In some odd way
and what I do
are intricately interwoven.

I have to surrender to this,
cause I’m not going to fix it.
I do not have enough time
before long-term storage
of that bodily abode
I am in charge of.

Göran Stille, 9th of August 2020

The old pear tree

They made sure
I got used to know
what they said was right.
I went that way too,
like any other.
Became a skillful
but intelligent innocent.

I was fed,
with what they considered as facts.
Rarely did I notice the gaps,
where no one knew anything.
But suddenly I stood there myself,
not knowing anything of value.

At first I thought
it was up to me
a congenital deficiency in my equipments.
I veiled and covered,
always had something to say,
even when I did not know anything.

Last night a large branch broke
on the old pear tree.
The core turned out
to be crushed by ants.

Göran Stille 7 august 2020

Manage yourself

One voice within says:
I am not able
to cut through all these detours
concerning mismanagement of digital tools
and corona issues.

I have found the environment
during digitally supported sessions as a threat
versus reaching what
I need to handle.

I do not trust myself
being able to reach within
when surrounded
by a virus and digital noice.

A second voice says:
You will be able
To use that noisy environment
And a reduced slot of time
As something finally crashing your strategies
of getting overly occupied by distractions.
If you dare.

A third voice says:
I am not clever enough
to select which voice to follow.
I have to rely upon
the spurs of the moment

Me and writing

For me, a major issue is to take responsibility for myself. I believe this has been the case since early childhood.  One element of this is to adjust and fit in versus what I understand as my environment. Major tools for this are words and speaking. Another element of being responsible is to learn how to choose what I want and express that. This was disturbed somewhere along the way.

My first turn with words happened when I was about 11 months old. Suddenly the warmth and attention of my mother disappeared. In one major shift it was replaced by sadness and sorrow. Later I found a probable reason. Her sister died as a consequence of a bicycle accident. At this moment and desperately, I needed words. But I did not have any. A couple of years later, they arrived. I assume my way of using words has been severely influenced by my overheated need to reestablish a broken and close contact with mother. My ability to sense what I wanted for myself was hampered as well as my ability to express it and fight for it.

My second turn with words happened in puberty. I started to write daily in a notebook. I call it a diary although the word is misleading. I did not write details of what happened. I wrote my thoughts and reflections concerning what I experienced and felt. This writing helped me to stay on track when various events tended to derail me. I became a well-adjusted ambitious boy, got good grades in school and stayed put with one girl.

Writing in my book of thoughts is still going on, 64 years later. Today I identify a few less favorable consequences of my writings. During all these years I trained my hand and mind to cling to an abstract perspective as soon as a critical event is about to arrive. I tend to duck and avoid dealing with people concerned about the issues at hand.

A third turn happened in senior high school. Our assignment was to read the book” Dream play” by the Swedish author August Strindberg. My teacher gave me the task of describing the story. So, I did. Then he asked me to tell what happened in me after reading it, my associations, emotions and interpretation. I continued with a free-running presentation of what was in my mind. My teacher asked me where I did read all this? My answer was:” nowhere, it did just arrive at this very moment”. The result was a substantial increase in my grades in Swedish Literature. My teacher was a specialist in Strindberg. Once, he had made a dissertation on some works made by Strindberg. He had a part-time job as a teacher at the University.

My fourth turn was writing a dissertation within my field of research. I was very interested in transistors and microelectronics. I happened to get an excellent supervisor for my writing assignment. He deleted about 90% of the text in my initial scripts. I felt sad and sorrow. But soon I learned the essence behind the remaining 10 % and went on. I gained an excellent training in some skills involved in writing. Later I made use of these skills when getting assignments as a ghostwriter. I stayed in my profession as a scientist for a couple of years. But I felt a lack of growth as a human being. Higher education did not add much to that side of my living. I entered a few years of psychotherapy. Inner images and dreams appeared. They gave me a lot of energy and fresh new perspectives.

My fifth turn with words was interpreting the meaning of each of these inner images. I was extremely quick in producing these interpretations and I became stuck with those showing up first. Today, this urge to be quick in interpreting is less pronounced. Each of these images may have a series of interpretations of value to me.

My sixth turn is writing poetry. I created my first poem ever on the 4th of June 1992. I reached the age of 50 a month later. Starting in 2005, I nurture my poetic vein by participating in a group of amateur poets. We meet once every second week and share our writing and receive comments. The group is still prospering 15 years later.

My seventh turn in writing started six years ago. I entered a group engaged in writing at least 500 words each day. The first 30 days were hard but then I got the hang of it. This training has made me trust in myself and in getting words out in a flow. Later I have taken a step back and getting a closer look at what I wrote. The consequence is, I have to sharpen my style and narrow my approaches.

My eight turn in writing started a week ago. I contacted a writing coach. It was a good meeting. I felt reconnected to the childish joy of having a set of useful resources when it comes to playing with writing.

What does this review tell me about me and my turns with words, language and writing? They tell me writing is important to me, to my self-esteem and my ability to know my needs and to express and follow them. Yes, there are setbacks, obstacles and several one-way streets. But this is the case for all of us wherever we go.

Göran Stille


A few minutes to twelve

A few minutes to twelve.
Midnight prevails.
But still, there are twelve hours to go.
It’s midday
I haven’t done much this morning.
Not yet.
Things to do, possible and exciting
overwhelm me.
Including all things required
to do before nightfall.

In front of me
a display window made out of thick glass.
Covering a second-hand bookshop
Inside I could find anything I want,
and learn.

It’s evening now
The shop is closed.
I remain out there, freezing.
Mostly hands and feet.
But even further in.
Only a few hours left until midnight.

Next morning
I got the message
A close friend passed away last night.
He went out walking
Pain in his chest and limbs.
Wanted to cure himself.
went down to the local sauna.
Never came back.


Once upon a time, there was a quarantine. It remained untouched and cherished for many years. More than a hundred. They designed this one to support transforming us into skilled, and well-disciplined workers. Regardless of whether we used brain, heart, hand, back or legs in our work. Always, someone was telling us what to do.

In today’s quarantine, the case is different. Authorities tell us to avoid doing this and that. Then we stop and ask ourselves what is important to me today, right this hour. A type of question we have avoided. At least we have avoided being serious about our answers. Not being able to answer may cause anxiety and worry. To step into living your life you will need to be able to answer this question. If not, you will do nothing but enduring you live.

Today, these are my thoughts. A week from now or two, in today’s quarantine, my answer may change. I may climb the walls!

I am in love with words

I am in love with words. They taste nicely on their way out when spoken. That same taste stays with me when my thoughts do their best to arrange words into sentences and samples of text. Eventually they arrive at the tips of my fingers and become delivered to the harddrive of my computer. So far they do not differ that much from the images I have in my mind. But watch out! When I print them on paper differences become vividly obvious. The statements I read from the printed paper do differ from those lingering in my mind. The difference becomes increasingly obvious when those words are printed in a new font and looked at 24 hours later or more. Not to mention a month later.

The ambiguity of being human.

Suddenly something starts to itch in my mind. The basic bones of Internet is built with the genetic material of the art of advertising. The race for our attention is won by the ones shouting loudest, using the brightest colors, and the most nice-looking images. Our actions become controlled by rather shallow reactions from our unconscious.

How do I guard myself? How do I boost other parts of my brain activities to act and stay in control? This issue has been with me for at least forty years. Possibly even eighty years. During my upbringing I think my parents allowed me ample of space. Sorry to say, I counteracted their efforts by acting on a substantial urge for them to teach me how to live. The roots for my attitudes were feelings of being extremely lonely and abandoned. I state this in contrast with being overly cared for.

Back to me and my present digital environment. At this early morning hours I sense a slight fear of being in the process of flattening myself out. Immediate counteraction is on demand!

But, how to do that? How to nourish the ambiguity of being human.

Own what I feel

I am interested
in the writings of an old author
Robert Musil is his name
Born back in Austria
November 1880.

He proposes building
your own individual sense
of being alive.
He tells me to abandon worshipping
those events, circumstances and causes
I think caused my feelings.