chemicals, violence and a governor

A day spent trawling through the legislation of Finland for no good reason. Everything from corporate law to the latest additions to the forbidden chemicals list, the construction of air-raid shelters and what happens to your maternity benefit if you die.

Now, after subtitling a TV interview on domestic violence, I'm going to visit the governor's residence.

This is not exactly how I imagined life as a translator but I'm not complaining.

I am a Tuesday 2 a.m.

“I am not a graceful person. I am not a Sunday morning or a Friday sunset. I am a Tuesday 2 a.m., I am gunshots muffled by a few city blocks, I am a broken window during February. My bones crack on a nightly basis. I fall from elegance with a dull thud, and I apologize for my awkward sadness. I sometimes believe that I don’t belong around people, that I belong to all the leap days that didn’t happen. The way light and darkness mix under my skin has become a storm. You don’t see the lightning, but you hear the echoes.”

(Anna Peters)

the Irish saga: the call of the wild

The air is different in Ireland.

It's not just the softness of a mild, humid climate. It's the attitude. I'm not a great believer in supernatural things but suddenly I'm prepared to believe in fairies dancing in the misty fields and meddling in people business.

Strange things happen in Ireland. There are inclines where things roll uphill, not downhill. There is a church ruin where an entire stone wall has mysteriously jumped three feet. There are plaques commemorating the fact that nothing happened. There are strange sounds, optical illusions and people believing in all kinds of mystical things. And I feel a new wildness growing inside me. I'm turning into someone a little more carefree, reckless, impulsive. I don't drink as much as the people around me but at times I wonder if their intoxication is an airborne contagion.

Maybe it's just the freedom of being a thousand miles away from anyone that knows me.

My new friends, a party-spirited, loose gang of mostly Spaniards, Swedes and Canadians, put drinks in my hand. "You are too mellow for this gang," they tease me. "You drink less than my baby sister!" someone complains, almost angrily.

I'm grateful for being included in the "in" crowd so easily and fascinated by the carefree attitude, so far from the sobriety and intellectualism of my university friends. I'm also dismayed by the way they slander people behind their backs and constantly complain about the job. We spend long evenings in the bar or partying with kalimotxo, chorizo snacks and bottles of Jameson in the staff house. There is plenty of dancing, singing, kissing, hugging and punching. The Spanish boys get louder the more they drink and are prone to impromptu stripteases. The Irish demand everyone's attention and then sing a melancholy song about injustices suffered under the hands of the Brits. Scandinavians and Canadians throw themselves joyfully into the festive mood. Belorussians and Romanians take one look at the party and withdraw to their rooms to watch TV.

There are fights, love affairs, weed and broken bottles. Hotel staff love to party hard.

Late at night I'm often exhausted by the rowdy atmosphere and the cigarette smoke and sneak out without telling anyone - I learn the fine art of the "Irish goodbye" long before I realise it's a thing. Then I go for a walk in the dark. Through the thousand-year-old cemetery, straight out of a horror movie, if I'm feeling brave. Along the winding mountain road if not. Away from the inn, the quiet of the wilderness surrounds me like a warm blanket.

But the magic does its work on me and it's not long before I'm dancing with strangers and throwing rocks at someone's window. I still take my midnight walks but sometimes I bring a boy to kiss and sometimes I need to be alone to scream out a rage I've never, ever felt before.

art and strangely alive

Wandering through a few artists' studios on a rainy day.

There is a vague smell of mould, paint and rain. People look through art prints for sale, mumbling to each other and leaving wet footprints. I huddle on a chair in a dark room next to the studios, half-interestedly watching weird movies. I'm feeling vaguely sick today, nothing serious, just one of those days, and it is making me feel strangely alive and aware of everything around me. As if life has slowed down.

I hear my friends discuss bird photography with one of the artist as I curl into my Nepalese hoodie and space out a bit.

We go for coffee and cake in a bright café afterwards. The caffeine and sugar restores my strength as if by a miracle.

the year of seeking help

This is my year of seeking help.

Today I sought the help of a physical therapist for my obstinate back. With godlike hands, he pummeled out the kinks and I went home feeling as if I'd had a divine healing. Next time, he's going to sort out my weak knee. After that, my soul perhaps?

So many times I had to seek help this year, and I don't regret a single one.

Other things I'm presently receiving help for: my weak core, my inability to understand major seventh chords, my helplessness in doing the rumba.

the echoes of swans and other wonderful things

At the cottage between the forest and the sea, it's a cold night. I untangle myself reluctantly from my nest of warm blankets to go outside and pee.

In the dark night, all the stars are out. The moon is painting a silvery streak across the bay with a bright light that forms sharp shadows around me. The whooping swans are shouting at each other somewhere further down the coast and the echoes bounce back from the forest line. I shiver with cold in flannel pyjamas and thick sweater but it's hard to tear myself away from all this beauty.

At the cottage between the forest and the sea, the cold night melts into a balmy day with only a hint of crispness. I sit outside with my laptop and stare at the quiet sea. The neighbour comes over to share a catch of perch, not five minutes out of the water, and my mother fries the fish in plenty of butter. There is golden sunshine and fresh raspberries and mugs of steaming coffee.

The day softens into a long sunset and a chilly evening. I haul wood from the shed to take me through another icy night and can hardly believe how lucky I am to have an evening of reading by the fire.

I know there are dark days ahead but they can't defeat me when there are days like these even further ahead.

digging up my soul, going down, excavation

Twice every month or so, this past spring, I went to an ugly building in town to talk to a wise woman. I left home in good time and walked there slowly, along quiet backstreets, so I could think long and hard about the meeting ahead.

The woman sat down and listened intently. Her warm eyes seemed to warm my cold and terrified soul. I spoke with a desperate determination to take every aspect of my life that seemed messed up, offer it up to this kind stranger and not leave or back down until it was sorted out. Things I thought I would bury forever. She listened and asked a few probing questions.

For a person who didn't say much, the woman taught me many secrets. After an hour with her, I felt as if I had been seen as the troubled person I am, and accepted anyway. Strong and capable not despite, but because of, my problems. More at home in my own skin, vulnerable and resilient at the same time.

I'm glad a life crisis forced me to do this. To dig out the old ghosts and let them see light. The ones that still exist don't seem that dangerous anymore. I think that woman saved my sanity.

(Title borrowed from U2: "Elevation")