Sean Beaudoin

Enough excellent writing to fill a large tube sock

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In Reyjkavik

Somewhere in the middle of the city, walking in the driving rain, taking random lefts. Came across a very old and beautiful cemetery out over the water. Cenotaphs, stone arches, rough hand-cut inscriptions. Many names and dates washed completely away over the centuries, the markers worn down like slumped shoulders. As the rain pounded on my brim and leached into my socks, I had that weird sensation of actually understanding the passage of time, a cycle of carbon rearranged over thousands of years, and the pointlessness of trying to influence it in any way. As always, the glimpse of wisdom evaporated nearly as soon as it came, and I was left standing in front of this particular headstone, no more remarkable than dozens of others surrounding it. Who was Sigurour Briedfjord? What could Iceland possibly have been like in 1799? What deprivations did he suffer, pleasures did he take? Although it felt slightly disrespectful, I took a picture and then walked away, head spinning like some young melancholic in a Rilke poem, and immediately hunted down a warm cafe full of people. There, firmly back in the technological inanity of 2015, and braced by an enormous, frothy mug of Tuborg, I Googled Sigurour. Not only was he easily found, it turns out he was a well-respected traditional poet, and you can buy his stuff on Amazon. His masterpiece is, of course, Numa Rimur. So there you go.

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“We looked at each other. She was wearing a pink top and white pants. I had to say something. Anything."

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