Sticking out its tongue and everything.
A troll is what your mind looks like at root level. You can walk through it and tell stories. If you look closely, there are dozens of trolls here, not just the one at the centre left, with two eyes and the broad, down-turned mouth. Look at the white, ghost-image of one at centre right. The stories are consciousness; you are more than that.
I swear, Iceland is alive.
The late season light changes so quickly that the flow of gravity and time across space, and your body, are one. Only the photograph is still. Try opening the image in a new window. I think some of that directional energy and movement is captured in it, especially when seen a bit larger than here.
Either that, or confronting elemental nature makes a human alive.
Here’s the trail for me.
It leads to Buðaklettur, and then west into the November sun.But make no mistake, it passes through the mind along the way. Imagine, walking through your deepest thoughts. When I walked here last November, it took all my strength to put one foot in front of another. I found it nearly impossible to keep walking. I wouldn’t call it being lost, or being in danger of being lost. I wouldn’t even call it being found. It sure was good not to be alone. I’ve never made a journey like this, although this was only a small part of the journey that is to be made. What that journey is, I don’t know. Well, “I” doesn’t know, but the rest of me sure does. This is the path.This is a dangerous place. A place where the path travels where wakefulness and sleep take on different forms.If you step off the path, what then?
The question is nonsensical. To stay on the path is to step off of it. To step off of it is to lose it.
Go with someone you love. Go together. Hold on to each other. You are your line back home. I’m not from Iceland, but I know home when I see it. The wind blows there. At 45 m/s. Well, sometimes. This time.
It is a place to lose yourself, and then, as a completely different person, to lead it back home. I can’t explain it. I am only drawn there, like a beast on a line.
On a narrow path. Of blood.
Of mind.I can’t explain it. I don’t want to.
This is poetry when it has left all words behind.
This is the Buðahraun.
This troll is marked on no map, yet so many travellers have found it that access has been blocked — an unusual thing for Iceland, but necessary. I leave it for you to find it yourself. Note the old house site to the troll’s left. Yeah, on the grassy slope, and at its base. People used to live closer to trolls than they do now.
Still, take a look in the troll’s ear to the right above, and then to the goofs chatting in there, as if they were on the set of a silent movie.How can you block access to what doesn’t belong to you in the first place? How can you stop a conversation that has no sound? You can’t, but you can give it space.
Some trolls love the wind.
Others laugh at it.
It’s a good thing, because the wind is everywhere when you live in the sky!
Nerve tissue is everywhere, lying around on the sand. If you lose your mind in Iceland, there’s always another one to take its place. Good to know!