He was a bunch of events. Haste through images of small school-goers concentrate in elements transporting in order to add and subtract. How the blocks pile up. Green. Or perhaps brown. The teacher has black hair. A tractor on the wall. Field.
He keeps remembering. In childhood there was a town, where the relatives one after the other kept filling the table with cookies, cake and supposedly juice.
Then he came near to becoming blind. The colours changed. Suddenly the green grass attacked his eyes as a suffocating blanket, overexposed, hurt and dulled the eyes. Eventually he got used to it. Perhaps the colours even changed again. It is possible that cadmium yellow was mistaken for citrus yellow despite its corrosive qualities. The wings of a butterfly might have longed for both in order to be separated from the paper, to tear and to face oblivion. At the same time he stared at some plastic-wrapped gerberas, the withering of which transmuted the colours he did not know. Once again his eyes betrayed him.
Mother lead him through childhood as all children who have a mother. The young mother in a green modernist dress. The elderly mother. In between he handpicks events which he remembers. There’s s language. Languages. Then he’s muted.
Base-polyphonic Jukka Koskelainen (b. 1969) is the pioneer of nonsense poetry in Finland. He has indefatigably weeded the genre of bad influence and strived for the emerge of true poetry. Koskelainen is especially adept in the tradition of revolutionary poetry in Latin America. He became in love with the poetic form of life early as a baby with the classical books of the Tall Mother Goose. Today Koskelainen directs the Archive for Living Poetry, which aims at capturing the general view of sustainable poetry. (Gods and Gardening 5/1999)
He started writing without his glasses to see more accurately. Abysmal greens. Disappearing yellows. Strange browns. Nameless violets. This is how his eyes went each its way to meet, to return and again to stop, for he was to stop, be blinded and muted but yet live. The drying cells of his hands were models for every person. The fresh shave was that of a baby. And you could wrap yourself into. Those are pearls that were his eyes and petals on a wet black bough.
Pictures were important to him, even though he was neither imagist nor pictographist. He was not interested in depicting hasty movements but the emanations of life in people. At times he said, ”As if a bird had struck its wings.” This was when he had got a good image, captured his keyboard and his camera into a joint effect, which spanned beyond centuries. (The Journalist 9/2011)
Confined words live. The Burmese Aung San Suu Kyi has lived eight lives pinched by the military junta, yet she, too, remembers the mother of her childhood. On stepping into politics, Aung San Suu asked herself secret questions and falled silent in the cloak of darkness. When you think otherwise, you cannot state the same nor see mirages. You need to face the challenges in the real world and not to pretend to be living in a faery tale. Thus speaks the real thinker San Suu Kyi straight from the world. (The HS October 31st2011)
I will make you eat my pig. My pig has eaten of you. I weigh as if I carried forces. The physics class, the lectern and the rising rows of desks. Lector Määttä-Päättä sparks and catches fire, objects conduct, forces exert on them and now we have a purely imaginary force which cannot exist. Eat, my pig. Eat. Eat the relational coordinates in spacetime, on which the beings travel, on the same one most of us unless we end up in the orbit or drift out. We were the elite, then we launched and we were all mixed up, started to spin, impacted. An impact of matter will result in heat, at once the objects operate and their movements change, sometimes cease. It all depends on the coordinate system, as the force lies within the coordinates. We can decide, whether we possess the force. We choose the common reference point.
We was quite disappointed mostly. He slept, woke and ate.
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