chips of iceland
walked on a melting glacier. what a metaphor
this place is like Lord of the Rings on acid...
Heavy mist. Low visibility. A lagoon filled with icebergs. Natural, translucent ice sculptures. Cumbersome white fragments. Floating in the mist. Birds circle madly. They dive for fish. I reach the pebbled shore. A fish comes up to the surface. On its side it turns. Flopping on the shallow. It looks at me. Its silvery back flashes in the cold gleam of the frozen landscape. It wriggles off and swims away. I walk along the shore into the fog.
Stop in a small fishing town. Actually considered quite large for these parts. Population 300. The restaurant served a buffet –10 types of freshly caught fish. All the guesthouses were full. Driving in the not so dark night. Meet a farmer whose wife is an artist. They have rooms to let. Her art is on the walls. She oscillates between abstract and expressionism. The water still smells like sulfur here.
Bog of eternal stench: sulfur craters. Yellow, ochre, pink sides. Milky light blue water, steaming. Or steel-grey liquid bubbling and frothing. An awesome sight. But the stench is overpowering. So awful, my head reels from it.
Mordor: Charcoal black with patches of light blue as far as the eye can see. Smoke rises from various parts of this burnt scenery made of broken rocks and craters thrust skywards. A shattered, smoldering, ashy landscape. The blackness. Everywhere. Steaming. It fumes across the vastness. Like the aftermath of some colossal fire. A battle between gods. The brokenness – cracks, fissures, rubble. One can smell destruction here. Frozen lava flows, petrified in movement, blacker than the rest reach down the valley, grasping at the green. The glaciers glint in the distance.
Through the mountains once more. Half an hour on a dirt road. The canyon. No railings or protection. No tourism industry framing the ferocity. No niagra-like kodak moments. To stand a foot away from the edge. Walls of water, gales rising upwards. A hundred detonations every second. hypnotizing. I think of Kundera's remarks on vertigo: not the fear of falling but the fear of the desire to fall. Dettifoss. The name of Europe's largest waterfall. (I imagine it means 'God's Madness'). I am silenced. The pain of no words.
this place is like Lord of the Rings on acid...
Heavy mist. Low visibility. A lagoon filled with icebergs. Natural, translucent ice sculptures. Cumbersome white fragments. Floating in the mist. Birds circle madly. They dive for fish. I reach the pebbled shore. A fish comes up to the surface. On its side it turns. Flopping on the shallow. It looks at me. Its silvery back flashes in the cold gleam of the frozen landscape. It wriggles off and swims away. I walk along the shore into the fog.
Stop in a small fishing town. Actually considered quite large for these parts. Population 300. The restaurant served a buffet –10 types of freshly caught fish. All the guesthouses were full. Driving in the not so dark night. Meet a farmer whose wife is an artist. They have rooms to let. Her art is on the walls. She oscillates between abstract and expressionism. The water still smells like sulfur here.
Bog of eternal stench: sulfur craters. Yellow, ochre, pink sides. Milky light blue water, steaming. Or steel-grey liquid bubbling and frothing. An awesome sight. But the stench is overpowering. So awful, my head reels from it.
Mordor: Charcoal black with patches of light blue as far as the eye can see. Smoke rises from various parts of this burnt scenery made of broken rocks and craters thrust skywards. A shattered, smoldering, ashy landscape. The blackness. Everywhere. Steaming. It fumes across the vastness. Like the aftermath of some colossal fire. A battle between gods. The brokenness – cracks, fissures, rubble. One can smell destruction here. Frozen lava flows, petrified in movement, blacker than the rest reach down the valley, grasping at the green. The glaciers glint in the distance.
Through the mountains once more. Half an hour on a dirt road. The canyon. No railings or protection. No tourism industry framing the ferocity. No niagra-like kodak moments. To stand a foot away from the edge. Walls of water, gales rising upwards. A hundred detonations every second. hypnotizing. I think of Kundera's remarks on vertigo: not the fear of falling but the fear of the desire to fall. Dettifoss. The name of Europe's largest waterfall. (I imagine it means 'God's Madness'). I am silenced. The pain of no words.
posted by Ernest Scribbler at 7/29/2005 07:44:00 PM
5 Comments:
It's four in the morning, the end of December
I'm writing you now just to see if you're better
New York is cold, but I like where I'm living
There's music on Clinton Street all through the evening.
I hear that you're building your little house deep in the desert
You're living for nothing now, I hope you're keeping some kind of record.
Yes, and Jane came by with a lock of your hair
She said that you gave it to her
That night that you planned to go clear
Did you ever go clear?
Ah, the last time we saw you you looked so much older
Your famous blue raincoat was torn at the shoulder
You'd been to the station to meet every train
And you came home without Lili Marlene
And you treated my woman to a flake of your life
And when she came back she was nobody's wife.
Well I see you there with the rose in your teeth
One more thin gypsy thief
Well I see Jane's awake --
She sends her regards.
And what can I tell you my brother, my killer
What can I possibly say?
I guess that I miss you, I guess I forgive you
I'm glad you stood in my way.
If you ever come by here, for Jane or for me
Your enemy is sleeping, and his woman is free.
Yes, and thanks, for the trouble you took from her eyes
I thought it was there for good so I never tried.
And Jane came by with a lock of your hair
She said that you gave it to her
That night that you planned to go clear --
Sincerely, L. Cohen
god, i love you so much
sry i woke u up!
advancing my life? bwehahahaha!
what voyeurism? well ana, i don't satisfy psychoanalytic curiosity...
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