They are flickering fast, gentle friends, diligent friends, the reels of time are nearing their final cut, their final flip through the pathetic camera of life.
Apocalypse, you say? No, no nothing so dramatic. Quitting the blog again only to return again? No, that is stale, boring.
Friends the real trouble is this: my vampiro-prophetic powers are at an all-time low ebb. It has been weeks since I have feasted upon the neck of an unwitting undergraduate, months since I last turned the tarot cards, years since I last overturned my magic eight-ball to reveal the favorite message "Drink Blood."
For several months I jokingly alluded in casual conversations between friends to a potential trip to Aruba for the one year anniversary of the Holloway disappearance. This, this, I thought, would rid my soul of this bottomless malaise, this would light the fury of my songwriting flame to new tallow melting heights, this, this is the thing!
But fate has spoken, and as usual, its bellowing cat-call is a shrieking "No!"
Plans have shifted. Instead of going south I must go north, out into the frigid Atlantic frontier. In short, the gods have decreed, I must go to Iceland!
Iceland, you may know, is a volcanic Atlantic island nation first settled in 870 by the Vikings. Icelanders were converted (by decree) to Christianity in 1000. Etc.
I am going to Iceland to live deliberately, in a youth hostel. I plan to also sample the curds and whey of the local milk farmers. I'm also going to devour a seal, live. Plenty of pictures to come, but the trip is not until the end of the month, so I may post some frivolous trivialities here sooner or later.
Oh, and to the Anonymous who didn't like my Luke Perry/James Dean SaB, all I have to say is: Get honest.