Archetype

Sculpture, Listasafn Íslands, 2012

Still no answer.

I can deal with it logically.

I can rationalize it.

But I can't ignore it.

The question:

"Why Iceland?"

This image may be as close as I'll ever get.

Patio Conversation

Apartment 62 opened onto a small patio with two benches hidden from the bustle of Reykjavík by a copse of shrubbery. The women who did the cleaning would pause there, sometime for a smoke, sometimes just to talk. I met them several times over the course of my last stay. After the second or third time I fell into a conversation with the supervisor of the crew: at first we talked about my bicycle, then about travel, and then about life in general.

She had moved with her husband and their children many times, living several countries. She was not impressed with Florida (“the dead years”) but she spoke highly of their time spent living in a small Spanish town. She was glad to be back in Iceland (“for good!”) She asked if I had visited Iceland previously and when I told her I was on my fifth trip she became even more animated. Literature, Theatre, Music, all of my Icelandic enthusiasms came gushing out. She had a story for every topic I brought up, and I even had a few stories of my own to complement hers.

As she was going back to work, she turned and shook my hand, saying:

“Until the next time…”

Until the next time…

Two Women in the Dark

   As I was setting up my gear in a dark area of the park I became aware of two young women in the shadows. One spoke with what I took to be a French accent, the other spoke American English. We were there for the same reason.  The stillness of the air and the cloaking effect of the darkness made voices seem as if they originated within my head: words became thoughts, without no visual cue of a speaking mouth the effect was a bit eerie. In the sky above us there had been hints of something coming for several minutes now. Things of this nature one can never be sure of,  but we were ready:



    I was looking through the trees to the northeast when it began. I spoke my thoughts: "Here it comes!" The women turned; the one with the accent let out a little yip of delight  and then we stood still, overwhelmed:



   The French woman began to croon, "Oooh! Oooh! I luff Iceland, I luff Iceland!"

   She laughed and hugged her friend.

   And then we all laughed.

Steve Kramer

We lost Steve Kramer.

Artist, musical visionary and founder of The Wallets, Steve was one of the brightest lights of the 80's Minneapolis and New York music scenes. He went on to have a successful career in commercial music. He died in his sleep Saturday night in Utah, where he was attending a film festival.



We never knew exactly what would happen when Steve took the stage, his many personas sprang from a seemingly unlimited well of ideas. His extravaganzas at First Avenue were the stuff of legend:









Rest in peace, Jungle Boy.

I WANT CANDY!

Candy Store, near Ingólfstorg, Reykjavik, 22:57 12 October, 2012

   One thing I've gotten away from is eating candy. I'll have chocolate covered peanuts as something to tide me over between meals, and I will partake of 90% dark chocolate, but all those things made primarily of sugar which I used to suck and chew in my youth are gone from my diet. Giving it up wasn't even a hardship. Sugar just doesn't do it for me any more.

   The sight of adults in this candy store late at night, buying their provisions for the Rúntur, elicited a bittersweet emotion in me. Children still, entranced by pretty colors and intense flavorings, burning the candle at both ends—but only just a tiny, tiny bit. It's only a little candy, what's the harm?

Missing Summer

   Nothing like last week's January thaw to rekindle dreams of summer. It's cold again now but it could be worse: the middle of January and only a couple of nights below 0° so far. Still, just the thought of shorts and a t-shirt and sandals makes me a bit restless.

  Might have to start looking up fights.

The Gathering Storm

Black Skies

A novel by Arnaldur Indriðason
Harvill Secker, London, 2012

Originally published in Icelandic in 2009 as Svörtuloft (The Black Fort), Arnaldur Indriðason's second crime novel without Inspector Erlendur is set in Reykjavík in 2008 during the run-up to Iceland's financial meltdown. This time the main character is Sigurdur Óli, an investigator in the homicide division of Iceland's CID.

A convoluted plot involving sex, blackmailing and murder is set into motion when Sigurdur tries to help an old school chum who is being shaken down for his involvement with a "swingers" group a couple of years earlier. The list of persons of interest expands rapidly, taking the detective into the dazzling world of the newly-rich banking class. The author further explores this class stratification in a parallel story about a pathetic young alcoholic whose demise is not completely unrelated to the corruption that Sigurdur uncovers at the top.

This may be the most unrelentingly bleak of Arnaldur's crime novels since Voices. Sigurdur Óli's distaste for much of Icelandic culture (he prefers American Baseball and Football) is fully justified by the actions of the novel's characters. Arnaldur does use the City of Reykjavík as a vivid backdrop to the story; there is a lot of background here for those bitten with the "Iceland bug."

Chanteuse

Jófríður Ákadóttir, 11 October 2012, Faktorý, Rekjavík

I had gone into the club a little early, wandering upstairs during the sound check. The singer, without makeup and still in her street clothes, was demonstrating to the computer operator how she wanted a musical transition to flow. Her body was the instrument and it did indeed flow in natural movements. After watching for a few minutes, the sound man came over and motioned for me to leave.

I came back when the club was officially open, got my drink and headed for a dark corner off the right side of the stage. The singer was with the opening act, now dressed and made up for the show. It wasn't exactly the kind of music I usually enjoy, but it was good: moody, atmospheric, mysterious, drenched in echo; a dream realized. The singer’s movements seemed to reflect an internal struggle, as if she were holding herself together to keep from dissolving in the music. As the trio continued to play the noisy crowd quieted a bit and I became thoroughly enchanted.

Magazine Man

This card, found in an old book, brought back the memory of one of those little rituals of my childhood- the door to door magazine salesman. As I was growing up, at least until early 1960s, my life was so uneventful that the appearance of a man at our front door wearing horn-rim glasses and a fedora and selling magazines was the highlight of the week. My mother would actually buy some: Good Housekeeping (later to be replaced by Redbook), Life, Readers' Digest, and perhaps a teen magazine for my sister and Popular Mechanics for me. This went on until the mid 60s when bulk mail became dominant and Publisher's Clearinghouse started running their sweepstakes.

It is hard for me to imagine the business plan- how this way of selling could make any money at all. We've had magazine salespeople come to our door in recent years, but they are kids doing it as a fundraiser (working for nothing) and some of those were just plain frauds. But my mother's "magazine man" worked door to door for a living. It was a different time; now most mass market magazines are on the brink of extinction.

There was also a Fuller Brush man who came around from time to time, but that's whole 'nother story altogether.

New Year's Revolution

Faye and Rich Lewis, Whitey's Bar, Minneapolis, 2012

A year, one revolution in the earth’s orbit,

The world is always changing, yet it also remains the same.

This isn’t necessarily a bad thing.

Heaven help us all if we were doomed to live our lives in an eternal repeat, ala the film Groundhog Day.

That side of the internet which consists of original, self-published material is not immune from the ravages of time. Blogs, special interest sites, even the occasional inspired twitterer have each in their own way managed to lift my spirits.

Many of them have “closed up shop” or just drifted away. That has always been the case (in this still very young medium) but it seems that the close of 2012 has seen more than its share of casualties: Maria, ECS, Darien, Things, Monday Note, have all seemed to come to an end. They might come back some day, in another form perhaps—it’s perfectly OK to leave the sur-reality of the internet—it’s not as important as living one's life to the fullest.

But there are new voices, I’ve found several new Icelandic sources this year, with Larissa's Ð and Þ (eth & thorn) leading the way. Gemma's Seattle based blog has shown promise as well in covering the Icelandic scene. Pascal Pinon, those musical twins from Iceland, have developed their self-titled tumblr into a very effective showcase for their music and art; it is a model for how to create an entertaining and original showcase which is more than just a bunch of recycled promos.

I would be remiss if I didn’t mention Auður Ösp's I Heart Reykjavík, a great example of a tourism blog. She’s started a newsletter as well, I suspect she will continue in her tradition of lively writing (I’ve been following her in one form or another for nearly nine years!) Check out her current post. She has always inspired me with her wonderful outlook on life, both real and virtual.

And so, in light of all this rambling, I’ll commit myself to another year of FITK. If that sounds as if I’m being sent to a mental institution the similarity is no accident. More randomness in 2013, for sure, but I will definitely finish the “serial fiction.” I’ve been dreaming the new chapters—but sometimes it takes more than one restless night...


Note: The picture at the top doesn’t have much to do with the post beneath- it’s just two of my favorite people, doing what they enjoy. Doing what you enjoy? I guess that is the theme of this post, after all!

Street Street

Of all the mysteries of my existence, none is more inscrutable that this short road in my home town. Did the city engineer run out of naming ideas? Perhaps this was the result of a typo; he may have written "street" as a placeholder on a planning map to insure that it wouldn't be labeled as an "avenue" and the map was then published before a proper name was assigned.

Maybe one the the town fathers was named Street. His car would have been named "Desire", no doubt.

I like to think that it was in honor of Della, Perry Mason's faithful secretary/unrequited love, although "Della Street" would have made a far cooler name than the redundant "Street Street".

And just to prove that I didn't make this up, here is a screen shot from Google Maps, showing Street Street in its entirety: