The language of the given form needs no translation when dancing. But this limping, dogged continuance is harder to explain. The strange grammar of this body’s history belies her best attempts to assimilate into a now where acknowledgement of injury is cast as frivolous grievance, in the land of perpetual make-believe where the static expectation is always a willingness to play, to forge ahead, and plan for the next big thing, as though this could not possibly a cessation of all things for a period of perfect grief.
