Svævar Freyr and Hell Week

Through trial and tribulation I have managed to complete one history paper, sixteen pages, decent footnoting, a full three drafts (like a good little student, this time), and a title that isn't an unrelated bit of prosaic nonsense written to try and fool your professor that you've actually though about your title for more than 45 seconds.

I think.

But there is something about the whole week that makes it seem like I've not actually accomplished anything. Partially, perhaps, because I've likely spent less hours actually working, than when I'm just reading and taking notes-sometimes about writing is exhausting. But more of it is probably the two papers due next Monday, along with the test in the morning with 12 essay questions to prepare for; all of which I have, out of necessity, done almost no work on.

But, you know, it's hard to hate Reykjvík in the snow. And I went to see David's choir again on Thursday, with Bach and Rímur and an organ and other such good things. That´s two choir concerts and five hours of Wagner I´ve seen since I´ve gotten here. Like I´m cultured or some such nonsense. But music is the greatest salve for all things (even gaping wounds, in my book).

And in honor of that, and another painfully short blog post, I present Snævar-Freyr, 'Freyr of snow', the fertility god of Mjóstræti, for those of you that might have been thinking about still having a little respect for me, as an adult. Admittedly, I didn´t make him. But I watched and let it happen. Shame.

 Actually, this is a  reconstruction. Some Icelanders

passed by and knocked his original member off,

and we had to rebuild it.

 Sacrifice to me and I will make your fields rich with

majestic. . .snow. But very fertile snow, I assure you!

 Because Paul is fifteen, and also a perfectionist

about his creations.

And also he teaches everyone bad habits.

(We were still a bit drunk, I'm sorry, the beer was free. Blame the professor) Afterwards, Paul broke off Svævar-Freyr´s god-phallus and made a triangular hat out of it (like a proper Freyr idol). Find a Freudian-interpretation of that, boys and girls.

Þórsmörk

Little to say but that paper-writing was once again delayed by tramping around in the grand valley of Þórr (Wikipedia describes it as a ridge, but the tour guide seemed to refer to the whole valley) between the glaciers Tindfjallajökull and the infamous Eyjafjallajökull, with Mýrdalsjökull at the end of the valley.

By far the best trip so far in Iceland. Well worth the money. But, again, I will endeavor to let the picture speak for themselves.

The guides sheep dog, taking a break from herding

us in order to demonstrate the massive size

of the floodplain.

 Quicksand, where slowly melting ice has been buried

beneath the sand and gravel from the last flood.

 She works hard, rain or hail or snow.

 This glacier now property of Chechen-Hobbiton alliance.

There are snipers behind all the boulders.

Go elsewhere.

 MIS be some classy motherfuckers.

 Drinking the best water in the world.

Our intrepid 8x8 steeds.

 Evidence of the apparent "rain shadow" between

the three glaciers. But I assure you, the rest of the time

it was hailing.

 We crossed dozens of streams and little rivers, but

among those we were on foot for, this required the most

coordination.

 Göngu-Jonas, the wandering German.

Paul doing his mafioso bit.

 Climax.

Adieu.