Gliding along, not so much a svaðilför this summer as a sleipiför. (Let's put an asterisk on that, shall we?) Of course it's time sliding by, án þess að láta vita af sér, just moving on without you like that damned bus driver up in Hólmavík who didn't seem to want to drive anyone to Ísafjörður.
No, not at all like that. Steingrímsheiði is a bouncy ride, I'm sure. More like a clutch-free rental car (clutch-free, I was assured, and not clutch-less), little blue toy car fishtailing around on the loose gravel. Fuzzy little seabird hatchlings diving off the road in both directions. Like that.
The grammar, too, has been fishtailing. No other word for it. You know you're sliding into the wrong case, and you just have to steer into it. Don't haul the wheel around trying to get the thing into the dative. You'll only spin out entirely, total the vehicle, and (once regaining consciousness) open your eyes to find yourself resting in an uncomprehending ovine gaze.
It's because you aren't as sleip í málinu as you were. Do you suppose you can buy a little tube of tungumálsleipiefni? The apótek must sell it, or if they don't they ought to. A linguistic lubricant would make reentry into the language much more comfortable for everyone, to say nothing of more pleasurable. Until then we'll go on using the product made by ATVR: alcohol. Góða gamla.
See? There it swings around around and zooms past. The stereo is blaring a pop-tune from, what, 1997? Can it possibly be so long ago? Zzzzzzrrrrm. Even with the doppler you can make out a few words:
slike ting får minnene på gli når sommeren er forbi
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time seems fluid to me ... most of it swirls and gurgles down the cosmic plughole, but quantities of it just seem to evaporate, and later they condense and rain down on us
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