LIGHT

Sometimes it takes a canon to splinter you. While this may not be pleasant, from an aesthetic point of view we can agree that it's good. It's good for the light. Imagine the refraction on the many facets of your fragments. I was thinking of this as I was surveying the more real than metaphorical canons by the fancy Rica Hotel in Molde, whose facade is built of glass fragments that reflect the light in a spectacular way. The thought of refracted light persisted, as later I found myself surveying another refractory ground: the diamond market. “Kanontilbud,” all shops competed in saying indicating major sales. Boom. I resisted this one. I escaped intact. To reward myself I went across the street and bought a beautiful Abercrombie and Fitch cashmere sweater, and then I flashed my own rings in front of the church. The copper main door is just beautiful and made supreme rays on both my hands and my ears. I had my Yvone Christa copper-colored pearl earrings on. I felt defiant, but also envious, as a bride in a huge dress was patrolling the site. I wanted to inspect her rings, but I thought it would be rude to go up to her and ask: hand me thy hand. As I myself am united with Norway, I thought I would settle with just fantasizing about enacting fantasies of asking rather than actually doing it. -- I think I would fall for the line: "I'd like to be united with your light." Today my own color palette matched the nature ever so perfectly, though inside me, my thoughts were thoroughly refracted. “Divide and conquer,” they say. I wonder how light wraps around this act. “Two forces prevail in the universe: light and gravity,” Simone Weil used to say. Now I imagine what the groom could have said to his bride, in the divided church, with the bells ringing from a tower that's detached: I love you like a canon ball, fast and heavy. And her answering: and I like light, faster and heavier.