Two friends and street buskers, a sandwich board and a shopping cart hanging around on Lækjargata, waiting for tourists, have a chat while hoping one of the cash-flush foreigners will stop.
It’s a hard life, with only your imported self and a Jysk table for a lure, but it’s a living, eh. It is, indeed.
All trees in Iceland are mysterious. Some, it seems, stay indoors and take tinctures.
Fall.
Rockfall.
Svartifoss
Waterfall.
Svartifoss
Icefall.
Screefall.
Buðaklettur
The sense of the ancient word “fall” is preserved in English today in the expression “falling away,” and the word “fell,” denoting a primitive evil. It denotes the state of entering what is not there, of suddenly having no earth holding you up, which the planet does, kindly enough.
It holds you up in all sorts of different ways. And then it lets you go.
Sure they do.
Mysteriously, mind you, and in slow motion. You’re not in a hurry, are you?
Don’t let the dragon in the canyon bottom worry you. He’s in slow motion, too
~
Hengifossá Canyon
