This is a story blog. I'm going to put all my chapters of Unicorn Farm, Susan's story, here. I am re-working the story into a book, and a lot of what is collected here won't make it into the book, or maybe end up somewhere else.
And it is probably no big surpirse, that the order of things happening at Unicorn Farm is not as described here. I have written in bits and pieces as memories and inspiration took me, and much has been told way before or after it was actually happening.
DISCLAIMER: This is my memories of my early youth. All names have been altered, even streets and cities. If you think you recognize yourself - or somebody else - you're probably right. But remember, this is how I experienced life in Elsinore and elsewhere in Denmark (and France and Germany) in the seventies. If you were there, you might remember it all quite differently.
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Dette er en bog-blog. Jeg vil samle alle mine afsnit om Susans ophold på Enhjørningegården her. Jeg er i gang med at skrive historien om til en bog, og meget vil ændre sig undervejs.
Jeg kan allerede sige nu, at rækkefølgen i kapitlerne om Enhjørningegården ikke er som de er beskrevet her. Jeg har skrevet det i stumper og småbidder, efterhånden som jeg kom i tanker om det, og noget af det, kan jeg nu se, skete først senere eller meget før.
OM BOGEN: Dette er mine erindringer om min tidlige ungdom. Alle navne er blevet ændret, også byer og veje (undtagen Helsingør). Hvis du mener at du kan genkende nogen, kan det godt være du har ret. Men husk, at dette er som jeg oplevede livet i Helsingør, andre steder i Danmark (og i Tyskland og Frankrig) i 1970'erne. Hvis du var der, kan det være, at du husker det hele på en anden måde.
Portal
The portal - my portal - led to Unicorn Isle
Oh I'd love to go through it and stay for a while.
To meet Heidi and Knud, even David again
To run through those fields in the bright morning sun.
To wield my old wand, and to do magical fun.
But I'm old now and grey, and so are they all,
The teachers were greyer, they have heard the last call.
The wands are all broken, the magic is lost.
In Midsummer's heat I feel touched by the frost.
My portal is shattered, and where once it lay
Stands a kindergarten where small children play.
The walnut is chopped down, the meadow is gone,
The people who live there have lives of their own.
Though my mind tells me no, as long as I live,
In my unruly heart a hope still will thrive.
(A re-write of a Poetry Monday Challenge)
