My grandfather lives in a small village deep in the forest in North Sweden. The winter is cold and there are ower one meter snow. They have problems with electricity sometimes in the winter. I used to sit there in his silent kitchen and draw. I was drawing a childrens book when he was sleeping but when he was awake I made some coffee to him and he started telling stories. Some of them where true some he made up for the moment but all of them was pieces of that life he had lived.
This winter in 2005 was wery cold and I almost ran on a big bull elk when i drowe to Parkalombolo. Parkalombolo is the name of grandpa´s village.
This coffee morning he told me my favourite story: When he traveled around in the Torneriver valley he stopped for a coffee in Grönbo. They had coffee and sometimes girls he wispered to me. This time they sat having a cup the police came in. The women that ran the cafe asked the police why they are in Grönbo. The police told her that Grönbo is not far away from a wery good smuggling point, and they had got hints that the Pohjanen smuggler would smuggle in that night. When the police went out, all men felt sorry for Pohjanen and the women hastened to call the Pohjanens house. Pohjanen was about to leave and was grateful for the knowledge that the police were on the move.
Then grandpa asked me; do You want to eat fish today? Yes, I loved his fish without potatoes. He had this flower on the table and i writed down his stories and drawed tha flower as a memory of a nice evening.
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Showing posts with label Thaughts... Show all posts
Showing posts with label Thaughts... Show all posts
Saturday, July 23, 2011
Grandpas´s stories.
My grandfather lives in a small village deep in the forest in North Sweden. The winter is cold and there are ower one meter snow. They have problems with electricity sometimes in the winter. I used to sit there in his silent kitchen and draw. I was drawing a childrens book when he was sleeping but when he was awake I made some coffee to him and he started telling stories. Some of them where true some he made up for the moment but all of them was pieces of that life he had lived.
This winter in 2005 was wery cold and I almost ran on a big bull elk when i drowe to Parkalombolo. Parkalombolo is the name of grandpa´s village.
This coffee morning he told me my favourite story: When he traveled around in the Torneriver valley he stopped for a coffee in Grönbo. They had coffee and sometimes girls he wispered to me. This time they sat having a cup the police came in. The women that ran the cafe asked the police why they are in Grönbo. The police told her that Grönbo is not far away from a wery good smuggling point, and they had got hints that the Pohjanen smuggler would smuggle in that night. When the police went out, all men felt sorry for Pohjanen and the women hastened to call the Pohjanens house. Pohjanen was about to leave and was grateful for the knowledge that the police were on the move.
Then grandpa asked me; do You want to eat fish today? Yes, I loved his fish without potatoes. He had this flower on the table and i writed down his stories and drawed tha flower as a memory of a nice evening.
Friday, October 22, 2010
LOVE THE ORIGINAL!
The society around ask over and over again: "Are You Accepted, Are You NORMAL" And my friend, one day maybe You step over the line. Unnormal! Are You among the belowed ones when You step on the wrong side of THE LINE? No, no, no what shall we do with this one?? How can we press unnormal persons into a normal shape? Yes, give them money that they live outside of the society. Then we don´t need to meet them in our nice work! Or don´t need to take them to our nice homes. Maybe something would stick to us? People look and think aha they are not normal.. suspicios thaughts..:) Just try to put those unkomfortable into a certain place, far away from the normal pople..hehe what is love? Where is love? Why not love? we will pay us the freedom to avoid meeting each other! MONEY IS THE OPPOSITE OF LOVE!
JUST LOVE THE ORIGINAL!!
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