Wednesday, August 10, 2011

samhljóm


Harmony celebration, Reykjavík, 9 ágúst 2011

a new spirit was found. the west fjords uncovered the silence. the tranquility.
this spirit and i bonded on an incredible level; communicating through speech, through our eyes, through our nerve endings. you understood me, you read me like a book. you were so tenderly open and honest with me.
we caused enough friction to tear a chasm in the film around the world that was holding me back from fully exploring and perceiving. with your presence, your inspiring spirit i was able to tear through that surface and go deeper than ever before. like the depths of the fjord and the height of the mountains i came closer than ever before in reaching both.
one friend lost.
one stranger leaving me to find a new roof.

but despite all the people turning me away, I still love Iceland. I am still in love. nothing can crush this.

and by the light of the moon, which i haven't seen since arriving here 24 june 2011, i walked back to my current bed for the last time ready to embrace the next step on this path. on this beautiful path that i have just started to uncover.

Friday, August 5, 2011

Ísland


(Hrafnseyri, Arnarfjörður vestafjörður, Íslandi)

Ísland, farsældafrón
og hagsælda, hrímhvíta móðir!
Hvar er þín fornaldarfrægð,
frelsið og manndáðin bezt?

Allt er í heiminum hverfult.
og stund þíns fergursta frama
lýsir sem leiftur um nótt
langt fram á horfinni öld.

Landið var fagurt og frítt
og fannhvítir jöklanna tindar,
himinninn heiður og blár
hafið var skínandi bjart.

Þá komu feðurnir frægu
og frjálsræðishetjurnar góðu
austan um hyldýpishaf,
hingað í sælunnar reit.

Reistu sér byggðir og bú
í blómguðu dalanna skauti,
ukust að íþrótt og frægð,
undu svo glaðir við sitt.

Hátt á eldhrauni upp,
þar sem ennþá Öxará rennur
ofan í Almannagjá,
alþingið feðranna stóð.

Þar stóð hann Þorgeir á þingi,
er við trúnni var tekið af lýði.
Þar komu Gissur og Geir,
Gunnar og Héðinn og Njáll.

Þá riðu hetjur um héruð,
og skrautbúin skip fyrir landi
flutu með fríðasta lið,
færandi varinginn heim.

Það er svo bágt að standa í stað,
og mönnunum munar
annaðhvort aftur á bak
ellegar nokkuð á leið.

Hvað er þá orðið okkar starf
í sex hundruð sumur?
Höfum við gengið til góðs
götuna fram eftir veg?

Landið er fagurt og frítt
og fannhvítir jöklanna tindar,
himminninn heiður og blár,
hafið er skínandi bjart.

En á eldhrauni upp,
þar sem ennþá Öxará rennur
ofan í Almannagjá
alþingi horfið á braut.

Nú er hún Snorrabúð stekkur,
og lyngið á Lögbergi helga
blánar af berjum hvert ár
börnum og hröfnum að leik.

Ó, þér nglinga fjöld
og Íslands fullorðnu synir!
Svona er feðranna frægð
fallin í gleymsku og dá!

Íslands hjá Jónas Hallgrímsson.

Tuesday, August 2, 2011

cemetery


(cemetery, Reykjavík)

Cemeteries in Bohemia are like gardens. The graves are covered with grass and colourful flowers. Modest tombstones are lost in the greenery. *When the sun goes down, the cemetery sparkles with tiny candles. It is as though the dead are dancing at a children's ball. Yes, a children's ball, because the dead are as innocent as children. No matter how brutal life becomes, peace always reigns in the cemetery.

The Unbearable Lightness of Being by Milan Kundera, p. 104

(* but here the sun doesn't go down, for now)

ransaka og skynja


(husið á Isafjörður, vestfjörður, Íslandi, 2011)


Intimate Immensity

... Daydream undoubtedly feeds on all kinds of sights but through a sort of natural inclination, it contemplates grandeur. And this contemplation produces an attitude that is so special, an inner state that is so unlike any other, that the daydream transports the dream outside the immediate world to a world that bears the mark of infinity.

Far from the immensities of sea and land merely through memory, we can recapture, by means of meditation, the resonances of this contemplation of grandeur. But is this really memory? Isn't imagination alone able to enlarge indefinitely the images of immensity? In point of fact, day dreaming from the very first second is an entirely constituted state. We do not see it start, and yet it always starts the same way, that is, it flees the object nearby and right away it is far off, elsewhere, in the space of elsewhere.

When this elsewhere is in natural surroundings, that is, when it is not lodged in the houses of the past, it is immense.

Poetics of Space by Gaston Bachelard, p. 183-4