putting up the sign

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the duck-laugh evening

Recipe for a good evening:

Eat chicken & blue cheese pie with your best friend.
Add a few glasses of red wine.
Watch Pretty Woman for old times' sake and for the sake of that quote that you couldn't quite remember ("A name, a name, the pressure of a name... Cinde-fucking-rella!").
Ask "Do I have to prostitute myself to find a prince?"
Ask "Why are so many of the great chick flicks Cinderella-stories and why can't even a cynic resist them?"
Go to a "Night at the Museum"-event and get frightened half to death by a bunch of wooden ducks in a dark room who suddenly start laughing at you.
Walk in the balmy May night with your friend and laugh until you cry.

a poet's homeland

That stream which could be the real Fountain of Eternal Youth. That mountainside half in ominous shadow, half in enchanting sunlight. Those crooked trees where trolls may be hiding. That wild, hidden lake with secrets lurking in its depths. Those magnificent ruins of a thousand years. That enigmatic wishing-well that bends space.

I look through my pictures from my last visit to the enchanted valley and realise that I take the same pictures every time I go there.

I am always faintly surprised that the pictures do not come out blank, or all dark, or with unidentifiable smudges - the way pictures look when people try to photograph supernatural things. Apparently the valley does exist outside my own imagination.

That forceful gravity it exerts on my soul is very, very real. The mysterious black hole of my life.

how to learn a language and link to Hubble

Today's little challenge for bored shop assistants:

* Find a mobile phone (one of the more advanced and complicated ones) that someone has left behind by mistake in the second-hand shop where you work (in the bargain bin).

* Draw on your compassion and human decency and decide that you want to try to return the phone to its owner.

* Realise that the phone's language setting, hence all the menus and functions, is Arabic.

* First of all, try to unlock the keypad.

* Mess around with all the buttons for a while.

* Press the cancel button to turn off the camera function that you involuntarily activated while doing the above.

* Admire the picture that you involuntarily took of your navel.

* Press the cancel button a few times to turn off all the other functions (web browser, MP3 player, picture gallery, Tetris, universal translator, intergalactic communicator, direct link to Hubble telescope) that you involuntarily activated while doing the above.

* Try to figure out what "Contacts/Phone Book" may look like in Arabic script.

* Try to decide which one of the little squiggles looks like it may be the phone number to next of kin (what is "Mum" in Arabic?).

* Press green to call a random number.

* Press red to end the call when someone says some very angry words in Arabic at the other end.

* Admire the live feed from the Hubble telescope for a while while you ponder what to do next (discover an unknown galaxy while you are at it).

* Press green to answer a call from a caller identified by more squiggles.

* Press red to hastily end the call after being informed by the unknown caller that you will not get away with this and that the CIA and Interpol and NASA are on the case and will be knocking down your door any minute now.

* Listen to some soothing Arabic music for a while on the phone's MP3 to calm your nerves.

* Activate the universal translator function (accidentally) and call the number marked "Mum".

* Return the phone to its owner after being promised all the Prophet's blessings and a lifetime's supply of halva cakes (or something to that effect, but you are not sure the universal translator actually works as well as it seems to do in Star Trek).

* Inform NASA that you want the galaxy you discovered named after you.

This almost happened to me today.

how to manipulate me

The highest art form: the latest music with cutting-edge hipness, combined with original, poetic and unexpected lyrics.

Use this formula and you have me at your mercy.

where old revolutionaries come to die

Guevara is not dead. He is hiding out on the top floor of a run-down apartment building in Vaasa, Finland. His name is on the door so maybe he secretly wishes that somebody will come and look him up.

Maybe I will ring the doorbell tomorrow. I would like to know if he still wears that beret with the little red star. I always liked the star.

my dictionary

My diary contains a list of words I like:

dance storm enigma snow wine
laughter spark coffee world joy
spirit saga WOLF strength Dixieland
stranger forest God fire
whiskey music castle sea

mountain kitchen wisdom
bookshop SPICE irony ice
piano labyrinth father library
vagabond harbour cello adventure ink
soulmate Vienna peace woman

silk melody beauty
guardian dusk wonder star whisper chronicle
poet moon smoke inn midsummer echo-maker
theatre pulsar voyager monastery
thousand church midnight tale hunter

kiss life exuberance garden
wildness silver diesel fisherman
mercury strawberry dizzy Cambridge
ocean wool Orion honeysuckle
time resonance embers city

monsoon Isfahan cheese mosaic
lullaby lover rooftop fiddle
bard vortex hike twilight road trilogy
infinity eternity Oklahoma serenity
sage CIRCUS university

chocolate academy seven

lemonade olive punt hazelnut Celt
autumn tea vanilla Milky Way
journal Cumberland oak
Kahlua buttercup gypsy home end.

And tea tree oil and the name of every spice. And those specialized names of colours, like ochre, cerulean, sienna.

I should write a novel and use all of these words in it. Can't wait to read it myself.

unexpected view from a car window

I sat in the back seat of a car travelling north and could easily imagine everything I saw from the perspective of a foreigner from central Europe or North America.

Small towns, even smaller towns - nondescript, unassuming, roadsigns in two incomprehensible languagues. Endless forests, tiny fields, flat landscape, cute little villages with houses far apart.

Myself: one who has travelled the world but now is content with her job in a small shop, speaks both of the incomprehensible languages, lives, works, gets around on a bicycle, is one of them.

The foreigner him/herself: when homesickness and loneliness weigh heavily on the mind, the joy of seeing something familiar. A sign in English, the yellow M of a MacDonald's, another tourist like yourself, a familiar type of tree - but these things are so far apart. Or something that has been put there for the benefit of you as a stranger (a welcoming) - something written in English, an international traffic symbol, a hotel, a tourist site.

These quiet people who lack grand gestures and dramatic manners, who usually turn out to speak at least some English but who are careful and reserved. This country, so far away, so sparsely populated, often so cold.

I saw all this, as if from a great distance, through the grimy car window.

another link in my anchor chain

I met him in a lift, a middle-aged, fairly ordinary man with thinning hair.

Many, many years ago, when I was a shy teenager with an innocent mind and dreams that stretched towards all horizons, he was a youth group leader and trying to channel the exuberant energy of a large group of youngsters. I was one of the quiet ones in this group, the wide-eyed observer who blushed whenever someone spoke to me.

The youth leader wasn't really the central person of this group - he sort of faded by comparison to some of the older teenagers who enchanted everyone with their joy of life and inspiring energy. But when I geared up to go out in the big, wide world - scared to death - and applied to a school abroad, he was the one who helped me get going.

I have hardly given him a thought during the many years since then, busy exploring the wonders of the world. Until I came back to my home town and we happened to get into the same lift. Suddenly, I felt like that tongue-tied teenager again, not sure if he recognised me. But he smiled at me and asked me what I had been doing for the last ten years.

I have been lost so many times, and lonely. Never a very important or memorable person. But every now and then one of these people from my past show up and smile at me to prove that I am still anchored to the bedrock.

the dregs of a blogger's mind

Does every blogger have those blog entries that (thankfully) never made it past the draft stage?

Going through my blog I found quite a few never-published entries, most of them no more than a couple of sentences long. Some of them end in the middle of a cryptic phrase - I seem to have an incredibly short attention/inspiration span. For the benefit of my heirs I hereby publish them anyway. Or at least excerpts of them (cropped out of context they suddenly seem much more interesting). But some of them are actually the whole thing...

"Fell in love with that cute guy from CSI:NY and then I found him IRL."

"BOHEMIAN CHIC!"

"The devil himself is probably on FaceBook."

"I scrubbed a 20-foot sailboat with a toothbrush..."

"...what soul-choking acceptance..."

"God sits down next to me."

"Lurking darkness all around, sore throat, breakfast on karjalanpiirakka."

"Twice in my life I have run away."

"Autumn's first frost and a sales rep arrives at the Little Shop of Harmony in his big blue bus full of books just for me."

"'How can I help you? What can I do to make your day better?'"

"...a poem must have meter, fancy sequencing and chime..."

"The city of Brussels also had a pair of dangly earrings."

"Joseph (in Joseph and the Technicolour Dreamcoat) meets his father... Runs to him but stops just short. Instead of falling into his waiting arms, just stands there looking him in the eye."

"My cane and I had lunch with Xena the Warrior Princess. She had got an axe and a chain-saw for her birthday."

"He tends to suddenly die on me."

"Someone talked to me as if I were stupid today. The computer gave me a meaningless chaos of numbers where..."

"...the shadows in the deserted restaurant are deep and I turn up MTV to drown out all the little noises (in my head?) that make me nervous..."

"My old teacher of history stood beneath the Monument of Liberty, straight-backed and proud. He spoke of legendary General Mannerheim..."

"The beauty of blue... at dusk, the twilight hour that I love best. Forgiveness and comfort instead of the harsh demands of dawn."

"I met him in a lift, a middle-aged, fairly ordinary man with thinning hair."

my not-meant-to-be

Excerpt from the Mostly Secret Diary of a Foolish Girl:

He comes looking for me.

We idle for hours, sharing food and hugs, dreams and silly jokes, almost-forgotten memories. Nobody knows me like he does. Nobody else remembers that I like salmon, once had a dog that used to bite, dream of learning how to handle a pistol. He can tell me stories about my favourite school teacher from more than a decade ago. He listens to my crazy stories about my ex-boss that he's never met. He asks me about the things that matter to me. He laughs at my jokes. He doesn't only know my past, he understands it.

My soulmate. But every time, we go our separate ways. My wayward soul stubbornly demands solitude.

me and the wildlife

They shot a bear not far from here recently as he was heading into town and upsetting the morning commuters. A wolf has been sighted in the woods across the bay - if he had a mind to, he could stroll across the ice towards me. The regional newspaper ran a story about a hare who fought three crows and apparently killed at least one of them. Of course they all got their 30 seconds of fame on YouTube (found here and here).

I live in a town of about 60,000 people and apparently not a few wild things.

the music makers and dreamers of dreams

Finches, starlings, thrushes, sparrows, swans and, above all, cranes...

Their music soothes me when the sun of spring, that slavedriver, makes other Finns swoon with happiness.

half-moon day and everything by halves

In the Little Shop of Harmony - grey skies and few customers. All I have sold so far is a book, plus a few trinkets from the second-hand basement. My work morale and morals are scraping the bottom of the barrel.

Shopping list for after work: Wine. Cheese. Muesli. Eggs (from freeranging chickens). Lots of fruit. Ingredients for a salad. Maybe some chicken. Chocolate (not as much as I would like). And something cheap and dramatic and gorgeous to wear.

Then home to watch CSI:NY and dream of America.

girl, woman

Met a young girl and saw myself eons ago. That sparkle in innocent eyes, the joy, the dreams of wonderful adventures.

And later, staring into the mirror in the ladies' room, saw myself today. That weary look, the cynicism, the fear of a life hopelessly spinning away towards a scarier horizon. But also, a little bit of wisdom and a diamond core. The knowledge that I have seen so much and not yet perished. The comfort in knowing even broken dreams can be survived.

Sometimes I wish I was a teenager, with all the giggles and glossy hair and secrets between friends. But I took another look at the girl and then went on to do what a grown-up woman is meant to do. Gave her the help she needed just then; an opportunity, encouragement, a vote of confidence, a little bit of calm and wisdom.

We help each other grow.

that night of English heartbreak

Woodstock Night

Just knocked over a glass of sparkly white

My heart-breaking party all by myself

Smell of food in the Window Sill Room

Pool of light from lonely lamp

Chill of English spring night

I’m in the world and feeling the pull of home, real life, somewhere far down there

Tonight I’m crashing towards the earth

Crying on my knees, screaming for home

You who led me here, where are you now?

I followed you with a trembling heart, eager and proud

Life among strangers I thought I could handle but tonight

The weight of an empty universe all resting in the Window Sill Room

on Chaos Road

Drinking: red wine

Reading: Special Topics in Calamity Physics (M.Pessl)

Mood: restless

DVD stopped in the middle: Andromeda (Season 4 episode 2: Pieces of Eight)

On mind: family and crisis

Day: work, hospital visit, cell group

Needs: direction, a car, a dog, money and a wireless modem

Phrase of the day: The All Forces Nullification Point (from Andromeda)

Cell functioning: O led discussion on Rebecca from Genesis and tried to teach us to listen to God, J and C said little, I voiced mainly doubts

Was invited to: go sledding with church youth, declined

Life heading towards: chaos

the lesson of the thousand-year valley

My magic place, what is your secret?
What has your wisdom taught me?

That life is hard and words have knives
But the laughter of friends is healing
That the deepest lake with the coldest water
Sends waves of peace to its shores

That a hidden valley has its very own magic
Teasing and teaching a lesson
What I think is a banshee is sometimes a deer
And a drunk is the fountain of knowledge

That people fight and people give
That a chef with no ladle is timid
That it's hard to love, that a dance sets me free
And a whiskey is best mixed with tales

That cosmos is here and I'm in the middle
It's whirling around me, a storm and a dance
The lives of people, their darkest hour
When your riddle is weaved into mine

That beautiful mysteries tiptoe close
If I listen to souls that are weaker
That music flows the fairest from those
Who are two steps away from destruction

That all I need for an evening of joy
Is a meal, and wine, and a friend
That a church can sleep for a thousand years
And still bring strength to my spirit

That all things are near in Ireland
God, glamour, a joke
The sea, a castle, a blazing fire
A Spaniard who laughs on the bus

That stars of Hollywood smile at you
But a farmer may steal your heart
That small, small lights can warm your room
In the rage of a mountain storm

That I long to go, and come back again
To my attic above the bar
That I can do much more than I think
When my heart is strong, and my spirit

We are fighting a battle and running a race
While sparks are flying around us
As we share a drink in the midnight hour
After saving the world that is ours

an American with good sense

"Will you seek afar off? You surely come back at last,
In things best known to you finding the best or as good as the best,
In folks nearest to you finding also the sweetest and strongest and lovingest,
Happiness not in another place, but this place ... not for another hour, but this hour"

(Walt Whitman)

purple: the colour to wear in a blizzard

Blizzard, snowdrifts on city streets and a limit to how much you can endure. Snow-clearing services nowhere in sight and probably won't be until after the storm. No parking spaces. Risk your life as weeks of ice falls off roofs onto the sidewalks.

Shopping with friend:
handicraft shop where the male owner is a married closet gay and the female one (his wife?) looks very butch and has the shadow of a beard;
a bookshop where the window broke when a gale threw the door open;
perfume testing (Calvin Klein and Diesel);
vanilla latte and brownie with "what do you regret in life?" and "did you know one of your FaceBook friends has a famous friend - no, I'm not telling you which one".

On me the season's powerful purple and my doubts faded with the softness of the velvet.