(no subject)
"You remember this. No, you dreamed it. Your dream was of choking, and sinking down, and blankness. You woke from your nightmare and it had already happened. Everything was gone. Everything, and everyone - fathers, mothers, brothers, sisters, the cousins, the tables and chairs and toys and beds - all swept away. Nothing is left of them. Nothing remains but the erased beach and the silence.
There is wreckage. You didn't see that, in your dream. A jumble of smashed years, a heap of broken stories. The stories look like wood and chunks of cement and twisted metal. And sand, a lot of sand. Why is it they say the sands of time? You didn't know that yesterday but now you do. You know too much to say. What can be said? Language turns to rubble in your throat.
But look - there's a baby, stranded in a treetop, just as in those other dreams, the ones in which you can lift yourself off the earth and fly, and escape the roaring and crashing just behind you. A baby, alive, caught in a green cradle; and it's been rescued, after all. But its name has been lost, along with its tiny past.
What new name will they give it, this child? The one who escaped from your nightmare and floated lightly to a tree, and who looks around itself now with a baby's ordinary amazement? Now time starts up once more, now there is something that can be said: this child must be given a word. A password, a talisman or air, to help it through the many hard gates and shadow doorways ahead. It must be named, again.
Will they call it Catastrophe, will they call it Flotsam, will they call it Sorrow? Will they call it No-family, will they call it Bereft, will they call it Child-of-a-Tree? Or will they call it Astonishment, or Nevertheless, or Small Mercy?
Or will they call it Beginning?"
-- Margaret Atwood, "The Tent"
There is wreckage. You didn't see that, in your dream. A jumble of smashed years, a heap of broken stories. The stories look like wood and chunks of cement and twisted metal. And sand, a lot of sand. Why is it they say the sands of time? You didn't know that yesterday but now you do. You know too much to say. What can be said? Language turns to rubble in your throat.
But look - there's a baby, stranded in a treetop, just as in those other dreams, the ones in which you can lift yourself off the earth and fly, and escape the roaring and crashing just behind you. A baby, alive, caught in a green cradle; and it's been rescued, after all. But its name has been lost, along with its tiny past.
What new name will they give it, this child? The one who escaped from your nightmare and floated lightly to a tree, and who looks around itself now with a baby's ordinary amazement? Now time starts up once more, now there is something that can be said: this child must be given a word. A password, a talisman or air, to help it through the many hard gates and shadow doorways ahead. It must be named, again.
Will they call it Catastrophe, will they call it Flotsam, will they call it Sorrow? Will they call it No-family, will they call it Bereft, will they call it Child-of-a-Tree? Or will they call it Astonishment, or Nevertheless, or Small Mercy?
Or will they call it Beginning?"
-- Margaret Atwood, "The Tent"