At last, the fun part is about to start. Forget the pillars, the two-by-fours, the cement porridge. I’m already gripping the hammer, I’m revving the electric saw. Nails will fly in formation, and my laughter will echo between sky and sea. Wooeee.
Moving to the other side; leca blocks to the left of me, leca blocks to the right of me, leca blocks in the front of me, leca leca leca blocks, everywhere and in no particular order. And guess who the poor dork is, who mixes his cement with a biceps-powered stick? Yes, that poor dork would be me. Churning and churning, while I’m burning and burning.
Like watching grass grow, I know? You can barely see change, can you? Impatient rascals! As our world revolves around the sun at about 30 kilometres per second, sometimes it does you only good to smell the roses. And since I’m so funny, I built a tree into the terrace…
It’s a drag, but somebody’s got to do it. Digging, wrestling with big boulders, carrying materials, mixing cement… and not much to show for, except the soft crying in the evening, when my poor disabled feet violently protest. But I wish my doctors could see me now…
And more shall come.
The beginning is always humble. But I’ll tell you this; I love using the big stone drill. Makes me feel manly. Yeah.
Project manager series continues tomorrow.
There is a place on earth where God himself comes to eat his breakfast. The place in question is a beautifully situated mountain ledge draped in greyest granite, with a steep drop some twenty metres above the sea. And really, I’m tired of picking up his light blue Persian Earl Grey teabags every morning…
But how can I blame him? The timeless amount of time-measuring units I myself have spent at this lonely place of the horizon gaze, the tumbling thoughts, the plotless noughts, yes in truth, here I’ve had the Gallen-Kallela paintings chronicled on the vast canvas of my eyes.
See? The mere idea of sea meeting stone far beneath my feet is enough to throw me into a lyrical vortex!
Duly returning to the order of the day, come what may: I’ve been in full building mode for weeks now, and am rapidly nearing completion. Of what, you ask, before I had time to tell you. Of a terrace, I answer.
A big terrace of wood, embraced by the shapes of mountain curves, smack dab on the place I just “described” in crazed syntax a minute ago. When my work is done, God will want to do lunch here too…
Oh. You didn’t know but… just like me, he doesn’t take sugar in his tea.
I will not, can not, and totally refuse to ruin this post with pictures. However, in project manager 2, starting tomorrow, you, the wonderfully privileged reader, can follow every step of this odd and primitive male ritual called “building a terrace” all the way to the last nail. Until then, get your imaginator running.
See you so so soon.
Rowing, fishing, shooting. Is there anything else?
Safety first…
Yes, there really is a fish on the other end…
Happiness is a warm warm gun…
No mysteries, no alarm clocks, no suprises. Above all, no excuses. It’s July, and I do everything there is to do in the world except rocking the computer keyboard. But it’s hard to stay completely away…
In between entertaining guests, cooking up awesome meals (you must try my divine Jack Daniel’s marinated grilled ribs!), reading Andy Warhol’s “a” novel, boat driving and beer drinking, fishing & fishing & fishing… in fact, the usual and widespread assortment of sun + sea play… I’ve also been on building rampage.
This is just a teaser. I found a beautiful “kelo” (gray, hardened wood) log in the mountain forest, promptly cut it down, proceeded to drag it into the kitchen. Trickier than you may think and not just like that, shelves appeared, and also the drilled-out holes for bottles.
If you look carefully, you’ll see that the holes form the shape of a wine glass… very much high-brow 1970s architecture, hihi… très cool & oooh la laah.
I’m telling you, the pictures do not do this fabulantastic kitchen wall/separator justice. But me, from sitting here, well, I am, as the Americans say, super-pumped! And if your accent is more toast and beans, proper chuffed!
Anyhoo, you read and I said that this was just a teaser… so keep your eyes peeled like little baby bananas for my next project. And oooh, what a project it is! Oooooh! OOOOOH!
Happened tonight: I dreamt I was Cannavaro in a Lamborghini, and every girl in Torino wanted to sleep with mio.
Having calmed down and regained composure after yesterday, it’s time to shut this case called football. Hard to fathom I won’t open it for two years from now.
But instead of useless futures I want to dwell on the glorious past. As we all do know, the past always beats the future. The future is an empty jacket, the past a belt full of life muscle. Yesterday, oh yesterday, all my troubles seemed so far away.
As a European, it makes me truly happy that European football swept the stakes. I live in the Northeastern corner of Europe, a smashingly cool place in every sense… bar one: Finnish football, the deadest duck of the pond, don’t even try to enter my illusions. You are banished from this head forever!
No, when it comes to football, another particular region of Europe is my homeland and stead. All balls lean to Rome and those Dolce & Gabbana ads in GQ.
My own ALL-STAR team consists of… nothing else but Italians. Sure, my chins are painted in rectangles of green-white-red, but there is not a guy I would change on Scuderia Italia. Perhaps I was banking on Toni and Totti more than I should have, but I still wouldn’t trade them for, say, a pair of Polish footballers that do not play for Poland, a dirty French headbutter, or the all-show but no-go-the-distance South Americans.
Gee, I wouldn’t have to, because I have Buffon, Cannavaro, Zambrotta, Gattuso, Materazzi & Pirlo.
The class! The panache! The spirit without limit! My grandma can play all the remaining positions; it matters like a drop in the Mediterranean.
A word, if I may, about the final. The first twenty minutes was wonderful, with lots of spring in the step, run, speed, flair and flash. France got a very very cheap penalty – Materazzi tried to jump out of the way, dammit! He barely nudged the frog!
[Not that Italia was not on the receiving end of a cheap penalty in an earlier game, but can you see my hands – they are waving away that one like it never existed].
Happily, the Maser redeemed himself with his high head in the right place a little later. Unfortunately, the game slowed down and close is never the cigar.
I was waiting for Italia to pounce late, like they did against ze Germans. It never happened; instead the Algerian Zorro couldn’t handle the smacktalk of the bonehard Maserati-man [he was everywhere yesterday] and committed the absolutely dirtiest foul of the whole cup. Red card! Phuiii! Out you go, in disgrace. Ruining an awesome career like that… tut-tut and thank you, curfew.
How I feared the penalty shoot-out! In three attempts, Italia has never won one. All too well did I remember Baggio, and I was watching the proceedings from between my fingers. But what do you know! When all things were said and done, my team had become 4-time World Cup champions. Here, count my fingers; not one, not two, not three, but FOUR…
I feel a strange mix of relief and sadness that the World Cup 2006 has come to an end. The games I’ve missed can be counted on one hand, and spreading my hands in protest has become second nature. The excuses to open that one more can of beer have gone the way of the condor, and where will I now go to find excitement? Iraq? Hello same old boring life, I’ve come to talk with you again.
Oh, I mentioned relief, didn’t I? I lied. I shit on relief. I feel pure sadness, and that’s that.
Farewell, football. I’ll cup your perfectly round ass in two years time.
[Guess I've heard that they play football in between the big tournaments. I wish I could get worked up about that. But it’s like watching the little leagues after this…]
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