martedì 3 novembre 2009

Margrét H. Blöndal, 1970

it is yellow and blue and grayish in between. i have a view to the north. actually to south and west and east too. mountain esja is in the north. you do remember her and the harbour. my dad phoned me on the first of april at 6.30 a.m. asking me to meet him at the harbour café because the ocean was frozen and the moment was still. now it is more of a spring with brightness but a bit of cold. some sprouts are appearing from the seeds that sölvi and i planted two weeks ago. seeds substituting siblings. we pat the soil – tiny rocks on the side -just to prevent the acrylic blanket to blow away. blow in the occasionally puff mag-icelandic dragon.

since i do not contain any implanted seeds i keep having these continious dreams of infants. i left the one i gave birth to last night in a fjord. when i returned to get it a ptarmigan was sleeping besides so i carried the child and the bird both resting on my chest home. preparing to nurse i realized that the milk needed the ptarmigan as a medium - so holding the bird tight i opened up its beak and let the child suck with his head facing down. the ptarmigan soon got exhausted being a small bird sucked by a mighty infant and its eyes seemed likely to pop out from the pressure of the milk.

ptarmigan is the christmas bird. i do not cook meat and am not fond of blood. still i crave for ripping its feather coat off which is a bloody task indeed. i am - mind you - only though referring to one night a year. it doesn’t feel like ripping more like undressing and the smell embraces you with meadow and heath. on the bird’s chest is a sack full of freshly contained berries and colourful herbs. the ptarmigan is such a friendly and peaceful bird and undressing is not a violent task though the knife becomes the zipper. i even can separate the head and the feet without hesitation. the ptarmigan is called rjúpa in icelandic and it burps.

it is grey and blue - almost the colour of my new seventy-two years old elegant stairway. there are bare branches and antenna. red gray and brown corrugated iron fields in front of me. an orange light from a pretending lighthouse.

i was swimming the other day as today and yesterday. it was crowded and overly crowded in the pool. adjustment is necessary. the swimmers became herrings and being slippery allowed them either to make a curve or slightly slip from the others. i of course became a herring too. i became so much of a herring that i didn’t sense anything above the surface. i didn’t sense the one who was not a herring coming closer. didn’t sense her with her hard and not slippery head in a continuously less distance from the herring-me. she bumped and collided - violently forcing me back.

we used to pick leaves from the salix and use them for tickets. endless potentials. once i climbed in a much taller tree with a blanket a bottle full of juice and a jar full of biscuits. getting hold of a long bare branch i swung onto a garage roof. the blanket was woven from wool and then it was wintertime. my new seventy two years old apartment is under another roof - higher than the garage. the rowan outside my bedroom window is blooming.

i have this crush on a silhouette dog. every time i see his outlines i get a sting in my heart. he has a long and sticky tongue - not a bit like new york in the summer time though.

it is lighter and brighter now. the overcast is evaporating. there are crickets singing. computerized crickets in an otherwise silent night. in another street of waves a blooming graduation party with turquoise sea plants and smiling mermaids is going on and on. i am going to bed.

the pretending lighthouse has stopped blinking. the mountains are disappearing - have almost changed into elastic teachers gum. it is easy to imagine how they feel between the fingertips and can be stretched further.

it is gray again and my heart is beating. it is not a pleasant beat - rather like boxing. inappropriate as it sounds the boxing thought does soften me. probably because sölvi has boxing gloves that are gray and green and red and are soft. there are famous brothers in iceland. one is a pop star and a boxing fan in a boxing-forbidden country. his brother has a boxing sack but uses it to kick since he is more into karate.

i can see the light appearing behind the curve. it brightens up the picture framed by my window. every time i see the tree i think of a swinging summerhouse. a week each time of dwelling. sometimes nests hiding behind leafy branches. i am uncertain - unsure - insecure.

the light should be comforting but acts more like decoration now. the colour is too cheery. the two antennas serve the roles of guardians - one is tall but the other divided into two of different sizes - maybe siamese twins. on a second thought i think they are much rather close friends - lovers or young siblings but guardians nonetheless.


it is almost two o'clock and different party sounds are increasing from the streets. i went wearing my nightgown to the store next door as a car filled with youngsters drove by - my appearance was probably not in sync with the friday's party mood and i did not pay attention to anythingoutside my own interior. just as the car passed by the passengers stuck their heads out of the windows and screamed loud in a choir and made me so scared that i screamed loud as well but they laughed like little demons.

i do not feel like frolicking in the autumn mist right now - am a little bit numb - swimming is though a savior and so is the little drummer boy of mine.

touched for the first time fresh figs and found them incredibly sensual. the skin is tender but bruised and their texture has a resemblance to the opposable thumb which has always reminded me of a raw chicken leg. now everyone in iceland is scared of raw chickens since a lot of people have got sick of salmonella. there is a famous singer here called sigridur ella but i don’t know anyone being scared of her.

neither grasshopping nor colourful but marfaminded i am slowly wakening up in the sudden winterrama of islandia. sölvi armed by a helmet bikes and bikes - he just disappeared into the night and i will see him again on sunday. colourrix our bird is a little bit scared of the norwegian composer currently playing. red is my kitchen and red are my cheeks.

i do not feel like frolicking in the autumn mist right now - am a little bit numb - swimming is though a savior and so is the little drummer boy of mine.

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