I've never been the best storyteller, but I've always dug trying. Once something--a memory or someone else's story--has lodged itself in my mind, it ticks, waiting to go off, to detonate and fling shrapnel into those standing within earshot (nothing against those folks who are nearby, mind you).
I am mindful of the re-teller, who fires up the same story at any occasion, to the rolling of the eyes and the thinking of the need to refill drinks or later on some reasonable excuse to escape. Nobody wants to be (or be around) that guy.
But to be the teller who slowly pulls a crowd around them; who can spin them in; bust them up laughing; fling them along a roller-coaster narrative to set them off at the end of the ride, a little wobbly-kneed, only to want to get back in line again...
I don't have the vocabulary to talk about jazz or good beer and I don't drink wine really.
I don't have the memory or the one I have is odd in its rememberings. I need to clean the filter more.
I don't have the rhythm, I'm not much of a dancer.
I don't have the patience, I'm always looking at my watch and setting my mind on the next thing.
What I have is questions and bridges. And a comfortable chair perched at a panoramic view.
What I have is broken. But I've got the tools to fix it.
But, man, the patience.
Let me find it next to the phillips-head that is sitting out on the bookshelf.
Beautiful and Ominous. - Fall has come to Norway and, like everywhere else, this means the light begins to yield. It does so spectacularly, but it does so nevertheless. The sun r...