Dear Iceland:
You know who I am.
I am Leonardo DiCaprio.
My resume speaks for itself. I am arguably the greatest actor of my generation (sorry Christian Bale), wealthier and more powerful than many small nations and have a Klout score of 88.2. I can make it rain.
You should know that I am a HUGE fan of your work as a weird island nation and am really impressed with your buzz. You’re punching above your weight, little guy, and you’ve got some great PR people in your corner!
I think that the two of us could do some great work together and with that in mind I’d like to attend the Iceland Writer’s Retreat this year in order to research a role for a film I hope to shoot in Iceland in 2016.
What is Leo DiCaprio’s project you ask?
It is to be the blockbuster of 2017. It’s to be called Written in the Ice, and I will star as an ex-CIA operative who has made a break from the dark world of Black-Ops he mastered in his past. Having been given a new identity, Leonhard Jónsson, now a fisherman and aspiring writer, is living a humble village life in Iceland.
He is crazy talented and charismatic, but he’s suffering a form of PTSD and has writer’s block. However, this lifts when he attends the Iceland Writer’s Conference and meets a quirky, hipster Icelandic woman (hotter and younger than Bjork, but suggesting Bjork) who believes she communicates with elves. They have sex.
Through one of her nocturnal communications with the elves, (she falls into an automatic writing trance but must be naked for it to work) she is given a secret for renewable energy that will save the world from global warming, but before Leonhard and her can get the secret out and save the world, evil government forces and big oil seek to kill them and destroy the information.
It will be the best movie ever, sweep all the awards and be a “Titanic” success for the Iceland tourism, but for me to properly play all the dimensions of Leonhard Jónsson, I will have to attend the Iceland Writer’s Conference, free of all expenses for myself and my staff of 28.
A few other requests:
For the process to properly work, I need to be in the presence of lots of beauty. Please ensure that the class is populated with beautiful women. I cannot stress the importance of this enough.
I will require a beach, and if it is off-season, then I will require that it is artificially heated so it simulates the tropics.
I will need a helicopter and a yacht.
I will only attend 45 minutes of the conference each day and will not be required to “turn in” any work for grading.
Legal immunity from the laws that govern Iceland will also be required.
Nobody is permitted to look directly at my man bun.
Looking forward to working with you, and my lawyers will be in touch shortly!
Regards,
Leo
]]>When one of them reached up to the overhead compartment she modestly held her top down so as not to expose any flesh above her waist. She looked so very young, almost like a doll. She passed the time by watching videos, her face a shifting map of unfiltered responses, each one blossoming and becoming a kind of sunlight that illuminated her face.
The other one had short hair and the fleshy round face of a Buddha. She asked her friend to put some drops in her eyes, and one of them missed the mark, forming a tear just below her eye where it stayed unattended, as if a moment of sorrow now suspended in time. She was perfectly impassive, and as she sat there staring out the window her eyes grew heavier and heavier. Dazed and almost given to sleep, she seemed in a dimensional fog, just flickering in the limbo of this world, and capable at any moment of becoming more spirit than person and simply floating away.
I was listening to Sigur Ros on my headphones and it all felt like a movie, everything holy and beautiful, as if present only for my attention. Outside, as snow fell, farmlands, retreating forests and tiny homes sped past, more like memories than the architecture of the world. It felt profound, somehow, and then out of the camouflage and dull wash of scrub, a deer stepped from invisibility, so suddenly and magnificently manifest that it could only have been an angel.
What follows are the text messages that I sent to Rachelle.
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Me: Is Angus still gaying it up in there?
Me: Can’t believe he was married.
Me: Really, who did he think he was fooling?
Me: I could tell from the first time we went bowling that he was gay. Way too much follow through.
Me: Rachelle?
Me: Rachelle?
Me: Remember what our therapist said about you ignoring me?
Me: I feel invalidated.
Me: That’s why I drink so much. You invalidate me.
Me: Rachelle?
Me: Door to outhouse seems to be locked.
Me: Door is locked.
Me: I AM TRAPPED IN THE OUTHOUSE!!!
Me: HELP!!
Me: I THINK THERE IS AN EVIL GHOST ON THE ISLAND!!
Me: IT LOCKS PEOPLE IN OUTHOUSES AND WATCHES AS THEY GO INSANE AND DIE OF HEART ATTACKS!!
ME: IT’S PROBABY AN INDIAN GHOST MAD ABOUT US STEALING LAND!!
Me: I HATE EVIL GHOSTS!!!
Me: Must calm down and breathe deeply.
Me: Sweet Jesus!
Me: Breathing deeply was a very bad idea.
Me: Now very dizzy. Could vomit.
Me: Must be 1000 degrees in this coffin.
Me: Fuck global warming.
Me: I’m going to bang on the door and yell.
Me: Listen for me!
Me: Dizzy again, now with splinters.
Me: Pretty sure I’m going to die here.
Me: In my poo coffin.
Me: Amazing how strong outhouse is and how weak I am.
Me: Feel like a girl.
Me: Going to die feeling like a girl.
Me: Going to die never having seen a UFO or discovered my spirit guide.
Me: Never got to go to Japan.
Me: So sorry I never got to take you to kinky Japan.
Me: I love you Rachelle.
Me: I loved you with everything I had.
Me: Never really cheated on you.
Me: I want you to go on and live a beautiful life without me– like that speech in Titanic.
Me: I’m Jack and you’re Rose.
Me: Watch that and think of me swimming around in the water.
Me: But DO NOT hook-up with Armand.
Me: Yeah, don’t think I don’t notice the way you light up around him.
Me: Armand. Stupid name.
Me: Like a perfume.
Me: How could you like him???
Me: Would haunt the hell out of you if you hooked-up with him.
Me: HE IS A DICK.
Me: Getting darker in here.
Me: Oxygen must be getting low.
Me: Don’t know how much longer can last.
Me: Would like Sigur Ros played at my funeral and that scene from Armageddon when Bruce Willis is saying good-bye from space projected as backdrop.
Me: My love, you were always the best part of me.
Me: I will be with you always.
Me: You were my everything.
Me: Waiting now for the chariot to swing low.
Me: When the light comes for me I will go to it.
Me: I am ready.
Me: NO!!!
Me: I will fight for you!
Me: I’m not going to give up!!
Me: Splinters be damned!!
Me: Oh.
Me: Just spotted little clasp under handle.
Me: WOW!!
Me: The clasp releases the external lock!!
Me: The world is an explosion of sunlight!
Me: Electrolytes dangerously low, but will stagger to cottage.
Me: Realize how precious life is now.
Me: Hate abortion!
Me: Just stubbed toe on rock!
Me: Hate abortion, rocks and global warming!
Me: I’m coming for you, my love, I’m coming.
Me: If you get this, please save croissant for me, feeling peaked.
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