marjatta

THE BUS LEFT ME OFF by the university, which was in a city, maybe even Washington in the District of Columbia. Wherever it was, the yellow-hued brickwork and soldierly architecture looked all too familiar to me. That hustle and bustle of an urban conurbation, construction site cranes looming, sticky humidity, gliding metro escalators and stuffy streetcar exhaust. I walked along through the pedestrians and noise. I went into the school through the side door.

A long time ago, around the time that Nirvana’s popularity peaked, I had been in this same building. I was sure of it. This was my alma mater, Sconset Junior High. If you went in by the side door and turned left down the first corridor, it would take you straight to Mr. Archimedes’ wood shop, where we once fashioned daggers and other weapons using the saws and lathes. In between, the grand auditorium, where year after year the theatre arts program staged beloved productions for the community. The next corridor led to the music department, the domain of Mr. Stuyvesant. It was all familiar, as I said, except that some things in the school were new.

The original school lacked a second floor over this wing, for example, but this version had one, with a staircase up. Maybe it had been added later? I went up the steps and looked out the windows, which showed that stretch of I Street between 23rd and Pennsylvania Avenue. Trash cans, hot dog vendors, and the shuttle bus to the Mount Vernon Campus. This was exactly where I was living in the spring of my junior year of college, except that my junior high had been transposed onto it. It was truly weird. On the second floor of this strange, fusion school, Marjatta was about to sing a ballad. She had a concert and there were posters on the walls. I went to all of Marjatta’s concerts. Who wouldn’t go to see a singer who looked like a maiden from the Kalevala? She wore a red dress, her chestnut hair was done up like Little My. I was never sure if Marjatta was amazingly beautiful or not, but I really liked her. I stood there with my camera, ready to take photos. This, I thought, would be welcome, boyfriend-like behavior.

Around her stood and sat a group of other Finnish musicians. They too were out of place. But when they finished their set, Marjatta just brushed aside me with her small entourage of bassists and percussionists. She made some quick eye contact with me, but said not a hope-extending word. That was all. Unrequited love and all that. I was stunned and disoriented. I watched Marjatta walk down the hall. I was back where I had started, wherever this place was. My melancholy youth of looking out windows.

border control

AFTER THE UNITED STATES COLLAPSED, it split predictably into smaller entities like the Mountain Union and the Gulf States. There was also the New England Confederation, its capital at Boston, based on the ideas of the 1814 Hartford Convention. New York, the Empire State, decided to go it alone, and anyone traveling from the New England Confederation to Long Island had to go through a customs check shortly after crossing the Rhode Island border in Connecticut and before boarding the passenger ship at New London bound for Orient.

Being a native-born Long Islander and passport-carrying, “birth right New Yorker,” I tried to get ahead in line there, but it was of no use. The line at the official New England Confederation-New York State border went up and down metal staircases. To my surprise, everyone else in line was wearing bathing suits and sandals, and it soon occurred to me that border control resembled a sort of water park, or maybe they had decided to monetize it in that fashion, which would not be at all unusual. There I waited and I didn’t even have a towel.

At the thronged counters, I gave one of the officers a piece of my mind, but she waved me away with Yankee disdain. She was a dark-haired lass and might have been a Pequot or Narragansett, at least in part. “How downright typical of a pushy New Yorker to expect preferential treatment,” the woman at border control told me. Then she gave me a rubber bracelet, the kind that anyone might wear in a water park, and pointed me toward the ship.

a seat at the table

I HAD A SEAT at the table, but what a table! It was a long, wooden table with smooth surfaces that were almost soft to the touch, unvarnished, the kind of table you might see as the centerpiece in a spread in the Country Living magazine. It was also unusually tall, standing two or three storeys high, at the least. The legs of our chairs also reached down the height of the table, so that if I looked to my side, I could see tiny pedestrians going about their affairs, women walking dogs, boys on bikes, delivery cars arriving. Was that Manhattan down there?

At this table in the sky, there was a kind of supernatural service. A server set down a drink in front of Kerouac. He examined its contents, taking a moment to admire the way the light split and dissolved into it and then breathing in its sumptuous and potent vapors, as if it was a medicinal or even spiritual elixir. Kerouac was wearing a blue suit, which seemed unusual for him, and he had a few white hairs climbing up his sideburns. His brown greasy hair was combed up at the top, and he looked a bit worn, a bit frayed. Kerouac beheld his chosen spirit again and then in an instant, drank the first third of it from the glass. “Ah,” he said. “Ah ah ah.”

To his left sat Riken, the lanky Japanese mountaineer, in full hiking gear. He held some papers in his hand, A7 layout, with neat rows of black printed text, Times New Roman. The title at the top of one of these pages read, “The Adventure of the Snake.” He said, “I’m not sure what I think of it. I’d give it maybe a 3 out of 10. Or maybe a 3.5 on a good day. Three point three? Somewhere in the low threes.” He sighed. “I’ll tell you what I think of it,” Kerouac grumbled. “I think it’s total crap.” “But I was inspired by you, Jack,” I protested. “I’m trying to emulate you.” Kerouac drank down the second third of the drink with a gulp. “Well, kid,” he said. “You could do a better job. You’re not really devoted to your writing. Allen,” he addressed a third man, who was lying across the table on his back, staring up at the sunlight. “What do you think? Allen?”

“What?” Ginsberg turned over on his side, and it was young Ginsberg, with the hair and the oversized glasses that made his eyes look two sizes larger than they really were. “I’m sorry, I was just talking to William Blake,” he said. “Allen, what did you think of his stories?” Kerouac said. “Oh, I loved them, they were fantastic!” “Thank you,” I told Ginsberg. “Actually, I think I was more inspired by you when I was writing them. Surely you can see echoes of Howl in my writing. ‘I saw the best minds of my generation, destroyed by madness.'” “Starving hysterical naked, dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix,” Ginsberg went on. “See, Jack, the kid was inspired by me and not by you, by me, not you!” “Your messianic robes don’t suit me,” he said. “What do you say, tomodachi?” Kerouac asked of Riken. His arms were crossed now in deliberation. His craggy, weather-beaten face bore a pensive expression. “I still say 3.3,” he said. Kerouac turned back to me. “See,” he said with a grin and a shrug. “See! Listen to the man.” Then he lifted his glass and drank the final third.

back seat

THERE SHE STOOD in her overcoat on a cold day in the countryside, surrounded by friends and family. I don’t know why I happened to be there, or why I happened to be seated in the back seat of my own car. Her husband was there, their children, and plenty of other neighbors, colleagues, employees, and diverse hangers-on. Soon there was a knock at the car door, and I opened it. “We really need to talk,” she said. I could see, through the opening to her tan winter’s coat, a white dress, almost the kind that a bride would wear at a wedding. Her strawberry hair was pulled back in a thick braid and steam came from her lips when she spoke.

I moved over in the back seat and she got in. “What do you want to talk about?” I said. “This,” she answered. Then we began to kiss passionately. We had wanted to kiss each other for so long, and the moment had arrived. Instinctively, I fondled her breasts, feeling their full heft in my hand. Her skin was soft, milk white, and I began to pull at the material. “No, no,” she said. “We can kiss, but let’s not get …” “Too late!” I said, and began licking her. She had lovely dark nipples, which stood out against her flesh. I had heard rumors about her from other women. Even they had been aroused by the sight of her in the sauna.

Just then, we heard her husband calling her name in the distance. He called to her as if he was seeking a lost dog. I could hear the echo. I kissed her again on the lips and whispered, “Go and be with your family. Don’t worry about this. From now on we shall just have this little secret.”

the adventure of the snake

I HAD AN APPOINTMENT at the salon. I was scheduled for a trim by Juula, my favorite hairdresser, at precisely 1 pm. When I arrived there on bicycle, I saw there was a line out the door and many of them were speaking other languages, one of which was certainly German and another one was probably Latvian. I am rarely able to recognize Latvian, but it’s become the default “other language” I use in such cases. Some Latvian teenagers were talking to each other and I realized I would have to wait. They were beautiful girls in puffy winter jackets.

At the door there were two other surprise guests, Rhys Jonathan and Salil, schoolmates from Sconset High. They had certainly put on weight over the years, resembling Tweedledee and Tweedledum from John Tenniel’s 19th century illustrations. Rhys Jonathan’s throat was strange though, and upon inspection, I saw that it had been sliced open during some kind of sword fight, but was sutured with safety pins, like Clancy Brown’s Kurgan character in Highlander. “Don’t mind this, old friend,” Rhys Jonathan said, gesturing at his neck. “It’s a minor wound.”

Later we went for a stroll and Rhys Jonathan and Salil updated me on their adventures, the most titillating of which was Salil’s run-ins with a snake. Salil had been cohabitating with a sort of nightmare hippie witch woman who had turned him on to prostatic stimulation using a real-life serpent. This was a tiny golden tree snake that she had trained specifically for such male-pleasuring purposes. I found the whole story unbelievable, but Salil insisted it was true and took us to his home, which was in one of those cellar apartments in an old rowhouse, the kind you find in Washington, DC, scattered around up in Dupont Circle and in Georgetown.

His girlfriend was there, her hair was matted and dry but she had not yet started on dreadlocks. She had on a black tank top and ripped jeans and certainly did look a bit mischievous and evil looking. At the same time, her sex appeal was undeniable, and I found myself wondering if, had she seduced me, might I also be convinced to undergo the snake treatment. “But isn’t it odd to have a living creature in your ass?” I asked Salil. “It’s giving me low-key Richard Gere vibes.” “Don’t knock it until you try it,” Salil said. It was hard to imagine this otherwise laidback and civil Indian archaeologist in the throes of true snake ecstasy.

His girlfriend then displayed the snake in a jar, which slithered from side to side, it’s tongue darting in the air. She never said a word the entire time we were there, but her dark round eyes had all of us captivated, especially as she paused to roll herself a new marijuana cigarette.

Just then there was a mortar attack and someone shouted out, “Russians!” A loud blast followed, a stunning light, followed by thick and harsh gray smoke. When it cleared, I could see the snake on the ground, its glass jar shattered. Its yellow skin had turned black. The snake was dead and Salil’s girlfriend had disappeared. Salil crouched over the snake and seemed moved by its loss. “It was a good snake,” he said. “Come on,” Rhys Jonathan said. “Let’s leave.”

After the war started, I returned to Viljandi, where I found three Amazon packages outside my door, one of which had already been opened. These were full of organic granola bars and small candied citrus fruits, pears and apples. Foodstuffs that would come in handy during the conflict. Some of it had already disappeared and there were wrappers strewn around. Then my daughter came out of the house, munching on something. “I hope you don’t mind,” she said. “I was hungry.” “Take the boxes and go back into the house,” I yelled. “The Russians are coming!”

My daughter retreated into the house and at that moment Rhys Jonathan and Salil arrived on bicycles with a third friend, Kutsukalli, a Dutch-born academic and lover of dogs. “Kutsukalli is an expert on Stalinist interrogation techniques,” Rhys Jonathan said. “He will help us as we organize resistance against the Russians.” I looked up at Salil, who had lost his beloved ass snake, as well as his nightmare hippie girlfriend. We knew they must be avenged and that my daughter and her hoard of granola bars must be protected. Retrieving my bicycle from the wood barn, I mounted it in a cavalier way and we cycled ahead to reconnoitre the enemy.

the best coffee in los angeles

THIS IS THE CITY, Los Angeles. But rather than being down in that sprawl that stretches across the hot desert belly of California, we were up in the impressive heights around Hollywood that somewhere connected via a patchwork of canyons and elevations to Malibu and the waves that smash against the rocks. It was here that we, after disembarking at LAX, stepped onto a train that traveled the heights. The cliffs were astonishingly, breathtakingly steep. In fact, as we were told by the train conductor, accidental falls were a leading cause of mortality throughout Los Angeles, as tipsy aspiring actors and actresses were prone to defenestration. As the train rolled along, we saw a woman tumble out of a condo to her death. I remember her black hair, the way the wind pushed against her, the sparkle of her dress.

Later I went out for a stroll, leaving the rest of our tour group behind. At some intersection downtown, I encountered Jõehobu, the elite Estonian diplomat, whom I was convinced was secretly running the state, though he brushed away all insinuations of being a deep state actor. “Jõehobu?” I said. “But what are you doing in Los Angeles? I didn’t notice you on the plane.” “I arrived yesterday,” he said. Even though it was a hot day, he still had on his sweater and his gray hair was meticulously combed to one side. His gray stubble was at its standard length. His wise blue eyes smarted behind pince nez glasses. He carried a book of Bertolt Brecht’s plays. “Come with me,” he said. “Welcome to LA! I know where we can get the very best espresso!”

So we went to a small café somewhere in the jungle of LA. An older woman was working at the counter when I placed my order in Italian, and she answered me back in a halting way. Then a man arrived, delivering my drink. He was a black-haired fellow in a white chef’s coat. Parli Italiano? I asked him. Un po, he responded. “What the hell do you mean, un po? This is an Italian café! You have the best espresso.” He then began to speak to the woman and to Jõehobu, who was already sipping his coffee at the bar. He was speaking to them in Estonian. “Don’t you know we’re in the Estonian House?” Jõehobu said. He was reading a two-day old edition of The Los Angeles Times. “But you said they have the very best espresso.” “They do,” he said. “Just try it, man.” I stared down into the black liquid and lifted it. “This better be good,” I said. Jõehobu only nodded. “Trust me. Why would I lie? This is the best coffee in Los Angeles.”

‘the bat is in the tree’ by stuart ironside

AND NOW FOR SOMETHING COMPLETELY DIFFERENT. I had the good luck to see the guitarist Stuart Ironside perform at the Pärimusmuusika Ait in Viljandi, Estonia, at the very end of November. This is the one song that I took home with me, or the one that wouldn’t leave me alone. There it was, watching me. It was hovering and flitting around me like …

… like a bat in a tree.

Ironside — yes, that’s his real name — is originally from Oxford and came up playing classical music, Oasis, and Radiohead like a loyal Briton. But he’s since ventured into something that might be called “minimalist ambient meditative guitar.” In particular, he’s drawn, especially in Estonia, to being in the presence of and reacting to nature. He goes out into the woods with his instrument and listens to the trees talk and he talks back at them with his strings. There’s an almost monastic devotion to this experiment, as he communes in his sensitive, musical way. As such, the forest sounds on this recording, available on his new record Music from Somewhere Else: The Enclosure, were recorded in Vääna-Jõesuu, a beachside village to the west of Tallinn. Ironside recorded “The Bat is in the Tree” and other songs in a sauna there. This is not music designed to sound like something. It is that something, captured in the raw.

Ironside made a first attempt at the song in London in 2023. “I had the main riff at the start of the song for a few months, but didn’t know where it would go,” he recalls. “I refined it over a few years and live performances, with an emphasis on trying to ring as much emotion out of as few notes as possible.” Ironside also tried to emulate West African lutes like the xalam and koni for “The Bat is in the Tree,” but also drew upon both British and Estonian folk. The result is a satisfying and pretty listening experience. This is the kind of music you listen to at the start or end of the days, when you put your legs up on the bed, breathe out, stare at the ceiling and close your eyes, trying, perhaps in vain, to forget the tiring agony of the world.

middle america

I TOOK A GREYHOUND, deep into Middle America. Through green hills, corn fields, byways and highways. For whatever reason, I was heading for Wheeling, West Virginia. From there, I was supposed to connect to a bus that would take me to Reading, Pennsylvania. However, I believe my departure point was Portsmouth, Virginia. At least that’s what it said on my ticket.

When I got to Wheeling, I disembarked and decided to go for a stroll. We had about a two-hour layover in West Virginia. I came up the main drag, there were small crowds of men and women standing around, as if they were all unemployed. They were dressed as if it was still the 1930s, and the place had a Great Depression feel. Their trousers and skirts flapped in the wind.

Walking along those streets, I remembered that there was a mass shooting in America almost every day now, and that it was best not to get too close to large crowds of people. Instead, I walked by the facades of buildings, always thinking of where I could hide myself if there was an active shooter. The First National Bank had wide columns that would make a fine hiding place.

Somewhere up ahead, I turned left, along an old river canal. Here the bridge was badly in need of repair. There were clumps of dark weeds sprouting up through the cracks in the sidewalk. There were some old garages and shanties along the canal, and when I peaked inside one, I could see Americans sleeping on the dirty floor, maybe half a dozen to a dark room, in sleeping bags and old cots with their mouths ajar. They all had those rosy Normal Rockwell cheeks.

I came back to the bus station, thought I might get a bite to eat before the long bus ride to Reading. A woman came out of the station at that moment, heavy set with short brown hair and said, “Hey, I know you. We bought your book when we were in Tallinn last summer on a cruise!” “You did?” I said. I was suspicious. How could it be that people in Middle America knew who I was? “We all know you,” she said. “We’re all fans of Estonia. It’s a lovely little country.”

mca’s 61st birthday

THE SCENE, an industrial area, a dump, maybe both. Rory Lapp, the acclaimed Estonian writer and poet drives in first, then I follow him, our automobiles follow a set course. It’s almost like we’re rally racing. Yet there are no competitive drivers, just rusting manufacturing waste that brings to mind a mineral processing plant. At some point, Rory leaves his vehicle with a sort of industrial plant valet and I do the same. Then we head into an old building, vast and obviously post-war, with a peeling façade. It’s an auditorium. Light wooden floors. Burgundy curtains.

Inside, everything has been renovated. I can see that we’re in something like a basketball court set up for a party. This is one of those multipurpose halls. There are long tables on both sides, and on stage, an unfamiliar hip hop trio is performing. They are pacing with microphones, trading rhymes, and a DJ spins records in the corner, cutting back and forth. At the head of the tables, I see a familiar-looking man, clean shaven, with a full head of wavy hair. He wears a red button down shirt, open at the top, and looks somehow lost in thought or just unimpressed.

“Who is that?” I ask from one of the partygoers, who is loading his plate from a bowl of potato salad. “He looks just like …” “That’s MCA,” the partygoer responds. “Today is his 61st birthday. Weren’t you invited?” “I guess so,” I say. Now I can see that MCA, also known as Adam Yauch, also known as Nathaniel Hornblower, is at the gifts table, and guests are hovering around him as he unties every last big package. I look down and see I have a gift bag in hand too. It’s full of my own books. “Yauch loved Minu Viljandi,” somebody says. “He’s a great fan of your work.” “He is?” I answer. “I have to say, he looks great for 61,” someone says. “Sixty-one?” another answers. “And I thought he was dead!” “Isn’t he though?” I ask them. But nobody answers.

Slowly I make my way to the busy gift table. MCA is seated there. He still looks like he’s part alien or something. Did the Beastie Boys really smoke so much dope back in the day? Or was it all that Tibetan Buddhism that did that to him? MCA is functioning on some other plane of consciousness. He’s floating around in the Third Bardo. I am afraid to even say hi to him. He’s a big superstar, one of the greatest emcees ever. I’m just … But how did MCA even find out about me? MCA looks up as I hand over my gift. He nods in his good-natured, all knowing way. Kind, sympathetic, brotherly. The man looks as if he’s about to speak. MCA looks up and says …

pärnu police

AN ARREST WARRANT was issued for me due to an unpaid parking ticket in the Pärnu Beach area. I went to the police headquarters and turned myself in to await the outcome, and was told to head downstairs. The punishment would be about a night’s incarceration, and I figured there were worse fates than to spend a night in a Pärnu jail in December. While not a deluxe Danish facility, they had comfortable bunk beds, and surely I could get some reading done.

Once I got downstairs though, I discovered that there was no one there and nobody came. After about half an hour of waiting, I decided to leave the building. Again, nobody was watching me as I walked off toward the Port Artur shopping center, where I ordered some Hawaiian food from a very complex menu. “Did you want the spam with plain rice or with fried rice?” the woman at the counter asked me there. For reasons unknown, my parents were with me and they also wanted some Hawaiian food. My father was glum about the whole police situation. “You know you’re going to have to go back to jail,” he said. “It’s only a matter of time.”

Later, I went with my family to a new adventure park that had drawn upon East Coast maritime themes. There was an old whaler’s church, for example, and a series of Algonquian wigwams made of fresh birch. My wife and I went into the picnic area with our children and had something to eat. By this time, I had forgotten all about the Pärnu police and that they wanted me to do hard time for the parking infraction. But then a police officer turned up at the adventure park and announced my name through a bullhorn. He said that I had to return to Pärnu police headquarters at once, that I still needed to serve out my one-day sentence.

Not knowing what to do, I kissed my family goodbye and headed toward the tip of the peninsula, where I found my old friend Annikki selling crafts at a fair. She was there and her mother Liivika was there, and her three children were climbing all over her. I bought a coffee from a vendor and complained loudly of my plight to some Estonian journalists I knew, one of whom had been just recently posted to Kyiv, and so had seen far more in his time than I had in mine. Here was a man who has seen the charred bodies of drone attack victims, and I was crying about spending a night in the Pärnu police station. “Your father was right,” he said, while biting into a powdered donut in the concessions area. “You have to go back to jail.”

Just then I noticed some police officers approaching, and I took Annikki by the hand. We hid beneath a blanket, and I watched her breasts rise and fall with her breath. She was wearing a skirt and a black top. Annikki smelled quite nice, maybe of lavender, and I was surprised that I had never noticed her scent before. Her mother Liivika came walking by and noticed our legs sticking out from beneath the blanket. “What do we have here?” she said. “We’re just talking about Annikki’s handicrafts business,” I told her. Annikki was happy to hold my hand, but just that. She wasn’t ready for any below-blanket hanky-panky. “I expect much more from a man than holding hands below a blanket,” said Annikki. She had very blue eyes and very platinum hair and was very beautiful. “Especially a man who is being pursued by the Pärnu police.”

They started to pack up their wares from the festival and Annikki was loading boxes of goods into the back of her car. They were set to go to Tallinn to another festival. Her children were climbing all over a nearby playground like happy woodland squirrels. I kissed Annikki on the cheek and began walking along the bluffs overlooking the seashore toward the bus station. I came down long, sandy lanes dotted with pines and hedges. At the intersection of two streets, a young man was out selling a whole house full of handwoven traditional baskets. It was really just the bones of the house filled out by long shelves, stacked up with his goods. I tried to take a picture of it, but by the time I got my phone out, he had begun putting the baskets away.

I looked down at the sea and noticed how strange the coastline looked. There were large underwater knolls in the water, and I could see how vegetation had grown up and down the sides of these features, and how little whirlpools had formed between them. Down the way, I came into a seaside tavern, and then was ushered into a back room, where a group of Estonians had assembled to sing traditional songs. They began to sing together and as they did, I looked through my bag, only to realize I had left my journal with Annikki! My prized journal, full of all of my darkest secrets, brimming with compromising material. I left the singing room and called her at once. Annikki picked up. “I know everything now,” she said.

“For your own sake, please don’t read any more,” I told her. “I’ll come up to Tallinn to retrieve it. Just don’t read any more of my journal.” “I saw what you wrote about that girl,” she said. “You said you wanted to …” “Oh, this is just horrible!” I said and hung up. What a day, pursued by the Pärnu police and now a missing journal? At the tavern I was approached by some Indian students, three or four of them. “Don’t you recognize us?” one of them said. “No,” I answered. “We’re studying at TalTech, you wrote an article about us last year.” “I did?” “Yes, it was about our new steam apparatus.” “It was?” They all looked at each other. How could this journalist have forgotten everything in so short a time? “Are you okay, man?” one asked. “You don’t look so good. Let us buy you a beer!” “It’s the Pärnu police,” I said. “They’re after me.” “Even more reason to start drinking,” one of the students said. The singing room was just letting out and one could hear the lovely chiming sounds of kannel music playing gently in the background.