6/10/2013

 

2002.1

 

The cliffs rising up like ice skirts of blue. Watching the birds flither about as we flew in ourselves adjusting to the turbulence and wind speeds to mountains of ice. Do you remember in Belgium dancing to Daft Punk at 1am and spilling beer all over your Patagonia and joking about how we should film thisÖ around the world, perhaps in night vision, like you are putting on the jacket, perhaps you are going to climb a mountain, or sail an ocean, or weather something tremendous, but only to go to a discotech late at night, early in the morning and prove itís awesome breathable technology by getting splattered in beer, with demon green eyes you smile into the camera, your teeth a tommyknocker.
We kept moving to colder places, where the sea was a million gray white cap answers. The further north you move the less and more it helps. I need to connect, so a move to things that you will never be able to count, the mountains, the rivers, the lakes until you canít count me, I just sort of blend in to something that makes sense the way it should.
It is hard down here in Unalaska, you see the people in all their desperation and darkness, the roads are dusty and grime, everything littered, cigarette butts and beer cans and Safeway plastic bags wind stuck against rusted rotten forgotten metal structures. You look down upon your feet and see the grass engaged in what is the only honest fight, it keeps on trucking, another storm to endure.
Driving to my dadís house for the first time was like going down some sort of warm tunnel. I took pictures of the bridge that he would moped over, the McDonaldís that he would facetime us from, the ocean that he looked at the walls that he pushed his hands against the shoes that he wore.
Reading a lot of books about the early Vikings, the bear shifters, the ocean goers, the families and peoples with the same names, the blood the dreams the sea the fair the sod homes and wood carved whispers, the Icelandic nights and Greenlandic fjords, the traveling lost outlaws, the chests of gold buried in earth, laplanders king mothers of death in ears shooting hook arrows.
She pointed her finger and I could see all this light and flowers growing. He pointed his finger and we sailed into darkness and adventure, into fear challenging ourselves to become better men.