A few weeks ago, I was cleaning out my desk and shelves in our office up north. In a magazine box, I found an old note book, between math notes and calculations. The note book contained some poems and short stories and memoirs that I wrote between 1987 and 1990.
Nice surprise. I thought that book was lost and gone long time ago.
It was fun to read. I was astonished by some of the stuff I wrote. Maybe I will post some of the high-lights (if any) on my blog. I just need to get it typed and translated to English.
Here's one of the poems, which is easy to translate, since it's free form. According to my note book, it was written on the night-train from the south in April 1987:
Utopia
Those
who can write
write, and
those who cannot write
print books and
make jellymen and
grow tea and
tobacco
for those who write.
By the way,
I have quit
today
What the Hell does it mean? I'm not sure, but maybe I tried to quit the tobacco. If so; it failed. I'm still using it. I don't smoke, but I use this black stinking stuff that you put under the lip; snus (kind of moist snuff) >:)
