mother-ground
Mother-ground, show me roots, in your bare, dirty, kiss.
—Margo Berdeshevsky, Amber is a Tree's Blood

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Shape Shift

A few days ago I was smaller, I needed to be small enough to disappear, but also to be able to be bigger, stiffening or sticking out, and when I looked in the mirror there was more to it, more of me in it, room for expansion, although it was also something I was responding to, I almost said afraid of, because fear is also useful when it’s convenient to disappear. Shrinking in order to strengthen later on, softening in order to create an opportunity for hardening, because everybody agrees empty seats are useless unless they’re occupied, almost like the mind itself. Of course, I’m still a weight-bearing entity, not perhaps to the same extent, scaling down in order to remain sustainable, although it doesn’t have to be precise like one of those recipes that requires you to weigh everything on a scale or it blows up in your face, and in any case I don’t have a skeleton on the outside that protects me like armor from feeling inside. And I’m not an idealist or Platonist with templates available to me when I need to be creative, and also for purposes of comparison. Even when I’m small I’d like to have room for everything I carry around and need room for, and I’m reserving my rights, because I don’t want to lose them, I want to be able to use them later on.

— peter leight

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