14. October, 2016
The mountain is the place where I feel my bones. I have spent so long running away from myself, yet on the mountain there is nowhere else to be but me. The mountain is my aching thighs, my staccato breath, my heartbeat: strangers I have known all my life. The mountain remembers me—my iron and calcium—our bones are forged in the same minerals. The mountain reminds me how to be a creature of bone, the joy of living in my own skeleton. The mountain and I, we are ridges: hipbones grazing the breeze. We are stones in motion: sits-bones grating against my granite throne. We are hollow music: ribcage harp-strings stroked by the North Wind.
Before the mountain was mountain, it was bone. It was the giant Ymir, his clavicle perhaps, unhooked from his scapula and flung into the valley when the sons of Bor dismembered the giant to make the earth. From his blood the rivers, from his bones the mountains, and his skull they saved for the dome of the sky. From the mountain throne I can see shards of scattered Ymir—the mountains ringing the valley—vertebra, slivers of ribs, and a handful of knucklebones. The mountain-bones look charred and black, gangrenous with moss.
At night, starlight from Beyond his skull prickles through the porous bone, shining into my own skull. This, the mountain knows, is the crowning bone-joy: star-song echoing incandescent through a dreamer’s skull. And tonight a Hunter’s Moon rides the sky. As the Hunt gallops by on steeds with wind-whipped manes of tossing cloud, the Huntress kisses her horn, blowing a note as long as the night. We feel her moon-song sing cold in our bones, the mountain and I.