Jarkko Lehmus Diary

"Usch, I say to you, Busse..."

Dearest pupumunu. I have been away for so long again. You already know where I've been, so I won't go through the whole trip. Instead I will give you dirty slices of twisted dreams, memories of extraordinarily beautiful smears on my retinas, stupid longing, the curious feelings of an outsider, the happiness of belonging, caged introspection, open-faced curiosity and cultural shocks-a-galore.

It is Thursday. I have been ill for a few days. I tried to go to work today, but being bored of sitting at home doesn't mean I am well enough to go to work. I caught a common cold at some point last week and tried to shake it off with various substances over the weekend. I even tried to fool it by taking it to on a convoluted party hop in Edinburgh just to see if I could exhaust it and leave it sleeping on someone else's couch, but the bastard just kept soldiering on. Boring and annoying little demon biting my ankle just when I was enjoying being back at work. I'll put a pillow on it's face when it's snoring it's rendition of the Moondance into my ear tonight...

Summer: cars, planes and trains... I step out on the Söderhamn station platform into the open arms of my mother and two of my cousins' wives (two separate cousins, two separate wives), get ushered into a banged-up rag-top Escort and whisked off to another cousin's place. She got married the day before. I was entertaining the masses in Dumfries on the big day, so I arrive late, drop my bags and the champagne presents and get sucked into a whirlwind of lost relatives, catching up, new beginnings, happy faces, big hugs, woolly socks and left over food. Four hours and it's all gone. It's near midnight. I'm lying in a hammock and the birds singing their lullabies are turning the day into a night, but the sun only hears about it a few hours later. It's far too busy painting the pines golden. The sauna is calling me to spark it up and the river wants to give me a big, wet kiss. Three days I spend wondering how good it can feel to be a part of a family. To feel the pull of the blood.

Many a midnight swim. ©

In Stockholm I go straight to prison without passing go. I turn up, the warden smiles at me, takes my money and gives me the key. I share a room with a cheeky Iron Maiden fan, a lonely german and a lost chinaman. I escape in the world of jazz, swedish sensibilities and stupidly pretty scandinavian women.

Start them young ... in a sensible manner. ©

The day after I hang a moment with Ambra from Bounce, and her daughter Aaliyah jabbering on in swedish, finnish, english and italian. Talk of the West End, new adventures to Broadway and all good thing to those who have worked hard. I'm glad to see them again. Glad the crew is going places after being starts reflecting off the surface of a small pond. We say our goodbyes and I head for to rekindle memories of cabin fever, sick-smelling mornings dodging screaming children in a bunny suit and quiet drinks watching the sun play hide and seek below the horizon. The wonderful world of cruise ferries between Stockholm and Helsinki. Poor brazilian acrobats. I've lived your life and I don't miss it one alcoholic iota.

I hit Helsinki fully loaded with cheap booze, beer and cigars. The customs ignore me, the happy famillies tut and by the end of the night the load is much lighter already. Nothing beats beer, bullshit, dead templars and Bush Yoga with a good friend. The weekend is dedicated to geriatrics pushing combined 80, naked guerillas, bad band action, even worse karaoke and ear-destroying chipmunks all running on a heavy load of ethanol and gold flakes.

One part of 80. ©

The flipside of the coin. ©

We never made it to the whisky distillery and the route to the Savonlinna castle and the opera festival were blocked by a picket line of bars peddling evil polish poison. Some things never go as sweetly as planned. They turn out far rougher and much more beautiful. Friends, sweet, messed-up friends...

Fried fish and corrective measures. ©

I was supposed to see my family in Finland, but they're all too far and my knees are too weak. Next summer I see you all with some quality time to spend. It's holiday and I refuse to rush. A few hours watching mum with her sisters in Sweden was as good as it gets, my brother on the phone and in his letter keep things deep, my other brother's sauna washes the dirt away and him and his family welcome the prodigal son. I even sent a message to my dad. Old tensions get lost in the quicksand of time and finally I'm learning to enjoy being part of this broken family. One day we'll even get to know each other.

I might still not feel at ease with my blood, but the ties and joys of friendships are there to be cherished. I'm rubbish at keeping in contact, and so is everybody else. We're even. My doors are always open and when the time is right the times are good. The finns. Crazy, rough and true. Can I ask any more?

Just the usual summer Sunday morning in the centre of Helsinki. ©

London. Sitting on the terrace of the Hilton looking at the lights of Canary Wharf after blasting through the town in my friend's Golf. Thai food, dirty jokes and chinese beer. One night goes like a flash, chews us up and spits us on the plane. I wake up in a sold paradise.

Long bajan nights, ganja smoking hustlers, achingly gorgeous women, shy sea turtles, tentative scuba tourists jumping with the sight of twirling snorkelers invading their fifteen meter deep safety, shooting ranges shot empty of ammo, silly submarines and pumping soca busses. Four days, one photo, speeding pot-head americans, alien social games of silent grinding in late night sweat pits and the strange taste of being just another tourist sucker. Since I don't know what to do with my heart I decide to leave a piece of it to the bajan bars. Maybe some fabulous animal will find it and bring it back to me.

Walking down the street without hitting the road furniture was nigh on impossible. ©

My kind of measures in this place. ©

LIAT makes sure we arrive in grenada after dark. No keys, tired and pissed off. The morning wipes it all away with the most amazing view straight from the doorstep. The sun, the beach, the lazy Sunday. Find the old acquaintances and forge them into friends. Be happy and even the little children laugh. Although that's because they find white boys dancing too funny to be true. The old ladies laugh too... The rest of the local crowd just look curiously at the strange cultural excursionists. The Spice Mas is gathering momentum, the rough-arsed peasants from the valley are hitting the town busting their messy pupumunu moves, painted bodies slamming into each other and the black jab jab dragging the unaware away in their chains. Tired people passing out on the sides of the road while the music is still pumping at seven in the Monday morning... Time to go home and contemplate on my northern sensibilities.

A view from the front door. Life could have been worse at that very moment. ©

An underwater writer's block. ©

A salute thee, oh submariner. ©

A spotted eagle ray minding it's own business. ©

One happy white boy. ©

Being a white boy on a small Caribbean island. Nothing works like it does at home and I don't really want it to. Throw yourself into the crowd and grind against anything that moves and maybe one of the movers and shakers finds the right groove, but at the same time I'm painfully aware how much of an outsider I am and I have far too much respect for the locals to just indulge in their ways and grab at any of the passing bodies. It is all a great spectacle with an equally spectacular hang over. I burned out my appetite for pure carnivorous rage in Bangkok and Havana. It's all a bit old hat. Nowadays I ride on the waves of emotional connections and tidal waves physical frustrations. A riptide of lust, jadedness, sensibility, madness and detachedness. A curious vision trip into my own psyche. I'll have to go and throw myself in some deep end soon again to explore the abyss of my murky soul. Being the way I'm used to is far too easy at home.

The kid fed us popcorn. There must have been something funny in it... ©

If the foreign lands spin me, Glasgow bites me. It bites like a rabid dog called Reality. The weather on Tuesday, the alarm clock on Wednesday. Where am I? Why is the alarm on? What day is it? What country? Who am I in here? Why? ... You're a sucker, you're in your big empty bed and it's time for you to drag your sorry arse to work! Shiiit...

I tried to outrun the reality into the madness of the Festival and the Fringe. It didn't work. I got ill and now work hurts even more. Twat, but a twat with funny memories and a smile that will keep me going and the others confused for months on end.

The Caribbean is where it's at. Need I say more? ©

Posted by Jarkko at August 29, 2008 12:01 AM