When I put on the orange hat to leave my cabin in the woods, I submit to the hunter. It is his forest right now, and it’d be in vain to protest. So I put on that hat and I stay alive. When I’m driving and I hit an opossum at full speed mangling its body in my wheel wells and smearing blood across the Honda Civic, I have stooped to the level of the hunter. I’ve killed and the opossum feels the pain. I stoop to his level when he demands, and he stoops to mine. Predator and prey. Even if aligned, the imbalance persists.
A level is had by everyone and a level is almost always chosen while under duress. A level is an illusion in all its forms and we can form the illusions we please. I’m always stretching my legs to span multiple stairs and missing the needed step entirely. Look for me sliding down a rock onto my ass. Where is the next level, and is it up or down? How many times have you fallen this year? How many were real?
Rise to the level is a much nicer phrase, but the value judgement a rise implies is agonizing. To rise, one is beneath then saved. One shrinks because one necessitated gain. I am not shrunken, yet I seek a rise. Do I want him to crawl across the floor, naked, to the bed? Licking my feet to make me feel good. How far up do I deserve to go? How far up does he lick? I decide.
I wonder if I’ll meet my moment. Time reveals. For now, I stoop. I beg. I ask the world to put me somewhere such that I may assess my height. I’ll claw for higher no matter where I’m put.
An employee of mine told me I was his favorite of the three supervisors he works with. I asked why and he thought for a moment. “[Redacted name] is always expecting too much of me,” he explained, “and [Redacted name] never gives me anything to do. But you…you get me.” He explained how I’d make sure he had tasks, but only expected what he could deliver. I saw his level, fluctuating, and I stooped to it. I do the same for myself.
