CaCO3

Probably calcite. Probably in basalt that's been cooked green under the earth. Probably that.

These are tiny crystals. They barely pick up the light, never mind bend it double. In a large piece, one ray reaches your eye later than the other. Not that you'd notice that. You only know that you're seeing a double image. But one image is further back in time than the other.

When were you last on this beach? Was the air so still like this? You think you remember wind. There was always wind then. It tossed your hair; it tossed his. Black and straw; hraun and shell sand. Probably that's how it was, yes.

kaffitár

Black instant coffee. In this case, decaffeinated. Not particularly good. It never is. But it reminds you, inevitably, of that little jester of a painter. He was always ready with a plastic kettle and mugs from Ikea (say it: eee-KAY-ah, and get the tones right) and a couple of teaspoons from out the economy-sized plastic jug of the stuff. Stir it up. Did he take milk? I think so. I am sad not to remember. It would be appropriate. Mix in the white to the pigment, give it some body and opacity.

þunn

It's not a drumhead-tight feeling, taut hide pulled thin over the frame. Þynkan is to do with thinness, I think. I sympathize with the notion but do not recognize it. For me it might rather be the cords under the drum, the snare. It gets wrapped around my feet and I go down in a heap.

tímavél

Smell is the most powerful memory trigger, they say:

handsoap from Euroshop
Früctis balsam
instant mashed potatoes
moist laundry
curry, curry, curry

sæúlfur

Did I tell you about the steinbítr? I didn't, did I. Wolffish. Seacat. Anarhichas lupus. Scarborough Woof.

I found the dessicated head of a steinbítur among the corpse-whelks and weed on an olivine and pyroxene beach. There are always interesting things in the weed. What did Sappho say? If you are squeamish, don't poke the beach rubble. Something like that. Once I found the perfect skull of a seabird. I set in on my balcony to dry, but the wind took it away. Even a dead bird flies here.

I carried the head back down the beach. The bergfræðingur, patient with questions, points to its grim teeth. Here and here, for picking its food from the bottom. Here, to crush the shells of mollusks, bolt them whole.

oblát

We did not drink from the chalice, but we were told about it. It is older than the first settlements here.

Þessi er heilagur. Ég veit ekki hvort þú sért næm (and here he places my hand near it), en þessi er heilagur.

And a thin slice of shark meat, white as snow, laid on the tongue with a knife.

fjölbýli

Ferleg kjúklingalykt í stigaganginum í morgun. Steiktur kjúklingur með raspi.

Þegar fólk býr þétt safnast ýmiskonar eldhúsilmar á ýmsum stöðum í húsinu og hver og einn segir sína sögu um matarvanir fjöldskyldanna. Í sumum blokkum búa einungis rammislenskt fólk: ýsulykt, pönnukakalykt, laufabrauðslykt, lambalærislykt og á Þórláksmessu skötulykt. Í öðrum búa nýbúar meðal þeirra gömlu og lykin ber með sér vott um sóju, karrí, allskonar framandi. Það er gott. Það er fjölbreytari. Maður vill ekki búa í fuglaberg með sama lyktina í nesborunum alla daga: sandsíli, sandsíli, sandsíli, sandsíli.

fíflast

Foolish with laughter and merrier than she has been in full tumbler of years, finnur hún á sér ferfalt skot. Fourfold infatuation is a solid four shots down the gullet: brennivín, Tópas, Opal, og svo aftur brennivín. Skemmtilegt. Movie dialogue wafts through her head: "You fool! Never mix your drinks!" Tja. The mix of languages alone makes the fjallahringur spin around her like badly warped vinyl, and the northern summer will make a fool of her every time, regardless.

Þú ert að flissa, segir ársins holdgervingur Fróns lágum rómi. Vertu góður drengur og haltu kjafti, segir hún. (Fokk, segir hún líka.) Ég skal ekki segja neinum, segir hann. Gott, segir hún, ströng á svip. En hún heldur ekki út og flissar eins og fífl.

auglýst

Líkamsárás - Skaðabætur

Hverskonar er þetta? Svoleiðis er auglýst fyrir utan lauginni þessa daga.

Ég hefði átt að segja fuglinum sem ég sá á göngustéttinni í morgun, en ég held ekki að hann lifði reynsluna af, greyið. Sennilega ekki hægt að kæra kisuna sem satt við hlíð af honum, ánægð á svip. Svoleiðis ofbeldi er engin frétt, jafnvel hér á landi.

feta

Going north, there was nothing but rain. Massive eight-wheelers threw spray off the pavement onto the windshield, and before I slowed, I could feel the tires begin to hydroplane.

Coming south again, a fleet horse drew a black buggy from one side of the highway to the other on the overpass -- a dark bay sure-footed on the concrete and mane flying.