verbal portrait of a mother: the city of the worms

A verbal portrait of a mother and the places she grew up.

In the city of the worms and the low vineyards, with the sun crawling alternately between them, slightly warmer than the northern Germanic sun that I was used in for months now; there it is, where the train will leave all passengers – each one to his purpose. In the same route I have repeatedly pursued the same goal: The little city of fairy tales, as if not touched by the fingers of time. They started bringing me by car through Italy, then Switzerland – I’d be about four. From then on, I returned to this bubble from time to time – it would indeed be a bubble-shaped city that would become smaller and smaller each time the weather was out of tune: Everyone would gather in homes, shopping, waiting for Christmas and for the churches.

The german city is called “Worms” and simply means in English – again – worms. That’s the name of the city, which calls me every three or so, at different ages, to revive my mother’s life: a bunch of endless passages through her body and her potential soul. The German word for worms however is “Würmer” (singular Wurm). That was the world of mother, along with all her personal making and fabric, she’s made of. As I step foot every time I stand with my knuckles on the German, medieval carriageways, it is as if my mother could see through my eyes. They are no longer my own pairs of eyes, I am not anymore and I do not even know the reality of my mother growing up here as I am a visitor years later. But I admit that an invisible thing shakes my breasts, pierces through me and throws me into the winds. My lightness very intense. My curiosity great.

It is the end of October, but the days are generously carried along with the weather inviting for sweet wine. Certainly as a traveler I have a purpose – not just one of course, so I take care of the necessary chaos and thus the natural induction of lust. I will soon find myself in a state of drunkenness, where the interior of my head will soften like a snail’s interior: a purpose-free smile and a close-knit with the magnificent, tempting bus glass, wonderful temperature, ready with the help of the sun. The red bus with the blue velvet seats inside will take us slowly up the hill somewhere north of the outskirts of the city, just outside. I had found myself back on that hill with the odd – rather lifeless – volume of cement above it and all around surrounded by beautifully aligned rows of vines trying to bring it to life. Luckily his main visitors should have been “dead” from tiredness on their arrival there. Of course I suppose few give value to aesthetics or  the description of aesthetics when preparing to go through the hospital doors. But I thought that if someone was maybe interested, then one might find solace in looking at the magnificent vineyards that reach the depths of the huge windshields and large flowers outside the concrete windows.

Before arriving at the concrete block, the bus will pass through the straits of the Worm City: Cared for mignon gardens, with countless bushes: A large catalogue list of all possible species of flowers – each one in it’s right season. Some campsites and a partial tripping on the blue velvet bus stop will bring you a little closer to Little England. Yes, I think I’m part of a British small town – no matter what the lack of genuine excitement, that is, comparing and identifying with reality, as far as I know about England is only through images and narratives. The eye never seems to have enough from the dances of nature, the beauty of which is endlessly ebbing and stamping everywhere as if it has no end – leaving me in this state of physical drunkenness, with the four wheels of the bus still climbing more and more north.

A branch full of ivy flowerbeds foam everywhere and some autumn leaves gently fallen over them. Magnificent compositions that find their place at a junction of the road. There, the pedestrian crossings will allow to the children with their squared bags to cross the asphalt safely. If you would turn your head to the left you would see a school and a  bunch of animated colours pouring out of it: Little kids. Then they all turn their heads and look at me with my skin stuck to the window. All my face like a huge fermentation on the glass of the window. Then some children’s looks. I’ve always thought that children’s looks are more valuable, but I have to confess that it’s hard making them last long. They will all disappear together in front of the forefront of the bus  and I’ll peel off the face to turn around to look at them. Of course they are already looking elsewhere. I admit that I was prepared for it. This time I’ll apply my back on the glass of the window inside the bus – it feels fantastic to get extra heat into my body. Then very relaxed I will stretch my legs on the nearby seat. No one will come and sit next to me anymore – we’ve already climbed too far up north, I can almost see the hill with the box made out of cement on it. The bus is almost empty.

Early in the next morning I will have forgotten about the bus journeys and will focus on the description of the narrow room with one window and the red Christmas curtain hanging on the thick fabric making the light impossible to pass through. It throws a few lines at the inside of the small, adorable room. Here she will lie down, here her body will rest, filling her head with dreams, which projected onto the white, neat walls, in the closet with glossy beige leaves with a mirror effect that spreads to one side of the wall. Dreamy traps scattered furniture and layers of packaged old clothes. Where is her tailor I will ask myself and her accessories, her kittens and blocks. She had recently brought her tailor to her new, Venetian home surrounded by olives: A huge block with some molybdenum figures hovering casually. Crippled and faceless. Clothes designed in detail and a few words scattered would give the necessary, finishing directions. I guess most of the show was going on inside her head – I definitely bought my visual memory from there – later on my free drawings, my pencil block and charcoal collections. My passion for photography.

I stand there like another daughter who comes to plant herself in the same places years later. I dance as provocatively as another in front of the memory of those closely involved, dancing to slip my fingers into the walls of their memory – the vows are activated, open one by one. Now my body, my face, all of me, will be something of “her” for a while. We will melt in a mold inside. Me and her. Until I find her when returning  in front of box in front of the abandoned, colourful chewing gum machines. Somewhere out on the streets, on the sidewalks of the city. Gigantic, cylindrical chewing gums in different colours that become yours just by giving some coins. I know that it was her joy  after school. Chewing gum, chocolates, sugar. Plenty of sugar falling like snowflakes in the city of the worms, inside a home of migrants, on a series of words that describe all this. A lot of sugar…

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