Dear Morph and Slither
I haven’t written to you before because I’m not sure where you live now, or who you are. You didn’t keep in touch! You morph, slither & slide so much that I struggle to get any firm grip on you. And I don’t like to think about you too much, knowing there is relationship work to be done so that the gold can be picked out of the charred embers of loss, grief and anger, but I lack hope and faith for that journey. Are there dressings, covers/clothes which look easily worn from the outside, but scratch and chafe on the inside, or sometimes slip off because not fastened or secured, leaving me suddenly exposed, and in fear of shame? (Shame from lack of identity, or shifting role playing instead of immanent essence. Is identity a fig leaf? And do I care for such niceties or neatness?)
Garments that were originally borrowed become my own with time: specially my education, well-known alchemist of identities, and my politics, which flowed from your original community and charity, but again morphed from conservative origins to turn and challenge you. Same with female power, which was covert and became overt. My daughter, much more than my sons, wants to look back towards you and make you into a living presence, not a fossil. And what I don’t know is – as we parted, what happens if we come full circle so that I meet you once removed – packaged? re-sold as a bit of exotic colour? or is there a way to properly meet and connect again? Does it matter, how and why? In the mingling of ‘homelands’, are distinct colours preserved, or muddied like plasticine?
I’m not coming ‘home’ because I moved out or was moved out, and can’t do a simple reverse. I re-wove my tent and set it up elsewhere.
But I do hope to meet, visit, know you better, in time.