One kick. A thousand times.

A few months ago I hosted a few gents at my place for some dinner and sauna. I cracked open the secret weapon: spag bol. It’s a stealth bomber, a wolf in sheep’s clothing. If it could talk, it would do so softly, between loving, brutal cudgel strikes. 

Everyone thinks about their mum’s half-assed, under seasoned pile of tomato puree and grey mince, or the uncanny proto-dishes served to melancholy kids at the kind of Spanish resorts where thin sachets of vinegary, hot-tap warm ketchup sprout from sun bleached pots atop grease smeared plastic lounger side tables. Out of respect for (and fear of) a nation’s retribution, I shall not name the friend’s mum who, in my youth, offered up a spag bol with – I kid you not – the unholy addition of baked beans stirred through the sickly sweet ragu.

My spag bol is a Hattori-Hanzo blade. Forged across decades through thousands of iterations, repetitions, red-faced oaths screamed into teacloths, miniscule but meaningful tweaks. It’s the acme of umami. A golden ratio of protein, sinuous carbs, heat, and time. To offer a Portnoy-ism, it knocked their dicks off.

It was the catalyst for the greatest compliment I have ever received as a cook – not a chef mind you, I couldn’t run a kitchen. I’m a once man band. After an unctuous moment of silent mastication, sauce soaked twists of meaty noodles filling greedy maws, one of my guests stared at me and said, ”Do not fear the man who knows 1000 kicks. Rather, fear the man that has practiced one kick a thousand times.”

I won’t lie, it gave me a kick.

Savu

Clustered swimsuits quitely shift in the steamy dark, pink skins gleaming faintly in the ember red wet sheen.

Buttock-smoothed benches welcome and bid farewell to a rolling tide of grinning tourists, felt-crowned addicts, recovering revellers, and those silently absorbing the moment and the heat and the pine and the smoke and the dark into their bones.

The mind stills, the body unclenches. Consciousness coalesces in the racing chest, the sharp pinch on the ear tips, the stifled sips of hot breath. The body knows when it’s time, awkwardly rising and tottering through the black, through the door and into the clean bite of winter chill.

The lake both beckons, and forbodes. Cold metal shocks aching palms and soles. Now the slow exhale as an icy blanket of needles claws at composure. The eye of the storm is there, if still enough to see it. 

Through the cycle once more. 

Each time, space widens, connection deepens, peace grows.

The rock tumbler

My grit-spackled palms cup this little crennulated beauty I spot peeking out of the sand ripples like a monster-shy swaddled toddler.

Extracted, I see it:

Networked nematode encrustations adorned with lank emerald fur, igneous violets shocked through with creamy seams.

Weighty, organic, mysterious.

Its hiding hole silently backfills with dirt-brown sandy slop. Into the bucket it goes, with others. My footprints abstract as the tide pulls them apart.

Later, I draw them from the machine. Hard edges knocked clean. Marine adornments razed smooth. Textural and geometric monocultures.

Market day will be profitable.

What is it about modern life that all things seem to have had their quirkiness, their rude edges, knocked off? My oldest daughter hates Teslas, for instance. Not for the reason you think, but rather that they are so bland to look at compared to, say, a ‘68 Chevy Impala. 

Growing up in the UK, so many of the buildings owe their intrigue and sense of fun to the Victorians. Even your average terrace house boasts more personality than the utilitarian melancholy of some of the buildings I find in Helsinki today. From Jugend to useless!

Anyway, this thought popped back into my head when discussed on the podcast I was listening to on my morning walk. Is modernity a rock tumbler? Make things safe, mass market, reproducable, form over function, instead of imbuing them with the essence of what they are? For skyscrapers, think lofty - for drainpipes, think unclean waters (gargoyles).

I want more intrigue and interest in the things I interact with - more play, more interplay.

Different rhythms, same beat.

I was about as old as this blog post when I learned something new about myself. I wish I’d known it sooner.

Sunk into the sofa with my partner one sleepy evening, our discussion found its way towards how hard it is to embody the Finnish term ”reipas” - something akin to wholehearted embracing of one’s obligations. It’s something I’m teasingly accused of being, but it’s definitely not innate to me. I had to guide myself through slow, often painful steps towards a place where I feel my foundation is strong and I can provide for my loved ones. But yes, I’m more steady and structured in my fifth decade than I was in my third.

By the way, if you want wisdom on our natural tendencies and rhythms, talk to a dancer. Which is why it was clear as day to her that my natural rhythm is the sun, or a 24 hour cycle. She was right. It was the first time I truly understood this about myself. I walk/workout/write/work/sauna/pack - repeat. I’ve done so for years now. Recently, my guiding thought is to leave gifts for tomorrow’s me, not burdens. And now I know why - it’s within my nature.

She, on the other hand, has the constant in her, but is also open to the moment, to inspiration, to feelings, opportunities, and a more gradual ebb and flow of the tides, the seasons, and a multitude of intersecting forces. She is more like the moon – her words, not mine. 

I’m more sun than moon - but I still want a bit of lunar pull to drag me out of the stately, orderly procession of my habits from time to time. Both forces interplay within us – and I will be looking more closely at how I can dance to both beats in future.

How to talk to Finns

I while ago, me and a friend started a YouTube series called the Foreigner’s Guide to Finland. It was a bit of fun, and we learned a lot about mics, cameras, interviewing, and uploading content to YouTube. We also made a ton of mistakes - that’s how you learn.

This was one of the more informative and fun episodes we filmed - How to Talk to Finns. Excuse the poorly-spelt channel description - unfortunately the channel logins are now lost to the void…