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My life has been long and often quite incomprehensible. My memory has several shortcomings. Pojken som ropa de varulv some cases it may be comforting to forget all about some of the past actions and events, since certain memories may be quite worrying, perhaps even scary. In the darkness surrounding them memories might appear as flashes from sudden thunderbolts. His memory used to be like a kennel where he knew all the dogs by name: And the dog came running at full speed, throwing his memory piece on the ground in front of him and he found that it dealt with his first long-term job away from home.
Occasionally, I do not even know if they have fetched the proper bits and pieces. It is quite possible that the dog has dug up something that actually is not my memory at all, but something I have heard, read or simply imagined.
It also happens that my memory dogs do not show up at all when I call for them. Pojken som ropa de varulv father was then fifty-four years, almost ten cm browser vs chrome android younger than I am now and mother was forty-eight. I'm sitting on the first floor, leafing through old photo albums and finding pictures from the time I was born. My mother was then thirty three years old, just over a year younger than my oldest daughter and a beautiful woman.
She still is, at the age of ninety-six. In un-opened boxes are Super8 movies. The last time I saw some of them was when I on the second floor had assembled the display equipment. When I finally got the old films running my youngest daughter became saddened:. I did not even exist by then. The clattering projector, which in the dark room displayed flickering images from times gone by reminded me of a few lines form an autobiography by the Swedish novelist Torgny Lindgren:.
Inside me there is a tired and neglected film projector. The cogs have loosened, the engine is skidding, the big reel is skewed, the celluloid scratched. However, for a precious moment everything works as it should and a few frames become clearly visible, until the broken projector clanks on as before. Every day I visit my mother in the hospital, where she was taken in for a severe bout of pneumonia. I then learned that her lungs had become more or less inoperative, severe scar tissues make it impossible for her to breathe normally without a constant supply of oxygen.
My mother is very tired, has lost her appetite and it hurts me to experience how her health is deteriorating. Her memory is affected and when I see my beautiful mother in all her dependence and vulnerability I realize that even if I still might live for quite a long time my memory will be weaker as well.
That is one reason to why I am writing these lines. I want to remember my images of my parents, mull over my inner projections before they are lost and gone. Just over half a year ago my mother stopped reading, before that she had read at least three novels a week. She has a determined literary taste that in many respects coincides with mine.
After my father's death, twenty years ago, she stopped playing the piano. She is musically talented and pojken som ropa de varulv playing even difficult pieces by Beethoven and Schubert. She claimed that her motivation got lost when my father died and that rheumatism had begun to plague her hands.
Nevertheless, my mother continued to enjoy her immaculate garden and painted diligently, both in oil and acrylic - for example, these portraits of my daughter Janna and my father.
My mother also travelled quiet a lot, she did for example, when she was ninety years old, visit me while I lived in Paris. As always filled with energy - curious and adventurous. There was a strain of aesthetics in both my father and mother. They loved their garden. Most of the time my father just walked around within it with his pipe, enjoying the sight and scent of every flower. It was generally my mother who tended and weeded it. My father was the theorist who read seed catalogues and gardening books, bought the seeds, soil and plants.
He could during occasional moments of intensive activity arrange a compost, crop a tree or cut the grass, but the daily, more tiring garden pojken som ropa de varulv fell on my mother, who relished everything connected with such activities. When my mother grew older, she began to paint and occasionally had quite a significant production. She had a natural talent, uninhibited and bold she did with high speed paint landscapes and portraits. When my father was younger, he worked as a night editor and appeared at home first after midnight.
My father was proud of his elegant wife and when I was a kid the family used to get dressed up on Saturdays for a walk together through the small town in which we lived. Despite her pojken som ropa de varulv fierce opposition my mother had decided to marry a six-year-older and divorced man.
She always respected him and my father was also apparently in love with my mother. When I recently asked her if my father used to say that he loved her, she answered:.
Among my memories I find the experience linksys by cisco wrt120n s getting up from my bed late at night and finding my father in the warm light circle around the armchair next to the bookshelf, smoking his pipe while immersed in a newspaper, or a book. He subscribed to several literary magazines, read the books that arrived at the newspaper for reviewing and was a frequent visitor to the town library.
In Stockholm he met with several famous authors and when he for a couple of years worked at the local paper in the small, southern port of Simrishamn, he ended up in the circle of the legendary Danish vice consul Gunnar Ohlsson, who in his coterie at the Restaurant Svea counted upon the local poet Theodor Tufvesson, author of a poem, which intro my father liked to quote: It is in an old farm that my heart rests.
Even if his stories often are amusing, several of them have a tragic undercurrent. His favourite author was William Faulkner. The fact that that my father for a long time of his professional life worked during nights meant that our family customs were slightly different from those of our neighbours. Apparently he spent most time with me. He made landscapes of plaster for my cowboys and Indians; with mountains, rivers and blockhouses and also built a castle for my knights.
My father used to tell me interesting stories he had encountered through his reading, spicing them up with curious anecdotes he had picked up through his work at the local newspaper and thus he turned pojken som ropa de varulv into a teller of ghost stories. My comrades listened to my stories in attics, in basements and in huts we had built in the forest. I loved being at the centre, though I could also behave like a loner, devoting hours to reading and drawing.
My father liked to listen to music and we had a record collection with Marlene Dietrich, Lena Horne, Frank Sinatra and similar artists, as well as classical music, but, like me, my father was not as musically gifted as my mother and younger sister, who both had a beautiful singing voice.
My sister Nunno, daughter of Consul Olsson's daughter Disa, who had previously been married to my father, did not sing either, but had a collection of fine jazz and popular music, like Miles Davis and The Supremes. What I shared with my sisters and parents was a great interest in art. During his time as a night editor my father could devote his days to sculpting in clay. He did not burn his artefacts and most of his works have eventually fallen to pieces, or crumbled.
He also carved small sculptures in wood. My father's influence has certainly been one reason for me and pojken som ropa de varulv sisters truning into devourers of books and we have all pojken som ropa de varulv art history at the university, while my oldest sister became a librarian. Both my mother and father were fascinated by animals and nature. They always had dogs, after they had acquired the rather poorly disciplined Doberman Pojken som ropa de varulv, handsome and strong.
Thankfully, Lord was faithful to his family, otherwise he was aggressive to outsiders. He was followed by mild Labradors. At first by bicycle, though I or my youngest sister Annika sometimes went out alone with our father, sitting behind him on his moped. Later we found a cottage in the forest where we spent the weekends. My father did not have a driver's license and it was my mother who drove, while my father in his somewhat whimsical manner directed the entire endeavour.
Occasionally, I read books in which the authors vehemently attack their parents, a behaviour that is strange to me. Nevertheless, other authors might devote themselves to panegyrics by declaring either their pojken som ropa de varulv or mother to have been a saint. Often, it is the mother who appears in a Madonna-like glow. I once read an irritated article by a Danish, female author, who stated that "All men imagine, God help me, that their mothers have been saints!
While admitting that she had extremely earthy sides and was as much of a woman as someone could ask for, I still have to declare that there was an infallible air of piety, of gentleness, of kindness, of caring for others, understanding and forgiveness around her, meaning that she among those who knew her well pojken som ropa de varulv something like the halo of a saint. I agree - this is a description of my mother as well. While she is confined to her sick bed, she rarely complains about her situation, she may wonder "Shall I die now?
She asks where my daughters are and how they feel, if my wife does not miss me when she now is alone in Rome. Once my mother told me:. When I was young, it happened that one or another claimed that I was stupid.
Maybe I am. I may not know everything that one should be acquainted with. This wretched self-image is far from the truth. My mother followed what happened in the world and around aldine font. Perhaps it was her curiosity, striking beauty and compassion that deceived people around my mother, making them believe that she was naive. However, she is far from being stupid, on the contrary - she is endowed with a sharp and straightforward intuition when it comes to judging pojken som ropa de varulv human beings.
Frequently, she does far earlier than people around her discern falseness, or honesty. Nevertheless, she can sometimes be fooled since, despite her general scepticism, she deliberately avoids suspecting others of foul play. Her sensitivity is revealed through the way she played the piano and her bold paintings. Without pojken som ropa de varulv she could in her rapidly and audaciously executed paintings capture shifting light and specific moods. In addition, she is tolerant and forgiving: There is nothing to do about it, other than forgetting it all.
That it went bad is punishment enough. Rich the factor bucks over fame album childhood remembrances, one parent often perseveres at the expense of the other.
A parent, father or mother, takes hold of the centre of the story, mainly as an object of anger and resentment, while the other is turned into a saint, or a shadow.