kalla
fingerspetsar
ljuset glöder
i
tegelhorisonten
nordamerikanska läraren
skrattar
jag
fryser
kvinnan
som
utmanar mannen
ett hot
för enkel
teori
det
passar
för
bra
jo tjena
första
kvinnliga
regissören
vann i natt
för enkel teori
Gilda
vrider sig
i
sin
grav
Visar inlägg med etikett saker jag skriver. Visa alla inlägg
Visar inlägg med etikett saker jag skriver. Visa alla inlägg
onsdag 10 mars 2010
tisdag 26 januari 2010
Minnen del 2.
Såhär blev det.
Object of memory - the yellow armchairs in Sunnemo.
I guess you can say that we furnish our lives with objects and memories. We are all bag ladies that drag along things important to us, both actual items and memories of feelings, sounds, textures, smiles we seen, people we meet and places we have sat. In a film, Songs From The Second Floor a character says “blessed be the one who sits down.” I think he’s right. I also think my grandfather would have liked that idea.
When I was a child my family would spend a week or two of every summer at my grandparent’s summer house. There are many memorable things in the house but I especially remember two armchairs. The furniture in the house was all a bit of a mix but a lot came from the 60’s like these chairs. They have a wooden frame with a seat of coarse fabric. But my grandmother placed yellow cushions upon them which made them loose a bit of the designer feel to them. Then there are leather straps as arm rest. I used to wiggle the leather straps from side to side. It makes a particular noise and softens up the leather. The chairs are also low and comfortable which makes it furniture you spend a long time in. I remember my grandfather spending a lot of time in them. Their place is in the living room but in the summers the doors were always open so we kept running in and out of the house and taking the chairs with us. In the mornings the yellow armchairs where at the porch on the side of the house that faced the forest but as the evening came along everyone wanted to see the view of the lake from the other side so then the chairs was moved yet again. Everyone loved the view. My grandfather loved the view. He sat there, quiet and watched the light of the early summer night change over the valley and listened to the grandchildren running along. Then a few hours later you could hear the squeak from the chair as he rose up to go to bed.
I didn’t know my grandfather very well; he was already starting to get ill when I was very little. He was the quiet one and I was slightly scared of him as a child. My grandmother did the talking. But I do remember a game we had, me and him. I have no idea if this happened many times or just once. But as he sat in one of the armchairs in the morning I would crawl up in his lap and hit his big belly with my tiny little fists. He wouldn’t move a muscle, almost ignoring me. But suddenly he would grab me by the arms and hold me still. The surprise always made me shriek with laughter and I could feel how strong he still was.
I am yet again not sure but as me, my father and uncle sat talking about my grandfather at the same spot years later, a year after he died, we might have sat in the same yellow chairs. It was a summer’s night again and we sat up late and talked for hours. It would have been natural that we used them but it might as well been as normal if we just let them stand there, empty in the living room.
Object of memory - the yellow armchairs in Sunnemo.
I guess you can say that we furnish our lives with objects and memories. We are all bag ladies that drag along things important to us, both actual items and memories of feelings, sounds, textures, smiles we seen, people we meet and places we have sat. In a film, Songs From The Second Floor a character says “blessed be the one who sits down.” I think he’s right. I also think my grandfather would have liked that idea.
When I was a child my family would spend a week or two of every summer at my grandparent’s summer house. There are many memorable things in the house but I especially remember two armchairs. The furniture in the house was all a bit of a mix but a lot came from the 60’s like these chairs. They have a wooden frame with a seat of coarse fabric. But my grandmother placed yellow cushions upon them which made them loose a bit of the designer feel to them. Then there are leather straps as arm rest. I used to wiggle the leather straps from side to side. It makes a particular noise and softens up the leather. The chairs are also low and comfortable which makes it furniture you spend a long time in. I remember my grandfather spending a lot of time in them. Their place is in the living room but in the summers the doors were always open so we kept running in and out of the house and taking the chairs with us. In the mornings the yellow armchairs where at the porch on the side of the house that faced the forest but as the evening came along everyone wanted to see the view of the lake from the other side so then the chairs was moved yet again. Everyone loved the view. My grandfather loved the view. He sat there, quiet and watched the light of the early summer night change over the valley and listened to the grandchildren running along. Then a few hours later you could hear the squeak from the chair as he rose up to go to bed.
I didn’t know my grandfather very well; he was already starting to get ill when I was very little. He was the quiet one and I was slightly scared of him as a child. My grandmother did the talking. But I do remember a game we had, me and him. I have no idea if this happened many times or just once. But as he sat in one of the armchairs in the morning I would crawl up in his lap and hit his big belly with my tiny little fists. He wouldn’t move a muscle, almost ignoring me. But suddenly he would grab me by the arms and hold me still. The surprise always made me shriek with laughter and I could feel how strong he still was.
I am yet again not sure but as me, my father and uncle sat talking about my grandfather at the same spot years later, a year after he died, we might have sat in the same yellow chairs. It was a summer’s night again and we sat up late and talked for hours. It would have been natural that we used them but it might as well been as normal if we just let them stand there, empty in the living room.
lördag 21 november 2009
Jonatan ville läsa mera.
Här kommer en metafor jag skrev för novell-seminariet
Language is a body. It’s a living organism. It breathes, it smiles and it sings. It can be looked at as a whole or you can examine the different parts. It comes in many shapes and colours. You can change it into another but it is painful. As you try to change it you might end up chopping a bit of yourself off. You will always remember how it looked like from the beginning. It does change over time but you’ll always have the same skeleton. Language can brake but it can also be mended again. It is the base from which you look at the world. It is structured in a particular way for a reason. It has taken generations to evolve and has grown over time. As a body, language can be looked upon with different eyes, is it vulgar or is it perfectly normal? Is it beautiful or is it the ugliest thing? It can find itself belong to someone or banished from somewhere. It is the definition of a single human being, its borders and limitations. It is the details that make it, the shape of a shoulder, the pronunciation and rhythm of it. To master it can be a challenge for both toddlers and pensioners.
Language is a body. It’s a living organism. It breathes, it smiles and it sings. It can be looked at as a whole or you can examine the different parts. It comes in many shapes and colours. You can change it into another but it is painful. As you try to change it you might end up chopping a bit of yourself off. You will always remember how it looked like from the beginning. It does change over time but you’ll always have the same skeleton. Language can brake but it can also be mended again. It is the base from which you look at the world. It is structured in a particular way for a reason. It has taken generations to evolve and has grown over time. As a body, language can be looked upon with different eyes, is it vulgar or is it perfectly normal? Is it beautiful or is it the ugliest thing? It can find itself belong to someone or banished from somewhere. It is the definition of a single human being, its borders and limitations. It is the details that make it, the shape of a shoulder, the pronunciation and rhythm of it. To master it can be a challenge for both toddlers and pensioners.
tisdag 10 november 2009
What is the pleasure of time?
Jag har ju pratat om det men inte riktigt vågat. Men nu jävlar (förlåt Ylva). Min novell som kanske är kass, jag har inte fått tillbaka den från läraren. Är jag nöjd med den? Jag vet inte, tror det. Känns inte som det bästa jag skrivit men det är nånting med den som betyder...något. För den som vet så finns det massa element i den som är bekanta.
What is the pleasure of time?
The sun has not yet risen; the world outside the kitchen window doesn’t want to present itself. In the early dawn the old wooden house just seems like a lonely ship of light in a sea of darkness. The large oak standing beside it can’t be seen but you can still smell the wet leaves and sense the rain falling lightly in the early morning hour. This is not unusual for a lonely village outside of Kopparberg, Sweden in this time of year. Inside, the kitchen is filled with a strong smell of coffee; the floorboards creak as a man in his late sixties shuffles about looking for his glasses in the cupboard in the corner.
She knows how this scene looks like. She has seen it many times in her soon to be middle age life. She, Frida Williams is lying in bed in the room next to the kitchen listening to her father. Frida haven’t slept a minute the whole night and guesses that her father is in the same position. It was a beautiful funeral; she has to give him that. It was exactly as her mother would have wanted it, simple with the whole family from both Britain and Sweden attending. But a funeral is always a funeral and now both Michael and her mother were gone, half the family is dead, but no use lying here thinking about it. The snoring of her two teenage sons is clearly audible as she climbs out of bed and put on jeans and a jumper to join her father in the kitchen.
- Hello dad, she says as she steps into the kitchen.
- Oh, hello Frida. I didn’t realise that you was up as well. You couldn’t sleep? Her father turns around to look at his daughter with a faint smile.
- No. I couldn’t.
- Sit down and have some coffee, he says as he turns his back to her.
The room turns silent again. Frida walks up to the kitchen table and sit down at one of the chairs looking at her father as he now tries to put on a fire in the old stove by the sink. Matthew Williams is a thin man that despite his age and now slightly crocked back still has a quite striking stature, like he was a statue in ancient Greece. But as he bends down to pick up the firewood from the basket his movements are slow and he drags his slippers after him. As he reaches out for the wood fresh ink stains on his hand is made visible for Frida.
- What is that? Have you started working again dad? I thought you said you stopped when mum got too weak to help you set up the press, says Frida with a smile of recollection on her face.
- Yes I did, her father says as he puts the firewood into the stove.
- But what changed?
- I got some help, says Matthew as he lightens the fire.
- From whom?
- From Nilsson’s kid down the road. You remember that blond thing that used to play with Blackie? He’s a young man of twenty now. Strong hands, like Michael. Matthew stands up letting out a sigh and walks over to sit down by the table.
- Why didn’t you tell me? I mean I love that you are working again but I could have sent the boys up over the summer. They love it up here.
- Yes but you are busy with work and I didn’t want to steal them away from their father.
- Yes their father of course. Frida stands up and walks over to the window, looking out at the dark yard.
- I’m Sorry, her father says as he looks down at the table.
- You always find ways to bring up my estranged husband. Brilliant dad. Thanks.
The familiar silence settles in again as Frida walks out of the kitchen, goes to the living room, places herself in the sofa, leans back with a hand on her forehead and closes her eyes. The only thing she can hear is the cracking of the fire and the rain against the windows. But after a few minutes the creaking sound from a chair being pulled out from under a table and how slippers are being dragged along the floor reaches her ears. Her father sits down next to her. He places his hand on her right hand that rests on her lap.
- I thought about leaving your mother you know, he says slowly.
- Why do you tell me this now dad?
- Do you remember when she was ill?
- Yes I remember. When she couldn’t do anything but cry. How we tried to help, the smell of her breath.
- I’m ashamed of it but I nearly moved back home to London then. I stood at Arlanda with my bag packed and a ticket in my shirt pocket.
- Why didn’t you? Ask Frida as she turns to her father.
- I couldn’t leave you, could I? I couldn’t leave your mother. I swore that I never would. You should have seen her Frida. Her hair smelled like roses and she had deep red lips. Her father even gave me a profession, something to call mine. I am glad we had fourty years together, that I didn’t leave her. That I stayed. All that time.
- What is the pleasure of time anyway? I could not stay any longer dad, it was too much.
- What?
- I didn’t see myself with him anymore. I couldn’t do it, says Frida as she rests her head against her father’s shoulder as if she was a child.
The daylight is slowly making its first appearance in the distant horizon washing over Frida and her father as it was a white wave of light coming through the birch trees. It hits their faces and she feels as if she can breathe again. As if this tension in her has in some ways disappeared. She thinks of her mother but looks at her father and smiles towards him. He smiles back and the vast landscape outside the window seems to come even closer than it has ever done.
What is the pleasure of time?
The sun has not yet risen; the world outside the kitchen window doesn’t want to present itself. In the early dawn the old wooden house just seems like a lonely ship of light in a sea of darkness. The large oak standing beside it can’t be seen but you can still smell the wet leaves and sense the rain falling lightly in the early morning hour. This is not unusual for a lonely village outside of Kopparberg, Sweden in this time of year. Inside, the kitchen is filled with a strong smell of coffee; the floorboards creak as a man in his late sixties shuffles about looking for his glasses in the cupboard in the corner.
She knows how this scene looks like. She has seen it many times in her soon to be middle age life. She, Frida Williams is lying in bed in the room next to the kitchen listening to her father. Frida haven’t slept a minute the whole night and guesses that her father is in the same position. It was a beautiful funeral; she has to give him that. It was exactly as her mother would have wanted it, simple with the whole family from both Britain and Sweden attending. But a funeral is always a funeral and now both Michael and her mother were gone, half the family is dead, but no use lying here thinking about it. The snoring of her two teenage sons is clearly audible as she climbs out of bed and put on jeans and a jumper to join her father in the kitchen.
- Hello dad, she says as she steps into the kitchen.
- Oh, hello Frida. I didn’t realise that you was up as well. You couldn’t sleep? Her father turns around to look at his daughter with a faint smile.
- No. I couldn’t.
- Sit down and have some coffee, he says as he turns his back to her.
The room turns silent again. Frida walks up to the kitchen table and sit down at one of the chairs looking at her father as he now tries to put on a fire in the old stove by the sink. Matthew Williams is a thin man that despite his age and now slightly crocked back still has a quite striking stature, like he was a statue in ancient Greece. But as he bends down to pick up the firewood from the basket his movements are slow and he drags his slippers after him. As he reaches out for the wood fresh ink stains on his hand is made visible for Frida.
- What is that? Have you started working again dad? I thought you said you stopped when mum got too weak to help you set up the press, says Frida with a smile of recollection on her face.
- Yes I did, her father says as he puts the firewood into the stove.
- But what changed?
- I got some help, says Matthew as he lightens the fire.
- From whom?
- From Nilsson’s kid down the road. You remember that blond thing that used to play with Blackie? He’s a young man of twenty now. Strong hands, like Michael. Matthew stands up letting out a sigh and walks over to sit down by the table.
- Why didn’t you tell me? I mean I love that you are working again but I could have sent the boys up over the summer. They love it up here.
- Yes but you are busy with work and I didn’t want to steal them away from their father.
- Yes their father of course. Frida stands up and walks over to the window, looking out at the dark yard.
- I’m Sorry, her father says as he looks down at the table.
- You always find ways to bring up my estranged husband. Brilliant dad. Thanks.
The familiar silence settles in again as Frida walks out of the kitchen, goes to the living room, places herself in the sofa, leans back with a hand on her forehead and closes her eyes. The only thing she can hear is the cracking of the fire and the rain against the windows. But after a few minutes the creaking sound from a chair being pulled out from under a table and how slippers are being dragged along the floor reaches her ears. Her father sits down next to her. He places his hand on her right hand that rests on her lap.
- I thought about leaving your mother you know, he says slowly.
- Why do you tell me this now dad?
- Do you remember when she was ill?
- Yes I remember. When she couldn’t do anything but cry. How we tried to help, the smell of her breath.
- I’m ashamed of it but I nearly moved back home to London then. I stood at Arlanda with my bag packed and a ticket in my shirt pocket.
- Why didn’t you? Ask Frida as she turns to her father.
- I couldn’t leave you, could I? I couldn’t leave your mother. I swore that I never would. You should have seen her Frida. Her hair smelled like roses and she had deep red lips. Her father even gave me a profession, something to call mine. I am glad we had fourty years together, that I didn’t leave her. That I stayed. All that time.
- What is the pleasure of time anyway? I could not stay any longer dad, it was too much.
- What?
- I didn’t see myself with him anymore. I couldn’t do it, says Frida as she rests her head against her father’s shoulder as if she was a child.
The daylight is slowly making its first appearance in the distant horizon washing over Frida and her father as it was a white wave of light coming through the birch trees. It hits their faces and she feels as if she can breathe again. As if this tension in her has in some ways disappeared. She thinks of her mother but looks at her father and smiles towards him. He smiles back and the vast landscape outside the window seems to come even closer than it has ever done.
Prenumerera på:
Inlägg (Atom)
