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Gnawer of the moon

Salt Creek, December 2007

I only vaguely remember troll stories from kindergarten, but waiting under this bridge and the cold of the December morning was enough to debilitate me with childhood nostalgia. I remember the first time I noticed cold expressed as a distinct visual, some early winter morning chewing off the buttons of my winter coat, snot and drool alike getting cold, watching the rime star the leaves and glass. Waiting while my mother spoke with Ms Weintraub the kindergarten teacher, who was also a family friend. Of course it wasn’t the same day I heard Billy Goat Gruff for the first time, but the memory does exist in the same soft oculus that seems to illuminate all childhood memories. Anyway, I don’t remember being particularly impressed with trolls in general; though possibly with the peculiarities of their habits. Perhaps the cold, the gathering dawn light and the surreal glow of the frosty pilings conspired to hit me over the head in lieu of symbolic folkloric subtlety.

They call me Troll;
Gnawer of the Moon,
Giant of the Gale-blasts,
Curse of the rain-hall,
Companion of the Sibyl,
Nightroaming hag,
Swallower of the loaf of heaven.
What is a Troll but that?
-Bragi Boddason the Old