Saturday, 29 September 2007

Wednesday, 26 September 2007

Billy-Boy Bold

Little Mary went to the hill,
Met there Bill
Who certainly will
Little Mary kill.

Bill is a swine
With plenty of time
And nothing in mind.
Surely not kind.

Bill, he said:
You’ll soon be dead.
Gone is your head.
Your blood, ooh, so red!

End of the story, seldom told.
What about Bill? He certainly sold
His soul to the Devil, his soul so cold.
And the Devil, he hailed for Billy-Boy Bold.

Monday, 24 September 2007


I remember the fragrance of the sea, the salty tickle in my nose, and the pearls of water on my skin, the musky scent of seashells we had been picking all day. I remember all those odours, but most of all I remember the perfume of my mother, her warm hand on my hand, her smile when she looked at me, and the gentle stroke in my hair.
I remember it.

Or was it a dream?

Or a wish I once had? Still have?


The weekly theme for Moody Monday is Fragrant

Saturday, 22 September 2007


-I love you. Do you love me?

-Why don’t you ever say it?
-Say what?

-That you love me.
-Well, I just did, didn’t I?

-No, you didn’t. I asked you if you loved me.
-And I told you I do.

-No, you didn’t. I hate you.
-I don’t.


The weekly theme for IF is Juggle

Thursday, 20 September 2007


The weekly theme for Thursday Challenge is Purple

Monday, 17 September 2007


The weekly theme for Moody Monday is Sugary

There’s a paradox about sunset. In real life, the colours of the setting sun amaze us, enthral us to shrieks of exhilaration. We cannot stop admiring the intense of the red, yellow and orange splattered in the velvety azure sky.

In a photo, the sunset turns into sugary and grotesque scenery, a Hollywood like fairytale land, coated with romance and honey, dripping of sugar and sweetness.

Friday, 14 September 2007


Rosencrantz: What is your line?

Player: Tragedy, sir. Deaths and disclosures, universal and particular, denouements, both unexpected and inexorable, transvestite melodrama on all levels including the suggestive. We transport you into a world of intrigue and illusion -clowns, if you like. murderers -we can do you ghosts and battles, on the skirmish level, heroes, villains, tormented lovers -set pieces in the poetic vein; we can do you rapiers or rape or both, by all means, faithless wives and ravished virgins -flagrante delicto at price, but that comes under realism for which there are special terms. Getting warm, am I?

Rosencrantz(doubtfully): Well, I don't know...

Player: It costs little to watch, and little more if you happen to get caught up in the action, if that's your taste and times being what they are.

Rosencrantz: What are they?

Player: Indifferent.


The quotation is from the play
Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead
by Tom Stoppard

Tuesday, 11 September 2007

Bad Face Day

"Don't talk about having a bad hair day..."


The weekly theme for Moody Monday is Ugly

Sunday, 9 September 2007

Sing low and sweet

Do you remember when I earlier this year wrote about the desire of taking singing lessons? If you don’t, refresh your memory.
Well, desires are to be made true and I’ve been going to singing lessons now for few weeks.

I’ve loved every minute of it.

I’ve always hummed to myself, and occasionally sang out loud. Now I have a place where I can let the air drop down to my stomach and lift the voice in the air. The sensation is wonderful; the feeling of being able to produce a somewhat controlled sound is very satisfying.

I’m not training to be a Senior Idol, or to be a classical singer. I just want to learn to breathe in the right way while singing. I want to study my abilities to reach the high notes and how to descend to the lower levels of sound making.

My teacher is an angel, full of encouragement and joy. She lets me sing songs I like, evergreens by Gershwin, Porter, Carmichael, Ellington etc.
But not yet –first I have to practise more my pelvis muscles....

High notes are a nuisance because I have a natural born whiskey-cigarettes-nightlife voice (in truth I must admit that some of that huskiness of my voice is self afflicted, not solely natural born...). I made funny, frog-like sounds just the other evening, sliding my voice lower and lower while the teacher struck three chords from her piano. Down and down and down I went and finally she asked me: “How low can you get?”

Well, I’m going to find it out.

Thursday, 6 September 2007

The Bad Conscience

I’ve been neglecting commenting in my fellow blogger’s blogs for past few days. Thanks to real life, that is. I’ve been busy. It’s annoying and therefore I have a bad conscience since HPY gave me the "Power of Schmooze Award" because it is given to bloggers who “effortlessly weave their way in and out of the blogosphere, leaving friendly trails and smiles, happily making new friends along the way. They don’t limit their visits to only the rich and successful, but spend some time to say hello to new blogs as well. They are the ones who engage others in meaningful conversations, refusing to let it end at a mere hello - all the while fostering a sense of closeness and friendship".

I feel lousy because I haven’t lately left almost any trails in the blogosphere.

I’d like to pass the award to so many bloggers, but I made myself to choose only one and therefore I present the award to Tuima.

I hope that the sudden lividness of real life eases next week. Before next week there’s the weekend which I’ll spend in Turku.

This post has no picture made by me. Instead, I give you a piece of my heart, a song of last of the red hot mommas, the lady and the singer I adore.

Have a nice weekend.

Wednesday, 5 September 2007

Monday, 3 September 2007


The weekly challenge for Moody Monday is Posh

Sunday, 2 September 2007

The First Love

She was determined to believe that her first love was something worth remembering, worth yearning. She kept the fire warm around her love, never let it cool down, and vanish into dust.
She blew sighs of desires towards the fire to keep it in flames.

She soaked her feet in lukewarm water, and coloured her nails with the colour of love, red and hot. She painted high and thin eyebrows on her forehead, and her fleshless lips she covered with carmine red, the same blush on her pale and dry cheeks, thin like paper, wrinkled by time.

Her pearly skull glittered underneath her thin hair. She belted her skinny waist, her skirt swirled around her as she danced in her ballerinas.

She sat and wrote the letter she had written before, every year, for many years. She believed that while she still remembered, her love wouldn’t forget her, and she wrote the words “I love you still”, the same words she whispered to herself every morning.

She put a stamp on the envelope, hid the letter in her cupboard, along with all the hundreds of letters never to be sent.