My Grandmother's Requiem.

An Icelandic Xenophobe, floating in the void over black sands, between the mountains. My heart is in these mountains. An echo of my grandparents chanting the rhymes.

I can hear ghosts breathing,

My absolute.
My heart pumps lava.
My fire living in Ice.

We are the hidden people,
Eve's rejects,
Living proudly within nature.
We are Iceland, the closest thing
you have
to the ghosts of harmony.

An expressionless man, and a stern woman. Having seen the noon and eve of their lives.
Living along side their treasures,
their magic in the world.

We have lost our appreciation for silence,
for the distant wind howling between the lava beds,
we have dismissed the hidden people
the keepers of our heritage.
Mid-wives, light-mothers, to our identity

An expressionless man, and a stern woman. Having seen the noon and eve of their lives.
look at the sand, with depart in their eyes
their magic in the world.

My roots deep in the mountains
feel the pulse from the wound
where we were cut away
holding on the the ghost pain.

A child standing cold and alone
with nothing but a knife
too young to loose them.

A howling gale in the void
and within it
my grandfathers voice
and my grandmother's requiem.

Sometimes I feel i am finally, sane, from you.
Sometimes I think I am finally crazy.
I finally, lost it.

H.Himinljomi

In a green hill there is a lake, running slowly and freely. Therein are the most breath-taking prismatic schools of fish.
My favorite are the violet ones, they recurrently swim when the sun is at ten hours flight. I dip my toes in and lean back and let the sun blind me as it pokes through the leaves in the breeze.
I feel between worlds on these moments, engulfed in two worlds of colors. The chill of the green, turquoise and grey and the soft, warm brushes of orange and yellow. The red in my veins thrusts out, at these moments, to the surface. A sign of embarrassment completely misinterpreted. Misrepresented.

Here in my solitude I remain fully clothed at all times. It is not from shame that I hide my skin from nature. But rather allowing myself to anticipate it. To excite myself with the prospect of one day returning there and enjoy the utter fulfillment. But now, at this moment, there is always that little left. A road left un-taken.

My little hill, my little stream and the grass. Warming my toes as I step around the trees, droplets seeping from my feet in to the soil. A thick green tapestry, every green known by my eyes. By my skin. Bare-feet filled with my hearts blood.

I lean against the trunk, lay my hands against the thick and warm bark. The creases and cracks showing time passing. A photograph of a life lived and yet to have been lived. An old soul rising up. The top is so far above me, and there it is so frail. Down here with me, the roots are thick and the body is strong. I can feel my essence blending with the tree and I can feel my hill. In my breast. My gift from the world and from myself. Here there is no need to climb because here I am content on the ground. Here I am grateful for the sky above me and the ground below me. No shame, only, anticipation.

...

to be continued.

a lonely maggot, eating his way through the big-toe.
He chews slowly and resolutely at the firm skin...
softening with the days, getting more supple... more juicy

The worm pulsates with every step he takes, up the calf and up the leg
A red line as a slug-trail after him, following him...
his tiny teeth gnawing away at the flesh... the food

A wedding between nature and demise, a walk up the isle.
A pulse in the leg, a pulse of digestion. Pellets of excrement.
To the sex. Meaty parts. No bone. Only... juicy food

A cold platter, a slab of post-raw meat, all you can eat.
Sitting alone at the buffet, his work cut out for him... by him.
Taking the pleasure trail onwards and upwards... inwards.

For a brief moment he pauses, contemplating and fearing.
Wondering why.
And then his gut makes him aware. And he takes a bite.

His path has become soft, almost liquid. And he feels like an eel would.
Each bite bigger and fuller. Each bite easier and quicker.
He feels as if he has crossed a hill, everything is downhill from there.

Ambition rises in him. His bites become more violent. haste.
Even though the flesh is sweet and moist. He doesn't realise. He eats.
He swells with passionate ambition. And he eats.

Coming to the hardest muscle. Challenging its structure and fighting. Eating
Each bite more resigned, each effort more concise.
Until he has crossed it, triumphant.

His path is long and now narrow. Only one way to go.
feeling so close, so proud and so tired...
mouth still working and bit by bit he keeps on.

edging past the mouth, crispy flakes on liquefied lips.
sliding past the nose, across the bridge.
where he stops.

mouth exhausted.
belly full.
He sleeps.

He flies away.

He dreams of a glass of water
he sits still in his chair gazing out at the window
he sits with his hands in his lap, between his legs
the sides of his soles are up against each other and his head is tilted
he watches birds, leaves, clouds and garbage

he breathes heavily, sitting there
every now and then he feels the impulse to stand up
but he sits there and watches

intense enjoyment
as the birds hop from twig to twig, butt in the air
the tiny little dark beads that stare at him from time to time
stare at his window from time to time
so blissfully organic/mechanic

he wonders if this is the time to stand up
another impulse, a sharp twang of a string, to stand up
but he sits there and watches

he dreams about a glass of water
but he can see himself letting go of his molecules
he sees himself disperse in to millions of dust particles
getting carried by the wind out through the window
getting into those tiny black beads, absorbed

Irrational fear
he grabs hold of his molecules and glues them together
just in case...
twang
But he sits there and watches

the grass is brilliantly green and the sun is shining
the birds open their slits and bare their throats
the sound seems out of place in them, but there you go
a mechanical orchestra of chirps and beeps
they have no conductor but still this sound touches every ones heart
in one way
or another

when the next twang comes, he gets up
he walks to the sink
he picks up the glass
he turns on the faucet
he gathers water into the glass
he turns off the faucet
he takes a sip
he walks back to the chair
he sits down
he takes another sip
he puts the glass on the table
and he watches

Please, flow of the world.
Take away my need to being in love and being loved.
I don't want it.

It's been a while since I posted anything here. At least just to talk and not "express" something arguably artistic or "vital". It's been a year and a half since I came back from England... I think... It feels like ages since and a lot has happened.
It's been a pretty rough year.
I had to leave my studies because of the economic crash, it hit us Icelanders pretty bad but I don't think it's as bad as we are meant to believe. Of course it's incredibly hard on some people, some people less fortunate or who had made some silly decisions (but seemed quite normal at the time). But most people still have a job, still have a home, still have family and friends. The world isn't ending.
I stopped watching the news some years ago and stopped reading the newspaper. It could be that I am just naive and lost on some things that are happening in the world and in Iceland because of this. But all I can see is that my immediate surroundings aren't changing that much but for good.
People are re-evaluating their lives and their values and friends are becoming closer and families as well. People enjoy the company of other people more in these times of uncertainty.
Personally I've had real problems re-evaluating my situation.
When I realised I had to quit my studies because of money I couldn't believe it. A big part of me was distraught, to have to leave what I had been working on for two years, to leave my preferred education that had given me so much. But a part of me felt incredible relief, the pressure of having to succeed had been lifted.
You see, I have never really believed in myself, not in the 'go-getter' kind of way. I believe in my humanity and my values towards other people but I've never considered myself a success. I've always been mediocre in my academics and have never excelled at anything before. I left college because I couldn't see myself ever graduating. I got accepted into my university as a mature student and thought I had fooled the Icelandic educational system (which I severely disagree with).
Anyways, having to come back home to live with my mum and work at my old job and break up with my boyfriend at the time... I felt like a loser. It's pretty much the definition of loser in the "social structure dictionary" (if there was one).
At first I was still powered by my practice as a Buddhist and kept a strong front. Smiled and believed that something good would come out of this and that I would find a new focus or a real focus. I was firm in my belief that since this was FATED to happen that the fates had something better in store for me.
As the weeks went by and my confidence dwindled this soon became an act. The smile became a mask, an incredibly heavy mask.
For those who know me, I am probably a big whiner I know. But I try to keep my suffering to myself, and that is what I have been doing: suffering. Mixed up with all of my complexes with self esteem and anxiety was big philosophical ideas I had studied. Existentialism. It became a disease in my psyche. At night when I would lie in bed trying to fall asleep I would constantly think about the pointlessness of it all, how unfair it was... It was supposed to be MY big break... to finally prove myself to my family and friends and not-friends. I had been so close to validate my existence to the world and show everyone that I was just as good as them and I could stand proudly next to my siblings and say "I am equal". And it had been taken away... taken away from me. Me the loser. I the Loser.
It just grew and grew in my stomach and chest and head and until recently I have been very depressed. Old thoughts I thought I had long since outgrown came back. A deep want to not be anymore. This feeling of utter helplessness.
Needless to say, my relationships with other people started to unhinge. I stopped being able to be around people without having spiky butterflies in my stomach. Any attempt at romance became a catastrophe that just left me even colder.
Something has to change.

It's funny thinking about human feelings and perspectives. How quickly they can change.

At this moment right now, I am not better. But I feel good tonight.
I have resigned myself to face myself. To deal and to become fully me. Me!
When I think about my emotional/mental self I see an image of a body that was thrown out of a car during a crash. I see a bloody mess on the side of a street. It took me a while to see this but now I see my wounds and breaks. I am intent on retrieving this body and give it the proper care so that it will become a healthy and whole being. This is why I feel good tonight, this idea of progress.

My name is Haffi, and I am going to be whole. I am going to enjoy life. I am going to love life. This is all that matters.

A god once grew flowers, he watered them and stroked them. He changed the soil in the pot and fertilised them. He tended to their limbs with a very gentle scythe. He made the sun shine on them so that their beautiful colours could flow into the world and he made the stars come up when they grew tired.

This god cherished his flowers. They were his only friends. He loved them so much that he gave them small pieces of himself. To the rose he gave a piece of his heart. To the sunflower he gave a piece of his eyes. To the daffodil he gave a piece of his humour. To the orchid he gave a piece of his pride... to all his flowers he gave a piece until there was nothing left of him.

The flowers mourned their keeper, their friend. But they took solace in knowing that they each had a piece of him. To honour him the flowers took over where he left off. They asked the sun to come out and shine on the earth, they asked the rain to come down and play and they asked the moon and stars to shine and speak to them. They created life of their own. They gave the earth living things and the flowers watched over them.

And they still do.

I stand, facing the wall I stand with my hands in the air. Red paint splattered across my backside silhouetting my form on the wall.

Its arms are down.

The wall stretches very high, so high I can't see the end of it. I look left, then right and note the end of the wall about 4 meters away from me on either side. But I look up, and I start to climb.

Its arms are down.

The white paint that covers the brick is a thick kind of paint. It covers the edges of the bricks and making them smoother and shiny. The paint drips of my back and the drops hit the ground under me. I have ascended 2 meters from the base.

Its arms are down.
Its gaze moves up.

My body is more muscular than it really is. My arms are thicker, they are as thick as arms of other men, so are my legs and chest. I have no hair and I have a tattoo on my lower back. A tramp stamp. My surroundings are gray and there is no wind.

Its arms are down.
Its eyes are on me.

I keep on climbing, my fingers worming themselves into the creases of the wall. My toes try to do the same but can not. They support me while my fingers do the real work. My thoughts wander to birds: amazing, huge cranes with billowing feathers of white, blue and yellow. My nails are breaking and ripping. The red drops below me are not only paint. I keep climbing, focusing on the (never) end.

Its arms are down.
Its eyes are on me.
Its palms open towards the sky.

Around me the horizon is white, in between there is gray and above me there is a black dot where the wall (never) ends. 200 meters above my comrade. The paint has dried on my back, crusted and cracked it flakes and drifts down. Dust. My face is turning white and my eyes are sinking and my fingers find their way still into the folds. On either side the wall stops, below me it starts but above me it goes on. My lips part for air.

Its arms are moving upwards.
Its eyes are on me.
Its palms are open.
Its knees are bending.
Its embrace is open.

My feet slip and so do my fingers. I fall away from up. My eyes now firmly focused on the start. Now there is wind. Images of cranes come back to me.

Its arms are ready.
Its eyes are on me.
Its palms are open.
Its knees are bent.
Its embrace is open.

A sky of stars is rushing towards me. Red stars in a vast white space. Billowing feathers come to my mind, I look down and I see the (never) end still the same. And I close my eyes.

Its arms are down.
Its eyes are on me.
Its palms are closed.
The knees are straightening.
Its embrace is empty.

I feel like my heart is on the verge of either imploding or exploding :P in a good way.

In it's yellow eyes it holds a block of cement, its is heavy and it has rods in it. It is a thing of construction... the broken Tower. Once a magnificent thing... it once was a glorious thing but now it is a gray lump. Where is the glamor?

The heart is a strange, fluid thing. It is not fluid in the meaning that it flows... but that it is a fluid, it seeps and follows the gravity. Like fluid it runs into the cracks and holes and imperfections of the skin. It is fluid in the way that you can not, no matter how hard you try, hold it in the palms of your hand.

Yellow eyes follow every drop as it falls down towards the ground, towards gravity, and the slightest grin appears on its face. The shame is unbearable... the humiliation of loosing yourself, the overwhelming, undeniable fact that the only thing that is truly yours... you can not hold it. And that smug grin on its face! The shame, the vulnerability, the nudity and those eyes bearing down on you.

You can only hope, as you stand there naked, that just maybe... possibly... the universe willing! That your heart, dripping away from you into the dirty ground, will find a seedling. You can only hope that something good can come out of it, that there will be life that can feed from it. That your hearts liquid will create something. While you stand there, desperately trying to slow the leak, back bent, knees buckling, brow clenched and your eyes staring into those yellow, cold pools.

And that horrid grin..

it's wonderful
outstanding
releasing

in water we have wings
I feel like it feels to be superman
I feel like it feels to have superpowers
I feel like my body is agile and beautiful
I feel like my mind can focus and gather like a pearl

I can't breathe

in water we have no weight
I feel the connection with my world
I feel like other people around me are with me
I feel like my influence extends further than I can tell
I feel like i understand the integral fluidity in the world

I can't see

In water things are so clear.
I swim
I get air
I swim
I get air
I swim..

outstanding
amazing

it's so scary

how close it is..

water is life and water is...

if we stay under long enough

if we stay superman
if we keep the power

.

A traveling salesman,
he is dressed in a brown trench-coat
dark blue, red pinstripe underwear
shiny brown shoes
black socks with white markings
pale brown trousers
white t-shirt
pale blue shirt with a breast pocket and clear buttons only they have tiny swirls of white in them, a white string attaches them, the needle must have traveled so many circles in and out. Each round making the button safer and stabler. Not unlike the salesman.

Notice his face?
can you see it?
his face is cut by shadows
hard shadows hollow out his face.
I wonder if he has wrinkles?
He seems not to have ever made a facial expression in his life.

He must have...
When he had is birthday last year,
when he saw his mother last week,
when his daughter gave him a picture she drew,
when his wife ... well you know.

He must have...
When he stubbed his toe,
when he lost his father,
when he lost that hand,
when he ... well you know.

But still,
those shadows cut him
and his face is hollow

his step quickens
his gaze moves forward
his hand moves away

"WAIT!"

white markings,
on the floor, down that street
definitely leading down to there. down there. down, there.

There is always that pavement
brilliantly glazed by street-lamps and traffic lights
it's almost like the northern lights
a road paved with... electricity.

oooh! OOH! DOWN THERE! THERE HE IS!
Look! can you see him!? there!?
RIGHT THERE!
look at him run. Not unlike a gazelle no?
light brown legs, shiny hard shoes
OH! he is beautiful!
His face never changes but those eyes...

Those eyes have been cut 300 times and 300 times more for every cut

he's gone... around the corner.
he is walking still
his hand firmly gripped around the handle
his chest completely still
and his face ... well you know.

A traveling salesman

but his face,
he must have...

Volcanic, eruption.
Fucktarded progressive spewing epitome praline!
tíkar tussu drulluhala fokk skít drasl kráarskráargat skellur rass gróft blek krítar kall!

hlaupa og hlaupa og hlaupa á vegg og blæða í jörðina, brjóta bein, hvítt flass af ái!
þrusa hendinni inní stein nema að hann gefur eftir og grípur svo, vera fastur þar til að hann slær tilbaka.
horfa svo stíft á sólina að augun frjósa og litlar sprungur koma og sýra flæðir niður kinnarnar niður í tær og inn í merginn!
Rauður, hvítur, dökk brúnn og króm litaður stafur ítrekað þrykkt í höfuðið.

steinvölur í hundraðatali að þjóta um loftið eins og smástyrnabelti sem hringsólar í kringum lítin postulíns hund.
ennisholuþrýstingur, litlir naglar, þrýstingur þrýstingur það til allt brotnar og springur.
hnefi í hurð, litlar flísar inná milli naglanna að éta sig í gegnum holdið.

FOKK IT!