Yucca Cane

At the Kjarvalsstaðir art museum, we stumble for a second time on the work of Ragnar Kjartansson. The entire museum was a retrospective on him, the big one being an almost endless opera piece with multiple pianos and singers set up surround-sound in a large hall. Walking around the hall allowed for interaction of music/space and the social aspect that comes with knowing that the performers are there for the whole day and so walk in and out to supply themselves with more water and switch pairings and stop playing for a little bit; the dance of life happening during a concert you could walk through.  

This was exciting because on our first trip together, Matt and I had seen the same artists work in Montreal. And though I'm still more excited about the piece we saw in Canada, it was pleasantly serendipitous. (and, still without a tent, we used the museum's wifi to book a room for the night.) Now - another hall had photographs hung on the walls, and yucca cane plants and boom boxes on the floor. I don't remember if there was any sound but I'm going to take a step back to the Yucca cane.

The only reason I know what that is is because Matt and I had recently acquired one for our apartment. This happened maybe three weeks before we left for the trip. I love plants. I have a few and I like that they add life the the kitchen, but also decided not to get too many more because Matt likes space to look neat, and visually plants are more chaotic than neat. But one day Matt was looking around and decided that we need a plant, urgently, because there was what felt like a hole in the room. Since I had felt that hole for a while (and in many other places; I like spaces to be crammed) we soon found ourselves at Ricky's Flower Shop a few minutes drive away. The place is like Mary Poppin's handbag: bigger on the inside than it is on the outside, filled with all sorts of leafy-friends to take home. We looked at three different pots filled with three yucca canes each and finally picked one out and took it home with us. A plant is like a pet that you don't need clearance for from your landlord. I was quite happy with our exotic new addition.

I don't know when it happened, but it was sad: perhaps the middle cane came to us ill, or it simply because ill soon upon entering our abode. In either case, it started to wilt and droop and ooz terribly stinky black goop. Trying the clean it up my hands got covered in the stench with the slightest dab of sap. I read up on the internet on how to help the infirm plant, and bought insecticide. And I sprayed it daily with the smelly all-natural insecticide. And when we left for Iceland we had a weak hope that it would make it. The plant only needs to be watered about once every two weeks, so this trip was perfect in terms of watering.When we returned it had clearly made a turn for the worse. It reeked, and as I tried to pull it out of the ground the bark pealed off into my hands. And since the other two were perfectly happy as they were, we went for the kill. It looks like a murder-crime scene, ft yucca plant The other two are still healthy: may they not grow too quickly.

Sleep Deprived in Reykjavik

We landed in Keflavik International Airport at 4:35 am. I had not slept on the plane. Dragging through a bog of exhaustion, we found our way to Joe and the Juice. We drank our shake/juice, and then we made our way down to the baggage claim.

A note on Joe and The Juice: it is a chain, there are two spots at the airport and at least two in Reykjavik. The name, it isn't a good one, refers to the fact that they have both a juicing machine and a coffee machine. The name, and the exact type of terrible that it is, is a good representation of the names of shops we found in Reykjavik. Names are: idontspeakicelandic (tourist shop) bad taste (music shop) farmers and friends (like words with friends! but not a cross-word puzzle game, an expensive clothing store!)

Many tourists are from the US, UK or Canada, insuring a lot of English is spoken around you - and leading to most signs and all tourism workers speaking at least some English. We were lucky: we were earlier in the season and the weather wasn't always great, so we managed to avoid some of the tourist hoards. But they certainly exist, and I think the weirdly English-named shops are a good indication of that. From the USA, more tourists come than there are native Icelanders; and we are hardly the only ones. 

Matt sarcastically approved me putting up this photo if I labeled it as sarcasm. Joe as famous sculpture.

We walked down and looked and looked and did not find our baggage. We filled out forms and found out that the next incoming flight from Boston is not for another 24hrs. So we walked out of the airport with only our backpacks and picked up the 4wd rental (a silver Suzuki Vitara) and drove towards Bergsson Mathús to get breakfast. After this my mind started drifting off to sleep: we managed to climb to the top of Hallgrímskirkja (a contemporary-looking church) but after that I dozed off in the car. 

view from Hallgrímskirkja 

Once I woke up, we headed to the Kjarvalsstaðir art museum. Then we walked along the river, entered the Harpa music building and finally collapsed in our hotel room bed at Captainn Reykjavik (which considering we had found only a few hours previously, was quite nice) 

from inside Harpa music hall

We slept for three hours and went to Matwork for food.  We kept looking around and almost choosing places to eat because they were called Matthis and thisMat(t). Turns out Matur means food, not a shortened Matthew. I fell asleep, after a very long day, at 11:30 pm. Matt fell asleep at 1am, and it was still light out.

Packing for Iceland

Dear Reader:

I know I have long been absent. If you have been here in the past I am surprised by you; that my distance has not created an un-passable abyss. I apologize. I thank you. I will try to be better, as many of us try.

Today I woke up in the US again, back in Somerville.
On Sunday, The 4th of this month, I was here as well, packing.
Things I forgot to pack: cold medication, camera battery charger, a warm hat, gloves.
Things I did not forget: all the camping gear, sweaters and warm socks, a camera with low battery.

And so, Matt and I caught a ride to the airport, checked our bags (19.5kg for the heavier one, perfect) and got in line.  Matt's carry-on getting slowly examined on the side for unknown reasons and we sprinted through Logan and were the last ones onto the flight.

Things we knew to expect: white nights, gravel roads, sheep, hotsprings
Things we did not know to expect: the wind, getting sick, endless volcano fields

And so starts our trip to Iceland

persimmon pudding

Four shots of gin on a Tuesday night. Later he said he doesn’t like it when people act drunk. Too bad.  We parked at a spot and needed three quarters before it became free at eight and I asked people on the street as they passed. The guy who parked behind us had enough for himself and for us too; so simple, tipsy and able to ask strangers time and time again “do you have a quarter? I have two dimes and a nickel”. Walk until we find sushi and tempura and miso soup.

The night before and the night after we go see apartments but I have yet to tell my parents. My mother called and I told my family “I am in Waltham but I can’t come by”. The laundry was too far away in one, the walls too slanted in the other. No rush, we were looking for November, looking for December now. Rain-wet streets and wind and girls not ready to let go of their summer-dress-and-warm-tights combination. 
until next time 


Me and three of my roommates completing a crossword puzzle: we go all out on a Friday night. Alex made persimmon pudding and I helped Raj turn his phone into a walkman for his Halloween costume. Curtis pleased with himself for having gotten: someone who works a lot - a car salesman. Long discussion about housing prices with Adrian. 

This morning is another dreary one, Saturday before Halloween become Halloween, Mama is coming by. I finally picked up a roll of film I shot in the beginning of the summer, so maybe I'll have photos again soon, dear reader.

stapler

I recently started working at a the front desk of a neurology office in Mt. Auburn hospital. I make packets to give to patients when they come in, call them to remind them of appointments coming up in a week, take vitals, call other offices for notes on new patients, scan some papers and fax others, check if insurance is active. I staple things a lot. It's dull but I won't get another concussion. As my former boss and family friend said "they pay you more for easier work, right?" - which is exactly the case. Do the paper shuffle till you drop.

In all this route work, I had this moment of child-like surprise when my stapler ran out. A second later I wanted to laugh out loud at the fact that I somehow expected the stapler to never cease stapling.

It really did feel like being a child: I suppose as you grow older there are fewer genuine surprises in store. I certainly didn't expect my surprise to be sourced in a stapler.

I remembered that in kindergarten we had a project were we had to bring in 100 of something (jelly beans, crayons, stickers...) I, inevitably doing it the night before, panicking in a way that seems almost humorously familiar now, having procrastinated on the project which we were likely given at least a month to do, stapled a piece of cardboard 100 times and brought that in. Not very aesthetically pleasing, but it did the job. It was for the 100th day of school. Now everything is counted in months, years, pages written, books read, places lived. 100 days. How quaint. How kindergarten.


(I had one of those flying dreams last night: put on warm clothes but couldn't track down warm socks for the high autumnal air. Was brought into the air by air sweeping up a kite which was held by a string which held me and carried me up until my arms spread out could hold me, along with magical powers, sand I was swept up by the current for hundreds of miles. Landed somewhere and something like a spy movie, or like His Dark Materials not quite clear. I love flying...)

sticky mango

my mother told me my last post was like this:
"my. mother. says. I. am. not. writing. enough. I am typing. I am not dead"
I burst out laughing.

Humidity had shackled me to my bed, wrapped its heavy arms around me and murmured into my ear until my brain became a homogeneous goop. Heat so close to body temperature my insides merged with the outside. Molasses spilled onto the crevasses: slow thoughts and sticky fingers.

But I try and persevere! Today I met Sar'ka at Haymarket. I bought: blackberries, lemons, radishes, broccoli.
She bought: a box of mangoes, ten count, for four dollars. We went to the water and ate them, slicing the skin with our nails, devouring them with greedy lips, juice running down our arms right to the elbow. Seven mangoes gone as she told me about her semester in India, decadence making our heads spin and bellies yearn in summer heat.

Last weekend on the way to the park I thought about how my past is not my destiny, and by the time I met up with Matt I was almost crying. Kelsey said: yes, those are good thoughts! but also terrifying. He watched as I picked purple wild flowers.

A thunderstorm is coming.

white border

My mother asked me why I haven't been writing lately.
And here's why:
Every attempt in my head of cobbling together words and thoughts about my everyday existence cascades out like a white boarder around an honest black square. The white mundanity simply a frame for everything that needs to be said but I am not yet ready to say; all of my time at the hospital, year and a half, the river that I keep dammed up. Black square white frame, one simply a complement to the other how funny that things can be so simple when there are so many complex horrors in the world. 

But I will try, I will try to take that white border and make it it's own gray world. For no day-to-day is truly banal when taken on its own terms.

This weekend was a long one, fourth of july, fireworks and patriotism. My family usually goes up to the north of Maine to escape it, camping with leeches and moose, mosquitoes and gnats. This time we left too, but not quite so barbarically far away - up to a friends vacation house in Vermont, just us five (both my parents wrote to me: K's house! But they won't be there. Join us?) We walked paths in the woods and I noticed how we always pair up: two people talking and one person wandering in their own thoughts, but switching off. In the morning, my brother - startlingly - in my mother's hat - dutifully washing the dishes. Bickering and wine and hopping on rocks along a river. On the ride back: the sky - a pink so delicate, like sooted paper after a bonfire, print legible, it falls apart at the touch of a finger.