on weather metaphors and ghost world references

Finding your words was exactly what I needed, Betsy.

Lately, I too feel like Icelandic weather. I am constantly changing in ways I recognize but can't articulate, in ways that may not be apparent to an outsider. I don't know what's going on in my life. I understand what you're talking about: the decisions we're facing; the uncertainty; the reality that in less than a year, diploma in hand, we might still have no idea where our lives are headed.

I think a lot about what I want to do. In the terrifyingly grand sense, I mean with my life. In the lesser sense, I mean what do I want to do right now, - today or tomorrow, day to day.

As for today, I want to be creative. I feel stifled in this city, suffocated by its size and relative hostility. As for today, I want to be taken seriously. I want my ideas to be heard and I want to know how to say them. I returned home after a summer away with a notebook full of words and a head full of ideas. Now I feel drained and uninspired. I make lists for self-improvement I never follow through. I bite my nails until they bleed and worry about how bad they look. I wonder why I'm in University, why I live in this city, why I can't get myself together and why I feel like Seymour, who can't relate to 99% of humanity.

I don't think well long-term. I find myself obsessing over what I think I want, planning diligently, only to learn weeks later that I no longer want it. The word "career" is so ambiguous, so ominous. I can't imagine a career-type job I wouldn't get tired of. I've spent the last year or so claiming (with utter vagueness) to want to "get into publishing". I don't even know what that means (and what if I don't?), but it sounds like a career, which is something I'm told I want. In reality, I think it means many years of working my way up the corporate ladder, many years spent in an office in an industry that is not unlike Icelandic weather. The romanticized editor/author relationship exists rarely these days. Max Perkins and Ursula Nordstrom are relics of the past. In the interest of honesty, I'd rather be on the other side of the desk. In the interest of honesty, I'd rather be a writer. I know I am a writer, and I've known that for a long time. Only recently would I admit that to myself, only now will I admit that to others, only now will I recognize what a terrifying non-career I have ahead of me. I need to get myself on a path to writing more - more than the vignettes I save in multiple word documents, more than a journal, more than observations in the margins of notebooks and the occasional blog post. NaNoWriMo is coming up, that might be a good place to start. I feel so much pressure to "do something with my life". There are so many things I want to do with my life. The wonderful thing is we're really just beginning.

Life is scary. Decisions are nerve-wracking. You say you're terrified, Bets. Well, so am I. The smattering of sunshine might be knowing we're in this together.

Dev

on geography and list making

Iceland is simultaneously one of the most beautiful and desolate places I've been to and likely ever will. The landscape changes like the weather- and by that I mean constantly. When it's overcast it feels like an oppressive grey place, but the rare bursts of sunshine transform it into a breathtaking country of mountains and ocean, fire and ice; filled with every colour imaginable.
Right now my life is feeling like Iceland; overcast with a smattering of sunshine. I'm terrified to find myself in my last year of university with no plans or direction. I realize a lot of people feel like this, but that doesn't pacify the large knot in my stomach. I'm the type of person who thrives on lists, plans and details, and not knowing what comes next is a terrifying first for me. It's funny to think back to four years ago, when I applied for university and was convinced that my last major life decision was made.

Turns out it was the first.
-Bets

Flateyri. Latrabjarg. Landmannalaugar. Alftavatn.

Cat sitting in a home with a sunporch has been lovely. 

[In love with Daniel Handler & Maira Kalman's piece ]

[counting down the days until this happens]

birds of a feather flock together

-Bets

countdown.

I'm so excited you're coming home soon, Bets. 

Here are some things I'm looking forward to doing contigo:

Moonrise Kingdom on opening day.

Playing backgammon and Scrabble and any/every other board game.

Picnic-ing / Eating pie.

Planning my New York adventure together.

Swapping woes / #spinsterlyfe.

Thrift shopping.

Listening to musics.

Talking about books. 

  

But most of all, I'm just excited to see you! 

Six days, huzzah!

Dev. 

Croquet. Coffee. 150 acres. Bumblebees. Lovely.
-Bets

Badlands of Ontario

'Gods Altar'

badlandsplural of bad·lands (Noun)

Noun:

Extensive tracts of heavily eroded, uncultivable land with little vegetation. A barren plateau region of the western US, mainly in southwestern South Dakota and northwestern Nebraska, south of the Black Hills.

Driving past this site with friends, I slammed on the brakes and haphazardly stopped the car in the parking lot. I'd never seen a landscape like this. We leapt out of the car and ran up and down the hills yelling and laughing like children. This area is part of the Bruce Trail that stretches from the Bruce Peninsula south to Niagara Falls. It was overgrazed by cattle in the early twentieth century, and the shale was eroded until the beautiful red iron rich material surfaced. Though the grazing was stopped in the 1930's, this desolate area remains, wearing away more and more with each passing year.

-Bets