Hurricane into Avalanche

My mother is holding me coddled between her legs and hugged in her arms, me facing out. We're on a ship--a black iron tanker--that's struggling to stay afloat, in a powerful, rotating storm at sea. We are surrounded by an armada of ships in a staggered line all going the same direction. We move with the divoted waves in such a way, one could say we are surfing with the grain. Our ship captain, realizing that we are sinking, decides to aim our ship against the grain, into bubbling, watter-slapping stomach turning rushes of seawater, in search of the eye of the storm--a place where we might seek shelter, temporarily--perhaps waiting out the worst of the storm, and at least allowing us to gain the upper hand in bailing water. The waves turn to blasts of snow, coral reefs into exposed rock, seeking shelter becomes slipping downhill at high speed, the caps of waves are transposed onto the image of snowy mountain peaks---escaping downhill. Escape Wyoming, and pissy overflowing urinals eddies swimming with brown hairs of chew, worm eaten hand soap--holes in your hands---looking in the mirror, wiggling a front bottom tooth swaying it to rip the root, the root pulling back with tenuous small losing forces, the hippo that's eaten slowly and strangely without complaint--blood? Little blood.

...

Sitting at a restaurant just opening. Not a regular time for eating, nobody here. I'm a child, I can't be older than 9. I sit at the bar--the waitress, Japanese, thin, hair in bun, must believe I'm here with my parents somewhere in the mall--that this is our rallying point. The black leather bar stool is rounded at the back like a carved out black bean. So here at this restaurant where understandably I'm not hungry, at Rally Point ALPHA, when a normal time to eat is certainly not now, I decide to order a salad--a mango salmon salad--Appetizer? How about a house salad--yes with deluxe french dressing. People start coming in. Perhaps I'm attracting them.