Recently I’ve been spending a lot of time looking down. Not because I’m fascinated by my feet or because there’s dog shit on the street to dodge. There is some, and there was this one time I walked unaware into a fresh pile near here, wearing an open-toed plaster cast, which wasn’t pretty. It went down between my toes, which is, probably, a bad enough experience to change my walking habits, but it’s not the reason I’ve been looking down. I’ve been looking down because I’m reappraising what’s there. I’m looking again at blades of grass to see how tall they actually are; I’m looking again at the skins of fallen berries to judge how strong they’d actually be if woven into armour; and I’m sizing up every insect I see from the imagined perspective of being an inch high. I’m thinking about Grounded.
