But don't ask me why

The sales triggered a counter-consumerist reaction in me yesterday. I came home via the foody shop (where, as I mentioned yesterday, I had a hard time deciding between the creme fraiches with 28% fat, 17% fat, 8% fat, 3% fat, 2% fat, no-lactose, low-lactose, HYLA (don't ask - something to do with lactose), and combinations thereof) and sat at home feeling like a capitalist shite.

Question: Why do I have so much stuff? Inventory. Why do I have so many clothes (I looked at some pyjamas yesterday, they were the only thing I really wanted to buy, but didn't - I have some already)? So many fucking layers of clothing I will never be able to wear out all of them, and besides, so many items I hardly ever wear, or never, even, and it barely helps I've decided to buy second-hand from now on, it's a poxy plaster I apply to my sore, ridiculous, affluent-Westerner conscience. Why do I have so much food in my cupboards? Foodfoodfood, brought here from hither and yon, from all over the fucking place, just so I could delight my palate, not just so I could feed myself and my offspring, and again, not eating meat barely helps, it's a piss in the ocean of global suffering whether I do or not. Why do I have so much stuff? Books. Yesyes, they are for my entertainment and edification, but who and what has given me the right to sit here being entertained and edified? Television, digibox (again, don't ask - it's something to do with being able to watch telly in this country), desktop computer, laptop computer, landline phone, mobile phone, washing machine, lamps and pots and plants and plates and glasses (crystal glasses too, they are beautiful and I like having them, but what do I need them for? Some other woman's entire life is based on the ownership of a single cooking pot, in which she cooks a bean stew, daily, to sell), stuff - stuff - stuff. My life revolves around stuff, does it not? My life, my world, it's inescapable, it's horrendous.

So I went on a foray around the internet, I said hello to a few people, I felt lonely and shaky, I was quite desperate for a bit of communication, even though I also want(ed) to hide alone in a corner, curled up. I went looking for this and that, I uncovered this, I thought it was haunting and beautiful:



but it didn't exactly make me feel any less like a pig. No offence to pigs.

This Christmas thing, I've been wanting to write my thoughts about it for days, and also run away from trying to write my thoughts about it. What sometimes strikes me when I think of the basic core of the story, never mind whether you are religious, never mind whether you believe in Jesus and the saints and all the prophets, never mind whether you believe there's a God at all, let alone whether He could be born a human, what strikes me sometimes is the stabbing beautifulness of the story combined with the fact that for two thousand years, people have - to varying degrees - professed to believing in it, that a child is born, a baby, a beautiful baby boy (I've had two), and we claim to believe he is the saviour of mankind, somehow, and somehow, it is true, look at any baby, anywhere, they are perfection, they could become anything and everything, if only we could give them the world in which they could unfold into what they could be, they truly could save us all, if only we allowed them to, but

just as I'm trying to explain it, explain what I really mean, the thought disintegrates, I can't verbalise it, and I'm left with a melodramatic platitude in my hand. Which is where I am now, but sometimes it's good to write without self-censorship, write like I was writing it anonymously for the eyes of no-one, without thinking how ridiculous I sound. I think.

I'm doing e's

(but only because Signs made me)



See - there,
there, where the yew tree bends,
the street ends,
there where the creek, the green,
the sweetness -

there we’ll never meet,
we’ll never be there,
never.
We’ll never remember
these trees, these streets,
never the green sweetness,
never the “remember, when we”,
we’ll never. Never. Yet
yes, there,
there where the streets the trees the sweetness the green -
there remember me.

Remember me?
Here, the desert weeps, bereft, endless.

Sever me.
(Keep me.)
Remember me.
(Delete me.)

Waxing lyrical

There are times when I bore myself to tears and a hateful rage with my me-ness. To tears. Okay. Forcing myself to see five lovely things:
The buds.
The (new) leaves of this year's weeds.
The sunset pink reflecting in the bog.
The frogs fucking in the puddles in their dozens.
Seagulls, fishing, luminous in the dusk.

Brittle heart of leaden glass, don't break.

God how I bore myself.

What is remembered: a "guess he didn't actually fancy me" moment

So you're a single mum, this guy said to me once, I didn't know that. No wonder (name deleted) became so interested in you all of a sudden.

What do you mean, I asked, naively.

Because you're a single mum. Single mums put out, every time, he replied.

This blog is about trousers. And shame tolerance.

This blog is a year old. Happy Birthday to me.

My first ever post, sometime in April 2006, was a shamefully self-indulgent weepy about being oh-so-alone in the world. I don't think anyone had time to read it (thankfully), as after a night spent tossing and turning in deep embarrassment over it, I went back and deleted it the next day. It is the only one I have deleted, and I have a pact with myself I shan't do it again. Sometimes I even make myself live with the shame of spelling or grammatical errors (recently I wrote the word "elk" with an s-plural, the horror, the horror). The reason for this will become apparent in a moment.

My second post, the first one available now, is really eloquent. It says something like "just to see if I can find my way back to post again".

My third post, the second available, is about buying or not buying a pair of ludicrous trousers. I had put on a fair amount of weight in the recent years, and the trend continued with exponentially accelerated velocity in the US. I didn't buy the trousers mentioned in the post, and I'm glad. Since I returned to Finland in the summer, I have lost (thanks to a combination of picking up smoking again after 5-6 years and actually using public and pedestrian forms of transport, plus some fun exercise) 8 kg - that's 17.6 pounds, ca. 1.26 stone to you non-SI types - and they would've fallen off me.

My fourth post, third existing one, is probably the longest one to date, and deals with shame tolerance. (And here's the aforementioned reason.)

So there you have it, these really are my themes. Trousers = everything menial, trivial, embarrassingly uninteresting, unimportant stuff. Shame tolerance = my attempts at writing about things which do matter to me. I am, of course, equally (or more) inclined to be embarrassed and ashamed over the "trousers" posts as well. In a bundle of ways, this blog is actually all about increasing my shame tolerance.

What has this year brought to me? I have met some very nice people, startlingly nice people, brilliant people I wouldn't have met otherwise. I have avoided meeting any real wankers, which is pretty good going, as this is very possible online too. (The internet has some really wanky corners and people.) These are good things.

I have increased my shame tolerance levels no end. This, too, is a good thing (I hope - if it goes out of hand, I don't know whether it'll continue to be a good thing).

I am also aware of the fact I have returned to a much smoother writing process, I am not as blocked up as I was - I was as blocked up as a blocked-up-thing when I started. This, also, is a good thing.

I have had blog fatigue once or twice, when the whole thing seemed inane and dorky and I thought I'd never go back to it. Then I did. Which, I think, is also a good thing. Oh, goodness abounds around me. How good is that.

As a birthday present to my wee blog, I think I might start seriously considering changing my photo.

This has been a trousers post.

Tagged again: Obsessions.

(This, dear Reader, is a bad one. I can feel a giant disgracing of myself coming up presently.)

I have been tagged by the lovely but mischievous NMJ, to reveal five obsessions of mine. (Oh dear. This is going to be bad. And NMJ herself had the audacity to do only a "tag lite" on the grockular (don't ask) Mr Zhisou's site, as you'll find out if you follow the first link of this post. But here goes, for Finland and shame tolerance - )

1. Leijonat ("The Lions"), the Finnish national ice hockey team. During the annual ice hockey World Cup, I find myself living for it and it alone. We have the best ice hockey team, feared and revered by all, in the world. That we sometimes play like so many mummos (grannies) does not alter this fact.

Ah, the pain, the shame, the humiliation I have endured for my team! There was that one time we were playing (at home!) against Sweden (boo, hiss) in a World Cup semifinal, leading 5-1 (may I remind you this was in front of a home audience), and then the Swedes (boo, hiss) changed their goalie and beat us 6-5. I could barely face going to work the next day. The hateful words "ice hockey" fell off my vocabulary for a year. And last year, at the Olympics, we played like angels and didn't lose a game (we sent Canada packing, remember that, Canada? ha!) until the f*cking final, where Sweden (boo, hiss) wiped their arses with us. (You may see a pattern developing here. We have seen it too, and it's dreadful.) And, to add to the bitterness of this obsession, the one time we *did* win the World Cup (1994? 95?) (against - boo, hiss - Sweden in the finals!) I was living in Wales, and S4C (pronounced es-pedwar-ec, strangely quaint and sweet) didn't televise it.

This obsession can be transferred onto other male team sports, but only on an international level, I find myself incapable of giving a rat's ass about leagues. One year I very fervently supported the All Blacks in rugby, because they do the haka. Ooh!

2. Washing my hands. I don't think I fully qualify in the obsessive/compulsive department with this obsession, but I do wash my hands *a lot*. Partly this is because of my work - amongst other things, I wipe noses for a living, and therefore wash my hands around 58 times a working day - but partly it's just me. I wash my hands, without failure, the instant I come home. I have found myself wondering whether I should actually wash my hands after I've put the filthy shopping away (other people may have touched this milk carton in the shop), but realised this would lead to having to wash the milk carton as well. I try to keep a lid on this obsession.

3 a). Pornography. A bit like road traffic accidents on motorways, I can't help watching if it's there. I was mighty glad when they took down the free porn channels from Finnish tv, so I could get a decent night's sleep. This one I really try to keep a lid on, as it is not only embarrassing (notice how I've tried to hide it here so you wouldn't notice) but also quite unhealthy. It is only made marginally better by its b-side (think old 45 rpm singles)
b) Sex & religion. I am involved in a conversation about this elsewhere on this blog (which you are welcome to join, should you dare) and don't want to be repeating myself. Suffice it to say, in some weird way, for some weird reason, I would like to have both.

4. Hunter-gathering. I don't eat things that run or fly, but wild berries (raspberries, blueberries, strawberries too) can't get away from me. Fishing can be quite good, too, but the best of the best is picking wild mushrooms. Chantarelles, horns of plenty, boletuses (boletals?), milk caps - by the time I was seven, I could identify, pick, clean & prepare at least twenty types of fungi. This is *really* good, it satisfies a primitive urge like nothing else. When I lived in Wales, I used also to make my own (elderflower, dandelion, honeysuckle) wine.

I do not obsess about my children - I love them, there's a difference. Sometimes I obsess about a particular song or piece of music but it usually doesn't last forever, I just play it out of my system in the end. I have occasionally fallen for obsessing about a person, too, but that way lies lots of problems, so I have learnt not to. I don't obsess about theatre or books, I feel passionate about them (for or against). So - that's about it, folks, enough shameful stuff to fill a lifetime of embarrassed cringing. And now for passing this horror on - I am tagging you, Charnel Doze, and you, Kanikoski. And, while I am at it, and in retaliation, you too, keltanen. And hey, why not, hannamime too (she is a blog virgin, so go easy on her, folks) (what do you mean I can only tag two people, I'll tag as many as I bloody well please).

Sweet Jesus, I need to write another entry very quickly after this one, to distance myself from it.

PS And I'm not tagging you, Periodic Englishman, because you still owe me a tag. I haven't forgotten. But should you want to, you can take on this one too.

More shame tolerance, closely followed by lick et stick

One of my first blog entries was on the topic of shame tolerance. A fine topic, worth returning to from time to time:

My cousin (of the pink-flamingo fame) gave me a pipo for my birthday present. A pipo, if you are not familiar with this phenomenon, is a certain type of knitted or crocheted hat, which the youth of today mistakenly think cool (as championed by Finland's very own Ville Valo, of whom more later) but which people my age would not be seen dead in, at least not when we were young. It was one of those items of clothing your mum would force you to wear when the temperatures dropped to -20 C, which, incidentally, makes your ears fall off unless you cover them. We would remove our pipos the latest when we got to the front door. Anyway...

My cousin gave me a pipo. The attached card said it was for "ensuring the continuation of your everlasting teens". I wear it. It's gone really, really cold. In a matter of days, we have gone from a glorious Indian summer to balls-off-a-brass-monkey weather. I wear my pipo, but make no mistake. Some young people may think a pipo makes them look like rock stars. I know it makes me look like a bag lady. Shame tolerance is the word of the day, dear hearts. At least I get to keep my ears.

Tonight, I intend to lick & stick. This means putting our Winter's Tale flyers & publicity letters in envelopes, licking them shut & sticking stamps on them. (Yes, I am sneakily using my blog as a publicity forum, too.) After that, I intend to watch telly and knit. Licking, sticking, telly & knitting. Doesn't that illustrate my thoroughly rock'n'roll lifestyle?

(Oh, and about Ville Valo. If anyone out there thinks he's hot, or cute, or whatever - don't bother. I was introduced to him a few years ago at a memorial gig for a band whose (long since dead) singer used to be my teenyears boyfriend. Ville has a limp, damp handshake. Ew.)

On shame tolerance

I have been puzzling over my uncertainty regarding to have or not to have a blog. On the whole, blogging feels rather a childish thing to me - something people ten years younger than me do effortlessly, as a natural thing of "their generation". Only problem is, it just isn't so and I know it. Only today I read Ariel Dorfman's posting on the Guardian blogsite (on Beckett and Eichmann, incidentally). Ariel Dorfman must be a good ten years older than me, mustn't he? OK, so he is a professional writer. I'm sure that's what makes the difference, why he does it smoothly and effortlessly and why I cannot let go of the sense of perpetual self-consciousness when blogging. Right? (And of course, not being Ariel Dorfman, how can I claim to know whether he feels smooth and effortless about his blogging or indeed his writing in general? He might feel continuously crippled by a never-ending experience of himself writing, and – this is the crux here – keep writing regardless of it. I'll never know. Unless you are reading this, Ariel, and want to let me know. Aha, so *this* is why I blog, is it, for the impossible hope of being heard/read, and somehow deeply understood, of entering into a dialogue with someone, somewhere, maybe even about things that matter, things that I care about, things that open up life?)

Of course, I have had a keen sense of self-consciousness about writing in general for ten, twenty years? Not quite twenty, but more than ten. It is the reason I stopped writing, the cause of what I self-indulgently call my writers' block. I place the apostrophe where I do on purpose, to indicate the block belongs to a collection of writers, who have at some point in their lives experienced this same block...of course, one ought to be a writer in the first place, even if it was into a shoebox or a desk drawer, before one can claim to have the said block. But I did write, oh, I wrote so much, it came to me so easily when I was a child. Fantasy and fabulation, stories, characters, words, poems, the radio play of a hundred pages or more I typed out as a ten-year-old, about the concert visit of Elvis Presley to Finland, as imagined by myself, and so on and so forth. And then, enter adolescence, puberty, young adulthood, bad marriage, children, writing petering out, dreadful divorce and then, bang, instead of a freedom so dearly fought for, the rest is suddenly silence. I seem to have very little to say. I imagine nothing. All I can imagine writing about is me, my experiences, my life, no fabulation, no fantasy.

The awareness of myself writing is easing off, has been easing off during this my (first?) Hawai'ian year. Which must have something to do with the fact that I have written more, just made myself write, and it's started to feel more natural again. But by god, writing what is essentially a diary, a private collection of musings, isn't that what people (and not just me) have traditionally done as an intimate exercise, something not meant for the eyes of anyone else, to ensure a freedom from personal censorship? To post this material online? On the other hand, people keeping a diary are arguably not free of this imagined reader who will find the material stimulating, interesting, who will love the writer all the more for his/her self-revelation.

However

Even when I wrote prolifically, it was never really meant for anyone else to see. It was embarrassing, shameful, unthinkable. I recall giving a collection of my love poems to my closest friend to read when I was nineteen. (Her commentary was supportive and overall positive, so no fault can be laid at her door for my subsequent years of silence.) That is the only time I ever did so. I never sent anywhere, I never thought of the actuality of attempting to be published. And now, here I am, twenty years later, writing a fraction of what I used to, but sending it willy-nilly left right and centre. Including what is really an online diary. Which brings me to

Shame tolerance. The experience of shame I have had over my three postings before this one, plus the personal website I created, have been out of all proportion. I have literally stayed awake at night, thinking about how enormously embarrassing, shameful, stupid, vacuous, unnecessary, trivial my posting was, in its wallowing, ungenuine style of self-pity combined with selfimportance. It got so bad I actually deleted my first posting altogether. I have little doubt that this bit of writing will similarly cause me to suffer, probably beginning later on today. Which is ludicrous, of course. Ok, so the merits of my ramblings are nonexistent, but who's to know? It doesn't matter. I am going to force myself to not delete anything anymore. Shame tolerance, a concept possibly coined by my fellow countryman Ruben Stiller to explain both his enthusiasm for the Nordic walk (think cross-country skiing without the skis, done on public streets and footpaths, dressed in shell suits) and the club for men with small penises he is the founding and, to my knowledge, still years later the only member of. It is good to learn to live with my all-encompassing shame of being myself. C'mon girl, feel that shame. That's you that is. I am ashamed, therefore I am.

© 2006 Anna MR