First a scene from work yesterday:
Ed: It's dark already.
(It is four pm. We are sitting in the editor's office trying to plan the next Atlantica magazine. This is our second attempt.)
Anna, the editor: Did you get everything online?
Ed: Yes, but that was one long Daily Life.
Bart: Oh. I wrote that. Man, I think I may not have made any sense.
(Laughter from Ed and Anna.)
Anna: No. It didn't at all,
(Bart and Ed look out window at darkness.)
Anna: (Being a supportive editor.) But I thought the line about when hell freezes over was funny. I'll translate that and start using it in Iceland.
Ed: Yeah. My mom used to say it a lot.
Bart: (Frowning at Anna) I can't believe the bakery fed us that thing called a pastry. It tasted like chewed gum, soaked in brandy, then covered in chocolate.
Anna: Yes. Well, I knew you ate everything.
Bart: But that was horrible. It makes me want to die.
And now my realization:
In addition to the visit from the New York Times, I have gotten repeated emails asking what it's like to live in the dark.
Well, for me, it's humiliating. As the serotonin disappears from my brain, I stop making sense. Things I used to do well I can't do as well.
This week I cooked a chili that almost poisoned a young lady who visited my apartment.
Two days ago, I became confused while buying a pen.
Yesterday, I turned in writing that earned uncomfortable silences from two editors, then laughter from the third.
Sitting here, being really really dumb, I'm remembering the days when I could think.
That's what it's like in Reykjavík in November. BC [email protected]