It was a wet ride home with a worm

It was a wet ride home with a worm. The sea slipped, it wanted to get into the boat, but I didn't want it there. Then it takes half the boat; it has happened to me before. Then it is to pump and scoop before the next glefs take the rest. The flywheel in water, a splash against the sky, water on the magnet, the engine silent. Yes, it has happened to me. Too small boat. Must get a bigger one.

But sports are. Lying and sneaking in the sea, watching them rise threateningly with froth and turn off, down to nothing. Then you ride over, but you come no way, not home with precious cargo: coffee, eggs and the like, and at the front of the spike a carton of red wine. Cargo worth guarding. Just that you have no way, on the contrary. Behind me is a black wall of sea-sanded granite. Always Scylla on one side. On the other island, the house. It's not far there, but just as far as getting there. Then it is important to fool yourself into small roofs every time the enemy breathes. He has reservations, to you world, I see three steep towers of sea about port, but if I give gas and leave it there, they will not get me. Quite correct. They just licked a little stern, especially the last man. But then the enemy has no reserves for a while. Then it is important to advance.

So it was, as so often before. It was wet. It was wet behind, too, although I never got up from the scent I know. That man is not worth a lot that is wet in the back. Then he feels two years old and shames with shame. 

Then it became lame. Then I stood ashore and saw that the mooring was holding. Good to know land under foot. Stone. I parted with the goods and continued inward. Grass and heather. Good to know grass and heather under foot. The half hour trip had taken two hours. It waves in me. Good to stand and wave it, to walk and let it wave, on rock and grass and heather. It strikes me that I've been a little scared, just a little, but scared. It's been a while since. It does well. Not to be afraid, but to have been.

Then it says in me that this is peace.

Peace, what is it – the absence of war? For a flaccid definition, jumbled contourless like these water-blue autumn jellyfish that floated around the boat a little while ago. Then it was different in the fire-red warriors. Furthermore, the definition is low in relation to its opposite, lamb in the bone.

Why don't we define peace actively and positively? It is the only positive of the two. In peace there can be traded. Peace gives us a surplus to expose us to dangers, whether that's what it is, to climb mountains, to no avail. People need the useless.

But also for the useful. In peace, every effort bears fruit. In war everything, fruit and everything rot; human limbs rot.

The most tragic time for thought was when the labor movement itself focused on the expectation of war as the only way out for full employment. The economists tell us something else now. Prosperity does not have to support the threat of war, on the contrary. But the habit hangs in, the habit of believing that war is something that "comes" or maybe comes – as if war came by itself. Those who still think it gets fewer every day. But they are the strongest. They know they can play on us, they can call us traitors, they do. They refer to History. History is the heaviest ticket in the mechanism of condemnation. We learned it from the first moment. About Philip of Macedonia. We did not secretly keep King Øystein for a smaller man than his brother Sigurd, this playboy for a horse with gold shoes!

They lured us to it, knowing that at the time of fate we were idiotic machines. Then it was just to say Fatherland and blow the horn, maybe ring a little with church bells too. The Church is a power, it will see blood.

As if there was some moment of fate. There is no other destiny than the one we ourselves create. But if we settle on the evil destiny, then we are involved in creating it.

What a disgrace to the sense to cultivate killers. Why do we know more about Karl 12. than Linnaeus? Who taught us about HC Ørsted, the discoverer of electromagnetism? No, it should be Knud the Mighty. It should be Olav Tryggvasson and Olav Haraldsson for Ola Nordmann, not Ole Bull. What did not narrow was not worth listening to. As far as the Fatherland is concerned, what is known is sacred. For Norway, the country of birth of fighters. Less could not. By the way, how was the show going: "I want to drink this dish!" That wasn't what I was thinking. Meet it must be. Valhall. History. Hundreds of history teachers sit and stuff nonsense into the heads of thousands of little hooks to be crooked. In every country on the planet. And every country is the best thing – there in the country. It's called teaching. When "the growing up" is made unconscious, it is called the homeland consciousness and exams.

But sport is, well, it is. Whoever knows the most about things can do the most. And is not knowledge power? And is not power – yes power. Walking here on heather and knowing land under foot, it is also a kind of power. Won. I have won. Over what? Indifferent. Won.