My Dream

Linus and Jaana are my siblings, we all are orphans. I hear them cry from around the corner, I run looking for them. As I get there, I face one of my childhood sights: a couple of nuns are herding a bunch of uniformed girls from the Catholic school (they looked at us, wild working class children, as evil beings to be avoided; even as children we were very aware of that). They are at the entrance of a dark, square shaped tunnel. Linus and Jaana are inside crying after trying to run away from the nuns, while them, nuns, try to block the exit perhaps involuntarily forcing them further inside.

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.

Eastern Breaks

I am aware that the unwritten rules of bloggers specifically forbid not writing for long periods neglecting your readership.

I'm sorry, I was abroad and, you know, it was not my intention.

Besides, except for you and myself, there is no such readership here either. It's hard to really care.

Just bear with me, OK? I have this childhood trauma that makes me afraid of not being loved anymore if I don't keep myself performing up to the expectations.

The paralyzing fear that, precisely and preciously, prevents me from performing up to the expectations.

Aaah, *inhales deeply* the wonderful aroma of everlasting childhood traumas.