Florian graduated with his Master's of Fine Arts in dance this week, wearing the traditional dancer's graduation regalia of all-white Miami Vice-style duds and a flowing leafy gown. I'm so proud of him.
With the university out of the way, and with a certain amount of career-centered anxiety, he thought it would be good to start volunteering at the shelter.
That way he can maybe pick up some new career skills
while being around the relaxed four-pawed people who never bother him
about hegemonic logocentricity or the semiotics of gendered discursive
He loves it. Twenty years of
professional ballet training, teaching, and performance, and he is like a
pea in a pod when he leaves his white tights in a drawer and dons his volunteer T-shirt to hose down shelter stalls.
But no matter how he tries, he still can't seem to get the dance out of his system.
Get out your tutus, shelter pups! Stretch those metatarsals! Practice your port de bras! You'll be on pointe in no time.