the 90´s were pretty terrible.

im as big now as ive ever been. i attribute this to kókómjólk and soupy pizza. not even as horribly mediorce pizza as double pizza. castle? i hope the boi who is inhabiting your purple walls is being extrodinarily good to you. but i am le tired. le tired. le tired. people at work must think im on drugs. out of body again, leave a message. i went from a 20 minute walk to work to almost an hour 'commute' of some variation. how did this happen? oh right, the room.
this room im inhabiting is cute. i´ll admit it. its all i need in life most times and then some. it coupled with my camera and my bottle of tequila are my only possesions now. this room was made for wildminding, if not the whole damn basement floor. how do i continually end up living below street level? sarah harmer? is there anybody out there?

the room is quite possibly a microcosm for this country; small, secluded, quiet, (too quiet sometimes), desolate and quaint. i am certain iceland resides in another dimension, perhaps the same ones that philip k. dick is so fond of. it has its own special place within space and time. proof? communication breakdown. first is my somewhat avid practicing of the french language when i encounter hoity intolerance towards imperial english. this disarms people at light speed. dont get me wrong, my disclaimer remains that i want to learn and pick up on as much icelandic as humanely possible (this doesnt say much for me), however, don´t expect positive feedback when you speak about me to others in it (old farts at work), as i will gladly make the situation even more interesting with a language you dont understand (i am not bitter, i am fun loving and a delightful little worker). this happens but very rarely. like i said before, i will come to QC and speak icelandic. besides, its not languages that kill people, despite how mangled they are, its ACCENTS. you can´t buy these, and they are hard to obtain, which in turn makes the language somehow highly incomplete without it. second facet of communication breakdown: zee telephones. or serious lack thereof. they may very well be play toys. somehow, 00-1-613-283-2751, and every other number i can remember from home-ville (save my moms, .. STRANGE), flat out refuses to carry my overpriced call across the north atlantic. sometimes i reach a friendly woman in denmark, sometimes an angry czech man, other times i get a whole lot of no one, as well as no rings, maybe a beep, no dial tones, but instead a echo and a whole lot of static. play toys. where is everybody? i even tried to call a fetus in ottawa. instead i reached buddy in a place where i dont know what they speak.

even the operator is on perma-holidays, or at least has an icelandic work ethic of sorts. like my boss. there is no 9-5, but there is something like a quarter to 11-chain smoking-excessive coffee consumption-non functional-4:39 day. im being highly irrational. im just jealous because im such a good worker. such fine foreign meat. although, these mid-day naps are fairing quite well for me. 11am strides in and im off finding a dark room to power-kip in. how remarkably refreshing. who knew sleep could come so easily? have i been fighting it all this time? there is so much air in this country to breath in, it just exhaustes me. the icelandic work ethic and i are going to be tight. be good to your foreigners, and they will reward you with the best they know how. or maybe not.

anyways, yoko, paul and ringo are coming tuesday.