Iceland Airwaves — Day 1

As I was going out this morning I met my host, Björk, in the stairway. “I’m going to meet the President!” I chirped, “At Grund!”

Each year the kickoff for Iceland Airwaves is held in Grund, a senior home, with Icelandic artists performing to the crowd that consisted of seniors, Airwaves attendees, pre-schoolers, and Guðni Thorlacius Jóhannesson, the president of Iceland. He gave a welcoming speech, honest and genuine, thanking the Airwaves attendees and, in a broader sense, all the visitors to Iceland. His speech was followed by a short set from Una Torfa, singing her songs in Icelandic, who charmed the crowd:

Then came Mugison, troubador par excellence, who wowed the assembly with his songs accompanied by guitar and accordion. At one point he asked the audience if they wanted a song in English or Icelandic, with the response firmly for the latter. He played an old song, a waltz, on accordion, that had the crowd spellbound, even some of the seniors were seen “waltzing” in their seats. The assembled group demanded an encore in which Guðni joined the throng in a singalong on the chorus.

A beautiful start to a beautiful day.

On the way to the pool I helped a woman who had lost control of a box of mandarin oranges, and she gave me one for thanks!

The pool was divine, again. I spoke with some Airwaves attendees from Slovania and then made it back home for a bit of lie-down.

My first off-venue event of the day was at Smekkleysa record store where the noise trio Osmé was grinding out metal machine music, two guitars ans a technician on various noise generators. Mesmerizing, and I had my second Kevin Cole sighting of the festival:

I left to check out a happening on a boat in the harbour with free cocoa!

On the crowded boat there was a small dog on a leash, and attached to the other end of the leash was JFDR, to whom I actually spoke—thanking her for her music and semi-apoligizing for all the Wikipedia pictures I had posted of her. She graciously said that they were alright. After my fill of cocoa I went back to Smekkleysa where the techno duo Pellegrina was playing. Kevin Cole was still there, but also Heiða of Hellvar fame who I met in 2009! Then JFDR and her husband Joshua Wilkinson came in (without a dog this time) and cuddled in a corner while techno duo Pellegrina made the most unromantic music imaginable, although they were much improved over last years Airwaves:

Then the chanteuse Sigrún came on with a series of kenning tunes with prerecorded backgrounds:

She was very affecting but I left before her set was over in order to see the band Kvikindi at the Airwave information center stage (too Many Choices!):

The lead singer appeared to be visibly pregnant (a fact which she happily acknowledged!) and she didn’t let that stop her fun. The show seemed a little packaged (“Hello, Airwaves!”) but the band was good.

I went back to my flat to gather strength for the rest of the night. After a bit of a lie-down I was putting my shoes on in the entry when Unnur, the daughter of my Airbnb hosts, came in. She was honestly delighted that I was enjoying my rooms (I suspect she may have had a hand in their decoration.)

At Fríkirkjan Sunna Margrét was performing in a power trio. Very strong songs with great arrangements made this the best surprise of the day:

Over at Gaukurinn the female-fronted group Fókus was playing hard-nosed hard rock:

I had never seen Cyber put on a full act, so I went to see them again at the IA headquarters stage. They were as fun as ever but seemed to run out of gas toward the end. All that gyrating is hard work!



Best costume award goes to Jonathan who performed at Fríkirkjan with backing tracks, very ethereal:

Konx-Om-Pax is a Glasweigan techno artist with a penchant for spewing obscenities. No picture—he wanted the stage in Iðno to be “F-n black.” When his ‘music’ began I lasted about 20 seconds before I made for the exit.

Móðir, kona, meyja

Chapter 13 of Search For a Dancer, a serial memoir about a week I spent in Iceland. Mondays on Flippism is the Key

“I think that was our conversation, as nearly as one can recall a conversation when a woman talks to a man and a man to a woman, for of course the words themselves say least of all, if in fact they say anything; what really informs us is the inflection in the voice (and no less so if it is restrained), the breathing, the heart-beat, the muscles around the mouth and eyes, the dilation and contraction of the pupils, the strength of the weakness in the knees, as well as the chain of mysterious reactions in the nerves and the secretions from hidden glands whose names one never knows even though one reads about them in books; all that is the essence of a conversation - the words are more or less incidental.” ~ Halldór Laxness, The Atom Station

Of all those bloggers whom I’ve interacted with over the years, K stands apart.

In 2004 blogs were all the rage, especially so in Iceland. K was the mother (móðir) of 3-year-old twins, with a husband and a cat. Reading between the lines on her blog, it seemed that she was under-employed for her education and a bit lonely, missing the friends of her youth, many of whom had been scattered to the winds. Her blog was somewhat a mommy-blog, but with an additional focus on culture and her life on the ‘rock.’ I had had two young boys myself once so it was fun to follow her parenting efforts. She posted pictures of herself and her children doing things; an idyllic Flickr-fairy-tale-land. I had sent her a box of books that my boys had enjoyed when they were young. Other pictures on the blog showed her on nights out with friends; proto-selfies. She was the first blogger I met IRL, during the 2006 Iceland Airwaves. Her graciousness, charm and perceptive wit made my day. I met with her again in 2009, right after I had attended a poignant concert, I was so affected by it that it made me tear up a bit. She comforted me then, and even called me later to make sure I was alright. In 2012 I met her with her young son and she was radiant: in full-móðir mode. We had fallen out of touch since then, life gets in the way of the best of intentions.

I was a bit early so I was already in Hlemmur (food hall) when I spotted her walking down the street. She worked just around the corner and was on a lunch break so this would be a time-constrained affair, unlike the other occasions when we lingered over coffee. She looked great, of course (myndarleg kona), I had always felt a bit shabby sitting next to her. Professor Batty meets Eve Kendall. Getting together with her was never quite seamless—several times we had failed to connect due to a misunderstanding or a sudden event, or something would up to cause us to reschedule. This time was no exception, she had mis-read my email to be for a meeting a week earlier which caused her to email from a restaurant with ‘Where are you?’ message while I still a thousand miles away.

But now we were here, together again in the eternal now, ordering Krösti-burgers. We took our buzzer to a quiet table away from the main doors and began catching up. What a difference ten years makes: K was now in the midst of a painful divorce from her second husband. I had never met her first (an investment banker with a porn-addiction) but I did meet her second husband. I wasn’t too impressed by him, but then spouses of blog-pals (and I’ve met several, some of each gender) are not really interested in you and can be hostile, and may even consider you to be a threat. I think I won’t be going there again. Closure. This whole trip could be considered closure of sorts; the blog-era is nearly dead, displaced by e-commerce and about to be overwhelmed by AI. While one can never be entirely honest on a blog I try to be. AI posing as human is, by definition, a lie.

One positive thing K had going for her was that she had finally gotten her dream-job, working as a translator in the Icelandic Foreign Ministry, extremely precise and challenging work that paid well and was not without its perks (including junkets to European capitals!) As my days of gainful employment are over, I again felt a twinge of guilt in imposing on her schedule. We talked a bit about the Icelandic theatre scene and she gave me the lowdown on a musical I would be seeing in a couple of days. The musical was a big thing, it was the first full-blown  production since the Covid restrictions were lifted. One of the characters was on the autism spectrum, and there had been a row about having a ‘norm’ portray him. K’s involvement with autism has been vigorous and constant over the years, active in many circles (her blog was even called Aspie Mum) and she was the narrator for a documentary film on the subject of autism in women (konur) in 2019.

When she was a young woman (meyja) she had lived in both Iceland and abroad, she was an au pair and had even won some renown for her flamenco dancing! Now her life was less free, having to raise her son with a faithless husband during an epidemic will put a damper on the most optimistic soul. I wished there was something I could do or say to make things better, I doubted if my words of consolation could have much of an effect. She had picked me up when I was down. I thanked her again for taking the time to see me and after finishing our meal we walked back to the Foreign Ministry. She pointed out a nearby art gallery (ministering to foreigners?) as having a good selection of artists (and indeed it did) and then she was gone.

Some friends are life-long, some friendships flare-up brightly, only to quickly burn out. Some friendships are simply a case of parallel lives, two stars a drift in the heavens, each gaining a little energy from the radiance of the other and then parting to fade away to oblivion.

Svo lít ég upp og sé við erum saman þarna tvær stjörnur á blárri festinguni sem færast nær og nær. Ég man þig þegar augu mín eru opin, hverja stund. En þegar ég nú legg þau aftur, fer ég á þinn fund. ~Megas

Search for a Dancer Index…

Last Dance

This is chapter 69 of The Matriarchy, a serial fiction novel on FITK



The final leg of the return to Seattle was uneventful. After they got arrived, Emily settled into Mary and Sean’s spare apartment. Mary finally made a visit to the clinic for a pregnancy check-up and evaluation and was found to be in excellent health; her pregnancy was proceeding normally. Sean began using FaceTime to check-in with Þora and their son. He was pleasantly surprised to discover that Þora was a sensible and pragmatic woman with a good sense of humor, especially in light of the bizarre circumstances of their meeting and Vilhjálmur’s conception (Sean learned that in Iceland he could be referred to as Billy’s Kviðmágur.) Þora, with the aid of her uncle Hilmar, was also learning more about the ‘old religion’ and using some of Emily’s spells to help manage her son’s behavior. Hilmar had his hands full with the meteoric rise of the spells app. He spent a good deal of time conferring with Mary. Mary and Emily’s personal relationship grew stronger: they spent several hours each day together, bonding in the trance-state and exchanging knowledge and deepening their understanding of those ancient forces which they shared. Mary’s friend Jo had successfully terminated her relationship with her ex, with some help from the spell app. Molly Berenson’s career in Insurance took a turn for the better—her experiences with the FBI had given her personality a bit of a ‘hard edge’ and a ruthlessness which was not a disadvantage in her profession.

Back in Decorah, Tina and Edwin finally left Edwin’s apartment and moved into an assisted living facility—together (although Edwin still kept his shop open on weekends.) The sale of the Carroll family farm was finalized and the house and the outbuildings were torn down. Everyone involved with The Matriarchy felt a great sense of relief that The Brotherhood had been destroyed.

Emily had some adjustments to make to 21st-century life and culture. She quickly learned to use the internet and used it to find information about her old Greenwich Village friends. She found a surprisingly large number of books about the era and Sean helped her order some of them on-line.  Emily was amazed at how quickly she received them. Television didn’t interest her much (‘So vulgar!’), and she was somewhat alarmed at the appearance of the numerous homeless people that she would encounter when she was out with Mary and Sean (she called them ‘empty souls’). Her accelerated aging continued.  She ‘breezed’ through menopause in less than a month (‘The one positive thing to be said about my rapid aging!’) and her health remained good. She had the appearance of a well-maintained 60-year-old. One day, while out shopping with Mary for things for the baby, she noticed a poster advertising swing dances at The Century Ballroom.

“I’d like to go to that,” she said to Mary, “I love to dance. Did you know that when I first went to New York I worked as a taxi dancer in one of those ‘dime-a-dance’ halls?”

“Really?” said Mary, “I’m not much of a dancer, especially now, but I think Sean is pretty good. That would be a fun thing to do.”

“It’s tomorrow night,” said Emily, “I’ll need a fancy dress, of course.”

“We’ve got your old dresses in our storage unit!” exclaimed Mary, “I would think that any of them will turn some heads. That sounds like a plan!”

When the women returned to the apartment they brought the boxes with the dresses up to Emily’s apartment. As they went through the dresses, Emily told Mary the story behind each of them. At the bottom of the last box was a silk and lace dress. Emily carefully unfolded it and held it up to her body.

“My Schiaparelli,” said Emily, “This is the one. Help me put it on, Mary. I hope it still fits.”

Emily removed her top and skirt while Mary spread the dress out on Emily’s bed.

“It looks to be intact,” said Mary, “My God, it’s absolutely stunning!”

Emily carefully stepped into the dress and Mary zipped up the back.

“It fits! It fits!” Emily said, as she did a little pirouette in front of the dressing mirror, “I’m going to break some hearts tomorrow night.”

“The power of The Matriarchy expressed in haute couture!” said Mary, laughing.

---

The next night Emily and Mary and Sean went to the swing dance. There was a slight drizzle, so Emily’s outfit was completely covered by one of Sean’s large rain jackets. They entered the ballroom’s crowded lobby unnoticed and went over to the coat check. Sean helped Emily with her wrap and Mary with her coat. They stood for a moment and then began to walk arm in arm, with Sean in the middle, toward the ballroom.  As they walked, the sound of the people’s talking changed. What had been an undifferentiated roar became a murmuring. This change of tone caused another change in the crowd’s behavior. All heads turned toward the trio. Mary and Sean had enjoyed a limited notoriety in the Seattle area, especially in the tech community, but tonight all eyes were on the stunning gray-haired woman on Sean’s arm.

The music began, and Mary gave Sean a nod and looked at Emily. Sean had taken ballroom dancing while in college as a way to meet girls, he was competent but soon realized that he was over-matched. Emily seemed to be floating; anticipating Sean’s every move and adding graceful flourishes to each action. As the couples around them whirled, Sean got the sense that they were checking out the ‘newcomers’ as much as they were enjoying dancing to the music. After the first number ended a distinguished-looking older man, wearing a tux, came over to Emily and Sean and held his hand out to Emily.

“May I have the pleasure of this next dance?” he said.

“Of course,” said Emily, “You don’t mind, do you, Sean?”

Sean smiled and nodded, and Emily and her new partner were off. Sean rejoined Mary who was sitting on the sideline looking at a brochure describing the swing dance program.

“That didn’t take Emily long,” said Mary, pointing to a picture in the brochure, “Marcel DuPage. Her partner is the top dog at this kennel show.”

Marcel had met his match and he knew it. After the second number ended, they danced through the third, and fourth as well. Emily then begged off, although she was far from tired, she knew that by sitting out it would increase the man’s desire.

“Not a bad performance for a little old lady,” Emily said to Mary, “I’ll let him think about it for a while.”

Sean and Mary got up and joined the throng on the dance floor. A few of the other women at the dance came over to where Emily was sitting.

“That was wonderful,” said one of the women, “and your dress, it’s fabulous! Is that vintage? Where did you get it?”

“It has been in the family for a long time.  Schiaparelli,” said Emily, “Are you regulars here?”

“Oh, yes,” said another, “We’ve been coming ever since Mr. DuPage began Swing Night at the Century, but I’ve never seen anyone dance with him the way you have. Are you a professional? You must be new to Seattle.”

“I used to dance professionally in New York City, but that was a long time ago. It’s good to see that younger people are still doing these dances,” said Emily. With a twinkle in her eye, she added: “Tell me, what should I know about Mr. DuPage?”

“A gentleman, but faithless,” said another, “Some might call him a cad. He really is a decent man, excepting the fact that he will never allow himself to be tied down. I’m just giving you fair warning.”

“I see. Thanks for the information,” said Emily, “Now, if you’ll pardon me, it appears that Marcel is coming my way. I’ll be careful.”

And Emily and Marcel danced.

Later on, Sean and Mary went home, without Emily.




Fiction

Dramatic Reykjavík

Those of you interested in exploring Icelandic culture may find that a visit to one or both of the two major theater companies in Reykjavík to be most rewarding. They aren't usually listed in most tourist guides for a couple of reasons: they are not active in the high tourist season and the plays are all in Icelandic. If you do happen find yourself in town between September and May you would be wise to check them out:


Þjóðleikhúsið, Reykjavík

Þjóðleikhúsið, the National Theater, is located in an intimidating structure on Hverfisgata, with a smaller "box" theater situated on the street behind it—Lindargata. Þjóðleikhúsið produces a mixture of plays every season, including serious drama by foreign playwrights, modern Icelandic drama, several productions for children, and contemporary Icelandic comedy. These are world-class productions with fantastic sets and brilliant direction. They feature many of the fine actors you've probably already seen in Icelandic films. The smaller Kassinn (box) venue features intimate productions and are usually somewhat "edgier". Baltasar Kormákur's 2006 production of Peer Gynt was the most intense theater experience I've ever had. The main stage offers a little more traditional fare (but only a little), Hallgrímur Helgason’s Þetta er allt að koma in 2004 was a wild ride through Icelandic consciousness.


Borgarleikhúsið

Borgarleikhúsið is the City Theater. Located on the south end of Kringland, it usually runs a little lighter in tone, with an emphasis on musicals and family fare (Mary Poppins, for example). The smaller theater offers current playwrights; on a recent visit I saw John Logan's Red (Rautt), a Tony-award winning play about the artist Mark Rothko. The theater complex is newer than the Þjóðleikhúsið and contains a vast lobby (for both venues) well worth a visit on its own.

Don’t let the language barrier prevent you from attending one of these plays. You might want to avoid overly "talky" dramas, but I've found that the expressive acting in most plays usually makes up for my lack of literary comprehension. A play you are familiar with, for example Shakespeare's Macbeth, would lose little in translation. The tickets are reasonable (4400 kronur, about $35 or £24) and while it is possible to order on line, it requires some help from Google translate. You might want to visit the box office a couple of days in advance for the performances often sell out. If you are by yourself, or can't convince your traveling partner to come along, you'll have a better chance of scoring a single ticket to a popular show. Part of any theater experience is people watching during the intermission and the Icelanders do enjoy dressing up for the occasion so dress up yourself—and you'll become part of that show! The matinees are somewhat less formal.

A big part of Iceland's appeal for me is its spoken language. Attending a play there is an opportunity to hear it at a very high level. This form of Icelandic culture, when distilled into a dramatic context, creates memories which you'll never forget.

Note: a slightly different form of this post was originally written for the I’d Rather Be in Iceland Blog.

Quiet Moments Before the Mælstrom

AT LAST!


Reykjavík, Harbour with Sculpture and Imagine Peace Tower

I'm back on the rock. I've got a few days to settle in before the madness begins, I did some walking about, went swimming, and ate at a wonderful little restaurant recommended by Maria's Cat (see comments.) The Plokkfiskur með rúgbrauði was to die for.



Evidently this was Bobby Fischer's favorite place to eat. I may have to go back for the Hrár Hvalur Sasimi að japönskum sið.

And last, but not least:



Don't knock it if you haven't tried it.

More to come all week long...

---

Tjörnin

The weather keeps getting better, in the upper 40's today with little wind. I went out biking, and for some reason it seemed especially tiring- until I looked at my brake and saw that one of the springs that holds the caliper open had slipped- I was pedaling with the brake on. It was somewhat easier after I fixed that! Along the harbour was an exhibit of past and present scenes of the waterfront area, including this locomotive, the first and only train there ever has been in Iceland:

And, of course, there is the Vesturbæjarlaug pool:



I haven't had any deep conversations in the "hot pots" this trip as yet, but there have been moments, like the one Sunday with a mother and father and their ten year-old daughter. The daughter was resting her head on her father's massive chest, talking to him quietly and sweetly. She then started to croon a plaintive childrens song- a very touching and tender scene. Monday I was in a pot with three older people when some young men from from the U.S. came in and started taking computer repair. Talk about a mood killer! They left soon enough; the ensuing quiet was most welcome. Today, (Tuesday) I was in the same pot. The sun was shining so you could bask in it while the hot water swirled all about you. Then a trio of bikini-clad teen-age girls came in. From the sound of their conversation I surmised that they were Swedish. One had a waterproof camera (normally forbidden in the pool- but who's going object to some girls snapping pictures of each other?) and I used that camera to take a picture of all three them together. The sounds of their voices were like singing as well.

Grace is real.

The evening found me back at 3 Frakkur, this time for Hvalkjöts piparsteik með piparsósu. I even managed to pronounce it well enough so that the waitperson could understand me.
This dish was a bit rich for my tastes, but still very good.

After dinner I walked the streets a bit. The Airwaves crowd is starting to filter in, but nothing is really going on yet. There is a "Rock 'n Bacon" breakfast show at 10:00 tomorrow morning with the Ultra Mega Technobandið Stefán - a wild group of young men (don't let their picture fool you.) Sounds delicious.

---

Guð Blessi Ísland

Another fine, albeit breezy day. Picked up my Airwaves wristbands, my bike, and stopped in to Þjóðleikhúsið for my Saturday night theatre ticket:



I wouldn't dare miss a production with my favorite, usually half-naked, Icelandic Actor, Ólafur Darri Ólafsson:



My next stop was a riotously chaotic bookstore where I had a delightful chat with Sveitakall, seen here in all his glory:



We got to talking about a certain Icelandic author and we checked the shelves, but there wasn't anything I was really interested in. "Why don't you come with me, we'll go downstairs see if there is anything there..." We went through a back door and down an elevator, then down a hall with several identical doors. He opened the last door and behind it there was a room packed with shelves of "the good stuff." First editions, mostly in Icelandic, and much more. Still, the books on the shelves were not quite what I wanted. "I've got this box," he said, "there may be something in it..."



OMG!!!

After I regained my breath, we negotiated a fair price and I left the store with my treasures. Another swim 'n soak at the neighborhood pool, then a little web cam appearance for all my fans, a few minutes at Friða Frænka and some supper. I dined in early because I had seen a poster at the Háskóla Bíó for a movie I wanted to see and I'd read about:



It is a documentary about the Kreppa and last winter's protests and also about the lives of three of the people involved: a policeman, a trucker, and a witch. Not being able to understand Icelandic, I watched the movie at a certain distance, but the humanity of those involved was clear enough. The protest scenes were very intense, reminiscent of Haskell Wexler's Medium Cool. The evocative musical soundtrack was composed by Hilmar Örn Hilmarsson

Of course, this story isn't over yet, and may not be for a long time. As an outsider, I really can't comment too much on the film. I'll leave you with a link to an Icelandic blogger's reaction: Google translate is pretty sketchy in Icelandic, but the second paragraph is clear enough:

I wept
I wept when I watched about the police against protestors
I wept when Stulli and his wife had (a) Móment when he was going to Norway
I wept when Eva Hawke was to pack down (closing her shop)

Having met Eva once, and, having followed her blog, I almost wept myself.

Guð Blessi Ísland

Be the Wolf

Chapter 9 of Search For a Dancer, a serial memoir about a week I spent in Iceland. Mondays on Flippism is the Key

I can’t even begin to explain it, much less justify it.

The stage play Vertu úlfur (Be a Wolf) is based on Héðin Unnsteinsson's autobiographical narrative of the same name.

I saw it tonight in the National Theatre (Þjóðleikhúsið). The show took me on a crazy journey through the “… dangerous places of the mind into a world of anarchy and despair and back again, the struggle of a man who manages to break out of the vicious cycle and manages to turn his most terrifying experience into the strength needed to change.” The book was nominated for the Icelandic Literature Prize and was made into a solo play by director Unni Ösp Stefánsdóttir.

This really pushed me out of my comfort zone with its 100+ minutes of Björn Thors’ nearly nonstop monologs in Icelandic. The stagecraft and Björn’s masterful emoting and body language enabled me to be thoroughly enthralled throughout.

Why would anyone go to see a play in a foreign country, performed in an incomprehensible language? I’ve done stranger things, but not many. What began as a whim in 2004 has become a compulsion with me: Icelandic live theatre. I lost my Þjóðleikhúsið virginity attending a performance of Þetta er allt að koma (This is all coming). My mind was blown that night; perhaps this infatuation is actually my attempt to pick up the pieces. The production was to see tonight had been a rousing success, with over 100 performances seen by tens of thousands of people, including many middle-school students who were there in abundance that night:

Between trigger warnings and censorship, I can’t see that a performance as intense as this one would be allowed to have an audience of older children and young teens in the U.S.A.

The play opened with a closed curtain. A man in a suit (actor Björn Thors) stepped out with a pocket full of sand. He used the sand and a piece of chalk to draw a circular diagram of his family and its history. Out of this simple introduction came the story of his struggle with manic-depression, two hours of intense acting that enthralled me with its vivid portrayal of a man struggling with his inner demons. His body language became a sublime dance, choreography of the human spirit. The stagecraft was just as brilliant—the minimal sets were transformed again and again with its archetypal imagery (a rain shower! A forty-foot-long duvet! A road to nowhere!) Evocative lighting!

A typical tourist, unless they happened to walk into the theatre’s box office out of curiosity about the theatre’s imposing facade, would be unaware of the miracles this venue performs on a regular basis. The Reykjavík area has a population of about 200,000. And if that wasn’t enough culture for one town, the city boasts of another live theatre complex of equal stature, plus several smaller companies.

Before the play started I was sitting on a bench in the outer lobby when woman came in and sat down next to me. We started talking about Icelandic theatre, she was a regular and I mentioned Hallgrímmur Helgason’s Þetta er allt að koma. She had known Hallgrímmur since he was three years old! She also mentioned what a great man he was—the second time I heard someone say that today!

When the woman whom my bench-mate was waiting for came in she said to us: “Ah! Brúðkaupsbekkurinn!”




Search for a Dancer Index…

Graveyard Blues

This is chapter 16 of Window Weather, a serial fiction novel on FITK



Sean and Billy were walking amid mossy lava formations. “The moon is made of green cheese,” thought Sean, before returning his attention to Billy’s question.

“I guess I don’t, know what is going on.” said Sean, “Fill me in. Was that really your daughter back there?”

“I’ll get back to her in a minute,” Billy said, “What do you think you know about my activities here?”  

“What do I know? Nothing,” said Sean, What do I think? If I know you at all, you’re probably running some kind of scam, not necessarily illegal, but sketchy enough to be questionable. Something with the Russians, something with the locals, getting your money from an ATM, fucking women. Geez, do you realize how many people have been looking for you?”

“You mean The Senator and his minions, of which you are one?”

“Bill, look, I’m just a data miner, I’m like you in a sense, but unlike you I get a W-2 at the end of the year. How long do you think you can go on like this? All the rogue sites you used to use for your scams are being busted, Wikileaks is virtually defunct, you have become obsolete… you’re the ‘Kid Charlemagne’ of cyberspace.”

“You just don’t get it, do you Sean?” said Billy,  “The world is in conflict. Money is the lubricant. Rebels, rogue states, tin-horn tyrants—their power all comes from the barrel of a gun. They can’t buy this stuff at Costco. Deals need to be done under the table by someone, someone who knows how to keep it all invisible. The Senator knows how it works and he gets a taste of it—almost all of it.”

“You do realize that if this was true and it got out it would ruin your father?” asked Sean.

“That information is my insurance policy. He won’t touch me, or my daughter, because he knows I would release it,” said Billy,  “He’s a bad man. Worse than you can imagine. He’s backed by an organization which never lets anything, or anyone, get in its way. That’s why he must not find out about Maria. That’s why you should leave, Sean. The Russians heard you outside the embassy last night and they didn’t appreciate it. You’d better be sitting on that flight tomorrow or you’ll be going home in a box. We’re dealing with the dark soldiers of the new order. Never underestimate their power.”

Billy was becoming more agitated, with beads of sweat forming on his upper lip and forehead. “High,” thought Sean. He had better calm him down or he wouldn’t be able to get anywhere with him.

“You hungry Billy? If I’m going to go back tomorrow, I’ve got a kitchen full of food and wine. It would be a shame to let go to waste. I won’t bug you about going back.”

“Not hungry, but I will drink some of your wine.”

“Yeah. A little wine, just the way it used to be.”

They were walking past a swampy area when Billy pointed to a wall on the other side of the highway.

“Your place is by the Russian Embassy, right? Let’s cut through Hólavallagarður, it’s right on the way.”

“Through what?”

“The cemetery. Just down the street from your place. It’s quiet and a lot more private than walking in front of a bunch of houses full of peering eyes. Don’t cross here—go up a little.”

Sean thought that the cemetery was nice. Old enough to have a pleasant coat of moss in places, yet well-kept with a system of elegant brickwork paths. The damp smell of the place was of life, not decay. The sun had broken through, brilliantly illuminating the tombstones with a golden shafts of light. Billy led Sean to a plot that had a wall they could sit on.

“I still don’t get it, Billy,” said Sean,  “You could go back home and do some basic campaigning for your father, he gets elected, you get an NSA job. You’re set for life—maybe even traveling the world as a special envoy—you could probably even get a post back here in Iceland if it means that much to you.”

“If it were that simple I might think about it, but it isn’t,” Billy said, “I am the proverbial black sheep, the prodigal son, living with the mark of Cain.”

“Now you’re just being ridiculous. Look. I’ve known you like a brother. I know that your father is a… well, let’s just say that he’s another gasbag politician,  better than some, worse than some, but he is an effective legislator and quite probably the next President of the United States.”

“Like a brother, Sean. Like a brother. Think about it. We’re nearly dead ringers, our mothers were similar in appearance, your mother was living in D.C. at the time of your conception, we were born within a couple of months of each other. It would never do, now would it, for a rising young politico to have children by different mothers. Think of how you made it into college, lost your mom, and how my mother died a few months later. ‘She OD’ed on alcohol and barbiturates’ they said, ‘tsk, tsk, too bad, so sad, so sorry, poor Billy.’  Then, a year later, it’s ‘Billy meet your new mother’—a younger, sexier, richer mother with real connections. Sean, listen to me. You are my half-brother. He knows I know, and he knows that we’re the only things between him and the White House. Your mother was his lover. She had you. He bought her silence and then found a way to keep her quiet forever. And now, why he’s got you in his pocket! The good son Abel sent to redeem the bad son Cain.”

“Give me some time to process this,” said Sean, “Are you saying that he killed our mothers to advance his political ambitions?”

“Oh no! No one can prove a thing—your mother’s car crash, a terrible accident. Did you ever read the police report? The real one? Or how about my mother’s death? I’ve done some research on that too. It isn’t that hard to kill a drunk, bless her heart, and she was definitely a drunk. Just get her a prescription for sleeping pills from the family doctor, and then, one night when she’s really hammered, see to it that she takes a triple dose.”

“You have any proof of this?”

“I have enough,” Billy continued, “Look. I’m not out to destroy my father. He can do what he wants, but I’m not going to live in his shadow. I’m just crazy enough to believe that I should be entitled to a real life. I can’t be around him, I’d kill him—if he didn’t kill me first.”

“Let’s go open that wine,” said Sean, “I think we could both use a drink.”

“Right on, brother.”



Next Chapter: Drinkin’ Wine Spo-Dee-O-Dee

Everything is Different Now

This is chapter 38 of The Matriarchy, a serial fiction novel on FITK



Pulling into Tina’s driveway, Sean was surprised to see Edwin and Tina sitting together on the front porch. Mary was not surprised. The weather had turned sultry. Tina was wearing a light house-dress while Edwin was in shorts and a short-sleeved shirt. They were smiling.

“Welcome back honeymooners,” said Tina, “How was your trip?”

“Er, interesting, to say the least,” said Sean, “Mineral Point definitely has its charms.”

“Who’s minding the store, Edwin?” said Mary, playfully.

“Never on Sunday,” said Edwin, “How did those rings work out for you?”

“A profound experience,” said Sean, “Not for casual use.”

“Any news from Emily?” asked Edwin.

“Yes,” Mary said tersely, “There was a visitation last night. It wasn’t pleasant.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you. I can see how a visit from Emily would be upsetting,” said Edwin.

“Everything I experience gives me a greater understanding,” said Mary.

“When will you two be leaving for Seattle?” said Tina.

“It looks like we’ll be heading out on Wednesday morning,” said Sean, “If nothing else extraordinary comes up.”

“I’d like to look at the other sites that Emily drew pictures of before we leave,” said Mary to Sean, “Do you think we have enough time to visit one before dinner?”

“I don’t see why we couldn’t,” said Sean, “Edwin, can I give you a ride back into town?”

“No,” said Edwin, “Tonight I’m the cook.”

---

Sally O’Donnell sent Molly Berenson a text message:

Molly, I need to meet with you ASAP. This is urgent. Everyone who was involved with Billy and Sean is in grave danger. I have information which may help protect you and them. Can we meet? Sally O'Donnell

She knew it was a long shot, but her options were running out. She was startled when her phone chimed only a few minutes later.

        OK. Meet me at Peets, in an hour. MollyB

Sally returned the message with an "OK."

---

The next place on the map of the locations of Emily’s drawings was a bend in the Trout Run Creek. The years had changed the view considerably, but once they neared the spot Mary could sense its exact location: a small sand bar in the middle of the stream.

“Keep an eye out, Sean,” said Mary as she began to wade in the shallow creek, “I don’t want to be interrupted. You don’t have to say anything, and you don’t have to do anything. Not a thing. But if somebody comes, you could whistle. You know how to whistle, don’t you, Sean? You just put your lips together and … blow.”

“Just put your lips together and blow, right, Ms. Bacall?” said Sean. “To Have and Have Not?”

“Good memory. I never knew you were such an expert when it came to romantic movies.”

When Mary reached the island, she immediately slipped into a trance-state.

---

Molly and Sally sat at a table in Peet’s Coffee and Tea, in the Green Lake District of Seattle. Molly was wary of Sally. Her dislike stemmed not only from Sally’s role in the ‘Billygate’ affair but also from her general appearance. Molly thought that Sally projected an air of crass indifference. Although Molly knew that Sally wasn’t directly responsible for the interrogation by the FBI, she felt that Sally’s treatment of Sean and her was a factor leading to her breakup with Sean. After exchanging frosty hellos, Molly wanted Sally to get straight to the point.

“What is it that you have that is so important?” she said.

“I know that I’m not the most popular person in your world,” Sally began, “And I’ve done many things which I’ve regretted. But circumstances change. While I can never atone for the things that happened to you and Sean, you must deliver some information to Sean.”

“Why did you come to me?” said Molly, “We’re not exactly close anymore.”

“Nobody can locate them. They haven’t been seen in Seattle for over a week. I don’t have any way to contact them.”

“Without getting me involved too deeply, what is it, in general, that you want to tell them?”

Sally paused a moment before answering.

“You know that I was working for Senator Clarkson when Billy and Sean were in Iceland,” Sally began, “What you don’t know is that I was really working on behalf of The Senator’s father-in-law, a man named Roger Ramsen. I was his mistress. Roger passed away last Wednesday from a massive coronary. While he was in the hospital I took the liberty to examine his computer, copying numerous files and emails. After I read them I became aware of the fact that Roger belonged to a secret organization, a group of men who preside over a vast international financial and political enterprise.”

“Is that what Billy leaked to that Professor?” said Molly.

“He didn’t know the names of any of the men in Roger’s group.”

“OK, I understand you so far. How does this put Sean in danger?” asked Molly, anxiously.

“Sean, as Senator Clarkson’s son, is a legal heir to the Senator’s estate. While the Senator is a wealthy man, he isn’t in the same league as the others,” Sally continued, “But, and this is far more important, Sean is somehow entitled to a share of the group’s assets. The group of men are all old and, for reasons I have yet to determine, have not had any new members join in many years. There were eight of them. Now, with the death of Roger, they are seven. They are, for some reason, terrified that Sean may make a claim on his inheritance, exposing the group. Billy was right about Sean’s mother being murdered. But it wasn’t Senator Clarkson behind it. It was the group. I fear that they will try again to take the same action against Sean.”

Molly sat in stunned silence.

“Will you help me help Sean and Mary?" pleaded Sally.

Molly remembered that she still had access to the data drop-box which Mary had given her when Sean was in Iceland. It might still work.

“I think I might be able to reach him,” Molly said.

“Let me know if you can, and what the response is,” said Sally. “Here’s my number. If they want my information, call me and we’ll meet again for coffee. Don’t say anything about Sean over the phone, just make a date for coffee.”

“I’ll get back to you,” said Molly.

---

After her visitation, Mary waded back to the bank where Sean was waiting.

“Anything?” asked Sean.

“Cellular history,” she said, “All the way back to protozoa.”




Fiction  

Iceland 2025 — Day Seven

Morning at Grund

Airwaves started with a mid-morning concert at the senior residence Grund. The President of Iceland, Halla Tómasdóttir, spoke, first addressing the children in the crowd and then the seniors and festival goers.

When Halla finished the first performer was GDRN, a brilliant singer/songwriter who had the audience mesmerized with her traditional songs in Icelandic:

The elderly gentleman on the far left was no doubt once a pianist, he played “air piano” along with the band:

Bríet played some pleasant folk-pop songs in a verrry furry suit:

Then I was off to the pool again where I talked with several other festival-goers and a violinist about the festival, its performers and the politics of Icelandic musical acts getting into the festival.

In the afternoon I saw Anderverel at Lucky Records. He is an ex-pat from Mexico, and has lived in Iceland for eight years. His songs were filled with a sense of melancholy and longing, his drummer gave a lesson in precise underplaying:

I then heard the quirky keyboard/drum duo Mag og Tómas at Reykjavík Records. Notice the music box piano in the foreground and the red rubber chicken to the left of the keyboard, both were used in the performances:

After taking a close-up of Mag's ring I caught a bit of Elin Hall warming up at 12 Tónar:

At Space Odyssey, the French singer Roukie was barely visible playing with Ulfúr, who was invisible in the low-ceiling room:

Smekklysa had the spacey K.óla, a bass/keyboard singing/performance duo, they performed Art-songs about longing abetted by some clever choreography. Original and very sweet:

After dinner, I went out to catch some theatre again, this time to Tjarnarbíó. In the lobby a man greeted me thinking I was someone he knew from 30 years ago. I hated to disappoint him, he seemed like a nice guy. The lobby there is very nice, almost homey:

The play was the stylized comedy 40.000 Fet, it was about two female flight attendants and their flight crew. It was quite bawdy at times, with a serious ending addressing mortality. A nice twist was that when you entered the theatre space the actors portraying the flight attendants greeted you in character, as if you were the passengers:

One more show tonight, this time at Iðno. It was an Airwaves warm-up show featuring acts from Marvaða, a female-oriented record label. Mr. Silla,  and Salka Valsdóttir, both fine singers, performed:

Then, to my delight, I spotted Hekla Magnusdóttir, virtuosa thereminist hiding in Salka’s band. She played an achingly beautiful solo that stunned the crowd:

A pretty good day overall, all the musical acts were rewarding, with GDRN delivering the most professional and touching performance. And Hekla was the icing on the cake.

Three Possibilities: Incident on Highway 41

#1.
Neal and I had been driving all night, trying to make it to L.A. by dawn, crossing the desert wedged in between a convoy of over-the-road truckers, trying to avoid any attention from the law; if they searched our trunk we'd be looking at 10 to 20 in the Federal prison, if they tested our blood we'd be hospitalized, and then sent to jail. Neal had a big bottle of black dex that he was popping like candy, his motor-mouth wouldn't quit, all those BIG IDEAS of his, I'd heard them all before, but when he really got rolling it was like a Bach Fugue- inspired variations on theme. "Get that tin foil out of the glove-box there.." he croaked. When Neal had something wrapped in foil, you knew it was special. "Unwrap it, Batty old boy, careful that you don't spill any..." I opened the little metallic package, it contained about forty shiny brown seeds, all round and convex, like some sort of organic M&Ms. "Divvy 'em up, but chew 'em good... they're from my Shaman in the Amazon- they'll keep you awake for the rest of the way, ha, ha, ha..." When Neal started in with that little nervous laugh of his, I knew that these were more than just some mild stimulant. I was feeling a little fagged so what the hell, I ate my half. They were bitter, it was all I could do to avoid gagging, I washed them down with a hit off the bottle of Tempranillo we'd been sharing as I handed Neal his. He kept driving, and talking, but after about twenty minutes I wondered if someone hadn't taken Neal for a ride with those oily seeds. He was suddenly quiet, the last thing we needed was him nodding off at 70 miles per hour. "Prof... Prof, you feeling anything? I... I... " He stopped talking as his hands began to shake.

And then the stars began to fall...


#2.

"You've been through a lot, you're all beat up. Can you tell me what happened out there?"

"Well Doc, I was driving on that road to avoid the traffic on the interstate, it's a little out of the way, but I like those lonesome highways..."

"You were found naked, in your car, stopped on the shoulder with the motor running..."

"OK, Doc this is all I remember..."

I was following a semi, he must have been overweight and taking the back road to avoid the inspection station. His rig would sway on the bad parts of the road, I kept my distance... Suddenly a group of bright lights came out of the sky, my car stopped running, but the truck ahead of me kept going until I was alone on the road. An intense blue light, like the ones in the sky, came closer until my car was surrounded. I don't know exactly what happened then, but I seem to remember floating out of my car, out of my clothes, until I sensed that I was in a large craft of some sort. It was like a hospital examination room, there were bright lights and some sort of pedestals lined up. I was on one of them, I wasn't strapped in, but I couldn't move. A strange being, roughly humanoid in appearance, but with an over-sized head and big opaque black eyes came close to me, he was clutching a strange probe-like wand in his "hand", he waved it over me, and then... then..."

"I'm sorry, I just can't go on..."

"I see. Can you tell me what happened after this encounter?"

"Well... afterwards... we smoked cigarettes..."



#3.

If there are any Elves left in Iceland, they probably don't hang out on the highway. Still, with the not-yet-risen sun brightening the eastern sky, the Professor felt a tingle, as if there were some ineffable message being directed his way by spirits unknown. He took out his camera, set the shutter for four seconds and took a picture through the Flybus' front window...

... months later, The Professor took that image, ran it through some Photoshop filters, in a search for something, a trace. Something consisting of pure energy, leaving a record of its passing, in an appearance so fleeting that a person's ordinary senses would miss it completely...

Mondays in Iceland - #113

Iceland Writers Retreat - 2021

At long last the IWR happened, albeit virtually on Zoom.

Although the virtual format is almost the exact opposite of the “bodies in a room” experience that I signed up for (way back in 2019!) it was still something, and something about Iceland is usually better than nothing, right? My previous experiences with Zoom had been OK, if somewhat clumsy. This was on a different scale of magnitude, instead of a half-dozen former classmates I was one of a 150 or so fellow-seekers of literary enlightenment, interacting with numerous writers, poets and even an editor! Held over three seven-hour days, there were 27 presentations to peruse in real-time (and to review later at my leisure.)

So, how did it go?

Better than I had hoped.

The three Icelandic authors were the highlights of the retreat for me. Andri Snær Magnason (LoveStar) had a low-key, almost conversational presentation, as did Ragnar Helgi Ólafsson (in green box above). Hallgrimur Helgason (Hitman’s Guide to Housecleaning, Reyjkjavík 101) gave a wonderful history lesson on modern Icelandic writers, I could have listened to him speak for another ninety minutes. There were non-Icelandic notables as well, I was very impressed by Adam Gopnik’s talk on memoir and was pleasantly surprised by The New York Times Book Review editor Pamela Paul’s wide ranging discussion on how to write a book review. I saw the bulk of nine presentations and am looking forward to seeing most of the others when they are available on replay.

I did run across Emily Lethbridge who I “knew” from Laxness in Translation; we had an exchange of private messages. Other chat-room denizens were also entertaining and informative.

The technical side was handled very well except for a few participants whose equipment/connection wasn’t really up to snuff. I found that several participants hid in the shadows; a simple desk lamp would have turned their presence from distant to palpable.

The big question: would I do it again, in person, in Iceland, in 2022?

As Björk once sang: Possibly Maybe…

Either Way

Á annan veg
A film by Hafsteinn Gunnar Sigurðsson
Iceland 2011

Another Icelandic film that had hitherto escaped my attention, found hidden in the Anoka county library system’s computer catalog. A true road movie: all of the action takes place on or near desolated stretches of Iceland's rural roads. I had seen one of its stars, Hilmar Guðjónsson, in a 2012 production of Rauð (Red), a play about Mark Rothko. I saw him in 2015 as well, in the Vesturbaerlaug swimming pool, but that was a different kind of “exposure.”

Set in the mid-80s, two road workers are spending their summer manually painting lines and pounding in stakes along a mostly deserted highway. Alfred (Hilmar) is 24 and restless, eager to return to the city. Finnbogi (Sveinn Ólafur Gunnarsson) is 33, and is using the summer to take a break from a stormy relationship with Alfred’s sister. The relationship between the men is strained to begin with, and goes downhill from there. A lot of not very enlightened talk about women eventually comes to a breaking point. I won’t go into plot; this more a film of atmosphere and nuance. The Icelandic scenery in the film is among its bleakest, this is most definitely not an Icelandic Tourism film. A hard film to like. While the actors are fine, I found the set-up and payoff not worth the effort. The film did have some success on the festival circuit where its “indie” production sensibilities would be an asset. It was remade as Prince Avalanche in the U.S. in 2013, starring Paul Rudd and Emile Hirsch, which bombed at the box office.