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.
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
—Hop ind på forsædet, sagde han med sin dybe, rustne stemme.
Hun elskede den stemme. Hun elskede de eventyr, den fortalte ved sengetid om fjerne lande i gamle dage, selvom dens rytme og brummen nogle gange fik hende til at falde i søvn, før hun kunne høre slutningen. Hun elskede også, hvordan stemmen lo. Når han sad i sin favoritlænestol med en bog eller avisen og morede sig over noget sjovt eller absurd, kom hans latter dybt nedefra svælget, som en slags sjov hikke. Han sugede anekdoterne til sig i den mindste detalje, og de blev del af hans egne historier. Når han genfortalte disse historier, voksede hans latter til et smittende brøl.