Because waterfalls in basalt are the shape of skulls, the shallow bowls that catch the energy of life that is the world, they are great places to think.
Stekkalækur
It’s a good thing you don’t have to translate those thoughts into words.
Stekkalækur
To walk into these canyons is to walk away from story into poetry.
Bessastaðaá
Note the “field” on the upper right.
People used to live here. This was the boundary of a house field.
Stekkur
You didn’t look out. You looked in.
Wind! You’d lose the use of one ear most of the time if you didn’t.
A serious issue! Plus, it’s stylish, eh.
If you turn your head, you can hear even better, but you can’t always do that now, can you. You want to, like stand still.
All together now!
There’s no arguing with it. It’s a thing.
~
Skriðuklaustur
The dunes of East Iceland are pure environments of wind. The black volcanic soil is sculpted by the wind, the grasses are blown in by the wind and anchor the soil by it. They use the wind to pollinate their blooms and to disperse their seeds, as well. And the snow is blown across the dunes by the wind, forming dunes of its own, and echoing the forms of the land, as you can see in the exquisite mirrored half moon of dune and drift below.
It is the place where the air above the sea becomes the air above land, a powerful place of transformation and extreme energies. It makes dunes a dangerous place for humans, a place almost simultaneously expressing the edges of human life and their absolute, grounded centre. So it is with the shore of the sea. So it is with the shore of the wind.
It starts innocently enough. You’re grazing with your buddies, right.
Hey, it’s a reindeer thing. If the swans and geese want to graze along with you, what’s it to you, right? There’s grass for all. No, that’s what people might thing. Reindeer? Time to split.
Bye. It’s about colour matching, I think.
When you go to Iceland in the winter, wear white.
As the frailty of the fence below shows, the Icelandic way of meeting the Earth is either foolish or heroic, or both.
Grótfjall from the Dunes
The Earth is huge, and humans are small, and yet they stand up against each other, body to body. It is hardly an equal relationship… or is it? The fence stands in witness.
Being stone is enough when you are stone.
Gunnar Gunnarsson called basalt like this the chain-linked rhymes of traditional Icelandic verse. He meant, I think, nothing is unlinked. This raven, for instance, flying above that stone…
…nests in it. Poetry is natural architecture, in Gunnar’s world.
Well, forget the tourist pamphlets, that collect old folktales from the 19th century. Those were created in an attempt to sort out folk stories from the many traditions of Icelandic settlers. Truth is, there are no trolls, not as a non-human, humanoid species.
Skriðuklaustur
There is, however, a human ability to centre landscapes in human form. It is this centring, this inseparability from place, that you will find in Iceland, if you wander there outside of books. The secret of trolls is the secret of recognition, because they are the same thing. Many Icelanders today look to New York or London for their mirrors. Not all. You don’t have to, either. A troll is where you find it. You are where you find yourself. Now, recognizing yourself when you see it, ah, now that’s a trick.
It is a wonderful thing that Ásmundar Sveinsson worked with in Reykjavik: to make thoughts for the eye to consider, in the parts of thought independent of the cognitive mind.
Sveinsson’s Troll Woman in Reykjavik
When viewing, remember that a troll is not a creature from fairy tale but any person deeply connected with a place. “Trolls”, in other words, are themselves the body thinking, in the parts of thought independent of the cognitive mind. Sveinsson was so independent that he remains, still, ahead of his time.
A Farm Road in South Iceland
One jolt of hormones lasts centuries here.
Be quick. You have competition.
Bilberries in Seydisfjörður
Look closely now!
Yes, competition.
Iceland’s Secret Bilberry Team
Count the legs. Very secret work!
What, you didn’t think they ate grass, did you? In this rain? The Icelandic summer has to have some perks!
Litlafoss
A Farm in Iceland 