Summer Scenes

My son watches me with interest as I go mad gesticulating in the air, with furious assassin fever, clenching my teeth and ranting about long winters and fucking insects of hell.

Then I recover. I remember that I always tell him that hurting other beings is wrong. I put on my patient and lovingful father voice, and I think of Saint Thomas Aquina.

They say that Saint Thomas Aquinas loved every single living thing, he loved everyone and everything, including telemarketing sellers and mosquitoes.

Well, I don't doubt his saintliness, but from all things in the world, I am sure of one: Mister Aquinas didn't ever live in Finland.

It's not possible. The True Finns and the Freedom Party of Austria are right. I cannot gently take a mosquito in my hands, caress him softly and put him out in the balcony, to freedom, for it would encourage the million others.

See? When I talk about Finnish society passivity I talk about this. Its politicians cut randomly the budget here and there, and they just shrug, encouraging them to try a new cut somewhere else. With mosquitoes it's the same, I don't see Finns going all mad killing mosquitoes, they just shrug and move on, and it both cases, mosquitoes and voracious politicians, without furious homicide anger, it only can get worse.

Were I to do that, do the loving father, and pick the mosquito out of my skin and release him to freedom with understanding and a bit of pocket money and some cookies for the trip, and him, I can see it, would just go to the nearest mosquito bar, thick with fresh human blood, drops still dropping of its mouthpiece, and boast with his mosquito pals about the great life he had in the-world-inside and about the kind of soft moron I am. "Saltier and tastier than the average Finn, it tastes like Pringles but better!" -he would say.

Then, they would come, a throng of them, like mad shoppers at the doors of Stockmann before the grand opening of the great sales after Christmas, and crowd together on my window to have a peep on the wonderful feasting life of the-world-inside.

I ignore their droning in slow circles on the window at first, but then I feel like smoking and we have it.

I step out into the wild and they whirl on me, like the black hand of Mordor. Used to the Mediterranean mosquito's combat ninja style -disappears during the day, falls over you as soon as the lights go off- with the massive head-on Finnish mosquito's tactic, I feel like in one of those zombie holocaust movies. They approach me in straight line, slowly, blank eyes. I kill left and right and left, I'm covered in blood, theirs and mine, but they keep on coming nevertheless drooling. My son watches me attentively from his room's window. I feel bad, it's a bad example. I take two or three hurried puffs of the fag, and go on with the frenzy. Soon, I give up the smoke, and call headquarters, "Papa Bravo, here Charlie Delta! We retreat inside! Repeat, we retreat! They are just too many!".

They keep on droning on the window: "Braaaaainssss...."

I sit on the computer to work more on the grant application. They distract me. They keep circling in the air, some stop on the glass and lick their blood covered limbs, mocking me. Everything itches in my body. But I think of Aquina, and get back to get frustrated with the slow progressing writing.

I feel self-conscious. I have on the range of 1 to 2 million insects looking at me with lust and desire, loving every movement I do, every piece of skin I let them see.

I finally draw the curtains, forget about the long awaited sunshine, drop on my chair and start weeping.