Reykjavík Grapevine - 28.08.2010, Side 46

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Books are good for your brain and walking is good for your body, so by default
this book is a pretty good thing, too. Why not check it out?
34
The Reykjavík Grapevine
Issue 13 — 2010
A few days ago (the rather awful) writer’s
magazine Writer’s Digest tweeted the
following: “Free short story competition
to raise awareness for those suffering
from depression”. Followed by a url. Now, being the
cold-hearted asshole I am, this made me chuckle.
I’m sorry for it, I truly am – I don’t mean to belit-
tle the people suffering from depression, nor the
writers who’d like to support the depressed, or even
Circalit and the publishers at Little Episodes, who
so graciously decided that their contest should be
“free”. [This is where I meant to insert a “but”, half-
ways excusing myself – but unfortunately there is no
honest “but” to be found, I seem to be nothing short
of an asshole. We’ll go on without a but then – bear
with me].
Writing short stories (or poetry) is of course
highly therapeutic, as a cure not only for depression
but also for various other mental ailments. Litera-
ture is a powerful tool for catharsis – it is prescribed
by licensed psychiatrists as a means to purify the
soul, to get stuff out there, to grasp emotions and
thoughts before they f lutter away, to gain self-under-
standing. Formulating thoughts in non-linear (and
even non-logical) texts can furthermore bring about
harmony, coherence and satisfaction for the practic-
ing writer, as well as uncovering hidden bits you’d
never’ve dreamt you were feeling and/or thinking.
This despite the fact that the result may also be quite
the opposite; writing can make you predictable and
‘cause you nothing but anguish.
In international avant-garde circles the cathartic
powers of writing are traditionally derided – which
is sort of why I chuckled. They’re seen as an evil
force hellbent on destroying all that’s good about lit-
erature, transforming it into a support group for the
mentally needy. And in all truth, cathartic writing
is often not very good – it’s extremely self-centred,
it’s rarely performed with much artistry (in 9 times
out of 10 the cathartic writer never passes the novice-
phase) and it’s overtly melodramatic. None of which
retracts from the fact that it’s highly therapeutic and
healthy. But people don’t seem to have the same hes-
itancy about publishing their therapeutic poetry as
they have about, for instance, recording and publish-
ing their songwriting. Quite simply there doesn’t
seem to be much of a border seperating the presen-
tation or reception of serious and therapeutic poetry,
which perhaps tells us something about either the
literacy of the poetry reading masses or the quality
of the so-called serious poetry.
And yet. As mentioned earlier, one of the con-
sequences of the less than artistic nature of thera-
peutic writing is a growing disdain for anything re-
sembling a humanist tendency within more serious
(and/or experimental) literature – and what gets lost
in this desperate f light from the horrors of senti-
mental confessionalism, is the reader’s catharsis (as
opposed to the writer’s catharsis) and the notion that
literature can help in explaining “the human con-
dition” – or god help me, provide a (much needed)
radical approach to social commentary.
This isn’t necessarily so much seen in the work,
as it is seen in the critical reception of scholars and
the poetics of the writers, who choose to frame their
works outside a humanist context (even when such a
context seems self-evident, for instance with Chris-
tian Bök’s The Xenotext Experiment – a humanist
feat comparable to the moon landing, a sentimental
march of hope – or better yet, Kenny Goldsmith’s
Soliloquy, a raucous and daring take on Sartre’s
maxim that “hell is other people”, without the “other
people”).
On the other hand, the writing deemed “human-
ist” or even “confessional” is often machinistic, fore-
seeable – as if written by automatons, it’s main col-
lective feature is a massive sameness with a dystopic
feel.
The dichotomy of humanist writing vs. experi-
mental writing needs to be put to rest – because just
as obviously as therapy isn’t necessarily art, experi-
mental writing is, through it’s radical political and
social approaches to language and creative living
spaces, inherently a humanist act.
Poetry | Eiríkur Örn Norðdahl
Experimentalism is a humanism
Strolling The City Limits
Guide Books | Review
Right now I’m happy. I know it won’t last
but right now I feel a good sense of calm
surrounding me like a gooey comfort
blanket. Why? Well, after months of
dragging our heels, we’ve finally taken the plunge
and moved from the outskirts of Reykjavík to a swank
apartment right in the guts of Grettisgata. Finally, I
feel like one of the hip, metropolitan urbanite set that I
know I was born to be a part of.
But while sitting here enjoying the view of my
‘wildlife’ garden containing three lazy cats and sipping
a cup of proper tea, my mind still wanders back to my
time spent living out in the sticks and how it shaped
my experiences. Breiðholt, although it had to end, we
certainly shared some good times together.
When I very first arrived in Reykjavík and told
people that I was living in Breiðholt, it was met with
concerns of my safety as I would be living in the
Reykjavík ‘ghetto’. The way they portrayed it, it was
a seething cesspit of crack users on every corner,
robbery and violence were rife and that I’d best be
careful at night, lest I have a cap plugged in my ass by
gun-toting ‘foreign looking’ people.
Of course all this doom mongering was utter
bullshit. But looking at Breiðholt for the first time, the
apprehension was understandable. Built like a wet
dream from the Stalinist soviet bloc era, it seemed
more like a concrete game reserve where the lumpen
prole scum could be dumped and kept out of sight so
that the glistening beauty of downtown wouldn’t be
sullied by their miserable mugs. And I was proud to be
one of them creating a home amongst the real people
of Iceland.
Mind you though, it’s not just the architecture that
makes a community. I’ll sort-of miss my neighbours
who I never got to know during my stay. The single
middle-aged man next door who smelled of booze and
puppies. The ever-changing people who lived below
us and their constant noise (during one party, they
sang along to Madonna’s ‘La Isla Bonita’ TEN TIMES!).
The nice family across the hall who occasionally lent
Sigga a cup of sugar/use of a pan/etc. But I certainly
don’t miss the meth users on the fifth floor that
attacked Sigga in the laundry room one day. I may be
a lover, not a fighter, but that day a lot of righteous
retribution was rained down on them I can assure you
of that.
And despite to greyness of the suburb, there were
the little charms that made it worthwhile. The local
swimming pool was better than any of the others
downtown with a small ice cream shop across the
road to ruin all those sessions at the pool. And being
next door to Elliðaárdalur, I could get away from
everything with bracing yomps along the footpaths.
But as time passed, Breiðholt started to lose its
meagre charm. Despite having a car, travelling to any
cultural activity seemed to require a level of effort and
military style planning that frankly was just a drag. And
most of our friends lived downtown so asking them
to pop over for a chat was like asking them to donate
their left kidney while chewing broken glass (i.e. very
unlikely).
But the worst thing of all about living in Breiðholt?
It was just costing me so much money, dammit! Any
time I went downtown I’d end up paying money hand
over fist to get a taxi home. At one point I think I
helped to maintain the taxi economy during the kreppa
in their jewel encrusted alloys and gold-plated beaded
seat covers.
So in the end Breiðholt, you were good to me but
right now there is a massive Gay Pride parade going
on right outside our flat, and unless you’re opening
a flying unicorn farm next week, there is no way you
could possible compete with that!
Sorry Breiðholt...
...but i’d rather be a 101
douchebag whore
Opinion | Bob Cluness
With author Reynir Ingibjartsson’s interest in his
subject and sense of humour coming through every
entry, 25 Beautiful Walks is a nature-walk-lover’s
ode to Reykjavík.
Each route is carefully chosen, and painstaking-
ly drawn maps clarify the different types of terrain,
distances, and points of interest. Reynir chronologi-
cally describes a walk through each circuit, sharing
interesting anecdotes along the way about the social
and natural history of the areas: rich eider duck col-
onies live here, so paths are closed during nesting
time; Davið Oddsson, formerly prime minister of
Iceland, originally stood against the building of the
Morgunblaðið newspaper building nearby the walk
at Rauðavatn Lake, and now Davið is the paper’s
editor—how times have changed!; legend has it that
a sorcerer magicked part of the Kaldá river under-
ground because two of his sons drowned there. Each
spot is brimming with stories and Reynir seems to
know them all.
While the detailed descriptions of each walk are
an advantage and, indeed, the point of a walking
book, some parts of the book can be a tad hairy for
those of us with a weaker ability to visualise direc-
tions, and to pronounce long-winded Icelandic place
names.
That said, I found that after reading through
six photo-heavy pages about Búrfellsgjá, the route I
was about to take, even though I found it difficult
to contextualise the descriptions, directions, and the
stories, it all made sense once we were on the walk.
Walk 23: Búrfellsgjá
As is true of all walks in this book, Walk 23 at Búr-
fellsgjá is spectacular and just a hop-skip-and-a-
jump off the road. Before my walking partner and I
knew it, we were shimmying around gaping fissures
in the earth, hopping through old sheep corrals as-
sembled from flat lava rocks, strolling through a
great volcanic half-pipe where molten lava had once
f lowed, then standing on top of the mountain that
created it, staring down into its giant crater. In just a
twenty minute drive from downtown.
Walk 10: Örfirisey
Much closer into town, I took an hour out of my day
to do Walk 10, Örfirisey, the harbour peninsula. It’s
very close to downtown Reykjavík, but an attraction
many Icelanders probably neglect except to go to the
supermarket. According to Reynir, the area, once
an island, has played host at various times to a Dan-
ish trading post, a whale blubber processing plant,
a WWII army post, and now many wharves packed
with fishing boats, which were bustling during the
day when my walking partner and I traversed Ör-
firisey, coffees in hand. The industrial-looking area
had some surprising nooks and crannies that were
worth exploring, including a sail-like sculpture by
Sigurjón Ólafsson, small retail and art spaces, a
raised pathway along the seashore on part of its east
side, and interesting views of Reykjavík along the
water.
What I would like to have seen more of was an
in-depth discussion about how each hike changes
with the seasons. There might be different ways
of traversing the areas depending on the season,
or special safety issues to watch for. A little more
discussion about those issues could come in handy,
although the book does discuss general safety and
weather guidelines to consider, in its information
section. Good thing the attractive layout is at least
on glossy pages that won’t immediately get ruined,
should you take them out in the rain.
Despite these quibbles, 25 Beautiful Walks is a
meticulously researched little book with a true love
for its subject.
Visitors and residents—discover Reykjavík on foot!
“I took an hour out of my
day to do walk 10, Örfirisey,
the harbour peninsula. It’s
very close to downtown
Reykjavík, but an attraction
many Icelanders probably
neglect except to go to the
supermarket.”
25 Beautiful Walks: Walking Trails Of The
Greater Reykjavík Area
by Reynir Ingibjartsson
Salka, 2010. 2.500 ISK