Cycle

Skinfakse, you beautiful horse, so happy, vibrant and enchanting. You gallops against the wind, accompanied by the sea’s encouraging roar. You have your own bright time, and your tracks in the wet sand are as real as they thoughts-feelings you cherish while stretching out with morning dew like foam on your muzzle.

The world is waiting patiently, and photons cheers.
The time is for siesta, and only innocent timelessness is.
But thoughts-feelings are ocean waves,
and gives back time, while dancing after the wind’s will,
until the time again is silent, the sea calm,
and the day is gone to bed, while Rimfakse gallops
on the golden carpet, the moon then will roll out for him.

The Third Age

When the earth shakes and trembles, it is because Ennosigaios hurls his trident deep into the seabed. Plodded his mighty seahorses angry or just impatient, it caused tidal waves, which had a huge impact on people’s survival. A tidal wave could turn upside down on everything, and if only one of the horses plodded, went the waves high too.

Poseidon or Neptune as he alternately was called in everyday life, was now in his third age, and would like to meet with his two brothers again before his very last trip, which was to go to Shangri-La. He wanted also to see if he could find Merman, so he could say a proper goodbye to him if he was able to talk and celebrate after the separation from his beloved wife, Agnes.

Agnes had promised Merman that she would return to him and their children after a visit to the land, but she failed them. His mood dived with him, and he got a depression that was so deep that a general depression was water compared to it, but Agnes stayed on dry ground, and the children there was never more heard about.

He had not seen his brothers in about six thousand years, but better late than never, as he put it, and invitations to Zeus, Hades and Merman were sent with flying fish, and he also sent bottle-mail for safety’s sake. The invitations were written in Greek, Latin and Sanskrit and bore his watermark, where he held his perpetual trident for fast recognition.

He would keep a wonderful celebration that they would remember for a long time, for this would be his last meeting with the brothers and Merman on this sunlit side of life. It would not last forever, just a few hundred years, because when they had eaten and drunk as plentiful as it was the plan they might gradually become a little tired of each other.

The mermaids choir would entertain with songs about sunsets and sunrises at the oceans horizons, and the walrus, he could probably get to sing, “When the Saints go marching in.” He did it excellent and had been practicing this song for a long time with eight hundred dolphins choir singing and clapping elegant with their fins, so it was a pleasure to watch and listen to, and the movements of their fins made a refreshing circulation in the water.

The liveliest of the mermaids, who were invited from the Bay of Biscay should be chaperones. They could easily make guests feel alive again, although there by now had gone legends in them.

On the menu were fish fillets, shrimps and oceans of caviar, and the wine card included water from underwater sources. It was fermented a bit, so there were bubbles in.

He looked forward to his new life in Shangri-La, but first would the visa be an issue, which meant he had to be approved. The papers were sent off, so now it was exciting if he got the visa, just like that, or whether there were some samples, he first had to endure.

He had heard of the seven plateaus, but did not know quite what it was about. He believed, however, he could handle any samples as his desire to reach his goal was so strong that it would give him wings, and he figured he could fly the plateaus through instead of having to creep and crawl along winding mountain trails.

But he hoped the best, and had to smile at the thought. In Shangri-La he also was finally free of his incessant trident, when there was a ban on anything that could be used as a weapon.

‘Ran,’ the goddess from Valhalla, had to take care of both the oceans policy and relevant problems then. He felt he had done his duty at that front, and in good conscience could enjoy his retirement in Shangri-La in peace and harmony, which he would radiate over the entire world. Like rings in water.

Fuel

Demanding waves rolls violently against the hunger’s desolate and rugged coastlines. But the gentle, white beam drowns the hunger, and its inanimate body washes up on the beach.

It was like a battle where hunger had fought to subdue the pain it caused. The battle was won quickly, and the enemy fled with shattered dreams.

Soon is the subject of the battle disappeared and forgotten. Peace is achieved without declarations and covenants while a blissful drowsiness spreads instead, and the eyelids are getting heavy.

Now be heard the larks incessant cheering while swallows gracefully and acrobatic hunt insects in flight. The buzzard scans a large area with its binoculars and with soaring expectations in the stomach.

The mouse discovered hardly how everything suddenly ended, as if by magic, while it was preparing dough for wheat bread.

Star Clear

“The little dwarf galaxy named Sergue 1 is 75,000 light years from our own Milky Way galaxy. It does not contain many stars – only a paltry 1,100, which is minimal compared to the 200 billion stars in our Milky Way.

The 1,100 stars do not emit much light together, and therefore the galaxy so far been too weak to be seen. So they probably have not inspired predictions.

The theories of galaxy development says today that large galaxies are formed of many smaller galaxies collided and has grown bigger.

Sooner or later they can be observed and inspire poetry and adventure, and the astrologers star maps gets bigger and bigger.”

“So you really believe, one’s destiny can be read in the stars, and maybe even in motion pictures?”

“Are you thinking of movie stars?”

“Yes, well, but with no future. The future’s not happened yet. It’s all about timing.”

“Then what about the three wise men from the East? They could see at the stars that Jesus would be born at Christmas. And even where.”

“Oh yes, but they were also astronauts.”

“No, no, they were astrologers.”

“That’s what I said, but it is perhaps only solemn days that can be predicted then?”

“Yes, it looks like this. For everyday you can try to do predictions in cards, indian palm leaves, coffee grounds or look in crystal balls if you can’t wait. Or watch a magic hour glass instead. Just seize the moment in its flight and pour it into a test tube. Add a splash of good time from time zones all over the world and put a gram of dried, powdered thyme in as well plus three grams early morning. Then only remains a pinch of sizzling sea salt a squeeze of overtime and a teaspoon tide.

Now it starts to bubble sizzle and steam so much that the stars and the Muses can get their share too, and the shape of the tube changes making the upper and lower halves expand to tripple size of their diameters whilst the middle gets a narrow waistline. A handful of fine, dried beach sand and time immediately starts. Every time time is ripe one of Newton’s laws will make time live.

Meanwhile, the stars sing the subtle songs about predictions that Kalliope has composed.”

Musiske horisonter.

Stort set hver dag gik hun tur ved havet. Hun bar altid en fodsid kjole eller nederdel og havde kun fodtøj på, når der var meget koldt. Med bare fødder følte hun en inderlig kontakt med kloden, hun levede på endnu en stund, en kontakt som fodtøj ville formindske betydeligt. Og hun havde brug for klodesjælens vitaminer.

Hendes blik afsøgte altid horisonten, og oftest var det muligt at se den. Men når der ingen som helst overgang var mellem himlen og havet, kiggede hun efter rav, dog på en lidt flegmatisk måde, hvilket betød, at hun kun sjældent fandt noget. For hendes tanker var altid ved Node, og når han dukkede op, var det tid at vende tilbage.

Han havde bragt hende her, og her ville han også hente hende, når tiden var inde, og bægeret fyldt.

Kun få bemærkede hende, fordi hvert atom, i hver af hendes legemes celler, vibrerede med en unik hastighed, det blotte øje ikke umiddelbart opfattede. Hun kunne dog se alt, da hendes omgivelser var hendes udgave af de jordiske, fremkaldt af hendes eget sind, så det passede til hendes sansning.

Når hun så Node igen, ville hun blive fyldt med vibrerende salighed, og sammen ville de, på et splitsekund, gennembryde tidsmuren, vende hjem og juble i evighedens korridorer, mens de komponerede de grundtoner, denne verdens komponister undertiden tunede ind på og høstede af. Men først når tyngden af hendes ophold her, havde fyldt hendes bæger til randen igen.

Sådan var horisonterne, og næste gang var det hendes tur til at hente én, som kunne fremvise et fyldt bæger igen.

Musical horizons

Almost every day she walked by the sea. She never went anywhere without floor-length dress or skirt and only had shoes on when there were very cold. With bare feet, she felt an intense contact with the planet she lived on for a period, a contact as footwear would diminish significantly. And she needed vitamins from the planet’s soul.

Her eyes always searched the horizon, and in most cases it was possible to see it. But when there was no transition between the sky and the sea, she looked for amber, though in a somewhat phlegmatic manner, which meant that she rarely found anything. For her thoughts were always at Node, and when he would show up, it was time to return.

He had brought her here, and here he would pick her up when the time came, and the cup was filled again.

Few noticed her because every atom in each of her body cells vibrating at a unique rate, the naked eye not immediately perceived. She, however, could see everything when her surroundings, her version, was created by her own mind, and fitted to her senses.

When she saw Node again, she would be filled with vibrant bliss, and together they would, in a heartbeat, break through time wall, return home and rejoice in the eternal corridors while composing the fundamental frequencies, the planets composers sometimes tuned in to and harvested by. But only when the weight of her stay here, had filled her cup to the brim again.

Such was the horizons, and the next time it was her turn to pick someone who could show a filled cup.

Spring water

At the foot of the mountain (Skt. Nikolaj) was a drinking trough. The horses that went around freely in the fenced meadow, drank from it. It always overflowed because it came from a natural spring which sprang from the mountain side. The water rippled through the grass via a simple pipe and ran into the trough.

Leaves, flowers, insects, a drowned mouse and other things flowed on the surface. All in constant lazy motion because of the eternal water supply. The meadow was lush and filled with a carpet of glistening yellow globeflowers and other flowers. There were many lapwings, gulls and larks, and near the trough, one would soon spot a wet frog. Oddly enough, never a stork. The conditions were otherwise present. There was often a cluster of sparrows and blackbirds using the trough as their waterpark. They enjoyed blowing themselves up and shaking water at each other while constantly greeting and nodding politely.

The children drank straight from the source, when they were thirsty. Even on a hot summer day, the water was cold and refreshing. It was a time when time itself did not intend to pass. While the kids were there with bare knees in the damp grass and shaped hands, so the water could flow into the mouth and down their cheeks and chins, they felt it did not track tantalizing. Just normal and natural.

But being visited by relatives from the big cities was tantalizing. Their fine clothes and their different scents, their careless relationship with money and the consequent opportunity to score lollies, an ice boat or a cake from the bakery, were welcoming features in the children's life.

Many years later, the place is still recognizable, albeit slightly alienated. The roads and trails are named, cottages replaced the horses, globeflowers and lapwings are a rarities. The city has changed appearance due to beautiful restorations and new, well-built permanent residences, and the old bridge over the fjord, with the red-painted iron railings, is gone. The same is all the shops. 

There was probably no money or not enough money in the conditions as they were.