Wednesday, 31 August 2011

Jukka Kaukinen



Dear François,

I’m writing you this message to say that I'm alive. It was a while ago. Seven years? I was younger then and you looked more attractive, according to your blog. You told me you had more energy than a squirrel when you were younger. According to your last letter (from 2007) that dynamism is fading. I’m a bit exhausted as well nowadays. I want to come and visit you. Your untroubled town seems like fiction to me these days, as I pass my days in this northern part of the disc. I looked at your small town on Google maps and I think I saw you. A rickety guy in a black coat in the middle of the summer. The face was blurred but I think it was you. I send some of my corrupt verse to liven up the sundowns for you.

mountain gone tablets
mountaintop
removal my pencil moustache
disappeared to boot

My girlfriend bought me live candles. She said I needed something “vibrant” in my house. So here I sit among moving shadows. I guess I’m writing you this text to tell you something. The problem is I really don’t know what it is.  It’s not about me, promise. There’s nothing much to write about this male-ego other than I’m older and blanker (and more stupid) than when you last saw me. I’m a materialist who uses matter to fill my void.


The white walls I had around me as a young chap on rehab have crept inside. All the evenings we spent drunk, roaming the darkness in the backyards among livestock. And yet you write you can’t continue like this any longer. I will definitely come and visit you. We will stay in your ménage and drink the local thirst-quencher. It will be a f**ing vacation for me. What's wrong with Dumas? 

dragged to
zombie bar by a
tall 45 yr. old man
sounding like a 90 year old
as he speaks
his pal half the size

You told me in your last letter of some classic (I can’t remember) in which the protagonist fires a gun against his head because he can’t face middle age. Well, that’s a waste. I don’t know if it was Dumas. Probably not since you hate him. I love him. Anyway, as I went off the train in Stockholm at 7.15, I think it was in February, I felt like throwing up. There was frost in my small beard. Snow storms. But then there was something inside me, something capable, which told me and probably most of the people around me (they too looked like they wanted to puke) that life is easier if we stop using most of our right brain half. So I smiled later that day. Chuckled. Normally I don’t use the left brain. Some people say the world belongs to those who give up the waste of sophistication and keep track on rewards. I know you would tell me it would be castration.  But the eunuchs in Turkey were richer than street urchins. I know you hate me for writing this. And I love you for being the opposite.   

You know what? I just killed a fly. It looked quite content in the light. I didn’t want to kill it, but I didn’t want it in the room.  We are both part of that hopeless generation, people born in the 70s who never can find a place. We have the ambitions of the older generations but the prospects of the younger. You dig lilac and never forget when you were a street urchin. I used to play guitar in recreation centres in the 90s and really had chicks. Some of my friends are rich artists but most are just poor. And so there are you, comrade. 




Jukka Kaukinen is 37 years old and lives in Stockholm, Sweden. He writes and dabbles in art in his spare time. He works with maritime education and sales. He is an ex Anglophile turning into a Francophile. 

2 comments:

Jesse.s.mitchell said...

very cool. I very much dig it. I am also turning into a Francophile. good work.

Anonymous said...

Thank you, France is the best. As a European I can easily go there and it's the best country. Fuck, exept for Åland. But thats not a country, it's a half country. A Swedish population but Finish realm. They have their laws.

Sorry, me rambling on as ususal. I love that. It's my problem. One of my problems. :)