Lo drove me home from her brothers’ new villa, the two of us wearing a second elephant skin of latex wall paint.
We sat in silence, which was new.
Usually tethered and talky, our paired souls settled without a whisper as her hand flicked to the angular stereo controls and Takk baptized us. The San Gabriel air was biting and fresh, miniature stars tracing the hills and shifting in 3D as we wound our way back to Bungalow Heaven.
Glósóli began and decades filled the window, thousands of images attaching themselves to the rocks and trees flashing past us in the dark. Time collapsed and by Saeglópur uncontrolled notes lifted from my throat and erupted from the tectonic fractures of Jonsi’s soul, now together in a slow, spreading wave. The night reversed to sunset, and back to sunrise, arcing through days and months in a schizophrenia of cascading memories.
Notes create worlds.
Or awaken them.
Jón Þór Birgisson writes songs that have fingerprints, unmistakably part of the whole but unwaveringly unique, and instantly penetrating. Takk has a sound, but in fractions of seconds we know exactly what song it is, by the drone, by the falling bells, by the rising strings.
To write like this. To pull my own inner world up through my windpipe and sing it into collision with this one. To give songs thumbprints. To evoke in seconds, to shift a human heart with just a few notes.
To let my own soul shift.
To let my world create worlds, and let those worlds form a constellation of music.
I looked to Lo as she twisted the key and unplugged her phone, my face striped with glassy paths. We climbed our steps. Time accordioned back into place.
Art by Bene Rohlmann.
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