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Recently I saw a card in a shop window: ‘Christmas trees for dollhouses’. I guess the popularity of the dollhouse lies in the fact that it allows you to create your own ideal miniature world. You select furniture according your personal tastes and preferences. Most importantly, you can bring into your model house all those things that you value, and exclude all unpleasant things.  The miniature sphere allows for other, more symbolic uses; for instance, you can furnish your tiny house with Christmas decorations if Christmas has a special value for you. At the same time, there are people who would ban all signs of Christmas in their dollhouses (if they had any), and thus create a Christmas-free sphere amidst public celebrations, Rudolph and Santa.

Certainly, talking about Christmas, I could be talking about any other cultural practice, world view, or tradition as well. But I wonder whether the Western societies will be obliged to transform themselves into dollhouse-like systems with an ideologically neutral public square. The cultures, customs, morals and religions of different groups and communities within a society will be considered a private pursuit and the result of individual choice and something that should be left at the door when people engage in public debate. Is it good or bad, or just a necessity in order to avoid the risk of cultural rift?

Yet another butterfly was found in the living room, flapping desperately its wings against the window glass. Once they (butterflies, bumble bees and honeybees) have noticed that my window is ajar, and felt the breeze of warm air coming from inside, they decide to flee autumnal cold outdoors. Inevitably, they end up being trapped behind the glass window,  wanting to return to where they came from.  Sometimes I find a small bird lying half-hidden in a narrow space between double window panes. I don’t want to disturb the bird; it must be very cold and tired. It is welcome to warm up as long as it likes. At times, though, butterflies are so exhausted that I offer them sugar to pull energy from it. After feasting on a sugar cube, they unfold their wings (they resemble two big colourful sails) and prepare to set off.  I silently wish them luck in their venture, because the outdoor temperature is quite low, and probably two or more cold days lie ahead.

Dream pillow

 A swan always reminds me of deep sleep and big soft pillows that give rest and comfort to me. What makes me now so anxious?  It is the sight of the white floating creature, the winged and beaked pillow that is hissing at me aggressively. No one likes to hear her pillow hiss at her! Also, the shock of seeing part of my dream world being dragged from the nocturnal depths out in the broad daylight – it is almost unbearable. And what’s more, suppose it was a nightmare: a sharp-clawed, shaggy, screaming bird.

Like most children, I have engaged in a pillow fight and enjoyed both the game and the fluffy feel of the air that got thick with down.  Since adulthood I have continued my pillow fights, but they take a different form now. My pillows would often break, thus making it possible to pull the feathers out and arrange them on the bed sheet according to their different shapes and colors. They are my alphabets and colourful syllables. I arrange them according to a certain design, but the pattern is often broken because the pattern elements are difficult to keep in place. A slightest breeze is enough to blow them away. True, language organizes and conceptualizes things, but, at the same time, it is feverish, full of excitement and play − like a crazy whirl of feathers.

Kun ei enää jaksa

Eläintä kannettiin pois. Sen sivulle vajonnut pää liikahti hieman. Näin silmät, joiden lasittunut kiilto heräsi hetkeksi elämään, mutta hetkellinen kimallus katosi yhtä nopeasti kuin tulikin. Tajusin heti että se tietää että nyt on tultu päätökseen ja sitä kantavat pois isommat voimat, kun se oli lyyhistynyt kadulle eikä noussut enää jaloilleen. Eikö tuo sanaton alistuminen ja hiljainen tieto ole sitä mikä yhdistää ihmistä ja eläintä? Jos olet nähnyt ihmisen joka on jo antanut periksi eikä ole mitään tehtävissä, hänessä pilkahtaa tuo alistunut hiljainen eläin jota kannetaan pois.

How would you feel if you realized that you have been given the role of an external memory? Nowadays portable USB flash drives and disk drives are commonplace, but long before their time, the idea of storing your data in multiple locations outside your own home was already in use.

I had a friend who very generously gave copies of her writings and photographs taken by her to all her friends as gifts. Only later it dawned on me what was the real purpose of these gifts. I began to receive telephone calls from her: ‘I cannot find my photographs, my home is a complete mess – help me – you have the copies, send me please the photos I gave you.’ I received similar requests concerning her papers, notes, memos, even postcards she thought she had sent to me.  But no, she never sent me postcards. She, however, explained me the motivation behind the idea of writing postcards. ‘It brings me to a dialog,’ my friend said to me, ’the possibility of addressing my words to someone inspires me more than merely writing down my thoughts or keeping a diary. I start brainstorming, I get so many wonderful ideas, and I must write very fast to catch them before they fly away!’ – ‘What about your friends,’ I asked – ‘What about them,’ she answered. As far as I could comprehend the recipients were of little consequence, the important thing was her big dialog with herself. After finishing her cards she posted them to friends who were supposed to save the cards for future reference. I think her idea was brilliant, because she had mobilized a host of human archives to store her thoughts. We, all her friends, formed a sympathetic and supportive group of people, a kind of collective memory where her works and thoughts were safe.

Only what she did not foresee was the fallibility of human memory. I must admit that am not an archivist. I just can’t remember where her photos are now. Are they still in that photograph album? Where is the album now? What about the important manuscript that she sent me a while ago … but I suppose she had double copies of all her papers sent to her most trusted friends!

Vuodepotilaaksi päätymisen jälkeen aika on määräämättömän pituinen, sillä ei ole näkyvissä olevaa loppua, ei suuntaa, mutta varmasti se kestää niin kauan kuin minua lähellä olevan ihmisen elämä. Maatessa hänen ajatuksensa palaavat nuoruuteen, polkupyöräilyyn ja ihmisiin, jotka kuuluivat tuolloin hänen elämäänsä. Yksitoikkoisuus ja pitkä aika vuoteenomana sekoittavat tajun omasta asennosta. Selällään maatessa hän pitää toisella kädellään tiukasti kiinni sängyn reunasta. Hän tuntee tasapainoilevansa polkupyörän satulassa ja pelkää horjahtavansa kumoon. Hän ei pääse polkaisemaan liikkeelle, ja silloinhan polkupyörä kaatuu.

Miten pitkälle toistensa kaltaisia todellisuuksia voivat ovat sänkyyn sidotun sairaan ja vangin kokemukset? Luin Dietrich Bonhoefferin vankilakirjeitä pyörillä varustetun sairasvuoteen vieressä. Wienissä ollessani tutustuin Bonhoefferin elämäkertaan ja kiinnostuin hänen tarinastaan. Hän kuvailee tutkintavankeudessa tyhjän ajan kokemusta psalmin sanoin, ’Herra kuinka kauan?’ Kristitylle teologille aika on lineaarinen ja eskatologinen: maallinen aika päättyy. Uskova odottaa nykyisen maailman päättymistä ja uuden, onnellisen maailman syntymistä. Mutta aivan kuten varhaiset kristityt, jotka odottivat Kristuksen valtakunnan tulemista tähän maailmaan, Bonhoeffer odottaa turhaan vapautumistaan. Hän koettaa älyllisten pohdintojen avulla pysyä henkisesti koossa ja laatia tutkielmaa ajan elämyksestä, mutta tutkielma murenee hänen käsiinsä. Teologi kieltäytyy kerta toisensa jälkeen asettamasta näköpiiriinsä minkäänlaisia aikamääriä. Hänen kohdallaan tilapäisyys kovertuu hahmottomaksi tyhjyydeksi. Eikö hän todellakaan hiertänyt itseään verille sellin seiniin kuin vangittu häkkikarhu; niin pitkällekö mielentyyneys kestää?

Läheiseni ’tutkintavankeus’ ei pääty tässä maailmassa.  Eikä hän pysty vetäytymään älyllisten ajatusharjoitusten pariin, jotka saisivat vankilan seinät hetkittäin unohtumaan ympärillä. Hän näytti minulle pienen kaulakellonsa, jonka sisällä rattaat olivat pysähtyneet kokonaan. Nuo pysähtyneet kellonrattaat ovat hänen polkupyöränsä. Lähtisipä kello joskus uudelleen käyntiin ja vapauttaisi ajan. Koneisto alkaisi tikittää ja kellonrattaat hyrräisivät, pieni polkupyörä ampaisee matkaan. Tuo ennen niin tyhjäksi kovertunut aika olisi aivan lennossa polkupyörän ohjaimissa, täyttä preesensiä suonissa.

I have just slipped a letter into the envelope. I bring my hand over the envelope, letting my palm rest on it for a moment, and then, with my four fingers brought together, I slide my hand slowly over the envelope. By pressing the flap gently I seal it. But just as I was doing this I experienced a mild shock of recognition. I felt that the movement of my hand had suddenly become impregnated with meanings which are only partly identified. It had transformed into ritualized gesture, something that has connections to a wider frame of reference than my private sphere of life. Rituals and socially constructed practices are  performed in the presence of a community, but, I don’t have such community around me now. Here I am on my own with my sealed envelope, the very symbol of my privacy, because it protects my letter from the eyes of the outsiders. And yet, this gesture is reminiscent of something else that I know of.

I can identify the act of sealing a letter with the endless chain of gestures which have been repeated through the ages in different cultures across the world: the closing of the eyes of a child which is about to fall asleep, the closing of the eyes of a person who has just passed away. It was precisely the smooth movement of my hand through which I felt connected to the wider horizon of human behavior: that of soothing someone, of sending someone asleep, of saying goodbye.

What will the future be like? Are there still letters that people send to each others? If not, it will not be possible to seal them and experience rare moments of recognition and revelation of the things you would not otherwise have had even thought of. It is not just that some objects fall out of everyday use; there are plenty of immaterial things that disappear too: bodily practises, gestures, movements, and all the emotions and meanings, private and socially shared, that are connected with these practises.

When I’m dreaming, I am alone in my fantasyworld. As I wake up, I feel that I am like a light bulb without light, just fragile, trembling threads. Waking up means that I’m switched off… and all the light in the universe is not in me, but outside my own existence.

Dreaming is not a social activity, something to be shared with others. Only if you are telling about your dreams to someone then you can share parts of your dreams with others. But what would a shared dreamworld be like? For instance, I could send out my dream down there to meet your dream, and perhaps our dreams would have a good time together.

But where do the dreams of the dead people go? No home, no one to belong to,

a flock of birds

wheels in the air, above a lake,

mute and restless, without direction,

no place to go

like a ray of light

that got lost

in a windowless room, a flickering

clip of a film in the dark.

Ihmiset ovat peilejä toisilleen, näkevät toisen katseessa itsensä, uskovat jakavansa saman  todellisuuden ja kokoavat olemassaolonsa rakennusaineet siitä lohduttavasta tunteesta, että läheinen – perheenjäsen, puoliso, vanha ystävä – tuntee minut yhtä hyvin kuin minä itse.

Outo tunne, kuin jokin ulottuvuus minusta olisi lakannut olemasta, kun sain selville, ettei  läheinen kyennyt osoittamaan minua ryhmäkuvasta, muiden ihmisten joukosta. Hän osui lopulta oikeaan tunnistamalla vaatteeni, mutta kasvojani hän ei pystynyt tunnistamaan. Kävi ilmi, että hänen näkönsä on huono, ollut heikko jo vuosien ajan. Selvisi, ettei hän ole kymmeneen, viiteentoista vuoteen erottanut kasvonpiirteitäni, ei ilmeitä eikä ollut katsonut minua silmiin, koska ei ollut nähnyt niitä. Kasvoni ovat olleet hänelle hiusten kehystämä sumuhattara.

Kaikkein kummallisinta oli, ettei se häirinnyt häntä lainkaan. Mielle äänen soinnista, hiuksista ja vaatetuksesta oli kylliksi ja pelkkä luonnosmainen vaikutelma toisen äänestä ja läheisyydestä riittää yhdyssiteeksi? Näinkö pinnallista on kanssakäyminen kaikista tutuimmankin ihmisen kanssa, vai onko niin, että yhteys on niin luja, niin sisäsyntyinen, ettei se edellytä ulkoisia tunnusmerkkejä?

Wearing a seatbelt that keeps me firmly in position, I press my face against the cabin window, a small opening, a hole no larger than a pinhead. I look at the beautiful universe beneath me; my thoughts and spirit bound as tightly as my body is squeezed into the cramped cabin. Travelling at higher altitudes than any mountain can ever rise up to, I’m never as free as a parachutist who is falling down through the infinity of air around her, through the blue void. During the fall, one is acutely aware of her body, the arms and legs spread out as if embracing the totality of existence – or the imminent death. But then something happens. The faller and the cause of falling disappear, the possibility of death, space, time, the sense of falling, of the falling body and the world no longer exist. The physical world gives way to the unfathomable.