to gaze upon the face of gangster-Jesus

Today I have: a runny nose, a virus-weak body and a high level of self-pity.

But surprisingly, I also have: a weird enthusiasm about life. The unexpected result of some philosophical musings I spent my Sunday on. Have no idea how they came about. But I will just revel in the feeling and then go to bed early.

Today's quote collection from the Little Shop of Harmony:

"I'm looking for a good picture of Jesus' face. Not one of those where he looks like a gangster."
"Who is that other customer who was just here? I saw her window-shopping at nearly midnight the other day! How does she dare to go out at that hour?"
"You want my signature? That's gonna cost you extra!"
"...and a nurse named Lisa told me those meds are dangerous but what are you going to do, you want to trust the doctors, don't you, so I just took them and..."
"What we need is some macho-angels."
"Check! Check!"

cows, jets and devious babysitters

In case someone hasn't noticed, I collect quirky comments. This is a sample from the last few days in the Little Shop of Harmony:

* Don't you think I'm cute?
* Are you related to that dentist?
* Do we have a book with a cow on the cover?
* It's time to buy a private jet.
* I'm supposed to be babysitting my grandson but I slipped out and asked him not to tell his parents. But I met them on my way out.
* I got my boat out of the water so that's one less thing to worry about.
* Can you give this book a PG rating?
* I just realised people can see me when I come out of the shower.
* I can't take that book into China.
* I can't be seen reading a book on the Hamas on a plane to the U.S.
* I don't believe in revival anymore.
* My hands are shaking after I walked up those stairs.
* I hate to ask for Christmas products this early, but do you have any?
* Next time, don't let me into the shop.

how to build a cathedral

My first thought: Why doesn't anybody build cathedrals anymore?

Then there is that story:

A traveler came upon a group of three hard-at-work stonemasons, and asked each in turn what he was doing.
The first said, “I am sanding down this block of marble.”
The second said, “I am preparing a foundation.”
The third said, “I am building a cathedral.”
(found in the Rule of St. Benedict, about 530 A.D.) 

 And lastly, a lovely quote:

"Lives of careless wrongdoing are tumble-down shacks;
holy living builds soaring cathedrals."
(Proverbs 14:11, The Message Bible)

So, I'm off to build. Holy living sounds difficult but really it's just sanding down the block of marble that God has assigned you, and doing it well.

freedom symbols

... lorries in the night, airports, alcohol in the middle of the afternoon, mountains, tobacco smoke, bare feet, hotels, open sea, dance music so loud you feel it in your bones, the first seagull in the spring, dark pubs, smell of train tracks, dreadlocks, flight tickets booked, vintage clothes, sound of cranes, high heels on a normal working day when sensible shoes would be better, driving alone, glimpsing another world, the faraway rumble of a subway train, an afternoon with friends doing absolutely nothing ...

forgiven on a Tuesday

Maybe my calling is different and maybe that's OK. Maybe I'm allowed to do the things that I love, the way that I like. Maybe I can let go today and start over. Maybe I can trust that everything will work out even when I'm not in control. Maybe I can believe just enough to take a step toward my dream. Maybe my prison is an illusion. Maybe grace is at work here and now.

And beauty is at work in this song by Illiyun...

lame excuses found in fantasy literature

Nicholas said bitterly, 'I fail all the time.'
Pug's smile was unforgiving. 'But you have a reason for failing, don't you?'
Nicholas felt a cold stab to his stomach as he said, 'What do you mean?'
'You fail not because you're lacking but because you're the lame child.' Pug floated in the air before Nicholas. 'You have two choices, Prince of the Kingdom. You can hang here until you grow old, knowing that there are all manner of great things you might do: save innocents, find the woman of your dreams, protect your subjects ... if only you didn't have a lame foot. Or you can cut yourself free from your excuse.' 
Nicholas tried to pull himself upward but couldn't gain any leverage.
Pug pointed an accusing finger. 'You've hit the rocks! You know what it is.'
'It hurts!' cried Nicholas.
'Of course it hurts,' chided Pug, 'but you get over it. It's only pain.'

(from The King's Buccaneer by R.E. Feist)

What's my excuse for letting fear run my life? There are great things I could do. If it's lack of money, is it really that hard to find a better job? (Actually, yes, it is, but...) If family is keeping me in a place I don't belong, should I leave despite the pain? If I'm waiting for a vision from God Almighty, then God help me!

competing with the ivy

To be twenty years old and leave your home town 200 miles behind you and go to university. To find yourself in a completely new world - university, big city, medieval buildings, weird people, independence. When this happens, you write something like this in your journal:

"... I'm scared and don't know how I'll ever manage university studies, it all seems so incredibly complicated. But still, can you believe it: I'm at university! 

I would like to complete lots of courses and learn so much now that I have the chance. Study opportunities like these may never come again. My flatmates, also freshmen, bemoan "the next six years" that we will spend here. The first day, standing on campus outside the large former factory building where we will have most of our lectures, one of them pointed out a small ivy plant creeping up the wall and said: 'That little green thing will have covered the whole building by the time we get out of here!' Both of them of course want to study but at the same time they long for it to be over and done with, and to move back home. 

I, on the other hand, never want to go back to Ostrobothnia - not that I don't love it, it will always be my home, but I long to see the world. And this is a little part of the world..."

as a kid, I wrote poetry like Shakespeare

My first (and undoubtedly classy) poem was written when I was about ten and impatient like most ten-year-olds:

Tomorrow
Tomorrow we go to the cottage
Tomorrow we go travelling
Why can't anything ever happen
This very day?

(My poetic skills have not improved much since, in case anyone wondered.)

Only recently I realised I had unwittingly ripped of The Great Bard:

To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
To the last syllable of recorded time

Only unlike him, I still had hope. At that age.

creeps in this petty pace from day to day

It's after midnight I and should go to bed. Tomorrow I'm taking my mother to buy yarn.

I wonder if there will ever be a day when my plans for the next day includes saving the world, making a dream come true or singing a song that will echo through the ages?

next year in the Swal Daw Pagoda?

Hopefully trying to cure a tension headache with lots of Riesling and a Norwegian ballad.

The wind is howling outside, like it always does in October.

Fleamarket find of the day: a map of downtown Rangoon, dated 1979. Wouldn't you just love to know how it made its way to a basement shop in a Finnish town thirty years later, to be found by a tired shop assistant waiting for the last customer to leave? Me too. I have never been within a thousand miles of Rangoon but I'm studying it carefully, tracing a route from Tsing Tsong Avenue to the Sacred Cave. I don't know if they still exist like they did in the seventies (the city is not even called Rangoon anymore, is it?) but when I go to check with Google Maps, I get lost in scrolling through the satellite maps showing alien-looking pagodas and asymmetrical houses with blue roofs.

Because that's the beauty of it all: although the thought has never before struck me, someday I may no longer be dusting off books in a quiet shop, preoccupied with plans to buy a bottle of wine to go with a lonely TV dinner. Someday I might end up in Rangoon.

message on a Mazda

Walked by your car and had this idea to leave a scribbled note on your windscreen. Something like "I love you, is that OK?"

But then I didn't. It seemed childish. Love is childish.

your hand, my handle

I look at your hand and I can see it
Grasping mine
Stroking my cheek
Averting violence
Holding  my life

timeline of Octobers

In October I have been:

* Dreaming of kitchen tables and novel-writing by open windows (2005)
* Discussing asthma with door-to-door vendors (2006)
* Shivering on the balcony, semi-unemployed (2007)
* Buying angels with crazy smiles (2008)
* Drinking wine with a robust heart (2009)
* Feeling invisible despite new nail polish (2010)
* Envying the rich and giving, giving, giving (2011)

beaten and blown by the wind

Another sunny, chilly, GORGEOUS autumn Sunday. Determined not to waste it this time, I decided to go cycling before breakfast (which on a Sunday occurs at an hour most people would call lunch).

I completely forgot that exercise on an empty stomach always turns me into a snarling monster that hates everyone and everything. Getting an ear-ache from the cold wind certainly didn't help. It took me half of the afternoon and plenty of comfort food to recover.

Lots of coffee and U2 - the mythical Remedy to Cure All Ills.