Brooklyn Tweed

Somehow, despite rapidly devouring all of Jared Flood's other look books, I overlooked this one: Brooklyn Tweed Fall 2011. Naturally, it is perfect and fills me with feelings ... and also questions. Such as, where do I sign up to live in this perfect, sunny, woolen world? Is this world ... Brooklyn? Is that why everyone moved there after graduation? Can I take the subway there, or is there some sort of transdimensional portal involved? Do they let anyone in, or do you have to be heartbreakingly adorable and possess a black belt in scarf-tying to be accepted?

I have been to Brooklyn, once, or so I was told. It was dark, so it could easily have been Queens or Mordor for all I know. Actually, I do know. There are a number of transdimensional portals in the subway systems, and the trick is to pass through the correct Brooklyn portal, which leads to this reality. The incorrect Brooklyn portal, in case you were wondering, leads to "Dog Day Afternoon."

Upstate

 

After I got back from Europe, I was a bit sad to be back in New York. A week passed, and I felt differently. Suddenly I'm obsessed with upstate New York, which I can attribute to the regular trips our family has taken to Millerton and Pawling since I was little. We've also visited Rhinebeck, Cold Spring, Albany, Red Hook, New Paltz, Ithaca, and others that I can't remember right now. We almost always traveled upstate in the summer - so the moment definitely feels like an upstate New York time.

Yesterday we went to Albany to visit my cousins. We took the train along the Hudson, which was beautiful as always. My great aunt and I discussed our genealogy. She's helped me quite a bit with my own research and has been in touch with an archivist in Moncton, New Brunswick, who has been researching our family for years.

Through my mother's father, I'm a descendant of Antoine Bourg, who was born in Martaize, France, in 1609 and came to Canada in 1632. He married Antoinette Landry, and they had an epic number of descendants. (For fun, go to Quebec, stand in the middle of the street and yell "Mr. Bourque!" Approximately fifty people will turn around, and they will all be related to me.)

One of those descendants was Dr. Louis Napoleon Bourque, my great-great grandfather. My great aunt refers to him as "THE DOCTOR," which I think is hilarious. I need to start telling people that I am 1/4 English, 1/4 Scottish, and 1/32 Time Lord.

My great aunt showed me pictures of my great-grandmother's sister, Hilda, who had a somewhat mysterious early life. She and my great-grandmother were of German and Scottish descent. My great-grandmother married THE DOCTOR'S son.

Fisherman

  

For years I've wanted my own fisherman's sweater, and now I finally have one. I got mine from L. L. Bean for a whopping $3 (thanks, L. L. Bean coupons). These are some good examples of the fisherman, a.k.a. Aran style of knit sweaters, traditionally worn by Irish fishermen, but now worn by corgis and Martin Freemans the world over.

Steve McQueen, from all plaidout
LIFE magazine picture, from Expat-Style 
wax-wane
Kate Davies Designs
Fisherman sweater group photo, from The Style King
The Skinny Stiletto
Irish Shop
Screencap of Martin Freeman in BBC's "Sherlock," from phyllysfaves
Fisherman corgis from craftsy.com

Iceland in watercolor

 

One of the best things (or maybe the best) at the National Gallery in Iceland were these fifteen Views of Iceland created by an unknown artist, possibly in the 18th century. I wanted to take them back with me, but I don't think that would have gone over well with the Icelanders. So I made these paintings instead, which are much different, mainly because 1) they're not as cool and 2) I've actually been to Iceland, unlike the unknown artist, who is thought to have resided in Denmark and worked mostly from imagination.

Bee

Yep, these are just some pictures of a bee that I took.  I like bumblebees; they're the fuzziest type of bee.

The Empty Vessel (2005): Part 4

Well, this is where it ends. All in all it's not a bad story (for what there is of it), but it doesn't have much of Iceland in it. It could have taken place in Wyoming or Scotland and not changed much. The next time I write a story about Iceland, I will try to treat it as it deserves - like a character. And now that I've met Iceland in person, that task will be infinitely easier.

IV

By the time they neared the house, the sun boiled brightly overhead. It must have been near noon.

Beth’s calves ached as if knives had been driven into them. There were great knots of pain under the arch of each foot, pressing inward. Her feet grew more painful and throbbed even harder with every notched rock she set them upon – and there was no avoiding the rocks. They lay strewn like black crumbs and shone like sapphire in the sunlight, half blinding her. She was no longer cold; she had left her goosebumps by the car, beneath the stone tower ages ago. For those long eternities since, she had been agonizingly hot. Stripping down to her T-shirt hadn’t made it any better. Her sweat had formed a warm, wet shell around her skin, over which even the weight of the thin cloth on her skin was oppressive.

Homecoming

Things are different since I've been back home. For one thing, one side of my room is now covered in Union Jack Flag bunting. It was up all over England, so I really wanted some to take home with us. There's more hanging in the kitchen. We can't really hang it on the outside of the house because we have too many Irish neighbors. I'm Irish too, but I'm also English, Scottish, French, Dutch, and German. I have enough nationalities for my own Olympics.

Another thing that's different - I now have a necklace made out of Icelandic aluminum, which is pretty cool. And I've hung my grandmother's painting (done by her friend) up in my room again, since it reminded me of the landscape paintings we saw in the Open Air Museum in Reykjavík.

I'm using a different bag now, since my regular bag is covered with the dirt and bacteria of three different countries. This one was given to me by my dad, who got it at the book exposition thingy he goes to every year.

Stripey and Miss Teto are the same, except I've taken to calling Teto Teitur, because Teitur means "happiness" in Icelandic.