The Revenge Colonization of Danmǫrk

First day home from the fifteenth international Saga Conference, in Aarhus, the official white backpack of the event retired and slung across my chair, my bags unpacked, my desk reequipped with its various piles of library books and stacks of printed-off articles and notes of unfinished translation, my internet again powerful enough to watch Rurouni Kenshin (since I'd seen both Trigun and Trinity Blood back at the monastery, it seemed philologically required. And for all of those who got that joke, you are such a nerd. Yes, I'm talking about you, James). Approximately four weeks to the thesis due date. Have to edit both translations, write two more chapters, and edit the whole thing-an indeterminate amount of translation remains. Particularly writing the chapter about religious issues in Breta sögur, interpretatio christiana and interpretatio germanica, I keep wanting to compare it to all the religious material in Hauksbók, sort of like in Chapter One when I wanted to pull every genealogy from the entire manuscript (which I still might do a little of). Waiting to hear back about my first draft of half the chapters-hopefully soon, though I quickly figured at the conference that none of the advisers there were going to get any work done. I'd be a bit surprised if any of them got any sleep.

It was a very fine conference, a good first impression of the whole scholarly world. Lectures are better when they're only 20 minutes long, and scholars are less intimidating (if only slightly less) when they have to present in the same cramped, sweaty classrooms as the PhD students. It was amusing to see the lecture on Viking Metal so well attended, and largely not by metalheads, though equally there were some very fine presentations that were poorly attended. And I discovered, much to my sorrow, that this is the first year that there will be no official publication of the conference papers; I can't cite anything I heard! Very unfortunate. Hopefully they fix that by Switzerland in 2015. Wherein, with any luck, I will be presenting. And this time I will bring my mandolin (and maybe convince Emily to bring her fiddle) so Terry Gunnell won't have to give me that disappointed look. Though I'll have to be better by then. Practice, practice, practice.

I've watched the most recent Sherlock Holmes me too recently, though. Every time I think of a conference in Sweden I imagine we will be in a castle perched high upon a snowy peak, where I will play chess out in the snow with Paul, and possible toss James down into the water. At least he'll float.

Looking forward to a lot of things; not terribly Zen-like, I suppose, but it's a nice assurance of the linearity of time: going to Amsterdam with Mom, and Germany with Magda, and transcription and Icelandic over the Fall, and then the Hobbit and sweet home Portlandia come Christmas time. And then California, apparently, for New Years: going to be endeavoring not to throw up on my aunt's lawn this time.

The first two pictures are from the graveyard in 101 Reykjavik; alas, they burnt it off about a week after I took this.

 The Cathedral of Aarhus. Pretty much the main thing worth

taking pictures of in the city. Something about a grand cathedral

made out of red brick I really like. Like the combination

of a proper cathedral and an American highschool.

 The beginning of our tour of the reconstructed Viking Age

Farm built outside the Fyrkat ring fort.

 Finally the clouds came for a proper picture,

without so much glare.

 I could totally live there.

 Our guide, Else Roesdahl, and her plaque at the entrance

to Fyrkat. Something about having a famous scholar

as a tour guide just makes me want to giggle.

 One of my favorite pictures. As ominous and solitary

as one imagines any bastion of humanity in the

Viking Age.

 The entrance to the ring fort, constructed by Harald Bluetooth

at the end of the tenth century and abandoned within

ten years.

 The inside, with the post holes of the buildings marked.

 He's ready for his traditional pose, just something

about the place held him back for a second. Else

was watching. . .

 Everyone is trying to dodge my camera.

 Reynhildur and her pseudo-historical foremother,

the völva of Fyrkat, here hiding beneath her weedy

mound. A shy sorceress.

 If Frank Miller did a comic about vikings, and posted

it up in an open air museum. . .

 The top of the hill-cemetery at Lindholm Höje. One

small village, but after hundreds of years a massive

archaeological impact. There's a good metaphor in

there somewhere.

 I will only explain this by saying that Paul watches too

much South Park, and that the circular forms are generally

female burials.

 The quintessential male ship-form burial.

 Emily was laughing at my posing.

Bloody English.

 Post-docs can float. Didn't you know that?

 The museum by the graveyard. I didn't finally find

the highest brightness setting on my camera

until the end of the tour, so most of the pictures

were too blurry and I had to delete them. But it was still

an amazing number of artifacts in a fairly small place,

and a massive premodern chronology, from the Stone Age

through the Viking Age.

 Weights, of indeterminate purpose. Too small for loom.

I think I decided they were for fishing, but your guess

is as good as mine.

 One of the old wooden figure that

used to stand by difficult places on a path, by

bogs and lake, and then would often fall in or

sink and be preserved. Lucky us.

 Ze spears, for James. Interpret them, you bastard.

Now.