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.