Neurovision Bong Contest

Yesterday I kicked a few blogposts around my mind. The ice-cream kiosks were opened and the seagulls were shitting around again. Should I write about it I wondered, but there wasn't much else exciting to scribble about.

Also there was the fact bothering me, that I have knowingly skated around the slippery sweep called the Eurovision Song Contest.
If I would be a normal Finnish citizen I should have gone over and over and over and over on that subject here, whilst wearing a chirpy hat with two overhanging fabric hands carrying national flags.

I thought about it hard. The only thing I wanted to say was the fact that I kind of hoped that the visual image and the ambience of the show would be as hilarious as the moment when a post- soviet wooden doll meets the electric hedge trimmer, mainly because Mr Fox knows well some private parts of one designer designing the face of the upcoming hullaballoo, so there wasn't much to tell you about that.

So, there I sat, staring at the blank computer screen when I heard it again.
Loituma and their fabulous song Ieva's Polka (Classic), which I had thought about introducing you much earlier, but forgot. I tried to find out their space on their My Space and here it is. I listened to it. I moved on. Three hours later I was still listening to it. Eventually the quiet waters of that innocent song sucked me somewhere so deep that if there is a Kuril-Kamchatka Trench in the Internet, I was there.

Definitely

I nearly forgot my Dad's 60th birthday.
I was eight years old when I saw him first time. Well, that was the first time I saw him and remembered it afterwards. He came with a shiny big car, which colour looked like a palomino to me. He had a cassette recorder in the car and we listened to something, which I can't remember anymore.

When he took me home, I asked him if he could come to my birthday party. He asked me what I would want as a present and I wanted Elwyn Hartley-Edward's The Pony Owner's Encyclopaedia. Definitely, he said.
The next time I saw him was ten years later. It was the same year when my Mum said she bought me the book, which arrived a week later and which I had kept as my greatest treasure.

Today I was sitting on a bench, enjoying of the sunshine and tried to keep myself awake after a sleepless night. I watched my sons driving bicycles.
Suddenly I saw them standing still, giggling and then screaming loudly: "It's coming! It's finally coming!"

They were running towards an ice-cream van, which was playing it's teasingly jolly melody. I had forgotten I had promised to buy them a box of ice-creams when it would arrive next
time and there it was now. I had one Euro and twenty cents, two stamps and some bad tasting Easter candies in my bag. The kids watched how the mother next door bought two boxes. Our neighbour's son came to me and asked if I could buy him an ice-cream. I watched him to go at the end of the line, watching how the mother next door carried his two boxes of ice-creams.
Next time boys, definitely, I heard myself saying. Next time, definitely.

Dust

I have been feeling relatively snappy these days. Not energetic, just have had that snappish tone in my voice and in my actions. In fact I have been so snappy, I fear I'm soon going to snap.
I can't stand waiting. Well, maybe if I love someone, I can a bit, but otherwise I become first tensioned, then irritated and finally saddened, especially if I can see I am constantly promised something I can't get, and even more if I can see that someone who promised me something isn't busy doing something, but just doesn't care. So that's when I start to be snappy.

Today, when I started to decide if I'm just like one of the Jill Greenberg's teased kids or just sad, I stepped on a dog shit with my new shoes.
Are the new shoes making me lively like Carrie Bradshaw? Could they make me finally write some quirky blog posts? No, they made me feel more like Leo Johnson. I made a drooling comment about my new shoes to myself and thought what to write.
As always, my mind was empty, as vast as the field nearby.

At the end of that field was a car park. At the end of the car park was my car. Behind my car were some Uni students dancing without music. They were wearing bright green overalls. They danced on the sand, happily. We had a snowstorm on Sunday, but quite suddenly it is spring now. The students just went on dancing happily when I thought if I should write about the fact that today is the spring equinox.

I also thought should I mention the fact that we used to look down on everybody wearing those bright University overalls. We wore black. We celebrated annoyingly, faking young intellectuals by drinking cheap Chianti and re-acting famous contemporary performances, until I reacted to the excess cheap Chianti drinking. But never dancing on the car park. Never.
Once we were making a performance of Da Vinci's Last Supper.
I was Jesus. When the press came, I was having a cigarette outside and it read on the paper: Jesus wasn't having the last supper, because she was having a fag outside.

I looked at the sky where six swans crossed the field and I felt so dusty and chained. I was picking up the kids from the daycare and wondered why my mind was suddenly so empty, just looking for more troubles and impossibilities, when I could just be happy with everything I have. I should be enjoying of all that, not be saddened by everything I won't have, but there I was, so desperately much wanting to try flying, feeling lonely and bit damp and watching how the last swan flew away.
Suddenly I wanted to have a friend to whom to tell all that there was, inside my blank mind. I wanted to have a walk and a talk, but my shitty shoes just seemed to be stuck on the field.

I was wondering should I write about all the lost friends, who just have disappeared somewhere or about the ones, I can't ever talk to. Few days ago I counted all the people I used to know and who had committed suicide. Five. All young men.

I thought about the boy who was sitting next to me when I started school. We were having almost similar names and were the only ones who could read. I read The Famous Five and he read dictionaries and I couldn't get him at all, because he didn't have any sense of humour, but I sat there next to him, because we did have almost similar names and he was shy and so bright, even when I always turned my head away from him.
After 10 years time he was my dancing partner when we had a high school ball. He was shy, so bright and had still no sense of humour, but he had chosen a wonderful white suit, which matched my blue dress perfectly. Five years later I saw him standing on the railway station. I walked away quickly and hoped he wouldn't have recognized me. I wish I had said he wasn't that bad at all.

Spring. The time when the most of the suicides are committed, except maybe in November. I love light and wondered why this season makes us so depressed.
For months we can just hide, be like some grumpy old bears, sleeping inside in the darkness. And suddenly the light, revealing everything.
All the dust on the tables, pale faces, dog hair stuck on the black trousers. We have to take our winter jackets off and let the others see what is left there after the long winter. Was it just the heavy jacket keeping us not falling apart?

Purity Rant

Whilst the New Superlon boils and bubbles, I have time for a purity rant.

For an entire week I have been somewhat slightly confused about my imaginary image of the blogosphere. I've been blue-eyed* thinking of an idealistic equality and the freedom of speech, but obviously how wrong have I been. I have noticed some certain hints about discrimination, contempt and naive schoolgirlish/-boyish bullying, but that has never happened to me before, or possibly I have just been blindfolded.

I have been reading one blog, not so regularly, but from time to time, because my friend links to it. I had never commented anything, because I constantly have this underlying fear of my flimsy capability of English speaking. Last Thursday I made a decision to comment and so I did. You might not believe, but it was a very ordinary and short comment. Nothing hasty and nonsensical like I usually scribble. Later I made another visit and saw that the owner of the blog had deleted my comment without saying anything. Hmph.

Actually that wasn't a rant. Yesterday I participated a demonstration, which was nice, civilized, quiet, arty and aesthetical. Hmph.

Speaking of purity, I want this, please. I can't afford it. Hmph.






* blue-eyed [sinisilmäinen] in Finnish means naiveness

T Fox visits The Betty Blog Clinic

T Fox: It started so well, didn't it? On Saturday I went to the shop to buy another box of the White Choc & Raspberry Biscuits. And I was happy, just looking at the red box. At least I didn't think about Internet. Well, maybe just a little bit. I was thinking should I tell everyone I think they are the best cookies ever made, but then again, I thought, who would care if I told anyone, so I just decided to give the money and go away. But when I was standing there, the coins on my hand, it all started to go wrong...
Dr U. Bonce: Yes, go on...

----
Cashier: It's 2.49.
T Fox: Are you here.
Cashier: Yes, I am here.
T Fox: No... Here you are.
Cashier: Yes. I am here.
T Fox: No, I meant "here you are", but I said it in the wrong order. It's too tricky when you can't moderate your comments in real life.
Cashier: In real life?
T Fox: Yes, here in the real life, not in the new blogger, which is actually much nicer than most of them say, you know, there is that very handy Add and Arrange Elements- section, which I like a lot, because basically I just like to click and drag, you know to rearrange elements on my life or smoething like taht.
Cashier: Smoething like taht? Where are you from?
T Fox: Where is the spell checking when needed?
Cashier: I'm not so sure if we have any spell checking. Did you check out the flour section?
T Fox: I'd like to delete this.
Cashier: What?
T Fox: Control alt delete.
Cashier: Sorry, I can't speak any Latin.
T Fox: Bloooog!

----
So there I was, standing on the icy car park, alone and blogless...
Please Doctor, can I write something small? No? Not even a meme?

A foxy capriccio

I'm off to write my book I haven't written since I started this nonsense.
See you later, fellow readers.

I disagree with everything is said

There have been better weeks.
I have just found out that if everything goes wrong, it just goes.
If I try to be as zen as one can pretend, it won't make anything better, it just makes things even more unclear. I might be inside the bubble, but I fear, and hope, somebody will poke a sharp, but pointless needle on it.

And it's damn lonely there.
Some French once said the worst loneliness is the kind you have whilst around people.
I agree with that, so actually I don't disagree with everything is said, but I might probably disagree something else that French once has said.
I also noticed if i say something I am misunderstood. If I don't say anything I am misunderstood too.

So I just sat there, inside my bubble.
I sat there on the metro. My mobile rang and I didn't find it, because it was already in my hand.
Even inside a bubble one can feel those unpleasant glances of the amused.
I sat there at work. Around me, I saw people who made me feel not so shiny and more unhappy than I thought to be. I tried to speak but nothing came out. Well, something came out, but that was nothing.

I also noticed that you can't be inside that bubble for too long.
I made my decision to finally say why I disagree, but then I saw it coming closer, breaking my bubble. That did hurt, because I didn't know I felt that way.

I agree with myself. I should have stayed in that bubble. At least I produced some understandable words inside it.

Hellsinski freezes over

Happily I'm quite happy,
because this isn't funny
and one's tears will freeze here.