700 Year Old Disclaimer

20 Years Ago on FITK

I've struggled a bit at times with the meaning and importance of this humble venue.

I think most of us who write regularly wonder at times if any of it is worthwhile. Comments help justify it, and those threads we can spin between disparate people (many of whom otherwise have little in common) is always encouraging.

Still, there is always that nagging little demon that pipes up (usually at 4 a.m.!) and says: “Who do you think you are? Writing such fluff?”

I found this quote from the fourteenth century that puts it all in perspective:

Since this tale nor anything else can be made to please everyone, nobody need believe any more of it than he wants to believe. All the same the best and most profitable thing is to listen while a story is being told, to enjoy it and not be gloomy; for the fact is that as long as people are enjoying the entertainment they won't be thinking evil thoughts. Nor is it a good thing when people find fault with a story just because it happens to be uninformative or clumsily told. Nothing so unimportant is ever done perfectly.
-the narrator of Göngu-Hrolf's Saga

I would have never thought that I’d find such solace from so far away and long ago… that nameless scribe concludes with:

I'd like to thank those that have listened and enjoyed the story, and since those that don’t like it won’t ever be satisfied, let them enjoy their own misery. AMEN

Walking After Midnight

Almost everyone wakes up in the night, sometimes for a minute, other times for much longer.

I’ve found that if I can imagine myself walking I can usually drift off again without trouble.

“Lucid Dreaming” is what this process has sometimes been called. I’ve used mental images of

my daily walks to Verturbæjarlaug (a neighborhood swimming pool in Reykjavík.) I find that I can often not get even half-way to the pool before falling back into slumber.

Make sure you are physically comfortable before starting this, get up to pee first if needs be.

Go into step-by-step detail, i.e., donning shoes, putting on your jacket, opening the door, etc. If you find your thoughts wandering don't worry, that’s a good sign, just go back to the walk.

A few times I have made it all the way to the pool so I continue the “dream” there: getting undressed, showering, even taking some laps. Repetitive behaviors are good for this trick.

Although I ‘discovered’ this on my own, there are others who espouse similar ideas.

Click on images to embiggen

The Quiet Mother

A Detective Konrad Novel
By Arnaldur Indriðason
Translated by Philip Roughton

I got my start in reading Icelandic Mysteries at just about the same time I started this blog. Jar City was the first, and the first title in English by Arnaldur as well. 12 million copies later, this book came out. A pre-Covid novel, it was first published in Icelandic in 2019 and only released in English in 2025.

Dectective Konrad is retired from the Reykjavík police force yet still receives request for assistance, in this case from Valborg, a woman who is looking for a chld she gave up for adoption nearly 50 years prior. When the woman is murdered, Konrad’s sense of duty brings him onto the case, augmenting and sometimes crossing Marta, the official investigator. Konrad has mysteries of his own from the past, notably a charlatan con-man father who ran fake seances with a partner as a way of fleecing wealthy widows. His father had been murdered too, and the thread of connection between the two stories is in these ‘supernatural' elements, whether real or contrived.

This is one of Arnaldur’s better plots—it’s not just a rehash of earlier books. His writing, always concise, is honed to a razor edge here and is very readable, new characters are introduced naturally, and even the Icelandic names are (relatively) easy to follow. The story has some deep human currents going on under the surface which Arnaldur handles with tact and grace. The city of Reykjavík becomes another main character, those familiar with it will enjoy an extra dimension in his descriptions. Special note must be made of the integration to the plot of legendary nightclub Glaumbær, which burned in 1971. It was located where the National Gallery now sits, on the other side of the wall in the apartment where I usually stay when I’m in the city. Philip Roughton’s translation is unfussy and elegant. One niggle: The stock cover photograph of the church at Buðir has nothing to do with the story. It would have been nice if they could have had a vintage picture of Glaumbær or some other city landmark featured in the story.

Highly recommended.

More on Arnaldur here…

Beth Ann

20 Years Ago on FITK

A party at Beth Ann's.

She had moved up from Iowa to attend school at the Junior College, or to get off the farm, or both. We met when she asked me why my beard was red while my hair was brown. I told her that my pubic hair was red too. Not the best answer, but true. She was lonely I guess, as lonely as I was, and we did become friends, in sort of a “safe” way. After I had fallen for Robin she was still there too, there were about a half-dozen of us semi-attached waifs. We would meet in the cafeteria. Beth had a place, an apartment, with a couple of roommates. They threw a party and I went with a couple of my buddies. Robin was there also.

After the party warmed up a bit, Beth took me aside, into the bathroom, and got all smiley, and then real close. I kept backing up, finally falling into the bathtub. For being the advanced age of twenty, I was still pretty dense. We went back to the party.

The next day she cornered me, and told me how disgusted she was that my friends had peed all over the bathroom floor. She was right. My friends at that time were pretty crude. But I sensed she really was disgusted in me, that I didn't pick up on her signals. But I had wanted Robin, not her.

Years later, we met again. She was an artist,
She wanted me to shoot some of her work for her portfolio. We embraced, and again I felt her need, and again I could not respond.
I did the job, and we departed as friends.

I never peed on anyone's floor.

Check-out in Lane 3

It was a routine shopping trip.

Just the essentials: Bananas, bread, milk, eggs.

As I was bagging my groceries, the PA system played an instrumental, an oldie from the 50s.

The woman on the other side of the lane said: “Oh! I remember this, what's that song called?”

“Sleepwalk, by Santo and Johnny,” I replied, “… my old band used to play it. The slow dancers loved it.”

“That’s a real belly-bumper,” she said with a toss of her silver curls as she turned away.

And then she was gone.

Sunshine, Lollipops, and Rainbows

I had been invited into the parlor.

Not by a spider but, rather, by a vivacious young woman named Robin.

We were involved in a romantic triangle, I was the interloper. We didn’t talk about that situation too much. I don’t think she was a coquette, she just liked the attention and conversation. Her early life (prior to our meeting nine months earlier) had been something of a mystery to me, it was not spoken of, but on this day she was eager to talk about a formative episode in her teen years.

We were standing before the spinet piano where she had taken lessons in her early teens. She related a story about her piano teacher, an older teen boy who took advantage of their proximity on the piano bench to indulge in some light touching, running his fingers through her hair. Creepy, perhaps, but nothing exactly criminal. And she enjoyed it, immensely (“I came and came…”) Her musical ambitions faded after that, or perhaps because of that, but now that she was older she still did enjoy current pop music, especially Led Zeppelin’s Whole Lotta Love.

On this day, however, she rather shyly brought out her favorite album of her teen years, and played me her favorite song:



Whew! That was a far cry from Led Zep. Lesley Gore was a great singer, Marvin Hamlisch wrote the song, and Quincy Jones was the producer, all of them superstars (albeit of a different sort.) Looking back on it now, I think that that particular song may have been Robin’s adolescent mantra, a way to live life, harsh realities be damned. And the good times we had together, those times when she lifted me out of my pit of teen-angst, truly were sunshine, lollipops and rainbows.

Chocolate or Wait

Twenty Years Ago on FITK

Leaving the wintry themes behind for a day…

Summer road trips when I was young always seemed just a little too long, a little too hot (no AC), and never quite as much fun as I had hoped for. It was on a foray into the wilds of western Wisconsin, in search of the fabled Crystal Cave, when we found ourselves a little overheated, a little hungry and a little lost. Finally, dad broke down and pulled into a little roadside store. we went in, and much to our relief, found out that they sold ice cream. I was in the mood for a nice cone, something light to freshen my palate.

"What would ya like, sonny?"

"What kinds do you have?"

"Wull, we've got choclit or wait."

"What?"

"He said Choclit or wait." My dad was getting impatient.

I really didn't want chocolate, but I didn't want to wait either… (For what? The ice cream truck? Did the guy have to make any other flavors from scratch?)… so I meekly said: "I'll take chocolate."

I got my cone, and went outside, to eat it at a picnic table.

A minute or too later my sister came out with a nice vanilla cone.

"How come you got vanilla? I wanted vanilla!"

"He said chocolate or wait. I choose wait."

I thought every one had gone nuts.

"But you got vanilla, and you didn't have to wait."

"WHITE, dummy. This is a white ice cream cone."


Somehow, in Wisconsin, vanilla was called white. I later learned that all sorts of things in Wisconsin were called by other names, although I never heard "white" for vanilla again.

The thing that bothered me all the way home was that my family had also called it white.

Sometimes I thought that I was adopted.

Image: Stanley Mouse and Alton Kelley

Meta-More-phasis

end of story
A novel by
A. J. Finn

It must be winter, I’m reading San Francisco-based murder mysteries again.

It must be 2026, I’m reading yet another mystery with ‘meta’ content.

Nicky Hunter, a thirty-something mystery fan, has been exchanging letters with Sebastian Trapp, her favorite author, for several years. She’s definitely a fan-girl but her letters are written with enough flair that Sebastian invites her to his San Francisco mansion to help him with his memoirs.

Sebastian lives with his second wife, Diana, his daughter from an earlier marriage, Madeline, and an underachieving nephew, Freddy, who helps out by running errands and assisting Sebastian’s thrice-weekly dialysis sessions. Sebastian has been given three month to live, and would like to set the record straight. His first wife, Hope, and his teen-aged son, Cole, both disappeared on New Year’s eve twenty years ago. They were never found and a cult group (Trapper’s Keepers) has since grown, feasting on a diet of conspiracy theories, speculation and amateur sleuthing. There is also a dog. When Nicky arrives she is ensconced in the mansion’s attic: Cole’s old room. Various hi-jinks ensue as plots twists (including a masked ball!) flesh out the story.

This book, despite its modern trappings, is an old school murder mystery with numerous references to classic mystery authors (the dog’s name is Watson) written in a clear and non-fussy stye. Characters are properly introduced and developed, the mansion is properly explored, and the San Francisco locales are vividly portrayed. This novel isn’t quite as delicious as my description makes it appear but it is tasty enough.

Recommended.

A. I. and Me

After following recent developments in A. I., I queried Google to see what it thought about my 2023 memoir Search For a Dancer. Here is what it came up with:

AI Overview

"Flippism is the Key" and "Search for a Dancer" refer to posts on the Blogger blog "Flippism Is The Key," a travel blog where author Flippist chronicles trips (often to Iceland) and shares stories, reflections, and even fiction, with "Search for a Dancer" being a specific series within the blog detailing adventures, like attending local theatre or meeting dignitaries, all under the overarching theme of exploring and experiencing life's unique moments.

Key Connections:

Flippism is the Key (FITK): This is the blog's title, a playful motto indicating that this unique perspective or attitude unlocks experiences.

Search for a Dancer: This is a recurring series within the blog, often tied to travels (especially Iceland), focusing on cultural observations and artistic pursuits.

What it means:

The phrases point to the blog's content, which blends travelogue, personal narrative, and cultural commentary, where the author "searches for" interesting people or experiences, finding meaning in the "flippist" (unconventional) way. Example: One post describes a dinner theatre experience in Iceland as part of the "Search for a Dancer" series, reflecting on the play and its themes. Another features a visit with Iceland's President, also within that series, showcasing the variety of "dancers" (interesting people/events) the author seeks.

A ‘deeper dive’ offered these observations:

"Search For a Dancer" is a serial memoir written by Stephen Charles Cowdery (who writes under the pseudonym Professor Batty) and published on his blog, Flippism Is The Key.

What's the significance of the title "Search For a Dancer" in the context of the memoir?

In Stephen Charles Cowdery's serial memoir, the title "Search For a Dancer" signifies both a literal and metaphorical journey through Icelandic culture during the 2022 Iceland Airwaves festival. The significance of the title is rooted in several interconnected themes:

A Personal Quest for Inspiration: The title reflects Cowdery's search for a specific kind of artistic energy. In his writings, he often describes encountering people who move with "grace" and purpose, likening everyday interactions to a "mimed ballet".

The Pursuit of "Sprakkar": A central theme in the memoir is his exploration of the Icelandic concept of sprakkar, meaning "outstanding or extraordinary women". This "search" is for figures who embody this unique cultural strength and artistic vitality.

Authentic Artistic Expression: Cowdery contrasts his search for deep, "heartfelt" artistic performances—like those of musician Sóley—against "safe" or "uninspired" mainstream art. The "dancer" represents a high ideal of performance that is rare and worth seeking out.

A Literary Motif: The title mirrors Cowdery's interest in how art and life intersect. He describes observing individuals in Reykjavík, such as mannequin dressers at midnight, as though they were "ballerinas" in a silent play, suggesting that the "dancer" he is searching for can be found in the beauty of the everyday.

What's the significance of the Iceland Airwaves festival in the memoir?

The Iceland Airwaves festival is the central backdrop and primary reason for the author's trip to Iceland, serving as the main context for the events and experiences recounted in the memoir.

Narrative Framework: The entire memoir, which covers the author's week in Iceland in November 2022, is structured around attending the various events and performances associated with the festival.

Cultural Immersion: The festival provides a unique opportunity for the author to explore Reykjavík's compact and vibrant cultural scene, blurring the lines between performers and attendees.

Discovery of Local Talent: It serves as a platform for the author to discover and experience local Icelandic artists and events, such as music by JFDR and Gróa, and a speech by the President of Iceland at a senior residence, which was part of an off-venue performance.

Personal Reflection: The festival experience, known for its focus on new music and creative expression in a unique environment, appears to offer the author a fresh perspective on creativity and community, impacting him "musically and emotionally".

What's the significance of the 'dancer' in the memoir title?

The "dancer" represents a metaphorical and literal search for artistic connection, centered specifically on the identity of a specific individual the author encountered during the 2022 Iceland Airwaves festival.

Significance of the 'Dancer'

The Literal Search: The title stems from the author’s attempt to identify a woman he saw dancing with intense, uninhibited energy during a performance by the band Gróa at the festival. This quest to find out who she was—whether a professional dancer, an artist, or simply a passionate fan—serves as a recurring narrative thread throughout the chapters.

Symbol of the Festival Spirit: The dancer personifies the raw, communal energy of the Iceland Airwaves festival. To the author, she embodies the festival's unique atmosphere where the barrier between the "performer" and the "audience" is often blurred.

Connection to "Flippism": The search reflects the blog’s core philosophy of Flippism (decision-making via coin flip). The memoir suggests that the author’s presence at that specific concert and his subsequent fixation on the dancer were the results of random chance and open-mindedness, which he believes lead to deeper artistic discoveries.

Artistic Muse: The "dancer" becomes a symbol for the author's broader search for meaning and beauty in the later stages of his life. Her movements provide a visual "key" to understanding the emotional impact of the music he traveled to Iceland to experience.  

Whew! A little squirrelly at times, but a lot more than I was expecting! The A.I. bot synthesized information from other FITK posts about Iceland but the “Significance of the Dancer” section was eerily insightful.