“Thank you for the dedication, dear Jamal! It turned out to be a very fine episode, right down to the sensual ‘presence intoxication’ ... The Brecht quote fits perfectly. The workshop version has its very own charm. This is an exciting writing experiment, thank you for your openness and your encouragement to get involved.” M.

*

“Theatre must once again achieve that every audience member is as entertained as they are in a middling American film.” Bertolt Brecht

Ecological Consciousness Elites and Cultivated Vanity

Ålesund was known for its ecological consciousness elite and the community’s subtle arrogance. Here, our resonance economy felt like a shimmering thread woven into a fabric of educated vanity.

Next door, the hall of a former blacksmith’s workshop was being used as a workspace. Around the turn of the millennium, a collective of architects had discovered the potential and charm of the workshop with its monumental timber-frame design. Now, in theTankesmedja – Idea Forge, creatives of all kinds gathered to hammer out ideas. Soot-dark, rustic black-and-white photographs of forging hammers hung on the walls.

Against this rural backdrop, an ideas marketplace emerged. People from widely different backgrounds came together to explore new ways of living—ostensibly beyond consumer compulsion, resource exploitation, and colonial power. Uninvited yet self-authorized, many invoked Indigenous values—no differently in Sweden than in New Zealand or Mexico (our previous stops). Everywhere we encountered the same type of digital backpacker. He flew around the world for pleasure, preached sustainability, and expected Wi-Fi in every wilderness. He consumed resources without restraint while staging himself as someone with privileged access to the wisdom of Indigenous cultures. In Mexico, he referred to the descendants of the Aztecs; in New Zealand, to Māori heritage; in Sweden, to the endangered Sámi culture. The accusation of cultural appropriation that he so readily raised would, on fair consideration, apply to him most of all.

Relationship Prelude — In the Present of the Narrated Moment

How gladly I would let my dress fall and let you unfasten my bra. I hear your voice at my ear (“the quiet laughter at another’s ear,” Wolf Wondratschek), a voice that excites me so shamelessly. I lean into you and breathe you in. I like the scent of your aftershave (no surprise—I chose it), as well as what lies beneath it. You smell right. At this moment, I need nothing more to be happy. And yet I want you entirely. Then I remember how intricately layered sensations of desire sometimes were during the era of our relationship prelude… especially as you affect me in a way that makes me lean forward involuntarily. A hand slips beneath the hem, pausing there with curiosity.

Atlantic Gray

“…and no one knows where the wind in this city comes from; it does not blow from the sea or from the mountains.” Steinunn Sigurðardóttir

For millions of years, our ancestors lived in a permanent survival mode. Predators, climatic extremes, competition for food, and interspecies conflict threatened their lives. In this environment, vigilance was decisive. Fear activates the sympathetic nervous system, increases heart rate, muscle tension, and reflex speed, creating a state of maximum readiness. This fear system couples with cognitive processes. Anticipation and strategic planning intertwine, forming an internal model of the environment that precisely guides action—from flight to hunting to tool use.

From constant threat emerged human consciousness. It is an adaptive mechanism that allows dangers to be recognized, risks avoided, actions planned, and scenarios mentally simulated. The ambivalence of early humans—both prey and hunters—selected not only for physical adaptations but also for mental flexibility, social cooperation, and precise timing. Fear becomes an evolutionary resource. It forms the basis of flight, cognitive control, strategic action, and human innovation.

*

We land in Reykjavík. This is not a postcard moment. You stay close to me, as if afraid I might get lost again. You have reason to doubt me. For the first time since the beginning of our collaboration a year ago. I had been convinced you would be the one to disappear first—alarmed by the feminine smiles you collect wherever you go. The broad radius at the tip of your nose gives you away. You are visibly alert. Still, you were probably faithful to me, while I now am certainly no longer doing you justice. Yes, I am struggling with something that unfortunately has nothing to do with you. The airport reminds me of a small-town American bus station in a film from the last century.

We pick up the rental car, a Subaru Forester. You start the engine with pleasure. Control and autonomy—you are the pilot again. The next moment Reykjavík slips past us; we are on the road again, once more an invincible team. Rain lashes diagonally against the windows, blurring the view of lava fields and fjords. The landscape takes on a harsh character.

Seyðisfjörður lies at the tip of a fjord, in the shadow of Bjólfur and Strandartindur. Between the two peaks, water rushes down the slopes; the Fjarðará flows through the settlement. A waterfall called Gufufoss is visible nearby. Steam rises as if the mountain were breathing. Volcanism and hydrothermal activity provide the hydrological and geological flow. We stop at the harbor in front of a hotel. I register a mix of wet iron, diesel, kelp, and sulfur—an olfactory clue to geothermal conduits. At reception, it smells of solid home-style cooking. We check in; the woman at the desk looks as if she has just come straight from a fishing trawler. We overlook the room’s average dreariness; the mountains outside the window dramatize themselves into silhouettes in the mist.

In the hotel restaurant, there are strays—strangers like us. They do not automatically form an international of long-distance travelers. Everyone keeps to themselves, speaks quietly, ignores the others. All drink craft beers with names like India and Fjallabjörn Pale Ale. Austri Brugghús is also served, a lager called “Slöttur.” We both order the dish of the day—cod with mashed potatoes and buttered vegetables.

*

On Snæfellsnes, we meet Ásdís, a ranger in Snæfellsjökull National Park. She comes from a nearby hamlet and overwhelms us with her love for her homeland. She presents herself in mud-caked boots, hands and face flushed red from the wind. Ásdís laments the ignorance of tourists who treat the glacier as a selfie backdrop.

“The glacier is changing faster than we ever thought,” she says.

*

Above the door of an antiquarian bookshop hangs a hand-painted sign: Hrafn & Refur – Fornbækur og Furður.

“Förum inn—let’s go inside,” I say.

In the entryway, you brush the sleet from my hair, slowly, with a care that still surprises me. Your fingers linger a moment too long at my collarbone, brushing my chest. You do not withdraw your hand. I pull away and wander through narrow rows of shelves. My fingers glide over spines:Galdrar og þjóðsögur—Magic and Folk Tales;The Arctic Sky;Edda—Annotated. You follow me. I feel you behind me. Your breath grazes my neck. A book slips from the shelf and falls to the floor. I bend down. The cover is black, embossed with a simple rune.

“Vertu svona—stay like that,” you whisper.