(All pictures from my bedroom window)
The Icelandic Winter has held particular character of late: the lull of disaffection and disinterest gave way a few days ago when we got the sort of snow that holds itself together with special quality, and there are inches of it on every twig, a foot and a half on every tombstone, and the land gets cozy with its bulk. The winds have returned, the respite from them ever brief, so the trees and the University's birch hedges are not quite so impressive. But it is still a lovely season, and even the even misanthropic and patriotic (in their very local ways) Paul and James appear more at home.
The translations are long. I was getting angry at every word I had to look up (which, still, are most of them. But I am developing some sort of vocabulary, even if the semantic and morphological diversity of the major strong verbs make them an eternal pain in the ass), and it seemed that though I devoted copious time to it, the three chapters of Laxdæla saga were completed just barely in time for tomorrow's class. And likewise I am at risk for being understudied for the little quiz, and perhaps with this writing somewhat lacking in sleep (though copious amounts of good Oregonian black tea should help with that). Njals saga next week will be more lines, in less time, and it will only progress from there. But I remain appreciative, particularly this term, of spending all that time studying EXACTLY what I want to, barring another decent history course. I mean, I've got a language course that's ninety percent translation, and solid and (it appears) unstressful introduction to the most exotically pedantic subject in the world, palaeography and codecology, that I might be a real little philologist someday, and the lone proper lecture/paper-writing course is in the full spectrum of Old Norse religion: I've already decided that I'm going to write about trees in Old Norse religion, because I'm just that sort of predictable (Perhaps I will be writing just about The Tree, but we'll see how the research goes).
Still nervous about the summer. Proper thesis-writing. Whether or not I'll get a sufficient enough start this term: whether I'll translate enough of my texts to get a good enough sense to really write about them. And there remains the topic, even. I had a very nice sort of idea about the adaptation and abbreviation of Breta sögur and Trójumanna saga to fit into the distinctly world-history context of Hauksbók; but then I was reminded that I can edit a manuscript fragment for my thesis. And it needn't be said that there are numerous attractive aspects to that, both practical and romantic. But there is further going to be a grant, and a rather hefty grant, offered to MA students writing on supernatural topics: of course only one student will get it, but it is hefty motivation to change my topic to something that fits it its realms (maybe something about trees?). So, what was a week ago one of the few concrete ideas about the summer's work has gone utterly fluid again. So it goes.
Not really much else to say. Seem to be doing well in classes and grades. Not particularly stir crazy with the study, though there are perhaps little aches and pains from sitting around too much. Going to two (free) shows this week. It's not Paris in the 20's, but it's a good gig all the same. And probably healthier.
P.S. Bornhöved, from Malbrook´s second album, QwadeWulf, is an absolutely amazing song. More of my fellow folkies need to listen to Wolfgang Meyering and his Northern German band of awesomeness.
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