I've been sleeping in everyday.

The light that permeates the dense fog of this fjord comes in low base frequencies so that it often appears to rise from below, an inner lamination or lamentation radiating out from the pores of the rocks making the plants glow like unnatural nylons and polyesters and spreading everywhere an eerie illusion as the optics of the diffuse cool wooly air intermingle with the spray of the gray sea. This is my 12^th^ day in Seyðisfjörður; in one way I can't believe that much time has already transpired and in another way I sense some disarming familiarity with this place, not a belonging but a recognition where others describe wonder. I have shared this experience of quiet understanding with a few of the other residents here as well, as if an element of the landscape is drawing a magnetic current from some clandestine mineral deposit of the body, embedding bone into stone, pulling it back down into the volcanic gurgling just under the surface from which it was spawned or smelted. Of course these mountains have a power the likes of which I have never borne witness to -- even as the human element continues on with its oh-so-human business in the shadows of the sleeping giant. I want you to come here with me, to validate its reality and my own, you as an outside element that might cross the periphery of universes and unify the eyes into a singular axis of entrainment, and also of course to share in the experience of being isolated in the world while simultaneously sending out terrestrial tendrils straight and spindled deep under the soil, a consistency of sense rather than mobility.

When I first arrived on the island I was dropped into the middle of a youth festival undergoing its 15^th^ anniversary called Lunga. What began as a festival has developed into a school, organized and conducted by the same visionary Danish "chaos pilots" that have built the house I am currently residing in. The festival consisted of numerous artistic workshops conducted at various points throughout the small town by notable artists of various fields of inquiry -- dance, electronic music, theatrical performance, social engagement -- with numerous small satellite performances by these artists as well as many more occurring throughout the night. The HEIMA house (that I am a part of) hosted a visionary-narrative-based life-theater workshop about envisioning a positive group-think post-apocalypse and also self-organized various musical events in our workshop. I was invited to play during the festival and I accepted and executed my first solo show since the Chicago days, which consisted of myself sitting quietly barefoot in a room built entirely of wood tickling the sympathetic vibrations of a wonderfully aged acoustic guitar that I rigged to interact with a fucking gigantic subwoofer that was hidden behind a wall behind the audience of ragged colorful art children so that as I played the frequencies intermingled in the material structure of the space as though we were all sitting on the insides of the instrument itself, the feedback flowing through our collective bodies like the consilient current of consciousness coursing from mind to digit to steel stringed strum. It was an amazing show, which was completely site-specific, and I loved to do it, and now I want to do it more. The next day I played another show of a different order, a conversation through percussive sounds between me and a total stranger: ___ from France, another resident of the house. We faced two drumsets together with a dual-tubed fluorescent light creating a luminous line between us in an otherwise dark room, then suspended a small cymbal from a wire affixed to the roof which swung between us like a pendulum of death offering interaction or decapitation. It was a short performance but I believe a successful one. Both experiences inspire me to make much more music, but also instill a kind of determinism to hone the skill, to practice and hone edges, to learn new words in order to transcend the common tongue into a polyrhythmic world of alien dialects. I have no space for this at the moment, but I am determined to find some like my life depends on it which it also feels it does.

Yesterday I set off on a road out of town on foot with another resident. It was a cold gray morning but spirits were high. We both wore all black, which for me has taken on a new meaning in this small fishing village at the end of the world: to serve as an aesthetic signifier of subtle but determined distinction of mind and body from the place which surrounds, that is, to wear proudly the mark of the outsider by adorning with cloth of the night rather than celebrations of day, but it also serves a practical utility which becomes very present and real every time the slightest glimpse of solar beams descend to warm my midnight body. We two bricklayers of tautological masonry -- each adorning our own set of toolings -- set a course for the heart of the fog to follow the curvature of the fjord around the fractals of its axis to see what we might not have seen, to hear invisible birds and witness the retinal burn of ancient beasts skipping on the sensuous scrim of the atmospheric blanket like phantasmagoric phantoms of the primordial mind projecting out ancient cave fears into the ever-widening universe. We two monastic road warriors walked fast and hard, pushing each other forward with subtle corporeal inclinations and mesmerizing words describing curvatures of solar plexi, depths of graveled graves filled with unspeakable vowels, the taboos and fetishizations of materials that are leading humanity like lemmings over the precipice of the rational into an unforgiveable oblivion, as well as more lubricated joints and lotioned knees. Although I had company out there in the wild I felt completely alone, and I want more of it. After 4 hours of walking we reached our destination: a wonderfully lonely cabin on the tip of the fjord that shelters local biological, botanical, and mineralogical researchers that venture to the outer Auslands to find pieces of themselves scattered in the detritious of the archeological plentitudes frothing up from the granulated earth. We ran from the rain to the hearth and immediately stripped down all of our heavy iced clothes to follow the promise of a hand-built subterranean sauna, which we were stuffed into only minutes later. We pushed our bodies up into the ceiling to press the hair into the hot wood and inhale deeply the inferno vapors into the nostrils where they seemed to singe to the smell of our own bodies burning diffusing evaporating and recondensing like gelatinous dough in a pressure pot. When the line of reason was transgressed and even the irrationality of further endurance escaped us we flung open the door and ran down the hill past the pigs and the ducks through the cabbage patch and potato fingers through the crystalized tall grasses down down down to the black salty beach to run into the frothy void and inverse the numbness of the skin from boil to bubbles. I rolled in the sand and scrubbed my body raw, climbed the shiny rubber cliffs back to the rune-adorned sanctuary, cracked a bottle of homebrew, and settled a smooth soft curve into a red velvet chair carved densely with beared gods and voluptuous temptresses.

(((break)))

Later in the evening -- yesterday evening -- after a stew of turnips and fresh potatoes and carrots and dark sweet bread -- after fables of lost foxes and confused walruses and seals with overgrown heads and birds that followed the wrong butterfly and a famous polar bear skin that passed over many hands before ending up just out of reach of the grandson of the hunter - after discussions of self-sustainable ecosystems and biocuriosities on the iris -- after many languages and many quiet moments -- we separated and coagulated again to run to the edge of the cliff to resaturate our clothes in the atmosphere and glimpse the puffins basking in their sanctuary out there at the edge of the world. Another resident artist had constructed a gigantic wooden polar bear monument and after a series of logistical headaches had managed to transport it the 19km down the shaking gravel road and install it upon the slopes of the purple cascades, ever so delicately on the loamy soil that seemed more moss blanket than terra firma, in ordinance of a uniquely fabricated ceremony to celebrate the end of a real species at the end of a possible future, as an offering of ephemeral time travel through a collectivized imagination of the last bear on the last island remembered by the last people standing at the edge of a precipice both literal of landscape and metaphorical of mind. Alex cocked the shotgun took aim and fired, paused to reload, check the sight and pulled a line down the center of the looming plywood beast until the invisible strings twanged and stretched and retracted it apart into two equal halves. After the sawdust settled and the documentation was verified we again all assembled our tribal hands to lift up the dripping remains and let loose the gravity of the gray descension to rush up the sizzling rocks below and obliterate the remainder of the mythological form. A fire was lit, which destroyed the evidence and warmed our marinated bodies and smelted the air into solid visions while anointing our foreheads with the residues of what will always already be the was will be. Tired and sore, hoarse from the toxic steam, we all piled into raised beds to stumble back down across the 3 rising rivers into the lights of town, the glowing amber embers of nightly fed electric fires cinging out the landslides of the long form poems. Whiskey was shared, memories of the memorialization of the monument recounted, and now cookies are baked to christen the dawning of possibility which may or may not circle back to a reliving of the previous nights mountain murder by the progeny of the unknown future present.

Now I'm back in the warm now, sitting here, ruminating, deciding what comes next. Getting out this letter to you, to reestablish some intimate contact with my most intimate friend whom I have neglected for far too long. This has been my major priority for the last 2 days. Now that this is done -- until the next neglect at least -- I will move forward and beyond to the above mentioned projects, as well as many more that have percolated up in the meantime. I will begin my research on energy, the energy exchange of the human and the interchange with the ecosystem and the transmogrification of the energy into vision and theory and knowledge, and I will begin a study of the book form in relation to the distribution form of immaterial data, and I will begin a process of intensive gleaning in order to organize my oracle for expanded vision.