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onsdag 9 mars 2016

Writing is sharing, sharing is living, living is interesting.


I keep repeating that the written word, actual paperbound like in letters or in a diary, is going lost. Letters from an ancient past, found by explorers, is a passed phenomena. Our house is filled with letters and diaries and I suppose writing a blog like this one is just another form of diarywriting but for the public. But I doubt it will be shared in 200 years!
On radio the other day they had people calling in or writing in, giving the listeners a glimpse of their lives of long ago. So people dug up old diaries and read posts from them, written for instance at the age of ten or eleven. Many found it both embarrasing or amusing or both, to share the innerlife of their tenyearoldselves. In the basement I have diaries from the age of ten . I kept on writing for years, a few gaps here and there due to intense studies( well...) at the university, but following rather well.
Some of the posts and comments I wouldn't like to share with anyone, some are quite normal and almost funny.
I read about the Wikingbrothers living in the next block from me. I was very much in love with one of them, he knew and made very much fuss of it, like boys do. He was about five years older, I was like ten. Later on there was another boy, almost my age and all of a sudden the diary is filled to the brim with the important issue of motorcyclebrands and helmets. In times where I had no book to write in I wrote important messages on the covers of my records...I know, strange. So I have singles with for
instance Sparks, all covered with names of goodlooking guys from tv-series, like Luke in the Macahanfamily.
The events in school is covered rather well, including the most embarrasing and awful situations when you wish yourself dead. I wasn't a popular girl, never invited to parties and such, so the remarks from the age 13-16 are not very joyous. We had strange neighbours, leftovers from the sixties with a firm belief in communism and the free spirit of life, but they really saved me from time to time, making me feel better when life was a mess.

School was only interesting because of my good grades and some boys that were actually nice. I had teachers that supported me and we were a small gang of outsiders trying to make it through in our own fashion. The last few months before highschool began, things changed. The girls in my class suddenly began talking to me, and wondered why they never did that before.
And I , shy and lowspirited as I was, never got round to tell the boy I loved ,anything. All I ever got out of that was the onceayearevent were everyone should dance in the gymhall. Squaredance mostly.
The seconds I actually could touch him were enough heaven to me.
That last day, grades in my hand, hymns from church ringing in my ears and a letter in my pocket, I cought up with him at the busstop, gave him the letter and ran. He lived on the countryside and I didn't see him again until years later, at the university. All this I read from the pages of one of the diaries.

I still write, this blog may pass as a kind of diary, with no key or password, but I do have one more, for my eyes only. Why am I writing? Well, why is anyone? We need to see our thoughts on paper, what actually happened back there, what was I thinking? What do I think of the world today, how do I feel about all kinds of things?
I am close to 53, my life is just as interesting as any other, all people have a story and every story deserves listeners or readers. So I am happy that the written word gives me a chance to take part of someone elses life, especially when the person is gone. Otherwise I love to listen by the kitchen table.
This week we have an event where people are telling stories about the villages around here and people who used to live here. Some storytellers I know, old ladies and gentlemen. Some are younger, with other stories.
This blog is part of my story, past, present and future. You are invited to share it, if it pleases you!

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