Thursday, April 29, 2004

I worry about the troubled monsters of an untroubled sleep; in the morning sun, nothing seems impossible.

Below is a letter some of you may remember. I still remember it. Virtanen was in her eighties, single all her life, and an original resident in our building, completed in 1952. When the sun slants into the stairwell, the ghostly image of "Virtanen" is still clealy visible on the mail slot above the "Bergman" of the current resident.

From 31 January 2002

Coming home from work, I saw a police van outside my building's open door. I wondered what could be up. As I came through the door, Tatu, fixer of houses, was standing in front of an old lady named Virtanen's open door on the first floor. He shot me a nervous look. Two police, looking like they'd rather be putting down a prison riot, were shifting about the cluttered rooms. Newspapers were stacked up and down the halls, a pile of mail was spread across the entry, scattered when the door opened. But most striking of all was the reek filling the whole staircase like something from the pits of hell.

I never excepted to experience first hand the smell of rotting human flesh, but life proves a more varied experience than I had hoped.

Tatu is a very nice man, living on the same landing as Miss Virtanen. As the house maintenance man, he must have been the one to find her. As I walked by he said, "You'd better not let Matilda out to play for a while."

Later Tatu came up to say it would be a few hours before they came for the corpse, since handling her would be difficult. Miss Virtanen had been dead for over a month. "Her condition is not so good," he said.

It is sad to realize that people die so alone. That no one asked about her, or she wasn't missed in over a month. I wonder if she died before Christmas. If so, it seems she missed a lonely holiday. I hope she had no children. When the new people move into her apartment, I wonder if they'll know. Life is so strange, the building honeycombed with life held this dead cell, too.

I went on my balcony later that evening, but had to quickly retreat. Her sick sweet stink filled the cold air since they'd left her balcony door open to air the place out. I've smelt it before with animals, but this was different, I knew this was no ordinary animal.

At dinner Matilda reported that the smell was caused by a giant crab that died. The crab was in the building across the yard. Sanna, a friend of hers, was the source of this information. I imagine her mother told her this rather than let her know that their next door neighbor had been rotting on the other side of the wall for so long. I am of a mixed opinion on what to say in this situation, so I said, "Well, I wouldn't believe everything you hear."

"But Ida (Sanna's older sister) told it to me, too. She's more believable," Matilda replied. So I left it at that for the time being.

"The crab" was then extensively discussed over dinner. Paraphrasing one of the more unfortunate parts:

Matilda: "Why can't I go out?"
Me: "They need to come and get the crab."
Matilda: "Why don't they just eat it?"
Me: "When a crab smells like that, you don't eat it."

There was a lot more, but you get the point.

Well, I guess that was good therapy. Sorry to mention it, but it just seems to extraordinary to not mention.

Two Sorta Haiku from a month ago:

Crocus & snow
side by side
I, too, am confused



The young sun
melts rigid ice
at last, decision
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Matilda wore her homemade May Day hat to school today; they are having an early May Day party. The hat is made of green construction paper with a stapled on yellow ribbon chin strap. Beads dot the hat, multicolored crepe paper streamers hang from the brim, and the crest has a crepe flower on a pile of streamers. The hat radiated warmth on our gray morning commute. As always, Matilda is excited about a party.

I admire her courage. I was too conscious of other people at her age. I would never have been able to wear such a hat on a bus full of people on what was, for them, a normal morning commute. It wasn't until much, much later that I developed the "who cares" attitude of someone who knows he'll never measure up. (Of course, I'm the only judge I'll never satisfy. Well, and maybe my mother, too...) And even now, I'm boxed in by these invisible constraints.

Wednesday, April 28, 2004

From 12 December 2001

(Note to self: follow own advice...)

Wednesday. Wednesday, bloody Wednesday.

This morning Matilda asked me why I had to go to work every day. "Because they want me there every day," I lamely answered.

Such a simply question and no good answer. Oh, of course money, money, money, but what else? There are those making their own way in life. At least I think there are. I haven't really met anyone doing it.

Well, there are the wealthy. But I am not of that ilk.
There are the homeless. Is there really nobility in freezing your testes off and smelling slightly worse than a North Carolina hog farm? I mean are dreams made of shopping carts and grocery bags filled with rags?

So between these two points, what? Eight hour days, Five days a week. Or, I guess more accurately, ninety hour weeks to day labor for paltry pay. So my average work week, is an average life, too.

I fantasize about living a more natural life. Something Melina calls an organic existence. A life where the seams all fit and I wouldn't feel as if I'd wasted over eight hours of my day. A life that did not compartmentalize my life into employee time, dad time, husband time, friend time, etc.

Matilda asked the real question a couple of weeks ago. Another gloomy morning, another probing question: "Why do you like going to work?" Assuming I'd only go to work every morning if I really liked it.

I told her, "I don't like to go to work every morning." I left satisfied that I had imparted a good life lesson. Some things, even if you don' t like them, have to be done.

Now I regret giving her that lesson. Yes, it is true, sometimes we must do what we'd rather not, but the more pernicious lesson was dissatisfaction. Go to a job you do not like, do what only barely interests you. Settle. Resign yourself to the work compartment, after all, when you get your mind and body back you will have time for the "more important" things.

But work time never comes back. I think of William Faulkner working for the post office. Drunk, behind a locked door, drinking and reading people's mail. I am not sure what to with this image. Admire the nose thumbing or condemn the bad faith, the misconduct?

Because often this whole thing comes down to behaving or misbehaving. I readily surrender certain "freedoms" that I may live in an orderly society. I value conscientious living. Hell, even when I break rules it is from conscience and principle. So how do I proceed?

The question becomes, what can I do that makes me happy?

I have a little dream, the dream of near self-sufficiency. I do not want to be extreme, but I think it would be rewarding to grow what I eat, etc... I know it is a dream, but there is nothing wrong with that.

I think of all the time I waste. Waste on TV, on internet news websites, waste, I don't know where. I watch these shows on TV and even the ones I like, the ones I am curious to see the developing story line, etc, and I know my life is not made better by them at all. Movies occasionally challenge me, make me aware of something bigger, but its rare a TV show does the same. Why do movies work as art, but not TV shows? They are either mere entertainment or preachy misrepresentations. Maybe it would be something to make an artistic TV show.

Even the shows raved about by critics. The Sopranos sucks. Sex and the City is a boring, cliche ridden show. Even the premise of women talking about sex being taboo is cliche. What women have these critics been hanging around? As far as I know, women have, are and have been interested in sex. I could go on, but why? I wonder why critics are so easily duped.

I do go on.

And all of this is just to say: I need to find a way to make money doing something I like.

From 29 November 2001

My life is a continual out-of-body experience. Except, when I realize that this is my body and there's no two ways around it.

Yesterday, washing my hands in the lovely Solagem bathroom, I looked into the mirror and saw a face I recognized. The stringy goatee and moustache beginning to hide in my general unshavenness. My sunken eyes' quiet pleading, receding hair's cruel taunting, and broad strokes of cheek that look meaty, but harmless. Why are my glasses always crooked?

I saw this face, a face I see every day, each trip to the bathroom, but this time I recognized the child I'd been. This is the face, altered, but not effaced, that watched me grow up. It is my interface to the world, other's first impression. And I wondered where I'd gone wrong, what mistakes I'd made. I want to be happy. I yearn for it, (don't we all), but I make no headway. These are the eyes that surveyed a skinny 6 year old body, poolside, one hot Utah summer day, wondering what my limbs would look like longer, when I had grown. Wondered what wonderful things I'd be doing. I looked forward to it. Oddly, a gut was not in that vision, nor unhappiness, nor any plan of action, just the whisper of hope that things would be okay.

This morning on the bus I read this poem by Robinson Jeffers:

    Carmel Point

    The extraordinary patience of things!
    This beautiful place defaced with a crop of surburban houses-
    How beautiful when we first beheld it,
    Unbroken field of poppy and lupin walled with clean cliffs;
    No intrusion but two or three horses pasturing,
    Or a few milch cows rubbing their flanks on the outcrop rockheads-
    Now the spoiler has come: does it care?
    Not faintly. It has all time. It knows the people are a tide
    That swells and in time will ebb, and all
    Their works dissolve. Meanwhile the image of the pristine beauty
    Lives in the very grain of the granite,
    Safe as the endless ocean that climbs our cliff.-As for us:
    We must uncenter our minds from ourselves;
    We must unhumanize our views a little, and become confident
    As the rock and ocean that we were made from.
It resonated with me, but I know we don't have time. Over twenty years ago I dreamed of my future. Last night I listened to Owen cry until 2.00am. Owen is just beginning. And I am continuing. Sometimes it is difficult to understand where I am, how I got here. Sometimes I wonder why I can't stand against the tide of me, and push myself in a direction I want to go. But it is an illusion. I don't know where to go. I am at sea without maps or compass. The stars are unfamiliar, sometimes clouded, sometimes burning like fierce candles, often shifting their positions in the sky. How am I to proceed? It is not a bad place, but I didn't do anything to get here.

This morning, after reading the poem, three girls sat next to me. They were fifteen or sixteen years old, gregarious and conspicuously loud. A lady at the tail end of middle age looked at them intently. Especially the loudest, sitting next to me. They were planning what lukio (High School) they wanted to go to next year, and were reading the requirements for various specialty schools. I watched them. I watched the woman watching them. Occasionally she would turn her eyes to me and I thought I understood her eyes to say, "I was once like them." Young, vigorous, and confident the world was made just for them. I thought, "These three on the verge of womanhood". But then I stepped back. What are "hoods" and categories? My "manhood" is predictated by one thing: a penis. The most flamboyant flamer is as much a man as me. Categories, pigeonholes, all the stereotypes and cliches we create are only good as general statements. Once the individual enters, all bets are off.

But the most tired cliche is cliche by touching what is true.

I once believed the world existed for me. I know better now. But I don't exist for the world, either. Like the categories that cannot define us, but to which we belong, so we are to the world. We are bound by what is, but Jeffers is right by saying:
    We must uncenter our minds from ourselves;
    We must unhumanize our views a little, and become confident
    As the rock and ocean that we were made from.
Whatever I do, I can do. I am in the world, moved where it pushes me, but the world is also in me. Anything is possible.

Monday, April 26, 2004

I was then, and am now, but not as I was then.

Judging the past me as the present me is not fair. Is not even smart.

I feel free.

From Robert Anton Wilson's website:

ODORS PLEASING TO THE LORD

Dr. Laura Schlessinger is a U.S. radio personality who dispenses advice to people who call in to her radio show. Recently, she said that, as an observant Orthodox Jew, homosexuality is an abomination according to Leviticus 18:22, and cannot be condoned under any circumstance.

Dear Dr. Laura: Thank you for doing so much to educate people regarding God's Law. I have learned a great deal from your show, and try to share that knowledge with as many people as I can. When someone tries to defend the homosexual lifestyle, for example, I simply remind them that Leviticus 18:22 clearly states it to be an abomination. End of debate. I do need some advice from you, however, regarding some of the other specific Bible laws and how to follow them:

1. When I burn a bull on the altar as a sacrifice, I know it creates a pleasing odor for the Lord - Lev.1:9. The problem is my neighbors. They claim the odor is not pleasing to them. Should I smite them?

2. I would like to sell my daughter into slavery, as sanctioned in Exodus 21:7. In this day and age, what do you think would be a fair price for her?

3. I know that I am allowed no contact with a woman while she is in her period of menstrual uncleanliness - Lev.15:19- 24. The problem is, how do I tell? I have tried asking, but most women take offense.

4. Lev. 25:44 states that I may indeed possess slaves, both male and female, provided they are purchased from neighboring nations. A friend of mine claims that this applies to Mexicans, but not Canadians. Can you clarify? Why can't I own Canadians?

5. I have a neighbor who insists on working on the Sabbath. Exodus 35:2 clearly states he should be put to death. Am I morally obligated to kill him myself?

6. A friend of mine feels that even though eating shellfish is an abomination - Lev. 11:10, it is a lesser abomination than homosexuality? I don't agree. Can you settle this?

7. Lev. 21:20 states that I may not approach the altar of God if I have a defect in my sight. I have to admit that I wear reading glasses. Does my vision have to be 20/20, or is there some wiggle room here?

8. Most of my male friends get their hair trimmed, including the hair around their temples, even though this is expressly forbidden by Lev. 19:27. How should they die?

9. I know from Lev. 11:6-8 that touching the skin of a dead pig makes me unclean, but may I still play football if I wear gloves?

10. My uncle has a farm. He violates Lev. 19:19 by planting two different crops in the same field, as does his wife by wearing garments made of two different kinds of thread (cotton/polyester blend). He also tends to curse and blaspheme a lot. Is it really necessary that we go to all the trouble of getting the whole town together to stone them? - Lev.24:10-16. Couldn't we just burn them to death at a private family affair like we do with people who sleep with their in-laws? (Lev. 20:14)?

I know you have studied these things extensively, so I am confident you can help. Thank you again for reminding us that God's word is eternal and unchanging.

Sunday, April 25, 2004

"Mom, did you believe in Santa Claus when you were a kid?" Matilda asked.

"Did you?" I inserted.

"Well, I'm still a kid, so I do."

Can't argue with that.

Saturday, April 24, 2004

Also, there seems to be a theme here: It's an interesting point with very real consequences. As the writer points out later on, fundamentalist are always dangerous to enlightened society. (He makes a stupid assumption later, too about women and abortion later, but I won't hold that bad logic about him.)

And if that's not enough:

Lighten up fatso. Or don't.

Wednesday, April 21, 2004

Conversion in Springtime: A Nosy Neighbor Spins a Yarn

Two year old Joel and his parents live in the next building over, and can be seen on their sunny southern-exposed balcony from Matilda and Owen's bedroom window. I've seen them from the time they bought, renovated, and moved into the apartment about a year and a half ago.

In the last month or two I see them leave home several evenings and each Sunday dressed in church finery. The first time, I figured it was a funeral or formal party, or whatever. But it has continued regularly since.

Last night, they left with Tatu (our building maintenance man) and Tarja (Tatu's wife), both dressed in their Sunday-best. A light went on in my dusty attic, and I have seen conversion through my windowpanes.

Joel's mother has overcome cancer recently, and once told Melina how Tarja had brought food, and showed concern for her, whereas her friends seemed to back off when the disease was killing her. Conversion by example.

I've heard rumor that Tatu and his wife were Jehovah's Witnesses. Since they frequently dress up and go out in the evening, Tatu in a fancy cowboy hat, briefcase in hand, it seemed likely. They never speak about religion, they are both remarkably kind and generous people. Also, no JW's have knocked on my door, though when I last lived in Helsinki they came about once a month. (The uncharitable theory being they targeted the foreign names on the door list. Since they often spoke English out of the box, there may have been a shred of truth to it.) I wonder if there is a connection. Mormon missionaries have knocked... (Matilda once reported that they don't believe Jesus was the Son of God, but that he was an angel, which I found curious. Do JW's believe that? Or am I assigning them the wrong religion?)

Nevertheless, last night as I watched the group get in a car, a thrill ran through me of connecting human dots. I don't know why, but it makes me feel like I gain some new perspective when I make a convincing explanation of the goings-on of others. It's just nosy of me...

Conversion is such a strange thing. Deciding to make major alterations to your worldview and strike out in a new direction. (And I don't mean switching from a Lutheranism to Methodism, but to engage a whole new dogma and interpretation of meaning and morality. Growing up mormon I saw my fair share of converts, and it's been a hobby of mine to ponder their state of mind.)

Ultimately, (and this seems a good example of it), all religious conversion results from social interaction. People join religions for social reasons, the elaborate spiritual ones come later...

Friday, April 16, 2004

Enlightenment at 3:00pm

I exchanged emails with a friend yesterday, much to my benefit. One line I wrote:
    "I pace the walls of my cage, chafing to begin another life."
His response to this and the general tenor of my email was:
    "I'm sorry to hear that you feel caged and that you are biding your time. I find that that feeling has less to do with where you are than it does with what you are doing. The limits of introspection are the boundaries of your self. There are so many other things to investigate that it seems a waste to spend a life staring at your own soul. But this is just my opinion - and it is not commonly accepted."
This set off a chain of thoughts that culminated this afternoon with a stunning vision as to why my choices and situation seems so pathetic:

Though I have abandoned religion, even withdrawn my name from the church, I haven't fully reconstructed my worldview. My natural introspective tendencies, buttressed by a "spiritualistic" upbringing have left me torn in two, valuing materialistic results, but deciding on spiritual values. This is a conflict that will not produce much happiness. I need to make materially important decisions, for materially important results.

Maybe this doesn't seem like a big deal, but to me it seems like the missing key I've searched for since leaving the church.

Three things I've known, but felt conflicted about that now seem clear as day:
  1. My job is limited and sufficating. I am not happy doing this job because three years tinkering with the same code is like reading the same book in several translations, but nothing else.


  2. I NEED to leave Finland because I value a better income and a nicer social/weather climate more than I value my children's ephermal connections to their Finnish cousins. (I want them to know their family, but realy a few weeks a summer is more than enough.) Or my own connections to Finland.


  3. The brooding and pointless thinking must end. Thought without action is mental masturbation; I need to focus more on doing. Thinking is easier, but it is not it's own reward. I should know. I have about 1,000,000,000 things I've thought about and never started, or started and never finished.
Perhaps this is all illusion, but this feels like the clarity I've lacked. My friend's words were like a splash of cold water waking me from a dream. I've dug myself into such a rut that I when I first read his words I was unable to imagine what else anyone could do, but pace their self's boundaries.

These idea segways into thoughts I've had about material explanations for people's personalities/attitudes vs. the notion of free-will. Melina and I have discussed this and I have learned much from her. Since I have chosen to live my life on materialistic principles, a life without god-given morality and soul, this division is much more important than I had imagined. It's consequence keeps growing with every thought I spare it.

It actually was planted reading Darwin's Dangerous Idea last year. It then grew reading Ken MacLeod's sci-fi novels and blog. Melina has filled in the social implications based on the liberal vs. communitarian arguments that she's studying now, and my friend pushes me over the top. An interesting chain of events.

Here's to a brighter future.

Mini-Snobs

Matilda's worldview is more & more often formed solely from her peer group. So requests for trendy toys, a skateboard with flames, and various other items deemed important by her schoolmates have frequented our conversations. On Wednesday evening I gave in to her request for a battle-top (my own name for it). At the S-Market in Ruoholahti (a local grocery store) I bought one for her. She was very grateful and excitedly took it to school the next morning. Little did I know, but I'd bought a cheap imitation battle-top. The boys teased her that her 3€ Dracco Spin couldn't compete with their 15€ Bleyblades. She proceeded to win the first two battles-royale, but disaster struck on the third bout. The top launcher seized up & the pull cord stretched. Matilda said the boys laughed at her cheap toy. These things will happen, but it seems so stupid.

This morning, I bought her another on the way to school. It's launcher seemed less stiff, & so there was probably something wrong with the first one to start things off. I'm glad Matilda didn't feel the need to get the Bleyblade. I hope she kicks some snooty boy butt at recess today.

Thursday, April 15, 2004

The White Tiger stalks its holy victim, from morning chores to evening prayers; from betting parlor to whorehouse. How silently she creeps behind him, waiting for the perfect chance. And when the saint least expects it, she pounches.

She laps up his thick blood with a tongue that's still a deeper red. Not a drop remains... Immortality in her veins.

But everyone knows this.

Wednesday, April 14, 2004

I've really been awful at this the last month or two. It's time I stop listening to the "Silence Order" the SPACE MONKEYS issued me. I will not be chained to their outlandish demands! I will be FREEEEEEEEEEEEE!

Grammatical Beast

This morning as I entered the children's room to rouse Matilda, Owen pointed to his potty and exclaimed, "I wen-ti pee-pee." (The "i" comes from the Finnish past tense.) I said, "Did you go pee?" And he answered, "Yes. I go-ed pee-pee in pot."