Return of the engineer

I have always found it difficult learning a language. It all started 25 years ago. A tiny space capsule had to find its way to Jupiter. When I asked how it works, I was told a story about the bees and the flowers, a story of unconditional love. That story, in one form or another, he had heard from his parents. That story I will take with me.

I was delighted to hear that he had read my blog. He is currently drawing the big lines at the shipyard.
“Who’s that guy?”
“I don’t know, man. He just stares at his 2,750 cubic metres of pitch. He’s been here for a couple of months, I guess.”
“If he was any thinner, he wouldn’t exist”
“And if the radius approaches infinity, he can’t see the vortex.”
His belt I remember wearing ten years ago, still posh. He seemed ten years older after five years. Soon he would have more time than ever, and we should discuss the inheritance. Engineer to engineer he was talking about fair 1:1. Taxation was a subject of discussion too.

The big questions in life often have simple answers. I just had to ask someone wiser than me, someone with experience, on all strings of life. Now that I have the answers and have grown mentally, I shall take back what I have stated in my previous posts. 25 years ago I suffered from asphyxia, which might be the cause of my brain damage. Being taught to read before school was just a precaution so that I would be at the same level with the others. Sweet dive into blackness.

Sometimes when I had nothing else to do I stood by my window to conduct a statistical study of mine. It took approximately 45 minutes before someone entered the shop. Some of them walked right past, then turned around, and walked in. On my way home I stop to see if they have a new girl in the window. Usually I am so hungry that I simply have to keep going.

Five years ago, around midnight, someone was buzzing my buzzer. It was not the first time I had been woken up, so I went downstairs to see who it was. A stereotypical Finnish engineer was struggling to stand there. He was staring at the speaker, like he was hoping my face would appear on it, but we were not used to fixing things this side of the city. His face had a red glow of the lights on the opposite side of the street. That poetic moment is one frame in the comic strip in my mind. The elevator ride was eclectic. A bag of words fall like snow, free verse fall.

The opening pan from the son’s view at the end of the corridor is slowly zoomed into the glowing face of his father’s, a face that the merciless arctic winds have lashed while he has stood on the deck of his own creation. A tear flows on his cheek, freezing on its way down, but it is not a tear of passion. His heart is colder than the winter in the Arctic, or at least, it should be. He has a polar bear’s heart.

A swart chord in piano lingers on for a moment when the camera is focused on the neon sign on the opposite side of the street. The pedal is cleared gently like a feather: the pianist’s career highlight. This shot introduces the cold neon shade that is the only alive color on the washed out palette. A square root of a natural number is not a trick, but right now he suffers from painter’s colic.

Melancholic strings allow the viewer to swan into the engineer’s son’s direction to the other end of the corridor. No words are needed to depict this archetypal débâcle of a Finnish father-son relationship. Many readers of mine know exactly what the narrative is about, but I break the patterns.

The next few days were somehow empty. I used to pretend that it does not affect me. I do not do that anymore. The most honest people I have ever met were the ones I used to queue for my bread with, people with a natural smell. He had two jobs at the same time, and he slept only four hours a night. After that summer he bought his first car. I used to throw away bread. I used to fire a gun. One shot stops the movement, three eliminate the target. The four sexy rings make me colder.

Once upon a time, he belonged to a movie club. A humble plastic bag being blown in circles by the wind would crystallise the viewer’s ideals. It is a long time since I watched it last time, but this scene is still somehow stuck in the back of my mind. For some it is the bottom, for some the climax. It would show me the way when I need to make a wise decision.

When I was younger, he used to ask if I wanted dessert. He would have coffee anyway. The older you get the less plastic your mind gets. When the experience expires, you will be replaced. I want to have a place. I want to be his boss’s near genius son who had deprivation of nothing, and who looks at his watch and then looks at me. I want to be Harittu 2.0 who has higher tolerance for every irritation, and who is thinner, more muscular, and more efficient. I do not want to be an icy crystal, limited to the spectrum from red to violet.

Why would I bother carrying a thing with me that does nothing but ticks? It does not make me any faster, but it might cause me to miss a flight. They are wizards what comes to time, but they cannot bend the laws—the big questions of life. He can change his car to a wider one, he can fly business class, and he served in the army as well, but for me he is worth zero. I told him this was the last time we would meet. It was the last time I would see his expressionless face. I was superior to him. The camera pans out.

In the morning he has a microsleep at the traffic light. In the evening his inner voice is angry. In a consulting room the garden has no tree. In some other room, white walls and whiter coats around him. A loving family that once had white teeth surrounds him. I have to make my father proud! I have to… Would you pick a minor or a major is just a choice. The last frame is bright.

I feel like a dessert. Without him I would not be me, and that is the point. Everything in this reality we call life is defined through a price tag, and that fact will never change. How we perceive this reality, instead, can change. I like to study alternative ideologies, but they only give me perspective, not a solution. There is a time when you collect, and there will be time when you are just left holding the bag. I feel I have something in the bottom of my bag already. I feel…