Hva da?
Watch too much tv, and last night's dreams
all take place on the linguistic edge of Norway, where it borders Iceland's
looming bulk. (On my personal map, Iceland has long since outgrown Norway. The words are piled up so deep they've become glassy blue glacial ice, an Orðafjallajökull.) All my sentences
started on Oslo's West Side—okay, some in Løkka—but once off the
ground, the austanátt would blow them well out to sea, where they would splash
down with a finnst þér ekki, ef segja má, í alvöru talað, einum of. My interlocutor's
brow would furrow and I'd fumble around in my own mouth for the phrase, embarassed.
Æ fyrirgefðu,
sorrí, unnskyld, men det er så ekstremt mye islandsk ofaná, på toppen lissom. La
meg grave litt.
Engin ummæli:
Skrifa ummæli