Metsalinnas - In the forest city

Taking moments. Music and pace-by-pace forward, along empty sidewalks and whooshing sidestreams. Alighting upon a chair, at a table, also empty, but nestled amid pockets of liveliness and solace alike. Re-learning to establish that space within a space. The rural within the urban. Forest in the midst of crowds, but one with its own broad and windswept seas breaking on männirannad (pine shores).

I see.

Edasi, вперёд...

Truth be told.

I really don't know what the hell to do. Let that be my opening statement. Let it resound. When all options carry a significant portion of difficulty, of complication and turbulence. At the same time – when did that stop me before? Before... The line between 'then' and 'now' has been drawn, lies elsewhere, has been crossed. Something needs to be done, that much is for sure. Uniting spaces thousands of miles apart – is that even possible? If happiness can skip between both, then there must be a way to accompany it, book a seat next to it. Not just to ride in on its coattails. I'm too connected here in Eesti without feeling a reciprocal beckoning, a draw, an anchor. There's the sea, but she doesn't raise a glass, make a joke that inspires a genuine laugh, give you a knowing glance, keep you on your toes in life and warm at night. Looking around and seeing just what I want – camaraderie, light-heartedness, daring, confidence in self and life... they're all the things I want, all the things I have had before and still hold – just not here.

Within eyesight, out of reach.

It's time for something to be done. I'm the one to do it.

Too often now, I'm searching in coffee mugs and bottles, with nothing to show but where I've ended up anyway. Just take a look at the shift in the tone, the language, the vibrance of the vibe in my posts; in my justifications.

Opening up... just a split second of thought, of realization, and it's done. Another open(ed) door.

That's all it takes.

...

I'm not ready to settle for the sake of settling.


(written on paper, on a rock with waves lapping up and an inquisitive seagull corroborating)

What I've always written –

Edasi, ahead, вперёд...

the dregs - jäägid

In a café, where everyone is speaking aloud, why is it so odd and discouraged for me to speak aloud myself?

Oh, that's right—because I'm alone at my table, save for my trusty white-framed, glowy screen buddy (not sure if it'd be over the line to call it a "bro"...no, it would), and the dregs of a pot of Earl Grey. That's why.

Got to love the lance-free freelancing lifestyle! Or else.

Buzz, buzz.

(tuesday - disdat - teisipäev - вторник)

Edasi, вперёд...

changes - muutused

How to reopen yourself in another culture once you have adapted yourself to its standard of immediate suspicion, narrow-eyedness, and withdrawal? This is a topic to be explored at greater length when a chunk of time wealthier in minutes and seconds and ticks and tocks presents itself for doing so... not just semi-procrastination in the face of woebegone word-processing woes.

There was an interesting article/post/eloquent rant that I stumbled upon recently, which expounded on the loneliness and elusive identity of being bi- or multi-cultural. I fully agree with the, in my opinion, fact that language and culture cannot be separated. History, land, language, customs, attitudes... all interlaced and interlocked, pumped up like fresh kicks. Hence, "mastering" a language and conveying it in the most coherent form possible means taking on and actively engaging a massive range of initially foreign elements. Over time and with fluency, these become ingrained; almost adopted. At the same time, not all of them mesh so well with your central character and nature. They can be respected and even mimicked for a while, but giving them a set of keys and "putting your bread in the same box" (as the Estonian saying goes)? Hells no. At some point, you reach the cusp that lies in the transition from ignoring to decision-making. Ironing out the kinks, while keeping it kinky. Super kinky. Linguistically speaking, of course. And otherwise. What?

It is this part of my Minnesotan-ness, which I now need to awaken in my Estonian-language "me". Minnesota nice, soft and non-encroaching friendliness, openness, a love for good craft beer. Well, I suppose the latter of those has been in practice all along. All the same, there comes a time, when you have to flout a number of one culture's demands and expectations in favor of what you feel is right in the bigger picture. I suppose it is the forging of that fused identity; a common and more whole expression of all you've been through and what you've taken from it. One, which adds value to all of your cultures, and stands as a more complete and unique example to others.

Here goes.

Edasi, вперёд...

Äärel / On the edge

It's as simple as that—a spot of peace and reflection. The kind that is endlessly pursued mentally, that is held revered as an, "oh, that would be fucking lovely-ness; one day, it will be possible, perhaps, I suppose...". Collection and calm, the conscious basking in the fact that it is collection and calm. More specifically (in this blog? hardly!): sitting on the windowsill (old buildings/Europe definitely gets an extra point for that—broad enough to be a very non-corporate-café "third place"...or is that place 1.5?...a perch or position, from which you can survey both the adjoining room (the room as a part of the window, not the other way around) and the greater outside), having woken up at leisure, not opened this glowing screen first-off and sunk into the murky depths of the nets of inter, and taken a book as a windowsill companion. Emphasizing the word companion as well—not in the nature of something, which demands your attention, towards which your focus must be directed under obligation or threat of conviction; but rather something, from which your direct concentration may wander from time to time, rising and flitting through the leafing greenery of mid-lehekuu (May), only to alight once more upon the non-offended words at will. On either side of the windowsill is even a different temperature, a different level of light. In any case, it's all within reach. Like throwing a frisbee more mid-distance (yes, that was an activity of yesterday and hence comes the somewhat odd comparison)—it needs a bit of extra force, a somewhat contradictory shove downwards to lift up and not careen sideways and into the face of a small passerby puppy or the greenish death-water of a 17th-century moat. Effort to achieve effortlessness. Thus the hesitation at such an approach, and ultimately not achieving either. 

Only to be followed by ska blasted at the highest volume a sticker-encrusted Mac can muster early on a pühapäev (Sunday). Why the hell not.

Edasi, вперёд...

Northern Star

Minnesnowta, hats off to thee.

What it is can barely be fathomed, but it's there. In the Minnesota/Wisconsin/Midwest all of that. Primary. On the molecular level. And in beer-chugging abilities.

I've realized (it's taken me how long?!) that I appreciate Eesti (Euroopa?) most when I view my surroundings through my Minnesotan gaze. Naturally. Naturally, right?

Edasi, вперёд..

Rrrarr (with emphasis)

I don't exactly write openly and addressing the grand population of those Internets on the topic of my personal life or feelings, or whatever they're called. To tell the truth (you're welcome), I'm still working actively on opening up more even to my friends in what concerns such emotional bonanzas (and my apologies – I've been working my way through all seasons of Deadwood recently, and thus, terms similar to "bonanza" and "cocksucker" might surface more frequently in my babblings). That said, take this as a rare largesse.

I'm angry. Feistily angry inside. And not only inside, I suppose, but also displayed through glares more genuine than the usual Northeast-European street expression, and a tightly-clenched jaw. It's injustice that causes the boiling. Injustice in many forms, on numerous levels, injustice both direct and witnessed.  The inability to be able to give a swift, decisive resolution to the many of them. Possibly the most egregious injustice of them all – an inability to set things right. When acceptance of this comes about is another question. I may be Pisces (kalad) nearly across the board, but my Moon (kuu) is in 0 degrees Scorpio. Whatever that means.

One thing does help – a resounding pirate's yarrrr. And the Miles Davis spiraling though the air at the café, where I type this, staring out across the expanse of consumer catalysm and escalating stairways. It'll have to suffice for now.

Bonanza.

Edasi, вперёд (the only way to go)...

In the woodwork.

It's quite a sight to see the gradual creep of Greater Europe into the oddity that is Eesti, regardless of the party accountable for the phenomenon's landing and clearance of customs. These thoughts just spiraling up and around while sipping a new Estonian craft beer (a topic I am sure that I will cover at greater length very, very soon, and under the influence of very, very many of them) while being the lone occupant of a new bar in full Scandinavian-interior-decorating glory, transplanted into the unlikely and titillating context of a former (semi-former?) Soviet industrial complex. Gray bricks, fresh snow and barren trees on the outside, lampshadeless hanging retro bulbs and birch floors on the inside. Seeing as how Estonians claim (rightfully) their right to the fruits of Nordic lineage, the only truly surprising element is the question – how has it taken so long for Scandinavian design and delicious beers to take their own rightful throne here across the gulf from Suomi, and why have "outsiders" been the ultimate bearers of it?


Tradition, I suppose.

Good enough for me.

Edasi, вперёд..

Be as it may.

Walking past a lamppost, one
       shadow
            chases another
for a moment

(fall – sügis  – осень 2012)

What goes around..

You know what? A rare treat. That's what. And nothing else. So don't ask for anything else. Alright, you can ask. Go ahead. I'm waiting.

Fine. The treat – me writing on a subject that concerns day-to-day life in this ice-encrusted corner of the world called Eesti! Might even make it into a habit. I'll leave it open to supposition.. been a while since supposition has had a good airing-out, and best to keep everyone on their toes. Or heels. Not on their arches. I don't have any, and if that makes me racist, then so be it. Flat-footers will prevail.

Today – public transport. I suppose one of those multiple reasons that keeps to the shadows for why I vote for the majority of Europe over the US in terms of public services. I do admit that the only real brushes I've had with public transport in the States has been the wonder of mankind that is Metro Transit (far less shudderific than Chicago, and the nicest bus drivers in all of the world.. is that the spring of Minnesota Nice?), a small sampling of Chi-town's smelly/greasy/don't-want-to-think-about-what-I'm-touching-or-breathing-or-who's-been-touching-and-breathing-on-me, and a failure of a bus and train in NYC. Thus, I refrain from declaring myself an expert from the rooftops. Also, I don't have roof access in this café. The owner is nice, but it's also a four- or five-storey building, and I'd rather not leave my double stout alone. There is a play corner, I guess.. but I'm a jealous bastard, and don't want that stout making friends with anyone but my gullet. As I was saying.

Even though the Minnesota Nice is brimming in the Metro Transit system (and who can forget the UMN Campus Shuttle driver, who would blast jazz over the speakers and sing along?), bus' timing is horrible. Light rail as well. Especially given the frigid temperatures that grace our great Northern Star, even the sparser routes could run every ten minutes or so. And stops? Please, obesity supporters. A stop on every block is not in the Constitution. Nor should it ever be. Walking three, or even four blocks to the closest bus or light rail stop will not cause a spike in heart attacks. In anything, it will cause a spike in fit-ab attacks. Fabacks, if you will. And the whole system of letting in one person at a time from the front door... yes, money is guaranteed, but when you have a line of ten people or more wanting to enter through the same door, not even swiping a card over a sensor can be just to the other waiting passengers.

I made that mistake a few years back when traversing the city in order to make it to a friend's house, and from there on to the majestic wedding of the illustrious couple Shannon and Stuart Gates (which Thor even graced with tornado warnings and lightning), by expecting to get from South Minneapolis to past Como area in an hour and a half. Haha, the naïveness of a customer long forgotten in the ways of any buses not being the 16 or 3A/B coming from Stadium Village to Cedar Ave. I made it from Diamond Lake Rd. to downtown in an hour, and had to frantically cab it from there. Lesson learned.

Now, I'm not saying that Tallinn's transportation system is perfect, or anywhere close to that, or better than others of its kind in Europe. I do miss having bike racks on the front of buses in Minneapolis – that is a device more brilliant than locals can imagine. Here, I was even thrown off of a bus one time (i.e. the driver refused to leave the stop until I got off) because in midwinter, I tried bringing my bike, the frame of which was split in half and had been inside of my apartment and subject to my grieving for months, onto the said public transport vehicle. Bikes not allowed on buses, the explanation being officially that they could "dirty" the floor. I'm sure half of the residents of Kopli (only half – there are some fantastic folk on the end of the peninsula) do much worse.

On the other hand, however, it is hard to find a bus that does not run on at least 15-minute intervals. Oh, and there aren't only buses. We have trams. And trolleys. Trams run about every five minutes during the day, on two separate lines. Electric fuel over diesel.. that's a win. Not looking, of course, at the proportion of energy produced using oil shale in the country... but we do have our share of wind turbines. Secondly, all doors open when the given vehicle comes to a full and complete stop. Enter and exit as you please, just curse the faux cops that board every once in a while to check tickets and delay your trip. Even before now, where we have free public transport (an issue I'd best discuss in a different post entirely, given the political circumstances surrounding it..), a passenger was able to purchase a one-hour (or one-day) ticket on his or her mobile phone, which would validate in a two-minute period (another angry post should come on that topic later... first-world problems, regardless).

With the advent of said free public transport, however, I've developed an inner conflict. I want to use/misuse/whatever the system as much as possible. And I do, to a certain extent. However, I was just in the height of enjoying my lack of a need to use the functional transport system. Namely, I live a good eight-minute walk away from Vanalinn (the Old Town). It's winter and I've been strapped for hours and hours to my laptop daily (take this very minute, for example), so movement is a must. When it's not possible to strap on skates or skis for traversing the sidewalks, my 5-ton Swedish army bike takes me from point A to point farthest-western-point-of-the-country, or wherever else I'm headed. In short, public transport challenges my laziness.

I love the fact that this is an issue. It's something, towards which every functional urban city should strive.

Edasi, вперёд...

Literally literal

Working as a translator, words are at the absolute center (centre, if the customer desires the Queen's English) of my day-to-day-to-day-to-day life. The variable lodged in all of this concerns the medium of the given words. In my case, obviously, this is written. Oh fate, you fickle fragglerocker. I am literate (and damn proud of it), and my level of literacy has improved incredibly since becoming involved in the translation field. Thankfully.

That said (written)...

Well, point in case. All of my words, the massive imperial portion of them, are written, not spoken. This is odd for me, to put it lightly. Not simply unaccustomed, but focusing on the lesser side of my nature. True, it has resulted in self-improvement, in honing a less-developed skill, even in high self-satisfaction. And yet, it fails to fulfill the entirety of me. Spoken word, I've discovered, is of lofty and irreplaceable importance and cruciality for me. My career, which I love, is fundamentally different in its nature. Go figure. Love is a bitch – good call, whoever coined that one.. And Alanis, I think this is that irony you were searching for. You have my permission to use it in Bitter Pill Vol. 2.

And it pains me that the most accessible and convenient opportunity for conversing with the familyfriends dearest to me in MN and elsewhere is ultimately through writing as well. That the most accessible and convenient way to express myself is precisely what I am doing at this very moment – typing it out, casting it into the boundless netherworld of my age-old and somewhat dusty blog. Even with the fantastic possibilities bequeathed by Skype and Google for having that verbal and visual contact.. it's different from the face-to-face proximity, the verbal resonance through air waves and not sound waves or waves of other varying composition.

So that's my eloquent excuse for not updating this as often as I so much as would like to. It's the medium. And I just want to get a beer with you, Minneapolis. Grab a growler and sit by the river, talk of times and travels and translucent trapezoids with tantalizing THB trannies. Alright, that got a bit out of hand. But what else would you expect?

Edasi, вперёд..