Runoudesta

Halusin kirjoittaa tänään jotain, mutten saanut keksinyt mitään, mitä kirjoittaisin. Kirjoitin runoja, ja sain aikaiseksi kuusi riviä. Kaksi kolmen rivin sarjaa, jotka eivät liity toisiinsa. Viisitoista sanaa, joista joku pystyy jo löytämään merkityksiä, joita minä en niissä nähnyt, kun ne kirjoitin. Jos joku käyttää puheessa tai tekstissä sanaa tanssi, mieleen tulee välittömästi kuva, no, tanssista. Kenties joku miettii valssia, toinen yökerhoa, kolmas lavatansseja. Jos runon otsikko on tanssi, mitä siltä tulee odottaa? Joku varmasti jo tulkitsee, että tässä nyt konnotoidaan elämää, tai kenties kuolemaa. Entä jos runoilija vain halusi kirjoittaa runon tanssista?

Tulkinnan vapaus on hyvä asia, jota ei pidä tulkitsijalta kiistää. Jos runo tai muu kirjallinen teos saa ihmisen ajattelemaan ja kenties näkemään asioita uudelta kantilta, se on tehnyt enemmän kuin sille on arvotettu. Mutta entä jos tulkitsija on vaikkapa opettaja, jonka tulkinta vaikuttaa kymmenien ihmisten ajatuksiin tuosta runosta? Voidaanko kirjalliseen analyysiin koskaan ottaa näkökantaa, joka antaa oikeita vastauksia? Itse en haluaisi vahingossa syöttää oppilaille omia mielikuviani jostain runosta, kun en välttämättä ole itsekään oikeassa.

Kirjallisten teosten analyysi on varmasti hyödyllistä jäsennetyn ajattelun, intertekstuaalisuuden havainnoimisen ja kirjallisen taidon takia, mutta onko sen nykyisestä muodosta mitään hyötyä? Miten mielipidekysymykseen voi vastata "väärin"? Entä jos runoilija vain sieluuntui jostakin näkemästään tanssista ja halusi kirjoittaa näkemänsä sanoiksi, niin että joku muukin voisi nauttia siitä, mitä runoilija kerran näki?

Tähän lopuksi ne viisitoista sanaa, joista aiemmin mainitsin. Tulkitkaa, miten haluatte. Sopivat omasta mielestäni yllättävän hyvin yhteen, vaikkeivät toisiinsa liitykään.

Minun suonissani virtaa

vieläkin elämä

kovempaa kuin koskaan.

Ja minä makaan selälläni

lumihangessa

ja hengitän.

Finity

We're all going to die, all of us, what a circus! That alone should make us love each other but it doesn't. We are terrorized and flattened by trivialities, we are eaten up by nothing. 

The above quote is from a man called Charles Bukowski. Mr. Bukowski (born Heinrich Karl Bukowski) was a German-American writer. His works were wholly written in America, and in english (he only lived his first 3 years in Germany before moving to the States). Mostly a poet, he also wrote some hundreds of short stories and 6 novels. While Bukowski was an influental man and wrote some very interesting pieces indeed, it is these particular lines I have here that are of interest tonight.

What, in my opinion, Bukowski tried to say with these words is: you're going to die. So am I, and so is everyone you know. How about we focus on something that will actually be of some worth?

Death is inevitable, yet people spend a humongous amount of their lives poring over what will happen. I atleast used to, and still do some nights, when it's dark and silent and I can't really sleep. While all this is theoretically interesting - is there a god? is there an afterlife? will I be born again? what is my conscience without my physical body? - it gets us nowhere. What will happen is that we will die. Until then, why should it matter to how we live our lives? After that, well, we shall see, won't we?

As long as stories and human history has existed, stories of death have been around. Ghost stories are one of the oldest stories still passing down from generation to generation. By telling stories of what happen to the dead we take a peek beyond the veil, and wonder what may lie in wait for ourselves.

Stories are important: they are a way to put sense and order into a reality that often seems chaotic and without any meaning or grasp. I personally love telling, hearing and retelling tales of splendor: to have been born a lyre or a skald would have been a dream come true. Stories told out of fear or to instill it have a place as well: those dark nights around All Hallows Eve, sitting in a darkened, old house with creaky floors and rattling windows, goosebumps on your arms and shivers running down your spine as you wonder if the little girl that fell into the chimney actually appears on the roof, or if the carlights you saw while arriving belonged to a tardy neighbor or the four youngsters that veered off the road so many years ago - these are the places where fear serves a purpose. Fear of death simply because you will die one day is counterproductive: all it will do is hold you back.

How much more could you attain by not fearing the inevitable? All of us will die, and most of us won't be able to do a thing to stave it one way or another. None of us will know better until we take those first steps on the new adventure. Hell, it will be scary. It should be: it's a treck without a return to the infinitely unknown.

But how about not fearing that moment until you seize it, and then making the best of it? How about making the best of each moment until then by not living in it's shadow? How about living while you still have the time?

Storm

There was a snowstorm today, and I've been re-reading Sandman. My thanks to Neil Gaiman, forces of nature and popcorn, who inspired this little piece. It is, aptly, titled 'Storm'. It might have a few spelling errors and such, haven't proofread it yet. Probably won't, either.

I was sitting in the darkened common room, waiting for sleep to come. I could hear the gale howling outside, and my bones always ached on a storm. While sitting there I was mildly surprised to see Jenna, one of my sisters younglings, sneaking to the door. She was good at not being there, but I had years of practise on her. When she was at the door, pulling her cloak off the pegs, I called out from my corner.

"You might not want to go outside tonight, lass."

She startled at my voice, but collected herself quickly and turned around. "And why is that, uncle?" She couldn't see me, but she had recongnized me by voice or, perhaps, by smell. Her skills had always made me proud to be family.

"There's a storm out there, girl. And real storms have power. Power far beyond a human's grasp, far beyond anything we could aspire to. You don't want to be out on a storm like this, not without a good reason." I faded back into the world.

She set down her cape, and stalked to a long bench close to where I was sitting. "Uncle, I appreciate the concern. But this is not the old land. All the magic has long been worn out, and the storm is but snow and ice. Even the great beasts have stopped coming this far: every summer we prey them further and further west. The magic is gone, uncle, and the world is but what you see."

I leaned forward so that she could see my face in the dull light of the fire. "The magic is never gone, youngling." She scoffed at the term, but I let it slide. I was still over eight times her age. "Simply because the air doesn't sizzle around you and the gale doesn't carry you away on wings of rime and ice, you say the magic is gone? You have learned the lessons of old, girl, and can easily tell me who three hold the threads of mystery that even we don't pass without a second thought."

She frowned at this; I knew she had always hated the lessons, but she had learned them nevertheless. She was out for something else than recitation of old schoolings, but I could see she was interested in what I had to say. She chewed on her lower lip for a second, thinking, and answered. "There's her who takes us from this world, Death of all things, the kind lady with no name of her own. Eolus, the Master of Winds, who cares nothing for men as a blizzard doesn't care. And Morpheus, the King of Dreams, who holds sway over all that ever lay down to slumber."

I nodded my head to this. "Good. While it is true that magic doesn't dance in the fires like it used to, these three were thought to you and your siblings and cousins for a reason. Where is one always at the peak of ones power? Hmm?"

Her brow furrowed at this. I was sure no one had ever asked her this or taught it to her, but also equally sure she would figure the answer on her own. After a while, she looked at me and squinted, having reached a decicion. "At home, uncle. Where else would you be more powerful than your own realm?"

"Very good, Jenna. Indeed, it is from ones home that the power comes from. No why would this matter?"
"You mean the storm, uncle. But Eolus is as gone as the great beasts: even his priests and temples are all but gone from this land. It's only a storm out there."

I sighed at this. While sharp she was both stubborn and foolish. Much like me, a long time ago. "How many leagues can you run in a night, girl? Twenty? Now think if your passing was on the winds. How fast does a gale blow? Simply because Eolus has not been seen here for years does not mean he could not arrive with every storm. Who, of the three, is the most peaceful?"

"Death, uncle. She only comes for all of us once."

"No, child. For many of us, she comes many, many times. She is often hard to recognize, but she is far from the most peaceful. And she takes great pleasures in the dealings of the worlds. But she is not our subject tonight. The most peaceful of the three is her brother."

"King Morpheus?"

"Yes, lass. Morpheus only becons mortals in times of great need, and never visits without a reason. Of course, believing would be enough reason for him. He hardly ever leaves his domain, however, so to meet him you would have to go to him. If you are diligent, you might even enter his castle for a while or two. He's a benevolent host, when he remembers to be a host at all."

She was rocking back and forth, clearly restless. "What's he got to do with this, uncle? I'm not going back to bed because of your stories!"

"Yes, I thought you wouldn't. Listen, then, before you go. The dreams need you to believe in them to hold power over you, and Morpheus will never harm any who abide the rules of his domain. The storm, however, needs neither your belief nor acceptance. Eolus cares little for who gets caught in his gales and avalanches. It is never out of spite, but simply because of what he is. A storm is a storm, and needs nothing from you to blow through. It's magic will be there, wether you want it or not." I stood up to pat her on the shoulder. "Give my best to the young lad waiting out there. Run free and far, Jenna."

She looked up at me, only to see me fade again. "How did you know--" She looked at where I had been a second ago, then shrugged and walked to her cloak by the door. "Run free and far, uncle," she whispered into the room and slipped out.