Uunin lämpötila

Tämä on lyhyt ajatus, joka minun on yksinkertaisesti pakko jakaa.

Kun minä olin lapsi, uunivalmiissa pakkauksissa (pullat, ranskalaiset, valmispitsat) oli aina ohjelämpötilana 200 celsiusta. Tämä oli erityisen käytännöllistä, koska useimmissa kohtaamissani uuneissa 200 osuu vastareunalle lämpötilasäädintä 0:sta ja on näin ollen vääntöpalan toinen kärki: uunin sai kivasti päälle pimeässä.

Nykyään lähes kaikkien uunivalmiiden tuotteiden paisto-ohjeissa uunin lämpötila on 225. Milloin tämä muutos tapahtui, ja miksi?

Arkipäivän mystiikka lienee käynyt kotona istujalle liian kiintoisaksi. Yritin selvittää, mutten vielä ole löytänyt mitään vastausta. Kertokaa joku, jos tiedätte.

Musings

 I gave, in a previous post, an arbitrary number of how much I had written after I started writing every day. The numbers were a bit off: there was more of everything than I thought at first. A friend of mine asked me when everything I wrote would be viewable, and my initial answer was "never". I've always written more for myself (unless asked to write something) than for any sort of public. But I thought about my answer again a few times, and figured something. The thought went along these lines: "hey, I might as well show what I've written to someone, because what's the point if no one ever sees any of what I write." I don't much care for showing stuff I've written to people, because in my opinion what you write tells a boatload of who and what you are, and I play my cards pretty close to my chest most of the time. But to hell with it, here's a little something. Mr. Fox, you can blame this on yourself.

This is more a musing than a short story, with nothing more than a character in a still picture. Make of it what you will.

Writer

He sits in his chair, leaning his head on his hand. The chair, like everything in the room, is rather cluttered: he cleans when it occurs to him to do so, but might just as often simply leave everything lying where it is for ease of access later.

He's not what you'd consider attractive, but he's not ugly either. His body is lean, and when he moves he brings to mind a bow, halfway pulled, or perhaps a bit-too-tight string on a guitar or a bass. He has a tousled head of hair that never quite settles acceptably, leaving him with a constant somewhat bemused look, as if he'd just got out of bed. His face is memorable, but the edges seem a bit too sharp, the hollows a bit too deep, as if he's a rough of a sculptor rather than a ready-made piece.

He lifts his eyes now, up from the paper he's been staring at. Around him and the paper, scattered on the tabletop are bottles of ink, slipshodly capped, a few half-burned candles, a leather-bound book and some more papers, others with somethink inked on them, others seemingly white. Next to the paper in front of him is an inkstand, with a bottle of dark blue ink and a quill. The quill is a work of art: beautifully sculpted, reddish wood with details and flourishes all along the grip, with an embellished metalpiece at the end.

He doesn't seem to be looking anywhere: his eyes flick from the halfway opened window to the edge of the cealing, the closed door, the piles of clothes and books on the floor and finally seem to settle on some point in mid-distance. He stares into space for a few moments, then closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. He sighs, rubs his face with both of his hands, sighs again and grabs the quill. He unstoppers the ink bottle in the stand, lowers the quill to the brim of the bottle, then hesitates. He holds his pose for almost fifteen seconds, then sighs once more, shakes his head and places the quill on the stand. He stoppers the bottle again, gently pushes his chair back and unfolds himself.

He's a tall man, and "rise" would be the wrong word to describe the way he unseats or rises from the floor. He stands up quite like a marionette when its strings are pulled, unfolding almost on spot. The way he looks around after getting up gives a feeling of constant worry that he might, without intent, hit something or somebody. The same care is given to his movement, with his eyes always travelling a few feet infront of him, checking everything and everyone so as not to cause commotion. Of course, from time to time he will slip into deep thought, and his eyes will stop watching his path. At those times, he will retreat into hisself and, unconscientously, bump into people and objects, mutter an apology and carry on: rather like a sleepwalker among waking men.

Tuoksuista

Tajusin, että tämä teksti kaipaa seurakseen kuvia, joten sen julkaisu viivästyy, kunnes LightRoomini toimii jälleen. Jutun kuvat liittyvät tai eivät liity annettuihin aiheisiin. Tämä on myös ensimmäinen suomeksi julkaistu teksti aikoihin. Tiedä häntä (tiedä pää) miksi. Mielestäni tekstit pitää kirjoittaa sillä kielellä, jolla ne tulevat päähän. Käännöstyö johtaa aina lopulliseen tuotteeseen, joka eroaa alkuperäisestä: sanojen merkityksiä ei yksinkertaisesti voi kantaa kielestä toiseen. Hyvänä esimerkkinä tästä on saksan adverbi darauf (dauf), jota käytetään preposition ja pronominin sijaan. Merkityksen käännössä lähelle pääsee englannin after, mutta sillä ei voi viestittää daraufin "sen lisäksi, siitä huolimatta" merkitystä samalla tavalla. Tämä ei kuitenkaan liity tämänpäiväiseen aiheeseemme.

Tuoksut. Tuoksut ja hajut tuovat mieleen muistoja ja ovat maailman hahmottamisen kannalta oleellinen osa. Niihin tulee kuitenkin harvoin kiinnitettyä todella huomiota. Kaikki tietävät, miltä vastaleikattu nurmikko tuoksuu. Mutta miltä tuoksuu nurmikko, kun sitä ei ole leikattu? Miltä tuoksuu sade, tai ukkonen?

Avasin maanantai-iltana pystyvaatekaappini nostaakseni pesussa olleet kauluspaidat takaisin kaappiin. Kaappi tuoksui vanhoilta nahkakengiltä. Tuoksu ei ollut vanhojen, hikisten tennareiden aroma tai kenkäkaupan uudenkarheiden nahkakenkien odeur, vaan nimenomaan vanhoille nahkakengille uniikki tuoksu: yhdistelmä kulunutta nahkaa, useita kerroksia kenkälankkia ja jotain muuta. Tuoksusta tulee minulle mieleen isoisäni, joka on sinänsä loogista: ovathan kyseessä isoisäni vanhat kengät. Meidän jalkamme sattuvat olemaan täysin samaa lestiä, ja pelkkä pohjallisten vaihto siunasi käyttööni mukavimmat juhlakengät koskaan.

Meillä oli toisessa lapsuudenkodissani - talossa, jossa asuin kunnes muutin omilleni - puulämmitys: jumalattoman suurella vesipannulla varustettu päältäladattava polttouuni, joka veti muutaman täyden banaanilaatikollisen polttopuita kerralla. Olen useammin kuin kerran saanut kuulla haisevani savulta seuraavana päivänä, vaikka en olisi edes käynyt pannuhuoneessa. Savun haju on minulle kotoisa, jopa mukava tuoksu, ja tunnistan jopa joitain puulajeja niiden savun tuoksusta. Kun monelle savun haju on pistävä ja epämiellyttävä, minulle se tuo mieleen vanhan kotitalon ja fyysisen työn (polttopuut eivät ikävä kyllä siirtyneet uuniin itsestään, tai edes muuttuneet kokonaisista puista polttopuiksi ilman moottorisahan ja kirveen avustusta). Minä nautin savun hajusta, tai kenties oikeammin affektionaalisesti savun tuoksusta.

Entä kerrostalojen varastot ja pyöränkumien haju? Erityisesti ulkoiluväline- ja pyörävarastossa tämä on lähes aina huomattavissa. Kylmäkellarien kostea tuoksu? Kuuma asfaltti? Vanha, halvalle paperille painettu kirja? Veden tuoksu? Veden tuoksu tuo minulle aina mieleen kalastamisen, sillä joskus todella pienenä assosioin tuoksun ongittuihin ahveniin ja särkiin.

Ihmiset leimautuvat tuoksuihin erityisesti nuorena kohdatessaan tuoksuja ensimmäistä kertaa, ja näin tuoksut tuovat usein mieleen lapsuusmuistoja. Minä nautin tuoksuista, joskin makuni on hieman omintakeinen - esimerkiksi vanhoine nahkakenkineen.

Procrastination

I've always felt that it's quite unfair, the way writing works or doesn't work, atleast for me. There might be a week, or two weeks, that I simply have so much ideas, so much energy that it spills out and texts form almost without me. But then, just as easily, I might have weeks or even months with no inspiration, no feel for writing. After I started with my "write something everyday" system, I've written something almost every day. So far, I have forgotten to write anything on six different days in about four months. It's not a clean bill, but it is pretty close. The fact still remains, that my inspiration is both sporadic and clearly lacking.

"Hello, my name is Teppo, and I'm a procrastinator." (or is it procrastinationist? Be that as it may...)

In these four months I've written eleven complete short stories and almost a hundred poems or a sort of distillated thoughts. Not bad, right? I have also, however, started over two dozen (probably even three dozen or more, I didn't actually count them) of short stories and such, and have yet to return to any of them. The last month, especially, has been a slacky period for me. It's not that I don't write: it's that I don't write anything for real. Of course, since all I write is top drawer stuff anyway, I'm not sure how well "for real" applies. But the fact remains, I've written very little this past four weeks: one finished story, and one half-arsed start of a story. Everything else has been dabbling: a paragraph or two, a one-verse poem... Procrastinating is easy.

Take this blog: when I started I thought I'd write maybe once or twice a week. I still think I should write once or twice a week. But nothing's ever been easier than looking at the clock at half past ten in the evening and going "oh, it's that late. I'll do it tomorrow." Sure, you will. We've seen that already, haven't we? I've even saved some beginnings of blog posts into the drafts here, to finish them later. The oldest of those were saved a month ago.

I know only one definite cure to writer's block, procrastination or whatever you may wish to call it: pick up a pen or whip out the keyboard and write. I think it's the only one, really. Why is it so hard, then? Partially, I know, it's because I feel I have nothing to say. Last night, I was standing on the balcony, watching it pour, I mean really pour outside, like it was raining for a weeks worth, and I was thinking "this is really pretty in a melancholic way, I wish I could put this down on paper or something." And then I got stuck on the "how". How can I convey what it is to actually have the dark blue of midsummer nights edged by a real downpour: to see streetlights carve little white bubbles in the dampened midnight blue, the drops pattering on the asphalt and grass and rooftops and metal grilles and leaves, the total void of human and animal life out there in my absolute viscinity... I simply had no way of putting it all down, and I gave up and figured I'd just go to bed. Because procrastination is that easy. It's not like I didn't put down the major points of the effect just there.

I suppose I'd need more of a taskmaster than a gentle muse. Someone to really whip me to write. Looks like I have been able to whip myself only halfway so far.

Creating art

There's a question I ask myself about atleast once a day. How to be better at writing? It often changes by topic to "how to take better pictures" or "how to draw better" or something else entirely. The heart of the question remains, however. How can I make my art better? How can I make my art resemble me, the world or the people and things around me more?

I'm gonna line up with the medium I currently use the most, what with the self-enforced everyday-clause. So, how to be better at writing? There's a simple six-step plan that I've found works pretty damn well: read, read, read. write, write, write. This little plan can be fanned out to cover all the arts: you get better at something by doing it. You can study the human physique for ages and ages again, but only by drawing people will you learn the curvature of the lines: the sharp and soft places and the gentle shadowing. You can read on photography techniques, exposures and shutter values but you'll never learn what they mean on film before you take hundreds of pictures. You can read every cookbook and food blog out there, but you'll only really learn how to cook by, well, cooking. And yes, I'm implying that food is art. It is.

This technique has a flaw, however: everyone is blind to their own mistakes. This notion hit me in the face exeptionally hard when I read the feedback a friend of mine gave on my bachelor's thesis: she had noted stuff that was plain stupid, unexplained or fuzzy on the edges that I had simply skimmed over as "ok". Things you might think are new and awesome might just be old and foolish and make no sense to anyone else. While writing, you will make mistakes and you won't notice them all yourself. This is why we have proofreading. This goes for all the other arts as well. There will be mistakes, and you should have someone that is prepared to point them out.

Then there's of course a few things you should simply know before you start creating: things they might not tell you but that are out there to see. Checkov's rule. Likable characters (or totally unlikable characters. Something to rope the readers in, anyway). Hook at the start. Finish what you start. Grammar. There's a lot of stuff that should happen in a text for it to be really, really good. Not all these rules are meant to be followed blindly, and actually arbitrary pedantry will swamp you down and stop you from ever reaching your full potential. Complete overlooking of all the rules will probably make what you write utter crap as well, though, so it's a fine line you need to walk.

I'm no genius with any of my arts, and might probably never be. But I strive to be better, and to enbetter those around me if possible. Art is a channel to the soul (or whatever cognitive center of non-linear thought and emotion you wish to believe in) and should be couraged. Do what you're good at, and make it an art. And try not to be an ass about it. I promise I will try.

Winter, part two

As those of you who are more familiar with what I photograph and why will already know, I have something I love to document more than anything else: light. What light does to the human eye, and what it does to a photograph, is unique. I try to capture this in the pictures I take. The second part of the pictures of winter past shall be mostly devoted to, therefore, light, in it's different forms. Welcome to the frozen north.

The winter was, beyond all doubt, cold. With coldness comes ice, and we did have some pretty nifty icicles during the late winter.

I adore the deep, azure blue of the sky that comes with spring days. It's a color I simply like, for some reason.

On cloudy nights, the hazardous yellow of street lamps colors everything. The snow reflects it up, the clouds reflect it down, and it gets stuck into the mist and fog inbetween. In it's own way, it's rather beautiful.

Sun plays tricks with the eye, and with the lense. It's a fascination of mine, somewhat, to see what shows and what doesn't when the sharp contrasts turn everything black-and-white.

Mostly, when people connotate beautiful and weather, they think of a sunny weather. But it doesn't always need to be. Personally, I find beauty in storms. The camera takes badly to those, though.

The winter is well gone, though we did get a batch of snow on Labor Day. Really dark nights are some months away still, so I'll leave you with a memory of some. The winter is remembered, and so it is time to move on. Have a nice summer and spring!

Winter, part one

Well, the spring is very much officially here, so its time to look back at the winter past. Let's take a stroll down memory lane and see what it had to offer, shan't we?

  

Winter was a bit long in the making: the brown and dreary autumn seemed to drag on for what seemed like a small eternity.

There had been snow, alright: but it always pooled, and turned to slush, and was gone. Then, one day, the world seized to be grey, and turned white.

 

 

The world had, overnight, turned white to stay. It was winter. And the next thing we knew, it was the end of December. I even got a glimpse of some aurora borealis in the making.

 

From there, it was a quick hop forwards to the turn of another year.

The nights did get dark, though.

-- but the days were quite bright, in comparison.

 

We'll carry on from here next time around. Remember the winter fondly, for it will be a while until another one. Dream cold dreams!