maybe “mundane discontent” is more like it. “There is more to living than just this,” we feel. Something sours (our husband says something mean about our mother). On a restless journey, aversions and anxieties guide us. Life is not full. The adverts on the billboards and web pages don’t fill us. There has got to be more than “to be simply contained.”

Per Rilke’s poem, we walk toward a church in the east—are drawn to Eastern thought. “Something in us,” says Paul, “is asking us to not settle in the mundane, to not get habituated, to not go to sleep . . .[to not plug our ears?]  To be guided by the nobility of human existence. To discover how to taste it, see it, and how to be inspired by the seeing and how to be transformed in the tasting.”

When we say Taking refuge in Buddhism, this is what we’re talking about, says Paul.

After Paul’s lecture, I decided that the theme of Divine Discontent would inform all of my fiction. It is a tough theme to sell in a climate of reality TV and tabloid/sensational journalism. But I’m in no hurry. Not anymore. Two momentous times in my life changed my speed: My first wallop, major outbreak of Divine Discontent, struck at age 19, when I couldn’t help but let go of God, my Catholic God. God had been there for me, a relentless ocean, sure as the waves lapping my shore, at times raging, at times calm and halcyon. But that sea dried up overnight it seemed. I was lost in an arid seabed. Parched. The thing I missed most was the comforting, soothing sound of Something Big there, and there, and there. Reliably. Of necessity, something slow and steady began to build. The sea rolled back in and the waves have had another tune ever since. There is something big there and there and there. Too big for us to know it fully.

Even before I became a regular at Zen Center, I understood that God, the Bible, and all holy books, like Greek myth, were masterful creations in our own image. This was an empowering realization. On the one hand, it meant I was responsible—no God to blame or pray to—for mostly all that happened to me. On the other hand, it meant I was responsible, too. Which, best of all, meant creative license, a writer’s major currency, to contribute well and right to our universal story. After all, Divine Inspiration is merely, the brilliant child of Divine Discontent.

I think how Zen Center, its greater sangha, is rightly preoccupied with global suffering. The list includes violent wars, bombs, starvation, poverty, torture, human rights violations, natural disaster victims, disparity between haves and have-nots, environmental “terrorism,” and the list goes on. Although we are affected by these things, the overwhelming majority of us will mainly suffer throughout our lives from Divine Discontent, a suffering purely of our own making. I think DD is the major cause of plugged ears, numbed senses, even our obesity epidemic.

I took the train from Belmar, NJ to NY Penn Station yesterday. Walked to W. 43rd & 12th Ave to Pier 84 and found this Tango Moon Dance. The orchestra, Octavio Brunetti’s, was wonderful. The dancing was not on a par with that of San Francisco—or even New Orleans—whence I just came. But dancing on the Hudson and the al fresco venue made up for that. That’s my good friend, Marcela Caserio, in shades. She is a chapter called “Sundays in San Telmo” in my book, Tango, an Argentine Love Story.  And the other friend is Julia from the Queens. She’s in that chapter, too. Under the cover of night, I danced with Julia’s friend, Michael, formerly of Staten Island, now from Central Park West.

POST IS IN PROGRESS . . . COME BACK. . . SOON. . .

This hot, hot summer, being back in New Jersey, the soil of my birth and early breeding, evokes memories of how I loved to read in this season, away from the pressures of other school subjects. I wish I could peel off a long list of books, like in the old days. But I’m only halfway through one book, Phineas Finn, by Anthony Trollope. I’m a slow food eater and a slow reader. If I love a passage, I reread it over and over. I sometimes put the book down and stare into space as I digest the scene I just read.  Trollope is a chatty author by our contemporary standards. The book—tome would not be an exaggeration—is 651 pages (plus another hundred or so of notes and an introduction I will read when I’m done with the novel). “Of all novelists in any country, Trollope best understands the role of money,” wrote W.H. Auden. I think Auden should have read Manon Lescaut by Antoine Francois Prévost, one of my long, hot summer reads and re-reads. Although, I might agree with Auden that, “Compared with Trollope even Balzac is a romantic.” I’ll withhold judgment until I’m done with Phineas, a young Irish lad too pure for the politics of British parliament with which he has become entangled. To be sure, there is romance, unrequited love, star-crossed love . . . intrigue of that sort, as well as lots about money and its meanness and imagined power. I love that in the 1860s, politics was a nasty then as today—oh, I’m sure if they had texting, sexual shenanigans would have grabbed media headlines. There is even an opportunistic, manipulative journalist, Quintus Slide in the book.

I must say, I’m catapulted out of the story with some of Trollope’s authorial intrusions, for example, Chapter 29 opens thus: “And now will the muses assist me while I sing an altogether new song . . . The poor fictionist very frequently finds himself to have been wrong in general, and is told so roughly by the critics, and tenderly by the friends of his bosom.”

How many of us novelists would love to intrude in our own works with such caveat emptors, even knowing full well our editors’ red ink will spill with a vengeance and she will box our ears?  FYI, Trollope uses expressions like “down at the mouth” and the word tweet as a verb – but I have not yet found what the proper synonym would be today.

My young cousin Alé Coniglio wrote this as a report for her English professor in San Giovanni, Sicily. I’m so honored:

My special American cousin

1. Camille’s first visit to Sicily.
2. Camille’s novels.
3. Camille’s passion.
4. A very big meeting.

1.Camille is my special American cousin. She lives in San Francisco with her very big family in fact she has got 4 brothers and 5 sisters. She is fifty years old and she was born in America like all the members of her family and her father and mother too.
Her grandfather was my great grandmother’s brother but one day they had to separate because Uncle Vincent decided to emigrate to America. About twenty years ago Camille came for the first time to Sicily to meet her relatives. She stayed here about two months and visited all the most beautiful places in our wonderful island. And she fell in love with Sicilian people, landscape and food.
2.Camille is a writer. She has written ten books and hundreds of articles for a lot of newspapers. Some of the titles of her books are: “Greece, A Love Story”, “Mexico, A Love Story”, “Italy, A Love Story”, “America Loves Salads” and “The Last Cannoli”.
3.One of her passions is Argentina Tango, in fact she has recently moved to Argentina to learn this discipline. Camille then has decided to tell her experience in Argentina in a book that has been very successful. She also likes travelling meeting people tasting local food in every foreign country she visits. She enjoys writing down all her emotions and feelings of her numerous and different experiences. She also likes to collect all the original and particular recipes and then she has them published in the magazine she writes for to let the readers try the food she liked.
4.I don’t remember when she came for the first time to Sicily because I was too young.
Instead I remember the meeting we had in 2006 when about 36 cousins left America to came and meet their Sicilian cousins. It was something very special and particular. They stayed in a hotel near Agrigento and come here by bus. We were all very happy because we didn’t know all of them. They didn’t understand Italian but they could understand a little bit of our dialect.
On that occasion they met cousins living in the two villages, San Giovanni Gemini and Cammarata, where then grandparents were born. Thirty-six of them ranging in age from eight months to sixty-one went up and down narrow, winding streets, visited the old Norman Church, the castle ruins, the town hall where they met the mayor. That evening we sat down together to have dinner together. We also had commemorative T-shirts made for every one of us. They featured an insignia with our names and the date with the bright red and gold, Trinacria, the ancient three-legged symbol of the tri-cornered island.

My special American cousin

1. Camille’s first visit to Sicily.
2. Camille’s novels.
3. Camille’s passion.
4. A very big meeting.

1.Camille is my special American cousin. She lives in San Francisco with her very big family in fact she has got 4 brothers and 5 sisters. She is fifty years old and she was born in America like all the members of her family and her father and mother too.
Her grandfather was my great grandmother’s brother but one day they had to separate because Uncle Vincent decided to emigrate to America. About twenty years ago Camille came for the first time to Sicily to meet her relatives. She stayed here about two months and visited all the most beautiful places in our wonderful island. And she fell in love with Sicilian people, landscape and food.
2.Camille is a writer. She has written ten books and hundreds of articles for a lot of newspapers. Some of the titles of her books are: “Greece, A Love Story”, “Mexico, A Love Story”, “Italy, A Love Story”, “America Loves Salads” and “The Last Cannoli”.
3.One of her passions is Argentina Tango, in fact she has recently moved to Argentina to learn this discipline. Camille then has decided to tell her experience in Argentina in a book that has been very successful. She also likes travelling meeting people tasting local food in every foreign country she visits. She enjoys writing down all her emotions and feelings of her numerous and different experiences. She also likes to collect all the original and particular recipes and then she has them published in the magazine she writes for to let the readers try the food she liked.
4.I don’t remember when she came for the first time to Sicily because I was too young.
Instead I remember the meeting we had in 2006 when about 36 cousins left America to came and meet their Sicilian cousins. It was something very special and particular. They stayed in a hotel near Agrigento and come here by bus. We were all very happy because we didn’t know all of them. They didn’t understand Italian but they could understand a little bit of our dialect.
On that occasion they met cousins living in the two villages, San Giovanni Gemini and Cammarata, where then grandparents were born. Thirty-six of them ranging in age from eight months to sixty-one went up and down narrow, winding streets, visited the old Norman Church, the castle ruins, the town hall where they met the mayor. That evening we sat down together to have dinner together. We also had commemorative T-shirts made for every one of us. They featured an insignia with our names and the date with the bright red and gold, Trinacria, the ancient three-legged symbol of the tri-cornered island.

Yoga can be done anywhere, even at the Jersey Shore. The sand there is the perfect graininess for throbbing, over-danced feet. In this short video, you will recognize three basic yoga poses. The first pose is ado mukha svasana or downward facing dog. The second one is utkatasana or awkward chair pose. The third is a full lotus or padmasana. You can and should modify each of these three poses to your own level and ability. The point is to focus yoga’s nourishing and revitalizing energy on your poor tired feet. You can see how I do that. Don’t baby your feet, yoga them. I do these same poses on a mat at home, too, ah, but the sand is added inducement. A few notes for each pose:

• Downward facing dog— normally you drop your heels, but to work my cramped and tense metatarsals (or the balls of my feet) I also raise my toes, then slowly raise and lower my heels. The backs of the legs – calves and hams – get a good workout. Note that I make like a “fist” with my toes and stand on the tops of my feet. It releases the ankle — do it carefully. Even though you are pumping your feet in this normally still pose, you keep the form—tail bone (colita) reaching for the sky, floating ribs fall forward, head down and neck relaxed; spine is lengthened as you stretch through the roots of every finger. Spread the should blades, don’t bunch them. Oh, don’t forget to breathe, slow, deep, in and out. Inhale on the preparation, exhale on the execution.

• Awkward chair pose—great name for this. Notice how the pose has you standing in imaginary 10-centimeter spike heels! If you’ve ever taken a Bikram yoga class, you do this pose with no prop or support – excellent. Sometimes at home, I use a cushy sofa or side of a bed to lean my knees into. If you need further modification, sit in an actual chair and work you feet the same way. Just as downward dog worked the backs of your legs, the chair pose is also working the fronts—shins, quads, knee joints, even the big ball and socket joint known as a hip. As I indicate with my hands in the video, all poses emanate from the core muscles in the trunk. Breathe.

• Lotus – OK, unless you’ve trained for this full pose, do a modified version, sitting cross-legged with the soles of your feet facing up. It’s just as good. I give each toe a twist and smush and squeeze. Often the joints all crack. Ahhh. Take your thumbs and run them up and down the arch. Feel the chi getting unblocked.

The body is like a bag of bones that are constantly shifting. We need to put the contents back in its natural order – daily. Some people resort to orthotics, but those are simply a static repositioning of the way your foot lands. Yoga doesn’t just rid your feet of tension and toxins, it also massages all of you deeply, including all internal organs, deep tissue, ligaments—that mysterious all-important psoas muscle. It’s the best health insurance policy—the only one I own.

Namaste.

Patty Hennessy, Certified Health Counselor, gave her first chat to a very attentive crowd in the popular Summer Porch Series. The series takes place every Wednesday night through the summer at 7:00 pm in Belmar, New Jersey. [contact info: patty@pattyhennessy.com Or (917) 232-9652]

For the first chat Patty fancifully focused on the natural “green theme.”

It’s hard to think of a green food in nature that is bad for you—well, ok poison hemlock and other such herbs, maybe. But we all got her drift and all the attendees were pleased with the material and samples. Everyone had a chance to ask their burning questions. You’ll have to come with yours next time.

Patty’s approach to nutrition and “diet” (a word she uses qualitatively) is so inspiring and individual. She said for this first chat she did not want to take anything away from us, but rather to add something to our diet.

The first thing she added to us was the most unbelievably delicious drink. I’ll call the Green Goddess. Could you believe that a cocktail of fresh kale, celery, carrot, green apple, and lemon juice could taste so magnificent? One man said the color was hard for him. I said the color pleased my eye but I was afraid I wouldn’t like it. I recalled my taste of wheat grass with some trepidation. This beverage was like a margarita minus the alcohol crossed with a scintillating sparkling asti spumante. I am not kidding. I asked Patty the secret and she said it was the lemon juice. We shall see when I make it.

Oh, but the best part was how this drink affects us down to the cellular level. I felt an instant sense of gratification – starting with the pleasure to my tongue and palate. And, then even though it was evening, my usual energy slump time, I experienced a huge burst of energy. I just had to dancing afterward and walked and walked. Patty said it was the synergistic goodness of the beverage. There was a full moon, too, maybe that helped. I didn’t ask Patty, but she might have an idea on that—since her approach is wholistic (body, mind, soul, spirit).

Patty is so full of info on nutrition and a myth buster. She doesn’t just advocate good green foods. Cocoa and wine have their place. So does coconut butter. Oh, so much good food, so little time.! We discussed many things, how to read labels – how they can trick you. Patty said her approach to food is one of enjoyment and helping people to transform themselves “down to the cellular level.” She is going to talk about that more next time.

She also does private consultation for anyone who needs that extra special guidance. She is upbeat and very positive.

Her contact info: patty@pattyhennessy.com Or (917) 232-9652

“Do you eat with your feet?” I asked my dance partner, a gentleman with whom I was foxtrotting, some years ago. I was in Las Vegas on assignment for VIA magazine, researching a short piece about the karaoke bars there. This one evening, I had found my way to a beautiful dance floor at one of the big old hotels on the Strip that featured a live big band. I calculated my partner to be about 90 because he had just pulled out a card that identified him as an Arthur Murray instructor in 1954. Still, he had an admirable frame and was pretty decent and steady. But as we danced to some great Glen Miller number, he barked instructions into my ear. It was annoying, distracting, and unnecessary.

I have not thought of this aged gent until last night here in Belmar, NJ. For fun I decided to drop in at one of the boardwalk pavilions where the sign said salsa and tango classes, $8. It turned out to be only salsa. I’m rusty at salsa, but can follow a good, clear lead. The class was very basic. But the setting was stupendous: big windows gave onto the broad sandy beach and the crashing waves. Sun lotioned skin of bronzed board walkers perfumed the air.  The magical smell of Jersey Shore food—clams, crabs, and other fruits of the sea—and the nearly full moon on the backs of every wave were part of the experience.

The teacher, whom I’ll call Farley, since I currently don’t know any Farleys, talked a lot and was difficult to understand (and I do speak Jersey-ese). He seemed compelled to recite his resume of dance over and over, how great he was, how bad most teachers were, ad nauseum. However, when it was my turn to dance with him, he led me well in the salsa basic—one, two, three, hold (or quick, quick, slow, if you prefer). He even complimented me. I said thank you.

All would have been fine and I might have returned next week. However, when the class ended, I asked him if he would dance one tango with me. He said yes. I asked, “Close embrace?” He replied, “No!” with such vehemence, I quickly explained, “Open embrace, or whatever you prefer is fine. I dance all styles of tango.” I had even brought a copy of my book to give him at the end of the class.

We never got there and we never danced tango.

We were doing one more salsa, and he found that indeed I could follow cross body leads and some other turns and more advanced material. Then, I missed one of his leads (possibly it was unclear, no matter). Well, that led to the next thirty minutes of his pontificating to me and the four other dancers who remained. More of his resume, how he danced in Germany where the best swing dancers are because of World War II, how I was a skilled dancer but I had “gaps,” subtext being: which he could probably fix at his school for $100/hour.

I changed my shoes and left while he was trying to teach the others about axis, or posture, but didn’t know those were the terms for it—he was off on some tangential golf metaphor that made no sense. I politely thanked Farley for the class.

So I thought of the gent in Las Vegas. When I asked if he eats with his feet, he said “No, why do you ask?”

“Because you dance with your mouth.” OK, I was channeling my inner smart-ass Jersey girl. Most of the time I tawk nice.

I only highlight last night’s teacher because, while he is an archetype I have met before, he is rare. I have been blessed with so many good teachers. The first mark of a good teacher? She/he doesn’t harangue you during your class time with her/his resume. The mark of a great teacher? True humility.

Farley, a self-described “dance freak,” may well know a lot about many dances. But he is that “expert” who is actually narrowed by his own “knowledge,” not broadened. He is stuck, rigid, and misses the real opportunity to just shut up and dance. Que lastima.

Appeared in  Yoga Journal, March 09

My yoga practice is old. Which maybe is why I feel young—well, much younger than 57. My practice goes back to a book by Yogi Vithaldas, which fell into my hands from a remainder pile in San Francisco more than 30 years ago. As they say, when the student is ready, a teacher appears.

I always trusted in my own divinity, probably the legacy of my Catholic upbringing. But yoga was my bridge from the monotheistic split of body and soul to the experience of body and soul as one. Yoga helped me locate the divine in my own body, in a place beyond word or thought. Over the years, under the guidance of many teachers, I gradually awakened to my one little body as being the universe with all its finite and infinite boundaries. To use a Zen metaphor, I was like the tiny dewdrop that reflects the entire moon.

My yoga and meditation practices prepared me in a way that no other disciplines could have for a passion for Argentine tango, which I discovered much later in life under similarly fortuitous circumstances. My well-oiled joints, limber spine, and oft-massaged internal organs were solid physical grounding for a dance that I have come to consider part of my yoga practice. And yoga’s spiritual centering prepared me for tango’s demand for total presence and surrender of ego.

Tango was born among nineteenth-century immigrants of a desire for intimacy, or “connection” with other, the way yoga was born of an urge to connect with the energy of the cosmos. In tango, the leader and follower must be fully present, surrender their egos, and not think. They move heart to heart in linear or circular motion, sharing a fluid balance that emanates from the spine or axis. Etiquette dictates that we not talk while dancing tango: “Connection,” in the form of this non-verbal dialogue, is the ultimate measure of a tanguero’s mastery. When I lean torso to torso with my partner and we step in sync to the music, I leave artificial time behind. My breath is deep, boundless, and effortless; my heart chakra blossoms like a thousand-petal lotus. We connect, human props for each other, in a rapturous yogic flow.

In Buenos Aires I assisted a teacher who admonished his students, “Not two, one!” His command for dancers to let go of the idea of a separate self echoed Zen teacher Suzuki Roshi, whose instruction, “Not two, not one” was similarly intended to teach us to not count the world inside and outside ourselves as separate phenomenon; in fact, not to count at all.

If it was on the mat that I first learned these lessons, experiencing this union on the dance floor has taught me to be open to finding the divine everywhere. People think I’ve got something special, but I tell them that everybody’s got tango. Tango is simply a metaphor for anything, whether it’s as humble as peeling potatoes or as lofty as walking tightropes, that takes you deep into the yogic union. It’s the relationship you have with whatever consumes you, takes you out of this world to an inexplicable place of connection and then delivers you back, renewed. In these moments, I think you discover the true meaning of yoga.

FREE TANGO CLASS AND PRACTICA

This may be the best tango deal in town. Maestro Ivan Shvarts trained in Buenos Aires with several excellent tango teachers. I am assisting him and we’re having a ball. Although his class is promoted as tango for seniors, the classes have great talent in ages ranging from 30s to early 90s. You will never guess who’s over 80. Ivan brings in fantastic talent almost every week. Occasionally, we have a beautiful Argentine singer Roberto Traina, 80, sing original tangos to us each week after class. Kate Bernier accompanies him on piano.

WATCH A CLASS HERE!

AND HERE – TOM & CAMILLE!

Come join us – drop in – no need to have danced before. We’ll have you up and moving in one class.

“Tango Curiosity, developed by Ivan Shvarts, is the first program of its kind specializing in tango for Bay Area Seniors. Dedicated to teaching authentic Argentine tango for all skill levels and ages, Tango Curiosity currently offers classes in San Francisco, Emeryville and Redwood City.”

4321 Salem St, Emeryville, CA 94608, – Every Friday
1:00 – 2:15   Class all Levels and ages
2:15 – 3:30   Practica, No partners needed

home made lunch $3 at 12:00 for members, membership is Free

Emeryville Senior Center
4321 Salem St.
Between San Pablo & Adeline
of 43 rd. St.
Emeryville, CA

Art deco veterans building,
original hardwood floor 3000sq.f
tangocuriosity@gmail.com
www.tangocuriosity.org

I am helping teach at Christy Cote’s tango classes every Tuesday, beginners and intermediates, followed by a practica, 9 to 11pm or so.

The floor is smooth and spacious. Drop by.

Tuesdays:

At the old Metronome on 17th St. near DeHaro

7pm to 8pm – Beginners

8pm to 9pm – Intermediate

9pm til midnight – practica (only $5 for the practica)

Visit www.christycote.com or www.tangomango.org for more prices, details

Buy signed copies of Tango, an Argentina Love Story or The Last Cannoli.

$15 per book, shipping and handling included. Please email your mailing address to me after you have paid: ocaramia@me.com. Allow seven to ten days for delivery. Special, overnight delivery is available upon request, for added cost. Email your request: ocaramia@me.com.

You may also pay by check. Mail to: Camille Cusumano, P.O. Box 475099, San Francisco, CA 94147. Be sure to include your mailing address, specify how many copies of each book, and to whom you wish the books dedicated.

number of copies

one copy $15.00 two copies $30.00 three copies $45.00 four copies $60.00

At a cocktail reception and  award ceremony with Mike Rayburn entertaining.

Wells Fargo recognized me and three other Californians for doing something different and impressive—for following our passions—after age 50.

Who says quitting your day job is not advisable? I did so in 2005 when I fell head over stiletto heels in love with tango and went to live in Buenos Aires. Now I’m being rewarded by WF with a sum of cash and a party for 100 of my friends and family.

We are called Second-Half Champions.

The event took place on Tuesday, March 22, 2011 in Walnut Creek, CA at:

Lesher Center for the Arts
1601 Civic Drive
Walnut Creek, CA 94596

Whether you are just getting started and want to take the plunge (into the inkwell) or need encouragement and confidence, I offer workshops to suit your and your writing group’s needs. Here is a list of several workshops I teach. Contact me for details and rates – ocaramia@earthlink.net or ocaramia@mac.com:

WHAT PARTICIPANTS SAY

1. A Thousand and One Words - Find your Writing Setpoint – Just as with body weight, we all have a writing setpoint—a natural length that suits our message and determines our ideal genre. 1,000 words is the mean, from which you assess your need to unpack and flesh out or shrink wrap and tighten. It is the naturally manageable increment to bite off and chew, whether you’re writing a short story/feature or a saga. We’ll meet four goals in this class: embracing your personal setpoint; understanding when to unpack or shrink; preserving the narrative arc, no matter what length; and writing with full confidence. All levels writers welcome.

2. Travel Memoir Writing - With the travel-writing market evolved beyond the go-here/see-this approach, personal experience and artful story in travel is more and more in demand. As a magazine editor, I successfully moved from the traditional how-to travel writing to publishing my personal experience travel stories in books and as essays in publications. I’ll help participants understand how they can do this, too. Even if you are still writing for the traditional travel outlets you can infuse your story with sparkle – snap, crackle, and pop. We’ll look at how you can satisfy the reader’s needs and still craft a story with your personal style.  All levels welcome.

3. Tap into your Autonomic Writing System - Much can be said about the Writing Down the Bones and Wild Mind approach to unlocking the writer within. Now is the time to circle back to the discipline and the practice of craft—without killing the golden goose. This class is designed to tap into the autonomic system of writing—where words begin to flow and to arrive on schedule, like breath. All the while, we consider craft. The goal of this workshop is to have participants leave inspired, enthused, excited, perturbed, riled up, having tapped into their own autonomic writing system; and ready to face the empty white page, armed with their own art and skill. All levels.

4. Writing about & from loss - Many of my students found me through my memoir, TANGO, which is my writing about my own loss (and finds) through tango and Zen practice. I’ve worked with aspiring writers who were ready to face the blank page as a place of refuge after tremendous losses and grieving. When we sit down to write about our lives, pain, grief as well as bliss and contentment rise to the surface. Putting down the words gives a sense of meaning to life in dark times.