Heaven Bound: Right here. Right now

 

It’s heaven right now,

It’s earth right here.

I lie in the snow.

There is a straight line between up and down, between

Heaven and sea

History that once was, peers down at me in the snow.

History has large starry eyes glaring at me, I stare back, and our

eyes strike a thread between before and now

 

Snow comes from the heavens, from what once was. From above and
downwards;

I muse about how we might accomplish the impossible:

To make snow into heavens,

to bring the entire vault of heaven down here.

 

The one above Vesterålen,

The one above Iceland, Mexico and all the places with names that

get caught somewhere between the palate and the uvula.

To pack the firmament like a little snowball and hold it firmly

between my hands,

 

Then I would know where I could find heaven and the past tense.

 

Everywhere we stand on tiptoes to get closer to the heavens.

History dances the tango with the heavens,

And we want to dance along;

stomp out a reinlender polka with what once was,

whirl out a merengue with what is to come.

We are as small as hailstones, sleet; we want to dance, to know.

But we want a straight line from what is

to what once was,

A straight thread between the present and the past tense, disappearing into language somewhere.

 

Thus we reach out towards the depths of the heavens, so that we, too, will be able to see what is coming.

Vertically.

Horizontally.

While meaning comes unexpectedly, dancing in the form of snowflakes.

 

I reach toward the heavens with snow in my hands:

Before,

and now,

and soon

will melt in our hands.

 

Opening text read by author Ragnfrid Trohaug in the
rocket-launching facility at Andøya Rocket Range
during the opening of
The Gulf Stream Cultural Boost:
Centennial Observances in Vesterålen