By Simon Barget
There is fear, or is it excitement. There's a powerful white light. The light is so intense, hardly obscured by the buildings. When you get off the train, the light right above you. It is clean and clear, dazzling and blinding. It is so intense you must ceratinly squint. In the tropics the light is intense. It can even be painful. In the heart of the day in Japan in the country, the light piercing entirely, it breaks you apart and you forget for a moment your body. On the Izu peninsula with no shade from the grassland. At another little-known train station in a valley in Arlberg, the light is so clear against the screen of the sky; but this time less white, a touch less obscene. Something comes from this light you just sense it. Something you started off with, you will surely go back to. All will sink back to this light. Of this light there is no shadow, there isn't an opposite. Will always be light. In Bangkok, in Thailand, amongst the feet of the pedestrian road bridges and the lampposts and the tarpaulins stretched over shop awnings, amongst the sky-rise and the panels of glass, in the clearing amongst them, this blinding white light. Always saying, here, now, bringing you back to your essence. Close your eyes for a moment, see light trails, cracks from the capillaries, like a slide in a microscope, a glitch in a projector tape or film reel. Look up but you can’t see where the light is, where it has come from. It comes from no particular place. Yet it spotlights you always at your location. In all the places you’ve been, in the tropics. Bridging a gap of now forty years. Even in Europe the light is so bright, undiminished, unimpeachable, pure. In the open fields of the Loire valley. How it arrives in your head, how no one knows. How it takes over, becomes you. How your body dissolves. See the light off the coast from the manicured green of a garden, in a shprauncy hotel, Beaulieu-sur-Mer. Under a substantial white parasol. Beneath all the light, there is fear.