I'll be gone

for some days.

The Squirrel

I remember well the moment, when I decided, that I’ll become a writer. A writer who invents her own stories and poems, who’s not dependant of other people’s imagination and help.

Shame made me a writer. The sheer feeling of humiliation.

I was nine years old, at school and the teacher –a very frightful and sadistic woman- told us to write a poem of some animal, say maybe about a squirrel. I was terrified. I was a city-girl. I remembered seeing some squirrels way back, but really, squirrels wasn’t that common on my home street.

My other reason to be aghast was that I couldn’t write a poem! I could write -that I had learned in school, but a poem! Difficult! Impossible! About a squirrel! No can do!

Luckily my friend came to rescue. She was already ten years of age and had some more experience with school that required horrible tasks to be done by pupils. She told me that she knew a poem about a squirrel and that the poem wasn’t that bad either. She believed that the poem was so old, that the teacher wouldn’t surely know it.

I grasped with gratitude to the words my friend uttered and wrote the poem in my most beautiful handwriting (the teacher was very strict about handwriting, it had to be perfect). The poem wasn’t that good in my opinion and there were few words I didn’t understand at all, but I didn’t let it bother me. Home work had to be done.

After some days the teacher read out loud the imaginative poems by us pupils. I waited eagerly to hear my poem, well…the poem I had written myself on the paper. The teacher commented on some poems I didn’t find so appealing, she complimented them and I felt the needles on my skin. Why didn’t she read my poem? Why didn’t she say something about my writing? The poem wasn’t that lousy.

After the lesson, the teacher asked me to stay in the class while other pupils rushed out to freedom. She wanted to have a word with me.

-This poem of yours…did you write it yourself, SusuPetal?
-Yes (this was said without hesitation).

-Are you sure?
-Yes… (a small uncertainty crept into my shivering voice).

-Well, I don’t believe you.
-?

-This is a well-known poem.
-? (my friend swore that the poem was so old nobody would remember it!!!!)

-By a well-known writer.
-… (oh my god, I’ve been caught!)

-And I presume you don’t know the writer or the poem? Otherwise you wouldn’t have stolen the poem?

I was hot. I was red. I wanted to faint and vanish, but couldn’t move my legs. I wasn’t able to do anything else than to stand there and listen to the teacher who told me that I had copied the poem of the Finnish national writer Aleksis Kivi.

After that humiliation I knew that I had no other choice than to write my own stuff.

New

paintings and drawings here.

I had a dream

I had a dream
he sat by my side
side by side
and whispered while he cuddled near me
wakey, wakey,

it’s the sunny side up, the sunny side of the street.
I woke
and as I stood up for my rights
he asked me to tell him my name, because he loved me.
Sure.
I told him to bring me a water melon, sold on Beale Street,
and like a heat wave –a hundred and five!- I realized
there wasn't any blues in the night.
Only nights in white satin and good mornings.
Well, jesus died for somebodyz sins, but not mine, I heard myself say to him as he wiped his hands into the wall, yellow as the brick road.
Good morning starshine.

To argue or not to agree

She loves to argue. No, ”loves” is not the right word. She has to argue, otherwise nobody pays any attention to her and without other peoples attention she doesn’t exist.

She doesn’t want to be unseen. She wants to be noticed, wants to be heard, and wants to be in the centre of everything. It’s not important, if she’s right. That’s not the point. She just wants to feel the power of disturbing the peace and well-being of people and therefore she loves to provoke and argue.

And of course, if you’d ask her, she’d say that she’s right.

She can’t agree with anything. If she’d do that, nobody would be aware of her. Everybody would just pass her, maybe smile a little, maybe utter some sympathetic words to her and then leave. She can’t stand that kind of behaviour. She wants people to acknowledge her, because she thinks she is smarter than the rest. She’s clever, intelligent and her logic is something others can only dream of.

Actually she despises people. They are morons, she thinks and it’s sad that she needs people so much.

She can’t argue alone.

The Rock'n Roll Detective

There are movies you like to watch and you want to remember. Then there are movies you don’t like to watch, but you must, and you can’t forget them. Also, there are movies, you don’t want to watch, but you have and you … and so on, haven’t got the time to complete this thought to the end, if there is any.

Anyway, I was thinking of a movie by the Finnish director Renny Harlin, when I saw this photo. The movie is called Ford Fairlane and Herlin himself has said about the movie:

-Ford Fairlane was one of those movies that was so much fun to make that it was bound not to be a big hit.

Yes, the film was no big hit and it is considered to be a lousy movie. At least the film critics hate the movie. Well, I’m no critic and I just love Ford Fairlane.

There must be something wrong with me.

I love the humour of the film, I find it very funny. I adore the stereotypes of the role characters, the somewhat poor and rigid acting.
I won’t analyze this further, because I’m not the critic.
Just love it without thinking.

Here’s my favourite quote from the film, said by Ford Fairlane, the rock’n roll detective himself played by Andrew Dice Clay:

“Conversation with Zuzu Petals was like masturbating with a cheese grater: slightly amusing, but mostly painful.”

Unfuckingbeliavable!

Hunger and Boredom

He was sad. No, sad was not the right word to describe his mood. Maybe he was bored? Fucked up?

He sighed. Definitely he wasn’t fucked up. The mood had nothing to do with fucking. He hadn’t had a lay for weeks. Or was it months? He wasn’t quite sure.

He didn’t want to be sure. He didn’t want to remember the last time he made love to a woman. It hadn’t been lovemaking at all, only a desperate effort to feel something.

Shame. That was the feeling he had managed to feel. No joy, no lust (well, maybe in the beginning of the act), no fulfilment.
Shame of wanting nothing more than a lay.
Shame of not completing the act.

He felt irritation when he remembered the words which lied that it didn’t matter at all, we can just lie here together, doing nothing.
He was fed up with doing nothing.

He dumped the woman. Or was it she who had left? He couldn’t remember. He couldn’t care less. The woman was of no importance. Yes, it was true that he had been attracted to her and he had made some effort for her, but it had all been just a game of no greater excitement.

This had to be sadness, after all. No other explanation could be right. Maybe he needed a woman? Or just a lay? He couldn’t decide. Life was too complicated in that way.

It would be easier to have no needs. Irrational needs disturbed his thoughts, made him lose his concentration and that was bad. He liked to be aware. It was vital to be alert.

He wouldn’t be fucked anymore.

The Joy of Finding

I can’t write stories that create landscapes of the mind. I don’t have a need to open up the soul of my characters with prolonged descriptions of their thoughts, their motives and their states of mind.

I believe in dialogue and the unspoken words that linger between the lines. I don’t like to read that somebody is angry, I don’t want to write what somebody is feeling. I want the readers to find out for themselves. I want to do the same –enjoy the sensation of realizing something that hasn’t been written in the book I hold in my hand.

Of course my realizations aren’t necessarily the same as the writer has meant it to be, but that doesn’t matter. The same goes when someone, who reads my story, finds meanings of which I hadn’t a clue while writing the text.

The joy of finding. In writing and in reading. That’s important for me and that’s why I believe in a minimum amount of words when telling a story.

Big Feet

-You’ve got such beautiful feet. They’re really gorgeous.
-Really? Do you think so? My feet are big. Too big.

-I like big feet. People with big feet caress the earth in a different way while walking, they really grab the earth with powerful steps.
-That sounds…well, good.

-Big feet are good. Are you ready? Is this you first time?
-Yes. I’ve never done this before. I’m not much of a dancer. I’ve always stumbled. My feet are always in the way.

-They won’t be that anymore. African dances require big, beautiful feel, believe me.
-I’ll try.

-You do that.

SusuPetal goes into publishing

The Publishing House was grand. So glamorous that for a moment SusuPetal hesitated. Could she really just enter through those dark, wooden doors? Could she just walk in and announce herself? What if nobody paid attention to her?
Could they do that?
No, they couldn’t. There was no need to worry and SusuPetal braced herself and entered the building.

The Publisher looked at her when she came to the room. The Publisher didn’t look surprised and she knew that the House had been waiting for her..
The Publisher smiled.

-So, finally, the Publisher inhaled and a quiet whistle blurt out of the red nose. –You decided to come out, eh? You want to be known all over the world, eh?
-Eh?

-Well, I presume you are the SusuPetal?
-Yes, I am.

-Also known as PusuPedaali, the woman who’s kissing the pedals or something, eh?
-It’s merely a nickname. I’m not into kissing.

The Publisher snorted out a sound which could’ve been considered a laugh. SusuPetal winced and hoped that the Publisher would start to speak business. She didn’t fancy this kind of chit-chat, se hadn’t that kind of humour. In fact, she hadn’t any kind of humour at all.
She wasn’t into humour.

-We’ve got it all made, the Publisher declared. –It’s all here: the publishing contract, the manuscripts for three series on TV, lasting ten seasons. Each. The merry-go-round in various happenings, several interviews, both the press and TV, the covers for your cook-book are also ready and…
-My cook-book? Eh?

-You can cook?
-Yes, but…

-No buts. Everything is in order, you just sign here. And here. And here.
-Where?

-Here. You just sign and the world is yours.

SusuPetal took the pen the Publisher was offering and started to write her name. The Publisher exploded.

-What the heck, you dumb-wit of a woman. Not that name. Your real name, of course, you moron.
-My real name? But…I can’t use my real name.

-Sign it, woman! What are you? Dumb or something?
-No, I can’t. I can’t use my real name!

-And why is that, you lousy creature, eh?
-I…I don’t remember my real name!

-Fucking eh!
-Yeah. This is bad.

Or was it bad, SusuPetal thought when she came out and stood on the pavement. Maybe not. There would be no glorious future, but did it matter?

She could always continue to write to her blog. All her blogs.

She was into blogs.

Boring thoughts

At the moment writing has no appeal to me. Words disgust me, ideas do the same. But at the same time, I have an urge to write. Don’t know, maybe I’m just fed up with my way of writing. Maybe something new is wishing to born?

What could that be?

I’ve never been into therapy writing. I don’t like to delve in my so called deepest thoughts and put them into words. I’ve found that very boring.

My writing has always had a function, I’ve written for some reason –articles to smallish papers, novels to magazines, stories to my blogs. I’ve never been the one writing only to myself.

I’m used to that my texts are being read and although I have not the possible public in my mind while writing, the knowledge that my stories will be read, makes my writing somewhat satisfactory. A writer wants to be read, wants to be acknowledged and wants to be seen. If someone tries to deny that, I just won’t believe.

Now I have the feeling that being seen is not enough. Or then it is too much. I don’t know and that puzzles me. Should I start to write a diary, only to myself (I think Reiska would vote for that, hah) or should I have a brake from writing into my blogs(now I can hear Reiska cheering…)?

Or should I try to write something different?

My thoughts bore me. Like words.

I'm afraid that I was very, very drunk

show me the way to the next
whiskey bar

here I go again, the trumpets will blow again!

every day I spend my time drinking
wine
drinkin’ wine spo dee o’dee
I got red blood, and I got blood red wine

hey, hey, hey!

wasting our time on cheap talk and wine

good ol’ boys were drinking whiskey and rye
drinkin’ dark whiskey, telling white lies
whiskey in the jar

please me and I’ll please you

the piano has been drinking, not me

one for my baby and one more
for the road

The Pillar

She’s tired of being the strong one. She’s fed up with everybody counting on her –her family, her friends, her colleagues at work. She doesn’t want to be the one everybody depends on.

She’s tired of listening. She doesn’t want to hear anything, she doesn’t want to be covered by the feelings other people vomit on her.

For once in her life she would like to answer herself, but nobody asks her anything. Nobody wants to know her feelings, nobody is interested in her thoughts. Not at work, not at her home.

No one asks her how her day was when she comes home after work. No one is interested in that, because they are too anxious to make her listen to their thoughts, their feelings and she is once again pushed in the corner. Her duty is to listen, nothing else.

Sometimes she tries to rebel, tries to say something, but she is ignored by words such as “you’re such a good listener”, “you’ve got experience, wisdom”, “you are a person I can depend on”, “you’re my mum”, “you’re my wife”, “you’re my daughter”.

We need you, they say, you’re strong and sane and you know the solution to our problems. We trust in you, you can’t let us down. You must cope, because we have no one else. You carry us in your hands and without you, we’ll fall.

She’s trapped, because she knows that her strength is nothing else than weakness and because of her weakness, she has to stay.
She’s got no power to run away from them.

Herself she has left years ago.

Come rain, come shine

I hate to wash windows. I don’t like cleaning on the whole, but particularly I hate the mere thought of window-washing.

And now it’s spring. How do I know that? Oh, believe me, I do know! The snow on the ground doesn’t fool me a bit. The frost on the pavements in the morning doesn’t lure me to think the winter’s still here. Oh, no. It is spring.

The sun is hanging low all day, just at that particular height that lets every ray from that light yellow ball rush against my windows. The cold and bare sunlight hides nothing, it shows all the milky white, or should I say grey, spots on my windows. Looking at the windows makes me wonder, if I live in a house of ghosts (other facts speak for that, too…).

It’s time to wash the windows. I know, but I also know that I won’t do anything. I’ve managed once to live in a flat for five years without washing the windows. I must have that same strength now! Well, I did wash the windows two years ago, didn’t I?

I miss the place I used to live before. The flat was on the ground-floor and when it started to rain heavily, I took my umbrella and a wiper and went out. There I stood, in the rain, but not getting wet thanks to my umbrella, and wiped the windows, if not dry, at least clean.
It was simple and efficient.

Now I live on the third floor.

I’m waiting for the summer. The leaves turn big and green in the trees in front of my windows and the sun won’t bother me any more.

His Story Is His History

You think you know something?
You think you are something?

You do think a lot,
but it’s of no use.

You’re nothing. Absolutely nothing.
That does piss you off, doesn’t it?
To be nothing. That is: nothing of importance.

Wind in the hay. Buzz of the bees. Piece of shit.
They’re more than you. Really.

Come back after three thousand years and see
if somebody still remembers you.

I doubt it.

But shit still smells.

You’re talking to me?

Go away. Stop thinking. Go.

The Battle

The boy is sitting alone in his room. He looks at the computer screen, his eyes follow the movements of the hero whose task is to save the world. The boy’s hands move rapidly as he forces the hero to go further, to push harder and to fulfil the mission.

The eyes stare and there’s nothing else in this world for the boy. He forgets everything that’s outside his mind and body. Nothing else remains but the world in which the hero lives, the world the boy yearns to belong to.

The hero conquers the enemies, the planet is saved and the battle is over. There’s no need to fight, no need for adventures any more. No need for anything. Everything is over.

Even for the boy.