mánudagur, desember 19, 2011


Boil everything.

This is my post-Yule plan.

Bedclothes, potatoes, the dog's well-gnawed cow bones. (I imagine that will stink.) Some festive hot drink. (To drive out the smell of the bones.) Onions and celery and carrots. (To drive out the remainder.)

Everything must steam before the New Year.

sunnudagur, desember 18, 2011


That's some fire-some wine. The bartender had never poured a flight of whiskey before (whiskey and fine tequila, actually) and mistook it for a wine flight. (Good God, man!) That is my only explanation for this array of riches. Sombra - Macsomething rye - Lagavulin. I explain to curious tablemates that Lagavulin is Laphroaig once it has grown up and stopped being such an asshole. I tell people to whom I would never normally utter a sentence containing the word asshole.

This photograph is unremarkable (ómerkileg) -- of no particular quality -- but the multiple fingers of Lagavulin were excellent, excellent.

Oh, give thanks for óreyndir bartenders. I feel most tenderly tended to.

þriðjudagur, desember 13, 2011


Recent dreams:
  • The great whale, after museum hours, gets to swim languorously, carefully, about the exhibit hall.
  • Glass shards in my soles. I hate that. I would have thought my calluses would have protected me, horny like hooves.
What do dreams like that say? Perhaps I am a Danish mermaid.

Meanwhile, his furred ears flick about, his feet (free of glass) and his muzzle twitch, his flanks quiver. I can see the white of his upward-facing eye, but I cannot say what he sees.


Every morning now, every leaf limned with white, every pace stiff and crunchy under the foot. Everything must be nosed over anew.
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