drainage

insanity is doing the same thing over and over again, expecting a different result... i know this. i know this. so my continued stagnation is an affront.
she told me to leave. i'd tell me to leave.
*
i was just skyping with b. he is drunk and telling me he loves me. it goes through me. my reaction is shuddery and immediate. he is someone i want to help. i suppose i am a 'fixer'- my mother used to call them my 'pound puppies.' "you can do better" she'd say, rolling her eyes.
once loved, always loved. that's probably another hallmark of insanity.
*
i woke up from this today. but i didn't want to.
i'm in a classroom. there's an elevated red couch in the back of the room, behind a phalanx of desks. sun shines against the wall. it is flattering light. a dark-haired boy is beside me. we start talking. the lesson is continuing but we are not paying attention. we are hyper-aware of each other. i can feel the heat of his arm, the feel of his exhalation, i can fucking smell him. we lean in closer. it's one of those moments where we both know. we're going to kiss, we're going to fuck, it's going to be fucking phenomenal, and we're both holding back. when you know, you can wait. you can drag it out and savor it. i'm thinking to myself "take your fucking time. but not too long."
we're leaning into each other and making smart-ass remarks. his breath burns my neck. i am smiling and whispering in his ear.
the teacher calls me out. i sit in an office. she lectures me about being disruptive.
i am in my apartment, which is a city-pretty flat with red walls and shiny appliances. he knocks on the door and runs in eagerly. "hey!" we greet each other with hugs and smiles. we're both smiling an obnoxious amount,actually. he's carrying a bouquet of flowers- birds of paradise with a pollen-y yellow filler. i start rummaging for a vase. "you could hang them, too, so they'll dry" he suggests.
and i wake up. the iphone "alarm" selection, actually. 815 PST.
*
i am sure there are sundry cliches to apply to this... but the basics, the emotions are there. that's what everyone wants. they want to feel fucking special.
*
i recognized the person in the dream.
*
life is fucked up and life is poignant and life goes on.
*
lately i feel like i'm just surviving. i'm disengaged and watching the world pass by. gotta change that.
*
5 clients today. it rocked. i gave good fucking massages. some days i know my massages suck- lack of connection, weird body, weird human, whatever... but today i was on. everything just made sense. i was letting my mind drift. i thought "i'm not going to take this too seriously. it'll be fine" and basically jammed out to popol vuh and sigur ros and listened to three out of five clients fall asleep. i went deep on everybody. i made really good tips.
i needed that. my ego needed that.
*
when i left work i was left devoid of distraction and listening to fucking "mystical shit" in my headphones, and reality collapsed back upon me. so it goes. i'm here now to write about it. i guess.
i can't write about the serious shit, yet.
it's somebody else's story to tell. i was just a grateful witness.
*
i am so disgusted, and so unsurprised, with b. fucking really? was he this much of a dipshit when i was married to him? s, honey, don't answer that.
my personality. on my tombstone, if i have one (i don't want one), let it me engraved: "yeah. low self-esteem, maybe. or she just trusted too much."
*
i would fall right back into it.
i still believe in idealism.
*
the world has taught me nothing.

regrets

I regret giving you this website, because I censor myself on it constantly. I still have to write all my lascivious mortifying fucked-up bullshit LONGHAND, in a spiral notepad. I am sure that I come across as boring, predictable, and/or naive as a result. while I am extremely honest on this site, because I know of no other way to be, I am also very careful. please read accordingly.
I regret being complacent. I sometimes worry that I've forgotten how to be out of control: screaming, throwing shit, being destructive. either I don't have a catalyst or I've finally grown out of it, or both. and that's, you know, excellent. but I still get annoyed and hurt and frantic and weird, on some level, and I worry that I'm not letting people know it, and I'm acquiring a completely odious martyr complex because I think I'm the only person thinking this neurotic crap.
I regret giving you one-way access into my world. I still don't have access to your world. yeah, I noticed.
i don't regret all the things I've thought and written and fantasized about and almost tried to manifest, and I regret that I don't regret that, but does it really matter?
I regret my introversion. sometimes it amuses me, but mostly my self-induced isolation is a fucking pain in the ass.
I regret my lack of free time, and I regret the guilt and auto-gratitude I feel like I must follow such a statement with.
I regret all the times I was a complete or partial cunt.
I regret that my iPhone wants to change "cunt" to "cube."
I regret only being able to in that position.
I regret my lucidity in abhorrent situations, but I am proud of my shame.
I regret not being consistently able to take the moment as it happens... even still.
*
I do not regret looking at my reflection and thinking "I am tired and I smile a lot."
*
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unedited

it's late summer, warm and humid and unctuous, colors saturated and shadows long. we're walking through an open-air market. the stalls are being dismantled but there are still many people strolling around. everyone seems docile. we are awkwardly holding hands. I'm staring ahead as you talk too much- chattering about our plans, our future, how everything will be different this time. I am purposely not looking at you- I am trying to remain detached, ready to dart off at a moment's notice, ready to save myself.
our dynamic was always like that: you would get so fucking obsessive about the most impractical things, you would intimidate me with controlling devotion, you would wield your version of 'love' like a threat. I am back here now, walking with you, blurrily hearing you babble about the future, and I feel sick and uneasy all over again. I don't want to be yelled at for calling it 'having sex' instead of 'making love.' I don't want to hear you order me to look into your eyes so you can insist you saw my pupils dilate. I don't want your insecurities, bullshit, tunnel vision, mindfucks, narrow-mindedness or snivelling. but I am here now, staring straight ahead, because I will always worry that you are the only man who's ever loved me.
we are renovating a round trailer. I remember all the times we tried to do things together and failed miserably: everything dissolved into a screaming fight. we could not cook together, work on a fucking jigsaw puzzle, install pergo flooring, travel, even be in the same room together. you insist it'll be different. I can hear you smiling. as always, you are caught up in the romantic idea of it all: no work in the trailer has been done yet, apart from a mattress on the floor where we will sleep together later for the first time in years. I am excited by that- part of me will always find few things more satisfying and primal than a hastily made bed. it makes me feel like all my stupid bohemian dreams, all my vagabond fantasies, may finally be actualized with you. I still don't look over but I'm starting to feel less cynical. the world is tinted marigold.
it's morning. the same gold light is filtering through the fabric over the trailer windows. you are already up. I am naked under the sheets. giddiness turns to panic. I'm here again. I have allowed myself to be caught and I am now a trapped animal. I try to calm down. there is something reassuring about seeing your side of the bed, where you slept, where you slept beside me- it's a thought that makes me feel weirdly nurturing and gentled- this person trusts me enough, even still, to sleep beside me- and I apparently trust them enough too. I tell myself that this is what love is, this is what matters. I try to tell myself I'm lucky. when he returns, I decide, I will finally look at him. I will stare my future down.
and I lay there, and I'm restless, and I can't shake the dread and panic, and I can't do it. I can't fucking do it. "I'm still dreaming" I say aloud, and I force myself to wake up.
*
sofa, 608am PST. Tiresias is behind my knee. the freeway is already covered with commuters. relief, then loneliness. the mind is a strange place.

come on darkness. lay your body down next to mine.

i went to hallgrimskirkja this morning because the chimes were ringing incessantly. (the clock tower itself rings every 15 minutes from 9a-9p. it's been a very cool accompaniment.) alas, the chimes were prerecorded... the pipe organ was not in use. the sunday service didn't start for another 30 minutes and i didn't feel like waiting... a cat was wandering around inside the church. cats are fucking everywhere, as i've mentioned... it's almost unsettling. this cat did its thing and strolled outside. i followed it to one of the stones by the leifur ericsson statue, where it casually lapped water from a puddle.

i went back to the flea market. i shamelessly took photographs this time. i asked first if it was all right- smiling widely, mimicking the camera sign... people nodded resignedly.
"what is this?" i asked one merchant. answer: it is the head of some type of fish.

this looks fucking luscious, especially in comparison.

and the hakarl. apparently if you're a connoisseur (which i probably misspelled) of pungent cheese, you will not find hakarl too distasteful- the smell is worse than the flavor, by far. i wouldn't know. i'm a fucking wimp.

a group of women were passing around one of the cube-cups nearby, grimacing.
*
the rest of the place is made up of stalls much like this. this was one of the better ones.

the reykjavik art museum was a block away. they had an awesome exhibit of collages and not much else, but the building itself was gorgeous.

there are haunting, morose statues like this everywhere.

and absurdly excellent graffiti.

it's been misty and mild all day- my first day without a hat, coat unbuttoned, no wind. this is Laugavegur, reykjavik's main shopping street, several blocks from my hotel... i don't know how many times i've walked this road over the past few days.

a wet world assumes a delightful calibre of poetry.
sorry, that was fucking cheesy.
*
nothing opens before 11 on sunday. i suppose most folks are still cringing from their night's debauchery. i passed several people on the streets obviously decked out from the evening before. next time i am here i will actually participate, i promise.
near my nest, remnants of runtur.

it's bittersweet. i don't want to leave, but i do. i am already planning my return.
*
being a nerd in the hallway of my hotel- i'm in the 'outbuilding' (see post prior), which has two rooms on each floor. "extra-special room" the guy on the first day told me.

the street where i've lived.

i'm returning to the blue lagoon, ha ha, on my way out of town tomorrow. it's completely worth another ~$100 (including ~$16 suit/towel rental). it'll be a very fucking nice final memory.
tonight, hallgrimskirkja is cauled in rain.

coming to iceland is one of the best decisions i've ever made.

acclimating

i went to Kolaportid Flea Market today- housed in a huge warehouse adjacent to the harbor. the space smelled like turned fish. i heard that this place sells hakarl... i've been looking for the stuff since i arrived. i didn't know what to expect: is it sold in the grocery stores? at street kiosks, alongside the delicious hot dogs? in tins? cubed or in filets? i've only seen it on two menus, as part of a ~$30 tasting menu, and i didn't really want it that badly... but everyone who knows me has been bored by my fascination with and insistence on trying the fucking stuff...
*
the market was an olio of less-compelling antiques (fusty candlesticks, war memorabilia), bad-in-a-bad way fashion, pulp romances written in icelandic, tables of cheap plastic chinese jewelry... and in the back, the nexus of the funky aroma, the food section. dried haddock (which i ate for dinner with butter- FUCKING DELICIOUS. i'm going to try to bring some back, odor be damned- it is absolutely magical), bags of frozen 'seafood mix' (baby octopi, scallops, shrimp, lobster), svio (sheep's head), lungs and hearts and viscera of various mammals (all indecipherably labelled), and hakarl.
little plastic lidded cups, the sort one gets a side of tartar in, were filled with about 8 cubes and sold for 150 Ikr. whole sharks, about a foot long, were vacuum-sealed: yellow puddingy eyes and what looked like a coating of orange icing. i held up a cup of the dice to inspect: the cubes were yellow and almost translucent, like gelatin. there was some liquid (leakage?) at the bottom. the older woman commandeering the stall was watching me. i believe she was smirking.
i couldn't.
just looking at it made me nauseous. nervous. evolution dictates that we do not eat that which is fucking rotten. they bury the shark in the first place because it's fucking poisonous, for christ's sake! i'm all about The New Experience, except when i'm not... so after years, honestly, of fantasizing about this moment, i pussed out and walked away.
but i did find a pair of cool gloves- my first tangible souvenir.
silly chickenshit american.
*
christ the king cathedral was first built in the late 1800s. it sits above the 'downtown' area...
the sun was just rising (at 1130am).

i was the only one there. i didn;t shut the door properly and the entire time i was inside it banged in the wind, echoing. i always cross myself when i enter churches- not out of any religious tendency, obviously, but out of respect. i think i did it backwards, though: right shoulder, then left? fucking it up cancels out any respectfulness...
i've had several conversations lately about 'wanting something to believe in'... some foundation seperate from yourself that you can rely upon. i cannot comprehend that, still...
i debated getting a tattoo whilst in iceland. i've thought for years about having the word "island", small, in a subtle location. island is also the icelandic spelling for, um, iceland, so it seemed relevant, but then it occured to me that i don't really think of myself as isolated any more. i operate that way, often to my detriment, but i don't get much pleasure from it. lately i feel like more of an isthmus...
i have never before seen a car like this in europe.

the sun actually shined (shone?) for the first time since i've been here. it was extraordinarily cheering. it got no higher than eye level and set again- no migration across the sky. the shadows were long and gold.

the woman i bought the gloves from said "we haven't had any winter at all." she sounded almost sad about it. i smiled and nodded, my hands jammed in my pockets amongst the wadded kleenexes from my perpetual wind-snot, hair permanently flattened under my hat. today was fucking beautiful, though, and the lack of humidity made it seem less cold than usual. lots of people about... i saw a lot of prams, even parked outside shops while the parents (i almost said 'owners') were inside.
reykjavik reminds me so much of seattle. the cafes are full, there are bookstores everywhere - for a city of 110,000 people, i know of (and have been in) at least 5 LARGE bookstores in a 20-minute walking radius. all the bookstores are multileveled, with cafes and entire floors devoted to art supplies. books are, like everything else, expensive as fuck. i saw a hardbound copy of keith richards' 'life' for 3.600 Ikr... even paperbacks (the majority of which are in icelandic) are at least 1.800 Ikr. a fancy deli near my hotel was crammed with people buying cheese and pate and sausage and honey. groups of young women in tight jeans and ankle boots, older women with copious eye makeup... young men with either beards (tourists?) or fucking emo haircuts, older men with fur-lined caps and, almost always, glasses. the men here are mostly thin, the women less so, though most people are wearing too many layers to tell. that said, there are a lot of very nice female asses in iceland.
tonight- this afternoon- i returned to my happy room for a lovely repast of the aforementioned haddock, flatbread, butter, and a can of danish pear cider...and a comically large bottle of 'toppur sitronu', the cheap local mineral water.

whenever i find the rare cognate, i get so triumphant- "icelandic can't be too difficult to learn! for example, this water has citron involved!"
*
now: 136am GMT, just enough rain to make the occasional passing car sigh. some things sound the same no matter where you are.

shades of blue

i took an 'early' walk... around 11am. this was a cool cat on a residential street. it made me homesick.

dawn crawls over reykjavik... the sky takes its sweet fucking time lightening.

from what i could discern, these are actually pretty nice flats... but a whole block of them is daunting... reminds me of the old barracks on government hill.

i took this through a wind-rattled chain-link fence- leaning against it, swaying.

the north atlantic ocean:

and 'sun-craft', the other reykjavik money shot:

i brought my meds, with their own ice pack, to iceland. i'm always paranoid, even three years later, of how it'll affect me each week. so i returned to my room and took my injection. i left again, wandered around, took more photos, started to feel like crap...
coffee, excellent coffee, at tiu dropar. and then i went to the bonus grocery store, where my atm card didn't work, so i had to get 5.000 Ikr out of a machine. that moment tweaked my mindset: i got incredibly fucking paranoid that my bank had realized i was suddenly using my card in iceland and put a freeze on it. they haven't, it appears, but the weird eerie tension and chronic disorienting exhaustion of the past few days, and my avonex-induced fever, made curling up for a while, even during the precious few daylight hours, seem like a very wise idea.
this is my hotel, by the way... my nest. the two upper darker windows and upper left brighter window are mine.

i slept, with unsettling dreams that i could only remember wisps of, until 7pm. i woke with that horrible unease of knowing i'd, once again, fucked up my internal clock... and i had 16 hours to go until i'd see daylight again.
i still had a fever. fucking emotional. lonely. clausterphobic: within my body, within the darkness, feeling like too much shit to experience this amazing place that i have such a finite time in.
i had a little (slightly exhibitionistic) fucking pity-party...

but the day, as it does, improved. walked around, amid the runtur, people screaming outside open car windows. women in wobbly heels, elbows linked, staggering and laughing. couples making out. for the first time since i arrived i noticed litter on the sidewalks. found the national art museum. dead sober. and i tried a famous icelandic hot dog, and it was one of the most thrilling fucking things i've ever had the pleasure to put in my mouth.
the hot dog was warm and the skin was slightly crispy. raw and fried onions. a sweet creamy mustardy sauce that gushed over my hand. i ate it as i walked back uphill. i thought "now i understand." that fucking hot dog made everything better.
*
despite the darkness, i am still fantasizing about living here...

even yet still more time dilation

jet lag is surreal. i suppose i usually spend a lot of time waiting for the rest of the world to wake up, whether travelling or at home... i've kept such hostile hours for so long, it's likely caused permanent damage. the darkness here does not help... 3 hrs to daylight and it's almost 8am.
i've been reading more iris murdoch:
"every man needs two women, a quiet home-maker and a thrilling nymph."
"yes, and that suits them too. women are an alien tribe, they are not like us, they understand themselves through us, like plants and animals, we make them exist, they are, quite unconsciously, terrifying, they are sibyls, priestesses, queens of the night, they are frightened of themselves, they need a man to calm them and make them into friendly deities."
her men are always pompous, self-delusional blusterers; her women hold their wisdom and sexuality like a fucking gift to be doled out selectively. not far removed from reality, really...
*
the past month has punched me in the face, only to kiss my swollen lip tenderly and say "jus' kiddin'... love you, baby." it was unnerving to realize how much fucking primal terror i had on reserve- how i went from blithely living to wild-eyed life-reassessment. an inaccurate medical diagnosis will do that. for three weeks i felt like i was going to lose everything i loved, everything i've lived for... it's all good, i'm fine, i never felt anything but fine, but god damn. for all my prattling about "appreciating!" and "feeling so fortunate!" i can still reflect on select moments and think "that's fucking wasted time i will never get back."
i am embracing the details, especially here, as much as i can. because i could get hit by a bus. a meteor. people i love may go away. security will dissipate. you will forget the sound of my voice. i will forget the way you laugh. i will regret not sucking up every fucking drop from the moment.
like: when i arrived in iceland: the immigration man didn't even glance up or speak whilst stamping my passport. the group of us huddled in the vestibule hallway bundling up. an american in front of me in line laughed at a man throwing a fit about something- "didja see that?" he chortled. "jeez." the air was cold and dry and windy and darkness stretched indefinitely. i was in a place with unknown borders, landmarks, anything familiar. i got on the bus to reykjavik and turned on my headphones- shuffle- i wanted the world to provide. amon duul "archangel thunderbird" was the first song i heard in iceland. it fit. pitch black. smiling anonymously. i had tears in my eyes. i was so fucking proud to be here- so grateful that i have the kind of life that allows awesome shit like this to happen. is this what other people call 'religion'? anyway... those are the moments. believe me, i'm sucking the drops very greedily.
*
do something every day that makes that day different from any other day...
jesus, there's probably a more concise way to phrase that...
*
last night i saw a single huge firework from my window.

i'm moving.

not right away, mind you... but i have fallen in love. reykjavik is fucking tiny, dark as hell, and it never stops being windy... it's expensive as fuck, at the end of the world, and it would take me years to properly wrap my brain around icelandic. and i fucking adore it here.
it doesn't even bother to get light until 1045am. consequently, most stores and cafes are not yet open. it's surreal. so i've been walking around as, often, the only person on the sidewalk... past windows filled with christmas lights and plants.

i love european toilets! i love the "option" button! this is the loo at my hotel... the only cheap thing about my trip.

the geothermal power here is awesome. it is impossible to get cold tap water. everything has a sulphuric smell... i was hyper-aware of it the first day- getting out of the shower and wondering 'do i smell like soap... or poo?' but i'm used to it now... we all use the same water, so everyone's probably immune to it. my skin feels softer. my silver ring has turned gold. and the water is so fucking hot that i have to turn it down. every place i go is warm... my kind of town.
cheesiness, day one.

i'm staying a block away from hallgrimskirkja, the monolithic church that can be seen from all over town. this is day one, wet hair and windy as fuck. since then i have learned to wear a fucking hat so's to not get constantly swatted by my afro.

a few blocks away...

reykjavik haunted house. it's being renovated. the architecture here is amazing.

i took the bus to the blue lagoon, about 40km outside reykjavik. i went down this road when i flew in, but it was still pitch black at that hour. the countryside reminds me of interior alaska. i had my headphones in, on shuffle... allman brothers 'little martha' segueing into suzanne vega 'headshots' into white stripes 'your southern can is mine.' everything is more poignant here... maybe it's because it's fucking beautiful in a completely new way, maybe it's because i'm by myself on the opposite side of the world, maybe it's because when left to my own devices i narcissistically imagine myself being the haunted-eyed heroine of some fucking grainy movie...

it started snowing en route.

the blue lagoon. it cost 7.400 Ikr (about $62) for the transportation and entrance, and it was totally, totally worth it.

the lagoon is huge, about 3-5' deep, and around 100 degrees with vents throughout that spurt out blazing, stinky water. it's 2/3 saltwater and so fucking turbid- white, really- that you can't see anything below the surface. you cannot see your own hands, the bottom, anything. the bottom is gravel and silica clay, which looks like cookies and cream ice cream and other people had used on their faces like masques. my skin immediately felt slippery.
i bobbed in the water for at least an hour. the wind was so fucking cold and strong that waves were hitting my back and snow was stinging my face. it was amazing. then i went in the sauna, which had a huge window looking out on the pool, and for a while i had the room to myself. i leaned back on the cedar bench and crossed my legs and grinned like a fucking simp. "i love my life" i said aloud.
then the steam room... then another shower... and i went under the waterfall and let the water pound my shoulders...
*
i had somehow forgotten in all of this that my body is regular enough to set a clock to. i tend to, you know, start my period on the morning of the 12th or 13th. i had neglected to remember the time change, and i've been oterwise distracted, which is why i was completely surprised (and horrified, and embarrassed) to get out of the shower all shiny and clean and mellow, dry off, and BLEED all over the rented (thankfully, blue) towel.
i had been suspecting that my slightly cruddy feeling was due to the skyr... which was so fucking delicious that i would eat it again anyway... so the good news is, i can probably still enjoy skyr. i wadded up my towel and dumped it in the laundry bin, feeling like a gross human. what the fuck else could i do?
anyway. sorry 'bout that.
i refused to be like the dumbass who spent his entire time in the lagoon with his camera held above his head, so i don't have any basking pictures...
i was the only one in the coach on the ride back. bare ground there, 4" of snow on return and more horizontally falling. shuffle: radiohead 'the bends', aimee mann 'ray', robyn hitchcock 'i often dream of trains,' traffic 'dear mr fantasy.' the driver was darting down the road and i was reminded anew how pussified my hometown is... smiling out the window, watching the fat flakes melt.
it's still bare ground in reykjavik but the wind is unreal: 68km/hr gusts that make me skip a step. i went to a new cafe a few blocks away that reminded me of my lair, if i had a cuckoo clock and served crepes. the woman working there complimented my finger tattoo and told me about her and her husband's matching panther tattoos.
*
i am so fucking happy. i am so GLAD i am here. i've wanted this for years, since i first discovered a used copy of 'iceland and the faroe islands' at a thrift store in 2005.
*
there is so much else to write about... i shall soon. be well, y'all. love galore.
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