Jon slides. It looks like he swims in sand. Swimming in lava. 45 years old, and relatively cold lava. I’m old, he says. He walks on, in spite of his sneaker being torn to pieces.
I fold my arm like my grandmother does when she is out walking on a Sunday. Hands folded on my back. Back hunched.
I walk like grandmother did the day when there no harvest to be done, only flaneuring.
My eyes is a meter from the stones. I gather the stones with my glance, amazed by how colourful they are. Aware of the potential of richness of colour in the masses of magma swirling around under the crust.
I look like my grandmum. In peace on the outside. But inside I’m scared. Top of the volcano is hot, not?
I swear, I say, even though I am not a christian: I swear it is warm. My hand on the sand on the top of the mountain. I sweat. (Of course you sweat, we just climed a mountain, Jon says. Soon I climb the last rock. Eight o’clock
in the morning, we should be the only ones climbing at this time of day. But there he is, the salvation, the elf coming, pointing us to a line in the terrain. It is a kind of a road, he says. It takes you to that cross, he says, and points to the crusifix by the foot of the mountain. Easy, he says, Amman, Texan, Eritrean angel and elf. And how are your sneakers, Jon? Not good. But now all is good. No more sliding,
only walking steadily, calmly.
Surtsey teater 