controlled loneliness

"I enjoy controlled loneliness. I like wandering around the city alone. I’m not afraid of coming back to an empty flat and lying down in an empty bed. I’m afraid of having no one to miss, of having no one to love."
 
(Kuba Wojewodzki)

at tension

I seek attention through the way I look, not through what I say and write. Which is very strange, considering my contempt for today's fixation with looks, my love of writing and my faith in the power of words.

But I don't seek a lot of attention. Sometimes I wish I was invisible.

airplane passing

"I heard an airplane passing overhead. I wished I was on it."

(Charles Bukowski)

wander off the edge

"She always had that about her,
that look of otherness,
of eyes that see things much too far,
and of thoughts that wander
off the edge of the world."

(Joanne Harris)

make room, pretty

Dark-eyed men are drifting around in the city centre mall these days, playing with their phones and greeting each other in Arabic.

My Finland is changing. Now there are men here who make eye contact, who say "hello, pretty", who make me smile and feel vaguely afraid at the same time. Not afraid of them. Of all the sudden changes in this world. Of losing my trust and my welcoming smile.

I'm thinking of how much I have to lose, when I really want to be the one who keeps giving.

pixie dust aftermath

Finland in November: ugliness of post-apocalyptic proportions. Add snow and a little sun: fairytale land of divine beauty.

And near-suicidal Finns are suddenly smiling again.

Took my laptop and walked through this fairytale to the library - stopping for a latte on the way. Work doesn't really feel like work when you are surrounded by books. I translated someone's account of a trip to the frontier in east Ukraine while students whispered secrets around me.

the Sunday soothing

The voice of a true friend in the morning, the cold white world of a blizzard.

The walk I took with freezing fingers, the joyful noise from the sledding hill.

The softness of a blanket, the comfort of cold pizza.

a rock star and cardigan afternoon

Alone in the office, not-even-daylight outside.

Friday afternoon, not expecting to be able to go home at a decent time. Translating the hideous slang of a rock star and waiting for urgent updates on the production status for a cardigan. Coffee stains on my white blouse and I walk with a limp.

But kind of peaceful. That's the kind of Friday afternoon I'm having.

a mist for falling asleep in

November picnic at the summer cottage.

A fire roaring in the fireplace, freezing fingers gripping a steaming coffee mug, the sweet taste of my mother's homemade peach pie. I can see my breath.

In the garden, everything is damp and grey under a layer of mist. The sea is the colour of steel and a gang of swans near the shore are filling their bellies before the long flight south. It's almost cold enough for snow.

The silence is almost absolute but peaceful, not oppressive. I feel my eyelids growing heavy. Time for sleep, the deep sleep of winter.

late so soon

"How did it get so late so soon?
It's night before it's afternoon.
December is here before it's June.
My goodness how the time has flewn.
How did it get so late so soon?"

(Dr. Seuss)

things to do for fun around here

Getting lost in the small, dreary Finnish city of Seinäjoki. Diving into its vast flea markets. Driving home under a darkening grey sky across the prairie.

you could

you could go the distance
you could run the mile

you could walk straight through hell with a smile

(unknown)

a shove-you-down and push-you-'round town

An evening walk in October yields some pretty sunlight,

some inviting windows,

 footprints in the sand (like in that poem, was Jesus here?)

and the realisation that some of the good townsfolk are very, very serious about dog poo located too close to their roses. "Owner of this dog, please call this number."

I also saw a great crowd of jackdaws wheeling around in the darkening sky, fishermen, a very suspicious meeting in a hair salon, yellow leaves. And around the seaside restaurant, there was an enticing smell of steak. I wanted nothing more than someone to take me out for dinner right then.

blue memories start calling

The October storms have arrived, and the very great darkness.

Time for some outrageously blue fairy lights in the window where they scream out their blueness all the way to Sweden. They are actually too blue, if such a thing is possible, and my neighbours hate me.

intelligent women

"Nothing is so necessary for a young man as the company of intelligent women."

(Leo Tolstoy)

on pet placement

There is to be a final inspection of all the flats in my building after the plumbing renovation is finished. A notice on the door informs us that the inspectors will enter the flat even if nobody's home. It adds, "Any pets in the flat should be placed so as not to interfere with the inspection".

I would love to place my pets, if I had any, in appropriate locations. But do the inspectors know how hard it is to make sure that pets remain where they are placed?

the q words

English is not an easy language, even for a talented academic from Belarus. He is trying to explain to me why things are tense between two of our coworkers:

"Arthur and Teresa had a squirrel."
"A squirrel?"
"Yes, a squirrel ... eh, quarrel."

run with the wild horses

Unexpected encounters with horses:

I'm sunning myself by a quiet brook in the mountains. Four gigantic horses, of the draught horse kind, trot into view. Not another human being in sight. The horses wander down to the brook to drink and splash. I stare. A few minutes later, their owner and his friend show up, panting: "We've been chasing them for hours!"

The man who drives tourists in his horse-drawn carriage hands me the gelding's reins: "Could you look after him for me while I run inside for a minute?" The horse is rather old and lethargic and I expect no problems. Until another carriage passes by and the gelding is suddenly gripped with an urge to follow the herd. We spend a tense few minutes playing tug-of-war until the man comes back.

I stroll around one of the "commons", public green areas in the city of Cambridge. It is a pleasant place on the banks of the river Cam. Lots of people out for a stroll or bike trip, and on the river, every kind of boat. There are also horses and cows mingling calmly with the people since this common is part of their pasture. When I sit down on a bench to eat a sandwich, a horse approaches and makes it clear that he fancies a snack too. When I refuse him a bite of my sandwich, he takes a bite out of my arm instead. For days afterwards, people stare at the impressive mark on my arm and worriedly ask if my boyfriend is abusing me.

my knight errant

Alan of the blue eyes has me mesmerized.

It's the first time we meet and he is asking me out on a date. I hear myself say yes.

The first date, he stands me up. I shrug and have a drink with my friends instead, laughing at the predictability of men.

A few days later, he comes back grovelling and asks for a second chance. I roll my eyes and accept.

The second date, he stands me up. I have already made this a joke among my friends, who are taking bets on whether he will actually show up or not. He doesn't and I call him. He apologizes profusely and begs for a third chance.

The third date, he shows up, to the surprise of me and all my friends. He takes me to a hamburger place somewhere in Tallaght, a dreary Dublin suburb. Afterwards, we go to visit a stable full of thoroughbred racehorses somewhere in the hills, so he can show me where he works - he's a steeplechase jockey apparently, as well as a rally driver. He likes fast horses and fast cars and drives like a mad knight with a death wish on the narrow Irish roads. I'm thrilled by the beautiful horses I've seen and don't mind too much (feeling that if I'm killed, I die happy).

We go back to the hotel where I work to continue our date in the bar there. Before we go in, he pulls me behind the car and kisses me. He's a very good kisser and his eyes still mesmerize me. But in the bar, I drift toward my friends and he towards his own.

A while later, he's gone. I never see him again. I don't really mind.


"All I wanted was a white knight
with a good heart, soft touch, fast horse..."
(Faith Hill: "This Kiss")

a Thai hand

My Thai nephew is in his early teens - a gorgeous, black-haired boy with an inherent fashion sense and a shy, irresistible charm. His most treasured possessions are his guitar, his subwoofer, his mountain bike and his friends - not necessarily in that order.

His eyes eyes shine at me across the table in one of the Thai restaurants in our town. Unusually, I'm having lunch with only him and his mother, the rest of the family occupied elsewhere. As we leave the restaurant, his mother and I grab one each of his hands and walk like that for a while, just to tease him. The teenager scoffs but indulges us with an eye-roll.

In fact, I can only recall one other time that just the three of us had lunch in town together. It must be close to ten years ago. He was tiny then, just arrived from his country of birth and shoved into a cold Finnish winter. I remember him charming shop assistants and just about everyone we met. And I remember him walking hand in hand with me just like this. His tiny hand in a thick winter glove. It's a ten-year-old déjà-vu.

thunder and a baby

Poetic memory:

Sitting curled up in an attic window, watching a thunderstorm rage over Irish mountains. The only other person in the quiet room was a six-week-old baby sleeping peacefully. I sat there for three hours.

helps me breathe

"I crave space. It charges my batteries. It helps me breathe. Being around people can be so exhausting, because most of them love to take and barely know how to give. Except for a rare few."

(Katie Kacvinsky, First Comes Love)

once, I hugged the world

Weird memory:

Wearing a swimsuit and hugging a world globe while being photographed by a Belarussian artist named Natasha.

She was going to use the pictures to do a painting but was later distracted by money problems and a dramatic breakup with a French boyfriend who had bad teeth. But I think I'm entitled to say that I have worked as a swimsuit model.

OK, unpaid. But still.

skull drill

On a sunny October afternoon I sit on my white sofa, calculating the costs of starting a business, while someone is drilling an everlasting hole in the neighbour's wall. They could be drilling into my skull. It must feel the same.

the dragon woke me again

From ghoulies and ghosties,
and long-leggedy beasties,
and things that go bump in the night,
Good Lord, deliver us!
(traditional Scottish poem)

No ghosts have bothered me yet. Long-leggedy beasties are admittedly scary but most of them can be thwarted with a good mosquito net or by making your home in a modern apartment building. But things that go bump in the night are tough to deal with.

Thanks to a plumbing renovation project in my building, there is a hellish contraption somewhere that at irregular intervals lets out a very ghoulish roar. Trust me, it's not something you want to wake up to in the middle of the night.

For years, any unexpected noise in the night would wake me immediately and set my heart racing. It was the result of scary things having startled me awake too many times. The sudden rattle of a door handle when drunk men tried to get into my room, cars crashing spectacularly right outside my window, thunderbolts, people screaming in pure rage, and that industrial-size fire alarm that once went off right next to my head on my most hungover morning ever. Sleeping, or suddenly and confusingly awake, I feel so vulnerable.

Nowadays I lead a quieter life and sleep quite peacefully. I don't go into full fight-or-flight mode when that beastly roar makes the building vibrate at 3 am. "Maybe there's a dragon in the dungeon," I think before rolling over and going back to sleep.

miles to go before I sleep

The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

(Robert Frost)

Robert Frost knew the magic of night-time wanderings, apparently. Knew the peace of the woods. Knew the joy of keeping a promise. And the weariness when you just have to push on, regardless.

a decade of coffee, Finland and men

Ten years of blogging today! A decade since I bought my first laptop and started worrying that it would break down.

Wordle has found the words I used the most, that first year on this blog. Back in the day, PianoPoet had eyes for new men, took a beautiful look at the universe and felt that life was time-like. Or like a lifetime. Maybe.

I'm frustrated by the lack of creativity and originality (in my blog and in every other piece of writing in the entire history of the written language) and would like to find a whole new way of writing. Dramatic, funny, profound. Having failed, I sulk and play with Wordle.

go help your brothers

Once, on a flight, I ended up sitting next to a guy I knew but hadn't spoken to after he hit his girlfriend and I let her stay at my place and harboured very murderous thoughts towards him. Seeing as I next to never harbour murderous thoughts at all, this was significant. We spent the time on the flight talking about the incident and when we landed I had not forgiven him but had to admit to myself that people make mistakes and should at least be given a chance to redeem themselves.

A few years later, I heard that my best friend in school (whom I later got out of touch with) had gone through a very dramatic break-up with her husband. Rumour had it the police had to rescue her from him, a rather reliable source later told me a court had found the husband guilty of prolonged physical and mental abuse. Again, murderous thoughts. I contacted my former best friend to show my support, we exchanged a few private messages and what she told me seemed to confirm most of the rumours.

Around the same time, the husband started to hang out with some other friends of mine and I ran into him now and then. I'm not the confrontational type. Actually, I'm rather the people-pleasing, compulsively smiling type. The fact that I was chilly toward him and avoided his company spoke volumes about how much I hated his guts.

The problem was, as he was hanging out with my friends, I couldn't completely avoid him. The other problem was that, a few months after his divorce, he seemed to be working through his issues and becoming a very harmonious, stable, likeable person. He started going out with one of my friends. When my father suddenly died, the two of them showed me unwavering support and sympathy, and even though I never sought it from them specifically - I actually tried to avoid them both - it came to mean a lot.

In short, after a year or so, it had become impossible not to like the man even though I resisted valiantly. He was kind, compassionate, humble, supportive. One of the few who saw how lonely I was and tried to help me through it. I still didn't understand why he had apparently abused his first wife, and how he could live with it. I probably never will. For a while, I worried that his new girlfriend might be in danger but now I'm convinced she never will be. When his suspended prison sentence officially ended, I celebrated it together with him and a group of friends. Now, a few years later, this man is settled and happy, as far as I can tell, and has helped other men who are going through life crises of various kinds.

The other day, another friend of mine called me in deep, heartfelt despair. He had been arrested, thrown in jail, then transferred to a psychiatric hospital after literally beating his head bloody against the walls of his cell. The reason? He had been in a violent, physical fight with his girlfriend. This time, I held back my murderous thoughts and went to visit him in the hospital. I might put him in touch with my other, former wife-beating friend. He is now in the perfect position to help someone else and I know he is willing.

I still reserve the right to harbour murderous thoughts on this issue. But I know now that there is nobody who can't be redeemed. And once you are redeemed, go help your brothers.

getting ready to exist

"I’d woken up early, and I took a long time getting ready to exist."

(Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet)

passionate, weird

"I just want to have a completely adventurous, passionate, weird life."

(Jeff Buckley, on moving to New York)

I have a long way to go still. But this week I saw a silver fox on a leash, asked around for a man who could deal with demons, and loaded a wheelbarrow full of hay before putting a live poodle on top. Sometimes my life qualifies for the "weird" category. 

it takes more than bread

"It takes more than bread to stay alive. It takes a steady stream of words from God's mouth."

I think of this as I make myself another sandwich. It's been too long since I listened to the voice of God.


(Quote from The Message Bible, Matt. 4:4)

scent here to remind you

Carried a potted plant home in the dark but warm September night. The scent of its flowers seemed incongruent with autumn.

I thought: Summer is over but life is not.

you will never solve the Irish

"Your reason for being in Ireland?" The inspector licked his pencil and indelibled his pad.
"Reason has nothing to do with it," I blurted.
His pencil stayed, while his gaze lifted.
"That's a grand start, but what does it mean?"
"Madness."
He leaned forward, pleased, as if a riot had surfed at his feet.
"What kind would that be?" he asked politely.
"Two kinds. Literary and psychological. I am here to flense and render down the White Whale."
"Flense." He scribbled. "Render down. White Whale. That would be Moby Dick, then?"

Some time after I came back to my home country after four years in the enchanted land called the Emerald Isle, I picked up a little book by Ray Bradbury (famous of course for, among others, Fahrenheit 451). It wasn't a novel, strictly speaking, more of a memoir of a certain time in the writer's life, but the magic in it made it seem like part fiction, part dream.

It was called Green Shadows, White Whale and described Bradbury's adventures in Ireland in the Fifties when he was there to write a screenplay. Bradbury discovered the same thing about the country as I did: there is magic in it, obvious even to a person who doesn't believe in that sort of thing. Ireland in the Fifties was very different than the Ireland I knew but my heart jumped in joyful recognition.

Books about another era than my own usually fail to engage me - I can't seem to relate to anything outside my own time - but this strange little book is still one of my favourites. 

"...you will never probe, find, discover or in any way solve the Irish. We are not so much a race as a weather. X-ray us, yank our skeletons out by the roots, and by morn we've regrown the lot. You're right, with all you've said!"
"Am I?" I said, astonished.
The inspector drew up his own list behind his eyelids:
"Coffee? We do not roast the bean - we set fire to it! Economics? Music? They go together here. For there are beggars playing unstrung banjos on O'Connell Bridge; beggars trudging Pianolas about St. Stephen's Green, sounding like cement mixers full of razor blades. Irish women? All three feet high, with runty legs and pig noses. Lean on them, sure, use them for cover against the rain, but you wouldn't seriously chase them through the bog. And Ireland itself? Is the largest open-air penal colony in history ... a great racetrack where the priests lay odds, take bets, and pay off on Doomsday. Go home, lad. You'll dislike the lot of us!"

thx 4

Sleep, morning contemplation on the balcony with bare feet and sleepy eyes, work that finally seems to be taking off.

My new laptop that mostly works, my old laptop that always works, discount coupons to the lunch café with the lovely, lovely sallad buffet.

A new novel by Tana French, a few hours spent working under the watchful eye of Abraham Lincoln, a latte in the sun because summer is not quite over yet.

Business plans, the fact that I don't hate the gym anymore, all the friends that stay in touch.

Strength of body, integrity of mind, love of God.

pale stars rising

"Understand, I’ll slip quietly away from the noisy crowd when I see the pale stars rising, blooming, over the oaks. I’ll pursue solitary pathways through the pale twilit meadows, with only this one dream: You come too."

(Rainer Maria Rilke)

book clubs of my life

The university one:
The Fairytale Club. Adult women studying ethnology, theology, languages and political science, among other things, gathered to read classic children's stories out loud and knit. (I refused to knit.) It was The Wind in the Willows, the wonderful Moomin books and other educational ones.

The Irish one:
The "Book" Club (sarcasm audible in the name). Each member wandered down to the pub to have a quiet drink while reading their book in peaceful solitude. Inevitably, we ran into each other and discussed the state of the world while spilling drinks on our unopened books.

The yet-to-be-defined one:
The Book Opinionateds (strange ungrammatical name intentional and supposedly witty). A bunch of elderly ladies, a few young women with a Master's in literature, and two men - of which one is a Mexican bohemian. I joined the club today and was thrown into the middle of a heated debate about an Icelandic novel I hadn't read (and by the sound of it, wouldn't want to read). A horse-breeding lady claimed that the characters strongly reminded her of her Icelandic ponies. My music teacher in primary school (now retired) loved the book (I remember her having a strange taste in music, too). One of the literature grads was opinionated indeed and kept throwing in references to literary theory to remind us amateurs of her expertise. (Next time I'll show her she's not the only Finn who can quote Paradise Lost.) (I might have to brush up on some quotes first, though.) The non-Mexican, non-bohemian man wanted us to read poetry later in the autumn, and my inward groan was almost audible.

I loved it. Whyever did I allow years to go by without the pleasure of a real book club? Afterwards, I laid in a straight course for the library.

top 5 today

Mexican restaurants
Book clubs
Scented candles
Laptops
Friends who come bearing wine bottles

sometimes I'm terrified

"Sometimes I’m terrified of my heart; of its constant hunger for whatever it is it wants. The way it stops and starts."

(Edgar Allan Poe)

bicycles and the human race

"Every time I see an adult on a bicycle, I no longer despair for the future of the human race."

(H.G. Wells)

Every time I see a flat tire on my bicycle, I despair.
(me)

what september is

September is twilight on a balcony overlooking the bay, a warming drink and sweater, and a laptop on my lap.

It is the joy of Indian summer days and the fear of a long winter ahead. It is melancholy and eagerness.

It is people.

It is small lights in darkness.

It is a chill creeping up, and leg warmers.

on a slow boat to paradise

After a cold summer, this was my reward:

Smooth, sun-heated stone, the peaceful silence of nature void of humans, a sea like glass. An archipelago where few humans ever set foot (the benefits of living in a sparsely populated country). We came, we swam, we swooned with happiness.

Maybe the best part was that my sister and I recognized the place from another family boat trip in the early 80s, when we were very young. It was paradise, and it was still untouched. We had a history there, so it felt like ours.

thank the wagtail

If you sit for a while in a place where there is wind in the trees, and birds and butterflies around, you can hear and breathe life.

I think I had forgotten it for a while, that the planet itself is alive. Too much winter, too much city. I really need to feel this life that is not human. It comforts me when I'm sick of people.

This summer, I was reminded of this again. Thank you wagtails, inchworms, squirrels and a thousand others I could mention.

mocking the mock-ups

I looked through the new IKEA catalog. It took me about three hours, for the same reason I enjoy walking through their showrooms.

Not that I'm in love with their stuff. It's just a source of never-ending fascination to me, to see rooms that are designed and arranged for photo shoots. To think that every single item has been placed in that exact position to mimic reality and make people covet that room.

Like that throw "carelessly" abandoned on the bed, the books chosen for their cover, the mandatory plant included to add a splash of green. The bedlamps asymmetrically arranged to prove that this is a place where real people live (they have just stepped out for a moment).

And the kitchens - endless amusement in the way the too-few utensils are arranged on the shelves. Always a couple of plates and mugs, rarely matching but chosen to offset one another beautifully. Some odd item as well, such as an ancient key hanging on a hook. Colourful fruit.

I snort in mocking delight, but deep down inside, I do want to live in these rooms. The minimalist in me envies the person who can get by with so little stuff (and apparently afford a cleaner too).

concrete plans

In a bizarre twist in my bizarrely twisted career, I'm back in the clothing business. Well, half of me is. The other half is still in the subtitling business. Am I the first person in the history of the world to combine these two?

The boss who fired me a couple of years ago is my boss again, the job is more or less the same (but I have very effectively managed to forget how to do it), most of my former coworkers are gone, the office is new. I mean, brand new in a brand new building with brand new furniture by an up-and-coming Danish designer. My desk is made of smooth concrete. I love it. Will be good to bang my head against in despair later.

sand love

There is nothing better you can do on a hot summer's day than watch the beachvolley championships.

Except maybe play beachvolley.

Especially when you have friends with you who like strawberry drinks as much as you do.

being of a sound mind

Sounds on a summer night when you look out on the world and drink something green:

* laughter
* outboard motors
* male shouts
* high heels
* the pop of hot metal window sills cooling
* thump of a baseline
* dogs barking
* people going places
* seagulls
* hum of streetlights starting up

And I think I can hear the earth turning, too.

cut from marble, smoother than a storm

The sea was as still as a mirror, the sunlight golden and tender on the skin. The peace of the open horizon was disturbed only by the birds flittering around me as if I wasn't even there, in their paradise. It was perfect. Perfect beauty, perfect summer.

And I had only a few precious hours to experience all this before summer was over and I had to return to the city to face another long winter. I couldn't stand the pain of knowing this. It broke my heart. So I packed my bags, gave up those few hours and left paradise early.

I have so much here in the city, I know. The sun is still tender on my skin, I can see the sea from here and it is still like a mirror. There is a warm salt lamp illuminating my safe harbour as the sky slowly darkens. I can hear the pulse of the city and the response inside me, my blood heating up for new adventures. I'm strong and free, I have a life to make the most of.

But the memory of paradise is still aching inside me.

"...so I just try to keep up with the red, orange, yellow flicker beat sparking up my heart..."
 

(quote from "Yellow Flicker Beat" by Lorde)

colour-coded day

Walked through a carrot-coloured part of the city.

Later, I painted a table white and the sun made everything white hot.

The indigo of a night walk with the moon was my favourite.

houses on the go

Traffic was unusually slow the other day. That's what happens when four houses apparently have decided to go for a little road trip.

Eventually, all four of them and their escort cars squeezed into a tiny lay-by to let a queue of impatient drivers pass (or for other reasons - one of the drivers was apparently desperate for a pee, judging by what I glimpsed as I drove past). Just another day on highway 8.

shadows and pink grapefruit

I sit in the shadows, as I so often do in the evenings. A flickering candle, the glow of a laptop, the soft velvet light of twilight sky and sea outside.

What else I do nowadays: paint my furniture white, smell of pink grapefruit, take all my boring greying plates and mugs to the charity shop and return with odd pieces of crockery in blood red, buttercup yellow and petrol blue, bemoan the lack of creativity everywhere (including my own life), put in my mouth anything that has the word "strawberry" in the description.

stirs up

"Coffee brings warmth and comfort to my life. Part ritual, part relationship, part hope, having a cup in my hand feels as natural as holding a pencil. It stirs up memories and gratitude inside me."

(Nicole Johnson) 

end-of-summer habits

As summer draws to a close, I instinctively hoard candles and scented tealights. I think a lot about clothes, like cool scarves and heavy boots - because I seem to be able to handle all the challenges of autumn and returning to work if I just feel good about what I'm wearing.

I get excited about courses I could take and gyms I could join, then get depressed about how overbooked my free time will be, then get excited again.

I alternate between desperately squeezing all I can out of the last summer days and longing to get back to TV and the internet.

This afternoon, I dawdled around in the summer heat in bare legs and silver sandals. This evening, I'm pulling a blanket over me while listening to the chilly rain. I'm in between.

a dancer from the past

You know the kind of friend you have at uni, the one who was secretly in love with you back then (or at least you told yourself he might be), brought you icecream, told you stories that made your jaw drop, danced with you, kissed you as part of a fairytale, broke your laptop, went off to run a motorcycle club in Jerusalem.

I just reunited with that friend. His life is quite different now. He has kids, a Porsche and a terrible story. My jaw dropped again.

I won't kiss him again, but I do love him. (Not just because he let me testdrive the Porsche.)

I wrote this (can't think why)

From the cutting room floor of my blog, here are a few weird sentences that thankfully never made it to publishing (until now, when I'm desperate enough to post just about anything):

"Trendy toy she absolutely insisted on having: Monchichi."

"... a dismal autumn day, from the perspective of a shop entrance ..."

"How to tie somebody up so they can't get on their feet."

"There are lots of little flies, big mosquitoes and even the occasional hairy spider."

"A chameleon has a tough life."

"Having my home invaded feels like being violated in the worst way."

"New York is a symphony. A galaxy."

"I glimpse a girl who is so pale-skinned that she might be a ghost."

"... too anxious to please God..."

"Today was downright hypnotic."

"Could it be that I'm at the heart of the world after all."

"Volleyball. Forever and ever the love of my life."

"Je voudrais parler à mon père..."

"His latest toy is a large excavator, in which he happily spends hours digging a ditch."

"Forced myself through French lessons despite feeling useless at it and hating every minute (would I do that now?)"

"... a man of mystery, rarely seen outside the kitchen..."

"Too cold and tired for living."

"Finns moan about the ever-lasting darkness."

"All because I got the sack."

"My friend is explaining how to travel across the frozen sea."

"A dozen selfies from various angles of some airhead with nothing to say..."

"... a few more years of this, I will no longer be capable of thinking with concentration on a single subject..."

"I write about Stinissen and the spell check suggests: stinsen, stinnaste, stinknäsa."

what her heart sounds like

"Call your mother. Tell her you love her. Remember, you’re the only person who knows what her heart sounds like from the inside."

(pobredreamer, Tumblr)

hotstepper and night air

Improvised a halloumi-clove-basil omelet. It tasted like egg.

The rest of the day consisted of a flea market, chartreuse green and boho jewellery,  "Here Comes The Hotstepper," blueberry liqueur and intervening in a fight between a cat and a dog.

Oh yes, and I tried to define the concept of groove. It seemed important. Which led me back to one of my favourite songs, Jamie Woon's "Night Air".


I don't need those car crash colors
I control the skies above us
Close my eyes to make the night fall
Comfort of a world revolving
I can hear the earth in orbit
In the night air

writer's block as a lifestyle

Came across my lifelong dilemma, again.

My old university is now accepting applications to a two-year creative writing program run by two established authors.

Sounds like a DREAM. I immediately visualised inspiring sessions together with a tight-knit group of aspiring writers, passionately discussing literature and boosting each other's writing (preferably over a pint in a cosy pub, kind of like Tolkien and Lewis and that gang). Making lifelong friends and magically turning into a writer. I sat down immediately to write the three-page text sample necessary for the application, free choice of genre.

And realised that I couldn't. I can't write fiction.

It's not that I question my own ability, it's that I find it a complete waste of time. Which is very odd because I love reading fiction, basically read nothing else. But I want what I write to be true, or at least have a message to the reader. I can't seem to find a message. And as to writing the truth - well, the truth doesn't really seem interesting enough. I doubt that a few pages out of my blog will do for the application.

Dilemma: what do you do when you love writing but all you can manage is a blog?

so juicy you can't spill

And I heard the most SCANDALOUS story that will probably ever happen across my boring little life, the kind that would even make the headlines, and I can't tell anyone. Not even my best friend. Sometimes I wonder why I have morals.

urban joy

After a week in the wild, I feel as if I'm doing all the things urban hipsters do (or what I imagine them doing) - I go for  a run and afterwards dress in white and denim and sip something strawberryish in a white city apartment while browsing Pinterest.

Running (usually a painful chore) felt as if my trainers had developed little wings. I returned to my little flat in the sky bursting with strength and freedom.

I love the city, the sound of people's voices screaming and laughing in the distance even when I have shut myself in. I love being online again. But oh, was it ever hard to tear myself away from the stillness of a place where there are only trees and a quiet sea.

turns a meal into a feast

"Gratitude unlocks the fullness of life. It turns what we have into enough, and more. It turns denial into acceptance, chaos to order, confusion to clarity. It can turn a meal into a feast, a house into a home, a stranger into a friend."
(Melody Beattie) 

I think I need this gratitude, whatever it is.

The world is an impossible place for atheists. To have gratitude, you need someone to be grateful to.

the usual story (never to be written)

A candle, something sweet in a glass, a head full of dreams and absolutely nothing to write about.

white roses are a warning sign

I read blogs to find inspiration. Someone I knew had a beautiful one, like a piece of art in itself. Gorgeous pictures that should hang in an art gallery, poetic writing, creative and tasteful layout.

Then I found that many of that blogger's friends had almost identical blogs. Other pictures of course, and clearly their own writing, but somehow so very alike that they could have been copy-pasted off each other.

Pictures of white roses. Pictures of a few lines of poetry on ancient paper, surrounded by props such as vintage books, a single flower (sometimes dead and dried), white linen, a Diptyque candle. The colour scheme always white with greyish tones, pictures often in black and white and with a shimmering, softening filter. The writing center-aligned with careful line breaks to make prose look like poetry, talking about the beautiful little things in everyday life - the evening light, the warm skin of a loved one, a mug of tea, a sudden realisation that happiness is just a breath away.

I used to find these blogs so beautiful, the pictures as well as the writing. Such a welcome relief after reading all these air-headed, girly blogs with dozens of selfies that show off "today's outfit" from every possible angle. After I found these beautiful ones, I saw the whole world through a golden shimmer for a little while.

Then I discovered that this is a trend, this vintage-artsy-minimalistic-photographer/writer blog. These creative blog writers were suddenly not very creative after all, but interchangeable. It kind of broke my heart a little.

this expression

"You had this expression on your face, like you weren’t quite sure you were supposed to be on Earth."

(Iain Thomas, I Wrote This For You)

I feel this expression on my face every now and then. 

an American touch(down)

Summer in a tiny Finnish city: sunshine, ice cream and not a bad game of American football.

Actually, I wouldn't know if it was a bad game or not, since it was the first one I've ever seen. American football is not a big sport in Finland, although our local team happens to be a good one. But there were big guys throwing each other to the ground, talk of yards and quarters (which sounds strange in the mouth of a Finnish commentator, but he was very good at explaining the game to us ignorant Finns), cheerleaders (although very young and rather half-hearted) and some good music on the loudspeakers.

We were baking under the hot sun but the man at my side kept bringing me ice-cold cans of Pepsi from the concession stand. So no cause for complaint at all.

eyes on the horizon

I have spent so many hours of my life just staring at the sea.

What a wonderful life to have.

hips move mountains

"You are beautiful.

Own it.

Walk like your hips move mountains."

(unknown)

a summer with no orphans

Vacation-time coming up and I'm already worried.

There will be boredom and restlessness and I need to plan against it. I'm stocking up on books (in my own two languages, for relaxation) and magazines (in another language, for linguistic studies) and photos (to sort out) and sports bras (for beachvolley) and limoncello (well, for consumption) and tips on fun summer events around here (for consideration) and addresses to the best flea markets within a hundred mile radius (for shopping) and good music (for enjoyment and something to talk to my teenage nephews about) and nail polish (for bare toes) and patience (for family get-togethers) and cider (for balcony cider evenings with my balcony cider buddy) and borrowed poodles (for company).

I feel it won't be enough. I'll add episodes of House M.D. (for desperate times).

And now I feel like a shallow whiner. What I really should do is go rescue drowning orphans out of the Mediterranean.

like an Arabic queen

One thousand and one blog entries. I'm Scheherazade keeping herself alive.

But it's Midsummer and there are no nights.

crave a different kind of buzz

Today, I have...

* stared at a bottomless green lake I didn't know existed
* shouted at my phone, in public
* used the word "orgasm" at a church lunch (in conversation with a  male pastor)
* tried to reconcile my cynicism and my idealism
* tried to lose weight
* watched a  royal wedding  on TV with my mum
* been given a beautiful present for no reason (see necklace below)

At least a few of these fall into the category of Things I've Never Done Before / Places I've Never Been Before, so not a bad day at all. Better buzz than a royal wedding.

(What definitely does NOT fall into this category is the reconciling and the weight-loss attempt.)

there's a world not far from here

I take one of my thinking walks.

Not along the beautiful seafront promenade, or the busy streets in the city centre. I walk among back streets and the long street with the long name Korsholmsesplanaden - although that one can't be called a back street, it's a boulevard with a quiet tree-lined footpath in the middle.

I don't look around much. I need to stare at the asphalt beneath my feet in order to sink into a thinking state. I avoid noise and traffic but the occasional dog-walker or cyclist is fine - completely empty streets make me feel abandoned.

I stop for coffee at one of those places with stale coffee and too many men playing the slot machines. When I return home, it's chilly and grey. But children are playing football in the park, birds are chirping around me and all I can think of is a glass of wine and a quiet evening.

I haven't done much thinking. But my mind has slowed down and only plays a quiet melody.

- our hearts are like firestones,
when they strike we feel the love -

solar opposites

Fascinating fact about Finland:

 A midnight in June (picture above) has roughly the same amount of daylight as a noon time in December.

thawing out the zombies

It's the idyllic part of the Finnish year.

Birdsong and fragrance and people who seem less like zombies. Myself feeling slightly less like a zombie.

alphabet for gloomy children

A Dystopian Alphabet
…for gloomy children (and their parents) everywhere.

A is for APPLE, iPhone and Mac.
B is for BEES, that died out some time back.
C is for CONCRETE, our modelling-clay,
D for DISPOSABLE – throw it away.
E is for ENERGY (that’s what we burn),
F is for FINANCE that makes the world turn.
G is for GREENHOUSE GAS, warming the earth,
H is for HOPE, of which there’s a dearth.
I is for INTERNET, that’s where we play.
J is for JOBS, performed for less pay.
K is for KINDLE, where e-books are put.
L is for LIBRARIES (all of them shut).
M is for MEDICINE for all our ills.
N is for NHS - submerged by bills.
O is for OXYGEN, without which we’d die
P for the PLANTS that provide our supply.
Q is for QUESTIONS that should have been asked.
R, for RESOURCES, running out fast.
S is for STATE SCHOOLS, which used to be free,
T is for TRANSPORT, which links A to B.
U is for UVs that come from the SUN
V is for VIRUS - never much fun.
W is for WARHEADS we cannot afford
X marks the spot where your VOTE is ignored.
Y is a chromosome, cleverly linked.
Z is for ZEBRA, now sadly extinct.

(Joanne Harris)

choose a man

"I, with a deeper instinct, choose a man who compels my strength, who makes enormous demands on me, who does not doubt my courage or my toughness, who does not believe me naïve or innocent, who has the courage to treat me like a woman." (Anaïs Nin)

And people wonder why I'm single.

a mini-van and someone else's life

Late one night I find myself trying to manouver an unfamiliar mini-van through the city streets after receiving a panicked phone call from a friend going into labour.

Nervous and high on adrenaline, I put all my effort into projecting calm and cheerfulness for the benefit of the three small children staring at me shyly from the back seat. I'm a half-stranger to them and the situation must be even weirder for them, after hearing their mother gasp in pain and their father give me hurried instructions.

As I try to figure out the car and navigate vaguely remembered roads to find their grandparents' house, I feel oddly elated. This is like taking a peek at someone else's life. Like being a mother. Is this something I have missed out on?

It's oddly satisfying, being responsible for three small lives. On the other hand, it's nice to be the one that can be called on to sort out a crisis at a moment's notice.

manual overload

Downloaded a manual for my new phone onto my new phone.

Now I can't find it because I need a manual to tell me where to locate a downloaded manual.

Just another day in the life of a 21st century savage.

a bigger brain moved in

New phone. (Old one broken, beyond repair they say with an infuriating shrug. It was only three years old and well treated.)

The phones of today scare me. I don't have the first idea what mine is doing. It asks me for mysterious downloads and updates and registrations and I feel as if I'm signing away my privacy and safety and soul. It has a bigger brain than I do and is always humming away, doing mysterious stuff in the background.

I'm sure it's only a matter of time before it starts to share information about me with the entire world. What I do, where I am, what my bank details had for breakfast.

And it conveniently fails to locate my high score on Angry Birds.

why Mondays (or Thursdays) are blue

I think life's secret is to just decide to be alive and present and happy, and I will be.

I also think it's all a fatal mistake I've made, a dreadful self-deceit, and the moment I admit it, everything will crumble around me.

This is like trying to believe in two impossible and mutually exclusive scenarios at one. No wonder Monday mornings are tough.

(Actually, Thursday evenings are worse. But that's just me.)

That was today's Deep Thought. And a reminder why it's detrimental to my health to have too many of these Deep Thoughts. Now, back to being shallow and superficial and watching NCIS: LA.

Mucha and the red toaster

My phone is broken and I feel a bit lost and anxious.

Tried to fix the situation by buying a curtain, a Mucha illustration, a velvety jacket, a tomato-red toaster and icecream. Most of it in a second-hand shop, but still.

for cuddling

"Saturdays are for adventure; Sundays are for cuddling."
(unknown)

Or picnics. Picnics are okay on Sundays, too. I had one today. There was pizza, fizzy cider, wild kids, friends who screamed with laughter, and a little bit of vomit.

art with Nutella

Fallen in love with Pascal Campion. Can't get enough of his art, especially the urban landscapes. Or anything of his, really. Finally someone who knows how to create a masterpiece named "You, Me and Nutella".

garlicky, chocolatey birthday

The rest of my birthday, by the way, consisted of the following:

* watching a train arrive at the station - one of my favourite things
* lunch at an unassuming but oh so peaceful pizza joint, sharing a very garlicky pizza with a friend
* going on a quest for cloves, brown sugar and a lemon
* working
* a deluge of birthday greetings on Facebook, moving me to tears
* and a candle-lit evening of wine, pie, pavlova, chocolate liqueur and three girls laughing until they cried. No-one ever went home. It was perfect.

laughing over blueberry stains

I splatter blueberry juice over half my kitchen, squeeze lemon over my sleeve, leave a carton of salt in the bathroom.

I laugh, free and unconcerned and happy to be alive. Happy that it's my birthday and I've created a beautiful pavlova and strangely combined it with hot whiskeys.

When I feel old, I celebrate the best thing about ageing: the strength, the confidence, the joy in just being who I am.

second home

City libraries in Finland are fantastic.

The one I frequent has enormous selections of books, magazines, audio books, films and music (not to mention sheet music!) in three languages, and smaller ones in a few other languages.

You can rent paintings to hang on your wall. Play the piano with headphones. Read magazines you've never even heard of. Join a book club, attend lectures and get personal tutoring on how to make the most of your iPad. Look at art. Eavesdrop on people in the café. Use a scanner or printer. Borrow music online. Hassle the staff with demands on foreign newspapers they should have in the reading room. Pick up second-hand (non-library) books for free at the book exchange table. Bring your laptop and work or study at one of the desks all day. Go look at the fish tank in the children's section. Borrow an interactive course to learn a foreign language or musical instrument. Watch a thunderstorm through the gigantic windows.

Or, most importantly, crawl up in a comfortable chair in a forgotten nook and lose yourself in a book. This library has nooks. Nooks are important.

the opposite of war

"The opposite of war isn't peace. It's creation."
(Jonathan Larson)

Perhaps this is why there is a war in my soul. What do you do when you can't create?

rest, and all the rest

A day of rest.

I never really know what to make of it. Stay in bed with Pinterest and a book? Watch DVDs? Go fleamarket shopping? Have a lazy lunch at a cute café? Take a long walk? Meet up with a friend? Visit Mom? Clean the house?

Do I want the result to be tired but content, or well-rested but bored?

retrieving a friend

Went to a dog show last Sunday.

I felt 12 years old again. The age when I ran around the neighbourhood with my best friend A., ringing strangers' doorbells to ask if we could walk their dog, knowing every dog breed by heart, making up a bunch of pretend dogs when  the real ones weren't enough.

Then friends took over my attention, and boys, and books, and Jesus, and volleyball. And A. disappeared out of my life, more or less, for decades.

At the dog show, I looked around and saw thousands of dogs and even more humans. I found I could still identify most of the dog breeds. At the retriever ring I stopped, because retrievers used to be our favourites.

Someone said, "Hi!" And there was A. beside me, grinning. It was so unexpected, so predictable, and so right. The tousled little brat was now a bank teller and mother of two, but the grin was the same. We walked around, discussing life and pointing out weird-looking dogs, and everything was the same.

you who have suffered

"You who have suffered - 

find where love hides,

give, share, lose,

lest we die

unbloomed."

(Allen Ginsberg)

rye chips day

Today is: blustery weather, rye chips with Greek yoghurt, and googling French caves for work.

horses and God

Fact: I can happily stand in a cold drizzle for hours if there are pretty horses to look at.

As long as I have a thick parka, a hotdog, a cup of lukewarm coffee and a friend who demands that we discuss God.

So I ended up explaining my views on heaven and hell while stroking the soft muzzle of a beautiful Irish Cob.

happiness, a dog and an inflatable raft

One of the very first  works of fiction  I wrote, at approximately age 12 or 13, was heavily influenced by (not to mention plagiarising) something from The Famous Five. Jo, the gypsy girl, takes her dog and runs away, but not without some careful packing of essentials which she loads onto an inflatable raft.

A raft, because it's handy and can be deflated and easily transported also overland (or so I imagined). The story I wrote never got very far beyond a detailed list of the stuff Jo packed.

What intrigues me about this story now, except how ridiculous it is, is how exactly it mirrors my sentiments today - sentiments that lay buried somewhere inside me for decades, under more generic nesting and gathering and mothering instincts. The urge to purge everything out of my life except the essentials, to travel light and be free of baggage.

And to have a dog. But that's another story.

wish I loved its silly face

"People are so different", a friend sighs on the phone.

I sit on my kitchen stove as I talk to her, absently staring out the window. I really need to do the dishes. I have spent the day working and obsessing over the bedspread I want to buy and can't find. Later today, I will interpret a church meeting into a foreign language but I'm not worried. I will also play a volleyball match, but am not worried about that either. I will show up and do these things and not think twice about it.

But I worry and think more than twice about how to deal with my friends. With people in general. Sometimes I find myself wishing to be left alone. Not a healthy thought. But I could do without most of the human race - or so I tend to think, with annoyance.

And then, sometimes, I am hit with such a soul-crushing pity and love for people that my knees almost literally buckle beneath me. It's too much, I can't handle it. I turn away.


“I wish I loved the Human Race;
I wish I loved its silly face;
I wish I liked the way it walks;
I wish I liked the way it talks;
And when I’m introduced to one,
I wish I thought; “WHAT JOLLY FUN!””

(Sir Walter Raleigh 1861-1922)

chat to change a nation

I feel a need to  chat to strangers.

I'm not actually the type of person who chats to strangers, rather the opposite.

But somebody has to do it. Nobody in Finland does (except my Dad, but he's dead). And that is just wrong.

carrots and love

On Equinox, the sun sets behind the tall chimney on the horizon.

By now, it overshoots the chimney without effort. And I saw swans flying north and someone in a boat trying to break up the remaining ice on the bay. Reliable signs of spring, all of them.

I'm chewing carrots, feeling troubled by all the terrorism happening in the world. Why all this hate?

Trying to come up with ideas on how to conquer the world with love. By tomorrow, I'll be back to my old cynical self.

subtly entitled

My subtitles can be seen on national television.

I feel kind of famous, except for the fact that no subtitler has ever achieved fame and I'm not likely to be the first. Still, something to brag about the next time I'm inebriated.

criminal, ugly fashion

Here's the thing: I really, really like  clothes.

Just wearing something a bit different, something I know looks good on me, not only makes me happy. It can give me hope for the future when I have none, it can boost my dreams and make me feel reinvented and inspired. Clothes help shape my self-image and heavily influence how confident I feel.

Having said that, I can lounge around in old PJ's on my days off (and hope nobody rings the doorbell - while I'm on the subject, let me apologize sincerely to those two Jehova's Witnesses whom I traumatized by answering the door in nothing but a ratty old bathrobe). And there are many days when I just throw on the same old pair of jeans and the first decent top that falls out when I open my closet door.

I spend very little money on clothes, since I buy most of them second-hand. Shoes I can occasionally drop a bit more money on (annually maybe 200 euro in total so not exactly shopping Louboutins, here). I view most of the fashion industry as an enormous, criminal waste of money and a disgusting oppressor of women.

I page through a glossy magazine, now and then, in the library. Mostly for the fashion editorials. Sometimes I like the clothes they present, more often not. (Maybe because my style never really seems to be in fashion, maybe because fashion editorial shoots just showcase really weird clothes that only sit well on stick-thin models and sometimes not even on them.) The shoes I may like, but know they wouldn't look good on me (six inch heels? I'm already taller than many men, so no thanks).

And the bags. What's the deal with the bags? All these LV, Chanel, Prada bags, all of them. SO UGLY. Am I really the only one to think so?

I have identified the outfit that is me, completely and utterly me.  Black, short/mid-length pencil skirt, black leggings/tights, and black boots, combined with a top that can be almost anything but preferably boho chic. I don't even wear it that often. But when I do, I know I'm being completely me.

stopping at Shell on your way to war

Out of some forgotten drawer, a postcard turned up.

The black-and-white picture on the front: an insignificant Finnish town in late Thirties or early Forties. Ancient cars, some unassuming buildings and  - of all things - a Shell petrol station (probably the hottest thing in town at the time).

The card is stamped "field post", which means it was sent from the battlefront during World War II. But what fascinates me most is that it was written by my grandfather to his son, my father. My grandfather whom I barely remember. The only real memento I have of him is an old violin - he used to play at wedding parties and such, until he found religion, which apparently put a stop to all that. Nobody else in the family played the fiddle. My father inherited it after his death and hung it on the wall - maybe just looking at it gave him some comfort.

I have never seen this handwriting before. I stare at it, bewitched. The ornamental curls in the capital N of our last name. I have never felt such significance in that name before. The father of my father wrote it as his own, sitting on some rickety train on his way back to the nightmares of war after a brief furlough at home. Still young but already a veteran. Already knowing what it's like to cower in the trenches under such heavy fire that you're convinced it's your last day on earth.

So when the train pauses in a tiny town, he gets off to buy a postcard to send home. The things he writes to his young son are generic and easy-going. "On my way there" to wherever he is going. "Hoping to be home soon." I can almost feel the pain behind this, leaving his wife and several children to fend for themselves on the farm, not knowing if he will actually make it back.

And the phrase "gud skydde oss alla". God protect us all.

I cried over this postcard. I'm going to start writing my last name with that curl in the N.

cyan and Indra's daughter

If you stare too long at a screen, the screen stares back at you.

Didn't Nietzsche say that? Why do I always seem to quote Nietzsche anyway (or is it the same quote over and over?), he wasn't that great from what I very imperfectly recall?

I've been staring at a screen forever,
drunk strawberry tea and chocolate tea and chamomile tea and not enough coffee,
shivered in many-layered scarves,
read my old history textbook from high school and scoffed,
savoured the colour of cyan,
involuntarily learned some politics,
donated blood,
felt happy,
felt bitter and anxious,
prayed for the life of a baby,
understood the pity of Indra's daughter,
bought two bottles of wine although my knees were almost too weak to carry both me and them.

guess this is what they call a spree

The unusual shopping list (turquoise bedspread, white paint, a bag of soil, and a pizza) turned out to be quite a challenge.

Let's just say that there are no nice bedspreads AT ALL in existence in the world. Whoever decided humanity should only have ugly bedspreads? And why?

The pizza was substituted for a tub of icecream but I managed to get the paint and the soil.

I also came home with a tiny chair, a huge wall print (picture above), three books, mini-daffodils and two spatulas. I seem to have been on a roll.

I also seem to have installed the Kindle reading app on my laptop today.

white paint and pizza

The Finns have a convenient word, takatalvi. "Return winter." Takatalvi is when you are enjoying a beautiful spring with budding leaves, singing birds, promises in the air - and then you wake up one morning to a blizzard.

There are weird people who enjoy all kinds of weird weathers, but I have yet to meet someone who likes a takatalvi. It's frustrating at the best of times.

I will deal with this week's takatalvi by getting to grips with an unusual shopping list: a shimmering, turquoise bedspread, white paint, a bag of soil, and a pizza.

legal alien

"If you want to know what’s important to a culture, learn their language." (Joanne Harris)

I'm trying. It feels really weird, being part of a minority sometimes. As if I'm an alien in my own country.

ice, mud, whiskey

Ice-skating on a silent sea,

going to the village where strangers wave at me,
an exhilarating mud drive with my mother's Toyota,
coffee al fresco,
making someone happy,
celebrating St. Patrick's Day with a hot whiskey...
...and with the magnificent aurora borealis, torching the night sky in green.

phone manners in Ireland

What happens when you buy a new phone in Ireland: You turn it on for the first time - fresh out of the packaging - immediately receive a text message and assume that it's some generic welcome message from the service provider or something.

Instead, it says, "Bitch you woke me up I was sound asleep".

In Ireland, even the phones are short-tempered. And woefully ignorant (or uncaring, more likely) about punctuation.

the vertical disco

The strip light in the lift is dying. Flickering wildly, sometimes plunging the lift into complete darkness. It's an exciting ride down from the fourth floor.

Someone has tried to put a positive spin on things and added a helpful note on the lift door.

poetic weather on the Baltic Sea

I'm not really interested in the weather forecast (why spoil the surprise?). But I partake of it sometimes, purely for its lyrical qualities.

I mean, "an Arctic blizzard with strong winds and six inches of snow", although not enjoyable in real life, sounds very poetic.

I also browse the website of the Finnish Meteorological Institute on occasion. It has links to beautifully named stuff such as the "Finnish Wind Atlas" and "Auroras Now". The funniest thing about the otherwise very professional-looking English version of this site is that it mistranslates the name of my part of the Baltic Sea, Kvarken, to  "the Quark".  I have heard that quarks are very difficult to observe, so here is a picture of not only a quark, but the Quark:

The warranted, genuine Quark

But the best part about the weather forecast is the report from the marine weather observation stations, listed every day on the radio. I don't really care what it actually says, but the list of stations is so evocative: Kalbådagrund, Makilo, Bågaskär, Utö, Kylmäpihlaja, Strömmingsbådan, Tankar, Ajos...

It awakens in me memories of waves crashing against lonely lighthouses, of seagulls and the crystal blueness of the sea in summer, and of the crisp saltiness in the air as I sit on the beach and stare out at my very own Quark.

an 81st

A candle, sweet pastries on a plate, steaming mugs of rooibos and instant decaf coffee.

This is the celebration of an 81st birthday. And not a bad one.

laugh with me

"I have these two neighbours and they’re married and they gotta be like in their late 30s and I’m making dinner and I look out the window and they’re running around outside in their pajamas and bare feet with water pistols soaking each other and laughing so loud it made me realise I’m wasting so much time trying to make relationships perfect when all that’s really needed is someone who will laugh with me for the rest of my life."

(unknown, via lost-and-so-not-found, Tumblr)

things I suck at

* Maths, or anything that involves numbers. Except counting money. I'm really good at counting money.
* Planning. Hate it and never stick to the plan anyway.
* Cooking. It bores me, and nothing beats a delicious sandwich or cold pizza slice anyway.
* Diving, snorkling or anything that involves putting my head under water (showers excluded). Won't do it.
* Calling my friends. I'm no good with phones in general. Face-to-face or some form of text-based communication only for me, and I'm not the best at staying in touch.
* Ambition and getting stuff done, go-getting. I'm more of a careful observer and inch forward step by cautious step.
* Conflicts. Scary. Although I'm getting better at speaking up.
* Cars. If my car is making a funny noise I deal with it by turning the radio up.
* Cold weather. Like a reptile, I go limp.
* Dating. Beneath a charming surface, I'm fickle and difficult.
* Being open and approachable. I hide.
* Growing up.

slow, sleepy, sweet

The slow sleepiness of a Friday afternoon.

Sun, dancing dust motes, strawberry tea. A friend reading a novel on my sofa, after a late lunch and a delicious glass of chocolate Bailey's. I'm not used to having people around, can't even remember the last time I cooked for someone else.

This weekend will consist of volleyball, wine and that terrible movie everyone is talking about. Right now, life is sweet.

by stories

"We age not by years, but by stories."

(Maza-Dohta)

my theme song

...and now I'm over-rated, overdressed and overstated.

how to stay happy

"Eat food from farmers markets.
Drink good tea each morning.
Read books that make you feel.
Paint, even if you’re awful.
Write, even when you have nothing to say.
Sit in the fresh air outside.
Go on hikes.
Swim in lakes and wade in streams.
Sleep as long as you need.
Work hard at what you love.
Work hard at what you hate.
Love unconditionally and wholeheartedly."

(unknown)

time for a Danish or something

Greyness that looks soft but is cold like frozen iron to the touch. And exhaustion.

Those are the characteristics of this time of the year, when you don't know if you dare hope for spring yet. The end of winter, but what an interminable end.

That's when you should go to a Thai restaurant. With soft lamps in all the windows, a smell of hot spices, colours that are a bit too garish and a Buddha staring at you. A refreshingly un-Finnish welcome.

In fact, I welcome anything  un-Finnish  this time of the year. Thai restaurants. Irish pubs. Portuguese wine. Kenyan coffee. Israeli oranges. Swedish music. American movies. Polish door-to-door vendors. Nigerian scam letters. Dutch courage. Spanish lullabies. French kisses.

(I draw the line at Brazilian waxes.)

driving me sane

Driving at night. Alone. Electronic music with a steady beat and a melody that twists, turns, explores ever-changing landscapes.

It slows down the endless spinning of my brain, cools the fever, creates a calm focus on what is right before me: the road, the night, the solitude. And sometimes, God speaks.

evolution's proudest moment

The "Please prove you're not a robot" feature in my blog's comment field has amused me before (I mocked it here).

Nowadays you no longer have to enter numbers and stuff to do this. To my absolute delight, you are now only required to tick a box next to the statement "I'm not a robot."

Apparently, the ultimate proof of genuine human nature is a mouse click. How our species has evolved!

put down your gun

"I seemed to hear God saying, 'Put down your gun and we’ll talk'."

(C.S. Lewis)

herbal tea and a kite

My eyes ache from staring at a screen and my herbal tea collection is growing - vanilla chai, chamomile and spiced apple, mango and strawberry, peppermint and nettles, chocolate.

I lift my eyes and they land on a bright blue kite against a grey sky.

I look at it for a long time. I dream about being a läppärikulkuri and of reading Kalevala. I think I should get that suspension thingy fixed in my car so I can drive without limits. I want to be brave.

become invisible

"I’m an observer. I read about life. I research life. I find a corner in a room and melt into it. I can become invisible. It’s an art, and I am a wonderful practitioner."

(Christine Feehan)

heading upstream with Herodotus

"... they all say that the earth is divided into three parts, Europe, Asia, and Libya, whereas they ought to add a fourth part, the Delta of Egypt..."

The library of religious and cultural history. Deserted, dusty and quiet. Sometimes there is a librarian there who gives me a discreet nod. Sometimes the only living soul is a dachshund, walking around with claws clicking against the floor.

I come here because it is the only department of the university library that has a copy of The Histories by Herodotus. And you are not allowed to take it out, so I sit in the quiet and read it for a few hours at a time, taking notes and listening to the clicking of claws. Knowing that just outside the dusty windows, the slow river is flowing by and that I could be sitting on the river bank in the sun.


"With regard to the sources of the Nile, I have found no one among all those with whom I have conversed, whether Egyptians, Libyans, or Greeks, who professed to have any knowledge, except a single person. He was the scribe who kept the register of the sacred treasures of Minerva in the city of Sais..."

What about the sources of the Aura, peacefully flowing past the window? One day I'm going to pack my bag, leave the libraries and go explore.

away

A nice, smiling girl in a shop made me cry today. She was nothing but nice, I just didn't like what she said about redeeming a voucher.

So I walked home in tears, and okay, I was probably hormonal or something but it happens too often nowadays. Having spent time around people I don't know, even if I don't interact with them at all, I come home exhausted and disillusioned with the entire human race, vowing to never again get within fifty feet of a person I don't know and like.

Away, away, I need to get away.

forget stardust - you are iron

"Forget stardust—you are iron. Your blood is nothing but ferrous liquid. When you bleed, you reek of rust. It is iron that fills your heart and sits in your veins. And what is iron, really, unless it’s forged?

You are iron.

And you are strong."

(n.t., Tumblr)

whole and laughing

A gang of handsome men burst into laughter when I spectacularly dropped the ball during a volleyball game today.

I grinned and took a bow. Then I did a little dance that was at once self-mocking and genuinely joyful.

This is a miracle.

Some years ago, I was a shattered soul who cowered whenever people laughed around me, convinced I was once again the butt of their jokes. I usually was. For many of my early teenage years, verbal and psychological abuse was thrown at me every day in school. I learned the hard way to never trust anyone's smile and to assume the worst at the sound of laughter.

Can you go on to live a trusting, loving life as an adult after that?

I don't know how, but I know I am. In all the years after that, my life has been crowded with women who entrust me with their darkest secrets and men who love me deeply and aren't afraid to say so. I don't really know where they came from so I have to say they were sent by heaven.

When guys I barely know start laughing in the volleyball court, I don't get that horrible, terrifying coldness inside. I laugh with them, somehow incongruously (and probably somewhat mistakenly) assuming they all adore me - and even if they don't, that nothing they do or say can really hurt me.

During those awful, lonely years I prayed many times for God to save me. He didn't exactly smite my oppressors. At the time, anyway. And I was never much of a fighter myself.

But not so many years later, this soul of mine that I thought was destroyed has a diamond core. It is whole and safe and feeling loved.

It shouldn't be possible. I think God gave me a miracle.


No power of hell, no scheme of man 
can ever pluck me from His hand
Till He returns or calls me home, 
here in the power of Christ I stand

(excerpt from song "In Christ Alone" by Getty/Townend)