It's been a year since I started ballet at age 30 with little more than a handful of bad habits embedded into muscle memory. Here's what a year of ballet has taught me.
In this blog post, I try to answer the question that was posed to me the other day at a ballet studio, "why are you still wearing a mask?" While the question was not asked kindly at the time, I decided to answer that same question here, as if it had been asked in good faith.
This March, I share with my patrons an attempt at a short piece of autofiction (fictionalized autobiography). My goals are to experiment with polyphony and scene transitions between overlapping memories.
This is a promise that nothing that has come before now has ruined my body. This is a promise that when I can't help hating my body: it's okay. And not a sign that I am defective.
Recently, a friend of mine and I were discussing our various health issues, and
commiserating how it's slowly, over the past decade, infected everything in our
lives.
Like a small shadow that hangs