/ Youtopia Act 2 / He is my son
Youtopia Act 2 / He is my son
Davide Balliano
1 April, 2005

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Contributors: Text of Jonas Joelson

Your mother is the only other person that you ever were a part of; you came to life in her.
The second act of Youtopia is about the relationship between a mother and her son - a psychopath. We do not know what her son did, we can only guess. The images suggest a horrible act, but still, we do not know. The piece explores the relationship between the mother and her son; it plays with the concept of forgiveness, and tries to discover the most hidden aspects of this act.
In the end, Youtopia suggests that your mother is the only person who can understand you.

He is still my son, my only child, so yes, I am very concerned. He was not always like that you, he was a sweet child, he would run to me, he would run to me and I would be his dear mother. I think those were his best days. He loved me, Im sure he did.

Me? What do you mean? Of course I loved him did he say anything else? What did he tell you? What did that bastard tell you now?

Sorry, I did not mean it like that. He was always my dearest treasure. I would hold him so close, close to my heart, we were like inseparable. I was his dear mama. But its a part of life, I am sure you know what I talk about you have kids of your own, so you do know what I am talking about ? Well, he grew up and become this strange kid, his father and I did not know what to do with him. He was a lonely child. He always went to play by himself. I think it was his friends at school, I am sure it was their fault - they would tease him, tease my dear son, and of course they were right in some way, because he was an ugly child. Then, he started to listen to that music, oh how I disliked it, it was terrible, made me very upset, and his father too. His father got very upset with this, ohh how it was terrible the whole thing.

Then he had to go away, we sent him to that school in the mountains - it was for his own best. Maybe I could have gone there to visit him, but he was fine there, I am sure he was, it was s a school of good repute, and his father spoke to the principle twice a year. Yes I am sure he was fine there. What did we do? Well, we had so much to do back then, his father was doing so well, we had all the dinner parties, the journeys and all the important people to attend to.

Ohh how I miss it when he was a child - he would run to me, did I tell you that? He would run to me and hug me, his dear dear mama. But then, humans are so ugly when they grow up. He grew distant from he. After he came back from the school in the mountains he would not speak to us. We wrote a letter to us, saying that he had moved in to an apartment by himself, in the centre of the city. So we went to his apartment, his father and I, to speak to him, but he would not see us. There was a man there who told us this, a black man! There was a black man in his apartment! That man told us that my son, my only son, would not see me, his mother. What child does not want to see his dear mama?

What has he told you? Has he told you that he hates me? Has he said that? You see, we started getting these letters, they would arrive from all over the world, talking about horrible things that he had done. His father was very upset, very upset. We decided not to read the letters any more, so we gave them to the housemaid, to give us a short version of what it said, and there were more horrible things, so we told her to throw them away. He must hate us. Ohh that terrible child! He has caused us nothing but pain!

Now, ever since his father was murdered, I have not heard anything from him. His own father, shoot in the middle of the street, and he does not even bother to come see his mother to comfort her. Where is he? Do you know? You must tell me, is he well? Tell him to come back to his mother, to come running to her again, to say that it is his dear mama whom he loves most. Tell him that! Tell him that he must come to his mama once more. His mother needs to be close to him once more. Please, tell him that.

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