Very nice

When I came to Ireland I had been told the Irish were very nice. First thing I told them I was from Iceland.
Very nice, they said.
And my blood is 30% Irish, I said.
Very nice.
30% Irish and 70% Viking.
Very nice.
I thought you would adopt me for this 30%.
Very nice.
The Irish was the first to come to Iceland.
Very nice.
Irish monks settled down and start praying.
Very nice.
So they made love to my Viking mother.
Very nice.
And after they wrote the Icelandic sagas.
Very nice.
And then I put my name on it.
Very nice.

Ella kemur til sogunnar

A aldrinum 10-13 ara var eg kollud Ella. Thad voru sona hinar myrku midaldir a minu aeviskeidi enda thegar eg aetladi her a Irlandi ad endurvekju Ellu fylltist eg hrolli og vidbjodi, thad er saga utaf fyrir sig hvernig Ella kom til min a Irlandi.

Eg var svo ad tala vid stelpurnar i minum bekk, Julie fra New York og Unu fra Dublin, og thad var ad bresta a frivika. Eg var ad hugsa um ad hafa vikuna thannig ad hugsa ekkert um karlmenn, hugsa serstaklega ekkert um einn. Julie sagdist hafa einusinni haft Month of Innosece. Vinir hennar hefdu gert stolpagrin ad henni en i thessu folst medal annars ad horfa ekkert a karlmenn, etc. Manudur af sakleysi, fallegt. Thegar eg for i afengismedferd fyrir 15 arum kom sakleysid til min og eg hugsadi mikid um sakleysi, hvad um thad, eg hugleiddi ad hafa viku fyrir Ellu, Ellu-vikan. Skrifadi eitthvad um hana a kaffihusi en gleymdi henni svo.

Tha dreymdi mig sjalfa mig Valgard fraenda minn, hann var med kottinn minn, hana Trillu sem eg atti a thessu timabili. Hun var oll skafin ad innan i draumnum, - atti engar tilfinningar fyrir sig, myndi eg tulka thad.

Draumurinnn gerdist i vinnuherberginu minu sem var Jokuls-herbergi.

Tha akvad eg ad sinna Ellu, eg komst ad thvi ad hun er alvarleg, ekki leidinlega alvarleg, heldur alvarleg, hugsandi og thad ad vera alvarleg getur verid fallegt, so er hun andlega thenkjani, spiritual characther. Og audvitad soldid introvert.

Eg hef ekki fengid hana tilad skrifa neitt, ekki nema hun se ad skrifa thetta, hun tynir laufblod af gotunnni og prjonar trefil, veitir ollu athygli, hun er stodd a bru sem bruar barnaeskuna og unglingsarin.

Ella vill fara ad vinna, mig langar ad skrifa ferdasoguna mina hedan.

Eg uppgotvadi einn merkilegan hlut i gaerkvoldi: Ad allt hefur komid til min her i Dublin, eg hef ekki farid neitt, thad hefur verid bankad uppa og eg opnad og tha er thad thar fyrir utan.

Serstaklega ef eg ekki verid ad hugsa um thad, tha hefur thad komid.


*

(Eg helt thetta vaeri einhver nyaldarfrasi um allt kaemi til manns, en thad er ekki svoleidis)

Paraglider-nir

Thad var a leidinni til Howth sem their birtust, svona milli tiu og tuttugu paraglider, i ollum regnbogans litum, og einhver falleg sveigja. Mig langadi alltieinu i heimatilbuinn mat svo eg aetladi markadinn i Howth tilad kaupa i supu, en thad er alltaf i Howth sem mig langar ad standa uppur stolnum og strunsa burt. Thad er kannski utaf vindinum. Thad kom alltieinu vindur i gaer og tha saknadi eg thess ad her er aldrei neitt vedur.

Ella Stina i Howth

Eg hef farid fjorum sinnum til Howth, thad er svona eyjuhofdi nordarlega vid Dublin, rikramannahverfi, sjavarsida, steinar i fjorunni, turistar ad kaupa fiska og skoda seli, mikill markadur, og eg var einmitt a lifraena markadnum thegar eg hitti hann, hann hafdi einhverntima verid raudhaerdur og hann sagdi:
Modir min hlustadi aldrei a mig, aldrei nokkurntima, hun var bara ekki godur hlustandi, svo hun hlustadi aldrei a mig.
Medan eg var ad hlusta a thig datt mer i hug thad vaeri gott fyrir thig ad tala vid tre.
Tre?
Tre ja.
Eg elska tre.

Tilraun tilad blogga

Mer er kalt a puttunum, her sudar alltaf eitthvad, eg uppgotvadi alltieinu ad tilfinningaveran eg er buin ad vera i hofdinu a mer, og gleyma anda nidri i maga svo tilfinningalif mitt er mer alveg okunnugt, svo eg er ad hugsa um ad kanna thad adeins, eg man nefnilega thegar eg var skotin i einhverjum og byrjadi ad hugsa um hann og vinkona min sagdi mer ad komast ad tilfinningunni, jamm, eg man ekki hvort hun sagdi anda oni maga, en tha var tilfinningin undrun, sem er held eg helsta tilfinninga bloma thegar tau opna sig, eda opnast, mikill munur thar a, en mer thaetti gaman ad vita hvad er um ad vera i tilfinningalifi minu, thvi thegar eg hugsa mikid, og thad er ekki ljott ad hugsa, en eg aetla adeins ad na sma balans.

af thvi eg elska ballans.

Heard in Ireland

Alcoholists dont go into relationships, they take hostages.

*

Who said this?

I must express myself... as I am.

Ella Stina?

Oh no, James Joyce.

Shamrock and magic

If somebody is arguing about the magic that is put on in Iceland now to protest how the land is treated, I can tell you when the Irish started fighting the English army they seeked into the old celtic culture for inspiration and courage, and those fighters who were taken to prison spent theyr time sewing shamrocks.

Silver, feelings and the flag

I spent five hours at the Nationalmuseum. I even went through the military-story which started 1594. Tell you later. But I was surprised of all the silver, I didnt know that Ireland is made of silver, ofcourse the silver mines are empty now, but there it was, endless silver, silver, silver, shining, amazing things, so amazing. Majella the museumwoman told me it was very good to have a piece of silver on the table so people could start conversation, ofcourse only the rich people, so the moon is made of silver, and the feelings, somebody told me long time ago, I think it was my physkatrist, that I had strong feelings, feelings are my tools, but my hands also, and I remember a story of a girl, her parents gave her hands to the devil and later her father had to made hands of silver for her, well I need a tea, I am a bit tired, I dont why, perhaps of being alone, but its amazing how the military-story is men, men, men, there were only three women, one sitting on a horse watching her husband fight, one doing the laundry all day, and Molly, who was only a child when Conolly gave her the flag.

Mysterious death

I saw so much stuff at the National Museum, but what impressed me most was a STORY I got from Majella the woman taking care of things on the museum. I was telling her about Iceland and the Irish munks, guessing that they probably had sex...with a viking woman.

And then Majella told the story of Kathleen or Kitty. There always seems to be some Kitty involved, Majella said. The story goes like this: St. Kevins Kitchen lived in a cave in Glendalough near Wicklow. St. Kevin was being persuied by Kitty. She followed him up to his cave which was called the bed. Then she mystourisly slipped and fell into a lake, which caused her death.

And here Majella puts on a mysterious smile.

Majella

The woman taking care of everything on the National Museum is named Majella. Her mother prayed to St. Majella who is the patrian saint of pregnant mothers. And thats how Majella got her name.

Beautiful story

About 1850 Ireland was suffering, the potatos harvest ruined, so the government found out the best way was to let people build roads, usually the roads leds to nowhere.

Isnt that Godot?

Something about America

Do you know why Irish people are nice, they dont want you to go to America.

*

Travelling around Ireland there are houses, ruined, grey houses, the door is gone, empty windows, the walls broken by time, and looking at them they take a deep breath: Went to America.

*

Going to America for the million of Irish was going from ashes into the fire, except for Kennedy or Judy Garland, above all your grandmother was lying at the bottom of Atlantic Ocean.

The first cold day in Ireland

We, yes I say we here in Ireland have had a Indian summar because Ella Stina was coming to town, but to make her happy today it was a ice cold. She put on her white rabbit and got all the attention in Dublin, and very happy about that. Ella Stina knows attention gives energie, so she is full of it now, she is even thinking of cleaning the cooking machines, thinking I said, I went swimming with my friend Una who is one of a kind woman, then to a women aa-meeting, and coffe after. The fallen leaves are all over. Stopping the trains. I finished a children-story today, I am very happy with it, sending it my 8 years old friend in Allihies, Eileen. Also finished my homework, a terrible tiny story which I am so proud of, I might send to my mother. Yes, my self-esteam is growing because I am not Elisabet Jokulsdottir all the time. Ha ha ha. This has a double meaning. I only get one of it.

This was the chill for today.

Ella Stina faer heimsokn

Thad er eitt sem umheimurinn verdur ad fa ad vita, Ella Stina er fa heimsokn bradum, ja, 24. november kemur heimsoknin. Fra Svithjod. Thad er engin onnur en vinkona hennar Kristin Bjarnadottir. Kriiiiiiisssstttiiiin Bjaaaaarnaaaadoooooottttiiiir. Gefum henni gott klapp. Hun hefur verid vinkona min i 29 ar. 29 ar. ja. Ekki svo litid. Og vid hofum hist a dularfullum stodum, a landamaerunum, omerktum stodum, i ljodi, i sogu, i hlatri, skringilegheitum og grati, a Laugaveginum, Strondum, Kaupmannahofn, Hunavatnssyslu. Kristin ser heiminn alveg a sinn hatt, olikt odrum, hun er akademia af sjalfstaedri hugsun og perla, hun er tangodansari, eg hef sed hana dansa tango, hun er leikkona, hun er skald, thydandi, heimspekingur, hun hefur lesid yfir Vaengjahurdina, og Lasasmidinn, og allt. Eg er alltaf i bumpsinu thegar eg hitti Kristinu, svo er hun bara mjog venjuleg hly manneskja. Ja, hun kemur a stadinn. Til Dublin. Hun er otrulega gafud og throskud kona sem er blom. Eda silungur. Vid bjodum hana velkomna i heimsokn. Vid hlaejum yfir allar bryrnar beint i tangoinn tharsem eg horfi a hana dansa. Og syni henni svo sma but af Dublin. Og sma but af nyju utgafunni af sjalfri mer.

Eigum vid eftir ad trua thessu!?

Og Kristin, eitt spesialt til thin, thegar thu sagdir: Allt sem thu tharfnast kemur til thin. Thad er satt. Eg uppgotvadi thad i Allihies.

Thad var ekki bara eg sem kom til Allihies. Allihies kom til min.

Chillad a kaffinu

Eg er her ad chilla a internetkaffihusi hja Parnellstraeti, rett hja O Connell straeti sem heitir eftir frelsishetjunni theirra, her for fram rosalegur bardagi vid Englendinga um 1920. Eg fann ad einmanaleikinn er ekki bara hvitt blom heldur lika med raudum berjum inni, eda svona skrauti.

Ella Stina and Seamus Heaney

Seamus Heaney is a world-famaous Irish Nobel Prize winner in litterature. When Ella Stina went to Allihies she almost met Seamus Heaney. It was in Casteltownbere the nearest town she met a director sitting at the harbour. Ella Stina started talking to him, she always talks to people. He asked her if she knew Seamus Heaney.
Ofcourse, Ella Stina said.
Well, he almost came down with me this evening.
Really.
Yebb, the director said, Seamus Heaney loves Allihies.

Ella Stina started thinking heavily. She ALMOST met Seamus Heaney, was that a sign of she would ALMOST get the Nobel Prize. Ella Stina was very much into this Nobel and stuff and had already found herself a dress, a nobel-dress.

I am a failure, thought Ella Stina, I will not get it, I will almost get it, I am a louser. From now on everybody will attack me and call me Ella Stina Almost.

They will be shouting in the street, Ella Stina almost, Ella Stina almost.

It was Ella Stinas luck, she thought for a bit more and found out the opposite, Seamus Heaney almost met Ella Stina.

My professor

I have a professor in creative writing. His golden rule is that everytime we are bored we shall stop and wait until we enjoy it again.

Maria Mey i myrkrinu

I gaer for eg yfir fjallid og i naesta fjord tilad heimsaekja thorpid Eyeriis, eg at nokkrar kexkokur a fjallinu og fann snjada mynd af Roy Keene milli thufna. Svo voru kindur utum allt og jokulsvorfnar klappir, utsyni einsog gerist best, allt i blamodu, sjorinn einsog orgel og eg ad threada fjallid. Eg komst i thorpid med thvi ad allir sem eg spurdu sogdu ad thad vaeri 4 milur i burtu, alveg sama hvad eg var langt i burtu. Eg fann hanska i thorpinu, halluin-hanska, med beinagrindardoti og litlum hauskupum i stad hringa, greinilegt takn um ad nota hendurnar, allir thorpsbuar voru inni thvi their vildu ekki ohreinka thorpid sem hafdi fengdid verdlaun fyrir hreinlaeti, eg forstrax til baka, yfir mosavaxnar bryr, heilsadi nokkrum kum og einu tilkomumiklu nauti, fuglasongur, ein i heiminum, og enginn vildi taka mig uppi, eg nybuin ad komast ad thvi ad eg kemst thangad sem eg vil, med thviad komast alla leid i thorpid, thrjoskan, thad var farid ad rokkva og ekki radlagt ad fara yfir fjallid, svo eg aetladi fyrir nesid, enn meira rokkur, enginn tok mig upp, farid soldid ad dimma, hvad yrdi eg lengi a leidinni, og engin umferd, og skuggarnir eltu mig, og tha alltieinu gekk eg fram a Mariu Mey i fjallshlidinni, hun stod tharna i blaum kjol, med ljoskastara a ser og i litlu husi sem liktist skel, thad lagu troppur uppad henni, thad sungu fuglar henni til dyrdar, og eg hugsadi: Eg var send hingad.

Tofrar....

Fyrsti skolinn minn a Irlandi er i Allihies, eldgamall barnaskoli fra tharsidustu old, thangad for eg til ad skrifa leikritid sem pabbi sagdi mer ad skrifa fyrir fimmtan arum, tha var hann reyndar daudur, eg er buin ad vera fimmtan ar ad skrifa leikritid, (its a long story). Hluti af thvi var ad fara a namskeid i Allihies og svo i Listahaskolann og til Dublin og a leidinni til Allihies i fyrradag hitti eg fraegan irskan kvikmyndaleikstjora sem keyrdi mig a stadinn og vill ad eg sendi honum leikritid thegar eg er buin med thad.