Pretty dreary

Today seems to be one of those days when everything is sort of sticky and slow right from the beginning.  One of those days when you know that no matter hard you try - and in truth you don't try very hard - everything's going to conspire against you having a productive day. 

The weather is grey and uninspiring. The computer is slow. Just when you get in the right mood for some work (writing a thesis in my case), someone calls you, and BAM, the thread of your thoughts is tangled again. In the supermarket everyone moves just as slowly and aimlessly as you do, not looking anyone in the eye, blocking the aisles with their slow trolleys. You pick the slowest queue in the whole darn shop - possibly in the whole universe - and wish you had the presence of mind to open the bag of sweets you're buying, before you've paid for it. 

On most days, if things start piling upon me like this, I just get pointlessly angry. Today, as befits a slow and sticky day, I've just been drifting around in a half-awake haze, hoping that the aforementioned bag of sweets might brighten things up a bit. 

And it has. The best part of the day is already hopelessly wasted, but at least now I'm fully awake.  The other thing which contributed to my newfound alertness was this startling piece of poetry: 

Right on.

The fruits of 22 labours

It's been some time since I've written any kind of a book report here. Let me amend that lapse now. I know that's what you're all have been clamouring for at the backs of your minds, without really even knowing it. 

I won't go through all the historical books I read last summer - for after checking my reading diary I noticed that there is quite a number of them, most dealing with the Austen/Napoleon period, most appropriately. The memory of most of those, however, has now been blocked by Wolf Hall - which I'm reading now, and which is every bit as fantastic as they say it is. The (perhaps only) problem with a book of that stature is that it tends to overshadow everything else I'm reading at the time, diluting the pleasure of other books by reminding just how good prose can get. 

Fortunately Wolf Hall is facing some fierce competition; one of the books I read about a month ago refuses to be blotted out by another. I'm talking about Stella Tillyard's Aristocrats, a real-life story of four Lennox sisters whose lives spanned the latter part of the 18th century. The book has been made into a TV series, and that's how I first became aware of  the lives  of these quite amazing women some years ago. The splendour of the setting is one thing (after all, Caroline, Emily, Louisa and Sarah Lennox were aristocrats born and bred, and wed into well-connected and wealthy families), but what strikes me most is the sheer tenacity of the Lennox women and their strong mutual affection and loyalty, which must have carried them through some hard times.

I mean, if you've given birth to 22 children (like Emily did), you'll be mighty glad of some family support. 

Tudor times were also an era when family connections paid off; this at least was emphasised in Philippa Gregory's The Other Boleyn Girl.  I really liked the novel, especially Gregory's effortless depiction of Renaissance England and the court of Henry VIII, as well as her frank descriptions of the ribaldries that went on there. Placing Mary Boleyn in the centre of the story (instead of her more illustrious sister) is a good choice, as it gives the plot an element of suspense (after all, we all know what happened to Anne Boleyn). Yet I was somewhat disappointed in the rather straightforward solution of making Anne the scheming shrew and Mary the motherly lady-in-waiting who is all heart and loving tenderness. The Career Woman vs. the Mother debate in a nutshell = one gets her head chopped off, another gets to settle down with a good man of her choice.

Another book which gave me some ambivalent feelings is Mrs Caliban and Other Stories by Rachel Ingalls, which I just finished. I liked the slightly twisted starting points of the stories (including people being kidnapped by grannies in Switzerland, cheating their wives with a lifelike doll, or getting caught in a rain of frogs), but their solutions were depressingly rather similar. Most of the men (boyfriends, husbands, bosses) were portrayed as heartless bastards who only use women for their own gratification and start slapping them around when they show some character. That may work well to illustrate an important point in one novel, but after seven or eight of the same, the reader (or at least I) begins to feel the need of some more life-affirming stuff. 

Perhaps that's why I've been listening to a lot of Monty Python lately.

"poems are as vague as air and as necessary"

I've been working on an article (on 70s rock press, since you asked),  which has exhausted my brainpower quite effectively; so instead of me trying to be clever, here's a lovely and rather uplifting video by a Canadian poet called Tanya Davis.

Via Broadsheet. And soon all over the internets, I suppose.

And did those teeth in ancient times...

The weather's been most uninspiring for the past week or so, and I can't say that spring in general agrees with me. All that light and slush and birdsong just makes me restless - which doesn't bode well for the PhD.  Motivation seems to have jumped out of the window, and at the moment sitting still and writing a few coherent sentences now and again is all I can manage - just barely. 

A part of me is already frolicking in the old Green and Pleasant (where Otter, T, and Otter's brother - another T - and myself are headed next month). The pessimist in me tries to put a damper on things by suggesting that perhaps we haven't yet seen the end of Icelandic smoke and ash - and many volcanoes can erupt in the next three weeks. Yet the thought of all those full English breakfasts, pints of bitter, lovely Devon countryside, and perhaps even the moderately lovely city of Bath (which didn't impress me on my first visit - but I'm willing to give it another go) keeps me going, despite the cold weather and academic underachievement. 

Talking about achievement - here's something that has been making its rounds in the feminist blogosphere over the weekend, and made my day yesterday. Behold the power of the Brontë sisters: 

I wish I'd had a Brontësaurus when I was growing up, instead of a Barbie. Then again, Barbies could do some kick-ass stuff as well, even though they didn't come with those amazing moustaches.

British Comedy Season, Pt. 3: Smack the Pony

It's been some time since I've tackled comedy on this blog, but last night I watched some Smack the Pony, and was inspired.

There are still very few all (or most-) women comedy shows around, especially on primetime TV. The reason it took me a while to get acquainted with Smack the Pony was its woefully late airing time. Which it a shame, for STP was the wittiest, most absurd, and definitely the most feminist comedy on Finnish telly at the time.

What I love about the show is its ingenious way of taking everyday situations and turning them into something that could almost happen: having a pregnancy test turn orange instead of blue; taking revenge on your annoying flatmate by mixing washing-up liquid into her yogurt - or, meeting a lexically challenged postgirl:

I think everyone who's ever had to write English can sympathise with her despair over silent Gs, and the irrationality of spelling F with PH.

Another great thing about Smack the Pony are the recurring features, like these deliciously random dating agency videos:

I mean, EGG! who would have a BIG EGG! problem dating her?

All great comedies also have music in them, and STP doesn't let you down in this sense, either. At the end of each episode there is usually a music video parodying some current musical trend, ranging from peppy girl groups to trance. My current favourite, however, is this:

I nearly fall off my chair laughing every time Doon Mackihan comes in with that wonderfully earnest rap voice of hers. Woof-de-woof, indeed.

Hear, hear!

This woman is awesome:







That is all.

...let me in-a your window-who-ho-ho

Over at The Pursuit of Harpyness people are discussing their favourite  19th century novelists (such as the Brontës and Jane Austen) - and especially their favourite male characters in these books.  Most deny that they have ever spent breathless hours reading about  (or even better, making up) the exploits of Heathcliff and Mr. Rochester. Mr. Darcy, on the other hand, is much more warmly regarded; many feminists would be ready to set their cap at good old Fitzwilliam - and rightly so, for he's the only one of the three who hasn't got dark secrets cluttering up his past (or indeed his attic at Pemberley).

I have to make a confession: for me, the Brontë heros (especially Heathcliff, but also Mr. Rochester) were the stuff of teenage fantasy; Mr. Darcy, on the other hand, has always left me cold. However, having developed a somewhat maturer look on life and relationships, I can now wholeheartedly agree with the commentators of PoH: Messrs. H and R are complete gits.

Deep and dark and broodingly sexy as they might be, their world revolves around their own needs and desires - and anything (be it a mentally unstable wife or a completely innocent bystander) that gets in the way of these must be removed, usually by force. They have unhealthy obsessions, and unnaturally strong passions, which are taken out on other people (again). And yet, they attract perfectly sensible, self-possesssed women who seem to think they can bring out the best in these men. Whatever that may be.

Maybe it was the corsets. Anything that restricts your circulation can't be beneficial to your mental processes, either.
 

It's impossible to say what kind of protagonists Emily Brontë would have chosen for her next novel, but her big sister didn't show much improvement in her taste in men -  Villette for one has another bullying despot as its male lead, and another forgiving lady willing to prop up his ego. I don't know if anyone has ever has the hots for M. Paul - at least Mr. Rochester has the good manners not to patronise Jane Eyre so blatantly  (and as a reward only gets blinded and has his arm chopped off, whereas M. Paul - at least according to my reading - doesn't survive the old Brontë treatment).

Anne Brontë was perhaps the most sensible of the three - at least when it comes to the representation of men in her work. Hark! A Vagrant illustrates this beautifully: Dude Watchin' with the Brontës, ladies and gentlemen.

As to Jane Austen men, I can't say that I've been much moved by any of them (unless we're talking about the film versions. If so,  Colonel Brandon is my man). Perhaps it's got something to do with the stiff manners and the stilted sentences of the period, or the slightly stock-like nature of Austen's heroes (the protagonists have to get married in the end, after all); thus, while reading Sense and Sensibility, Emma, or Northanger Abbey, my attention mainly remains with the thoughts and feelings of the female characters.

Persuasion is the exception here: Captain Wentworth is a very intriguing character (with his Past and all), and a worthy equal of the poised Anne Elliot; he's made his mistakes in the past, and is not willing to be swayed by anyone's opinions (at least when it comes to choosing a wife). He's a bit gruff, but at least I get the feeling that he can also laugh at himself (a trait Mr Sourpuss Darcy certainly doesn't possess). And he's got a big ship.

Although P&P is undoubtledly the most sparkling of Austen's novels, Persuasion has got a quiet dignity that I like, and also some  brilliant insights into human nature. The final conversation between Anne Elliot and Captain Harville is a gem:

"Yes, yes, if you please, no reference to examples in books. Men have had every advantage of us in telling their own story. Education has been theirs in so much higher a degree; the pen has been in their hands. I will not allow books to prove anything." 

"But how shall we prove anything?"

"We never shall. - - It is a difference of opinion which does not admit proof. We each begin, probably, with a little bias towards our own sex; and upon that bias build every circumstance in favour of it which has occurred within our own circle - -." 

And in case you've no idea what the title of this post refers to, I can only say that you've missed one of the finest pieces of popular music ever written: 

Looking back, or, The Best of 2008

Last year was a good one in many respects. It was a productive mixture of work and play, of solitude and socialising in perfect balance. Yet, this post isn't going to log all the highs and lows of 2008 - I thought I'd rather write about the books that made an impression on me last year.

So, in chronological order, the best literary bits of 2008.

1. Eeva Kilpi: Häätanhu.
I'd always thought of Kilpi first and foremost as a poet, not a novelist - until I got my hands on this book. Although it's probably aimed at a slightly older audience, I couldn't help but be mesmerised by Kilpi's magnificent language and her loving portrayal of the Finnish summer through the senses of a middle-aged woman. On the surface nothing much happens - in an isolated cottage there's even no one to talk to, apart from the dog - but underneath the semi-autobiographical narrator goes through her past with all its joys and disappointments, preparing herself for a new life in another country.

2. Bobbie Ann Mason: Feather Crowns.
Quintuplets were a rare occurrence in the 19th century. In her fictitious tale Mason also turns them into a media event powerful enough to stop trains. She has managed to weave into one narrative the tragic story of a Midwestern couple whose household gets turned upside down by the simultaneous arrival of five babies (and a horde of curious novelty-seekers) ,the effects of industrialisation on the American way of life, as well as the psychological journey of one woman through doubt and fear to serene self-knowledge.

3. Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie: Purple Hibiscus.
I very rarely follow book reviews because I find most of my books through trial and error, walking around in a library, browsing through the shelves, picking up interesting-sounding works and scanning them (and of course sometimes the cover is enough to convince me). This method gives me enormous satisfaction, and many times rewards me with true gems. Purple Hibiscus is one of those. Again, on the surface, it looks like a story a hundred times told: the struggles of a teenage girl to escape her oppressive home through self-discovery and first love. Yet, all the characters and the world they live in are depicted in such a lifelike way that one cannot help but be moved (and shocked).

4. Anne Enright: The Wig My Father Wore.
What is it with the Irish soil that it produces writers with such twisted views of the world? At first, Enright reminded me of Flann O'Brien, but the more I read of The Wig, the more impressed I became of her own, eccentric sense of language. To recount the plot would be missing the point; what sticks with me is the sheer brilliance of her acrobatic narration.

5. Iris Murdoch: The Philosopher's Pupil.

Murdoch has caused me some confusion in the past. The first book of hers I read was The Unicorn - a meandering work which almost put me off her for good. Fortunately, I became interested in Murdoch's life (through her husband's biographies), and experimentally picked up The Sea, The Sea which I enjoyed a lot. The Philosopher's Pupil is, in my view, a stronger work still, exploring the dark moralistic underbelly of a fictitious spa town, throwing in all kinds of weird and fascinating sub-plots (including the tortuous story of a half-Irish countertenor). As always, however, it's the language that kept me hooked.

You've all heard this before, I'm sure

November was a busy month, apparently. I have something to show for it, too: the first draft of my Licenciate thesis is now finished and I'm already working on the final version. I'm not entirely happy with it (is anyone ever?) but at least I'm a lot closer to a PhD than I was half a year ago.

I did get to meet M's new dog - I've done so several times now - and a really lively doggie she is, too. Courtesy of M, I also got to journey back in time, when a couple of weeks ago we moved her horses to a place with no running water. This meant that the only way to water the horses was to walk to the spring in the middle of a forest and then struggle back with two brimming buckets. And then go back for more water. Coincidentally, the first time we did this, we were in the middle of the most vicious snowstorm in the history of Central Finland. Gave me a new sense of appreciation towards all my foremothers who have done the same thing, day in, day out - and without the help of Airam torches.

Despite all the busyness, I've had time to listen to some new music (at least compared to the music I normally listen to). As I don't have the inclination to follow the music papers (like I did some ten years ago), all information about new and exciting songwriters and bands reaches me with a considerale lag. That is, unless my better informed friends recommend something to me.

Juska, who is a more active person than me in many ways, and keeps abreast with the music biz, has been raving about Amanda Palmer for some time. I was slow to catch up, but eventually, I had to agree with her. Palmer makes great music.

This story also made me pay more attention to Palmer (and especially her videos, which are fantastic). Long story short: Roadrunner records won't promote Palmer because her belly is too fat. See the offending video (which is also behind the link) and judge for yourselves; as for me, her belly was probably the last thing I would have paid attention to in the visually rewarding video.

Here's another vid of Palmer's, dedicated to no other than Sarah Palin. Includes scenes of rape and coat-hanger abortion set to jaunty music. Brilliant, and extremely disturbing.






Another artist I should have heard about long ago is Anna Ternheim, a Swedish singer-songwriter of the old school (at least compared to Palmer). The songs I've heard tell of heartbreak, isolation, and solitude, and are delivered in a pure, charmingly accented voice - a perfect soundtrack to the pre-Xmas weirdness.

'No Subtle Men' is my current favourite.




A week of academic activity, and then I'm going north for a few weeks of frantic piano-playing, chocolate-eating and gingerbread-making. Should be good.

Getting arty

Been doing a lot of writing lately (mainly my licenciate). So here's an arty picture to make up for my silence in the blogging department. The thing in the middle with three white splotches is Ruttu, a teddy bear that followed me home from Yorkshire.

Next week will be a more socially active one. I was promised

1) that I'd get to meet M's new dog
2) that I'd see the wondrous new colour scheme in M's house (lots of yellow, she said)
3) that there will be a new feminist reading group
4) that there will be lots of wine
5) and some coloured paper, glitter, glue and other miscellaneous fun at Otter's place in H.

Looking forward to it.

A nose by any other name would smell

Went to an overly optimistic seminar today - there were people there trying to teach us poor PhD students how to turn our theses into commodities, i.e. how to make them sound more interesting to the general public, how to sell articles to newspapers and get rich and famous overnight. We'll see what happens. If I won't get famous by Xmas, I'll sue the History Department.

An interesting little incident occurred towards the end of the lecture. A youngish man put on his coat and collected his stuff: a dead giveaway that he was going to get out before the session was through. He excused himself to the lecturer by saying that he was leaving because of "family logistics".

Sounds important, doesn't it? It's not just picking kids up from the kindergarten; that's what mothers do. He made it sound like he was planning some sort of intricate process of moving people from place A to place B with the greatest efficiency. Which is exactly what mothers do. They just never make it sound so important.

I don't mean to denigrate his choice of words (or indeed the fact that he was picking up his kid(s)). In fact, I kind of admire what he was doing. I seriously think we women too, need to come up with such ponderous-sounding appellations for our daily tasks. If nothing else, it might just promote the idea that none of the domestic duties (cooking, cleaning, shopping, childcare etc.) is our biological destiny.

I'll leave you with this brilliant clip:

(via feministing)

What did the women's lib ever do for you?

19 As a 1930s wife, I am Very Poor (Failure) Take the test!

Yep, it would have been a bleak life for me as a 30s housewife. Dunno which counted against me more, the habit of cooking in my PJs or the fact that I don't "praise marriage before young women contemplating it".

This reminded me of an article I read some time ago (tried to google it but as it was an online newspaper thing, naturally it's gone now... :P) about three British women who aspired to be 'perfect' housewives, living in homes decorated in the 30s, 40s and 50s style, respectively. Presumably they begin their day by dressing in their lovely vintage clothes, doing their hair and face, then proceed to make a nourishing vintage breakfast for their manly husbands in their immaculately clean vintage kitchens (the 50s kitchen looked particularly enticing).

I can't remember if they mentioned what they do all day when their husbands are at work (besides bake pies and lounge in their painstakingly constructed fantasy worlds). My guess is that they hang around at ebay trying to find more lovely vintagey stuff).

Naturally, they all thought that life was much better, lighter, purer and less scary in the first part of the 20th century when men were men and women didn't have to worry about careers or having opinions of their own.

Such an easy life, I know, and I'll have to admit that there is something slightly appealing in the idea - until you realise that these are 21th century women who've had the choice to live like that, and who have husbands who have enough money to finance this silliness. The forties may sound like a charming place to be, with impressive-looking cars and jaunty hats, but imagine yourself running to a air-raid sheter in the middle of the night, dragging along half a dozen bewildered kids, and then tell me about how women in the past were so much better off.

Anyway, I'm off to the opera.

Here goes...

Starting a blog is a bit similar to writing to a new penpal (remember those?): it's important not to sound too eager and tell everything about yourself at once. Yet, you'll have to tell all the interesting bits or else they'll never write back.

This blog, like most blogs, will probably include pointless ramblings about my daily life, the books I read and the music I enjoy, but occasionally I might be inspired to write some more pointed entries. These will most likely include ramblings about popular culture, women's rights, the price of milk, and postmodernism.


We have a rocking chair
Each of us rocks his share
Eating muffin buns and berries
By the steamy kitchen window
Sometimes we do
Our tongues turn blue.

- Joni Mitchell: Sisotowbell Lane