When the gun in the first act goes off in the third...
There's a place.
It's far away. And probably long ago, if we're being literal.
And in this place, there are people who look like you.
There's a library there. Go too deep into the stacks and you'll find anything you're looking for.
But you can't check any of the books out.
You have to stay there and read them.
And you might think this is less than helpful. And you'd be right.
But since the last time you were there, you notice that the library has burned to the ground. And all the people who live nearby refuse to admit there was ever a library there.
Even though there are ashes on the ground. And embers that threaten another conflagration.
And when you pick through the ruins, you wonder what happened to the people who used to go there. The people who look like you.
But the light is long gone. It's the middle of the night, the middle of the winter.
And you're walking, alone in a group. In a city far away.
Looking for something.
Food. Drinks. Companionship.
Something.
But the wind starts to blow and you put on your hat and can't hear much of the conversation anymore.
The conversation about the quality of the light.
You won't sing karaoke tonight. Even if your throat didn't feel like razorblades you wouldn't want to sing.
But you might. You might sing.
Thinking, hoping, that might provide some small warm light in the dark, cold, night.
You let your thoughts wander, figuring out the perfect song -- one you could sing reasonably well, but still one that would sustain your ironic detachment from irony.
But there is no karaoke. Not that night.
And the three hours of sleep don't help your throat and barely help your mood.
You're still starving, looking for something that will satisfy you, not willing to take in the empty calories held out for you.
And talking about poetry. The lines of a haiku. The imagery of the Beats. The way a stanza stretches and curves to accommodate the listener. The fragrant sultry popping of P words and the lush liquid sound of the Ls.
Long after she's gone, the conversation lingers.
And you sit in bed at night, listening to the world. Wondering if she's listening to or if she's at another party. Enchanting the guests with her talk of poetry, her poetry of talk.
Or is she obvlivious? Spreading her gospel of poetry, then moving on to the cool ascetic prose of a monastic life?
It's hard to know.
But not impossible.
Years later, I saw her at another party.
Talking sonnets to the hostess.
So I asked her about the poetry, about the effects on the other guests, about the ascetic prose.
And she swept up her hair, curled a long length behind her ear, and looked at me quizzically. "I just like poetry," she said. "There's nothing magical or amazing about it, I just like poetry."
And she turned back to the hostess. And I saw she was still wearing the knee-high boots.
And I knew she was wrong.
Which somehow, at that moment, was the most beautiful and sad poetry of all.
Late November Re-Run Edition, Originally from Last March
They arose, like a cold northern wind, chilling and overpowering.
Clearly, they were of the land - that isolated rock near the Arctic Circle -- but kept warm by the prevailing winds and waters.
A land dragged out of the agrarian age one short generation ago.
A place the size of England. But where England is home to nearly 50 million people, this place is home to about 300,000. And most of them live in the capital city... so when you venture outside, the country is nearly empty.
While... not quite empty. There's unspeakable beauty there. Beliefs as old as the ancient Gods. A place where you an literally go to the spot where America and Europe are pulling apart.
A place that looks like this:
A country that still reveres poets. And still eats hakarl (a dish of shark's head that's buried in sand for six months until it ferments and putrefies). And still believes in elves (even if they claim they only play that up for the tourists).
A country that puts on a massive music festival every October that culminates in a hangover party at the Blue Lagoon.
Four years ago, I discovered an Icelandic band called Soundspell. They were young (17 and 18) and had just won an Icelandic songwriting contest. It was clear that they'd listened to a lot of Sigur Ros and wore that influence on their sleeves.
They were so clearly Icelandic -- you could hear the strange wonders of the country in their songs and feel it in their performances.
But they were more rock-oriented than Sigur Ros... and sang in English.
So I made it my mission to talk them up to everyone I met for the better part of a year.
Soundspell made an album called An Ode to the Umbrella. It wasn't available in the U.S. and I couldn't find anywhere to buy it on the internet. On a whim, I found the email address of the (American) producer and wrote to him. Amazingly, he wrote back almost immediately.
I'd heard most of the songs on their MySpace page (yeah, I know, it was a long time ago). If Sigur Ros could break through, surely Soundspell would be the next big thing.
I wanted the album, but I couldn't find it anywhere. When I went back to Iceland the next year, I thought I could be it there.
The band said on their website that the CD was available at a chain record shop on the main shopping street. It wasn't in the racks, so I asked. And a typically gorgeous Icelandic woman went into the back and dug one out. The dollar was not doing well at the time and I mentally calculated how much I could afford to spend... then added 20%. But the actual price was 50% more than that.
So... reluctantly, I did not buy it.
It was cold in Iceland that Spring. There was snow. And wind.
And a car that was stuck in the snow for hours until someone came along and helped us push it to safety.
Over the next couple of years, the guys in Soundspell played a bunch of shows. The album never came out in the U.S. A few new songs snuck onto their MySpace page. Then their website disappeared. And they stopped updating their MySpace.
I wish I knew what happened. Maybe they're working on new material. Maybe they're in the studio. Or they broke up. Or they've just been busy studying, surviving, trying to figure out what to do with their lives.
I mean, they wouldn't have gone silent just because I didn't buy their album when I was in Iceland.
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