Location: Somewhere in the countryside, where the streets and shops are empty. No restaurants nearby for hungry visitors.
Mum takes us to the petrol station.
The building is huge like a Silja Line ferry, the floating shopping-centre, crossing the sea to Sweden. This is a stationary ferry.
Only thing referring to cars is a museum vehicle standing inside a giant glass box.
Far away, in the middle of the muddy field, someone sells old cars.
The interior is full of flashy lights and misleading signs. Noisy combination of Muzak and karaoke in the smoky and non-smoky air. Shelves bend under cheap cosmetics, glossy magazines, handmade clothes, fatty snacks and wooden souvenirs.
Small boys bang coins into the noisy machines.
Bigger boys dressed in leather waistcoats, dance brotherly together.
Lonely hearts sup beer. Families, dressed in their best clothes, eat quietly.
101 ways to make a steak with pineapple. Funny looks are given when I offer four fishburgers, which arrive fast and odd-tasty. Mums old friend seems to be a part-time waitress.
Suddenly I realize I have taken the dog with us. It stares at me and begs irritatingly.
Me: Shoo there, sit down!
The family with solemn faces stop chewing. They stare at me with their icy blue eyes, mouths open.
I stare at the dog which is actually a stuffed wolf.
I look around. One stuffed, small bear guards the toilets.
A head of a deer hangs above the pizza-oven.
One sad black grouse sits under the plastic tree.
A girl with a tangled, elf-like hair isn't stuffed. She stands near our table in her boyish outfit and nude-coloured high-heels.
J: I'm 5.
The elf-girl doesn't say anything.
J: I'm 10.
The elf-girl looks at him.
J: Look, I can count. [counts 19+5 and 18+7]
The elf-girl looks at him bit longer.
J: I can almost do headstands.
The elf-girl: I'm Silja.
J sticks his hand into the wolf's mouth.
Silja leaves.
J: [whispers] Somebody just said behind my head that I love her.
Oh, I'm in love too. Especially with my new vintage bike. Countryside-camping here we come!
13 comments:
It has got back-pedalling brakes and they work very badly. I don't care much, because it's a beauty :)
Lovely.
I think you'll find it's flesh-coloured, by the way, rather than nude-coloured. That sounds a bit rude.
Her shoes were rude for a small girl (maybe 7-8 years )like she was. The nude-colour term isn't mine actually: clickety click
I see. So other people also use strange abberations of the English language.
'Nude' isn't a word that describes a colour. It's a state. It's like saying 'pensive-coloured', or 'married-coloured'.
Still, that's just me being pedantic.
(Which is a shade of brick-red, tinged with purple.)
'Nude-coloured' is just an irritating fashion term, but I'm not fashionable enough to say anything more. Also, I haven't ever been pensive or married, so I haven't got a clue about any possible shades of those.
Dave, be pedantic as much as you want, I really appreciate that.
[Continues being annoyingly spontaneous, which is a shade of the air or a cream puff.]
I was feeling a little blue, but now I'm not so sure. Maybe I should go see someone about synaesthesia?
[wanders off to think of ways in which something could be pensive-coloured or married-coloured]
Oh oh,
during the last four days I have learnt that:
- inanimate objects hate me
- I seriously can't write
- other Finns are hunters, I am a gatherer
- I might be a synaesthete
Just now I don't believe that the way I feel and taste all colours isn't normal. Don't you see states of mind in colours?
Oh, you seriously can write. Yours is the first blog I turn to each morning. I love your writing.
Erm, didn't mean to worry you. Mind you, if you are a synaesthete, you're in very good company. Some of the most creative artists/musicians/writers etc. have been, or are synaesthetes in various different ways.
I was clumsily trying to make the point (above) that being too literal or pedantic about word use, runs the risk of robbing language of all its colour and variety. It seems to me that good writing involves using words in creative ways - not necessarily always the correct ways - in order to make us look at the world in different ways, or to give us new ways of describing/understanding the world. Or something.
Anyway, after that high-faluting spiel, here's my suggestion for married-coloured:
married-coloured - the specific shade of that old, used-to-be-white underwear your other-half didn't wear until you moved in together.
I'll get me coat...
And you definitely can write.
During the last four days I have also learnt that you people seriously can make me blush.
[To be sure Dave stays as my reader I will start a sentence with a word and.]
And I didn't get worried about the synaesthesia. I read just some bits and pieces here and there, but I'll go deeply into the matter later, to find out if I've completely misunderstood the whole thing (as always).
OPC, don't get your coat. It's a fine routine to be slightly highfaluting. Your definition of married-coloured should be in the dictonary.
Oh, blimey OPC, you did that and-thing first.
[The copycat gets a coat.]
I can't write. See: pictonary fictonary dictonary.
During the last four days I have also learnt that I have got one eye, but is clearly the blind one.
Post a Comment