good morning!
I was at Foyles on Tottenham Court Road, figuring out which direction to go. I knew I wanted fiction, but what? I walked to K.
Kafka, Keats, Kagan, King. No, no. Kerouac - Kerouac! Yes, yes! Jack Kerouac! It’s so obvious.
I pick up a copy of On The Road. Of course I need to read this. Of course, of course I do. How could I understand the Grateful Dead, the Doors, Bob Dylan or Patti Smith if I don’t read Jack Kerouac?
Ahh, besides, I’m going on a road trip to Iceland in a few days. Perfect, perfect. On The Road it is.
I knew there was some meaningful connection between the Dead and Kerouac. Notably with Jerry Garcia. And I knew there was something to do with Neal Cassady and Bob Weir.
I did not know Neal Cassady was an integral part to this book.
I wake up my first night in Iceland in a fever, still sick. Ah, well. That’s a shame. Adventures must wait until tomorrow. Til then, I shall explore locally.
——
My second day in Iceland I rev up the engine of my Kia Creed and make may way south-bound, to some place past Vik.
Later that night I would be at some bookstore that turned into some late-night music venue.
A faithful servant to the sounds of the world, marched on to the tunes of the pied piper to stumble upon such a place.
(Here’s a piece of advice for your travellers. If you ever get lost, just sing this verse from The Kinks to yourself: If you don’t know which way to go / Just open your ears and follow your nose’ / cause the street is shakin’ from the tapping of toes)
Apparently I was not first in the queue as many another had already arrived. Nevermind that, said I, as I took my seat on the second level of the buildling, equipped with my Kerouac.
Fitzie’s track of the day, part one: The Other One, by the Grateful Dead
I liken myself to some Cassadian character, lurched forward at the steering wheel, eyes fixed on the paved road in some unknown land, listening to the Dead as I look to discover something unkown to myself. Something that, until moments soon to be realised, were nonexistant to me.
After coming around one particular bend I come across Skogafoss.
Hooooo-wee! Whoa, what a waterfall!!
I pull up, as do the throngs of other tourists.
I walk up closer to the gargantuan rush of water crashing down before me, its mist expanding and expanding, crashing onto my jacket, coiling my hair.
An inimitable roar rushes over me.
A force so powerful that I, but a meek fellow, could only imagine it were being thrust forward by the Almighty Hand of God.
I walk up the steep staircase, each step closer to the heavens, to get a closer view of the Almighty Hand of God pushing the river out towards the ocean.
And what a sight. The emerald greens, cast alight by the dazzling sun shining above us all. The roaring waters. Every hundred or so metres brought about a new discovery - a new waterfall.
Hestavadsfoss, Fosstorfufoss, Steinbogafoss.
Each powerful. But all were humbled by the strength, the lion’s roar of Skogafoss - the roar of a thousand lions - the Fist of Almighty God’s hand crashing down onto the earth.
I eventually departed, to travel a little past Vik, somewhere still along Iceland’s south coast. Past the Black Sand Beach. To a place called Alftaversgígar.
I don’t know why I was going there, only that I had it written down. And as I continued my drive beyond the Black Sand Beach I noticed I was the only car on the road driving past Vik, driving past this barren landscape where the horizon gave birth to only flatland.
Eventually I arrive at Alftaversgígar.
Is this it? Surely, it musn’t be. There is no one here. No one but me.
I look to my left and see what is some gigantic - absolutely gigantic - mass of ice block some distance ahead of me. As if it were the place where Almighty God had rested on the Seventh Day.
But before me there was nothing but mossy green. This barren land of lichen, black sand and still black water, with these strange cones, bursting from the flat earth some hundreds of miles out onto the horizon - and, of course, the Throne of Almighty God further than that.
Am I in Hell? Is God dead here:
Here I was, in this Nietzschian landscape, well beyond the scope of Almight God. Here I was, standing on this solitary mound, master of Nothing, surveyor of queer lands and dark desolate landscapes.
Above me were only grey, cloudy skies. There was a dirt pit. My Kia Creed. Some sign about Alftaversgígar, a staircase leading to nowhere. And nowhere else.
I never felt so alone in this Universe.
Surrounded, drowning in an impish terranium, standing on the precipice of the Residence of the Alimighty God, as He imposes His Almighty Power not just before me but before all those who seek to uncover the Beauties, the Tragedies, the Mysteries of The Universe.
Fitzie’s track of the day, part two: Space, by the Grateful Dead
And now for your links:
The Athletic ($$) does an interview with Ben Davies
Meanwhile, Dejan Kulusevski speaks with Alasdair Gold