Final Countdown

Blah I can't be bothered to post my art stuff here, I'm posting them on my Flickr page instead. So check it out.

Just 10 more days of school left... The horror... And 7 full on assignments. It's the final countdown. Or pak'n'save. Or Woolworths. Or New World. Well actually it's only nine days since I'm skipping next Wednesday to go to Whanganui National Park :> tramping and jetboating. And take some cool photos, or try to at least, with my brand new bad ass Canon PowerShot S3 IS. I had to get one to replace my old PowerShot A75 (or was it A70?) that was nicked. Fingers crossed my insurance covers that. I did report to the police.

Thursday night I opened my travel bible, the Lonely Planet for NZ. It opened my eyes, really. I still haven't been anywhere and there aren't too many weeks left.

Oh yeah and instead of doing just school stuff I spent far too many hours getting HyVi's new look published. Maybe it'll save the world etc.

Do I sound tired? I am. After these ten days I'll try my best to avoid a workload this inhumane.

Hitler & Friends

Which one do you like better (if either)?

Anecdotes:

• Patric almost burnt the house down by leaving the stove on. The ground floor was an ocean of smoke and smelled accordingly a week after.
• Our apartment was entered last Friday. The strangest thing, their selection of loot. Michael's bike was the big deal, but I also lost my shoes, a full two-liter bottle of orange juice, my shampoo and shower soap (and possibly also a pile of CD's since I can't find them anywhere though I might have just lost them). Furthermore Patric's shoes were scattered and the front door was left wide open. I awoke with the door to my room open. Weird, strange, and, like, what the hell?
• Meghan got a sort of a death threat from someone at school. The same guy also jokes around about butchering tutors. Made me feel genuinely afraid of a school massacre.

Sample work, pt. 2

Sample work, pt. 1

So what am I actually doing here? Here's some samples. I'll post more later on along with other people's work.

Margaret Thatcher posing for my environmental poster.

Elephant rugby. Illustration class.

Illustration for an article on the human computer Kim Peek.


Calendar pages. Production class.

Cover art for a paper stock promoting brochure. Production class.

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Jasmine, my 5-year old "little sister" drew these three. She'll be an artist for sure.

Paper Wars

The Paper Wars started half a year ago when prof. Tapio Vapaasalo terror struck my WTC telling there's this cool school in Wanganui I should apply to. I looked up the counter-strike options and ended up doing my application to WSD that according to my sources had masses of weapon-destructive graphic design. As for that arch-designer, Guan Yeoh Hong, I'd smokem out of his cave.

There was a culmination in mid-June when I found out I have two weeks before launching my airplane attack. That went splendidly except there was no time to hatch my Visa bomb prior to departure. So I had to do it here. The Resistance took possession of my passport, though, and kept my Visa bomb application stalled without me knowing. It turned out that they had to be told three separate times that I, being a Finnish citizen, am exempt from paying the Visa ransom of $120. Finally they believed an I happily got my Visa bomb last week. Until this week I've been hanging on without my computer login and student ID as my puny troops needed my visa to be able to produce those.

The war seemed to be over already, but what happens next is that I am contacted by the college resistance that states I have unsettled them by taking "too many courses" and am required to pay extra ransom fees ($2000ish) for covering those. This was very friendly since I was told nothing about this ten weeks ago when the study operations started and I had already paid the hideous sum of $8400 this circus costs for the running semester. Now I'm waiting for them to strike me with a bill missile to swiftly release yet another civilian-secretary-mutilating counter-terrorist maneuver.

This war is a war for peace and I'm the war president. Oh the masses of weapon destruction? They're here. Somewhere. I feel it in my bones.

On Glorious Failures & Trivial Victories

A year ago, back at UIAH, there was this exhange student, a girl from Peru. Having traded her talkative, open, community-centered social environment to the faceless autumn crowds of Helsinki, she struggled on, anguished, for two weeks, but, in the end, was forced to surrender. And so she retreated back to her home country, defeated by the true winter of Finland.

She couldn't take it. She couldn't bear it. Some might see her as puny, weak. She didn't have what it takes to engage in the adventure of immense cultural shift and pushing through it on one's own.

Still, somehow, there is glory in her failure. She now knows where her home is, that she now needs no more. She knows its worth. She knows that battles can be lost without the continuity of life suffering the least bit.

I have been defeated by a hostess who makes sick people wash the dishes and accuses them from having lack of willpower, who systematically sustains from saying anything positive from other people, and who systematically makes remarks I cannot but interpret as malevolent.

I know why I wasn't happy at Teena's. It wasn't home. It was far from it; it was anything but. It was like staying as a guest in a house. I was basically that. It wasn't just having the TV on at all times at ludicrous volumes and a 5-year-old doing everything in her power to just get attention. It was an experience of injustice.

The Bliss of Responsibility

They told me I could eat anything I'd manage to find. This, however, didn't appear to include anything that was meant for Jasmine (no way to tell that, of course). I was also told I drink too much milk and I'd have to buy my own. I also ended up having to pay for my own food and preparing it all by myself. The contract said (among other things I won't complain about here) I'd be supplied with three meals a day prepared by the family. During the last week she made me a salad.

When I was sick with a chest infection they barely reacted. (I lived there for 7 weeks and was sick altogether for 2 weeks. They asked me how I felt once.) When I went to see the nurse that told me to get exhuberant, Teena politely refused to fetch some for me from the pharmacy. She also told me to turn off the heater for the night "because it isn't good for you" (or to save in the electric bill?). Secretly I kept it on—and saw nightmares of how she'd burst into the room to turn it off. And like in the dream I was so utterly, so thoroughly defenseless before her.

Will I miss any of that? No. There is no way to survive that sort of humiliation other than submissiveness, and that I was uncapable of. There were days during which I was ready and willing, no, more than that, to hop into an airplane at once and get out, get away. If this had continued, I certainly would have ended up like the Peruvian girl.

There is glory in our failure. Without my stay at Teena's I probably would fail to see how perfect this student flat is, how the walls suffocate most of the noise, how soothing the street sounds can be. How wonderful it is to wake up and watch the morning clouds do Tai Chi with the delicate curtains. To have a room of one's own at the third floor (even if a gigantic McDonald's logo defiles the view). How inspiring it is to live with designers instead of a real estate businesswoman. To buy organic honey and all the other groceries on one's own (I now understand shopping a bit better; there's a notion of freedom). To be enthusiastic about keeping the household tidy together. To do the dishes and melt the fridge not because I'm told to but because I want to.

Having responsibility, not having to take it.

The Inner Circle

Now I'm living with Robin, Michael and Patric. And practically Meghan too, we say—she lives next door but spends lots of time in our living room and is still planning on moving here.

Robin's a really nice honours student from Taiwan, he's doing a thesis on emotional responses on experimental new media audioscapes or something like that. Wild stuff eh. He's been in NZ for ten years (Hamilton, his girlfriend's there, as is he too for the vacation) and though he says he had lots of difficulties learning English at first he now masters it and has a true kiwi accent Meghan and I consciously try to copy. Oh no! = Ör nör!. I know = I nör.

Patric's a Malesian third-year. Really cute and rrreally gay with a sense of humour I mostly don't get. Most of the time I have to repeat myself to him (I should probably learn to talk more clearly). (S)he's the heart of the house, always cleaning, decorating and cooking marvellous dishes (or so I'm told—I wouldn't know, they have all been animal corpse inclusive thus far). He was thoroughly surprised to hear I'm not too much into older men. He says I'm too cute and delicate and non-masculine to have a boyfriend younger than me, that I seem like one who needs a real man to take care of me.

Michael's a hot kiwi sports student who's into all sorts of silly stuff like action movies and American Pie. My second night at the flat we watched Van Helsing (I got to choose from his movie selection). Whereas Mike was immersing and praising the special effects on every turn I had to make efforts to stifle my laughter (I tried to appear to be coughing). As the movie progressed I came up with this Van Helsing drinking game that would ensure every participant being more wasted than they ever knew was possible halfway to the movie. So take a drink whenever

1. a new character speaking in a pseudo foreign accent is introduced
2. dracula dances gaily
3. someone bares their teeth to attack
4. there's a scene with flashing lights good for getting epileptic seizures
5. Van Helsing acquires a new weapon
6. the camera shows a weapon that has fallen to the ground during a battle.

Oh and I'm alright. It's the first week into the mid-semester break. I've been just working on my assignments though. So that things wouldn't get too boring I also promised to redesign HyVi's website. First I was supposed to go to Auckland for the weekend but decided against it since I just have too much stuff left. I might check out Palmerston North if I get things done by the end of next week.

Up until now, me being here hasn't felt like a phase of life. I'm happy here. More than that, I'm in love with graphic design. Completely obsessed and passionate over it. I'll probably have to make the switch from industrial design. It's emotion, communication and identity combined. It's what I want to do, always.

Anecdote Section

Pascal, a postgrad student and a friend, saw it necessary to point out to me that he's "as straight as this [metal] ruler here" and that he isn't trying to hit on me even though he's being friendly.

It just dawned on me that the sun rotates counter-clockwise.

At Pak'n Save, the local supercheap grocery store ("Everything we do is for you having to pay less") I had this magnificent conversation with a clerk. It went something along these lines:
"Sorry do you have any Fair Trade products?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"Fair Trade? You know.. Fair Trade?"
"No. What's that?"
"Ok so maybe you don't have any. It's this system in which you pay a fair price for the—"
"No. We don't have that here."
"Ook. Thanks."

On an animation class a tutor, all pep, energetic and extrovert, interrupted the class. He needed some tables moved into the class so he said that all the beautiful and gorgeous males should come and help where all the ladies may sit and continue with whatever they were doing. On my way to help the lot I asked him whether he had any idea how sovinistic a comment that was, he went totally cold, held out his hand and said, "The name's Rick, nice to meet you too mate," as if saying that's not a way to introduce yourself / speak to a tutor / something. So next time I'll know to introduce myself by throwing around discriminating jokes.

I went to the record store in search of posters for my room (it never even occurred to me to furnish my room at Teena's). There was this black and white and red poster that said, Thom Yorke The Eraser. Five seconds from reading that (and realising he had actually released a solo album without me knowing any of it) I held the record in my hand and had made the decision to buy it. Since then I've been listening to it non-stop. I'm coming home, I'm coming home to make it alright so dry your eyes.

This day of all days

This is a story of a day. A Tuesday to be accurate. Not necessarily more or less interesting than any other day. A day is an image. It's a blink of an eye.

I woke up at 6:30. Or well, my mobile telephone did, while I managed to haul myself out of bed at 6:55ish and since I had no class in the morning, let myself read Vihreä Lanka (the renoved version is just mesmerizingly interesting). As every morning, I did my morning excercise: 160 abdominals, 50 backs, 20 pushups and 40 downs. Though I forgot about the downs as I sometimes do. I went to the ground floor for a shower (there's another shower at the first floor but Patric was occupying it).

I had breakfast which consisted of the following:

• 3 Wheat Biskits with milk and blackberry jam
• a glass of squeezed orange juice
• 2 pieces of sunflowerseed bread w/ roasted garlic hummus and brie
• a nice cup of Turkish apple tea.

Alongside the breakfast me and Michael tucked the trash neatly and properly into their black plastic bags, put on appropriate stamps as payment for collecting the trash (we had bought them with Robin the day before) and Michael took them out to the street for the garbage collectors to take care of (Tuesday's trash day). I hadn't finished my breakfast when the property managers came in for a visit. I received them and presented them with a nice happy list of things that weren't quite right in the apartment, such as our keys not working for the bikeshed (theirs did however), the wallpaper hanging loose on one wall, the shower spraying water on everything else but the showeree, and the wardrobe and bed in my room needing some repair.

At tenish I finished cleaning up my room some and made my way to the Salvation Army Family Store to get us some glasses to drink from (there were very few) and a dish rack and brought them back to the house. The next thing was to get my calendar (my Production Design class piece) bound and it would be all set for final submission. Yey, happiness. I went walking this time (still somewhat afraid of biking in the carway). I took like 20 minutes of the girl's time at the print house but she only charged me $4. So now it's done and ready for display (it's Open Day on Wednesday so everyone can go wow and eww over it).

After that I had lunch (Saag Alu) at an Indian place called Bollywood Stars for the first time in Wanganui. It was reeeaally good. And somewhat expensive to Wanganui standards ($13.50). They took longer than I had thought to prepare the food so I was late (as usual) from my twelve o'clock Animation class, but arrived just in the nick of time for animation storyboard group evaluations. This time I was the one to present our work to the other group (which would judge on it). They chose my suggestion and complimented it as being "complete and well thought". We're supposed to have the graphics and sounds ready by the end of vacation — and, in case it would get too boring, I'm still to submit my first Pacman animation assignment since I got sick at that time.

On Poster Design class at 3pm I was supposed to have 10 ideas for discussion. This came to me a surprise as I hadn't received the brief but the discussions we had were fruitful. We are to present 5 black and white poster mockups for a series of two posters after the holidays. The class ended early (fivish) and I was left surfing, chatting and doing e-mail (mostly TOKYO stuff) which magically devoured some four hours of my life (it has a tendency to do that but it always surprises me).

I walked back home, which this time was a bit more frightening than biking, it being dark and not very well lit and all, but especially because two of my schoolmates had been attacked by gangsters on Sunday (a water balloon had been thrown at them, go figure) (there's something of a gang problem in Wanganui). We were given voucheurs by the school on Monday to take (free) taxi rides from the school to the student flats but I didn't feel comfortable calling up a taxi.

When I came back home I had some rice (Robin and/or Patric's) with a ready Indian meal. I forget the name (Pav Bhaji or something) but it, too, was soo goood. Makes me want to not try to avoid ready-made meals so much. The dish rack had been taken into use. On top, a cup of apple tea.

I went back to my room to notice that the bed and wardrobe had been repaired very nicely. The doorknob of the wardrobe door was still missing but I found the screw on the floor and attached it into place. Yay, room perfectness. Next mission: To find some neato posters somewhere (in addition to my Margaret Thatcher one which I'll bring from school when the exhibition is up). Why did I leave that mirror with the Salvation Army?

Now it's half past ten and I'm listening to Sigur Rós and wondering how on earth I could conjure up a finished illustration piece for tomorrow's class (I'm supposed to illustrate an article on the savant Kim Peek), and why am I writing this instead of doing that. Aw flip it, I'll just do it tomorrow. I'll need crayons from Whitcoulls at any rate. Tomorrow's a new day...

And so, in what afterwards seems a blink of an eye, a day has passed, like sand flowing through fingers. I watch it flow, feeling it, altering its downfall, never trying to stop it, resolutely conscious that gravity knows no defeat. I enjoy the crumbs, one after another, tickling my skin, briefly, then they're gone; and after that, I thankfully think, more of it.

A Home at The End of The World

(Partly as a response on Heikki's comment on my previous post since I was about to write about this at any rate): It's not just loving and longing for stuff back home. There's more in the emotional basket than the varying degree to that. It's also about not having them here, having lost them. They're replaced – or not exactly replaced as much as substituted – by something unfamiliar, something that unmistakeably is a home, but whose I can't tell; by people that are undoubtedly friendly but with a friendliness that stubbornly fails to drop my force field of uneasiness. Be it temporary, it still feels like dying.

In the basket there's also feeling and not feeling as if you have no home. And there's feeling and not feeling you're surrounded by people you are afraid of like Virginia Woolf was afraid of her servants. I most long for not only my own home, but to have a home here at the end of the world, a home to miss when I do get back. As it stands, I feel like there won't be one for me here, despite all the effort.

So I have a boyfriend back home, always comforting and supporting; I have my mum; I have a couple of friends that actually do keep in touch; I give my most sincere thanks for all that. There's friendly people all around, and all day long, every day, I do what I love the most: create. Someone told me I shouldn't have anything to worry about. And I did try comparing my situation of anguish to that of Guantanamo prisioners or Palestinians and Lebanese that have lost their homes under the crushing foot of Israeli terror (yes, God bless those heavenly missiles, each & every single one of them). Needless to say, I'm totally out of scale. This, me coming here, it was my decision, my urgently resolute determination to leave everything; to start again, in a sense; then return, hopefully victorious, having conquered not only the world but myself. Being enough, then.

Being able to settle.

Yes, longing for things is what drives us on. At least I look forward to returning to a home that is more a home than when I left it. I shall settle to it. Settle to the arms that envelope me; the arms that I perhaps would have been unable to settle to before. Settle to my roots. Settle to my size, myself. Settle as I am trying to settle here, now.

How lucky I am to have even the smallest portion of my friends send me their regards that seem to miraculously reduce down these 17 000 kilometers, these 11 months.

"We want so much, don't we?"
"I suppose we do."
—Michael Cunningham: The Hours

Footnotes:

• Got me a bike. Pretty damn good one, too. Bikers go on the carway so I should probably learn me the road rules before a crazy Kiwi turns me into pulp (I already witnessed a car crash).
• Mom must have been right when she said you get used to everything since 'everything' seems to include left-hand traffic and wearing shoes indoors.
• What at first seemed to be a requirement of 45 hours of work a week turns out to be more of the 80h/week sort.
• I'm starting to get the hang of the "Eh?" Kiwis stick to the end of the sentences. It's somewhat the equivalent of "isn't it?".
• I fell in love with a greyhound named Turbo.

Pic extravaganza! / Kiwinglish / Homesick

Whanganui river

Guyton Ingestre Street

My second home, the Computer Graphic Design Department. Some funky piece of architecture eh?

In New Zealand, even the toothpaste is antinuclear. Suits me sir.

A brilliant piece of local ephemeral typography

In Wanganui there are like a kazillion churches and zero mosks.

NZ cuisine is... interesting, to say the least

Kiwinglish

As I told Ryan, not necessarily 100% [one hundred pircint] seriously, my principal objective here is to pick up an exotic accent. My plan was to post a pronounciation sample every now and then to follow my progress but I still haven't gotten too far. My tongue keeps fumbling and the accent varies from Scottish-ish to Yank depending on who I talk to. The Kiwi accent is just lunatic — I would've preferred a Scottish one, (I was reminded by the incomprehensible girl sitting next to me in the airplane to Bankok) or an Irish one maybe (an industrial designer at the school likewise).

Anyway here's a brief intro to pronouncing things the Kiwi way.

• Seven = Syven
• Fish & chips = Fush & chups
• Me = May
• Deaf = Diff
• Question = Christian ("Are there any Christians?")
• Yeah = Yie
• No = Nay / Nor
• Pet = Pit
• Card = Cat
• Cat = Kit
• Pet = Pit
• Pen = Pin
• Pig = Peg
• Track = Trek
• Back = Beck
• Four = Fuar
• Go = Guy
• Airing = Earring
• Setting = Sittings
• Breakfast = Bikfryst

Subterranean Homesick Alien Blues

I've a major academic culture shock. Here goes: These people when presenting their work and ideas well first off they all have like 2 ideas each on average; secondly their visualisations & scamps — if any — come in thumbnail size; furthermore they don't stand up to present their thumbnails but sit still; fourth, the sketches aren't placed anywhere, just quickly browsed through and everyone goes like "I liked the one, uh, can't remember what it was, but you know what I mean right."

I'm not saying it's all bad, it's just different from UIAH. I guess this is what comes from having no time for or emphasis on concept hatching. Struggling with this plus my 9-day flu that's now thankfully dealt with I was overwhelmed with this desperate homesickness and depression. I miss a lap to curl into. I miss the trams of Helsinki. I miss home. I miss green politics. And B-class movie nights with friends.

I was having a taste of a 25-year-old fucking expensive port with some Australians. One of them told a donkey joke and said, "You get as much as you put in." I retreated back to my chamber & listened to Chris Clark – Bricks. Music helps. Music and people.

Then again one day I was howling with laughter watching Sponge Bob with Meghan and Jasmine (except that Jasmine didn't find it funny and changed the channel because we did). I clearly need to watch more cartoons.

Footnotes maybe:

• The Malesians just love my blonde hair.
• I'm having dreams about the whole NZ business having been a dream. In them I'm back in Finland and happy about it.
• It gets so cold at nights I had to wear a cap once. Now I do have a heater in my room though.
• I'm planning on renting an apartment sooner or later. The flats are unfurnished but getting a set of furniture from the Salvation Army and other second hand shops wouldn't turn out too expensive perhaps.

People & experiences

Whee I got my luggage back safely (everyone at the school, including those I haven't met yet, seems to know me already as the boy who lost his baggage) and the school coordinators who first had put me on the year one semester one courses agreed to put me on year two semester one and take whatever courses I please. So I did. And there was much joy & merriment. So my courses are as follows:

• Print Production
• Computer Animation
• Poster Design
• Illustration
• Typography
• Computer Graphic Design

These total 30 hours a week and I'm expected to do some 15h+ more independently. So far it's been kinda rough & I've been spending just about all my waking time on school stuff. Hope it'll ease out once I get it going. It's immensely different from back home where we might have 4–5 months for a project, 2 months of which is purely concept hatching, whereas here it's five weeks for a project and concepts have to be done in two weeks. I'm loving every bit of it though. It's good to have both approaches I think.

Speaking of waking time, the courses start at 8am. I first went like "oh feck", but instantly realised that my sleeping rythm was topsy-turvy anyhows. The classes could have started at 5am for all I cared. Getting up on time was ridiculously easy (I barely had any jet lag) but is getting increasingly challenging & I'm dreading for next week since this weekend I've just lulled in bed till 11ish. Thankfully Jasmine's school's starting too so I won't have to listen to children's shows booming from the room next to mine till 11pm. Hopefully.

Which brings me to the topic of the family I'm staying with. It's Teena and Jason, a couple doing property business & wood & whatnot, and their adorably crazy still sickeningly annoying little daughter Jasmine who's in her rebel period and might keep on insisting on me having one of her tic-tacs till I completely give up and who occasionally calls me a "Lolly" which I suppose is a sort of chewing gum or candy. Alternate titles include but are by no means limited to Lollipop and a colourful set of imaginary names. They're really great though I'll have to see if I'm staying here for the whole year or what.

The other international student in da house is Meghan, a Filippine girl. She's a postgrad student who's already spent some time with her own company doing print design. When we were playing with the kids — Jasmine had her cousins visiting — she said I was good with kids, which was kinda new to me since I've always felt helpless with babies, kids, animals, and many a time people too. But I guess I'm pretty good at converting into a girl-eating Scot after all. She said she knew straight away I'm queer, which is odd, or maybe not so, anycase her best friend is gay and they fell in love and were supposed to get married! But then they concluded it wouldn't work so there we go. Now she's got something going on with a boy in the school and the gay guy's getting jealous. The reason I'm putting this here, if there is any: People are silly as life.

Other people I've met are mostly from Malesia. More than half of the int'l students are from Malesia. Crazy Malesians. There's a postgrad student who wants me to design sunglasses for him and he's god a business down in Wellington. One guy wanted me to move to the student flats so I can party with them all day & night :D Compared to Jasmine's cartoons at 100dB it's an option, really...

What else, well it's a bit challenging to get to the web since at home I have to use Teena's computer and at school they haven't given me a student card yet so I can't get into the building on my own. If I want to have Internet access at home I'd probably need a modem at minimum and participate in the connection costs, at any rate NZ ISP:s are yucky since you only get a snail speed connection and limited transfer with Finnish rates. Maybe I'll just linger at CGD (Computer Graphic Design) once I get the card.

Some rather impressive experiences, somewhat unexpectable perhaps:

• A rainbow, the brightest I've witnessed, seen from the plane from Auckland to Wanganui
• A park we went to with the kids, with huge pumpkins & shoes & whales & stuffs, along with a Flying Fox — I'll put on some photos later on
• I once watched the news, all sad; made me think how the whole world is bursting with sad news and in one country you only see the tiniest portion of it. Overwhelming, really.

Bungy jumping

Continuing the series of corny analogies: NZ is a bungy jump. If the shit really hits the fan there's a big splat & I'll never get up again. (This is not the actual plan however.) I don't mean dying though leaving everything behind me certainly has felt something like it. Maybe as a result I've been afraid of death to an alarming extent & thinking about the limits of life a lot. It's resticting and annoying. For example, contrary to my what my gut had to say, the most dangerous bit of the whole two-day Helsinki–London–Bankok– Sydney–Auckland–Wanganui journey was not any of the flights — not even the noisy one in the adorable 17-seat propeller airplane to Wanganui — but the very last five minutes prior to reaching my new home when a crazy Kiwi driver almost crashed into the van I was in.

Answers to frequently asked questions:

• It's a one year post. I'm coming back in the end of June 2007.
• NZ is 9 hours ahead of Finland.
• On my summer vacation Dec–Feb I'll be touring NZ with any friends who manage to get themselves over here. Not coming back to Finland. (One across-the-globe trip a year is enough, thank you very much.)
• My address is Bell Street 2/65, Wanganui 5001.
• My phone number is +64 21212 94 90. It costs me 30 eurocents to send an sms so bomb away.

Footnotes:

• My luggage was left in London. It's due tomorrow. Meanwhile I'm using my foster parents' clothes and say, "None of this is mine."
• Fer fuck's sakes left hand traffic is weird shit.
• I doubt I'll get used to wearing shoes indoors, too.
• Rocky asked me if I was from Africa.
• I had a lucid dream in which I was paralyzed and my brother stuck me in the shoulder with a syringe. オーディション
• 5 am last night, jetlagged in a cold room in a flooding city, I threw a college around myself and imagined a special someone wrapping his arms around me.

Tätä kautta

Pari viikkoa takaperin minut hyväksyttiin Uuteen-Seelantiin opiskelemaan Wanganui School of Designiin sellaista juttua kuin Computer Graphic Design. Kutsu tuli koko kevään kestäneen rumban jälkeen. Hyväksymisestä lähtien olen käynyt hurjaa paperisotaa. Pikkuhiljaa kaikki vaikuttaisi järjestyvän mallikkaasti. Häivyn maasta tiistaina ja koulu alkaa 10. päivä. Muistuttaa 2004 elokuussa saamaani puhelinsoittoa Taideteollisesta korkeakoulusta, että onneksi olkoon, sinut on hyväksytty varasijalta, kurssit alkaa sitten ensi viikolla.

Kuten välillä elämänkäännösten kanssa, en ole ollenkaan tajunnut koko juttua. Yleensä ottaen on sellainen olo, kuin elämän elokuvan filminauha leikattaisiin yhtäkkiä poikki ja jatkoa liimattaisiin aivan toisesta leffasta. Yhtenä päivänä olin kauhuissani siitä että joudun jättämään kaiken. Mutta sitä kesti vain sen päivän. Ehkä seuraavan kerran se iskee sunnuntaina heippajaisissa. Tai luultavammin vasta lentokentällä tai koneessa.

Koljoset saapuivat tänään aamuyöstä Espanjasta viettämään kesän Jämsässä. Olin vastassa nähdäkseni remmin pikaisesti ja tuodakseni vuokra-auton (tai panssarivaunua se kyllä muistutti). Istuessani lentokentän odotusaulassa iski outo, etäinen tunne: muutaman päivän päästä, tätä kautta, jätän kaiken vuodeksi taakseni.

Porukoilla oli hurja määrä matkatavaraa. Ei meinannut kunnolla mahtua tankkiinkaan. Isillä oli mukana tuttu, vuosikymmeniä vanha matkalaukkunsa mustaa nahkaa ja tutuin tarroin. Kun nostin sitä, Paqui sanoi että varovasti, Pappa on siellä. Sai varomaan. Isi sanoi että yksi päivä hänkin tulee tätä kautta, ja hymyili päälle. Harmaat silmät.

Olisiko sinulla hetki aikaa?

Helsingin keskustassa on vilinää. Jotkut pitävät Helsinkiä pienenä kaupunkina, mutta vilinä ei eroa oleellisesti vaikkapa Ciudad de Méxicon vastaavasta. Ihmisten virtaan ja määrään on helppo turtua, mutta oltuaan ensin muutaman päivän rauhallisemmassa ympäristössä se kyllä iskee kasvoille.

Ja aina pääsee juttelemaan ihmisille. Kadut ovat täynnä varainkerääjiä, jotka kysyvät, "Olisiko sinulla hetki aikaa?" Kerjääjiäkin löytyy. Kauan sitten törmäsin mieheen, joka sanoi olevansa Tallinnasta ja kertoi tarvitsevansa rahaa puhelinkorttiin. Annoin ilolla mukavalle miehelle kaksi euroa ja hän toivotti minut tervetulleeksi Tallinnaan. Pitkän ajan kuluttua törmäsin häneen uudelleen ja tervehdin häntä iloisesti, mutta hän keskeytti lauseensa ja kääntyi pois. Olin jokseenkin musertunut ymmärtäessäni, että minua oli vedetty höplästä. Sittemmin olen törmännyt häneen moneen otteeseen ja niin ovat muutkin. En ole katkera, mutta tekisi kovasti mieli kysyä, mikä saa ihmisen nöyryyttämään itseään näin perusteellisesti huijaamalla muita.

Yksi minua eniten järkyttäneistä katukohtaamisista oli DNA:n sisäänheittäjä liikkeensä ulkopuolella. Helvetin komea nuori tyyppi, joka puhui mulle teititellen, kirjakielellä ja äänenpainolla, joka uhkui markkinahenkeä; sitä, että olen saalis. Kuvittelin tyypin välittömästi kavereidensa seuraan, sen, miten räikeästi hän oli myynyt itsensä puhelinliittymien kaupittelulle. Hän oli piittaamaton kone. On paikallaan jälleen korostaa, ettei oksetukseni ollut niinkään henkilökohtaisesti häneen kohdistuva, vaan kumpusi enemmänkin pelosta talouden orjuuttamaa yhteiskuntaa kohtaan.

Yhteistä kaikelle kaupungilta vastaanotetulle on eläimellinen himo. Kadut ja kauppakeskukset ja kojut, kaikki haluavat, että ostat niiltä – ne haluavat ostaa sinut. Niiden kutsuhuudot on äärimmilleen vedetty ja yhdessä ne muodostavat kulutushullun kakofonian. Ehkä hirvittävintä on, kuten Pirkko Saisio jo ehti todeta, "Ja te haluatte sitä. Halusitte tai ette." Haluat tuotteita, joita syljetään syliisi, sitä mitä ne näyttävät edustavan. Haluat hymyä ja tuntea itsesi paremmaksi. Haluat kontaktia ihmisten kanssa, vaikka he olisivatkin vain itsensä kuoria. Ja haluat, että ne haluavat sinua.

Tämän keskelle haluaisin henkireiän. On muut ihmiset ja oma elämä ikään kuin irrallisena, mutta luontaista henkirakoa ei ole. Olisiko minusta menemään vilinän keskelle kysymään vastaantulijalta, onko hänellä hetki aikaa, ihan itselleen?

Neljännesvuosisata

Kasimir

Tänään mietin, miten on mahdollista että kaikki jatkuu.
On kaunis päivä ja Kipsarista kuuluu musiikkia ja Helsingin Sanomissa on kuvia iloisista ihmisistä.
On Kasimir joka jäi tapaturmaisesti junan alle ja kuoli.
On me muut jotka emme jääneet.
Ja meillä muilla vielä seuraava hetki edessämme.

Ihmisyydestä

"Olen sitä mieltä, että ihminen, joka tietoisesti tekee lupauksen ja sitten rikkoo sen, menettää ihmisyytensä." Näin kirjoitti Mohandas Gandhi väkivallattomuuden lupauksesta, satyagrahin lupauksesta.

Vaikka olenkin Gandhin kanssa itse ajatuksesta (joka kokonaisuudessaan avautunee vasta Gandhin tuotantoon laajemmalti tutustuttaessa) samaa mieltä, Gandhin tapa tässä käyttää ihmisyyden käsitettä on ongelmallisuudessaan siinä määrin mielenkiintoinen, että otan sen ajatusteni vertailukohdaksi.

Lähden siitä, että ihmisyyttä on olla ihminen, eikä ihmisolennon ihmisyyttä voi ottaa pois. Rikkomalla lupauksensa ihminen voi lakata olemasta satyagrahi. Raiskaamalla ja murhaamalla ihminen voi rikkoa oman tai yhteisönsä etiikan. Silti hän ei koskaan lakkaa olemasta ihminen.

Tunteet ja kiusaukset ovat varsin inhimillisiä asioita. On nimenomaan inhimillistä erehtyä ja langeta: raivostua, antaa periksi mielihaluilleen, lakata jaksamasta, rikkoa lupauksensa. Aivan yhtä inhimillistä on rakastua ja rakastaa, iloita ja surra, kyetä suunnattomaan sankaruuteen ja kestämään väkivallattomuuden mahdollisesti sitä edellyttäviä koitoksia.

Länsimainen ajattelu korostaa valitsemista ja valinnan vapautta ihmisyyden ratkaisevana tekijänä. Valinnat eivät kuitenkaan ole yksittäisiä, toisistaan erillisiä tekoja, eivätkä sellaisina määritä ihmisyyttä. Sen sijaan valinnat muodostavat ketjun, josta oma ihmisyys rakentuu. Arvot, joiden päälle tämä ketju kutoutuu, eivät ole valintoja niinkään kuin ne ovat ympäristön kanssa vuorovaikutuksessa muovattuja päätöksiä.

Kyse on siitä, että määrittelemme itse oman ihmisyytemme; sen mitä on olla ihminen. Määrittelemme sen taistelemalla sisällämme selvyyden ja totuuden puolesta — tai antamalla periksi pedolle sisällämme. Määrittelemme sen ajatuksemme kirkkaudella, omantuntomme äänellä, rehellisyydellä jota osoitamme itseämme ja muita kohtaan. Määrittelemme sen ymmärtämällä tai olemalla ymmärtämättä itseämme; hyväksymällä tai olemalla hyväksymättä omaa vajaavaisuuttamme ja riittämättömyyttämme.

Ystävyydestä

"Anna meren se selvittää, kuka viereesi jää", kuuluu Vladimir Visotskyn Ystävän laulu. Laulu ohjeistaa, miten jyvät erotellaan akanoista. Vasta kovat olosuhteet näyttävät, kuka jää rinnallesi ja pitää kädestäsi kiinni. Koetukset eittämättä vankistavat ystävyyttä ja lisäävät luottamusta.

Laulussa on totuuden jyvä, vaikkei se välttämättä parhaiten kuvaisikaan modernia suomalaista ystävyyttä. Ystävyyden koetusten ei tarvitse olla eeppisiä seikkailuja. Arkiset tapahtumat voivat kuvata ystävyyttä aivan yhtä selkeästi. Ei ole kyse läheisten ihmissuhteiden binäärisestä punnitsemisesta &mdash jos et ole puolellani olet minua vastaan! &mdash vaan niiden tulkitsemisesta, muuttumisesta ja seuraamisesta. Yhdessä koettujen tapahtumien ei tarvitse karsia ihmisiä viereltä pois, mutta ne voivat näyttää paljon siitä ihmisestä, jonka vierellä kulkee.

Toisten auttaminen ja tukeminen ei ensimmäisenä kuulu suomalaiseen sosiaaliseen kulttuuriin. Me käperrymme itseemme ja olemme soolosuorittajia, joku voisi sanoa, ja avunpyyntö on merkki heikkoudesta ja riittämättömyydestä. Samalla avun pyytäminen voi olla suunnaton ystävyyden ja avoimuuden osoitus — ja koettelemus ihmissuhteelle. Välillä tuntuu olevan ylivoimaista saada ainuttakaan kanssaihmistä tuhraamaan aikaansa yksinkertaiseenkaan auttavaan toimeen. Oma-aloitteisia avunantotarjouksia voi täällä todellakin pitää merkkinä kultaisesta ystävyydestä.

Kaikkialla näin ei ole. Esimerkiksi suuressa osassa latinalaisia kulttuureita toisten auttaminen ja tukeminen on osa toisen ihmisen tuntemista. Kaikki tekevät niin. Sitä ei nähdä oman ajan haaskaamisena. Se on yhdessä olemisen muoto. Tapa elää. Ehkä meillä olisi jotain oppimista heiltä.

Toki ystävyys on muutakin kuin avunantoa ja tukemista. Se on yhdessä olemista, yhdessä elämistä. Tai ei välttämättä sitäkään. Ei ole vaikeaa tuntea suurta ystävyyttä henkilön kanssa johon ei ole ollut tiiviissä yhteydessä vuosiin. Sitä välittää kuitenkin. Ystävyys on tunne siitä, ettemme ole yksin tässä maailmassa.

Pariin otteeseen olen epäonnistunut ystävyydessä. En ole jäänyt toisen vierelle hädän ja kärsimyksen hetkellä. Silloin tunsin murentuvani ystävyyden taakan alla. Se ei enää voimistanut vaan heikensi, enkä onnistunut näkemään muutosta tähän. Hylkäsin tulehtuneen ystävyyden oman parhaani vuoksi; ehkä myös lopulta kummankin parhaaksi. Edelleenkään en osaa sanoa, oliko oikein tehdä niin.

En myöskään lähettänyt ystävänpäivätervehdyksiä kenellekään. Olisi pitänyt mutta nyt lienee liian myöhäistä. Tykkään että yleisesti ottaen on ihan kivaa että on välillä olemassa päiviä, jolloin voi, tekosyyn nojalla tai ei, ilmaista ystävyyttään. Tai ehkä jopa olla rehellinen.

Lying dying body.

Ei kuolema vaan suomalaisuus

Pappa kuoli.

Isi kertoi sen puhelimessa. Ilmoitusta saatteli huokaus jota voisi kuvailla helpottuneeksi. Parempi näin, hän sanoi. Pappa oli nukkunut rauhallisesti pois. Juuri silloin ketään ei sattunut olemaan sairaalassa paikalla. En ole varma teeskentelinkö hiljaisuuden. "Aha", sanoin vihdoin. Ei kyyneliä; suruni olin surrut jo joulukuussa pitäessäni pappaa kädestä ja kostuttaessani pyyhkeellä hänen suutaan joka olisi muuten kuivunut.

Olin jättänyt hyvästit, minun hyvästini, kun lähdin viimeistä kertaa sairaalasta. Jätin jo varmuuden vuoksi hiljaiset hyvästini kesällä mökillä kun pappa yllättäen, ennen kuin vilkutti hei-hei, lausahti ettei sydämensä ole enää kunnossa.

Silti se sattuu ja viiltää syvältä. Ei kuolema vaan suomalaisuus. Huomattava osa ystävistäni tiesi isoisäni tilasta. Näiden muutaman viikon aikana kukaan ei ole kysynyt hänen vointiaan. Kaksi on ilmaissut osanottonsa.

Sitä tuntee olevansa yksin; samassa harmaudessa kieppumassa valon ja varjon välillä kuin pappa joka hiljaa lipui vaan ei tiennyt milloin on lähdön aika. Että jos lähtisin se ei tarkoittaisi mitään, eikä toisi sanoja kenenkään huulille. Ja että kaikki me olemme yksin.

"We're baking the cake to show him that we love him."
"Otherwise he won't know we love him?"
"That's right."
-- The Hours

Toisenlainen uusivuosi

Meikäläisen uudenvuoden suunnitelmiin kuuluu elimellisesti niiden tekeminen aina liian myöhään, jos ollenkaan. Ei sillä, että kaiken tarvitsisi olla suunniteltua, mutta uudenvuodenaatto on niitä harvoja tapauksia, jolloin ei-minkään tekeminen saattaa selittämättömistä syistä tuntua hoopolta.

Tänä vuonna homma tosin sattui toimimaan erinomaisesti. Kun sain tietää talon tuolloin olevan muuten tyhjillään, lähetin ex tempore ircitse otokselle kavereita kutsun kylään katsomaan b-luokan elokuvia ja syömään; ei niinkään juomaan tai pällistelemään taivaalle singottuja kemikaaleja. Ajattelin saavani pari kolme seuralaista, mutta lopulta täällä olikin ahdasta.

Keskiyön koittaessa olimme valmiina säihketikuin, vesilasein — ja multivitamiiniporetabletein. Vuodenvaihteen hetkellä sytytettiin sädetikut ja tabletit upotettiin veteen: shampanja oli valmista! Tästä saattaa tulla uusi pieni traditio...

Traditiot kuljettavat arvoja ja maailmankuvaa vuodesta toiseen, sukupolvelta seuraavalle, välillä kulttuurien välilläkin. Perinteet saattavat muuttua, mutta muutokset ovat hitaita, johtuen muun muassa traditioiden levinneisyydestä ja normatiivisuudesta sekä kulttuurin kiinteästä suhteesta niihin.

Traditiosta irtautuminen — tai uuden sellaisen omaksuminen — on usein väistämättä sosiaalinen teko. Saamme itse valita ja poimia meille mieluisat ja mielekkäiksi koetut perinteet. Toisaalta nämä valinnat saattavat vahingoittaa joitain sosiaalisia sidoksiamme ja toisaalta vahvistaa toisia. Perinteet ovat meille keino määrittää paikkamme yhteisössä niin itsellemme kuin muillekin: tapa kuulua joukkoon, ilmaista arvomaailmaa. Perinteet ovat tapa elää sellaista elämää, jollaisen koemme mielekkääksi, yhdessä.

Miten tulisi äänestää?

Jokaisella meistä on yksi ääni - ihmisen kokoinen ääni. Vaan minkä arvoinen ja kokoinen on yksi ääni?

Olen pitkään koettanut selvittää itselleni, miten äänestämiseen tulisi suhtautua. Tuleeko ottaa huomioon epätoivoa lietsovat kyselytulokset, kuten useimmat tuntuvat tekevän, vai voiko niistä olla välittämättä? Tuleeko taktikoida oletettujen todennäköisyyksien ja mahdollisuuksien virran mukaan?

Se, että vaaliäänillä taktikoidaan, epäilemättä vääristää demokratian perusideaa. Vaaleissa ei silloin enää ole kyse siitä, ketä enemmistö pitää parhaana; on vain kyse siitä, kuka voittaa. Kyselytuloksille antautuminen puolestaan on antautumista median liekaan. Nämä ovat minusta monikertaisesti pahempia painajaisia kuin kansan tahdon toteutuminen vastoin omaa tahtoani.

Olen tullut tulokseen, että tulee äänestää sitä ehdokasta, jonka itse valitsisi. Kyse ei ole siitä, kenet valitsisi ensimmäisellä kierroksella jatkoon. Kyse on siitä, kuka ehdokkaista on omasta mielestä paras. Äänestämällä tämän periaatteen mukaisesti, tai sitä vastaan, ihminen määrittelee oman demokraattisuutensa; sanansa suuruden ja voiman.

Eikä ole kyse siitä että nämä olisivat vain yhdet vaalit. Toisiaan seuraavat vaalit muodostavat jatkumon, jossa puolueiden ja puolueiden ehdokkaiden kannatus eivät ole aiemmista ja tulevista vaaleista täysin irrallaan. Jokainen ääni omille valinnoille arvoiksi, vaihtoehdoiksi ja päämääriksi perustuu jo tehtyyn työhön mutta rakentaa myös tulevaisuuden poliittista kenttää.

Oman ehdokkaan heikko gallup-menestys voi näyttää surulliselta. Oman ehdokkaan voitto saattaa vaikuttaa täysin mahdottomalta, jopa absurdilta. Huomiona epäröijälle: kannatus ei nouse kuin äänestämällä. Kuten Tarja Cronberg erinomaisesti asian ilmaisi - eikä tätä enää paremmin voisikaan sanoa - on meidän kaikkien vastuulla, että paras pärjää.

Picasso

"Tänään koin jotain, minkä toivon ymmärtäväni muutaman päivän kuluessa", sanoin itselleni päästyäni ulos Málagan Picasso-museosta.

Kuvataiteessa puhutaan usein kuvattavan kohteen tai asian olemukseen kurkottamisesta. Taidediskurssilla on taipumus lähteä korkeaankin liitoon. Samanaikaisesti yksittäisistä, merkittävinä pidetyistä taiteilijoista tavataan puhua elämänkerrallisesti - jätetään kertomatta se, mikä tekikään taiteilijasta ja hänen töistään merkittäviä.

Muodoillaan Pablo Diego José Santiago Francisco de Paula Juan Nepomuceno Crispín Crispiniano de los Remedios Cipriano de la Santísima Trinidad Ruiz Picasso kurkotti kuvan tuolle puolen, jähmettyneen hetken taakse. Picasson muodot eivät ole valokuvanomaisia, salamamaisia väläyksiä itse kohteesta, naisen asennosta, hedelmäkulhosta. Ei, sen sijaan muodot, asetelmat ja vuorovaikutukset kieppuvat kohteen idean ympärillä. Makaavassa naisessa fuusioituu tuhat naista ja tuhat makuuasentoa. Maalauksessa lukemattomat palat ovat toisiinsa sulautuvia hetkien sirpaleita, jotka toisikseen muuttuneina avaavat panoraaman, öljyn ja kankaan alle, ihon alle ja sisään, ideaan.

Picasso mutiloi kohteensa viivoiksi ja kaariksi - ja silti mielemme hahmottavat jotain, mikä elimellisesti kuuluu alkuperäiselle kohteelle. Saatamme selittämättömän vahvasti tuntea kokevamme enemmän kuin mistä tietoisesti saamme kiinni.