My computer screen as it shuts down all applications is a sky of drifting summer clouds.
““White packs of cloud cross the heavens like thoughts” when Bjartur first shows Rosa their croft, Summerhouses, in Independent People.
What if you lived in their crofthouse, alone in an Icelandic valley, the mountains above, the marshes below? Ridges and high moorlands enclosing you on all sides?
“And what lies beyond the Blue Mountains? Only the deserts of the land.”
Would you be any less alone there if you were online? Could check your email, hotmail, gmail, ymail?
There are various churches without a god that are today spreading throughout me“ fields. Yellow fields, green ones, invisible ones, adjacent characters comprising a unit of information that lets me feel one with all algorithms.
The upper air, the glow, the heavens“when people used to use ether to fill in a blank space, maybe you could use internet.
And if you were there in that valley lonely under the stars, at least you could click on your bookmark for part 5 of this poem, to hear the stars themselves talk.
And cut off from the world as you are, when your last sliver of mirror broke and you couldn’t check the joy or sorrow on your face, you could download an emoticon“
God, what for is my e-mail password
your prophet’s name, Isaiah?
Whyfore do I type “Isaiah,”
“Isaiah,” at least 20 times a day?
(from Emoticon by Ana Bo??i??evi??)