sunnudagur, nóvember 23, 2008

með rauðum fána

One of his oldest friends described him in their student days. Listening, I could see him in my mind's eye, a young man swinging one-handed from the pediment of a statue of Absalon, waving the red flag metaphorically if not literally. It was still the capital then, still the only university.

I wish I were able to stay up drinking calvados with him. I want to talk with him about these extraordinary events, the crowds of thousands in the square every Saturday. I have no doubt he would have numbered among them. But also -- and I am sad about this -- I am glad he is not here. Even had he lived to see these difficult days and been able to lend his voice to the growing outcry, I doubt he would have lived to see happier days come again.

mánudagur, nóvember 17, 2008


"You smell good."

"I do?"

"Like winter."

sunnudagur, nóvember 09, 2008


Berries on the branches and the leaves half fuschia. There are hundreds of birds hidden there. You can hear them. Their finch-red feathers make them invisible.
Hvaðan þið eruð