In part five of our much-beloved Bushwick Sagas, some seriously crazy shit goes down. At least I think.
V. Packed Agenda Are Well Executed and an Omen is Heeded
The day after blazing baths were enjoyed in the post-blazed environs of volcanic forth-spewings, the blazing of new trails was forged anew in novel and at times somewhat subtle ways, in some ways with some certain consequence.
And so it thus was that Pál Able-Tongue awoke after a mere few hours of rest to run circles around Reykjavik in the yesterday-mentioned deep dark of otherwordly not-quite-yet-dawn. This was done with great success and produced non-trivial sweat, a process that filtered out certain poisons, which was of course the point.
And so it also was on this day of already blazing trails that Pál Able-Tongue, Rykkí of Archives and Daustyn the Composed ventured out of their hospice, in unison, at an hour during which one might still have something called breakfast.
So it was that a morning walk of slumbery tomfoolery was shared. So it was that a sunrise was finally viewed by one and all.
So it was that Pál Able-Tongue did handstands on strange things here and stranger things there. So it was that one of those strange things was an entire box of spent fireworks.
So it was, to wit, that Rykkí of Archives had awoken well before the latter-teenage hours of a 24-hour clock. So it was that Daustyn the Composed had awoken early enough to plot, over toasts and spreads and fruits and the like, his soon-to-be dilettantely initiatory equestrian pursuits. More shall be said on that in due time.
And so it was that this adventurous stroll was taken along with corresponding documents of casual idiotics committed far and wide, all of which had well come to pass before certain journeymen typically arise for coffee.
All this was done. All before noon. And all was quite good. All were surprised.
Then pastries and lunches were had and firm coffees were imbibed.
And soon thereafter did Daustyn the Composed depart to ride an Icelandic horse through relatively distant though still local lands.
And so it was that Pál Able-Tongue and Rykkí of Archives did agree to visit more museums and loci of culture in one day than they might otherwise, elsewhere, imagine to handle in several fortnights. Contemporary artworks were viewed in five or six different venues. A civic archive was visited, a show of photos was as well. And all was met with wholehearted approval.
A friend, let us call him here Ragnar the Great, was then met up with as he installed his creative products in one of the city’s most lively art museums. His group show was slated to open the following day. Before then he’d spin records for dance-making in a neighborhood bar. For pop-cultural matters do crossover with pop-sagas in pop-bass-heavy pop-throbs of hip-hop. This is commonly known, especially after Biggie, so further support on the matter need not be provided.
Because if you don’t know, dear reader, now you know.
Yet in all this meantime and all this meanwhile, Daustyn the Composed bestrode an Icelandic mare in an Icelandic near-hinterland with an Icelandic guide. He called his fair equine companion “beautiful, a lady, a true dame,” and he remarked that she responded poorly to occasionally not leading the pack.
And so he rode on, it was said, fast and strong. He relished it greatly; it was his very first time. Like a virgin, one might say. Or one might say nothing more.
Hours earlier, before setting off to saddle up, Daustyn the Composed did purchase a hat rendered from rabbit pelt to keep his head warm and properly adorned. At this Pál Able-Tongue did say, “It’s fitting that you now wear an animal atop your head, for throughout the day you shall have another betwixt your legs.” Out of context that might have seemed an intriguing comment indeed, but the three travelers had a laugh all the same. Passers-by, however, did awkwardly glare.
Once Daustyn returned, he and Rykkí convened. Pál Able-Tongue, around that time, charted routes beyond civic borders with the assistance of certain locals.
And so Rykkí of Archives and Daustyn the Composed sought out on their own the acoustic pleasures of the Icelandic Symphony Orchestra. It was quite wonderful, they reported, as was their subsequent pursuit, which Rykkí of Archives recounted thusly: “Upon departure from the noble performance of song, Daustyn and I wandered about a fair and elevated district of trees and light. Noting a steel gate attached to a stone wall that made a perimeter around an area of greater dark, we tried to open said gate and found immediate admittance. It was in fact a darkened, hallowed ground of the dead. Yet from there one had a fair view of this very fair city. And so we stayed there a while. It was found an agreeable manner of passing accidental time.”
Pál Able-Tongue received such news with great pleasure, yet he seemed to see a potentially inauspicious omen therein. It seemed to bear good fortune, that is, but to also, if thanatopically, forewarn the perils of ill-act.
Thus on this great Thursday, this day of Thor, blazing even further certain Thor-like trails might not, it appeared, be the wisest protocol.
And so the day’s consequence shared by one and all was to barter, at least for one evening, certain well-practiced festive endeavors for greater calm and composure. Daustyn the Composed, in fact, had already inadvertently suggested it.
A noble gesture for a newly upright, newly christened cavalier.
And timely as well, for their next night in Reykjavik, Friday night, was predicted by locals to get Valhalla-style bent.