I finally quit my involvements with social media, but now I'm considering reactivating my profile. It's only been a week or so and I admit that it feels liberating, but all such freedoms come at a price. Part of the emancipation was discovered by thinking through the act of writing individual letters to all of the people I would like to keep in contact with, an impossibly daunting and nauseatingly romantic idea. I started a list of names, of those humans that it is most essential that I write to, that I keep the lines open with, and BELIEVE IT OR NOT your name was at the top of this list. You are currently my primary letter writing priority.

I've been thinking about you quite a bit these past weeks, mostly because I've been meaning to write you this letter much sooner and the thought has been itching me like an insect bite, a small red throbbing target of my awareness. I also miss Iceland, which currently feels like worlds and lifetimes apart from where and how I am currently living. Looking back, I can see that I was in a very strange headspace for the 6 months I lived in Seyðisfjörður and I chuckle to myself in imagining how I appeared to others. Nevertheless, it was an incredible experience to have this time out there at the edge of the world, sharing in the task of building Sterling on the precipice of the unknown void with you gentlemen, and all the moments in between.

If the circumstances would have been otherwise - which is to say if we were not perpetually exhausted and focused on the task at hand - I'm sure we would have had the opportunity to observe many more interesting points of convergence between our minds. Perhaps we will still have the opportunity one day. When I wake up in the morning and sneak out into the kitchen to pour some coffee and read to the rising of the sun I often remember those mornings at HEIMA which seemed to glow from the inside, the silent conferences we would conduct around the breakfast table with books and porridge and post-sleep breathing. I wonder what you're reading these days, whether you are loving to hate it or hating to love it, because of style or content, or what other potentials you are deriving from those books. Do you consider reading to be an escape or a deeper immersion into the world? I can see it both ways, but not simultaneously. Such it is to be human.

I've been living in Las Cruces, New Mexico, USA since mid July. At my parents house. It's driving me fucking bat shit crazy, I have to admit, but I'm making the most of the situation by trying to engage my elders with calm empathetic respect as I try to persuade them to act more deliberately, desperately, dynamically. I have some other family visiting at the moment - aunts and uncles - so I am surrounding by old age that is not necessarily so wise. I console myself by documenting everything, video and audio, always on, always present. I'm recording myself writing this letter right now. It all has to do with this opera I'm writing, somehow. Perhaps it is the opera, this is what it will be or will become, but it feels more like this constant documenting is a process leading to other processes. Yes, I enjoy this idea of "process-ing," of processes of processes, of processing the process of processing. Maybe that's just a personal inside joke that carries little meaning when I try to share it, but it smells like something potent to me.

US elections are coming up. I need to get out of this crazy fucking country as soon as possible. I have a ticket to Oslo at the end of this month, yes to go spend time with ___. Three months actually. We are renting an apartment there for November and December, just to live for a little while. No pressure, no pain. She has her school to attend to and I have... well, this documenting bullshit which may or may not become an incredible artwork and a long list of names to write letters to. Anyways, if you happen to find yourself heading to Norway in the middle of godforsaken winter then we should try to cross paths. I am considering making an excursion to Copenhagen for at least a few days in January, so perhaps then would be a more reasonable time to slap palms, if you're up for it of course.

I hope this letter finds you well ___. I hope your summer was full of hot sweaty love in the salty sands of Denmark and you successfully resisted drinking shit beers and smoking shit cigarettes, and more importantly that you have made some headway on your own writing and some satisfaction in city life and some small morsels of transcendence in your daily rituals. When will the english translation be ready? How does the new issue of ___ look? Don't hesitate to let me know if there's anything I can ever do for you.