Trafika Europe 11 - Swiss Delights

stoneage

mother, you would be my mountain, my mountain of gruel. i, a tiny thing that chokes you down with mouth, hand and feet, joyfully, greedily, tenderly, ingratiatingly, pleadingly, demandingly. sun and moon would rock this mountain in the rhythm of the wind, in the white, soft body warmth and light would get caught. my hunger- dream would hold a conversation with your dream of softness and warmth; it would be sheltered in the dell of a large palm of a hand. the breath of the mountain would be my breath, his heartbeat my heartbeat, his warmth my warmth, his light my light. it would be my mountain mymountain, my m o u n t a i n, m y m o u n t a i n. in my dream there would be no time, no end. each second of eternity would be my mountain, and i would just be, being, all being, a touching, a searching, and a grasping. living core, living cradle, living i. in reality i fell into a sea of disgust, cold, and homelessness. my mother’s hate and despair spit me out into a landscape full of horror. she let me be petrified, even before i was allowed to live. the despairing scream of my mother was my lullaby, and the white of the house in which my birth happened, became the color of terror.

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