They, a recovering survivalist with limited means, halted at the border control and tasked to polish their gems for an inspection. Being smart about it they had already disposed, or digested rather the stolen ones before entry and yielded only proper fossils on their wrists. There might have been some crumbs left from the stolen ones but not enough to reveal whose they were. Fake skin bubbles in metal crusts passed by at astonishing speeds, so the border controller had shout to be heard. Not that it mattered, they knew the questions and how to answer, or deliver rather and begun the recitation.

– “All stones are of the same age”. They started.
– “All stones are of the same age, to you” the inspector replied and the noise prevent them to be heard.
– “Back way back when, when folk still dusted cow brain peels with silver and children sat in silence watching light trough them. A promise was made that a figure would appear which would lead us to a glorious death. I’m a bearer of the peels and the glues.” They handed in their documents and took a step back.
– “I’m a bearer of the peels and the glues, to you” the inspector murmured and performed the stamps.

Both were pleased that the ceremony was easy and so they continued to the line, waited for their shovel and headed to the antibiotic hills. The work was hard, as expected and shovelling took its toll. They proceeded trough the rubble and junk, passing layers of old newspapers but were wise enough not to waste time reading any. Remembering what Outi Heiskanen had told them, that text is not supposed to be read. It is meant to line the edges of the pit, so that it does not cave in.

A gem, which one night returned to them by means of interior circulation, reminded them of a happy summer night. After a glass of wine Heiskanen had asked out loud “Eero, how do you build a house?”. They remembered replying something, knowing it was irrelevant as Heiskanen knew the only answer: “You start digging… In a day or two a man comes by and they will tell you that you are not doing it right. Then quickly, challenge them, hand the shovel. Go to lunch and wait for the house to be completed. Here have a look“.

They had studied the material but doubted that they were building a house now. If they were, the shape of the construction was such that nothing imaginable could survive in it. They were not responsible for the remains they were leaving behind. They were here for the antibiotics and nothing else. The medicine was to be found in the droppings of privileged pets of the past. The beasts that had been medicated by high tier professionals of glory days. If the blue rim, surrounding the pile were to be scraped off successfully and digested, it could heal them. They were after a motherload.

In the pit of an inverted skyscraper, lined with white sheets. They kept on digging as if they had understood Heiskanen right, it would get better soon.


If I were an unpublishable text I would feel as irrelevant as I feel thinking myself as a god.

I once took part in a communion at a church next to the rail-tracks. The priest, who was one of the first female priests in Helsinki offered us white cookies and wine. I thought it went well, felt serious and fancy. Everyone was silent. As we were walking back to school, Eeva looked me at awe and asked where I got the courage to act as I did. I didn’t understand what she was speaking about but took it as a compliment. It turned out I wasn’t supposed to pick the cookies from the priest plate myself nor to pour my own wine. I was supposed to wait for the offering. My ignorance was interpreted as arrogance and lovingly believed to be a critique. There was some unspoken shame in not knowing how to behave. I believe I was helping myself so that the priest would not feel embarrassed serving me.

Later on in life, this moment gave me some strength in believing I was closer to a pagan than a christian. And yes, I know most christians cherish this believe.

Right now, learning writing feels like praying. A supervisor, peaking amongst a grid of faces, has tasked me to recite prayers for a rational I don’t believe in. The rational I’m tasked to summon is wrapped in a veil of feels. It always is. I’ve performed these rites many times. Bowing, nodding silently, pounding the keys. I’m a good servant, I consider myself clergy even. Obedience should feel comfortable. Thinking optimistically, the irritation I feel is a result of me being confronted with the hollowness of the tone I use. But I’m bored calling for a sense or logic to appear in my own noise. Today inventing stuff makes me feel lonely.

Tomorrow I only want to read the english of non-native speakers. The rest of the lot are cheats. The clergy is not needed now. They need folk at the stables, shovelling wet hey. Why am I so provoked by this all now? Its guilt. Must be. I should be earning money but my hands are tied.

I’m dying to tell you that I have been tasked to write about my mothers dog. It stays with us when she is in treatments. To pray for the beast, can you imagine!

I hate the dog sometimes. I like that the kids like it. It looks at me lovingly and when it pleases me, I look at it that way too. I shout at it to be silent and yank its leach when it goes the wrong way. I have hurt it too. It’s my mothers dog, so it barks at strangers and I don’t know what to do with it. If it were mine it would know better: Wait for them to get close, then bite.

We’ve developed clever routines. When it’s dark enough I open the front door and it rushes to a forest for it’s business. It stays there longer then I want to and goes so deep into the bush that I don’t see it. The only reason I don’t shout after it, is because the site is public and I want to appear cool. Neighbours in the block see us at times. They know I let the a dog out without a leach. “Introducing Berlin dog culture to Käpylä” I say jokingly. Ashamed of being caught but sincere as well.

Sometimes, when it gets darker still I take it for a long walk around the district without a leech. I wouldn’t dear taking an animal I love so close to busy streets uncontrolled. The hate I feel for it offers it liberties I don’t see other dogs having.

There aren’t many things I can confess hating. But hating an animal is accepted because it is a token of a relationship. The dog takes in my hate and uses it to venture deeper into the woods. Eventually it will leave me and I’ll feel free.


I’m the key and the lock. I can barely breath as the walls are caving in and I must act fast to open myself. I’m told I’m only one who can find a path but I’m only allowed to move my fingers and have to squint my eyes so that nobody sees what I’m really looking at. I’m looking for a way out, so you know.

But I’m kept firmly behind horizontal bars of organised letters and confronted only by people who know more than I do about what I’m doing. Allowing oneself to be taught, calls for a strong trust to someone who you don’t know. Teaching is about teaching others to trust an unknown.

The bars in front of me tell me that nothing makes sense makes sense. The aim is that people write their own story out of it and discover themselves. Noise is here for us to situate ourselves as ourselves, so that we don’t confuse ourselves to be a choir. But the more situated I become, the more I only hear me.

I keep oriented by remembering that the first thing ever written was a job application. It didn’t include a CV because there hadn’t been any careers yet. I don’t know what the job was. Possibly a middle-management task, like counting stuff. More people were hired as the company expanded, which is how literature was born.

It took a while but eventually literature became very sophisticated and today most of us write receipts. I write receipts because I don’t understand what people are saying. I write it down to figure it out. It’s material, sums and tokens.

Today I got triggered by a tw. It made me feel white, male and privileged. The warning was about what white men in power do. I’m such but something else too. I must be something else then a receipt of my genes.

Later on, a person in a group I work for invited us to confront the patriarchal structures of language. They of course are not talking to me but I feel responsible somehow. So, I intentionally speak less than others only to not come off as dominant. But I fear my silence is speaking too much. Where can we go from here?

Honestly, I don’t really work in the group but my presence is needed for work to exist.


Continuing with kettlebells. Working to develop grip and core strength which will prepare me for the physical ordeals of p3rm46r4ff171. Sourced a Lomatex outdoor outfit (Kaamanen Folk-suit desing). The company has an interesting history. A workout for making public artwork is based on a Turkish Get-Up routine (I think the move is an adaptation of routines performed with Persian sangs). Get-Ups are complemented with a rotating set which includes:

  • One Hand Swings
  • Standing Side Presses
  • Forearm Flips
  • Bottoms Up Cleans
  • Snatches (eventually with Bottoms Up)

Digging Robocop Remake – Scene 27 (2014) Fatal Farm. Dick shooting cyborgs to the rescue! Makes an odd fit with the new Can’t Get You Out of My Head (2021) Adam Curtis series. I like the way Curtis links the phases of the Chinese Cultural Revolution with the waves of restlessness which emerged in Europe and USA at the same time. I also enjoy the criticism of managerialism and the consequent interpretation of computers as engines of managerialism. All algorithms, no matter their purpose or whether we understand their workings, are mere servants to managerial ideologies. No matter what, computers obey a logic and this will always make them servants to causal worldviews.


Conservatives are concerned that handwriting its getting worse, when in actuality we are witnessing it being liberated from the shackles of past institutions. Handwriting is revealed as asemic blur, an expression of interior tremors and the body. Eventually we will witness handwriting detaching itself from words  all together. The more we write with computers the more liberated our handwriting is becoming. #ॐ My mother participated in a computer course in the nineties but she refused to learn graphical design with the machines: “What’s the point? My handwriting is good!”, she argued.

The upcoming Performing the Fringe – Vaeltelua laitamilla [Wandering in the Outskirts] exhibition is announced at the Pori Art Museum pages. Preparations for the show are progressing steadily.