12. October, 2016
I float on my back, suspended in crystal-blue waters. Like a jewel set in a ring of raw volcanic stone, the Blue Lagoon glitters amongst the prizes in Iceland’s hoard of natural treasures. Glowing like a Blue Moon, the lagoon is luminescent with silica and algae, the smoked-glass surface of the water cratered by waves and wind. Is this Heaven or is this Hell, this blood-warm pool of ethereal blue, glowing in a dark volcanic dystopia? Flocks of ghosts—specters of mist and steam—skim across the water, fleeing the galloping wind and volleys of rain. In this 800-year-old Otherland that steams between Niflheim, home of the Ice Giants, and Surt’s molten realm of Muspell, I float effortlessly as a thin mist on the waters. Bobbing in this blue alchemy, this blue reverie, this blue soliloquy, I listen. I listen to the booming quiet underwater, the pounding hollowness of space without sound, the melody that swells within an unrung cathedral bell. I am inside a watery jewel, a silica temple to the god whose name can only be whistled on the wind, only written in mist, only heard in silence.