Sunday, Aug. 26, 2007 1:15 am

Oslo

I like to lie on the hot rocks in the Oslo bay, and then stand at the edge of the water with my hands on my chin, thinking about what I am about to do, the dive into the water, the sudden shock of cold, the bubbles and the breath. And when I have swum back and forth, up and around the jutting corners of rock, then I turn and lie on my back, and inflate my chest, and stretch my arms over my head, and lie floating in the water, in the green sea, deafened by the silent lapping of the green sea against my ears, wondering about the deep darkness under me and the squinting brightness above, about what they contain, and I gently circle my hands as I weightlessly drift on the massive mass of water, the North Sea, my body lifting and dropping on the waves. And this sensation, I think to myself, is perfect, there is no time when I will feel more human and relieved. Sooner or later I like to make my way towards the island once again, but as I near the shore I dive down and examine, with popping ears, the solitary starfish, the broad carpets of mussels, the greenish sunbeams that slant down into the cold.

Nevertheless it changes nothing and afterwards the experience is nothing more than a memory.

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