Why am I sitting in rolling hills dreaming of mountains? Last night I dreamt of mountains, today I talked about mountains and I drew more imagined mountains (improbable, impossible, fleshy renderings).
Drawn, my mountains are seen from above as if from a bird or aeroplane. They stretch out below me almost to the horizon, a desert of mountains impossible to escape. They are crude and simple, smudges and unlikely shading making them more like sensuous protuberances, villi feeling upwards into the clouds.
Imagined, my mountains are vast, dark, shadowy and steep. I’m always at the bottom of their towering shade. Things are hidden in the ravines and crevasses, things that are more of stone and fear than flesh and blood. Imagined, my mountains are a little like the deep ocean, although slightly less terrifying and inhuman. Vast enough to swallow and steep enough to throw off and hard enough to cut. Mountains make my skin prickle and my mouth water, desire and dread. Fascination and fear. I want to walk up them but I am afraid of becoming lost and losing myself, as if the mountain would atomise me or shrink me to such a tiny scale next to its immensity that I just wouldn’t be any more. And this thought is delicious. And dreadful.