Chaotic traffic. Extreme heat. Sweating. Strange food. Visiting temples. Pollution. Diarrhea.
I thought I was in Russia, not India...
another
We sit in a dusky park of lost souls and free souls in the 4am smoke,
I lay myself back and watch the obscure tree branches dancing over my head.
There is a poet and his saxophone,
there is the fiddler on the roof,
and there is smoke, everywhere smoke.
My whole life is like a strange dream, I can no longer tell when I'm awake and when I'm sleeping.
Pink moon,
we sit there until it's early instead of late,
the air is so thick that it's not clear if his eyes are closed or if they are deeply fixed on mine.
I lay myself back and watch the obscure tree branches dancing over my head.
There is a poet and his saxophone,
there is the fiddler on the roof,
and there is smoke, everywhere smoke.
My whole life is like a strange dream, I can no longer tell when I'm awake and when I'm sleeping.
Pink moon,
we sit there until it's early instead of late,
the air is so thick that it's not clear if his eyes are closed or if they are deeply fixed on mine.
one night in
The most beautiful day.
Crowded streets of St.Petersburg in the late-summer heat. A ride on an old scooter, the breeze on your face is hot and dry, like if you were somewhere in the Middle East. Babushkas selling watermelons and stockings, street dogs laying in the shades, empty beer bottles everywhere, and girls on high heels, Russian girls with their curls and red lips, it all runs in front of your eyes like a fast film, over-exposed. Sunrays, bare skin, the heavy hot air hovering above all. Hold me tight, he says, and so I do.
Capturing these streets, this air, these skins, with old-school cameras and plaid shirts, like proper eastern hipsters, you are laughing with exitement and exhaustion.
An afternoon break with fresh mint tea. Middle and north east more and more mixed up. Shisha pipes, beetroot salad, women with their flowered scarfs, in the city of gold and rust.
In the park there is a man with his guitar, he plays two more songs just for us. An artist, he says, and then we stop an old Russian lady on her evening stroll, a real lady with a long dress and a white hat, first she wants to ignore us but then she stops, she stops and she smiles. You are so young, so young, she laughs, and she feels herself young too, after 20 years of feeling old.
Tell me about the change, I ask as we are following the river and eating our last food. We talk until there is no reason to talk more, and then we drive to the sea. It's past midnight already, but the sea is there and the air is still hot, this strange hot air together with the familiar smell of the Baltic sea, my sea. It's all like a strange dream, dogs running on water, everything blue and blurry, we sit on a tree trunk, silent. There is a temple, and the hare krishnas are still awake, they invite us in and we laugh together with them in the blurry night. Russian disco music on the backround, faraway dreams from faraway beaches, people searching for people and inside these walls people searching for the divine
We drive back to the city in silence. Drunken strangers guiding our way. Police cars, opening bridges, white nights become blue nights and finally all-day darkness, in this city of gold and rust.
I sleep.
Crowded streets of St.Petersburg in the late-summer heat. A ride on an old scooter, the breeze on your face is hot and dry, like if you were somewhere in the Middle East. Babushkas selling watermelons and stockings, street dogs laying in the shades, empty beer bottles everywhere, and girls on high heels, Russian girls with their curls and red lips, it all runs in front of your eyes like a fast film, over-exposed. Sunrays, bare skin, the heavy hot air hovering above all. Hold me tight, he says, and so I do.
Capturing these streets, this air, these skins, with old-school cameras and plaid shirts, like proper eastern hipsters, you are laughing with exitement and exhaustion.
An afternoon break with fresh mint tea. Middle and north east more and more mixed up. Shisha pipes, beetroot salad, women with their flowered scarfs, in the city of gold and rust.
In the park there is a man with his guitar, he plays two more songs just for us. An artist, he says, and then we stop an old Russian lady on her evening stroll, a real lady with a long dress and a white hat, first she wants to ignore us but then she stops, she stops and she smiles. You are so young, so young, she laughs, and she feels herself young too, after 20 years of feeling old.
Tell me about the change, I ask as we are following the river and eating our last food. We talk until there is no reason to talk more, and then we drive to the sea. It's past midnight already, but the sea is there and the air is still hot, this strange hot air together with the familiar smell of the Baltic sea, my sea. It's all like a strange dream, dogs running on water, everything blue and blurry, we sit on a tree trunk, silent. There is a temple, and the hare krishnas are still awake, they invite us in and we laugh together with them in the blurry night. Russian disco music on the backround, faraway dreams from faraway beaches, people searching for people and inside these walls people searching for the divine
We drive back to the city in silence. Drunken strangers guiding our way. Police cars, opening bridges, white nights become blue nights and finally all-day darkness, in this city of gold and rust.
I sleep.
karelian blueberries
We travel towards the north, through great forests and abandoned villages around Karelia. I breathe the fir trees and the swamps, I taste the blueberries by the road and I soak in the midnight sun. It's magical. Old women with scarves around their heads, selling berries and vegetables, dirty little food stalls, children with curious faces and muddy feet. Houses that are falling down, sceneries looking like I imagine Finland 70 years ago. This car is a time machine, and it's taking me into the unknown future through the forgotten past.
night tigers
I'm scared. I'm scared for a week straight, and I know I have to go through this in order to get the access to some kind of a next level of understanding.
I fight against my fear until I come to accept it. I realise that the best way to cope with fear is to know it as well as possible. To know the object of your fear; what it is and why it makes you feel afraid. When you know your own fear, it can't hurt you.
So I'm learning.
I understand that all my life I've been facing my fears.
I was six years old when I fell off a horse, and refused to go back to the stables. But since that I have done exactly the things that make my heart jump. I was afraid of speaking, speaking in public, afraid of the way I talk and afraid of people watching me. So I learned what it is to perform and to be watched. I was in a theater group for years.
I was clumsy, I started dance classes. It took years to get to the same level as the others, years until I felt somewhat comfortable in my body.
I was afraid of telephones. Calling strangers. I couldn't do it. So I decided that the only way to get out of it is to call as many people, as much as possible, until I'm too tired to be afraid. I worked as a salesperson through telephone, called all over Finland, it was a nightmare back then but at least I'm not afraid of phones anymore.
It's like Ronja the robber's daugther in Astrid Lindgren's book. Ronja is terrified of the forest and there are all these dangers and strange creatures trying to attack her. So her father tells her; go and learn what it is to be afraid. And she learns. She runs in the darkness, jumps over the gorges, meets the terrifying creatures face-to-face.
I guess the keypoint in facing one's fears is that it has to be voluntary. Otherwise the trauma might just get bigger. To consciously decide to learn about such deep emotion as fear, it really takes courage and when you do it, it really teaches you some great lessons.
What is the ultimate fear? Death. Losing control (of one's life, status, the current situation, posessions or relations).
I had a long discussion with a good friend about this topic. Facing the ultimate fear. She was saying that it's essential to go through it in order to gain a deeper understanding. Now I see what she meant. You can't know what life is unless you know what death is to you. You can't know your strenght unless you know your fear.
And getting to know the fear is a way to remove certain blocks in your mind (which at least in my case have been restricting my access to the deepest parts of "me" or that part of myself that is connected to the universe). The fear is there to protect you, but is it also there to protect some universal understanding?
I might be going too far, connecting the personal growth and the collective mind, but it's interesting to look at the collective consciousness as a state which has a secret door. To find this door (you may call it the door of perception, or some kind of an enlightening if you like), one must break trough their on restricted mind, and one way might very well be through fear. Is that way so many spiritual rituals are connected with fear of death?
I didn't want to make this post too rambling, and here I am already way out of the line...
This fear I was talking about in the beginning of the post. It was there for a week, until I accepted it and looked straight into its eyes.
I knew how it would be, right from the start I knew. I knew there would be a thunder, I knew there would be an awakening, and I knew there would be singing. And so there was.
Too much for a blog.
I fight against my fear until I come to accept it. I realise that the best way to cope with fear is to know it as well as possible. To know the object of your fear; what it is and why it makes you feel afraid. When you know your own fear, it can't hurt you.
So I'm learning.
I understand that all my life I've been facing my fears.
I was six years old when I fell off a horse, and refused to go back to the stables. But since that I have done exactly the things that make my heart jump. I was afraid of speaking, speaking in public, afraid of the way I talk and afraid of people watching me. So I learned what it is to perform and to be watched. I was in a theater group for years.
I was clumsy, I started dance classes. It took years to get to the same level as the others, years until I felt somewhat comfortable in my body.
I was afraid of telephones. Calling strangers. I couldn't do it. So I decided that the only way to get out of it is to call as many people, as much as possible, until I'm too tired to be afraid. I worked as a salesperson through telephone, called all over Finland, it was a nightmare back then but at least I'm not afraid of phones anymore.
It's like Ronja the robber's daugther in Astrid Lindgren's book. Ronja is terrified of the forest and there are all these dangers and strange creatures trying to attack her. So her father tells her; go and learn what it is to be afraid. And she learns. She runs in the darkness, jumps over the gorges, meets the terrifying creatures face-to-face.
I guess the keypoint in facing one's fears is that it has to be voluntary. Otherwise the trauma might just get bigger. To consciously decide to learn about such deep emotion as fear, it really takes courage and when you do it, it really teaches you some great lessons.
What is the ultimate fear? Death. Losing control (of one's life, status, the current situation, posessions or relations).
I had a long discussion with a good friend about this topic. Facing the ultimate fear. She was saying that it's essential to go through it in order to gain a deeper understanding. Now I see what she meant. You can't know what life is unless you know what death is to you. You can't know your strenght unless you know your fear.
And getting to know the fear is a way to remove certain blocks in your mind (which at least in my case have been restricting my access to the deepest parts of "me" or that part of myself that is connected to the universe). The fear is there to protect you, but is it also there to protect some universal understanding?
I might be going too far, connecting the personal growth and the collective mind, but it's interesting to look at the collective consciousness as a state which has a secret door. To find this door (you may call it the door of perception, or some kind of an enlightening if you like), one must break trough their on restricted mind, and one way might very well be through fear. Is that way so many spiritual rituals are connected with fear of death?
I didn't want to make this post too rambling, and here I am already way out of the line...
This fear I was talking about in the beginning of the post. It was there for a week, until I accepted it and looked straight into its eyes.
I knew how it would be, right from the start I knew. I knew there would be a thunder, I knew there would be an awakening, and I knew there would be singing. And so there was.
Too much for a blog.
gifts
I decided to rely on the good old 30-liter backpack once again, and everytime it just amazes me how much I can fit in it. This time I needed to be prepared for anything from a huge metropol to total wilderness. A sleeping bag, mattress, tent, kettle, knife, raincoat, flashlight, food, hiking shoes, a warm sweater and two cardigans. Sandals, dress, the second biggest camera that I have, sketchbook, incence sticks. I'm just waiting for the moment when my bag falls apart. It's a miracle this hasn't happened yet. But so far I've needed every single thing I packed, and have not needed anything I don't have. Great.
Another thing that amazes me is how life really seems to give exactly what I need. Like when I had no shoes in Barcelona and refused to buy new ones, just within minutes I found a lovely pair of red sneakers, my size, my colour, abandoned on the street. There were no shoelaces, but my travelmate happened to have a pair in her pocket. She had carried them around for who knows what reason, but was now happy to give them to me.
Last week I met a girl, a hitchhiker, she came with us to the north but had nothing warm to wear so I gave her my clothes. And after a couple of days is was dressed in new clothes, clothes that were so much more beautiful than the ones I gave to the poor hitchhiker. It's like a big circle of giving and receiving, you pass something on and it will come back to you in some form at some point. Or it will go to the one who needs it the most, at least I hope so. Am I just lucky, or naive, or is life really so full of miracles as it seems to be right now?
And just yesterday I was thinking about how I need to buy new film for my camera, and was also looking at some lomography cameras and dreaming about Prague and simplicity of capturing moments. Just an hour later I met a guy who firstly gave me film (I didn't tell him I need it, he just came and offered it to me). Secondly, he told me that he works for a lomography company in Russia, "I can give you a camera if you want."
Then later that evening, I was driven around the heart of St. Petersburg with an old moped (and nearly crashed with a bus, but this was maybe not worth mentioning). I got a place to sleep, a grapefruit for dinner, I even got a home but this is too big to talk about yet.
And after just a couple of weeks of travelling, my backpack is so full of presents that soon I won't be able to close it anymore.
Gosh, I'm really trying to smile at people to give at least something in return. I really hope I'm capable of more than that. Today I was walking along Nevski Prospekt (the main street of St. Petersburg) barefoot, with a little message of bounty and simplicity in my heart.
The sad thing is that not many people accept it. They drive behind their black windows, stare at their mobile phones, and on their faces I can see a disgust towards a poor person. (Here barefooting can be really seen as a sign of poorness, not of freedom).
But some of them smile back.
Another thing that amazes me is how life really seems to give exactly what I need. Like when I had no shoes in Barcelona and refused to buy new ones, just within minutes I found a lovely pair of red sneakers, my size, my colour, abandoned on the street. There were no shoelaces, but my travelmate happened to have a pair in her pocket. She had carried them around for who knows what reason, but was now happy to give them to me.
Last week I met a girl, a hitchhiker, she came with us to the north but had nothing warm to wear so I gave her my clothes. And after a couple of days is was dressed in new clothes, clothes that were so much more beautiful than the ones I gave to the poor hitchhiker. It's like a big circle of giving and receiving, you pass something on and it will come back to you in some form at some point. Or it will go to the one who needs it the most, at least I hope so. Am I just lucky, or naive, or is life really so full of miracles as it seems to be right now?
And just yesterday I was thinking about how I need to buy new film for my camera, and was also looking at some lomography cameras and dreaming about Prague and simplicity of capturing moments. Just an hour later I met a guy who firstly gave me film (I didn't tell him I need it, he just came and offered it to me). Secondly, he told me that he works for a lomography company in Russia, "I can give you a camera if you want."
Then later that evening, I was driven around the heart of St. Petersburg with an old moped (and nearly crashed with a bus, but this was maybe not worth mentioning). I got a place to sleep, a grapefruit for dinner, I even got a home but this is too big to talk about yet.
And after just a couple of weeks of travelling, my backpack is so full of presents that soon I won't be able to close it anymore.
Gosh, I'm really trying to smile at people to give at least something in return. I really hope I'm capable of more than that. Today I was walking along Nevski Prospekt (the main street of St. Petersburg) barefoot, with a little message of bounty and simplicity in my heart.
The sad thing is that not many people accept it. They drive behind their black windows, stare at their mobile phones, and on their faces I can see a disgust towards a poor person. (Here barefooting can be really seen as a sign of poorness, not of freedom).
But some of them smile back.
First encounters
Since summer 2009 I've been trying to travel to Russia. Every time there's been something standing in the way: vegetable gardens, falling in love, tooth infections, just about anything you can think of. But I knew that it just wasn't the right time yet. Postponing plans, with Russia starting to feel more and more like an imagination land rather than something that really exists.
But it does exist, very much, as I see now.
After over a year of planning and pondering, it was simply approriate to leave as I did. On one Friday evening, all of a sudden, I decided that the time has come, so I went to get some waterproof clothes just minutes before the shops closed, packed my bag, and two hours later I was already on my way towards the mysterious East.
You might say that there were some strange demons in the way of getting to Russia. But then my rescuing angel definately came in an even stranger form. Sergey was a tattooed chain smoker and an ex hammer thrower with 200 kilos of body weight and apparently no fear of death (this I concluded based on his way of driving). I filled in my immigration card in the middle of the woods at 4.am, hands shaking from the freezing wind, and right after the border we stopped to buy two bottles of vodka. Sergey's nostalgic sigh "Ah, Russia" made me realize that in a way I had travelled further away from home than ever before.
We arrived in St. Petersburg early in the morning, and the city was greeting me with dusty rays of the rising sun. It was love at first sight.
But it does exist, very much, as I see now.
After over a year of planning and pondering, it was simply approriate to leave as I did. On one Friday evening, all of a sudden, I decided that the time has come, so I went to get some waterproof clothes just minutes before the shops closed, packed my bag, and two hours later I was already on my way towards the mysterious East.
You might say that there were some strange demons in the way of getting to Russia. But then my rescuing angel definately came in an even stranger form. Sergey was a tattooed chain smoker and an ex hammer thrower with 200 kilos of body weight and apparently no fear of death (this I concluded based on his way of driving). I filled in my immigration card in the middle of the woods at 4.am, hands shaking from the freezing wind, and right after the border we stopped to buy two bottles of vodka. Sergey's nostalgic sigh "Ah, Russia" made me realize that in a way I had travelled further away from home than ever before.
We arrived in St. Petersburg early in the morning, and the city was greeting me with dusty rays of the rising sun. It was love at first sight.
keeping time pt. 2
"Mother, I'm ready! I'm finally ready!"
"For what?"
"Huh? I don't know..."
(No, you are not ready, you're just different than you were a moment ago. And in the next moment, you will be a bit different again. This is called change, or development if you wish. Growth. It's all just about different realities in the "now", the essence of what we call time.)
blogging and camping
Travel blog, personal blog, thoughts about life -blog, art blog... I still don't know whether I should try to combine all of those or just keep them separately (which might become just as chaotic in the end).
Any ideas? Do you find it more convenient to have all the different stuff on the same page, or rather find different topics from different blogs? I don't even know who might read this, and here's the problem:
My art and criticism I'd like to share with as many as possible.
Travels I'd like to share with friends and other travellers.
And personal thoughts and dreams with friends only, I like keeping "an open diary" for myself, even if nobody ever reads it.
I haven't really been writing here at all, which is a shame, since I used to keep a Finnish blog for years (since 2004- can you believe it?) and really enjoyed it. But it was always a bit too personal to be public, and then I couldn't really use it for public information/thoughts sharing.
Today I will buy a tent. I decided it needs to be big enough to fit two.
h2o+co2+sun=...
Such magic happens to your head after spending some overly peaceful time in an old cottage, swimming in the lake naked in the sunshine...naked as children, without any sexual context. Ah, how we all must miss such nudity. I felt like a beautiful being (not a child, a woman, a girl, just a non-human being) floating in the Mother Earth's womb. A friend of mine once said she would like to become plant plankton. Now I see what she meant. How magical would it be like, to live floating in the womb from day to day, making love with the sun in the form of photosynthesis...
I read a book written by a 92-year-old wonderwoman. She called herself "the lover of the Universe". Lover, as in girlfriend. Rakastajatar. Milenka. Is there a better word in English?
Well, I am one of those now.
I read a book written by a 92-year-old wonderwoman. She called herself "the lover of the Universe". Lover, as in girlfriend. Rakastajatar. Milenka. Is there a better word in English?
Well, I am one of those now.
When words can't tell...
(click to view the bigger picture)Valitettavasti ylläoleva kuva on todellinen. Sen on kuvannut Munir Uz Zaman Bangladeshin vaatetyöntekijöiden mielenosoituksissa, muokkaus on omaa käsialaani. Jälkimmäinen kuva on H&M-mainoksesta muokkaamani uusi versio, "vastamainos".
Helsingin Sanomat kertoo seuraavaa mielenosoituksista:
"Muun muassa ruotsalaisketju Hennes & Mauritzille alihankintana vaatteita ompelevat työntekijät vaativat palkankorotuksia.Poliisi taltutti kapinaan nousseita työntekijöitä pampuilla, kyynelkaasulla ja vesiruiskuilla. -- Meneillään olevissa palkkaneuvotteluissa työntekijät vaativat takaisin myös rästissä olevia palkkoja. Lakkoilijoiden mukaan vaatetehtaat eivät ole reagoineet vaatimuksiin. "
1) väkivaltaan, jolla oikeuksiaan vaativia ihmisiä kohdellaan
2) vaatteiden halpuuteen, joka perustuu sille että joku jossain joutuu kärsimään
3) sekä koko vastaavanlaisen bisneksen halpamaisuuteen (engl. cheap tarkoittaa sekä halpaa että epäreilua. bloody tarkoittaa paitsi veristä, myös verrattavissa esim. suomen kielen ilmaisuun "sairaan" tai "helvetin" halpaa); vaihtoehtoinen suomennos kuvalle olisikin "Helvetin epäreilua".
Sadly enough, the picture with the little boy and the police is real. It's from the factory workers' wage protests in Bangladesh, taken by Munir Uz Zaman, edited by me. The second picture is H&M's ad edited by me.
"Bloody cheap" refers to three things:
1) the shocking violence used against the workers who are only demanding for basic rights
2) the cheap prices of the clothes are based on suffering
3) to point out that the business itself is cheap (=unfair)
This is what the Guardian says about the protests:
"Children are caught up in clashes with police as at least 15,000 protesting garment factory workers block key roads in the Bangladeshi capital Dhaka, the latest in a string of protests over low wages and poor conditions. Police fired tear gas and used water cannons to disperse the workers, who sew clothes for some of the top names in western retail, after they blocked a major intersection in the north of the city"
guardian.co.uk
Kriittistä
tämä on vastine äskettäin lukemaani juttuun huuhaa-uskomuksia sekä koulukasvatusta koskien. huomaa kyllä, etten ole pitkään aikaan kirjoittanu mitään vastaavaa, lukioaikoina tää olis mennyt ihan rutiinilla mutta nyt piti tosissaan tapella että sai lauseet pysymään kasassa. varsinkin asian tiivistäminen oli pirun hankalaa. eikä suomenkielikään oikein enää meinaa sujua, yli puolet ajatuksista tulee englanniksi. harjoittelemallahan se varmaan siitä taas lähtee, pitäis kirjoitella enemmän "virallisia" juttuja...
(English translation to be published...)
Rakentava kriittisyys edellyttää laajakatseisuutta
Arno Kotro kommentoi 25.6. HS:n pääkirjoitussivulla julkaistussa ”Koulu ei kasvata huuhaa-kriittisyyteen” - kirjoituksessaan jyrkästi tiettyjen uskomuksien todenperäisyyttä ja tarpeellisuutta, sekä esitti kiinnostavan ehdotuksen lisätä kouluihin kriittisen ajattelun opetusta.
Kriittinen ajattelu on parhaimmillaan rakentava, mutta pahimmillaan rajoittava väline maailman ymmärtämiseen, jonka taitavaa käyttämistä kouluopetuksella olisi mahdollista tukea. Taitamattomasti käytetty kriittisyys voi kuitenkin helposti johtaa liialliseen skeptisyyteen, ennakkoluuloisuuteen tai toisten ihmiste elämänkatsomuksien arvottamiseen. Siksi tulisikin kiinnittää erityistä huomiota siihen, miten ja millä asenteella kriittisyyteen opastetaan. Kotron ehdotus ”koulun pitää herätellä miettimään, miksi uskon niin kuin uskon” on sinänsä hyvä. Jos filosofianopettaja kuitenkin jo keskustelunavauksessaan toteaa tylysti myös, että ”huuhaata ei tarvita mihinkään”, on koko aiheen käsittely vaarassa jäädä valitettavan mustavalkoiseksi.
Selittämättömiin ilmiöihin uskomisen taustalla on yleensä henkilökohtainen kokemus tai tunne, jota on tietenkin hankala todistaa tieteellisesti. Tällaiset uskomukset eivät kuitenkaan hylkää tieteelliseen tietoon perustuvaa maailmankuvaa, vaan parhaassa tapauksessa täydentävät sitä. Samoin kuin taide, myös mystiikka voi tuoda harrastajalleen paljon arvokkaita elämyksiä. Niinsanottuihin huuhaa-uskomuksiin liittyy jo nyt valtavasti ennakkoluuloja, minkä vuoksi moni peittelee elämänkatsomustaan leimautumisen pelossa. Näiden ennakkoluulojen ruokkiminen ja henkilökohtaisen henkisyyden määrittely ”huuhaaksi” tuskin ovat sellaisia tehtäviä, joihin koululaitosta tulisi valjastaa. Yksipuolinen asenne näkyy Kotronkin tavassa niputtaa kaikki epätieteellinen lentävistä lautasista reikihoitoihin saman hömppäkategorian alle.
Huuhaatakin on monenlaista - viikkolehtien horoskoopit ovat hyvä esimerkki uskomuksien kaupallistamisesta, eikä niillä ole juuri mitään tekemistä alkuperäisen astrologian kanssa. Vaikka ”huuhaalla” myös rahastetaan, Kotron mainitsema vaihtoehtohoitojen ”iso bisnes” on todellisuudessa hyvin pientä verrattuna länsimaiseen lääketeollisuuteen, joka kaikessa tieteellisyydessäänkin on saanut joitakin hyvin epämiellyttäviä ja korruptoituneita piirteitä (olkoon tieteellistä tai ei, minusta ihmisten hoitamisen muuttaminen kylmäksi bisnekseksi on aina moraalisesti arveluttavaa). Vaihtoehtohoitojen tieteellinen tutkiminen on luonnollisestikin ongelmallista ja näyttö vähäistä, mutta jos joku uskoo reikiin ja kokee sen edistävän hyvinvointiaan, en näe siinä mitään erityisen haitallista tai torjuttavaa.
”Huuhaa-kriittisyyden” sijasta pitäisin tärkäenä sitä, että koulussa tarkasteltaisiin erilaisia uskontoja ja uskomuksia historiallisesta ja poliittisesta – ja miksei filosofisestakin – näkökulmasta. Lisäksi erityisesti mediakriittisyyteen kasvattamisen voisi aloittaa jo peruskoulussa, media ja viihdemaailma kun taitavat lopulta olla ne nykyhetken suurimmat huuhaan tuottajat.
Jokaisen olisi hyvä oppia ymmärtämään tieteellisen ja kokemuspohjaisen tiedon ero, mutta jälkimmäisen vähättelevä leimaaminen hömpäksi ei ole hedelmällinen lähtökohta evästää oppilaita taitavaan ajatteluun. Taitavuutta on se, että kykenee käsittelemään ja hyödyntämään elämän monipuolisuutta. Oppilaita tulisi kannustaa arvostamaan tieteen ohella myös henkilökohtaista tunneperäistä näkemystä, sekä ymmärtämään, ettei näiden tarvitse olla toisiaan poissulkevia asioita. Tämä tarjoaisi parhaat puitteet sellaisen maailmankuvan muodostamiselle, joka on samanaikaisesti sekä jaettu että henkilökohtainen.
juhannus
A typical question heard in the Finnish summer night, and a demonstration of the responses by very old, the old, and the present me:
A strange guy: "Hey baby, can i love you tonight?"
The very old me: "...." (blushing and looking away)
The old me: "Stop calling me baby and go fuck yourself!"
The present me: "Yes, everyone can love me. Just not physically."
Strange guy: "What?? Do you mean that the mental one feels better?"
Me: "Yes, it's great. You should try it!"
Hmm, I still seem to draw the same kind of attention, but at least my own reactions have developed a little bit. Besides, this time it was quite a simple honest innocent question. Who wouldn't need love?
I hope he finds it somewhere.
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