The Dim Light of Relativity

Exactly 20 years ago I was doing my mandatory military service. Was in the middle of nowhere on a winter camp practicing certain extreme skills. Was exhausted physically after carrying all that stuff on my back and walking long distances. Hungry for not having time to cook that food on the small heater outdoors. Thirsty, because the drinking water had to be boiled from the snow, purified with a purifying pill. Cold, there wasn't much time to dry the clothes on in the hour or two long breaks in the tent not that often. Tired, I slept altogether six hours during that camp week.
Still, when the week ended, we got to go back to the base. Got off on the weekend holidays. I probably slept in my warm bed for most of the weekend. Took it all back. At least I had the possibility.
During my eleven months in the military, I got free train tickets to go to my weekend holidays. So I visited my grandparents quite regularly. Once my Grandpa asked how the food in the military was. By that time I was back in the same base where I had had my basic training, one of the last bases with the old style table passing meals. I was quite sick of that same pork dice sauce. I told my Grandpa it. He said: "Yeah, I know. It used to be bad as well. During the war we had this shred soup. Bit of porridge with a little pieces of ham in it."
I never complained again.
These situations bring different problems people have to the same line to be compared. I know that while I could be complaining about food, during the wars military men were struggling to get anything to the front line. And yes: children in Sudan are suffering from starvation.
As I go back to my "so tough" military memories, they now seem more as golden times. Even the harshest moments can be remembered with some humour. About having "the unicorn grown in the forehead" during that demanding winter camp week. Nothing compared to those boys sent to the front during the wars. Some of them scared to death what they'd be experiencing.
When I was in Under Officer School we were brought to different neighbourhoods from the base to collect money from door to door to disabled war veterans. I had been collecting money already twice during the basic training. Did it twice during the next months after it. It was a tradition for the guys doing their service annually for decades.
We were brought to Kallio district, few kilometers Northeast from Helsinki city center. The district is a known place for working class and artists. Bit bohemian, in some parts rough, but full of life. Some people in their nicer homes didn't even open their doors to us. Some people who obviously had less, gave us from their little. We were living a deep recession. Unemployment rate was going up to nearly 20 per cent.
There was a dim light coming out of the door to the hallway when I had rung the doorbell. An older man opened the door. He seemed a bit slow. Maybe due to his age or something. Then I noticed a huge hole scar in his upper forehead. Probably from the grenade.
I introduced myself and as I told about the money collection for the disabled war veterans, he lost it. As if seeing a young man wearing his gray military holiday suit was bringing back all his memories. Nightmares. All the horrors young men had to go through. He broke down.
I don't know if it was his daughter or a granddaughter, who walked him peacefully away back to the kitchen. Looked at me, so I'd understand. I nodded. We seemed to be agreeing without many words that I should go. She would have her moment together to calm the old man down. In their dim light. In their small kitchen in this working class neighbourhood.
After finishing the tour, I walked back to our gathering place by Karhupuisto, a small park. Some men, who had apparently gone into the side paths of their lives, were having a drink from their bottles in the park. Commenting something to us. We ignored them.
Until they gathered together. Soon a delegation of those probably homeless alcoholics came to talk to us. "We gathered our money together and would like to make a donation. My father fought in the Winter War", the leading man said. He was moved. Got us all slightly in the same state.
At that point I realized that life is not black and white, and things might not be as they're thought in the first place. And everything has sometimes everything to do with relativity.

Where were you when...?

I remember exactly when I heard that two planes had hit the Twin Towers. I remember where I was when I heard US president Ronald Reagan had been shot, as well as Swedish Prime Minister Olof Palme.
I remember late September night in 1994. I was studying in a small college outside Turku in Southwestern Finland. Hearing heavy helicopters going over the dorm towards the sea middle of the night. The next morning news told by my college room mate. He had heard from the radio that a ferry had sunk at the sea. I didn't believe it then and I still hear about it. Nowadays as a joke.
The ship was named MS Estonia. 852 people went down in one of the worst maritime disasters of the 20th century. That explained the helicopters.
Immortalized the  memory of us students gathering in the college lobby stunned silent watching the morning TV news. Looking at those shocking TV pictures from the sea. And recovered people being brought from the sea to Turku University Hospital just 20+ kilometers away. To that same hospital where my son would one day be born. Personal history in context of a larger historical picture.
September 11th, 2001 was probably one of the strangest days in my life. I was working as an Editor-in-chief in a local newspaper in Southwestern Finland. In that morning my boss collected me from my home. Me, him and our caricaturist drove to Helsinki. Spent nearly an hour strolling around the city center of Helsinki before moving on to Government Palace by the Senate Square, Prime Minister's office. We were there to hand him the caricaturist's newest book. I was there to take pictures, to write an interview of Prime Minister Paavo Lipponen. How he felt about political satire in books and on television. He had been depicted in one weekly TV satire as a caricature character.
Some hours later me and the caricaturist stayed in Helsinki as the boss left back. We met a colleague. Spent some time. Suddenly the colleague's mobile phone started beeping messages from news agencies. After the second message about the second plane hitting the tower we had to find a TV somewhere. Ended up in a lobby of a city center hotel where people were gathering together. Apparently security level had been raised also in Helsinki since the police cars were going around.
In the evening I took a bus back to Turku. Spent the time on the phone discussing with different people how the world wouldn't be the same after that day.
I remember that day. Those moments. Getting the messages. The feeling. I cannot imagine how the world changed to those people who were really involved in those events some way or living nearby where they happened.
Few days ago, my son started remembering similar events in his life. The big news. Where he had been when he had heard about Osama Bin Laden being killed among other events. It had apparently been at home, through morning news on TV.
The next generation might have different events staying in their minds. But I have a feeling the echo will be the same, no matter if the news will eventually be splashed on their face through social media or through an iPod. Real life story is a story no matter which way you get it.

Holy moments

I believe anyone who has ever experienced finishing a big process, knows what a great feeling putting the dot to it is. Finishing it fully. Maybe years of work.
For a creative person it's a huge point to come to. Letting something you created go. See the pile of papers, whatever you've been working on for months, maybe years, right there.
It also means letting the work go. For a writer, it means sending it to a publisher or an editor. There may be more editing rounds coming up, but the first holy moment is when the pile of prints stands on the desk waiting to be slipped into that big envelope. Or the file attached to the message going somewhere waiting for someone to click the send button..
The second holy moment -later on- is getting the box of recently printed books from the post office. Opening the box and seeing the name and title on the cover. Touching the paper. Browsing pages. Seeing the writing that was only an echo of words some time ago in the head. Making its way to a story. Now materialized for someone out there to read.
When writer gets hard copies in hand, it's time for celebration, maybe raise a toast. But already then there's been a process of giving up. Processing the emptiness. You've let your characters go. You might miss them. The whole process. Sticking small pieces of papers you've written in the bus so you don't forget the idea you came up with. Placing something you suddenly thought of in the timeline of the story. Getting excitement when finally solving the puzzle with something you bumped into while walking the streets, reading the paper, seeing a person who reminded you of something.
Letting the script go in the first place is a bigger thing for many writers. Some medicate the sudden emptiness by getting drunk, maybe spending the whole week or two smashed or in a soft room. Some hop in the plane or train. Change the scenery.
I've had my own methods. Some years ago, after finishing a novel, I was considering taking a last minute trip. It didn't matter where. Anywhere would have done the job.
Instead I developed A Day. In fact, An Afternoon. No glasses of champagne, no cigar once a year as Paul Sheldon in Misery. Just a bus ride to the city. Little stroll around. Lunch in a quiet place by myself on a weekday afternoon. Choosing a film of my taste. Sitting in a nearly empty movie theater alone. Letting it all go.
In the early evening I'd take a bus home. Purified. Until the creative machine would soon start turning itself on again.