The photographs were taken in Helsinki on February 17th.
The weather is warming up. This morning we had -9 °C and in the afternoon -5 °C. The ice and snow on the road is starting to melt, making the road more slippery that it was earlier.
(Posting title is from the poem The Geranium by Richard Brinsley Sheridan.)
The photographs were taken on February 17th at Pasila railway station in Helsinki.
I commuted by bicycle today. In the morning the temperature was -16 °C, in the afternoon -7 °C. After some practice I start to know what clothes to wear to stay warm, but not too warm.
(Posting title is from the poem Palling Around by Gregory Pardlo.)
The photographs were taken on February 17th in Helsinki.
Yesterday I walked for three hours in Petikko, across the snow-covered fields and forests. By the Petikko golf field there were bird observers with telescopes and tripods by the roadside, and when I walked up the snow-covered field they asked whether I had seen anything. "Just landscape", I answered.
(Posting title is from the poem We're Just about to Observe the Edge of the Universe by Albert Goldbarth.)
The photographs were taken in Helsinki on November 19th.
(Posting title is from the poem SCHOOLS by Paula Tatarunis.)
These photographs were taken at the railway station in Pasila, when we were starting our trip north to Kilpisjärvi in Lapland. It was the first time I used the car carrier on the night train, 800 km to Rovaniemi.
I have been reading Hollywood by Bukowski, and like his writing more than ever. Earlier I thought he just pretended to be writing, but now I know he really worked at it. And it is deeper, much deeper than I thought it is. I don't know why it is so that my favorite writers, such as Thomas Bernhard, all seem to be pessimists. Bukowski fits there.
Bukowski filled up his non-writing time with drinking and gambling, and getting into trouble in various ways. Earlier I thought I'm very different from Bukowski, as I drink very little, and I have never even played the lottery. But now I'm not longer sure there is a difference.
(Posting title is from the poem I Am Visited by an Editor and a Poet by Charles Bukowski.)
Posts
All Comments
