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And what of following paths? Is this some ancient conservativism? Is this some fear of wilderness, to lay our feet with gentleness in the echo of footsteps? To Furrow and winnow away, with slow grace. To pause at the wearing away of pebbles, to know we are a tide of motion, a long erosion that leaves time for the growth to return.

And what of following paths? This is a deep listening, a reverence for the wisdom of deer on the their migratory trails, a celebration of old fingers on strings, a denial of disposability. A trail is not a highway, a song is not a bloody wagon route.

And what of this notion of art as a mirror? No, it is a crystal that seperates the light spectrum into a rainbow on the wall behind you. It is a spectral projection, full of faces in the fog. It is a creative dissassociation, a room of five doors to stand in the middle of. The Choirs of us. The Biodiversity of Us. The Great Road of our Spine. That we might recognize and honor the many individualities inside us—that there is no such thing as The Body, that we are not a cup to be filled and then overflow but a series of topographies, a world to inhabit and tread the trails of. There are sacred groves, and battle sights, and cemeteries overgrown and crumbling into themselves.

(In english, ‘sum’ means the collection of several parts that create a whole. in latin, ‘sum’ means ‘I am.’ To collect is to be?)

There is an opportunity here, to separate ourselves into many, into a flotilla of crickets, into a migration. That we follow migratory routes inwards, out beyond the frayed open hole of the moon. That we burn our fleets and sleep in their char, that we steep it into teas, thick and ugly-tasting, to better grow our lilacs and their song.

These are not our songs, this is not our world, though we may grow our gardens here, and we must sing along, as strange as the words may feel. Are all forms not monstrous?

I have made my translucent body a map, by holding it up

to the world,

“Let the light in!”

and trace the shadows

onto my thin skin of ice, which covers

the dark water.

I will show you where the holes are,

left behind by midnight-skaters,

fallen through, the cracks

spreading out to the shores.

They are all trapped

below it, inside me,

bobbing silently in flowing clothes and their

hair weaving itself

against the ice,

silky branches

nesting the light

of the moon

which is also

trapped, and safe.

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album artork and website background chelsea granger