… is how …
… it is done.
Are you surprised?
Is it goofing around with a culvert at Grandatorg?
Or goofing around with shop windows on Laugavegur?
Or the painting amusing themselves at Kjarvalstaðir, because everyone has come to lunch with old friends, and the paintings are certainly old friends.
Or some weird kind of planting flowers to give children hope in front of some everybody-comes-to-Iceland-with-spray-cans-now-that-the-building-sites-have-been-abandoned-after-the-financial-meltdown, because what else?
It’s the cigarette tin, right?
No, wait! It’s spilled paint and a stick on a parking lot!
It never ends. Icelanders are a pretty serious looking bunch, even Björk, and they write about gruesome murders and stuff, and their novelists kill off all their heroes and heroines just because, but don’t believe it, because they’re always goofing off, with a straight face. Do you think the horses taught them about this, in those centuries of isolation?
Well, maybe not the straight face part.
As we can see here on Hverfisgata In Reykjavik, they’re all ghosts stories and the Icelanders are the ghosts within books their parents read, or they read when they were young themselves.
As you can see, the relationships between technology, Icelanders, and time is haunting and complex. It’s a language in and of itself.
Who else do you know who lives so deeply within books that they have a transit system within them?