Early Morn

The hands were clenched, while last night’s darkness still held court. It almost looked like the nails were drilled into the palms. They expressed neither anger nor anxiety, so maybe they were hiding something important. Like a child who was afraid that a piece of fruit gum would be stolen if it was discovered, or perhaps a Christ nail brand that couldn’t be revealed by religious reasons.

There were numerous hands expressing the same. Helios noticed it and turned slowly his head towards them. His gentle, half-opened eyes met the clenched fists, and his soul heat poured out, caressed them, and chased the night’s last dark on the run.

Now loosened fingers slowly as he opened his eyes and smiled to them. At last, all hands were open and the arms were stretched out from the carcasses and up towards the sky with fingers spread, as expressing jubilation and joy.

Heavens birds rejoiced too, and the universe’s most beautiful, silent symphonies were incessantly imitated and recreated of allness’ whirling atoms.

She cycled along the fields along winding paths with her hair billowing in the wind. Helios was shining as beautifully as he could, and caressed her face and naked arms. With a happy smile on her face she looked at all the fields, the meadows and the roadsides flowers extend towards the sun they paid homage with fully open petals. And time was paused while they boldly drank golden light ad libitum.

Somersault

The people living here looked like ordinary people, but when taking a closer look you realized that all of them consisted of salt, and nothing but salt. Some were heavily salted, while others could be called lightly salted. Everyone consisted of salt being pressed into shape in the same way as sand sculptures, resembling anything on a dot, solely made out of sand. Their kingdom was called Saltorado, and the inhabitants lived on pretzels, salty nuts and salty herring. They practiced lots of sport, but doing somersaults was their favourite, taught to them from their early years.

Most of the Saltorados did not ponder much about the reason of living, how everything started, and the continuation of all this, but a few did. As in all cultures philosophically minded people asked questions out of the ordinary, but they were considered as deviants, because people not asking those kinds of questions didn’t have a clue about the idea of the thoughts. Plenty of other things were to be taken care of, enough to babble and sizzle about. From afore mentioned reasons, philosophers were hardly noticed, as they became quiet.

A special Saltorado, feeling the deep longings of the heart, wondered for a long time. Where did the longings originate from? She decided to follow the tracks of the longings. Perhaps this could be used as an Ariadne thread, leading to the core of the questions. The Saltorado had wept many salty tears, longing for those indefinable areas of the mind and feelings. Then suddenly, one day, she knew what to do.

She felt that the only option available was walking towards the ocean. The ocean pulled and spoke to her, so full of promises. Everything became clear, not why, but the feeling was not to be mistaken. Reasoning was not an option either.

On her way towards the ocean she threw away small pretzels, salty sticks and salty nuts over her shoulder, thereby leaving a visible trace – in spite of the specific intentions, as the others Saltorados were not interested in such deviant behavior patterns. They noticed, however, very quickly the lots of pretzels, salty sticks and salty nuts, lined up in an almost infinite row. Greedily they threw themselves over the lot, clearly thinking of the opportunity having an easy meal suiting them well.

To the Saltorado, having thrown away the pretzels, the salty sticks and the salty nuts, the case looked a bit different. The convoluted burdens of thoughts and the unimportant memories, whirling around the upcoming roundabouts, the meetings not so easily left. All was thrown over the shoulder in order to clear the mind, until the coast was visible.

Now the Saltorado was able of listening to the roars from the ocean with a relieved smile on her face. The coast was clear, all burdens thrown away over the shoulders, and the ocean waiting – as always without any kind of drama – unless chosen. But she walked without hesitation, directly out and into the ocean and the waves, further and further, while the particles of salt disappeared little by little in the wonderful ocean. Last thing to be seen was a white spot, quickly fading away. The longings of the Saltorado were transformed into the knowing from long ago, deep inside.

Sunsets in the west and sunrises in the east, on the oceans horizons, were always equally beautiful, and all Saltorados getting in touch with them, became silent when watching. At the same time filled with reverence and awe.

But none of them knew why.

On behalf of nature

Ruh-ruh….. ruhhhhhr repeated the dove to assure you how important this message was. It told of its wet dreams, as if they concerned everybody. The blackbird whistling some lengthy melody fragments that sounded like reflections on the themes of, respectively, The Battle Hymn of the Republic, Amazing Grace and Oh my darling Clementine. Lark, which worked much higher and mostly played helicopter tweeteweeted without putting commas.

The summer was at its peak, and the sun was mirrored in several rain puddles.

Dandelion discussed excited with Daisy on who was best to imitate the sun.

“You are so earthbound that you almost can't move,” said the dandelion suddenly to change the subject.

“The same to you,” answered Daisy.

“Then you have not noticed the bursts of paratroopers we send all over the parish,” boasted dandelion. It felt clear that the battle was won. Daisy wouldn’t be able to match this.

“We have no military service,” said Daisy, “because we want peace in this country. And look just how ruined you look when you have sent all your troops. Only a stem with a crestfallen flower left behind. Look at the nettles, they built militias more dignified, they are both strong and healthy. Yes, we are rooted and we are beautiful without being ostentatious.”

A little boy grip on dandelion stem, pinching it over to a suitable length, squeezed it a little at both ends, put it to his mouth and blew into it. The other flowers were perplexed about the duck-like sound and couldn’t handle it.

“But why should we actually also do that,” thought Daisy.

“Each bird sings with its own beak,” she said suddenly. Hovering and humble at the same time, as if she had found the words herself.

For it was both big and strange words for a tiny flower.

Fluorescent reflections

The old moon had been 'in the new' for some time and was approaching the peak. She sunning herself confidently and smiled graciously, as if she had all the credit for her attractive light. It is well understood that she got credit for it, because she appeared so enchanting, and made people rejoiced by her magic. It required actual knowledge not to confuse her with a luminous object, and although many had this knowledge, forgotten most everything about it when her illuminated disc with a subtle smile, rehearsing spells.

The Moon is, in simplified terms, round like a ball, but it's like a shining disc, you see her when she is full. And thank God for that, because she also has a dark and cold side. She keeps it for herself as cold and darkness seem unappealing to most, and the moon will do almost anything to be honored and loved and is not afraid to dress up a little on her resume. And frankly, how could it almost be any different? She is vain, and poets around the globe, at all times, have hailed her, which contributes to her sense of self.

Right now she was observed on the dark sky that reached down to the sea where it merged with the horizon, and when the wind was gentle, the sea movements lazy with only small ripples, the moon's reflection looked adventurous. A golden highway on the sea, but only fairies, elves and gods could  use it as a road, which they did as it was one of nature's highlights, where magic had almost free rein.

He was totally absorbed in the miraculous scenery and had been sitting here on the beach since sunset. Now he became aware of a horse with a rider approached. They used apparently the golden highway, so the sea would be sustainable in the evening. When they were quite near, he saw that the rider was a woman wearing transparent, vibrant stardust, with amber golden hair that reached down to the top of the thighs. She rose gracefully from her horse and walked directly towards him. Then she stopped and put her head back,  until her hair reached down to her heels, and then she start dancing, and her long hair she used virtuosity to clothe a seductive dance, as visual accompaniment. He got up and stretched his hands towards her but she gracefully, smiling, teasing and welcoming, danced away from him. He followed and tried to grab her delicate hands, but her movements made it impossible for him to reach her, and soon she was on the horse again. She swung quickly and easily up on it while it answered her access with steep, then it turned around and galloped silently out of the golden highway.

He was a little dazed, but noted that there was not left even the slightest trace in the damp sand. Then he looked out to sea and across the golden highway ran the most beautiful phosphorescence in a breathless moment.

He could not see any real purpose of the event, but felt strong and renewed.

The moon smiled, apparently unaffected, while rejoicing the many fantastic events, she inspired, wherever her shining scepter had valid authorization.

Flying high

The soup plate was resting on a flatter plate, feeling well-balanced and comfortable, especially since it imagined itself being made of royal china. Even though the flat plate could be said to originate from the same fine line, it was a matter of rank. The soup plate had a distinct feeling of holding more depth than the plate it was placed upon, appearing more surface, and the position of the supreme in the hierarchy also offered the best view at the dinner table.

Moreover, it counted not having been created but invented, solely applying to plates with depths.

It had been dropped on the floor a couple of times without leaving any chips, which made the fine cognac glass suggest that it perhaps was made of faience and not of porcelain, since being that robust.

This irritated the soup plate as the cognac glass without a doubt was made of crystal. It was musically, and every time a wet finger moved around the rim, a tone was heard sounding beautiful, melancholic, far-fetched and boastful at the same time, it thought.

“You whistle the best you’ve learned,” the soup plate said, “but it’s easily heard that there is no way you could have invented me. And I fall about laughing thinking of the day I am placed in a fine plate rack, eventually finding my niche. From here I will be able to look down at you and take your sarcasm from above and downwards, well suited for one being decorated with hand-painted flowers.”

“I don’t give a whistle about that,” the cognac glass replied. “As long as I am poured a fair amount of the golden drops, covering my bottom in a pleasurable way, while feeling a warm hand swirling the liquid gently around, I am satisfied. I quite easily enjoy being what I am without any need of getting drunk or full. And, by the way, I hope that you’re looking forward to the scalding soup soon being poured into you.”

“I manage to be full without getting drunk,” the soup plate answered in a cutting tone, “so you better be careful with your cognac. One fine day you might be over-poured and end up seeing flying saucers.”

Live Music

The music did not belong to any particular category. It was ubiquitous, and in spite of the periodic variations that could seem impulsive and lovingly intrusive experimenting, it was symphonic in its own way, and assertively accompanied by the wind. 

It was soothing, uplifting and awakening at the same time. Often it felt as if thousands of nodes had lost footing on their sheets and were blown hither and thither, while cheering and boldly making their sounds. Their excesses did not change the general appearance. The keynote was held and you felt clearly the conductor’s virtuously overview and sublime inspired directing movements. 

It swept rhythmic its long breaths into the sand, and kissed your bare feet.

Treasures from the rainbow

Where the rainbow rests her feet, you rediscover your loved ones. They seek the same treasures as you and together you compose jubilant symphonies while the sun gives birth to her children in every visible dewdrop.

As she disappears behind the horizon, she gently leaves a star blanket as a replacement and guard. But her children were reborn in your hearts, and together they write the lyrics to the symphonies in perfect harmony with the colors of the rainbow.

Then you can sleep with a star blanket pulled over you, while the music weaves whimsical patterns in the pillow covers.

Hvor regnbuen hviler sine fødder, genfinder du dine kære. De søger den samme skat som dig, og sammen komponerer I jublende symfonier, mens solen føder børn i talløse dugdråber.

Når den forsvinder bag horisonten, udbreder den et stjernetæppe som afløser og vagt, men dens børn er genfødte i Jeres hjerter, og sammen skriver de tekster til symfonierne i fuldkommen harmoni med regnbuens farver.

Så kan I sove med stjernetæppet trukket over Jer, mens musikken væver finurlige mønstre i pudernes betræk.

Yes indeed we've had cat

Four cats in total. Not all at once but over some forty years. This post is only about one of them, even though they all have been something very special in their own way.

It started with a little book. The author’s name was on the front page: “Lobsang Rampa,” and the title was: “Living with the Lama.”

I will start by quoting a bit from the back of the cover. It was this introductory overview which aroused my curiosity: “Living with the Lama” is Lobsang Rampas accountable for his mysterious conversations with the cat mrs. Fifi Greybeard. It began as follows:

“You must be crazy Feef,” said the lama. “Who would believe that you have written a book?” He smiled at me and rubbed me under the chin, the way I like best before he went out of the room to fix something.

I sat and thought about it. – Why wouldn’t I could write a book? Admittedly, I am a cat, but no ordinary cat, I’m not. Oh no! I am a Siamese cat who is widely traveled and have seen a lot. Admittedly, I am blind now, and must lean on the Lama and Lady Ku’ei to find my way around. But I have my memories.

After reading the book, stood a Siamese cat on top of the list. Shortly after moving a kitten into our home and it was a completely new experience for Siamese cats are different than other cats. Its favorite spot was on my shoulder, where it lay like a hot headrest. Sat you at a table she hopped up and would rub her nose to my cheek. We named her after the cat in the book, and she accepted the name Feef.

After a while I began to do freelance work from home. It soon became clear that I had to sit in a room for myself because Feef would lie on the table on top of all the sketches and it did not work out. Deadlines were supposed to be respected, etc.

After this revolution in our habits, she withdrew into herself, lay quietly on her blanket, looked wistfully at one and became more and more distant. Eventually she was too quiet, and was quickly brought to the vet. He said that she had just died, so we mourned and helpless leave her there. It took a very long time to recover as much of it that everyday could be somewhat normal again.

I said to my wife: “Feef was so sorry not to be able to lie on my shoulder always, she lay down to die.”

“I think now more closely, it was the cat disease that flourishes these days that hit her,” she replied.

And it was probably a realistic conclusion.

Worship

She does not smile ingratiating, but her smile is nor dismissive.

Is it neutral? No it’s too real to.

She wants something. She calls and awakens a longing the heart understands, but the door is closed. The longing is too overwhelming and draws large amounts of wave foam over the adventure-sea’s puzzles.

Aphrodite sees your heart, and she’s not unfathomable.

Hebe keeps an eye ajar and hoping you not fall in Priapus’ traps. Otherwise starts the whole thing over again and Hera enters the arena.

But if you’re not looking for anything of it, let the waves dance as they want, while keeping a compass-fixed exchange rate against the pure and simple horizon.

Aphrodite cheated on you, as you saw her throw her keys into the sea.

You have dived desperately for them ever since, but her door was never locked.

By the way

With clipped wings, you may suffer from acrophobia. You may be comfortable with the dogmas and traditions and may get lost in mazes.

Free birds flying boldly, with the sky as background, often seeing new horizons, and having no problems with mazes. As they chirping puts it:

¨It’s just a question of seeing them in bird’s eye view.¨

And this they can easily say.

All things may appear to be both something and nothing. And that’s at least something.

The frog that lives in the ditch by the roadside, well hidden under lush vegetation, does not understand what is meant by horizons. But it knows what life is all about, namely food and reproduction, and it sees no need to ask questions. When it suddenly is in a storks stomach and the next moment is on par with the clouds, it can neither use bird’s eye perspective or frog perspective to anything at all.

Meanwhile the sun is fully engaged to accomplish its tasks. There is perspectives in this. As timeless thoughts in reality’s forecourt.

Description

Your gaze I can’t interpret
It spreads boldly
Beyond my limits
Making unknown plans
In my blind spot.

When I try to capture it
I see rainbows in waterfalls
From sky to ground.
They create magical oceans
I can flow in.

So what did I miss?

The storms throwing around waves
But when I am ready for them
The surfaces becomes like mirrors.

Your gaze is the Milky Way’s music
And smiles of my uncertainty.
It reflects in ocean surfaces
Where it describes itself.

Beskrivelse.

Dit blik kan jeg ikke tolke
det breder sig frimodigt
over mine grænser
og lægger ukendte planer
i min blinde plet.

Når jeg prøver at indfange det
ser jeg regnbuer i vandfald
fra himlen mod jorden.
De danner eventyrlige have
jeg kan flyde i.

Så hvad gik jeg glip af?

Storme kaster rundt med bølger
men inden jeg vænner mig til dem
bliver overfladerne spejlblanke.

Dit blik beskriver Mælkevejens musik
og smiler af min ivrige usikkerhed.
Det spejler sig i blanke have
hvor det beskriver sig selv.

Gravity

Now it appeared, the cool feeling in body and mind, tantamount to the ability of floating, being capable of cancelling out gravity of one’s own volition and freely float to where and how he wished. He was in control and it was inexpressibly wonderful.

He rose above the beautiful landscape enjoying the view and the feeling of freedom, while the panorama of the fields passed by, far, far down. Normally he suffered from acrophobia. He couldn’t look down from a 2nd floor balcony without feeling a shiver down his spine, but here he just felt free and secure as an eagle during its gliding flight.

Now he floated across a city and kept his distance a bit over the rooftops. He could see people walking in the streets and wondered why nobody pointed their finger and stared vacantly at him, as he was the only one capable of flying. But no one noticed him.

About 50 meters further ahead a belfry towered high above the other buildings. Slowly he floated closer without really having made the decision, almost as if it happened by itself. When he was quite near to the belfry a feeling of uncertainty began to suffuse his whole body. Now he was very close and reached for it, grabbed hold of a frail railing and placed his feet on a cornice so narrow that he only managed to stand there with the tip of his toes.

The situation had totally changed. He thought that he should throw himself out in the air again and keep floating, which he was capable of doing, but he did not dare. The courage had left him along with the faith of being able to flow, and he desperately thought of a way in which to maneuver safely back down to the ground. He had to enter the belfry before he lost the grip but was hardly able to move.

He closed his eyes in despair… and then awoke, safe and secure in the bed. Oh, thank goodness, it was a dream. He examined it in his mind, remembered the feeling of the free floating and the meeting with the infamous security the belfry had offered him.

He regretted not daring to jump but at the same time uncertain whether it would have worked out fine. Well, it was a dream… so what could have happened?

His dog stood there, expectantly with a wagging tail, licking his hand hanging out from the bed, and he smelled newly brewed coffee.

Good morning.

The painting

The painter unfolded his easel and placed the three legs firmly in the sand. The eternal roar of the ocean helped the essential spot in his mind focusing on its unedited and soothing behavior and, its symphonic rythms and tones, telling stories about the beginning of the World, the in between, the end and the beginning again. A challenge to the subtle abilities, although a deeper sense of intuition was ironic about this innocent and pompous undertaking, not really leading to a valid conclusion.

The blind frame with tensioned canvas was wedged, and some colors squeezed out on the palette. He wanted to make a painting giving a fine impression of the ocean, as he felt it had encouraged him to do so.

He respected the ocean and found greatness, wisdom and confidence in it. He felt the same way about the starry sky. When darkness was total, and the air was clean and clear, the starry sky was such a great experience for him. He felt a deep peace inside and a sort of longing in the inner core of the soul.

He noticed a woman walking towards him, dressed in a long skirt with many folds in a fine, lightweight fabric following her movements. She was wearing a straw hat with a large brim. Nothing else. Her amber hair reached down to her waiste. “How beautiful and poetic” he thought, as she hovered directly towards him.

She looked at him, and with a voice sounding like thousands of tiny, crispy bells arising from the foaming waves and noctilucales, she said:

“I am your muse, and I come with a gift for you. You may have one wish fulfilled.”

“Isn’t it fairies tending to delegate wishes?” the painter said.

“That’s true… But a goddess sent me, and her rank is much higher compared to both fairies and Muses.”

“I have sometimes thought about what to wish, if the opportunity ever came my way” said the painter and continued: “I concluded that I would desire as many wishes as there are grains of sand on the beach. But when I look at you my only wish is to embrace you and that it must never end.”

A painter later found the easel with the unfinished painting on the beach. He brought it home to his studio and worked it until it itself said stop. Many people later said that after having regarded the painting for a while, they could clearly hear the roaring ocean.

Soft-boiled

"What came first, the duck or the egg?" The duck looked attentively and challenging on the other duck while they paddled peacefully around in the duck pond.

"This is the second time you ask me that question today," replied the other duck, "and I have not found the answer yet. Try to ask someone else, for I get hurt in my shell of the speculating on it."

"I could rephrase the question: What came first, the seeds or the flowers? Would it make the issue more palatable to you?"

Splash!... A large frog landed in the water right next to the ducks.

"I came first," said he and shot, virtuosity and focused, a jet of water out of his mouth. It hit exactly the other duck in the eye.

"None of my wives were ready to jump in yet. If you want to reap, you must sow first, and I sow so and so much seed every year, if I may say so. I can tell you that when my wives spawn their divine lumps, and I subsequently bless those there come quite quickly tadpoles out of it. They look like small fish until they reach the confirmation age, after which they will be real frogs and look like the rest of us… more or less. Here you can’t just simply assess the dog on its fur, but must have experience and discernment, which you do not get from day one, but first and last achieve in the long run. The ability to distinguish I could not say for certain that ducks have, just take me on the word ... and not on the thighs. Ha, ha, ha, the last one was a joke, if you know what that means. But fun it is not really. I have shown the gallows humor by saying that frog legs are alluring. They are namely too much alluring. "

"But," continued the Frog, "when my wives have shaken their eggs off, it will not take long before we see the flowers of the nation's youth, and even though you may not understand a croak of what is really going on. It is fun with a little stir in the duck pond, whatever what came first if you really want to dive deep.

“I'm like, often in depth," said the one... or maybe the other duck. “For I heard a gourmet say on telly: Push the spoon down firmly into the dish. It is at the bottom, the good stuff is. Here in this pond, much of the goodies also are on the bottom, I think, so I do like when the bottom is reached. The duck shook the water from its head and stuck briefly the beak all the way to the back, as if it had been bitten by a water flea.

"I have, on principle, no principles at all," croaked the frog." But then I am so ugly that only adventurous girls want to kiss me. Some people get offended, almost bitter if you doing stuff something different than they do. Why? I often can't use people's advices. My experience is that people want to help, but only in the way they think I should be helped. And if you get inspirations from within and know 'the force' you need the kind of help you suggest. Very few understand it, and think you are a little odd, when you can’t use a reasonable, intellectual solution. It has also something to do with timing. And the stork, the crazy bird, believes it has the best advice to help me out of my worldly problems... in a jiffy.”

"It's better to just make the best of what you have or can, and rejoice that others do the same, than to be irritated just because they have attached themselves to other approaches than those you are attached to." said the frog and did a few selfconfident swim movements. But you must remember not to be offended, else you are probably not much better though.

Well, I believe both in Santa and the stork, and the latter has just gone on the wings, so I'm leaving. See you later, and have a nice day."

Thor's hammer

The goats, Tanngnjost and Tanngrisner, were hitched to the wagon, reinforcing belt, Megingjord was cleaned and polished as much as Thor could stand, and Mjolnir was already sitting in the belt. He reached for the iron gloves, as he called Lamgreipner, and which he would not do without when he was incredibly strong when he had them on. And it was valuable, as life was fraught with danger. When he was travel ready, he was absolutely not to be trifled with, and that knew the giants, so they did everything they could to avoid coming within Thor’s hammer’s field of vision and reach.

The giants never thought that it could possibly be interesting to live in peace, harmony and joy in the hearts. No, rather scare people, abduct them and, if possible, kill them. It made sense in their reptile brains.

Now he breathtaking speeded across the sky. His two goats jumped, the best they had learned, and in his right hand he held Mjolnir raised, ready to send thunder and lightning, so there was harmony between his thoughts and his fearsome discharges. Right now, however, he was at ease, because it was morning for him, and he had eaten both the goats last night and swallowed appropriate sips mead, and appropriate for him was something that looked like a pair of medium-sized lakes on earth. Neither more nor less. It was nice to keep the head cool and clear, and there was quite a lot going on as long as the giants were so unruly as they were.

Gnawing the bones clean, after supper, he remembered to pack them into goat skins again so the goats could wake in the morning in good spirits and by good body condition.

Thor saw a giant, who quickly tried to hide behind a cloud, which he hoped would hide him for Thor’s clear blue eyes, but Thor was neither naive nor gullible, and sent an enormous lightning against him. Whether he hit him or not, he couldn’t see, but he might at least have put a fright at him.

He did not make any false hopes that the giant would be wise to injury, because the giants were so indoctrinated by Nidhug, Fenris, the Midgard Serpent, Surt and Udgardsloke that they thought everyone else had delusions. Everyone should, in their view, knowing that the earth was created by Ymirskrop, and did they spot any questioning about it, they would immediately kill, In this way, they were freed for any possible doubts of their childhood learning, as they had been indoctrinated in the Sunday schools in Jotunheim.

Although Thor’s lightning might not h have hit the giant, it was a beautiful sight. A lightning as Thor might well be proud of, for he had been in the right mood. There could indeed be a large difference between lightnings, depending on his state of mind, but when they were so big and beautiful that many held their breath with a mixture of admiration and awe, he had a good feeling in his stomach, and stomach feelings he had a very serious relationship to.

A small wooden ship with orange sail, was en route from Gjøl to Nibe. The family had been to Sunday sermon, complete with coffee and cake, and sailing was common at the time, if you were a sailor or fisherman and had a suitable boat. It was also much faster, because using crow flies was much shorter than the winding roads that had to be followed in wooden wagons with big, squeaky wheels and pulled by horses bucket. The hubbub between Thor and the Giants had gotten the waves dancing, and the boat had to follow the rhythm, whether it wanted it or not.

Suddenly tore a huge lightning sky, and a little boy exclaimed:

“Wow, the sky cracked. I could see into God’s throne room, where there was a light that was much stronger than uncle’s new barn lights. “

“Nonsense, boy,” said the father angrily as he struggled to keep the boat on course. He had to use excessive force to direct the helm expedient, but he was an experienced fisherman who knew what he was doing, and he also knew that he had to be particularly careful and exact.

“No, my boy, it is the large voltage differences that develops when ice and water particles move up and down in the clouds and rub against each other. These potential differences occur both between different parts of the cloud and the ground. It is very difficult and very technical to explain how the clouds are ionized, so on a daily basis, we must rely on our barometer. “

Thor had overheard the exchange of words between the father and the boy in the boat and understood broadly, even though it was in newer Danish, which, he had some knowledge to. Although he would not try to speak it, because it sounded both too sharp and girlish in his ears.

He smiled at the father’s explaining to his son and thought:

“Unbelievable, so superstitious people are these days. Well, my stomach rumbles, it pulls shown up to a large mug thunder coffee and a big bite of Sif’s well-prepared, Goat-Jerky.”

Thors hammer.

Gedebukkene, Tanngnjost og Tanngrisner, var spændt for vognen, styrkebæltet Megingjord, var renset og poleret, så meget Thor nu gad, og Mjølner sad allerede i bæltet. Han rakte ud efter jernhandskerne, som han kaldte Lamgreipner, og som han ikke ville undvære, da han var ufattelig stærk, når han havde dem på. Og det var værdifuldt, for tilværelsen var fyldt med farer. Når han var rejseklar, var han så absolut ikke til at spøge med, og det vidste jætterne, så de gjorde, alt hvad de kunne for at undgå at komme indenfor Thors synsfelt og hammerens rækkevidde.

Nu for han med rasende fart hen over himlen. Hans to gedebukke sprang, det bedste de havde lært, og i sin højre hånd holdt han Mjølner løftet, klar til at sende lyn og torden ud, så der var harmoni mellem hans tanker og hans frygtindgydende udladninger. Lige nu var han dog veltilpas, for det var morgen for ham, og han havde spist begge gederne i aftes samt nedsvælget passende slurke mjød til, og passende mængder for ham var noget, der lignede et par mellemstore indsøer på jorden. Hverken mere eller mindre. Der var jo hverdag, og så var det rart at holde hovedet koldt og klart, og der var temmelig meget at se til, så længe jætterne var så uregerlige, som de var.

Efter at have gnavet benene rene, efter aftensmåltidet, huskede han at pakke dem ind i gedeskindene igen, så gederne kunne vågne om morgenen i godt humør og ved god huld.

Jætterne tænkte aldrig på, at det eventuelt kunne dreje sig om at leve i fred, fordragelighed og med glæde i hjerterne. Nej, så hellere skræmme folk, bortføre dem og, om muligt, slå dem ihjel. Det gav mening i deres reptilhjerner.

Thor fik øje på en jætte, der lynhurtigt forsøgte at gemme sig bag en sky, som han håbede ville skjule ham for Thors klare, blå øjne, men Thor var hverken naiv eller blåøjet, og sendte et gevaldigt lyn mod ham. Om det ramte eller ej, kunne han ikke se, men han havde givet sat en skræk i livet på ham.

Han gjorde sig dog ingen falske forhåbninger om, at jætten ville blive klog af skade, for jætterne var så indoktrinerede af Nidhug, Fenrisulven, Midgårdsormen, Surt og Udgårdsloke, at de troede, alle andre havde vrangforestillinger. Enhver burde, efter deres mening, vide, at jorden var skabt af Ymirskrop, og hørte de nogen sætte spørgsmålstegn ved det, blev de straks dræbt eller, i de mildeste tilfælde, kom i bad standing, hvilket også var aldeles livsfarligt. På denne måde blev de fri for at tvivle på den børnelærdom, de var blevet indoktrineret i søndagsskolerne i Jotunheim.

Selvom Thors lyn måske ikke ramte jætten, var det et flot syn. Et lyn som Thor godt kunne være stolt af, for han havde været i det rigtige lune. Der kunne nemlig være ret stor forskel på lynene, afhængigt af hans sindstilstand, men når de var så store og flotte, at mange holdt vejret med en blanding af beundring og ærefrygt, havde han en god mavefornemmelse. Og mavefornemmelserne havde han et seriøst forhold til.

Et lille træskib med orange sejl, var på vej fra Gjøl mod Nibe bredning. Familien havde været til søndagsprædiken, med tilhørende kaffe og kage, og det var almindeligt på den tid at sejle, hvis man selv var sømand eller fisker og havde en egnet båd. Det var også meget hurtigere, fordi man, stort set, brugte fugleflugtslinjer i stedt for snoede veje, som måtte følges i trævogne med store, knirkende hjul og trukket af hestespand. Al den hurlumhej der var mellem Thor og jætterne havde fået bølgerne til at danse, og båden måtte følge rytmen, hvad enten den ønskede det eller ej.

Pludselig flængede et kæmpestort lyn himmelen, og en lille dreng udbrød:

”Orv, der revnede himlen. Jeg kunne se ind i Guds tronsal, hvor der var et lys som var meget stærkere end onkels nye staldlygter.”

”Sludder, knægt,” sagde faderen vredt, mens han kæmpede for at holde båden på ret kurs. Han måtte bruge mange kræfter for at dirigere roret formålstjenligt, men han var en erfaren fisker der vidste, hvad han havde med at gøre, og han vidste også, at han måtte være yderst opmærksom og nøjeregnende.

”Nej, min dreng, det er de store spændingsforskelle, der udvikles, når is- og vandpartiklerne bevæger sig op og ned i skyerne og gnider mod hinanden. Disse spændingsforskelle opstår både mellem forskellige steder i skyen og jorden. Det er meget svært, og meget teknisk, at forklare, hvordan skyerne ioniseres, så i det daglige må vi stole på vores barometer.”

Thor havde overhørt ordvekslingen mellem faderen og drengen i båden og forstod den stort set, selvom den var på nydansk, som han dog efterhånden havde et godt kendskab til. Selv ville han ikke forsøge at tale det, for det lød alt for søgt og tøset i hans ører.

Han smilede af faderens forklaring til sønnen og tænkte:

”Utroligt, så overtroiske folk er nu om dage. Nåmen, min mave rumler, det trækker vist op til et stort krus tordenkaffe og en dygtig bid af Sif’s veltilberedte Gede-Jerky.”

Perspectives

“It seems to last for an eternity.”

Yes, the word eternity is often used

as an expression of a period of time,

either felt too long or too boring.

But nothing lasts forever. At least no things.

Philosophical minded people

ponder about this notion, not being able

to grasp or comprehend the meaning,

but still trying to make sense of it,

which seems impossible.

Eternity is always avoiding being recognized

as it seems to wear an invisible mantle.

It behaves like a woman

sending encouragingly glances to a man,

and constantly avoiding his approaches.

“Everything has its time”, the conceited,

strutting peacock shrieked.

But the lark never thought about it

while lying on its nest or just cheered towards

the background… the clear, blue sky:

“Take your time, take your time…

tweet… tweedledum and tweedledee,”

it constantly cheered. And in this way

It held eternity in its stretched wings,

implying perspectives.

As time passes by

The end of the world is nigh. The end of the world might happen sooner or later. The end of the world has already happened. The world never ends. At least this many opinions turn up concerning the world’s destiny.

Everybody could be right, as the end of the world is a personal belief or experience, associated with anything from stupidity, immaturity, maturity – to wisdom and insight.

Once the veil of Maya is torn away, you realize that even the veil of Maya was the veil of Maya – and that it was always this way.

And time shall be no more…

Relatively viewed, however, this doesn’t mean that there is no time. From this point of view both space and time is – for a good while. Maybe forever.

A screw without an end is a screw without an end. If a screw is getting a bit loose, try another type. The design of the slot is subordinate as long as it fits the screwdriver.

People seeking the truth are screwdrivers. People seeking security in illusions are a bit screwed up.

And time passes by…

Days off

When the muses overflow with energy, they fill up the poets' glasses with their sparkling brew.

But even muses need a day off from time to time.

Translated into human time a day off for a muse could last for weeks, but immediately after returning they function as newly reloaded smartphones, full of messages such as e-mails, text messages, voice messages and new applications.

Delightful mouthfuls for the awaiting poets, instantaneously enjoying large gulps of the newly poured elixir.

The poets are taking their days off at the same time as the muses, but the grass is growing even though it's hardly noticeable, and one fine day the lush meadows are covered with flowers, looking as if they were always there.

You didn't see it come, even though it was felt from deep inside, but when it has arisen, it feels so inevitable and so natural that it could not have been otherwise.

Handheld

”Go and drink some water darling,” Gertrud said.

”No, I’m not thirsty,” her elderly gray-haired husband replied. ”Oh, you meant the dog,” he added a bit disappointed.

”Yes, he has just puked. Perhaps we serve him too many treats.”

”I don’t think so. Usually he doesn’t puke because of the treats.”

The red ball of yarn, lying in the bowl on the table, listened to the old people’s multiple misunderstandings with an inward smile. Often one of them answered from the east, receiving questions from the west, followed by several exchanges of funny remarks until the case was settled.

The yarn was skilfully rolled to a ball by Gertrud, whilst her husband held the red skeins with both hands. He turned them a little up and down, forward and back, in order to avoid misplaced fingers, and at the same time avoiding funny remarks, until all was settled and the yarn in its place. He almost looked as a conductor of a symphony orchestra playing a sensitive nocturne.

In this way the red ball of yarn was born. When the end of the thread was in its place it felt as if the umbilical cord was cut. It, however, was not baptized, but let us call it Ariadne, just to give her a name.

Two more balls of yarn in darker colors were placed in the bowl with knitting needles through their bodies. “It made sense and felt coquettish at the same time,” Ariadne thought. As lying there, quite comfortably and having a fair view, she wondered whether there was a meaning to life, not really being able to specify the thoughts. “It might be too many long threads playing with my mind,” she concluded.

One day Gertrud suddenly grab Ariadne from the bowl, forced the knitting needles out of her and started stitching.

”Whoops,” Ariadne gasped, ”what turns up next? Damn, I’m about to loose my mind as well as the thread. What is this woman doing to me?”

Gertrud started knitting, and as time passed by Ariadne felt, little by little that she grew smaller and smaller. “I am about to reach the end,” she thought with her two minds. “I wonder about the opportunity of a second life? The end feels reachable.”

Right now she lost the clear thoughts, feeling life leaving her body.

“Thank you for everything,” she managed to think before not being here anymore.

”Look now,” Gertrud said to her husband. ”You have got a new scarf. Here you are.”

Suspiciously he mumbled: ”Isn’t it a bit short?”

”It’s long enough and will cover everything necessary.”

A new scarf was born. But within the fibres of the yarn, it felt as a rebirth.

Of course just a feeling.