the wedding laughers

The couple are saying "I do", and I look down at my high-heeled boots and try not to sneer.

To be precise, I can't decide whether to sneer cynically or allow my eyes to well up from the beauty of a wedding. Weddings are not for me. Will never be for me. I would never do my wedding like this (Plan A: to elope, and later throw a highly informal, fun and boisterous garden/beach party for everyone; Plan B: to just elope). Sometimes I feel bitter about it. Sometimes I sigh with relief that it's not me, standing there at the altar. Sometimes (like now, watching the bride fighting tears) my heart just melts anyway.

This wedding turns out all right. ( My only complaint being that there is no wine and no dancing, but this is not unusual in my circles and I expected this. ) My best friends are there too and at the reception afterwards I get to sit with them at the very back of the room, where I can watch everything but still keep a distance, and we laugh very loudly and the food is excellent. We clandestinely and rebelliously rearranged the seating plan for our table before we sat down, because one of us happened to be seated next to a person she absolutely could not be seated next to, and we get a laugh out of this too. We pay attention to the program at times, and at other times quietly whisper secrets to each other, or coo at a baby, or try to steal each other's complimentary chocolates. As the evening meanders on, things get increasingly laid-back and slightly chaotic, with people slipping off to fetch more food or chat to someone at another table and children playing tag.

I and my like-minded friends constantly balance between  sarcasm  and ... what is its opposite? When a wedding guest's solemn speech veers off in a strange direction, are we allowed to giggle - soundlessly, unnoticed by outsiders but with knowing glances at each other - or should we be generous and kind and smile warmly at the speaker? I want to be generous. I do not want to be rude. But when you don't understand the world and other people and why you are so different from them, it is a comfort and a joy to turn it into a joke and have someone to share it with.

My boots are killing me but I walk home with a smile.

adventure in the aisle

I'm fairly sure that, in the history of mankind, not many people have written an essay on the topic of grocery stores.

I hereby proudly present mine! ( Don't ask me why I have one. )

If you visit a grocery store in a neighbouring country, no matter how closely that country's national character and habits match those of your own, there will be completely different goods on display. There will be the unavoidable Cokes and Heinekens and Rice Krispies on display, of course, but most of the staple foods are indigenous to that country - bread and milk and eggs are of brands that look altogether alien to foreign eyes. Putting them in your shopping basket makes you feel adventurous and you cannot help but think that the milk will have at least a slightly unfamiliar taste to it. You take forever to find the kind of bread that you like and choosing a chocolate bar is a delicious gamble ( at least if you're brave enough to avoid the Snickers and Mars ).

When you live in the same country for a long time, shopping for food gets boring. You pick the same stuff you've always bought, with few variations. In a new country, after the adventure of the first few weeks, you start to hone in on a few items that you've discovered and learnt to love, wonderfully different and delicious as they are, until you've done it for long enough and that country's food gets boring too. Coming back to a well-known country after you've been away for a while is heavenly in its own right, and you revel in buying all the well-known and much-missed food items you see on every shelf.

In  my present hometown, I have three grocery stores that I frequent. One is a supermarket, the one I feel I should go to as it has the lowest prices and I'm on a tight budget - but it's large and I get exhausted wandering around it when I'm already worn out from a day at work. It also has ridiculously long queues at the check-outs. I stand there waiting and remember fondly Tesco's in the UK where queues were simply not allowed to form - but then I find that I have there, in that queue, a rare moment of being able to just "stand and stare". And watch people.

Then there is the smaller grocery store - part of a chain, like all the others - which is quirky because it has all the hustle and bustle of a convenience store attached to a petrol station but is also on a street corner in the middle of the city. Because of its long opening hours, petrol and tiny café it attracts all kinds of people (and I do love places where there are precisely all kinds of people). It's on my way home from work so this is often where I end up buying my bread and eggs and bananas.

And lastly, there is the other little corner shop, on a different street corner and slightly removed from the city centre, tiny and quiet. I never see anyone I know there. This is my guilty pleasure shop, the place where I go occasionally on rainy days when I sit at home watching DVDs and have a sudden urge for a bag of crisps, chocolate or a can of sweet cider. Then I walk there along the seafront, in old clothes and no make-up to indulge myself. And the girl at the check-out always smiles at me.

( And yes, I know I'm supposed to buy only locally produced, organic and dolphin-friendly food. But the people who tell me so have apparently never had to starve. )

where the lovelight gleams

Yes, family is precious. I am extremely blessed to have yet another Christmas with people who love me and belong to me.

To spend a night and a day with chatter over good food, presents being doled out, smiles (both genuine and strained), glittering tinsel, glossy lives being described to seldom-seen relatives, warm touches you didn't expect, warm feelings among the faked ones, too much chocolate. I have not been looking forward to this but I know I will treasure the memories some day.

But tonight, the relief of being alone with only a borrowed (but well-loved) dog for company, in my own home. Of sitting on my kitchen floor and chewing on a carrot and receiving  wet canine kisses,  and giggling. Merry Christmas, everyone!

christmas, but

Christmas Eve. Twilight is setting in. People are gathering for traditional family Christmas dinners.

I'm painting my nails and having a little wine to postpone the inevitable: dinner with my own family.

Grateful for my family; absolutely. But.

darling books: howling in Montana

  They found the signals right away, clucking clear in the crystal air, and they knew the wolves were very close. In the beam of the flashlight, they found tracks no more than minutes old.
  Helen turned off the light and they stood quite still and listened. The only sound was the soft thud of snow falling, now and then, from a tree.
  'Howl,' she whispered.
  He had heard her do it several times, without success, but had never yet attempted a howl himself. He shook his head.
  'Try,' she said softly.
  'I c-can't. It w-wouldn't...'
  He made a little gesture with his fingers toward his mouth and she realized that he was afraid his voice might not come, that it would betray him, and leave him mute and embarrassed as so often it did.
  'It's only me, Luke.'
  For a long moment he looked at her. And she saw in his sad eyes what she already knew he felt for her. She took off her glove and reached out and touched his cold face and smiled. She felt him tremble a little at her touch. And as she lowered her hand, he put his head back and opened his mouth and howled, long and plaintively, into the night.
  And before the note had time to die, from across the snow-tipped trees of the canyon, the wolves replied.

Nicholas Evans: The Loop (picture from dooyou.co.uk). Wolves, wolf-hating ranchers and a heartbroken biologist in the Montana mountains - can it get any better?

darling books: the one that ruined me

  'Look,' we said, 'what is it that draws two people into closeness and love? Of course there's the mystery of physical attraction, but beyond that, it's the things they share. We both love strawberries and ships and collies and poems and all beauty, and all those things bind us together. Those sharings just happened to be; but what we must do now is share everything. Everything! If one of us likes anything, there must be something to like in it - and the other one must find it. Every single thing that either of us likes. That way we shall create a thousand strands, great and small, that will link us together. Then we shall be so close that it would be impossible - unthinkable - for either of us to suppose that we could ever recreate such closeness with anyone else. And our trust in each other will not only be based on love and loyalty but on the fact of a thousand sharings - a thousand strands twisted into something unbreakable.' 

Sheldon Vanauken: A Severe Mercy (picture from eden.co.uk). A lot of interesting things in this little true story: the love of beauty and freedom and literature, C.S.Lewis, finding a faith, Oxford in the fifties.

This is also the book that ruined my love life, possibly. For how could an impressionable teenager read a true story of such an incredible love between two people and ever settle for anything less in her own life?

Even now, as a jaded cynic, re-reading it makes something in my heart tremble. And against all logic, the same resolve re-establishes itself in me: I will not - cannot - settle for anything less.

the pink fairies of poverty

Came home from work with a string of pink fairy lights. Pink. Well, when you buy all your stuff in thrift shops you can't afford to be picky.

A framed print also followed me home. It's of a painting featuring a cow, a sheep, a horse and a rooster. When you buy all your stuff in thrift shops you can afford to bring home and try out something you're not sure about, and then throw out (read: give back to thrift shops) the things you're tired of.

There is  great freedom  in being poor. I say this with no sarcasm whatsoever.

'twas the night before apocalypse when all through the house...

Small. Sad. Lost. Separated from myself.

Out of comfort food (why, oh why did I not pick up Ben & Jerry's on the way home?), shivering with cold, adding to my headache with sour white wine, feeling near death because of a beginning toothache, unable to escape reality but trying desperately, pathetic, indifferent to my friends' attempts to reach out, worrying in advance about the cold weather coming and my car which will refuse to start. Hello, Christmas. How do other people sort out their lives?

Maybe I won't have to, if the world really ends tomorrow. I will be spending the last day of the earth at work, wrapping presents and trying to smile at customers while being annoyed by the fact that the apocalypse will be ruining my holidays. In the evening, the end-of-the-world movie 2012 is on the telly. I will be watching it, or the real thing.

darling books: God made you a painter

  'Gabriel? What troubles you?'
  Gabriel swallowed; his distress was becoming clearer with every passing moment. He spoke to Father Teo. 'Father, I was made for ... for pleasure. You would say for sin. I do not think that God would receive me.' 
  Leonardo let out a single oath; Father Teo raised a hand to silence him. His mouth had hardened into a thin line but Serafina understood that it was not Gabriel he was angry with. 
  He said, 'Gabriel, my son, God does not care what men have made you.' The anger dissolving, he smiled a little and bent over Gabriel to take both his hands up into his own, and examine the thin fingers with the paint stains ingrained around the fingernails. 'God does not care what men have made you,' he repeated, 'for He made you a painter.'
  Serafina saw Gabriel's hands convulsively return the priest's clasp. His eyes widened in sudden wonder. He whispered, 'Truly?'
  'Truly.'

Cherith Baldry: The Reliquary Ring (picture from Amazon). I'm not sure why I love this obscure little fantasy novel about an alternative, medieval Venice where genetically engineered people are held in slavery. It's a bit weird. But it tugs on my heart strings.

I remember reading it in one sitting, the first time. The sitting being on the floor of a train, because I couldn't find a seat, in the draughty little hallway between passenger cars. A long journey from London to Cornwall. I paid no attention to the discomfort or the disappointing fact that I couldn't see the lovely landscapes I was travelling through. I was lost in my book.

impulse and a beanie

I took myself out for a run. I do this very irregularly, acting on a random impulse. Stuffing my cold-sensitive ears with cotton, pulling on a beanie and gloves, I set out along snow-covered back streets. Snow was piled high everywhere, there were Christmas lights in every window, and the lighted path along the shore looked like winter wonderland.

Cold and dark, with enough pretty lights to guide me. And the satisfaction of knowing that soon I will be back home in a cosy chair with a hot cup of tea. I decided to have this random impulse more often in the future.

darling books: wine of a hot bright scent

  But Jay was not listening. He lifted the glass to his face.
  The scent hit him again, the dim cidery scent of Joe's house, with the incense burning and the tomato plants ripening in the kitchen window. For a moment thought he heard something, a clatter and glitzy confusion of glass, like a chandelier falling onto a laid table. He took a mouthful.
  'Cheers.'
  It tasted as dreadful as it did when he was a boy. There was no grape in this brew, simply a sweetish ferment of flavours, like a whiff of garbage. It smelt like the canal in summer and the derelict railway sidings. It had a acrid taste, like smoke and burning rubber, and yet it was evocative, catching at his throat and his memory, drawing out images he thought were lost for ever. He clenched his fists as the images assailed him, feeling suddenly light-headed.
  'Are you OK?' It was Kerry's voice, resonant, as if in a dream. She sounded irritated, though there was an anxious edge to her voice. 'Jay, I told you not to drink that stuff, are you all right?'
  He swallowed with an effort.

Joanne Harris: Blackberry Wine (picture from Wikipedia). While Harris' later novels are too dark for me, this one makes me want to buy a derelict house in France, fall in love, make peace with my childhood memories, and yes, drink homemade, magic wine. This book is evocative, like its wine. It has "a breeze of other places - a scent of apples, a lullaby of passing trains and distant machinery and the radio playing."

the classics and the seducers

I'm a book snob. I don't know how people can be bothered to read chick lit, for example. I generally find crime fiction boring. But here's the weirdness: I don't know why people read  the old classics  of literature either. I try, every now and then, and am reminded of what I realised already at university, as I was studying literature:

Most of these classics are great, on a theoretical level. They are fun to analyse because they have so many levels. And I love to be familiar with them because they are an integral part of our culture. But they don't speak to me emotionally. They fail to pull me in, because they were written for people of another time and another mindset. Another generation.

Perhaps I'm unimaginative, dull, even a bit thick in the head, since I can't get into that other mindset and identify with anything that is too far removed from my own time and culture. But I can't get rid of my stupidly romantic notion that reading should be fun AND challenging, a book should sweep me off my feet.

Reading should be like one of those whirlwind romances that leave you flabbergasted, heartbroken and feeling like you have lived an entire lifetime and in three alternate universes at once.

afternoon in the Balkans

Sitting in an unassuming little kebab joint that has rapidly evolved into the city's most popular restaurant. Its recipe for success is lots of kebab for a modest price, served by charming men from the Balkans. As usual on a Sunday afternoon, all the tables are taken and people are queueing for takeout.

I just got out of bed and one of my friends comments on my wild hair. I chew on my pita kebab and listen to the others debating whether schools are taking a lazier path in educating children. "The teacher said, 'what's the point in teaching children how many pups in a guinea pig litter when they can just google the information if they need it?'"

Afterwards, we walk down the street, snow crunching underneath our boots and the cold biting our faces. The sun, pinkish and low in the sky, makes a rare appearance and you can almost see people's spirits soaring. "Time for coffee!" I say, and my friends eagerly agree. And all is well in the world.

a nocturnal warning

Going to a Christmas concert today. Not sure I really want to. But in a dream last night, I had missed the concert and was weeping with rage and disappointment.

Guess I'd better go then.

goats, clouds and the missing view

When you take yourself up onto a tall mountain ridge in Switzerland, you expect a spectacular view. At least I did.

When I arrived at the last stop of the little mountain railway, at an elevation of 3,400 metres in the Jungfraujoch pass, all there was to see was fog. Thick fog, embracing you on every side. The only things visible were the quaint little train station building and various hiking trails leading off in different directions on grassy slopes.

To say I was pissed off is like saying hell's furies are mildly annoyed. I had been in the country for three weeks, volunteering for a nonprofit organisation, and had so far been a bit disappointed by the fact that Switzerland is not all dizzying heights and deep valleys. During my last week, I had been travelling through the country on a railway pass and had finally got to see the Alps. Actually going up to the highest train station in Europe was supposed to be the highlight, satisfying my desire to be IN the mountains, ON the mountains, at the "Top of Europe". Now I was here, and had to go back on the next train down, and could not see a thing.

Dejected, I walked up one of the slopes ( taking care not to lose sight of the trail ) and sat down in the grass. I opened my picnic bag and got started on my sandwiches. And suddenly found myself surrounded by a pack of hungry mountain goats hoping to get a taste of the picnic. As I was shoving one particularly bold billy-goat away, I realised that the fog was actually clouds, shifting and moving, and that a "window" had opened between them. I glimpsed a breathtakingly beautiful, snow-capped mountain through that window.

I was so struck by this sight that I nearly lost my sandwich to the billy-goat.

In a few minutes, more and more "windows" opened and closed, and opened again with a slightly altered perspective. I glimpsed a mountain summit here, part of a valley far, far below there. Twenty minutes later, the clouds had dispersed and the late August sun was shining. All around me were the majestic Alps, except on the side that provided the spectacular view of the valley below.

It was jaw-dropping, especially since it was presented in such tantalising pieces at first. I was almost dancing with joy. The sandwich was forgotten - the goat probably made off with it.

( Picture from Wikipedia. )

from Russia with robots

I was thrilled to notice that my blog seemed to be hugely popular in Russia for a while, judging by the number of hits according to the statistics. My heart swelled with pride, thinking that something in my writings must be speaking directly to the complicated Russian soul.

That is, until I noticed I was being flooded with spam comments.

That will teach me to be polite ( read: a smartass ) and answer back to spammers.

Now I've put in word verification for comments. And I find it absolutely enchanting, the request Blogger has of every potential commentator ( I can safely say I have never been asked to prove my humanity before ): "Please prove that you're not a robot."

how to spend a happy day in Ireland

* Go to a seaside town, preferable one huddled in the  Mourne Mountains.  Make sure you pick a time outside of the tourist season. Bring a friend.
* Walk on the beach in the sunshine.
* Find a pub of the genuine kind, with flagstone floors, a pregnant waitress and a fire roaring in the fireplace.
* Order the seafood platter and be prepared to go to gastronomic heaven.
* Have a nice drink to round it off.
* Walk back along the seafront and gasp at the starry skies stretching from horizon to horizon.
* Crawl under the duvet in a comfortable bed, in your B&B room overlooking the bay and the lighthouse that is lulling you to sleep with its calm, rhythmic pattern of light flashing across the dark sea.

the Irish saga began with a Bulmer's

The first experience of a genuine Irish pub - far out in the Irish countryside, in a valley where the gorse was blooming in shocking yellow and the air smelled of spring leaves and turf fires.

The pub was dark, as it should be, the ancient wooden paneling infused with centuries of smoke and alcohol and human emotions. There were locals there, people who through my foreigner's eyes looked like stereotypical Irish farmers, but my company - and myself - were the new breed of Irish, the immigrants who were flooding Ireland, loving Ireland and becoming a part of it. Young Canadians, Swedes and Spaniards chatted around me, full of plans for adventure in this magical country.

I felt very far from home, surrounded by unfamiliar things. The pub itself - I had never been much of a drinker - the people, the language which was clumsy in my mouth, the smells and sounds. There was a pang of homesickness. There was also that dizzying, exhilarating feeling you get when a rollercoaster is about to go into free fall. It was a chilly May night and my first night in Ireland.

Someone put a pint glass of Bulmer's Irish cider in front of me and I felt my new life beginning.

hell, grasshoppers and Horatio

Lazy autumn Sunday, browzing Wikipedia over a cup of coffee. Random facts learned and reflections made:

* A Pennsylvania town is home to seven gates that lead directly to hell.
* The Beginning of the End could not begin until 200 grasshoppers had been sexed.
* If you have to be killed by a cyclone, wouldn't it be nice if it had an unintentionally poetic name like Tropical Depression Eleven-E?
* Jalan Jerangau Barat, Federal route, is a federal road in Terengganu, Malaysia.
* The male features of high cheekbones, a strong jaw and chin are an attractive physical trait. (Actually, I knew that already.)

In response to all this, I have to quote the Bard again:

"There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio
Than are dreamt of in your philosophy"

Jaw-dropping, the amount of information available on my laptop. When I grew up, an encyclopedia was a huge book that was slightly outdated even when it was new but you never questioned the facts in it.

Nowadays, if you want to quote Shakespeare but can't remember the words, you only have to google "heaven horatio" and the quote pops up in 0.2 seconds.

I have also become an expert on questioning and doubting facts. But I still love Wikipedia.

unauthorized use of the superlative

I like using bizarre words. Not incomprehensible, made-up ones, just unusual ones. ( Like bizarre. )

Perhaps because I have a somewhat weak vocabulary and try to compensate by showing off.

I'm trawling the Internet for an application that picks out the bizarrest words in my blog and lists them.

The language police just informed me that "bizarrest" is not a word. Why couldn't they just let me be happy.

never-ending squabble

I'm thinking: friends or New York.

What is more valuable? Why do I have to choose?

"My heart wants roots
My mind wants wings
I cannot bear
Their bickerings"
(E.Y. Harburg)

I think I'll just settle for a while.

the hearing-aid flirt

Got chatted up, at work, by a customer. A guy who had to be pushing 80. Oh well, mustn't be picky. His hearing aid wasn't really working so we conducted our little flirt half-shouting, to the amusement of other customers.

Now I'm gearing up to go play volleyball with the lads. The other two girls who normally play are away, so I will be the only one balancing up all that testosterone-fuelled, here's-for-all-the-frustrations-of-the-week, Friday night male aggression.

the echo song

Can I make an echo here
though this song is much too quiet
Will this sound be travelling on
and make some waves when I am gone?

halloumi and creepy eyes

Leaning across my halloumi salad to whisper to my best friend: "That child is creepy."

The child being a painting on the wall, staring at me with huge, accusing eyes. That's what you get for having lunch in a posh art museum. But the rest of the interior is beautiful and the salad and the company are excellent. After a great cup of coffee, we drift through the souvenir shop and laugh at Andy Warhol-shaped fridge magnets and artificial snowballs that even feel like real snowballs, minus the cold, when you squeeze them. ( Who came up with the idea of fake snowballs, and why, and is this person a millionaire now? )

My friend goes back to her studies and I try to decide how to spend the rest of my day off. The day is typical November: A chilly wind and a grey darkness that hardly qualifies as daylight.

I could go for a run. I could study a foreign language. I could go visit my mother. Or I could wrap myself in a blanket and spend this dismal day on the sofa, watching DVDs.

the table at the heart of creation

A Saturday evening and a Sunday spent having a Numb3rs marathon and eating pizza.

Days are being wasted, but what else is there to do?

Writing is stupid. How can you be so sure, throughout your entire life, that this is what you want to do and are actually able to do, and still have nothing in your heart to express? I have nothing to say. I have nothing I even want to say. Most of the time I just want to withdraw into a corner and leave other people to their boring lives.

Other times, I dream about living in a big house where colourful, opinionated and brilliant people gather in a large kitchen to eat, work, talk, and - above all - be  creative  in every sense of the word. I see a large, wooden table strewn with laptops, coffee mugs, pencils and paint brushes, physics textbooks, maybe a half-empty bottle of wine. I smell cinnamon coffee and a whiff of the wet dog that is nosing around people's feet. I hear voices raised in good-natured arguments on Hegel's philosophy or the benefits of the latest architectural design software, and in the background, Bach or Billy Joel is playing.

In this company, I might find something to express.

the Aberration

I miss you, Dad.

I never really believed that there was anything in the world that the human mind was incapable of dealing with. Until my mind was faced with the task of processing the completely unfathomable, incomprehensible, impossible fact that you were gone.

Not only gone. Dead. One day you were there, smiling at me, ready to give me anything, loving me. The next, the world did no longer contain you. And that was impossible. That night, when I lay awake, I understood the tears and the pain that was ripping me to shreds. But my mind, my logic and intelligence, my readiness to accept and believe in irrefutable facts, failed me for the first time. The fact was there, my mind tried to grapple it but failed - slipped back a few steps - tried again, with the same result. That entire horrible night, not to mention days and weeks and months afterward. My mind was like a faulty recording, skipping back every time it reached that scratch in the disc, that glitch in the software, repeating the same sequence endlessly. Nightmarishly.

You, no longer. You, nowhere.

And faith, which usually steps in, could not help. Faith held me up, cushioned and soothed me with words like "heaven, immortal soul, meet again", but faith is in another dimension. Comfort from others, with words like "you are not alone", was invaluable and absolutely life-saving, but comfort is also there in the other dimension. Reality is here, and reality is harsh and blinding and relentless.

Someone put it beautifully (quote from here): "... she's been in this vague in between lifes world. One life of what you knew is passing away, dying on the winds while the other is opening up and brightening to blind and bleach out your brain. It hurts like stabs in the heart."

Eventually, I must have learned to live with that fact that had blinded and bleached out a part of my brain. My mind is no longer skipping. That scratch or glitch in the weave of the universe is still there, always will be. But I glide past it with a respectful nod, and move on.

Usually. Every now and then my mind stumbles over it from an unexpected angle and falls flat on its face, painfully. And then, again, the shock and horror: You, no longer. You, nowhere.

a boring description of a boring event

An urgent need to de-stress.

My mind suggests a week-long stay on a beach in the Seychelles and then immediately rejects the suggestion for financial reasons.

I walk home from work, exhausted and knowing more work is waiting at home. Decide on a short detour, just a couple of blocks to unwind. A dark November evening.

A stop by an R-kioski (Finland's answer to 7-11) for no other reason than that it looks bright and inviting. I look at the broad selection of magazines, everything from adult magazines and Newsweek to knitting and sailing periodicals, in several different languages. Impressive. I look at the paperback shelves, mostly Fifty Shades of Grey and the latest Finnish whodunits. Not so impressive. I eavesdrop on a conversation between a middle-aged man and the cashier: "The opening hours of Sampo Bank have been reduced again! What's next, all their employees will be let go, won't they?"

I continue my walk through back streets, past the hospital and down the path through the woods down to the beach. It's after dark but the path is well-lit and you can (almost) always feel safe in this town. Plenty of joggers and dog-walkers around. I look at the dark, ice-cold waves washing ashore.

Past a grocery store to pick up apples, eggs, bread, a small bag of crisps. And then home.

And wow, I'm de-stressed.

they don't make grandparents like this anymore

What my grandfather tried to teach me:

How to read the clouds
How to be open-minded, humble, yourself, and loved by everyone
How to play with matches (although not with fire)

How to make coffee
How to tie somebody up so they can't get on their feet
How to comfort the grievers when you're dying

Everybody loved my grandfather. He had a natural, sincere charm, was great at telling funny stories and loved life. He listened with focused interest to what people were saying. Towards the end of his life, he rarely complained even when he was in pain, preferred to make little jokes instead.

I only knew him after he had already retired from his active working life, which had consisted of a little farm with a few fields, a few cows and a plowing horse. My uncle took over the farm and my grandfather and grandmother moved to the little suburb where my family lived, bought a little flat with a little garden in a rowhouse.

I'm sure they missed the village where they had lived their entire life, missed the neighbours they knew so well and the endless fields and the closeness to nature. It must have been an enormous change, having mostly nothing to do after working from dawn to dusk since they were very young. I could tell, by the wistful tone in grandfather's voice when he told the funny little stories about village life or spoke about how he loved the open horizons he saw when standing in the middle of his fields.

But I never saw either grandfather or grandmother bitter or complaining. My grandmother, quieter than he was, focused on feeding and spoiling her grandchildren, on tending to her garden and her handicrafts, and on the English course she took in order to understand the letters she received from relatives in Canada. Grandfather took to exploring his new surroundings, getting to know all the neighbours and helping my father with various carpentry projects. He watched TV documentaries and read biographies as well as tried to think up practical little inventions to solve everyday little problems. He also drew miniature portraits and landscapes (mostly copied from pictures in magazines) on the back of recycled pieces of carton.

They lived simply and sparingly, with a  contentedness  that I have not seen since their generation passed away.

And we, the grandchildren, were always welcomed with open arms. When I was little and my parents were going away for an evening, I took my dog and went to my grandparents, where I played little games with grandfather and was fed sweets by grandmother. When I was in my teens, I used to mow their little lawn, hoover their flat or tune their TV set, and I knew that my reward would be coffee with muffins or cinnamon buns, enjoyed on the patio if the weather was good. When I moved to another city I sent them postcards frequently (often with miniature drawings of my own, to my grandfather's delight), and during my brief weekend visits, my grandmother took great care in packing a goodie bag for my train ride back.

Grandfather was well into his nineties when he died, grandmother a few years younger. My mother took care of them and their household for years when they were too old to look after themselves. But eventually, grandfather spent long periods being in bad shape in hospitals and grandmother needed around-the-clock supervision because of her worsening dementia.

One of the last times I visited my grandfather in hospital, he was dying and barely able to speak or move. I hung back and let my mother do the talking - I felt paralyzed by helplessness and grief and just wanted to run away from that room. Grandfather noticed. He managed to lift a hand to wave me closer, then whispered to me in short breaths - a funny little story again, just to make me laugh. Even on his deathbed, his only thought was to comfort me.

Eventually he died, "being old and full of days". Grandmother, in her quiet way, followed him less than a year later. I still miss them.

granny and the Arabic bottle of life

Last night, in my dreams, I was dying.

It wasn't particularly painful or sad or anything, just a bit of a hassle.Various family members featured vaguely in my dream, coming to offer condolences or talk sense into me. But the main character, making a very surprising appearance, was my grandmother. The more distant one of my grandmothers, the one who died a long time ago and whom I didn't see that often even before then. In my memories she is always sitting on her bed, quiet and gentle of mind, body twisted by arthritis, crocheting doilies until the pain in her joints stopped her. Still, she must have been a strong woman once, the daughter of a farmer and marrying a penniless farmhand even though her father threatened to disinherit her.

My teetotaller granny, who was probably never within a mile of a wine bottle in her life, managed to shock me deeply last night. In my dream she was convinced that she knew a way to save me from death. Somewhere, she had gotten her hands on an  Arabic wine bottle  and if she could just figure out the writing on the label, these words would stop death.

In my mind, as of now, she is Scheherazade.

and so to bed

My immediate plans:

Pull the duvet over my head in my lovely, lovely bed. Feel safe.
Dream of love and new horizons.
Wake up, well-rested. Feel that I'm good enough for this world.
Have a lazy brunch.

in the corridors of life and death

Today I went to the hospital. I don't like the hospital nearly as much as I like the prison.

In fact, seeing it usually makes me shudder. I have never had to be admitted to one, thank God, but disease is right at the top of my fear list.

As I walked toward the entrance this dismally dark November evening, of course I had another horrible, dark November evening in mind: two years ago, when I came to this same hospital to say a final, too-late farewell to my father who had been taken from me without warning. That time, as I waited in the car park for the rest of my family, I was leaning against my car and paralyzed by shock.

But in this hospital, I was also born once. Since then, I have come here on a few occasions, even during the years when I lived far away - to see a newborn nephew, to visit an ailing grandfather, to bring a sick friend to the emergency room one late evening when we had to wait for hours and watched an icehockey game in the waiting room. Once, by a ridiculous coincidence, I had a Valentine's Day date in the dull cafeteria here. Another time I visited a friend who was a patient but also belonged to the hospital staff - he took me on a weird walk through the mysterious basement tunnels.

Today I suddenly remembered these things. I thought I hated this building. But I can't just dismiss something that is a part of my history.

The joy of this particular occasion probably helped. I took the lift to the maternity ward and was met by one of my best friends with a day-old baby in her arms. No matter how cynical and world-weary I am, that sight made me feel that maybe, just maybe, all is well with the world.

a wall between us

I like the prison. (I live near one.) Seeing it feels like home.

The red tile walls, the barbed wire and the surveillance cameras remind me that I'm not the only one in the world who feels trapped sometimes. That not everyone is living the dream. That people can hit rock bottom and get back up.

Even a prison has a daily life. I see deliveries of timber to the carpentry shop, the van that takes prisoners to the court building, the floorball team from the outside which comes once a week to play against the prisoner team, the tired-looking ladies who leave late in the afternoon after their work in the kitchens, the church people (all dressed up) who sometimes visit on Sundays, the relatives and girlfriends who patiently wait for the main gate to open for the weekend visiting hours. I see prisoners in the yard, lifting weights, playing darts or just walking around. They never look up at the sky.

Sometimes when I walk past and the prisoners are sitting at the window in what is probably a common room, they wave at me. I always wave back. Hello, neighbours!

Hey now, hey now  
Don't dream it's over 
Hey now, hey now  
When the world comes in  
They come, they come 
To build a wall between us 
We know they won't win

(Crowded House: Don't dream it's over)

what my mind said at work today

- I'm tired.
- How come I have to type up all these hand-written lists?
- How come I have taken two classes to learn Excel and STILL don't know how to use it??
- Having a cheese sandwich for lunch is really getting old.
- God, I'm tired.
- Isn't it coffee break time yet?
- Oh no, not that customer again!
- That man better stop smiling right now or I will plant my fist in his face.
- What am I doing, checking Facebook again?
- Can I skip volleyball training tonight and still maintain my self-respect? No? Damn.
- Everyone should really feel sorry for me.
- Seriously, it can't be only 3 pm. It was 2 pm three hours ago.
- Didn't you hear me, I'm TIRED?

how to walk through October

Make a different October. 

Put on a pair of boots that not only look great but will take you miles. And a thick coat, with a hood and with pockets that can store anything from your smartphone to a bottle of water and perhaps a half-eaten sandwich - the kind of coat that you can huddle up in, if you don't want to be seen or if rain is lashing down, and feel warm and safe in.

Then start walking the streets of the city. Even if you think you know the streets of your home town and know there is nothing really worth seeing. Even if you don't know why you're not with your friends or fleeing reality in front of the TV. Even if your heart aches because you can't get away to see other cities and other, more exciting, streets - especially then.

Walk aimlessly. Think of nothing. Pay attention to details - to the dirty asphalt, to bright windows behind which people are living their lives, to a million wonders like a sunray through tree branches, a beautiful wrought-iron gate, the glimmering diamonds in the jewelry shop window.

If you feel vulnerable and sad, stick to empty back streets and take comfort in the beauty of the gardens you walk past. If you feel brave, watch the people - there is so much beauty to see in them as well, in the broad shoulders of a strong man, in the long legs of a teenage girl, in the tentative smile of an old lady. Entertain your curiosity and ask yourself what that man is buying his daughter at the fast food kiosk, why that lovely girl is in love with that weird boyfriend, what that tired-looking shop assistant is thinking about right now.

In a city centre street at noon you will feel the immediate and strong pulse of the world. In a quiet street at dusk you can catch your breath among trees in vivid autumn colours and - best of all - hear the birds singing (they do it for you). If you're lucky, you can find a dog to pet.

And even if you are not at the moment in that other city where you long to be, you can take a deep breath and know that in this moment, there is nowhere else you need to be.

I impressed the Taj Mahal

Automated message from Twitter in my email inbox: "Taj Mahal India is now following you on Twitter."

I hadn't followed Taj Mahal on Twitter myself. To be honest, I had no idea the Taj Mahal was even into tweeting. And how does it choose whom to follow? Is an obscure nobody from a faraway little country, with a grainy picture, only a scattering of followers and rarely tweeting at all, really the obvious candidate?

Anyway, I'm not complaining. I must have done something right if Taj Mahal India is following me on Twitter.

bored in a bookshop

Workplace boredom.

It usually hits around 3 pm. It doesn't always. Only on days when I have a sleep deficiency and hence an unwillingness to take on the more demanding tasks (this sometimes includes reading) that would otherwise keep me occupied.

Then I sort postcards or go wild with the discount stickers on books I don't like.

Or call my mum and say: "Can I come over after work? Can we eat something?"

Although if I had a bookshelf that looked like this I probably would find something to do.

this week's love list

Peanut butter on crispbread.
Roaming the streets.
Be Still by The Fray.

Google's little (or not so little) animations - fun, creative, educational.
Freedom.
Skintight jeans with fur-trim boots and a tunic.
Cleaning out my closet and getting rid of stuff - even when it gets slightly OCD.

White Collar (as usual).
Staying home alone.
Being a woman.
Encouragement.

a dump(ed) person after all

Uh oh. I might have hurt poor Anonymous' feelings (his/her heartfelt ones, about the jewelry). I'm not getting spammed anymore.

And here I was already thinking my blog was turning into one of those interesting, dialogue-based meditations on the meaning of life, the universe and pearl bracelets.

a dump person no more

I seem to be getting spam comments on my blog these days. I love spam comments! They are absolutely adorable and give me great enjoyment when I think up courteous replies.

This comment was left on my blog entry "this saved a wretch like me", where I inanely rambled about my breakfast and my coach potato day:

"Good day, sun shines! There have were times of hardship when I felt unhappy missing knowledge about opportunities of getting high yields on investments. I was a dump and downright pessimistic person. I have never thought that there weren't any need in big initial investment. Nowadays, I'm happy and lucky, I started take up real income. It's all about christmas jewelry that is incorporate it in real deals, and shares the black pearl bracelet with you. If you get a chance pop up by my page, maybe you would like cultured pearl earrings."

Aaww. Doesn't it just melt your heart? I feel I have really made a difference in poor Anonymous' life. In comments on later entries, he assures me I am inspiring and eye-opening and that his colleague bought him breakfast because of me. Bless his heart.

a walk-on part in the city

A walk:

* Forgot my scarf and regretted it.
* Lots of autumn leaves, one hit me in the face on its way down and very nearly left a scar.
* Shame and fear, my constant companions.
* The library: two novels, an essay collection on life in Moscow, a movie on DVD, a CD by Snow Patrol.
* Slumped over a table in the reading room with today's paper, bonetired and questioning the meaning of life.
* Sat in a burger place and pretended I was on the run in a foreign city (I've read too much fanfiction) and dreamed of a man.
* Lots of people, lots of dress styles.
* Low, heavy clouds, chilly, a surprising ray of sun.
* The shopping centre: looking for a headband and an English course book.
* The happiness of perfect denim and tall boots. Not to mention red leather.
* The convenience store: apples, crisps, chocolate, butter.
* Sat on a bench in the park by the marina, watched a big boat being taken out of the water, was slobbered on by a lovely dog, felt that I should sit in the park more often.
* Saw the weird ex-psychologist at least three times at different places during the walk. Not a stalker, he just happened to be wherever I went.
* Phrase overheard: "If you were an atheist, you wouldn't be sitting there."

home and breathing

Finding oneself is bloody hard work.

Not that I'm not myself in my daily life, pottering around in the shop, stopping by the grocery shop for bananas and eggs on my way home, listening to the chatter in the changing room before volleyball practice.

It's life and it's mine and I need it. But it's the real world, and I'm only at home among dreams. Whether I believe in them or not.

So I have to come home and look out over the bay, power up the laptop, and breathe deeply.

staff room confessions

Found a pediatrician sitting in the staff room at my workplace when I came for a cup of coffee. Before I knew it, I had ditched my normal inhibitions and was spilling my guts to him about my adjustment problems in this town for the last seven years.

The combination of a doctor's authority and a fatherly attitude always knocks me flat.

this saved a wretch like me

Today's definition of the grace of God, courtesy of a sinner (myself):

Curling up on the sofa, rain lashing the windows, lazy brunch on toast, chicken with blue cheese, avocado, eggs, kiwi fruit, lots of coffee and lots of peace of mind... and watching Lie To Me.

dream reels and real dreams

Last night's reality: I was in handcuffs for stealing bread.

Today's dream: I'm watching the rain and waiting for the day to end.

Wait, no, sorry, it was the other way around, wasn't it? Yes. The first was a dream I had. The second is the reality. Always get those two mixed up.

my way home

(via outcamethesun.tumblr.com)

wolves, an Aaron and yellow pills

This is a discussion among friends, in the pub after the cinema. If you can guess the film, reward yourself with a Ben & Jerry's Cookie Dough Icecream.

"How come she just trusted him right away, a stranger turning up in the middle of a gun fight?" - "Well, he did have kind eyes."
"We never did find out if he had been in love."
"Why was he killed?" - "He had to go find some ammo."
"Imagine that those people just agreed to take them out to sea in their boat!" - "Well, she did say 'please'. With tears in her eyes."
"A physical enhancement of 1.5 % isn't really that much - you could achieve that just through exercise."
"Is that what you do at your job too, enhance people?"
"Wasn't it cool how he woke up all sweaty from a coma and the next minute was able to run around and fight for hours?" - "Lucky she screamed 'run!' at the right moment!"
"I don't think wolves really snarl like that. They are kind of quiet."
"Don't eat yellow pills."
"Only half of that virology theory is true, you know."
"If you live in a big house in the woods, you really only have yourself to blame if a psycho turns up to murder you."
"Wouldn't you like to have an Aaron coming to your rescue?"
"I wonder if seeing all the previous films would have helped or not." - "Well, I've seen them all and it didn't help."

Sometimes you just have to curl up in a chair in the darkness of the cinema. Allow your mind to float and just be entertained by cool sound effects and pretty pictures. Not think. Have your best friends and a Snickers bar nearby.

is Clyde staying behind?

Preciously rare sunrays of autumn are warming the cobblestones around our table. We picked a café table out on the patio because it's a long, long way to next summer and nostalgia is in the air. It's quiet and lovely.

Perhaps that's why we talk somberly and intimately about pressure, about expectations and limitations in a small town. Our deep-felt desire for freedom.

"Let's just go", I say impulsively, playfully. "To New York or London. We'll just go!"

To me, those are the most romantic words anyone could ever utter. If he said them, I would be helplessly his.

Well, I suppose not everyone can be a romantic. He is slipping from me, and I can't even bring myself to care that much. I'm too much of a romantic, even under this pragmatic and cynical exterior. I want love on the run, love in motion, Bonnie and Clyde (without all the dying), hand in hand towards the open horizon, sharing cold pizza and beer and love under starry skies before jumping on the next train somewhere else we've never been. Absolute freedom and endless love.

Not sure I could handle it. But I want it.

roses and slime

Today's collection of random quotes from the Little Shop of Harmony:

"I want to try this blouse on, could you put it aside for five minutes while I go home and take off my coat?"
"I will shut up now so you can write."
"You have to get some prettier greeting cards in. Red ones with roses."
"This morning I broke a bowl just like this one."
"Nowadays it's mostly slime that comes up in the mornings."

try to work this day out

Opening shop three minutes late,
swearing, cheese sandwiches in the back office,
undrinkable coffee, the calming effect of spreadsheets,
a charity donation of 15 cent, a charity donation of "church hats",
an enquiry on how to import CDs, a malfunctioning cash register,
unwarranted crying once the doors are safely locked.

comfort in a Turkish pizza

Extraordinary, the strange comforts you can find when you need them the most.

Like when you walk home from work crying:

An obscure pizza place which turns out to be a little piece of Turkey in the middle of a bland Finnish town. Turkish music videos on the TV, fragrant spices in the air, muted chatter in foreign languages around me (me being the only white face in the room), and the waiter giving me what feels like the first kind words of the day.

The walk home, in mild September weather, the delicious heat of the pizza carton against my arm and the wildly beautiful colours of autumn leaves framing the back streets.

A quiet meal on the balcony in the safety of my own home, the greyness of the shifting rain clouds, the chilly and somehow still gentle humidity in the air. The silence of a Saturday afternoon only broken by the crows in the linden tree. And I'm flashing back to happy autumn days by an Irish lake after all the tourists have gone home.

storybook ending

That kind of autumn evening. When you drop down on the sofa with a glass of wine and read stories on the internet for hours and hours. And forget that there is a world out there, with real life and friends, and that you should do something about it.

I seem to have a lot of these evenings. Not sure if it's good or catastrophic, as lifestyles go. But tonight, I've picked up a few writing tips, I've been emotional, I've learned some valuable things about the possibilities of human life, and I have felt that surge of love for something undefined.

Tonight, I'm feeling peaceful.

a heather moment

"Pick out your heather quickly. Or I'll catch pneumonia!"

My mother is choosing plants to put on graves and her own balcony. Since they are expected to last over the winter, the choice is limited. Still, I never suspected there were so many varieties and sizes and colours of heather.

And we're standing in an outdoor flower market, it's a chilly autumn day and it's RAINING. I'm dressed for shopping (high heels, a beautiful white cardigan), not for braving the Finnish climate and getting plant soil all over me.

I feel miserable, shivering in the rain. But around me are flowers, one more beautiful than the other. Beauty, especially in dreary surroundings, never fails to impress me. And I'm with my mother, and she is going to make me coffee after this.

Suddenly, I get the feeling that this is one of those moments that count.

café comment

At our usual café, at our usual table by the window. He is talking about spiritual things. He looks great  in a stylish beard.

I say: "I'm wearing my hooker boots."

the storm is up, and all is on the hazard

One wall of my tiny flat consists almost entirely of windows, facing the bay. Facing the horizon, facing the world that is not my country.

I'm living on a ledge, on the edge of Finland.

Last night I really felt it. A storm crossed the sea and hurled itself at the Finnish coast. Me and my unprotected windows on the fourth floor were among the first to feel it, and it was like standing on the bridge of a small ship in the Bermuda Triangle. Only darkness outside, wind and rain lashing the windows. I ventured out on the balcony to save a lantern and a wind chime, and at one point wondered if the wind would toss me over the railing.

I used to be afraid of the autumn storms, a few years ago when I moved here. But although this was probably the worst one, I'm too used to them by now. Or perhaps the flu virus or my New York-longing preoccupied me. I went to bed but left the bedside light on for a while. I watched the wildness of the night, listened to the howling of the wind and for the first time (not counting the earthquake a couple of years ago) felt the whole building shake every time a gust of wind pounded against it. It was all set in stark contrast to the warmth of the small lamp by my elbow and the thick duvet.

"The noise will keep me awake for half the night", I said to myself. And fell peacefully asleep before I had finished the thought.

in love and war, and nothing is fair

I'm obsessively, absolutely in love. And have been for a while, two years perhaps, although it's getting worse lately.

With New York.

Every day I dream of going there (to live, not just to visit). At the same time, everything inside me except that obsessive, crazy-in-love part wants to stay right where I am.

Completely baffled, I watch this deranged conflict raging inside me. How can I want two opposite things, so badly? How long until I'm torn to pieces?

the garden of good and even better

Some places are iconic. At least to yourself.

Like a garden, not tiny but not large either. A normal, suburban garden surrounding a normal, boxy little house of the Scandinavian seventies style. When you're a child and this is your whole world, it's a universe of little nations bordered by flower beds, set to the soothing sound of the wind in the tall pine trees. Adventures waiting to happen when you crawl underneath shrubs and invent paths that wind around rocks. Raspberries to be picked, and strawberries if you avoid the horrible slugs. Apple trees, for a while even a cherry tree until it perishes one cold winter. A patch where peas and potatoes and tiny carrots are doing their best to grow. "Little Forest" where anything can happen - robbers and dragons hide there. And flowers of every description, from the flashy rhododendron that your mother loves and desperately tries to save from freezing over the winter by packing them into impressive cocoons, to the lovely lilies-of-the-valley that you yourself prefer.

The joy when the neighbours' cats come over for a visit, although your mother always chases them away, sometimes by making hissing noises through the open window. Mother likes other animals though, and birds who knock themselves out by flying into windows are taken in to recover in the unheated sauna room, safe from the prowling cats.

There are a couple of swings, a sandbox, even a playhouse that your father built. There are other children to play with. But the invisible features are the best. Even a tiny little slant in the lawn is a steep hill, even a towering mountain, when your legs are short. A couple of boulders make up a medieval castle, or an obstacle course for your imaginary Arabian thoroughbreds. There are imaginary dogs too, a whole pack of them in fact; never mind your actual, real poodle who is just annoying and disobedient. Pretend dogs are always clever and beautiful and don't require a leash.

The garden is paradise in the summer. But in the winter, you can build real castles in the snow and the landscape is alien like a foreign planet. You stay out and play until your clothes are soaked through and dinner is on the table.

ghost-watching day

Sneezing my brains out. Surely I deserve that extra-large chocolate bar? Yes? Yes.

Nothing like a stuffy head to make you ponder the meaning of life. Something else to ponder: Who is that old lady who waits in the prison yard (of a men's prison) every day, sometimes in pouring rain, until someone lets her in? Clearly neither a visitor (if so, she wouldn't be in the yard) nor a member of staff. There is something weird about her. Maybe she is an apparation in a bright blue cloak.

Or maybe she's all in my stuffy head.

family and fear

School photos on the fridge. A playful dog dancing around my feet. The wonderful smell of a casserole in the oven. Kids coming in and going out. Someone putting a CD on while I dig around an unfamiliar cupboard for utensils to set the table. The kitchen a lived-in, cosy mess.

My niece and nephews chat about teachers and football training and computer games and oh, this is what I miss in my childless state - being a part of a society, a neighbourhood, a normal lifestyle, a culture, being up to date with what kids talk about.

As I am out of touch with the next generation, will I in a few years be hopelessly on the outside of the world they are taking over?

how to type a power plant

My first real job - or the first one I counted as real because it lasted for more than a couple of months and didn't seem as pointless as previous summer jobs like babysitting or cutting grass at the cemetary - required nearly complete silence.

This was a problem sometimes and my boss made great efforts in trying to find me a room of my own, far from traffic noise and loud coworkers. He set me up with a minidisc-player (yes, this was a while ago... ), headphones and a computer, I would press "play" and start typing the interview recorded on the disc. The surrounding silence was necessary because the recording was not always of top quality and the interviewees spoke English with funny accents (Indian, Caribbean and Texan were the challenging ones, Chinese and Korean were the nightmares).

These were university times. I would come and sit in my room after lectures, before volleyball games, when I should have been working on my thesis, after church on Sunday, for a few hours or for countless hours at a time. It was a monotonous job. I should have been bored witless. But for some strange reason, once I started typing and disappeared into the discussions on generator malfunctions and maintenance contracts, I went into a trance-like state and could type for hours until my back ached and my stomach rumbled. Sometimes I would get up to stretch and walk around the room (usually borrowed from some postgraduate student doing research but mysteriously absent), absently poke through bookshelves, stare out the window and think about the Englishman that had recently broken my heart.

First, I had a room overlooking a quiet street where students rushed back and forth in the spring sunshine. Then I had a dark room in the back of the building, where I would get distracted by an entertaining squirrel putting on a show in the maple tree outside the window. A while later, the department moved to a beautiful old building where I sat in a very tastefully decorated and suffocatingly hot attic - until I threw a tantrum about the heat and some undefined background noise and my boss reluctantly allowed me to take the expensive laptop with me to work from home.

I would work for a few weeks, getting through a batch of interviews, then go back to my own studies for a while until I got called back again. My thesis supervisor was in despair but my boss loved me. Sometimes I had a friend with me in the room, working on other transcriptions, and we would go for lunch together and babble incessantly to make up for the hours of not talking to each other.

And I took pride in contributing to a research group who contributed to the improvement of the country's largest manufacturer of heavy machinery, whose environmentally friendly, energy-producing products contributed to improving the world. Yes, really. (Idealism may be silly, but it's never done me much harm.)

I learned: Funny accents. How to type fast. Names of machine parts. General logistics of setting up a small power plant. And the importance of silence.

not so manic Monday

Colour: Dusky pink
Mood: Tired/slightly desperate
Greatest accomplishment: Car oil change appointment made
Greatest accomplishment #2: Three book orders sent
Favourite customer: Guitarist
Lunch: A small sandwich
Coffee break snack: A larger sandwich
Energy level: Very low
Envy: People living in large cities
Worry: Clogged drains
New idea: Visit the city museum
Song: Orphans of God
Existential inner debate: Who is fighting my battles?
Evening plans: Unclog drains / sort photos / none of the above and nothing else either

the sixties, America and a poodle

"It was said that my New York licence plates would arouse interest and perhaps questions, since they were the only outward identifying marks I had. And so they did - perhaps twenty or thirty times in the whole trip. But such contacts followed an invariable pattern, somewhat as follows: 
  Local man: 'New York, huh?'
  Me: 'Yep.'
  Local man: 'I was there in nineteen thirty-eight - or was it thirty-nine? Alice, was it thirty-eight or thirty-nine we went to New York?'
  Alice: 'It was thirty-six. I remember because it was the year Alfred died.'
  Local man: 'Anyway, I hated it. Wouldn't live there if you paid me.'"

John Steinbeck is not one of my favourite writers. But I adore his Travels with Charley (In Search of America). Maybe because I would like to do exactly what he did: explore America from coast to coast with the help of a gentleman poodle.

Lots of interesting observations. Not to mention some hilarious passages. Coffee with whiskey, a dog whose "greatest fear is that someone will point out a rabbit and suggest that he chase it", an eerie night in a forest, coming up close and personal with racial conflicts in Louisiana, a magical description of Texas (that made me fall in love with the state despite never having been there), saving the lives of two coyotes.

Strangely enough, I don't think I've ever read a book set in the sixties before.

post-lobotomy

It's worse than I thought. My baby speaks to me in another language. But although his mind is refreshingly blank and malleable, his whining about petty details is comfortingly familiar.

(Yes, it's still my laptop we're talking obsessing about. I'm going offline now to go find myself a life.)

mood swings ahead

A mother going to pick up her child from hospital after he's had major brain surgery.

That's today's feeling.

My laptop has apparently been repaired and is waiting for me. I have been informed that there are mood swings to be expected and that he may not recognize me.

another bipolar day

The world is too much and not enough. The very air I breathe is intense enough to hurt my feelings, yet filled with indifference.

Weary euphoria and hopeful anguish.

Or it could just be the fact that my computer is broken and I don't know how to live without it.

from sis with love

My sister, my idol.

I was the good little girl, she was the wild teenager. She took me to ride horses and I was scared and loved it. She looked after me and I felt safe with her and once she left me at home alone when she shouldn't have (to go off with some boy). I craved her attention and sometimes dug through her personal stuff but she only got a little mad at me. She taught me how to put on make-up, navigate public transport, appreciate art galleries and discover the world.

Later, when we were both grown up and she was living in the exciting big city, she constantly invited me to her house, cooked me dinner, took me to the cinema and other fun places. We spent late nights sharing secrets, had a whole barrage of inside jokes and made each other cry with laughter. We spent a lot of time in cafés, on walks in the woods and on inter-city trains (travelling between her city, my city, our parents' city). Together, we tried to make sense of our parents. We sent each other thousands of funny postcards.

I turned out as the bohemian, always-broke drifter and she as the responsible one with a beautiful family and a well-paid job. To this day, she still invites me for dinner regularly even though I'm a hopeless cook and never invite her back.

In my life adrift, she is my safe harbour.

no country for arrogant men

This part of the country, where I was born, I may not like living here very much. I would prefer to live far away and come for long, pleasant visits and in that way preserve the romantic, nostalgic view of this little corner of the world. Its daily life gets a bit too dull for my liking. Not to mention that the pressure to fit into its mold is daunting.

But I do like the men. They may not be the best-looking or most charming - actually, they are shy and on the verge of being irritatingly humble. But if you treat them right, they are fantastic. Incredibly practical and get things done without fuss. If they can't find a job (and sometimes even if they can) they start their own little business and do it well. Genial and friendly, once you get past that initial reservation, and not above lending a stranger a helping hand. Arrogance simply doesn't exist among the men here.

And behind that quiet, humble exterior, they are quite macho. In general, they are law-abiding citizens. But if a wolf or bear (protected species here) happens to wander in from the great forests and gets too close to these men's homes, they might first apply for permission to shoot it. When the authorities deny permission, they do it anyway. And their neighbours are happy to help bury the corpse and keep their mouths shut.

empty-handed and alive

Walking to the bank,
crossing the street in the mid-day rush,

and I felt my faith die.

Sitting in the shop,
waiting for customers,

and I felt my heart break.

I survived my death, again.

back, streets! back, allright?

Weekends: Soaking up the sun in the achingly beautiful archipelago . . . Weekdays: Walking through dusty streets after a long day of work.

I'm thrown between two worlds. It unsettles me.

No energy to pursue my man. Let him do all the work for once.

Desperately trying to cram in as much beach volley as possible before evenings get too chilly. Unsuccessfully trying not to overdose on the online world I craved during the holidays.

I dream of dreams, and of winding corridors with secret doors to other universes.

My usual August existence, in other words.

don't suffer art gladly

I get impulses to write. And then I don't. Because I don't believe in myself.

Well. At least I have the image of the tortured writer genius down to an art. (The genius part is really pushing it, but don't tell anyone.)

all at sea, where no-one can bother me

And isn't this -  despite the not-perfect video quality -  just the vision of summer by the sea at its loveliest?

How I wish I could be there. Oh wait - I am!

(No dogs were harmed during the making of this motion picture.)

just your average heavenly existence

A game of kubb,
a lost-looking cormorant,
French toast,
grilled marshmallows,
a shooting star,
kids on the trampoline,
freshly picked berries with sugar,
a night of sleeping like a baby in a silent room.

obey the cursor

Sitting in a darkening room surrounded by candles and a salt lamp. Looking out  over a rain-swept, stormy bay, as always enchanting in its beauty. Silence, except for the wind.

But the most beautiful thing of all, a blank screen on the laptop before me, the cursor blinking its joyful message: Start typing here!

PS. I wanted to describe the beauty of the bay by using the phrase "fifty shades of grey" because that's how it looks. But someone has RUINED that expression. And I haven't even read the damn book.

a feel-good, no-love Sunday

And I took myself for a RUN along Sunday-quiet, summer-lovely back streets, close to the glittering sea. Afterwards I sunned myself on the balcony, watching clouds and listening to organ music. I hung out blindingly white laundry to dry in the sun. I went to church and laughed with my friends afterwards.

Summer holidays almost over, it's back to work on Tuesday and I really don't mind at all ( OK, I'm going to mind having to get up in the mornings ). I had a thoroughly feel-good day.

And I didn't call you today either. I want to love you but trying to love myself is a full-time job.

it's not pretty there

If we ever make it that far, I need to explain to you that I ...

Need time and space alone
Shouldn't be allowed more than one mug of coffee
Shouldn't be allowed to adapt too much
Won't tell you where to find my blog
Spend hours in the library
Find it hard to express my feelings
Will smile and say "fine" and hope you see through my lie
Will run if you get too close
Will withdraw into my own world if suffocated by my own expectations
Might need a glass of wine to let go of my inhibitions
Might mistake a low blood sugar level for the end of the world
Am hot and cold, a study in contradictions
Won't talk if you won't listen
Get more distant with distance
Hate phone calls
Find my fantasy worlds and get lost in them for weeks
Get depressed in a certain suburb and when deprived of beauty
Get happy in cafés
Get creative, and slightly crazy, around midnight

... and that sometimes, but only for a little while, I will love a dream more than I love you.

through the spin cycle again

Vertigo again.

Woke up feeling as if my bed was a tiny boat bobbing around among mighty waves. The doctor told me it was that harmless thing again. Really should know better than to go see the doctor for this thing again - last time I ended up waiting for seven hours in a barren waiting room with only a stale sandwich, my nausea and a boring novel to sustain me.

At least the emergency healthcare fees are very low and clinics are plenty in this cold but caring country. I didn't have to wait more than 15 minutes this time, despite the fact that I had brought two novels. Barely had time to study the waiting room posters informing me how to sneeze without spreading influenza and how much a smoking habit of one pack a day for 30 years will cost me (enough to buy an Audi A6, apparently). The doctor looked like she was barely out of her teens (they always do, do they all retire at the age of 20?) and I had the vague feeling she was the little sister of someone I knew.

And she couldn't cure my vertigo. But coffee and sympathy from a friend almost did, for a while. Now, it's back to my storm-tossed bed.

running scared

A balmy summer's night. Anxiety.

Holidays by the sea, endless days of loveliness in a beloved home, even re-awakened dreams. Back to the city for a necessary (and joyfully anticipated) catching-up on civilisation.

And then,

bill-paying hassle,
computer warnings,
little aches and pains and a lot of tiredness,
no access to my addiction,
and the sudden realisation that my life is not at all on track.

     I find it hard to tell you, I find it hard to take
     When people run in circles it's a very, very
     Mad world

     (Gary Jules: Mad World)

the novel therapy

Citylife. I manage not to be devastated over the dog by occupying myself with flirting. Then I escape reality by watching my favourite TV series.

But when I occasionally settle down with a good book, I realise what really calms me down and inspires me at the same time.

the art of losing

Sitting at a window watching a hassled-looking bird feed its chicks. Having another glass of wine.

My last evening of village life. Tomorrow it's back to the city, the balcony overlooking the sea, trendy shops, heat reflecting off the asphalt, the coolness of the air-conditioned library, beach volley euphoria, the summer noises of music and laughter from the outdoor cafés, almost-midnight-sun brightness over the bay, tanned bare skin, the exuberance of life cascading from TV screens.

But the dog. My God, I have to leave the dog.

I have no idea why I see myself as cautious, holding back. In fact, when I just get past my indifference, I'm not hard to convince to give my heart away. I moved into this cottage for four weeks, at the drop of a hat, to look after a dog. Knowing full well that I would end up loving the dog and being devastated when the time came to give it back to the owners.

Still, how could I regret it?

Let's have another glass of red. Tomorrow, I'm going to get into my car and drive away, then work, then reward/comfort myself with a vanilla latte at that coffee shop I keep dreaming about. Then I'm going home to cry my heart out.

we need to talk about dog pee

Sometimes I wonder if I really know even the basics of human interaction.

It's not necessary to discuss only profound subjects with people. I don't have to root out a friend's deepest issues every time we talk and listen sympathetically while they pour out their dark secrets.

It's OK to spend a few minutes telling them about a bizarre thing I just read about fruit flies,* joking about how another friend answered the phone while brushing her teeth, or discussing the relative merits of letting your dog pee in the unpleasant neighbour's garden.

How did I start taking every chat so bloody seriously?


* if you deprive them of sleep, they will try to catch up the next day

nevermore

I have a rather Poe-esque raven looking over my shoulder right now.

And he's indeed saying "nevermore" because it's almost time to leave the village and the dog. And I don't know how I can bear to leave the dog.

liquorice love potion

To share some liquorice with a man over the shop counter... ( Quickly hiding the sweets when some kids enter. ) He is in his quiet mood and I like it.

I look up at him - and for a tall woman, having to look up at someone is strangely comforting - and say "have another". What I really want to say is "have me".

judging June

June is the ideal month to:

* analyze bulldozer men, quiet men and men who bring icecream (2006)
* walk around an old hotel and watch Santa Claus sit around his fire (2007)
* focus on lilacs and listen to Sting (2008)
* move between the woods and the horizon and remind myself that people are generally kind (2009)
* do a caricature and climb Mordor (2010)
* long for less wilderness (2011)
* live in the land of loveliness, lockless doors and self-inviting neighbours (2012)

The picture has no relevance to the text but I happen to love stone walls and stonewalling.

country life update

Been invited for dinner.
Been cheerfully greeted by the weird man of the village.
Walked a quarter mile with the gossip lady. And my friend who happened to be visiting, a huge man in black leather. Desperately tried to quell the gossip that will inevitable follow.
After barely two weeks in the village, found myself in the position that I can take a walk and realistically hope to meet someone who will invite me in for coffee. And it happened. Had coffee in a beautiful garden with an elderly couple.
Been eaten alive by mosquitoes.

what I can contribute to the universe

I may not have created a masterpiece, raised a child or found a cure for cancer.

But I do know how to turn up the music, dance barefoot on the livingroom floor and laugh wildly when the dog starts to bark at me.

mosquitoes know this

Outside it's midnight and daylight with faeries and mosquitoes dancing in the meadow.
Drinking glass after glass of white wine but never getting drunk.
A dog yawning at my feet.
On my playlist at the moment: Swedish House Mafia, a weird choice but then again I'm weird and proud of it (except when I'm ashamed).
Occupying my mind these days: a longing to lose everything - only because of the drama, and the freedom to begin a new life, and the necessity of living in the immediate present, that come with it.

OK, maybe I am slightly drunk. Would be mad to want to lose the few important things that I have. Not quite that mad yet.
But I do want. To live in the moment. To suck the marrow out of life.