In the darkish forest

An awfully small and uneventful adventure

(Originally from July 2018.)

Where did it come from, an almost childlike, if somewhat Gothic wonder suddenly taking over a worried middle-aged brain? I was walking through a forest feeling hot and sweaty, preoccupied, still performing an exercise rather than enjoying nature I’d sought out for its (relatively) untouched beauty. Steaming and swatting mosquitoes I trudged on, until after a couple of kilometres my mind jolted into a different gear.

It may have started with the wrong turning I took in a badly marked crossing. The well-trod path changing to rotten duckboards over wet terrain. Or it may have been the lonely orchid, a strange, faint beacon in the dark woods. I was fascinated, but it soon dawned on me that this couldn’t be the right way and turned back.

Retracing my steps and finding sturdy new duckboards did not break the spell, however. The forest turned ever darker, lush undergrowth giving way to dull-coloured moss. Trees were closer together, branches withered and fallen off the lower half of lanky spruces. Heavy clouds rolled in, making everything a shade or two grimmer. Light rain began to fall.

It was an entirely different mood. There were more stones in this part of the woods, brooding under their moss cover. Everything was still and quiet, no birds or animals, even the mosquitoes had disappeared. There was a mitten stuck in a broken-off branch, speaking more of an absence than presence of humans. A tree root crawling over a stone looked like a claw. It was like stepping into a scene set for something I wasn’t supposed to see, just quietly waiting for me to pass.

It was a little bit odd and gloomy but by no means threatening or scary, the only danger a falling tree, and the wind was not quite as stormy as to make it seem probable. I did not expect a monster to appear from behind the trees, but a metal band on a cover shoot would not have surprised me.

I found it exhilarating, even the rain. Especially the rain. It was an unexpected mood, a slightly different landscape that drew my mind into here and now – or possibly somewhere else. My camera did not catch the gloom so well. The orchid and claw-like root, in all that they are inanimate objects, had somehow become blurry in my photographs, as if they weren’t quite there. (They were the only failed pictures of the day.)

Eventually the forest relaxed and opened up to let in more light, a glimpse of a lake, sounds of playing children and barking dogs. Duckboards ended as the ground became firmer again. Rainclouds withdrew, mosquitoes gathered for a feast. I picked another path away from the people and dogs, a soft, friendly trail through verdant, sun-speckled woods, striding over rock and root, now feeling oddly happy.

---

I found this post left hanging in drafts. Maybe I wasn’t happy with the result or meant to return to it for some other reason, but never did. I only corrected mistakes I certainly would have caught rereading the text back then, but leaving it otherwise as I found it. Didn’t dare fiddle with the odd layout and whatever the then-me did with the photos, either, lest this outdated template will explode.

I might not remember what happened with this text, but I’ve never forgotten that walk.

Was it worth posting? Too unremarkable? Or do you recognise the sudden heightened experience of place, taking a new meaning, ordinary turning extraordinary for a few moments?

Frog!

Or the thing that goes flop in the night

I’ve had to recount or summarise this story so many times over the years that it seems easier to write it down and let people read it instead. It’s been a while since the original frog farce, but I managed to find some of my increasingly hysterical tweets from that night to aid my memory (a selection included here).

Once upon a time… (No. Just no. Let’s start again.)

It first happened on a July night a few years ago while I was staying at my childhood home. I was quite tired, having worked late (the joys of remote work on zero-hour contract), and was watching some science fiction series to unwind before getting some sleep. The back door was still open to let cool night air in, the room dim with only the TV on and the light of the pale Finnish summer night seeping through the windows and the open door. I was trying to swat an annoying mosquito when I heard a little sound I couldn’t quite place. I got up from the sofa and went to the door to investigate.

Something jumped up on the floor, making me jump, too.

With feet back on the ground and heart more or less resettled in its rightful place I found myself looking at a frog on the living room floor. After mutual enstartlement it seemed far cooler than I felt, sitting still in buddha-like calm contemplation as frogs are wont to do.

So a frog had accidentally strayed in and needed to be guided back to the garden. Fine. I stepped in front of the animal thinking it would turn and hop towards the fresh air. The frog did move as I got closer, but it leapt sideways, away from the door.

I don’t know why I thought frogs would only hop in the direction their face is pointed at, but this was clearly not the case. Mystified, I shifted and tried again. The frog leapt sideways. I stared at the creature that was again sitting very still and thought, ok then, I’ll scoop it up and carry it out. The frog was having none of it, though. It performed another quantum leap deeper into the room and disappeared under the smaller sofa.

Right. Time-out. Perhaps the frog will hop back out if left alone. Meanwhile I could consider my options and do what you do in this kind of situation, which is to tweet about it. Twitter has always been a great source for providing sympathy, encouragement and helpful advice, after all.

Twitter certainly reacted quickly. I got several replies asking if I’d tried kiss the frog.

I know, I can’t believe these people. Why would I exchange a perfectly nice amphibian for some high-maintenance human prince? What use is a prince, they don’t even eat flies – or mosquitoes – as far as I know. It would make far more sense to turn all the royalty in the world into frogs.

Meanwhile the frog still hadn’t budged. I don’t have anything against frogs, they are very fine creatures, but they probably don’t fare very well indoors. But how to get it out from under the sofa? All I could think of was to get a flashlight to see where it was and a flyswatter to nudge it. Armed like this I got down on the floor to peer under the sofa and gently prodded the frog with the flyswatter. The frog promptly crawled out from under the sofa, hopped towards the bigger sofa and crawled under it.

Ok, to the other sofa. Find the frog with the flashlight, prod. The frog got out and hopped under the first sofa.

Well, at least that sofa is in the middle of the room, not in the corner, and closer to the door. So if I just make sure the frog gets out from that side…

It did. Unfortunately it had no intention of getting out of the door. Instead, it hopped to the other end of the living room.

The sound  of the leaping frog on laminate flooring was peculiar. It was a slightly hollow flop which I heard receding as the creature crossed the floor to the opposite direction, in ever quieter flops. I remember resting my cheek wearily on the floor with a flashlight and flyswatter in my hand and thinking, now that’s special. It would also be quite funny if I weren’t so horribly tired.

I got up from the floor and went looking for the frog. Couldn’t find it anywhere now. I regrouped as well as a solitary person with no frog-herding  experience can and returned to Twitter to see if anyone had provided useful feedback. Fat chance, my tweeps were just chattering and waiting for my next update. I suspect some of them actually did make popcorn.

It was now so late it was getting early in the morning and I considered just leaving a bowl of water on the floor and going to bed. Perhaps the frog would be more eager to leave after a night spent in the house. (Leaving the back door open while everyone was asleep was no option as I didn’t trust the frog to guard the house.) 

This is when one of my friends tweeted a little story about the time when, unbeknownst to her, her cats had brought a frog indoors and into the bedroom and she’d woken up when it leapt on her face (the frog, not the bedroom). Right. Right. That was it, the frog had to go.

You might reasonably ask why a frog would jump on a fairly high bed (unless it were indeed some overprivileged asshole of a prince), especially unaided by cats (which we didn’t have), not to mention that there are bedroom doors to close (I’d even had enough sense to close all interior doors earlier) that would surely keep even the most dedicated frog burglars away. It’s fair to say I was so tired I wasn’t thinking straight .

My memory of the night is also getting a bit fuzzy at this point. I believe the frog eventually reappeared and, presumably fed up with constant persecution, hopped out of the door. At least I thought so. I closed the back door, went to brush my teeth and was getting ready to crawl into bed when, once again, I heard a telltale flop.

Another, shorter round of Hunt the Frog began. I saw the frog, I lost it again and finally decided I really didn’t care, I needed some sleep and the poor frog probably needed a break as well. I filled some kind of dish with water and placed it on the floor, closed the doors and collapsed on my bed.

After a night’s  morning’s sleep I conducted a thorough search in daylight. No frog. Mom had opened the back door long before I’d got up so perhaps the frog had grabbed the chance to get out. Good.

The next night I worked fairly late again as I’d lost quite a few hours sleeping in after the frog hunt. I stopped a bit earlier this time and watched some sci-fi when…

Flop.

You’ve got to be kidding me.

At least this time the hunt was shorter, I managed to guide the frog out and closed the back door. But this didn’t seem entirely accidental anymore. My family has lived in the house for decades, there have always been frogs around, but never before had any of them got in the house. I still don’t know why they suddenly decided to explore the great indoors, but after the second visit I blocked the door with a suitable polystyrene panel when airing the house late at night. The next July I basically relived the frog farce all over again. Other Julys or Augusts since had minor amphibian incidents until we learnt to anticipate the need for the frog barrier.

I’ve learnt some other things, too. The last time a frog got in I figured out that since the animal tends to sit still for a long time if not disturbed but would leap any which way if I tried to catch it, the best option was to get some kind of a cloth, throw it on the frog so it couldn’t see me and quickly scoop it up and carry it outside as a furiously fidgeting bundle. When I let the frog out it hopped into bushes looking royally (?) pissed off but otherwise unharmed.

Most of all I’ve gained a rare ability to recognise the sound of a frog on a laminate floor in a nanosecond.

I should add that mom and my nephew, who stayed at the house for a while at the time of the first incident, slept happily through the hours I spent crawling on the floor with a flyswatter. They listened to my story in perplexed amusement, but didn’t seem to take the need for a frog barrier too seriously. At least until one morning when I was back at my place in Turku and received a text message from mom. She said she’d woken up and tried to put on her slippers and wondered what was wrong with them. You guessed it, there was a frog in the slipper.

Confusing, I know. Which fairytale is it, anyway?

*** EPILOGUE ***

The Frogscapade will probably haunt me for ever. Even if the frogs stayed away my friends still keep sending me all kinds of frog postcards. (I really should try to find all of them and create a gallery here.) 

It doesn’t look like the days of the frog burglars are over, though. It was just a couple of weeks ago I last found a frog on the doorstep behind the frog barrier. It had clearly taken a bath in one of the water bowls I’d placed outside for birds and critters during the weeks of drought. After a good soak it came to the door and pushed against the barrier. It wasn’t particularly hot or cold outside, I’d imagine it was fine in frog terms. So why? Was it there to say ”Ok, I’ve been to the spa, now where’s the karaoke?” What does it need? Does it like sci-fi? Should I build a little house for it with a small sofa and my old smartphone connected to Netflix?

Answers on a postcard.

Full Measures

 

Photo: Jussi Virkkumaa/TEHDAS Teatteri

Co-production, Grus Grus Theatre/Tehdas Teatteri, 20.9.2019

In the beginning there were two (2) people, a man and a woman, and (1) folding rule. When both people have got their own folding rule, conversation begins. Where do you live, is it far? How long does it take to get there? The rules fold to make shapes. Turn left, turn right, around the corner, this much. Rule turns into a clock – tick tock, the pointer moves. Another shape. A bird! No, a plane! Ooh, is it a… fully measured superman?

Full Measures is a performance concerning measuring, performed by Ishmael Falke and Sandrina Lindgren. Knowing their expertise in object theatre of old I was curious to see what their mind over matter approach might accomplish with a bunch of folding rules. I wasn’t disappointed. While the rule is, despite its hinges, rather a stiff object, its barely yielding strictness somehow makes it an appropriate tool for (mainly) visual storytelling about the obsession for measuring and self-tracking. In the hands of Falke and Lindgren it is also visually exciting as the bleak black stage is filled with a world of patterns drawn by yellow zig-zag rules.

Originally intended as a wordless performance, the guest director Idit Herman suggested including words. Sentences spoken in simple, precise English do support the exploration of themes nicely as they highlight the absurdity of extremely precise and all-inclusive measurements and simultaneously add to the quiet humour of the performance.

While the language remains precise, the more obsessed the characters become with measuring, the more baroque the simple stage gets. More and more rules are found and turned into various symbols and shapes, scales, graphs, pointers and interconnected chains until the pair stands in front of a veritable jungle of measures, the beguiling ”Garden of Even”.

The basic question posed by Full Measures is highly topical: is our incessant measuring a way to take control over our lives or is it the measuring that’s taken control? There’s no doubt that measuring has its advantages; it’s good to be aware of distances, shoe sizes or our blood pressure. But when does it get irrational? News seem to tell ever more bizarre tales of attempts to quantify everything in the society, from the productivity of hospitals to the quality of academic research. On individual level, people calculate their daily steps or calorie intake and obsess with the data provided by their activity tracker, which is also expected to inform them whether they’ve slept well or not. Full Measures reminded me of connect-the-dots puzzles made for children. What do we get by connecting all the measurements we’ve made, a wholesome self-portrait or just a hollow, vaguely human-shaped outline?

Measuring has unquestionable political and social implications; one of the folding rule contraptions even made me think of the dark history of measuring, photographs of scientists taking measurements of people’s skulls and facial features to support their pseudoscientific theories on the existence of superior and inferior races. Mostly, though, I was thinking about mental traps and self-imposed prisons of the mind. Nevertheless, Full Measures isn’t dark and gloomy, nor does it preach. Rather it seems to operate on a more personal, everyday level. It is astute but more thought-provoking than derisive, its satire gently humorous.

Living in a country that’s sports crazy and, more lately, apparently obsessed with PISA results, I vaguely expected that the main point in measuring is finding out who’s the fastest, the strongest, the best. Instead, the couple in Full Measures is most eager to scale Mount Average. This was a bit of an epiphany. Indeed, one of the reasons why self-tracking is so devilishly addictive might be that as social beings most people are more concerned with the question ”how do I measure up?” Am I normal, within acceptable parameters? Never mind that ”normal” and ”average” are ultimately as abstract and absurd as any other ideals (or ideal measurements) we hold.

So what happened to the couple in the Garden of Even? Did it provide newfound innocence and bliss? That you must see and decide for yourself. My interpretations may be half-baked, but there are no half measures in this performance. It is delightfully inventive, thought-provoking, visually pleasing and funny, too. With the measured body language of Lindgren and Falke, a plethora of obediently folding rules and the sound and lighting design by Niklas Bertel Nybom and Jarkko Forsman respectively, Full Measures offers an enjoyable evening that’s more than the sum of its parts. There are only a few performances, so check out those dates now!

Full Measures on TEHDAS Teatteri site

Grus Grus Theatre

Finnish version of this blog post.

Vatn – Icelandic peace in the middle of Turku

Vartiovuori is one of the seven hills in Turku (yes, we are the Rome of Finland), in the centre of the town, near the river. Start from the river, cross a street, climb up steep steps, then move on to winding park lanes on the hills, now covered in snow. Observe signs telling you the sea level 1,000 years ago, 2,000 years ago. Consider the view over town and ponder on the land rising, the city rising, growing and changing. Catch your breath and reel a bit in tides of overlapping history, then make your way towards the neoclassical observatory, a jewel of a building that celebrates its 200th birthday in 2019. Next to it there’s a mound that might as well house hobbits, with a funny little tower, a charming architectural mongrel, jutting out from its side. In the middle of the mound there’s a recess and a door, disappointingly quite square and modern, but don’t be put off by that. Inside the mound hides a water reservoir built in 1903, but right now, by way of magic called art, this doorway is a passage to a timeless, nameless piece of Iceland.

The beautiful vaults of the reservoir have housed small-scaled exhibitions before, but none this poetic. The installation called Vatn (“water”) by Guðrún Kristjánsdóttir was inspired by springs she has found while wandering on Icelandic highlands. Her artificial spring is a round basin of water on the floor, surrounded by dark lava gravel. An image of its surface is projected on the wall. Every now and then a drop of water falls in, creating a series of ripples, ever different patterns that slowly die away until the surface is still again. Then the next droplet falls, dancing water, dancing light on the wall.

The vaults are very dim, with only a spotlight on the spring and the wall projection giving off light. Recording of music composed specially for this installation by Daníel Bjarnason, played on an instrument made of stone, plays gently. The peculiar sound of the instrument, somehow bright and dull at the same time, resembles that of the dripping water. They clearly belong together.

I was lucky, the only visitor at the moment. All the busy everyday sounds were shut out beyond the thick vaulted walls of the reservoir. It was easy to forget the silent guard at the door – there was only water, chiming rock and my own thoughts.

Every visitor will likely follow their own train of thoughts and I don’t particularly feel like imposing my own to anyone else in any great detail. Suffice to say that intellectually they might touch on nature, ecology or cultural history, for example. Darwin forbid me from sounding mystic and new agey, but my visit was also peaceful and restoring. Miserable mood and muscle tension dissipated, racing mind calmed down much like I’d experienced in Icelandic nature. When I finally got up to leave, somewhat reluctantly, I found myself treading softly as if in a cathedral or in a forest, careful not to break the peace.

I may return to the spring, perhaps with more analytical thoughts. In any case I rather wish Vatn could stay in that reservoir for ever, an Icelandic oasis for weary townsfolk, just a little city hike away.

Vatn on Vartiovuorenmäki 8. – 28.3.2018, Mon-Fri 12-16, Sat-Sun 12-18

Friends and strangers

A rant about Twitter and “the real world”

I know everyone, their dog and the dog’s vet’s second cousin have already blogged about Twitter and done it well. It would seem pointless to add my random scribblings to the plethora of smart and insightful posts were it not that I need to let off some steam cooked up by frequent disparaging comments on social media. You know, the kind where someone who might or might not have spent any time on social media makes grand statements boiling down to the same old refrain: people should spend less time on social media and more in the real world. Apparently no one bothers to go out to meet friends anymore to have real conversations since they can more easily post a throwaway line on social media or click a like button. It is also more or less directly implied that conversations and friendships on social media do not count as “real” – all you get is light-weight chatter and disposable seeming-friendliness.

Claims like this are confusing and infuriating in turn. What is this “real world” and who gets to define it? Why is social media not part of the real world and what is it, then? A dream? An illusion? Hallucination? The Matrix?  Look here, Smug Real-World Supporter; I thank you for your offer of the red pill but I’d rather keep my imaginary friends. Let me try to explain why.

Let’s assume that there is, indeed, a Real World, the healthy, solid universe where actual real people meet other actual real people and have actual real relationships and actual real conversations without the aid of a mobile phone, tablet or computer, as opposed to the Imaginary World of Social Media where people communicate remotely. I’m going to talk about Twitter, as it is my favourite real-world substitute.

The reason I tentatively signed on Twitter in the first place was to gain knowledge. I wasn’t disappointed. Arts, literature, music, culture, history, science – Twitter is an ocean of interesting news and links that could keep me happily occupied all day long. It isn’t just random information, either: you can find experts on any field sharing their knowledge, commenting on news making rounds in both conventional and social media and discussing and debating matters with other experts. What’s more, you can ask them questions and have a good chance to get them answered. I don’t know about you, but I don’t have a network of artists and scientists available for this in the Real World. I’m definitely much too timid to ring the doorbells of strangers and crash their parties to listen in on their conversations.

Once you start asking questions and commenting on things, along come other Twitter members who share your interests. Suddenly there are people actually willing to discuss Shakespeare or 60s music or the moons of Saturn and other topics that might be met with just a blank stare when suggested to your Real Life contacts. You become aware of widespread murmurations, multitudes of people turning their attention to a specific topic. It’s a very special vibe when space enthusiasts all over the world follow the fate of a little lander on a comet far, far away in real time, now holding their breath, now cheering it on and your timeline is full of excitement and wonder and joy.

And there are the conversations. Yes, I insist, there are conversations. In 140 characters at a time, on any topic under the sun. They may be short and matter-of-fact or long and rambling, serious and absurd and goofy in turn, interesting and enlightening and even eye-opening, jolly, life-affirming, grim, commiserating ; debating and arguing; sharing, caring, supporting – in fact, they’re like the best conversations in the Real World.  Also, while I tend to gravitate towards certain people, bond and talk with some more than others – which is actually much the same in the Real World – I come across with a larger variety of people and opinions on Twitter than I would in the Real World. But dubious and unlikely deities forbid that there might be more reality on social media than in the Real World itself!

Somewhere amidst along the way I’ve also discovered I’ve made new friends. Now that was unexpected.

It’s a big deal for an awkward, tongue-tied introvert who’s never made friends easily. Twitter’s kind of an introvert’s paradise, though. You don’t have to speak, which means it’s much easier to communicate. There’s time to think what you want to say, unlike in real world where by the time you’ve formed a more or less coherent sentence in your mind and picked up courage to spit it out, the conversation has often moved on to another topic.  You can choose when and what to discuss and with whom. You have time to get to know people so that if you meet them in the Real World you’ve already got common ground to go on and might actually be able to talk to them instead of panicking and looking for the nearest exit. What’s more, you may have found people who not only still keep in touch on Twitter but actually seem to want to meet you again even if you feel your conversation has been as intelligent and intelligible as that of a half-wit duck with a hiccup. One day you might find that you’ve turned from a bit of a recluse into someone who meets duck-friendly folks quite regularly.

Dear Real-Life Evangelist, I must be doing something wrong. You say people don’t go out and meet face-to -face anymore because of social media. I seem to be going out and meeting people much more because of social media. You claim that social media is no place for real friendship and I say bullshit. And if you try to suggest that those friendships are born only after Real World meetings, I beg to differ. I say I’ve got friends I haven’t met and some I might never meet due to oceans and continents between us, but they are friends even so. And no, I don’t use the word ‘friend’ lightly.

Why should anyone think all contacts and communication on social media is transient is beyond me. That any friendly words are light as feathers, that people come and go and are soon forgotten. It’s easy to say things without meaning them? That’s actually true in the Real World, too, but we don’t doubt them all. What’s more, it’s even easier not to say anything at all, and not to listen. Yet there are lovely people on Twitter who will and will get back to you and ask how you are today. If a regular tweeter falls silent for an unusually long time even I, almost morbidly afraid of intruding and being pushy, might overcome my scruples and ask if everything’s ok. Because you don’t forget people with whom you’ve spent a lot of time chatting and joking and conversing and sharing interesting stuff. Some seem have left Twitter for good and they’re still on your mind. Some have died and, years later, are not forgotten. If someone’s sad or ill or otherwise having a rough time, kind souls on Twitter won’t ignore them but say hi, I’m here if you want to talk about stuff, any stuff. If that’s not friendly then I don’t know what is. And bear in mind that everyone might not have such support in the Real World.

So what is it that is so difficult to accept about social media communication? That it’s written, not spoken? How exactly is that worse? That some of the participants use nicknames and don’t include their photos? Names can be fake. Photos can be fake. People in the Real World can be fake, too put up fronts. You learn to know people through conversation, with time. There can be various kinds of good reasons for not appearing under your real name, one of the best ones being that it gives you freedom to discuss difficult topics, some that might be found wrongly, unfairly stigmatising (depression, sexual orientation, etc.) in the immediate Real World. Twitter can be and is a place to breathe and speak freely, unburden yourself, receive encouragement and peer support.

Dear Realworlder, I don’t know why you speak about social media the way you do. I’m willing to consider it’s not pure ignorance or an easy way to attract attention. Perhaps you’ve had a bad experience, or perhaps it just didn’t work for you. Perhaps you don’t need it. Fair enough, I respect that. I don’t need or want to convert you. Could you perhaps respect my experience – and that of many others? I know there are problems on social media, too, but there’s also much that is good about it, so how about we don’t generalise, either of us? Most of all, don’t, just don’t belittle the significance of a kind word from a stranger to someone who’s maybe alone, depressed, deeply unhappy. Because I do believe social media is part of the real world, with real people, who have very real feelings.

A Midsummer Night’s Rock Festival

This is a quick little piece written as a light exercise for an edX Shakespeare MOOC.  (I may have got carried away a bit.)  I did not try to get any the language or rhythms right, but I put in all the bad jokes that occurred to me while writing. My apologies to Shakespeare.

– – – –

A Finnish forest near which a rock festival has been set up on Midsummer Eve. Enter OBERON and PUCK.

 

Obe. My gentle Puck, come hither. Thou must have heard

The rude sounds from yonder clearing beyond the woods

That made certain stars shot madly from their spheres

And yet echo in mine ears?

Puck.                                                 I have heard.

Obe. I will go and overhear this conference. Then I shall

Watch Titania when she is asleep, as if I

Were a sparkling vampire. Meanwhile,

Fetch me some fruit juice, there’s a good spirit.

Puck.                                                      Will do.

Exeunt.

– – – – –

The edge of the festival ground. HERMIA sitting on the ground with a bottle. Enter HELENA and DEMETRIUS.

 

Dem. FFS, will you stop following me!

And quit crying, you look like a panda!

Hel. Everybody loves pandas! Let me be your panda!

Here, I roll on my back, cuddle me!

Dem. No! Stop it! I’ll slap you, I swear!

Storms away in a huff.

Hel.  Aw, he’s so dreamy!  Gimme a drink, Hermia.

Who was that I saw you talking to?

Her.  I don’t know, Titanic, or something, she called herself.

A bit mental, talked about fairies and seems to think

That she’s responsible for global warming.

Some weird relationship shit. Relationshit. Whatevs.

Now she thinks she’s in love with some random ass****.

Honestly, you’d think she’d never had vodka before.

Hel.   Pathetic.

Her.  I think her husband was round earlier looking for her.

Obie. Oboe. Oban. Yeah, think that’s right. Oban.

Hel.  Oh, I think I saw him, too. Tall fella. Tried to hit on me.

Her. Me, too! Can you believe it! Push off, granddad, I said!

Hel.  Still, he was kind of fit.

Her.  Yeah. A bit creepy, though. I never thought that

Old hippies were supposed to be so… full of testosterone.

Hel.   Yeah…

pause

Her.  Perhaps we should lock the door tonight.

Hel.   There is no lock on the door, Hermia, you nitwit. It’s a tent.

Her.   Oh.

– – – – –

Elsewhere on the festival area. LYSANDER is offering PUCK a drink. Enter DEMETRIUS.

Lys.  Well met by moonshine, Demetrius!

This is Puck. He’s going to make the whole world wear a girdle.

Dem. Oh, a lingerie designer, is he? Cool.

Sits down, has a drink.

Puck   I’m a merry wander-er-erer-er of the night.

Lys.  (sings) “The type of guy who will never settle down”, right?

Dem. (sings) “I wah-wah-wah-wah-wonder….”

Lys.   No. You’re dr-unk. I’m not drunk enough. Lessaveanotherdrink.

Puck  I follow dream like a darknessh…

… a hallowed moushe

…dusht… fruit juishe… mashter…

…nishe juishe…

Keels over.

Lys.  Good night, sweet ponce. Look, here come the girls.

Enter HERMIA and HELENA.

Lys.  O, my sweet love Helena!

Her.   Hermia.

Lys.   Yes, Hermia.

The curse of true love never did run smooth!

Her.  What? Oh, never mind. Listen, we’ve got a tent for two.

With a little bit of cosy squeezing it might fit four.

Are you game, huh? Lysetrius? Demander?

Lys.  Ok.

Dem. Ok.

Hel.   Hi Demetrius.

Dem. Helloooo, Helmia!

Hel.   Good enough. Let’s go.

Exeunt, staggering slightly.

– – – – –

Next daybreak. Everyone else is gone. TITANIA, OBERON and PUCK wake up amongst the trash left behind.

 

Puck  (holding his head)

Oh, we shadows are much offended.

Obe.   Drink but this, and all is mended.

Drinks and passes the nectar to TITANIA.

Tita.   Eugh. What is that?

Obe.   Hair of the dog, wool of the bat.

Puck   (whimpering) What are these bubbles?

Obe   The end of your troubles. Drink.

Tita.  O people with their brawls have disturbed our sport.

Human mortals shall want their winter cheer!

Oh just wait for the evils to come!

Obe.  Thou hast stopp’ed rhyming. Oh, bother,

my head hurts. Let’s clear this mess and be gone.

Puck, fetch the broom.

 

THE END.

Of place, time and flickering memories

We sold my mother’s childhood home recently. It had become redundant, an inconvenience. Small, remote, lacking in modern conveniences, lacking what would make even a simple cottage desirable, a lake view. The elder generation had become too elderly, the emotional ties of the young had loosened. The cottage had to go.

At first it made me sad. The tiny house might have lacked in grandeur, but it had belonged to my family for some eighty years, the only place owned by the family for more than one generation. The other houses in our family history are nothing but stories for the younger generation (Oh the place by the lake my father’s family used to own! O the mythical beauty of the long-lost and unknown!).

But visiting the cottage after a long while revealed that this place, too, was mainly a story for me. For all the solid walls and trees and rocks, it appeared to consist mostly of my mother’s retold memories and my imagination.

Look, there they are: the sauna’s warming up and my grandmother’s going to the cellar. My grandfather’s tending the apple trees and currant bushes. The cow’s dozing, the chicken clucking, the goat’s on the roof, again. The children are playing outdoors or helping their parents. The cottage takes a deep breath; it houses cramped rooms, shared beds, rag rugs and a wooden stove and while it can hold seven children (seven! In a space that would today seem a bit small for two adults!) and provide them with an unluxurious but happy life without want, that life must necessarily flow outside, to the yard, to the small rural village.

What a lively little village it is, too. In my mind’s eye I see them, neighbours doing chores, others stopping for a chat, children running. See; some of them wander off to meet the train, the main event of the day, bringing people and news. The village is full of life, open, populated by friends, neighbours, characters.

But when I closed my mind’s eye and opened the everyday peepers and the bustling village was gone. The shops and banks have closed their doors, the train no longer stops there, the old station has been demolished. Driving through the village, my mother pointed at houses and told us about things that once were – who used to live in which house, where the telephone exchange was. Of the present we had no knowledge. There are people living in those houses, apparently, but we didn’t know who they were. The village was inhabited by unseen strangers. The cottage stood forlornly in grey drizzle. The garden was a tangle of weeds and dry branches. Even my second-hand memories seemed to flicker.

* * *

A week later, meeting the buyers to sign the deed, I listened to my mother again describing the cottage and the village as they were in her childhood. I think they asked, about something, at any rate, and we were willing to tell. Our memories are precious to us, and perhaps there is an unconscious desire in us to pass them on to the future that no longer contains us. Perhaps it’s part of the process of letting go. But I think what also, if not primarily, motivated my mother was the fact that if she bought a house, she would like to know that kind of things.

And so would I.

My childhood home does not have a rich past. The house is roughly the same age as I am, built by my family on previously uninhabited land. Before, it was a woodland pasture (the barbed wire, rolled up in balls and left there to rust, is still there if you know where to look). It isn’t an exciting story, hardly a story at all – I haven’t seen ghosts of cows past wander through the house or heard wistful mooing in midsummer nights. But for some peculiar reason, because of some odd way my odd brain is constructed, it has always pleased me to know this sliver of information. First there was The Age of Cows, then we came in and we didn’t have cows but we had a dog like the smart one on TV. Ok, good. I was satisfied; this is where we find ourselves in place and time.

The place itself is completely unremarkable unless you’re me and can read your childhood in its features. An almost invisible path no one else would notice still speaks of adventures to me. My family shares memories of building the woodshed and filling it with firewood – my father sawing and chopping, the rest of us carrying and piling; sawdust and splinters all over the clothes, sweating, wearing thick gloves, we all know this – but I must be the only one who can look at the shed and remember the news of Skylab falling and who can look at the roof of the shed and say ah, the bridge of the battlestar Galactica (the first one, you wisecrackers, the original!). Childhood and its memories, both real and imaginary events recorded by turning them into play, bookmarked by places, structures and things.

The events I associate with my grandmother’s cottage are quite different. In addition to the scenes from a happy childhood, the borrowed memories speak of war. They speak of trains carrying soldiers, the living, the wounded, the dead. They speak of Russian bombers in the sky and the glowing sky in the direction of the nearest large town. This is where I imagine the sudden dread of glancing out of the window and seeing the priest on the village road, and the relief of seeing him pass by. I realise, though, that I have associated some of the family stories (such as those pertaining to the civil war) with the same village, although my grandparents hadn’t even met yet, let alone moved there at the time. But I don’t know those other places; I have only been to this place, so this is where my memory is accustomed to staging all the stories inherited from my mother’s family. At the same time, this place and these memories illustrate and represent a particular phase in Finnish history.

* * *

So there we were, representatives of three generations, on our last visit to the cottage, some with first-person memories, others with second-hand memories, some real, some misplaced, some only forming, winking in and out while new ones, the last ones, were forming.

The village seemed closed, turned inwards. But in truth, what else could it be in cold, grey Finnish October? And it was us who were strangers there, even at granny’s cottage. In its deep slumber it wouldn’t even crack an eyelid to acknowledge our presence. “I know you are not really here,” it might have said, “I know you are nothing but ghosts.” And it would have been right.

Without people, the cottage is just an empty shell. To live on, the house needs to be lived in. It needs new memories, new meanings. It needs people who look to the future, not only to the past, who will think of how to adapt the place for themselves. And the place will adapt them to its limitations and its possibilities, it will frame their dreams, their lives and their memories. The place will belong to them and they will belong to the place.

Therefore leaving the place now, for the last time, wasn’t that bad.  We took photographs, said our final goodbyes; we brought back furniture and keepsakes, solid reminders of bygone times and people, now quietly settling into their new, more modern environments. We will always have the stories and the memories that seem to live and breathe so much stronger than the reality.

Who knows what else we have, though – sometimes I wonder. My mother’s favourite place at her childhood home was the rock at the back of the yard. She has often talked about it in a way that suggests a rock is nothing less than a requirement for a place to be truly happy. Is it then a coincidence that her children have found their homes in rocky environments? Or is it the place, reaching across time, distance and generations to whisper in our ears?

Have a sad little Christmas

This seems to be an old draft for whatever purpose – as I haven’t got time to write a new post on the madness of Finnish Christmas carols right now, this will have to do. P.S. I have no idea where the optimism of the last paragraph came from.

Did you ever wonder why the American Santa goes ”Ho! Ho! Ho!” but his Finnish colleague does not? Maybe he knows there is nothing to laugh about Christmas…

It is, indeed, a solemn affair. Most of the Finns’ favourite carols seem to be in minor key and some of the lyrics are downright depressing. Take one of the most popular songs, Varpunen jouluaamuna (”Sparrow on Christmas morning”). It tells about a little girl offering a seed to a poor hungry sparrow, which turns out to be her dead little brother visiting from heaven. A guaranteed weepie.

Well, in olden days life was hard. Traditional songs often remark on the bleakness and coldness of winter – perhaps that is why Finnish Christmas carols are mournful? Well, there is another bird in ”Sylvia’s Christmas Song,” singing in the warmth of Italian winter. Surely this bird must be happy? Er… no. It is sad, because it longs for Finnish Christmas. And then, after a long lament,  it apparently dies. Oh dear.

Better avoid songs about birds. Finns do have more cheerful carols, such as a children’s song about sleighing to Christmas service and how nice it is. But it also says it’s five a.m. and the kids are dragged out of bed into the freezing winter weather. Fun? It does sound suspiciously like parental propaganda.

Okay, let’s try ”Hei tonttu-ukot” about happy, dancing Christmas elves. Now this one’s very upbeat! Up until the elves pause for a slower refrain: ”Life is but short/And sad and gloomy at that.” After which they sing and dance on merrily (although perhaps a tad more uncertainly). The elves are clearly bipolar, if you ask me!

In truth, though, the Finnish Christmas might be quiet but it isn’t depressing. A healthy dose of melancholy every now and then makes Finns happy, that is how we are built. Amongst good food and heaps of presents, world’s saddest Christmas carols give piquancy to the restful, happy celebration. And there are less depressing songs, too.

By the way, Finns are especially kind to birds at Christmas. Now you know why.

The Comet

There be no comet in this picture.

I was walking down the street when a woman pulled up next to me.  She rolled down the car window and gestured excitedly.

“Look! Look at the sky!”

I looked up. Rather a nice sunset, but not remarkable enough to make it seem necessary to alert random passers-by

“There! Look! The comet!”

The comet! What… oh. Ah. The woman was pointing at something that admittedly resembled a comet, but definitely wasn’t one. I had to correct her.

“Um, er, to tell you the truth, it wouldn’t be that big and br…”

“That cannot be an airplane trail!”

“Actually, I think…”

“They said in the news you could see it now!”

“But that’s even in the wrong dir…”

“Isn’t it marvellous!” she exclaimed, waved, and drove away. I was left standing alone, gaping at the non-comet.

Well, that’s zero points to knowledge and communication.

Given another chance, I’d again do my best to spoil her fun, because that’s the kind of a bore I am. I think it’s worth knowing and understanding what you see. Most of the marvels of the universe are not that obviously on display, but it usually turns out they’re no less marvellous even if spotting them takes a lot of squinting. All you need to appreciate their marvellousness is some knowledge. And the wonderful fact is that the more you know, the more fascinating they are. I don’t mean to ridicule The Unknown Woman, I just hope she will be inspired to do some reading so that if she ever sees a comet as big and bright as that sunlit, comet-impersonating vapour trail she admired today, she’ll know to be well and truly impressed and astonished.

And possibly somewhat alarmed.

***

FYI: The comet ISON cometh! For information, photos, advice on spotting the comet, etc. see EarthSky, for example. I just spotted this great Waiting for ISON blog you might want to check out, too. Finns: get thee to Ursa’s page for updates.

The bold and beautiful countryside

(This is one of my old stories written for SixDegrees, Finland’s English language magazine. Even though I find myself somewhat underwhelmed by it, I hope it might have some interest for non-Finns, at least.)

WHERE have all the people gone?

Why, it is summer, and holidaying Finns are getting out of towns, of course. There is no such thing as summer in the city – you have to get into the peace and quiet of the countryside. So here they go, filling the roads with their cars, off to get to the fresh air of the pure, pure countryside.

For all the high-tech hype and urbane Nokia pride, if you scratch the surface you find that the country is the true home, heart and soul of Finnishness. Some of them may be in denial, but there is only a handful of truly urban Finns, if that. Even the teenagers, who whine about being dragged away from the pleasant city life to the unfathomable boredom of  the sticks, will one day hear the call of the countryside and pack their own sulking teenagers into the car, heading into the rural sunset.

One of the reasons for this annual migration may be that Finns yearn for the home they only just left. In Western terms Finland urbanized quite late: in 1950 Finland was still an agrarian country, in which only about a third of the population were town dwellers. Rapid industrialisation contributed to rapid urbanization: by 1975, 65% of the population lived in towns and people were still moving away from the rural areas.

This late blooming of industrialisation and city life raises mixed feelings in Finns – there is some pride (hey, very rapid industrialisation – fastest people in the world!), but on the other hand it’s somewhat embarrassing. You feel a bit of a country pumpkin among the Europeans and have bullies like the Italian prime minister cracking jokes about you. So you brandish the latest Nokia phone and make pointed remarks about ”the hicks” and how they are a bit on the slow side there in the country.

Yet the countryside is the home of the quintessential Finnish values. It isn’t only the source of the superbly pure Finnish food (if only it wasn’t so expensive so that you have to buy Spanish tomatos); it is somehow more noble and honest. And who would define the concept of sisu but the gutsy Finnish farmers of olden times who turned bogs and forests into arable land and toiled against one adversity after another, never giving up. Truly this is the sturdy blood that runs in Finnish veins!

You could say that rurality is deeply set in Finnish brains, too – unlike in Indo-European languages, the Finnish months are named after what mattered most to the farmer, following the yearly cycle. Numerous everyday expressions derive from the agricultural practices, although most Finns wouldn’t recognise their original meaning anymore, even if they stopped to think about them.

An even more indoctrinating influence would be Finnish literature and especially the visual arts. In the first half of the 20th century, towns were usually depicted as places of moral decay, alienation, and general wickedness, which would corrupt any fresh-faced youth who made the mistake of leaving their country homes. After 1950s, when more and more Finns settled in towns, questions of morality were replaced by nostalgia.

Somehow in the urban years the imagery of the old films stuck – in Finnish minds the countryside tends to be all about sun-kissed yellow fields of corn gently swaying in the wind, Finnish horses and picturesque cattle on green pastures, handsome muscular men and pretty blond women – all young – making hay (and later making out in hay), in the eternal hot summer. If there is rain and thunder, it is short and picturesque, too (and the perfect time for that little escapade in the barn).

Basically people know that this image isn’t quite right, but when born town-dwellers move to the country they’re likely to have a big surprise. There are decidedly worse smells than hay and roses; there are flies and mosquitoes and all kinds of creepy-crawlies. Instead of the well-proportioned youths you get stout middle-aged farmers in overalls, insisting on starting their noisy tractors early in the morning and running them till late at night, apparently having never heard of leisurely country life.

What’s more, for a  town-bred individual the celebrated old-world communality may seem more like poking noses in other people’s matters. Oh, and if you happen to see any hay that isn’t baled and/or wrapped in white plastic, it turns out to be itchy and scratchy. Those movie folks must have had a thicker skin. And if you thought that winter is a dark time in towns, darkness gets redefined in the country.

Most of the townfolk only dream about moving to the country, though, and are satisfied with briefer visits. For them it would be enough if the countryside just stayed that depository of true values in which they could dip in the warmth of summer months and feel renewed. If only they would bring back haystacks and horses it would be a nice theme park to relax in.

As for the conditions for food production – what do you mean? Duh, food comes from the supermarket!