Thursday, July 26, 2018

to helsinki, to be inspired

We drive the 400 kilometres to Helsinki, the nations capital, to hang out on a lovely beach near the city centre and watch the beachvolley championships.

To eat a weird lunch of cabbage rolls, to sip cold beer under a chestnut tree while a group of Hare Krishnas are having a street party right in front of us.

To walk among oddly coloured houses, to feel the asphalt soften under our sandals in the sizzling heat, to seek refuge and good coffee in deliciously cool malls. To watch people with weird hair colours and weird attitudes. To wonder about the hieroglyphs painted on a door.

To spend a lazy, inspiring weekend in a heatwave, in a beautiful, quirky and cool city.

Saturday, July 21, 2018

storm-gazer's day

Storm-gazing across a darkening bay, breathlessly waiting for thunder rolling across land and sky. Making a show out of it, lining up sunchairs on the beach and handing out icecream, squabbling over whether that there was actually a lightning or not.

Thrillers are being read, neighbours are chatted with, bitter coffee is drunk.

Another hot day moves lazily into evening, darker than usual as the rain finally arrives. I feel the thirst of the withering land through my bare feet. Dry grass sighs with pleasure under warm rain. We light lamps for the first time in weeks - tonight there will be no near-midnight-sun - and huddle up around a kitchen table to eat chocolate pudding.

I'm savouring family life. There are dark winter nights ahead with not much company except for that of books and dreams, but that's OK. For now, there is everlasting sun and people to love and plans to be made.

Friday, July 20, 2018

horizons and horseflies

July sizzles under a record heatwave. This is where I'm happiest: in a cool sea, under a hot sun, with nothing but silent horizons and dreams and languages around me.

I stay as close to the sea as I can. Staring at distant islands, getting grass stains on my shorts, finding myself. I cook for my mother, study birds with my sister, lend my car to my brother-in-law, play silly games with my nephew.

I forget that there are such things as shoes, cold rain, work, lattes, make-up, friends, indoor activities.

I get annoyed by such things as horseflies, the proximity to my mother and the fact that the sun is trying to kill me.

I'm not moving from my hiding place until July is over.

Friday, July 13, 2018

me and another language and a mock-orange

I sit on a bench in the park and smell the sweet mock-orange and practice phrases like parce qu'elle est jeune nous pouvons la comprendre and think that it doesn't matter so much that I sit here alone.

Monday, July 09, 2018

his eyes aren't the ocean

"His eyes aren’t the ocean; I’m not going to drown when he tells me he doesn’t love me anymore.
His freckles aren’t really constellations that I can trace my fingers against so I can feel the stars shimmering under his skin,
and his veins are not a map I follow to lead me back to his heart where I belong.
He is honestly just a sleepy eyed boy with dimples and crooked teeth.
But it’s really hard not to see the world in someone when in truth, to you that’s what they are. Your entire fucking world."

(There’s just something about you (H.S), Dumbdaisies, Tumblr)

Sunday, July 08, 2018

pine resin and a sing-along


The month of June had:

A boisterous party with rain, barbecue, birch leaf wine and a lullaby, career changes and the man who always runs out in the middle of parties to save someone in distress.

A poodle week with summery walks and early strawberries.

Long days by the sea with pine resin, sweat and old lady-watching.

An icecream session with the clan and a sing-along in a microbrewery.

Watering the wildlife and translating gangster movies.

Saturday, July 07, 2018

the five-hour dinner of the Midsummer People

His beard is long and he looks like a hipster, my friend who has decided to leave the field of theology for a possible career in law enforcement.

It's Midsummer's Eve and he is in charge of the barbecue. I'm keeping him company in a drafty barn where we are barely sheltered from the cold rain. I move closer to the heat of the grill. I'm not dressed warmly enough in my jeans and tee but the smell of sizzling meat is delicious.

The air in the barn is dusty and grey, a bumble-bee occasionally buzzes around us. We have not talked like this for years, not since our days of playing pool in a dark basement.

Our friends are already gathered around the table. The cottage in the middle of the woods is warmly lit and nobody cares about the cold rain outside. There are hot steaks, corn and haloumi, homemade birch wine and a runny sorbet. There are more strawberries than we can eat. Someone plays a lullaby on the guitar and someone cries and someone gets their clothes ripped off by kids on a sugar rush.

The meal lasts for five hours, with the usual breaks for naps, rescue missions and disappearances.