Chopping romaine for a salad, I see the triangular rib in section, and I am back in a light rain in Ísafjörður's harbor watching a spry little man turn a by-caught sea monster into a neat stack of slabs. It was boneless but not spineless, like all of its kind. With two long knives the man sheared though the cartilaginous column, revealing the circle-in-triangle that runs the length of the beast, translucent and containing whatever squaline ichor served it as a brain.
The boneless rib of a leaf of romaine is just the same shape, has just the same translucence.
þriðjudagur, september 07, 2010
föstudagur, september 03, 2010
Too hot for anything, even too hot to muster earnest prayer for rain. You have to keep lapping water merely to retain the privilege of being drenched with sweat. Last night was the same. Floundering in the salty bed, unable to push off from the insomniac shore, you found yourself making pious promises to anyone with the power to grant you a merciful drowning in sleep.
kvað sterna er klukkan var 3:31 f.h.