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.