Thursday, November 30, 2006


I can't sleep. Strangely restless. Listening to VÄRTTINÄ.

The future is driving me mad. I am so fed up that I am such a dreamer. Dear and sweet naive lass, just grow up, realise, deal with everything! Yuck. Well, usually I try not to expect anything. In most cases I even expect the worst things to happen. Thus I am so happy when (or if) the things turn much better than expected. However, sometimes the worst really happens. And that hurts as Hell. Because it can be even worse as expected. So I am really trying not to expect anything, not to picture some wonderful future. I am also trying not to picture totally fucked-up future. It can be even worse; it can be also better, though. I am just trying to feel bare here-and-now as it is. Okay, at the very moment, this here-and-now is not pleasant.

The past too. Memories and all. What has happened together with what the fuck will happen. There are words I just cannot utter. Thoughts I am so afraid to reveal.

Distances. Great cold distance.
Time. Goddammned dreams.
My so dark side.
This sleepless night.

In one movie I have heard the following Japanese thought: When you go to war, do not expect neither victory nor defeat. Do not expect a thing.


When it comes to learning Finnish, one suddenly starts to feel a big urge. A lust for good dictionary. I have been lucky I have traveled to Finland soon after I have started to deal with the land's language. In Finland, actually in Turku, I was given a chance (and my friend's kind assistance) to buy very good Suomi-Englanti-Suomi, Finnish-English-Finnish dictionary. For very reasonable price of 25 €. Just imagine: similar one and only avaliable dictionary here in Ljubljana was something more than 100 €.

In my case, there is always English between Finnish and Slovenian. So one actually has to travel from Finnish first to English and then, finally, to Slovenian. And vice versa. Feels almost like changing airports when traveling to or from Finland. Okay, the textbooks and other material I use for learning are completely in Finnish. But every now and then I write stuff in English first, translating it to Finnish later. Well, in most cases I really try to think and write directly from that amount of Finnish I have gained so far. Despite those clumsy mistakes I make; they are just part of every learning. Or sometimes a resoult of lazyness. Errr...another story.

However, here comes the great news. So far, there was no Finnish-Slovenian-Finnish dictionary. Now it seems entering European Union has brought some beneffits to our linguistic field this autumn. The very first Finsko-Slovenski as well as Sloveeni-Suomi dictionary, sanakirja, slovar! Written by one young Finnish lady living in Slovenia. The dictionary itself is small, actually tiny. 12,10 €, 100 pages for Finnish-Slovenian and 100 for Slovenian-Finnish. Also there are words only; no examples of usage, no examples of the cases that the verbs require, no phrases and so on. Yet here it is, the very first one. Well, it would be even better if it would be possible to study Finnish within Slovenian universities too, right?

Sunday, November 26, 2006


Wanna know how I spend some Sunday evenings? There is a thing. I run radio show about theatre. Live. Thus meaning I sit in the studio and speak ''on air'' for half an hour once every month. Well, it is not like some big salary here; I do this show more for fun, to use my theatre-knowledge in sort of constructive way. Also, this is no serious job, I am not tied to it or anything. Yep, but I like to perform... there is some kind of special thrill and magic in this live acting. I also like to appear ''smart'' in public. Errr... however, after an amount of these shows, I now manage to enjoy all this.

Today it was the Sunday for my show. The radio was dark and almost abandoned; only a few people hanging around. Well, not actually hanging; you know what I mean. And one never knows, are those few people really sober or... slightly high on something, hehe... or just slightly bored of everything. Okay, to underline this oddity a bit here. When coming there, I was given a strange Japanese thingie, supposed to be a mushroom soup concentrate. Little shiny bags. With hiragana or katakana written allover it. Do I dare to try it, heh?

To the show now. Inspired with some past thoughts one can observe in previous comments of this blog, I have decided to tell the audience about ROBERT WILSON. This American theatre director was my great ''love'' during studies. Theatre of Images by all means. Yet not hermetical: understandable and funny. Critical. Also not shallow; at least those earlier works. By the way, photos here are featuring The Black Rider. Hei, the guy used to be pure avantgarde... nevertheless his later fame has thrown him into the glamorous pits of commercialization. Sadly. But as an occasional theatre historian, I just went nuts for this theatre. Even after some years my fascination is still present. Oh, Wilson is a cult. If one prefers precise visuality, profound visual structures with additional wit and really good music, I suggest to check out Robert Wilson. Suitable even for not-at-all-theatre-fans. Probably the best what has come to the world theatre from Texas. And there is also something I discovered on behalf of Wilson. Yes, he knows how to get the audience. With some great and well known musical names. To expose here PHILIP GLASS (Einstein on the Beach) and TOM WAITS (The Black Rider, Alice, Blood Money). The two I have chosen to play in my show.

So I ended today's radio job. Hell, I don't know how many people feels like listening blah-blah theatre stuff on Sunday evenings. That one dreamer features every now and then. Who cares anyway... I went out into so warm night (what the fuck, it should be snowing already), the streets were lonely (at half past eight, well, whatever), ghostly silence was floating in the air, some pale stars were twinkling between creepy clouds... and there was that Japanese mushroom soup rustling so strangely from the depths of my bag...

Saturday, November 25, 2006


Oh dragul meu me mistuie focul iubirii ... (In Romanian)

There is this affair going on in Slovenia for a month now. What to do with one Roma family, that has ended up in quarrels with locals of one village. The authorities are trying to move them into other communities, but it seems nobody would really tolerate this family. Well, they are Roma, the Gypsies. Even European Union has already paid attention to the case. Yep, we here respect all those great European nations; but when it comes to marginals, and Roma are perceived as marginals, then the level of tolerance changes rapidly. But I am not here to analyse the practicular problem; still I am writing in connection to it. Yesterday I saw a movie that touched me a lot. TRANSYLVANIA by Gypsy-Algerian-French director Tony Gatlif. Let me copy the plot here.

Zingarina arrives to Transylvania. She is not there to visit this region of Romania but to trace her lover Milan, a musician who has made her pregnant and who left her without a word. When she finds him back, he brutally rejects her and Zingarina is terribly upset. Her destiny changes when she meets Tchangalo, a traveling trader.

Transylvania. Just whisper this misterious name gently into the air. The whole Romania feels mystical to me, and not only because of Vlad Ţepeş DRACULA. However, the self-searching journey of Zingarina displays such magic of the land. ''Imagine everything you can; I've been through it,'' says Zingarina. She turns her pain into pure beauty; she slowly melts with Transylvania, forgetting her past, becoming a nomad. Pure life and passion. So different from everydays in the so called West. Transylvania becomes a world unknown to common European eyes. Romantic world. Hard and cruel world. Constant journey. But also the world where facing constant hate and intolerance...

The narration seems impressive. Full of feelings, yet not overdone. Magic reality, sometimes. Pure and honest. Such is the story of a Gypsy-like traveler. The story told through several languages. Also through powerful music and images. Oh, inspired with the legendary work of director EMIR KUSTURICA and musician GORAN BREGOVIĆ? Anyway, I think this movie too tells strongly how every different world bears unique beauty. Romantic or even naive thoughts, but still. Why are we so afraid of these differences, why are we rejecting this special culture, why do we not want to discover and understand it's beauty?

Oh, and now I am even more tempted to visit Romania one day too.

Sunday, November 19, 2006


There is this big annual Ljubljana International Film Festival LIFFe going on right now. So I spend quite a lot of time watching all sorts of movies these days. My escape from the shitty reality? In fact I have managed to pick up some movies that recall my own reality a lot more than I would like.

A cute incident occurred this weekend. Since I like to dramatise small and selfish events, I have to write on this one too. The new Kaurismäki's product Lights at the End of the City (Laitakaupungin valot) is about to be shown soon. I went to the LIFFe information desk, curious if director Aki Kaurismäki himself plans visiting Ljubljana. To tell the audience about his work and other interesting thingies. Like those fancy Marimekko bags.

Behind the desk sat an English speaking lady; obviously a foreign employee. ''Is Kaurismäki coming,'' I ask. ''No... but some of his actors, perhaps. Are you from Finland,'' the lady inquires with slightly strange enthusiasm. Huh, it happens again! In Helsinki I was mistaken for a Finn quite often, thus meaning conversations on the street and in the shops. People were asking me for the road and so on. In Finnish. There was also a guy trying to talk to me while Magyar Posse gig. In Finnish. Well, he was drunk pretty much. And yes, I had lots of fun pretending I really am a native; through the usage of language, of course. Oh, now I miss those streets, I would so travel up to Finland again. But in Helsinki and elsewhere in Finland these mistakes were natural. Can I distinct foreigners while walking around Ljubljana right away? Yet Icelanders seem to have special gifts. In Iceland they immediately knew I am a foreigner. In Finland the story was different.

Back to the info desk now. ''No, I only speak Finnish,'' I answer to the lady. I usually do not feel like boasting around I know some Finnish, but at that time I did utter the fact. To Hell(sinki) with modesty, right? And in this case, the result came out quite useful. The lady was excited, she requested my phone-number. Hei, the festival might need a Finnish-speaking somebody. Just might, but nevertheless.

When it comes to work, would anyone be rather interested in the fact I am also a graduated dramaturg? Being able to speak a bit rare language (at least some basics with occasional and unintended spelling mistakes) proves again to be more useful. It looks like one has to constantly advertise her/his all, but really all capabilities. Even at the most akward moments.

Wednesday, November 15, 2006


Letters are nothing but a piece of paper. Despite you burn them, the memories that have remained will still remain; despite you keep them, that what has vanished, vanishes.

It seems to me I can no longer make the difference between one and the other, between the things that have existed and the things that have not existed.
(Haruki Murakami)

Wednesdays seem to be my blue days. For some time now almost every Wednesday happens so that I end up in melancholy. Emotionally restless. Reminiscent. Nostalgic with some pain. Thinking about the past over and over again, recalling faces and events, looking into the future with fear.

Now I can bind the upper words with the reason why I came to write here. HARUKI MURAKAMI. Japanese writer. Today I have started to read the third book bearing his name on the covers. South of the Border, West of the Sun. This month I have also noticed Murakami has been given the Franz Kafka Prize in Prague. I have discovered the words of Haruki Murakami last year. Since then I have been his fan. Well, I read him in Slovenian only; I have not search for English translations so far. But I happened to see a Japanese movie Toni Takitani featuring Murakami's script. And for all of those who know my new play: yes, Murakami too has influenced my writing.

The first Murakami's book I have ever read is Norveški gozd, Norwegian Wood (Noruei no mori). Lots of Murakami's work is influenced with music strongly; he owned a jazz bar. Norwegian Wood too is inspired with the Beatles's famous song. Though that wood in Murakami's case refers more to a forest (mori). The book caught my intention immediately. A story of love and discovering sexsuality, a story of loss and confusion. The main character is Toru Watanabe, a drama student living in Tokyo. The whole novel is actually told as his reminiscence. I still see the images strongly... like, for instance, the peaceful sanatorium near Kyoto where Toru travels to visit emotionally troubled Naoko... the flat of Midori, Toru's second love... the weak firefly he releases from the jar in Tokyo... finally, his overall softness and confusion.

I feel Murakami's writing as a tender poetry. Intimate poetry. Inner worlds. Touching the reader really into the depths of mind, every now and then. Strong images; even beyond reality. Carefully constructed reflection of some time, of some world. Recommended!

And as being a writer myself I can add this thought here: even the most intimate and tender story can (critically and strongly) reflect the whole world and the whole time we are living or we have been living in...

Sunday, November 12, 2006


Every dog has it's day, right? Well, this weekend I had mine. First, many thanks to my friends for all sorts of congratulations. Thanks for some nice material stuff too (though I would not like to be a materialist). I am looking forward to read some new books... while eating dark chocolate, mljac.

So this weekend I decided to treat my selfish-self a bit more. The magic word: sauna. Finnish sauna in a small wellness-centre. I like this cosy place, nevertheless it is pretty far from Ljubljana and I had to travel with a bus quite long. However, sauna happens to be the only Finnish word used and known just everywhere (besides Nokia and Kimi Räikkönen...oh, and Lordi). Okay, in Slovenian we spell it savna. Some Finnish words to add here. Kiuas warms the sauna up. And when water is thrown on the stones topping kiuas, rises löyly. Well, learning a foreign language can implant some characteristics as well as traditions of a foreign culture, it seems. Before I started to deal with Finnish, I did not think of having a sauna. And my first real sauna actually happened in Finland. Last January. Traditional sauna at friend's place. Then I often had a sauna while living in Helsinki last summer (hei, it was free). So I have really attached to it.

One just has to find the sauna-feeling by one's own self, I guess. That heat. So warm silence. The world stops moving, for a while. A ritual. Cleansing by all means. Skin softens; it glows nicely. In Finland I was told one should not care about the time while having a sauna. Just relax, listen to your own (phisical) feelings... free your mind (at least try to). I rahter borrow a thought from the ARTICLE I recommend if you are a Finnish sauna fan.

The feeling is blissful. The sauna relaxes the body and soothes the mind. ''Re-created'' best describes what the refreshed mind feels after bathing in the steam.

For the end of my sauna day, I have copied the following short (hi)story.

The Middle Ages. That's about the same time the Swedes came to Finland. Tall, blonde, blue-eyed and bringing something with them called culture. The Finns found themselves with no choice but to surrender to them and make the best of it. Upon realizing this was their only choice, the Finns sent a delegation to speak to the Swedish invadors. Finns: Well, we'll let you stay, but on one condition. Swedes: What's that? Finns: We want to know what you think of us, of our country. Swedes:, there are lots of trees? Finns (looking hopeful): Yes...? Swede 1: And...erm, lots of lakes. Swede 2: Yeah, we haven't got nearly as many lakes as at home. Swede 3: And your selection of berries is unbelievable! Finns (nearly with pleasure that someone likes their country): Well, that's good then. Now... err...we can still use our saunas right? Swedes: Sauna? What's that? (They see naked women running from building into a lake.) Oooh! Sauna! Yea, sure! You can keep the sauna. In fact, we'll join you! Finns (quite pleased): Excellent.

Friday, November 10, 2006


Thinking of a martial art Nanbudo I practice, I have to work a lot on my very lousy lazy hip-movements. Among other things. I also have to work on my lousy lazy concentration. And those push ups. I am not any good when it comes to doing push ups, they are just driving me crazy. Sometimes my energy is rather destructive than creative. Lazy I can be as well; by all means lazy. But there are also some moments of enlightenment while training. The photo here shows Yoshinao Nanbu Doshu, the NANBUDO founder (thus Doshu, red belt). Great person. Anyway, for some time I have been thinking about a KATA. Perhaps you have heard about katas in karate. Nanbudo itself has roots in one karate style (Sankukai), but let's focus just on kata here. Some theory from Doshu's book. Kata is a sequence of techniques, imaginary combat against several opponents. You might also check out one more philosophic ARTICLE on kata in general.

Nanbudo has several kata-groups. I will introduce Advanced Katas only. Nanbu Shodan, the image of spring, Nanbu Nidan, the image of summer, Nanbu Sandan, the image of autumn, Nanbu Yondan, the image of winter and, finally, Nanbu Godan, the image of all four seasons. Briefly explained, all second words resemble numerals, from first to fifth. Much more I prefer the connection to nature. Four seasons. It seems our senseis (sensei is a black belt, a master, a teacher) have chosen timing for each so far practiced advanced kata just perfectly. Within the mild sense of spring arising, we have started to learn Nanbu Shodan. When spring has faded gently into summer, we were thaught Nanbu Nidan. Now, when leafless forests are whispering their memories to cold autumn winds, we have started to study Nanbu Sandan.

Kata is difficult to explain; you have to feel it to perform it, writes Doshu. In Japanese, kata is a form. Dealing with Japanese theatre style kabuki, I was surprised when discovering kabuki has katas too. Of course, but kabuki has dance forms. Still I dare to say theatre and Nanbudo have things in common. I feel kata as... a monologue. The actor is on stage alone, just she/he performing. The actor has to evoke emotional storms within her/his self. The actor's imagination has to create reality. To perform, actor has to feel first. The monologue can also be severe fight against one's own self. Within all, constant happiness of creativity.

The feeling of kata. The power of imagination. Imaginary combat becomes real combat. To feel the invisible hand you grasp. To feel the weight of the invisible body you throw. To feel how thick if the invisible opponent's forehead when concluding the first part of Nanbu Sandan. And so on. If done properly, kata featuers such a beauty, such a perfection. Martial art is an art indeed. Well, I would say a real kata feeling truly reaches beyond words... and there are years infront of me to find out this real kata feeling. I have to fight my lazyness and destructivity indeed.

Friday, November 03, 2006


Give me a road
Give me a forest
Give me a road in the forest
I could walk almost forever

Today I have suddenly realised I had been walking a lot. Too bad I had been walking in the city. Nevertheless I have this characteristic I can just walk and walk and walk. For miles. Sometimes without a single thought, sometimes several feelings overcome me. Sometimes I just listen to music. Or to silence. Sometimes I turn very sad while walking. There are other times when I clear my mind perfectly. Walking is just great!

Then, the forests. Forests are something I just love. I have always loved forests. Now the trees here are bare, the branches bleak. Summer forests, this is total magic. Almost mythical feeling. Well, winter forests too, so white, sleeping under snow and icy cristals. Walking in the woods is my total fascination. Magic above all.

In these sleepy autumn hours I recall again how I walked... miles, many miles in those FINNISH FORESTS. Just walked and walked and walked. The woods in Finland are something special, really. Significant feeling, so significant atmosphere. The glitter of the light; the light up North is different. Then, the glitter of soft darkness. The rustle in the wind. Every now and then, a pond. A swamp. So old and wild they seem; nobody rules those ancient woods, the trees are masters of their lives. Quiet forests. Elvish forests. Wise and secret forests. Finnish woods know several oldest secrets of this world, I am sure.

And yes, in Finland there is profound attitude towards nature. One can feel this everywhere. Respect. Awareness.

I miss those Finnish forests. I wonder how they look like now...

Thursday, November 02, 2006


It seems I have chosen the gloomiest month of the year to be born in. November is wrapped gently in the smell of rotten leaves, burning candles, autumn flowers. Cemeteries. Bare trees, mists, quiet dark afternoons. Ghostly. Gothic. Oh, melancholy aplenty spreads before me! Anyway, Halloween has reached our country too. Again one of those imported holidays, yet I always like to be thaught about pagan roots of celebrations. Dear friend Ärväthyyll has written a post on Celtic Samhain (pronounced sowín or zowín); I do not want to copy her. So I will rather write on one event. As well as on skirts.

There was Samhain Feast in a bit underground-style club called Orto bar. Sorta cosy place with not too friendly staff, errr. But underground gigs do happen there. Rock, punk, metal. Just to mention, I prefer such small clubs rather than big halls, big crowds and all that. I also like to meet unknown alternative bands. This time we were promissed to get a portion of gothic. Since I missed Korpiklaani (oh) and Magyar Posse in Helsinki was actually the last gig I went to (thesis and trainigs), I was almost dying to get some proper live music. So I put on black nail polish, corset and long skirt (hehe), I joined my friends (thanks!) and went to check out two bands. Croatian Phantasmagoria and Macedonian Mizar. Yeah, former Yugoslavian gothic-metal-rock! While listening to Mizar, I have recalled how I have actually liked Macedonian ethno some time ago. It seems I still like it; Mizar has featured one great ethno-darkish piece.

PHANTASMAGORIA fit into gothic metal more. By the way, this Croatian band also performed on Wave-Gothic Treffen in Leipzig; Tenhi were there too. As I have heard during the gig, they play covers (or better, reinterpretations) and their own music. But their performance was what I liked most. Even more I liked the frontman's outfit. Frontman had corpse paint, great black coat and, finally, the guy was wearing a skirt, yeah! A skirt totally rules. I know, you can say to me - oh c'mon, so what, get some more life, go to a huge metal festival, see those serious outfits there and, let's say, Dimmu Borgir. Or similar famous band performing. Still I think it is nice to support bands as Phantasmagoria too, right?

Now from the very beginning of this post I feel like a teenager (with black nail polish) writing into her diary, but nevertheless (behold, here is the point)... in my opinion, guys in skirts look really sweet. Well, I have always thought this way.

For conclusion I can say I had sorta nice Samhain Feast with so far unknown bands. Quite good music, pretty good performance. Here, I also want to open little chat. So what do you think about guys in skirts? And if you happen to be a guy, would you dare to wear a skirt?