From Iceland — Confined


Published October 14, 2011


I walk into Factory. Aðalsteinn is there. We have a mildly humorous misunderstanding regarding beer. It’s alright. I sit down and sit there for a while. Natasha Fox stays pretty true to playing pure dubstep. After some time, Hekla and Simon arrive. Hekla says that what is going on is awesome. I agree, in a casual sort of way. Simon offers me vodka. I accept. I wonder if I should drink some beer. In the end I do. We all talk about what words could be used to describe dubstep. We agree on BOW-OW-OW-OW-OW-OW-BOWOWOWOWOWOW-BOW-OW-OW-OW-OW-OW-BOWOWOWOWOWOW. Simon talks about DJ-ing with breakbeat vinyls in clubs in Germany. We drink while Hekla dances. He mentions that he recently met a Nazi, and we start talking about this Nazi’s long-time girlfriend who we guess has broken up with him now. I start thinking about her as Simon goes and dances. I went on a few dates with her last year. It was good, but she refused to sleep with me. I wonder why. Hekla comes back from the dance floor. Amanda Fox has stopped playing, or at least I think so. I get up, beer in hand, to see who is DJ-ing now. I glimpse a beard through the dry-ice smoke; Kalli and Ewok have started. Simon comes back from the dance floor. He says that it’s bullshit how they’re mixing different genres of dance music. I theorize that by doing this, they’re alienating dancers one sect at a time, instead of sticking with one style and gradually gathering followers of that particular style. Simon seems to agree with me. Hekla resumes dancing, or maybe she just goes to the toilet. I get drunker. Soon, two girls walk in. One of them sits down, while the other dances in front of her. I look at her ass. Simon and Hekla dance for a while, but Hekla returns after two songs, exhausted. She says she can’t dance the way she used to. We talk about jealousy and watching other people, and if just looking is something one should righteously be offended by. I don’t think so. I mean, if my girlfriend sees a hot guy and enjoys watching, what harm is really being done here? My platitudes ensure a guilt-free ass-watching as the girls trade places; the dancer sits while the other one dances. I get drunker. There are some beautiful women here, I guess. As Hekla and Simon dance, I order a glass of water. The contours of the glass reflect Faktorý’s strobe-lights in an indescribable display of glaring colours. There is a limit to control, any kind of control. It doesn’t really mean anything.

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