Gösta's winter

Those three letters are eternally simmering in an eternal "drink up buddy, it's late but not too late".


Driving through arctic landscapes. The end of the world. Thick mist hovers over the ground. A sun that never sets.


Gösta sits on the ferry. The drone of engine & crushed ice. A childhood neighbor sits next to him. They don't talk to each other. The neighbor's kid slurps an ice cream cone while his mother smothers him with sweet-talk. Gösta tries not to listen. The neighbor's wife talks with a drawl. She's nice, even the villagers attest to that fact. And those folks are not easily charmed. But Gösta doesn't know her. Gösta doesn't know his neighbor anymore, either. There's no hostility. There's genteel silence.

Turku is a beautiful place. Gösta admires the warm glow of the Holiday Inn building. It's snowing like hell that day. Gösta's feet get wet. You should not be wearing sneakers all year, fucker. Gösta is on his way to apply for a passport. The police station is another cozy place to be. Gösta sits in an orderly row, contemplating his existence, contemplating the existence of those sitting beside him. Gösta places himself in Omsk / Oregon / Orivesi. Antsy, but for what?

Gösta's gaze is glued to the ground. There's a heap of sky in those icy crystals.

Gösta is fire & brimstone. Gösta & the Carter family. "It takes a worried man to sing a worried song....I'm worried now but I won't be worried long".... Gösta & looney Christian music. "I'm going to the mountain with the fire spirit..." These are weird times. Gösta will learn to play the banjo. Gösta will stand in a street corner. Gösta will sing stern songs about the apocalypse. On sunny days, he will sing about fluffy corn fields. Some drunk will smash the banjo. Gösta will be snowed on & rained on. // Gösta takes a nap. Gösta's thoughs are drifting. Gösta should think more. Gösta should think less. Gösta sells his soul for a slice of pizza. Kebab & pickled gherkin & garlic. Gösta sells his soul for a dime. The next application is due on the 31th this month.


The sun begins to warm again. Gösta takes walks in the company of retired people in love who wear matching outdoor clothing. Blue for the gentleman, pink for the lady. Middle aged people with spans of dogs. Three of four of them dogs, a dog owner ogling the surrounding as if on a killing spree. But most days Gösta walks the streets alone; not a soul anywhere to be seen.

Gösta & you sit in a café pretty close to the police station. It's like in the movies. Police officers sneak in like pearls on a necklace to grab a donut. Pink, dripping with fat. Berliner donuts. Gösta could sit here all day, peering through those blinds, while tuning into a story by officer Tuomo or Jukka or Outi. Gösta's tooth aches for those Berliners, too. He should have enrolled at the police academy. He's got what it takes. Agility, persistence, an eye for the situation. The division between right & wrong, he has an intuition for stuff like that.

The liberty van. Where is it headed? It stood outside the Silja terminal. Maybe the liberty van is about to spread the gospel of liberty on board of some cruise ship or other. Are they hippies? But then they are minimalist hippies, based on that sparse little pattern. Or is the pattern scattered-about crosses? Maybe the van belongs to a fire-and-brimestone preacher from whom Gösta could learn a trick or two. They could tour the cruisers together. Sing songs, announce the end of the world. Gösta delivers, you know that.