Winds, maps, Iceland

I dreamed last night that I was in a small boat on green swift waters. It was a wild, sunny day. I had laid anchor not too far from shore. Eugenio was there -- standing on a rock, or in his own boat. Behind him was a high bank of virgin country, dense with trees.

"This is --" he yelled, over the wind and the waves. I couldn't make out if he was saying Iceland or Greenland, but I could see it was beautiful. I knew it was where the winds are born, the winds that shudder through Torsminde and Holstebro. Eugenio knew how to get there.

I nodded, lifted anchor, and was swiftly carried out of earshot. As the dream dissolved, I was turning to start my outboard motor.

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A perfect dream. My theatre is Theatre of the Wind. In real life, I am travelling inward, upstream, to the source of the winds. Eugenio is an enigmatic guide. The more clearly he speaks about art, the less I understand him, and the more correct it feels.

I have always loved the confusion of Iceland and Greenland. Iceland sounds forbidding, Greenland sounds welcoming. I have heard they were deliberately named to be the opposite of their true natures -- that Iceland is, in fact, so beautiful the the explorers decided to keep it secret.

That also feels correct. I can't tell if I am headed into one of my most desolate periods, or my most fertile. Or if, like the dream, and Iceland, it is both at once.

In real life, I look helpless -- being swept away on a swift currents of debt and danger -- but in actuality, I have a motor which I am about to start. In the dream it was a new motor, white with a red stripe like Ben's truck which is well-maintained and dependable. In the back of my mind, it is a life with Ben's stability and ease that I am about to create.

I woke up eager to make a map.