By JEFFREY WOLF
The Westfjords. Iceland’s necrotic hand. Gnarled fingers reaching for the icy water. This is my interlude. A day between artist residencies, a rental car from Hertz. Just a short detour off my route. I may never have the chance again.
The fjords sit back and cast their spell. They rise from the ocean like the backs of sleeping beasts. For eons, they’ve waited. Layer after layer, gray upon gray, so deep and infinite that I start to feel afraid. Surely this is where the darkness lives.
A short detour isn’t so short. The land wanders, the roads double back. Time warps in the hypnosis. I’ve driven for hours and made no progress. Suddenly I’ve crested a mountain, and I’m staring down like a king. Then I’m low along the beach, small and insignificant. Then the mist rolls in, and it’s anybody’s guess.


