Agility, attitude, combat, speed. A list of four things, pulse across the screen as described by the pussycat dolls on MTV. We sit, finishing off our pizza and beers – banished upstairs with the Americans. The football has finished, Selfoss women won 2-0 at home. It’s been a peaceful adventure to the north of Iceland. There’s something very nourishing, spending time with your sole surviving parent. A rightness, echoing the day I arrived in this world. I bought myself a beer, and a double dinner, having accidentally purchased a salad, which needed a pizza to wash it down. I’d tracked down my dad and his friend, who were visiting for a conference the week before in Reykjavik. They were mellow when I arrived, heads lolling after too little food and generous bartending. We caught up but before too long, we settled into old rhythms. It frustrated me, but other people often have other things on their minds – distracted. There had been a funeral a few weeks before and it hung about making me restrained, fretful and pensive. I’d hitchhiked to Siglofourdo, which took up the entire Saturday afternoon. I’d met some gems. Maria, the fun mum. Thor, the alternative medicine man. Schvet and his psychologist girlfriend, the likes of which loved hiking. A curious couple who ‘did not give a fuck’ about very much. A cute blonde from the USA who was working remotely and mourning the loss of a parent (I found out through social media), and a local of Sigló who had been drinking all day and playing golf – he got me the last leg of the journey in record time. Sigló was a peaceful town with and old museum retailing the days of overfishing: Herring, whale and the rest. A lazy chocolate shop, a new hotel, a pool and BIO engineering facility (testing remedies for cancer and arthritis using the waste products of shellfish). The first full day in Sigló I ran north a few clicks along Trollskagi, (troll peninsula) to an orange lighthouse. It was a lovely trot, which took me along an 880meter tunnel which cut clean through a mountain. It struck me, as the tunnel was the only way to pass, the high calibre machinery that would have been required and the resulting interior. Moist and illuminated by a few lamps; sos phone and fire hydrants placed in the pull-over station every 100meters. While taking a few snaps of the lighthouse, the owner of the farm next door returned home and let out his dogs. They charged straight for me and nipped at my hands until I stopped moving and played some catch with a few rocks. They were wonderfully trained and had kind, inquisitive souls. I went to the farm and requested on my; bald, vein pulsing Icelander to look after his dogs. My cat had recently been run over – and I feared they might meet the same fate if they followed my up to the road. The jog home was a breeze, as it was mostly down hill.

I put on my clothes for the day while thinking of my next performance. Dressing up, dressing down, telling my story, showing where I’ve been, how I think and; and what I like. If I’m going to feel this way, or that, I’ll need some war paint. The story is made up, so when you text me, the letters melt in my eyes and run like mascara. Meanwhile I listen to an album you created. With some songs you recommended couple with thoughts of your head bopping along. That musical voice, hidden away. My empty surface, all made up. Ornaments. Decoration. Piercings and laughter ringing in my ears. No, not ringing – warming me. Fanning the flame of my heart. Turning on the light inside. Candles craving us with their orange light. Shining eyes meet, and my mouth is stilled, half smiling through a mask, that isn’t made up.

Rarely does poetry jump from the page. In fact as you’re writing it you might be saying “this is rubbish” THATS OK – as long as you’re feeling something. Lean into it, as long as you can write it, share it, give it meaning. Own it and speak it.

A delivery man

Wearing shorts and a white shirt

He’s angry and asking:

“Do you know which floor?”

I say ‘no’ and sit down on a bench peering into my phone screen.

Locking and unlocking it nervously, feeling out of place and worrying that he’ll cause a scene, that I’ll be drawn into somehow.

Angst, frustration, bitterness – it’s all on display and a bit too much.

Play me like a record baby.

Be careful, turn me on.

Scratch me if to have to baby.

Spin me round and wrong.

It’s hard when you’re around, baby

And quiet when you’re gone

[…break…]

I’ll play you like a record baby

With perfect skips and grooves.

I don’t forget the steps baby

And I know, you know the moves

I’ll hold you in my hands baby

Then let the needle go

Play me like a record baby

Working to and fro

The rhythm’s in our hips, baby

So abandon sleeves and slips

Whisper what you want baby

With lyrics, love and lips.

Look to that slice of sky, filled by mountain tops. Tracking our horizon, clouds far as eye can see. Green and white and blue they pop. Attracting you and me.

Breakfast

Morning tea

Lunch

Intercourse

Dinner

No alcohol after midnight.

Climb a mountain every day.

From my travels up and down the coast. I have cultivated an rich understanding of our past. Most notably:

Trains

Lighthouses

Genocide

Dave Travels