Motor City baby, Air Force brat Leo, born in the Year of the Dragon
Nutshell Bio:Met and married my Swede, Anders, in Chicago. We moved to Sweden in January 1997, where I promptly got pregnant with Martin who was born at the end of the year. This threw my schedule for learning Swedish and getting a job out the window, so we decided to get all the baby stuff over with, and Karin was born in 1999. I worked for an Ericsson company for 4.5 years and now work for Axis Communications. I keep extremely busy outside of work with the AWC Malmö, kids' activities and a hectic social calendar. :)
Findus the Cat, as used in my userpic and header, is the creation of Sven Nordqvist.
Languages There are no handles upon a language Whereby men take hold of it And mark it with signs for its remembrance. It is a river, this language, Once in a thousand years Breaking a new course Changing its way to the ocean. It is mountain effluvia Moving to valleys And from nation to nation Crossing borders and mixing. Languages die like rivers. Words wrapped round your tongue today And broken to shape of thought Between your teeth and lips speaking Now and today Shall be faded hieroglyphics Ten thousand years from now. Sing—and singing—remember Your song dies and changes And is not here tomorrow Any more than the wind Blowing ten thousand years ago. ~~Carl Sandburg
Kafka on Books: Altogether, I think we ought to read only books that bite and sting us. If the book we are reading doesn't shake us awake like a blow to the skull, why bother reading it in the first place? So that it can make us happy, as you put it? Good God, we'd be just as happy if we had no books at all; books that make us happy we could, in a pinch, also write ourselves. What we need are books that hit us like a most painful misfortune, like the death of someone we loved more than we love ourselves, that make us feel as though we had been banished to the woods, far from any human presence, like suicide. A book must be the axe for the frozen sea within us. That is what I believe.
Bachelard on Words: I am a dreamer of words, of written words. I think I am reading; a word stops me. I leave the page. The syllables of the word begin to move around. Stressed accents begin to invert. The word abandons its meaning like an overload which is too heavy and prevents dreaming. Then words take on other meanings as if they had the right to be young. And the words wander away, looking in the nooks and crannies of vocabulary for new company, bad company.