31 May 2010

a lucid moment



I realize my posts have been sparse lately (what a classic way to begin a post, right? I feel like every blog author has to say this at least once, the coming-to-terms-with-ones-blog-keeping-duties post). I think the next line goes something like, "I've been really busy lately (you wouldn't believe the number of clouds I've had to watch) and traveling with no computer makes things tricky, especially the whole posting photos part." Okay, done. Whew.

The real story is this: I haven't put my pen down. It's just that paper is easier to come by than electricity and wifi in most of the places I've lived, and so now that I have better access to both, I've resolved to post some of the bits and bobs I've omitted over the past several weeks. Old posts might sprout photos. New ones will appear. If you are reading this, read on! Like this island's dear (cursed?) volcano, I, too, have been dormant. But don't worry. I doubt my eruption will wreak as much havoc. I mean, I hope to wreak havoc - to let loose! to tear it up! However, my writing tends to be a tad less directly confrontational. So don't cancel your flights. I wouldn't even bother buying travel insurance. But I am posting again, so don't say I didn't warn you...

23 May 2010

On trying to reach Iceland


to play
with air between two countries, suspended
swinging like on a string
close enough to catch
a whiff of either side, close,
almost

05 May 2010

smoking suitors



News of the Icelandic dragon's latest belch has everyone on edge. Crick-necked.  I'm still in Scotland, if you can call it that.  "Hae du y seh ut?" Orkney, swapping cigarette smoke with bearded old catfish in woolen caps. They spend every lean day hanging around the pier waiting for business. Taxidrivers, fishermen, ferryboat captains.  At night (if you can call it that - daylight licks us from 4 to half past 10) the crew dissolves into the pub like midges into heather, folding themselves into darkness in a way that's only natural.  Peat-smoke, fingernails, whisky...

There are 28 labelled whiskies behind the bar. I heard from one sly midge, however, that there are ample homespun vareties babysitting the odd pocket. "Du see thet greht loomp in George's syde?" I didn't know they even made pockets there...Orcadians are resourceful folk.  Why else would the rest of Scotland be so wild about the way it tastes? Oatcakes, ice cream, porter...
   

 I read in a poem that "folk seem to spark 'wae da wedder'" in this place, which is serenaded by gales and rain and seawater like an obstinate suitor after a lesbian queen.  Somehow, it wakes up everyday in the same place - a trait I am growing to admire.  Let the cloud drift to you, let the weather spark your fire.  Orkney, Iceland, ...
Template developed by Confluent Forms LLC; more resources at BlogXpertise