The Hoddle of Coffee: Tuesday, July 30, Tottenham Hotspur news and connections

The Hoddle of Coffee: Tuesday, July 30, Tottenham Hotspur news and connections

I was at Tottenham Court Road’s Foyles, trying to decide which way to take. I knew what kind of story I wanted. I strolled over to K.

Keats, Kagan, King, and Kafka. No, no. Kerouac – Kerouac! Indeed, indeed! Writer Jack Kerouac! It’s really clear.

I take out a copy of Road Trip. I must read this, of course. I do, of course, of course. If I don’t read Jack Kerouac, how can I comprehend Bob Dylan, Patti Smith, the Doors, or the Grateful Dead?

Well, in addition, I’m leaving in a few days on a road trip to Iceland. Absolutely flawless. It’s on The Road.

I was aware that there was a deep relationship between Kerouac and the Dead. particularly with Jerry Garcia. Furthermore, I was aware that Neal Cassady and Bob Weir had a connection.

I had no idea that Neal Cassady played such a significant role in this novel.

On my first night in Iceland, I still feel poorly and have a temperature. Oh, right. It’s unfortunate. We’ll save the adventures for tomorrow. Until then, I’ll investigate locally.

On my second day in Iceland, I start up my Kia Creed and head south, hoping to reach a location beyond Vik.

I would be at a bookstore that was converted into a late-night music club later that evening.

Marching on to the tunes of the pied piper, a true servant to the sounds of the world, stumbled upon such a spot.

(This is some guidance for your travelers. The Kinks song “If you don’t know which way to go, just open your ears and follow your nose” should be your mantra if you ever get lost. “The street is shakin’ from the tapping of toes.”

Numerous people had already arrived, so it appears that I was not the first one in line. That was irrelevant, I thought to myself as I settled into my seat on the building’s second floor, my Kerouac in hand.

Fitzie’s song of the day, part one: Grateful Dead’s “The Other One”

I compare myself to a Cassadian figure, staggering forward behind the wheel, staring intently ahead at the asphalt road in some foreign area, listening to the Dead while searching for something I don’t know about myself. Something that I had no idea existed until a few short moments later.

After navigating a specific turn, I encounter Skogafoss.

I approach the enormous waterfall that is slamming down in front of me, its mist growing and growing until it crashes into my jacket and coils my hair.

A force so strong that even as a modest guy I could only surmise it was being propelled onward by God’s Almighty Hand.

With every step I go toward the top of the steep stairway, I hope to catch a better glimpse of God’s Almighty Hand pushing the river out into the ocean.

And what a sight it is. The brilliant sun overhead, illuminating the lush greens. the thunderous waves. A fresh waterfall was found around every hundred meters.

Every one strong. However, the might, the roar of Skogafoss, the roar of a thousand lions, and the fist of Almighty God’s hand descending down the earth overwhelmed everyone.

Eventually, I set out to travel someplace along Iceland’s south coast, just past Vik. Beyond the Beach with Black Sand. To a location known as Alftaversgígar.

I just know that I had it in writing, but I have no idea why I was heading there. And as I kept driving past the Black Sand Beach, I saw that I was the only vehicle on the road past Vik, past this desolate area where the horizon was nothing but flat desert.

Looking to my left, I notice what appears to be a massive ice block mass front of me that is incredibly enormous. Like it was the spot where the All-Powerful God had taken a nap on the seventh day.

But all I could see in front of me was mossy green. These weird cones, protruding from the flat earth hundreds of kilometers into the horizon, are part of this desolate area covered with lichen, black sand, and still black water. Beyond that, of course, is the Throne of Almighty God.

Here I was, way beyond the reach of Almight God in this Nietzschian landscape. Here I was, perched atop this lonely hill, surveyor of strange regions and gloomy, abandoned landscapes, master of Nothing.

The sky above me was merely overcast and drab. A pit of dirt was present. The Kia Creed I own. A sign mentioning Alftaversgígar, a stairway that goes nowhere, is displayed. and not anywhere else.

Standing on the edge of the Alimighty God’s residence, submerged in a sinister terranium, I feel surrounded and helpless as He asserts His omnipotent power not only over me but also over everyone else who aspires to discover the mysteries, tragedies, and beauties of the cosmos.