klettar og drangur

I remember only a few things from Friday morning's dreams.

A steep, curving descent by air, full as steep as the approach into Ísafjörður, past high black volcanic cliffs. There are hundreds and hundreds of elaborately decorated graves in the crags where the nests of sea birds might have been. Some are the graves of beloved animals; these are clustered on the steepest peak separated by a narrow strip of water from the shore proper. Banking, they are very near. In the high-latitude sunlight the gravesites seem festive. The decorations are colorful and they flutter in the ocean breeze.

The town comes into view in pieces, each one suddenly, from behind an outcropping. The architecture is ornate and precious, like Dutch baroque: stepped rooflines and carved brick, all in a tiny scale, like parts of Brussels squeezed onto Heimey. I am pointing out the charm, happy to see the place again, eager to share my local knowledge even if it may be a little outdated. My invisible interlocutors (two? three? I must judge by voices) are impressed, excited; they ooh and ahh. I do not know who they are, even if I am meant to. No, wait: one may have the head of a dog. (I am not sure about that.)

On the ground, that evening (it is a bright northern summer night), there is a party. I attend. It takes a long time to recognize there someone I used to know. He's changed, cut his hair, bleached it. He doesn't meet my eyes. I find I do not care.