All posts by Lone Veirup

Lone Veirup Johansen is a writer, favouring the short story as a form. She develops stories that are anchored in place and memory, but they are not autobiographical. Born in Denmark in the 1960s, she emigrated to Brisbane, Queensland, Australia in the 1990s after meeting her partner as an overseas student. Recently, Lone spent a year in Copenhagen, reconnecting with Danish culture, taking in the cultural pulse of the city and nurturing her writing skills. Visit her blog about the adventure: www.piedaterrecopenhagen.wordpress.com

Lone experiments with writing and shares snippets of ideas on this site. Critique and suggestions are welcome.

Soundtracks of my teens

A road to somewhere? Photo: Andreas. 1987.
A road to somewhere? Photo: Andreas. 1987.

In 1980 I became a teenager. Of course, along with my girlfriends, I felt very grown up long before that, having already been to parties, listening to music, dancing and playing kissing games with boys. And drinking alcohol. The music was a massive part of it all and as hormones raged, I my experience  reflected in almost every love song ever written.

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Soundtracks of my childhood

Music has followed me all my life. But not the piano. Photo: Lone. 2015.
Music has followed me all my life. But not the piano. Photo: Lone. 2015.

The Danish saying, to come from a home with a piano, instantly pins  social status on an individual. From an earlier era, it classed you as upper class, sophisticated and well educated. In those days, working class homes had neither money to purchase a piano nor time to learn to play the piano, never mind playing it. It was a frivolous pastime reserved for the more well-off. And make no mistake, the piano was for classical music, not the sub-standard, vulgar jazz or, heaven forbid, Jerry-Lee Lewis’s filthy rock’n’roll that turned young people into sex craving monsters.

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Memory: A Consequence of Langauge

Now that my parents are gone, who will remember with me who I was as a child? Photo: Jørgen Hattesen.
Now that my parents are gone, who will remember with me who I was as a child? Photo: Jørgen Hattesen.

This is an edited version of a post that first appeared on Pied-á-terre CPH in October 2014. It was reblogged on Translatorpower.

When my father was dying I wrote memories of the childhood I had with him. I wrote in my native language, Danish, and gave him a long, long brain dump of everything that came to mind in the short period I had. He enjoyed reading my perspective of events he could recall to greater or lesser extent.

Together we wrote the story of his own life, illustrated it with photos and had it published in 100 copies. I put one copy, hot from the press, into his hands just as the ambulance officers came to collect him to take him to the hospice. Two days later he died. Continue reading Memory: A Consequence of Langauge