Cleaning

I’ve been cleaning today, vacuuming, washing, and dusting the grey surfaces. It’s a bore, but it has to be done. Cleaning is quite useless. You do it once and after few days you could do it again. It’s a never ending task. A project that won’t just be finished. Ever.

Although I like the process of making art often more than the final result, the same doesn’t go with cleaning. I like the result much better, and I hope not to start it all over again after some time.

The one, who gives me tools to make cleaning a work of art, shall be highly thanked and blessed. Any suggestions?

It's out

and I'm off for a couple of days.

Old

The weekly theme for Thursday Challenge is old.

Morganism(i)

My fellow blogger Lepis (check out her marvellous macro photos!) offered me a ride and we drove to Sysmä for a couple of weeks ago. In Sysmä we stayed at a local blogger’s house, and celebrated also the publishing of this blogger’s, Morgan’s, new book.

Morgan has a place called Morganismi. It’s a magical place with art among the trees, all kind of fun stuff here and there, touching moments in th shades of the bushes. A place worth visiting, if you happen to be near Sysmä. The summer opening for the exhibition is next weekend.

I took a lot of photos there and made a video about the place. Hope you enjoy peeking at Finnish do-yourself-art! I did.

White Houses

For the last couple of weeks I’ve been busy finishing the manuscript of my novel. I’m going to, like the other two, self-publish the novel at Books on Demand.

It’s tedious to rewrite old text, I’ve been bored to death. I don’t like to read my old texts, they are familiar, and there’s nothing surprising in them. Boring, boring, boring, but now I’ve done it.

I had this manuscript, but no name for the novel, so I arranged a query in my main Finnish blog and asked the readers to come up with a name. They gave plenty of suggestions, and the name was found.

Having got the name, I made some sketches for the book cover, and made a poll.

Doing all this, has left me very little time to visit your blogs, less leaving comments. Sorry about that.

The novel’s name is Valkoiset talot, White Houses, and it’s a story about four white houses and their residents. There’s going to be a lot of misery, hope, love, every day life in the book. It’s a novel about us, here and now.

Hopefully, the novel sees daylight in June. 

On The Bus

picture by Mick Mather

***

Buses are the worst. At first, everything is alright, you step aboard, pay your fare and sit down. The driver starts the engine, your eyes seek for the familiar landscape through the window. Forests and meadows melt into a swirling ribbon, blue, green, occasional sunny, yellow spots. The ribbon unwinds when the bus rolls to a stop, the doors sling open, new passengers mount to the bus.

The journey continues and suddenly you hear the change. Voices of people mumbling to their mobiles get sharper, words come closer, but you can’t hear what is said, you don’t recognize the words. The air is filled with sharp mutter. The ribbon behind the window turns muddy, the window becomes a glass wall, it falls on you, and you’ll be imprisoned into the transparent material.

The bus moves faster. You dare not look at the driver, you’re afraid he’s having a seizure, maybe he’s drunk. He drives more rapidly and you tremble in your glass cube, there’s no air. You struggle for breath, you want to get out, but you’re not able to lift your hand and push the stop button. You can’t move your body. Not before the bus stops for the next time, the doors open, and you feel the cool breeze pulling you out of the bus.

Your feet are shaking. There’s no bench by the bus stop, you’d like to sit on the ground, but you know there’s no way of getting up if you’d do so. You hold on to the pillar of the bus shelter, you lean your forehead and feel the jagged, cold surface, and you try to remember how to breathe.

***

I wrote this short story first in Finnish and published it in my Finnish blog earlier this week, and on the same day Mick published in his blog the pic you see above. I asked for and got the permission to use Mick's beautiful picture to illustrate my story which I translated into English. Mick's work suited the feelings of my story more than perfect. Thank you, Mick.

Big

The weekly theme for Thursday Challenge is big

To Be A Mother

Hvitträsk

The Sky

One day she noticed the sky was blue. It happened quite suddenly, she was pushing the wheel chair up a very steep street, she was sweating and panting. She heard the beat of her heart in her ears, bum, bum, bum the heart drummed in frenzy.

-Are you angry? You don’t say anything.

-No, I’m hot, she said. -It’s heavy to push uphill.

-It’s the sun. It makes you warm.

Finally they reached the top of the street, and she stopped to take a breath. She put the wheel chair’s brakes on, closed her eyes, and when she opened them again, se saw the blue sky. It was amazingly clear, almost like a blue shelter arching way up high. She felt dizzy, and she grasped the handles of the wheel chair.

-What is it? Are you all right?

-I’m fine, she answered. –I’m just so happy to see the blue sky. So, so happy.

The winter had been long.

 

Hunger

It happens every spring: I crave for colour. I need colour, I must create colour.

The days for the black and white are gone. For a while, because I know that period will come back, as surely as this colour inspiration overwhelms me every spring.

I’ve been a little lazy in taking photos. Instead I’ve wanted to make paintings, digital of course, because I have no patience for work that demands a long time. I have to be ready fast, I have no nerves to stay at one piece for a long time.

The urge, the hunger for colours, made me start the new blog. It’s my seventh…no, eighth, no, NINTH blog. Oh. Exaggerating? No. Every blog has it own function.

At least for me.

 

Welcome

to my newest

blog

Happy Easter!

Easier

Spring is easier.

Light wakes up in the morning. It may be grey light, but nevertheless, it’s light.

Rain washes the sandy pavements, floods rinse small stones into the gutters.

Pushing the wheelchair is almost like a dance when there’s no snow and ice.

Feet won’t slip and slide.

No weighty loads on the back, getting rid of the heavy winter coat. Balls and chains loosen.

Hands aren’t freezing, the grip is only cold.

Tears don’t compose an icy sonata of pearls on the cheek.

Spring is easier in many ways.

Easier. Not easy.

What Is This?

What

is this?

This awakening,

the warmth in my

limbs, the throbbing joy

in the branches of a tree

turning green. Winter sleep

is over, leaves are pushing

their way towards

the sun.

What

is

this?

Is

it

spring? Spring.