The thing about a midwinter trip to Iceland is that the bluer it gets, the more black becomes a shade of blue.
Syðrivogar, Myvatn
And the deeper it gets, the more it shines. It’s counter-intuitive, and inside out, and very cool to meet a colour you feel deep in your chest and suddenly realize that your whole body is an eye.
I think they’re baby trolls. Just practicing. Perhaps it’s a good idea to go there and pretend to be scared. Teach them a little wildness, maybe.
Blue mud, for instance. Orange dirt. It’ll change you, if you let it.
Heverarönd
Do let it!
Craters have souls.
They watch us. We can walk into their watchfulness. We can live there.
Gunnar Gunnarsson described Iceland to the Germans in 1940 as “Our Land.” This land:
Not Exactly Germany
It was a typical game for this sly trickster.
Gunnar Even Conned Me Out of My Hat
Doesn’t he look pleased!
Did he mean, “Your land and mine,” after his novel Blood Brothers?
From the German Book Club Edition of 1933.
Or did he mean “The land of all Icelanders and no one else,” after his 1933 novel Vikivaki?
The 2011 German Edition
A ghost story combining The Little Prince, a Dance of the Dead, and Jacob’s Ladder.
Well, he was playing it both ways, as usual. But then, he was a poet.
And to poets, answers lie in the water, the sky and the land. He meant one thing only:
Bring no war to this place. It is who we are and all we are. No argument.
You can read the heart here, if you’re a poet. If you’re not, isn’t it about time?
Send them here.
So you can do donuts here.
And try not to let them surprise you with your fleece half off.
Earth Breathing Out of a Nostril at Myvatn
It just gets better and better.
The northern sun brings them out.
Even in Iceland, beauty is elusive. These hot springs and sulfur vents near Myvatn were mined by the Danes for sulfur. They are now a tourist site.
They are, in fact, mine tailings. Only a tiny fraction of the sulfur remains. 
It’s still beautiful, though.
Nature, though, it is not. The Icelanders know this. You should know it too.
This is politics writ large.
A Farm in Iceland 