My Darling Wreck E-Book

Katariina Vuori

• Herausgeber: Books on Demand
• Kategorie: Geisteswissenschaft
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Seitenzahl: 62

Beschreibung

My Darling Wreck on arkeologinen mocktail ja Oulusta vuonna 2019 löydetyn Hahtiperän hylyn biofiktio. Tuhannen ja yhden männyn, luovuuden, omaelämäkerran, akateemisen kritiikin, mystisen fiktion ja oudon realismin yhdistelmä. Se on emotionaalinen ja lyyrinen tutkimusmatka akateemisen maailman steriilin horisontin taakse. Tarina vanhasta, nimettömästä hylystä. Runollinen selviytymistarina ja humoristisesti kuvitettu rakkauskirje mätänevälle muusalle - 300 vuotta vanhalle limisauma-alukselle. "19.6.2023 I went through my process diary entries. All of a sudden I noticed, that my emotions towards you followed a funny pattern. First there was a sudden burst of feelings, mixed feelings. A crush." MY DARLING WRECK is an extraordinary mocktail of archaeology. It is a biofiction of a wreck. A fusion of a thousand and one pine trees, creativity, autobiography, academic critique, mystic fiction and weird realism. It is an emotional and lyrical expedition beyond the sterile horizon of academia. It is a tale of an old, nameless wreck. A poetic survival story and a humorously illustrated love letter to a rotting muse - a 300-year old clinker built vessel discovered from Oulu, Northern Finland. It is a tar-scented testimonial of insecurity, taste of a touch and object attachment. "At the dawn of all these abstracts, articles, figures, affiliations and tables, what is left is the process. The rollercoaster of emotions, unlimited enthusiasm for that magical old wreck. I call it curiosity." This essayistic work can be regarded as fact or fiction, weird realism, autoethnography or an uncontrollable stream of consciousness. It displays creative methods, which can aid in a research process. In cultural heritage work creative verbal and pictorial output serves as a form of nonintrusive, creative conservation. The book plumbs the therapeutic value of a rotting vessel. This book asks, why don't we talk more about our feelings, aren't they the roots and must-have for curiosity and inspiration?

Leseprobe

Contents

PROCESS DIARY NOTE 31.8.2022

They are so very technical.

You are a great enigma.

Once upon a time

To start with,

19.6.2023

There was an unspoken darkness and cruelty in you.

I : LOVE STAGE #1 CRASH, BOOM, BANG

The very first time:

She rests on the bottom of a deep excavation canyon,

For some reason she was

This is all speculation.

When the surge whipped

A tarry cloud wrapped us

Let’s talk about Kismet.

The saw buzzed

IN THE NAME OF SCIENCE: typical of you in comparison to

A unique discovery.

Process Diary entry in September 2019

For everything big or small

To keep up my motivation and sanity,

My appetite for her grew

Process Diary entry February 2020

Process diary entry November 2020

Sensorial experiences;

II : LOVE STAGE #2 ATTACHMENT

I’m begging money

Eventually the stormy excitement

Love is a powerful force,

An object like you

In psychology,

Process diary entry, not dated, between March 2022 and July 2022

Psychologists say,

Process diary entry Autumn 2023

Come old chap, my darling wreck!

AND BECAUSE YOU ARE NAMELESS…

III : LOVE STAGE #2 ATTACHMENT

Process Diary entry, September 2023

All of a sudden

Sometimes lovers become friends

She is simply just not the same anymore.

Process Diary note November 2023

All those people and non-humans

Process diary note 16th of January 2024

My anger has gone.

Those who will one day enter

Three hundred years ago,

PROCESS DIARY NOTE 31.8.2022

Don’t touch it!

That’s what I’d like to say, really scream, and shovel sand back on you.

Cover you quickly like a child covers a particularly fine treasure. Small and pretty or big and ugly.

You gleam in the August sun, dark as a negative grid on the inside of a seashell. Rainbow flickers on the west side of your rib cage.

The smoky, licorice-like scent of tar and pitch rises from the bottom of the pothole - your den - and suddenly I get the urge to taste you.

You glow in the slanting sunlight, splashing and rippling like an oily miracle, an illusion.

I’d like to lick your surface, clean you from bow to stern, side to side.

Clean as a mother cat cleans her blind kittens. All that sand and sawdust from the gaps between your futtocks, the grooves in those planks, the clinker seams.

You would itch and hiss and when I had finished my cleaning, we would lie in the tar-scented August sunshine and we would think good things of each other.

They are so very technical.

They treat you like a commodity.

As a persona non grata, a running meter, a throwing cube, a stack of boards.

You are measured and described and classified.

They want to date you

(So do I: teetering candle light and pink champagne).

Simplify you to something assessable.

They don’t understand that you have the spirit of the forest in you, that the old resin in your cells, still pulsing as the moon grows full, tiny pathways for the sugary viscose of life to travel.

They don’t understand that creatures like you can miss the life they once lived.

In your shape and in your silence I hear the melancholy of the sea.

You are a great enigma.

You are a ton of question marks.

An excavator has chased you, underneath asphalt, sand,

gravel, a tightly packed layer of sawdust and centuries.

You wake up in the center of Oulu, sleep-deprived.

Like a coma patient.

All around you there’s havoc; machinery pounding the ground, satellites pulsing masses of information, electricity stuttering and creeping inside tight wires, exhaust gas vapour, billions of humans inhaling plastic air, drinking plastic water, applying plastic on their skin and someone talking on the phone, an invisible wave travels in her ear and comes out of her mouth, describing you to a marine archaeologist in Helsinki.

”She’s like a princess, perfect, fragrant, sculpted by God or something, maybe a Poseidon’s arbor, a bastard at least.”

That’s how you should be described, but you’re not.

You are judged by your form and how old and how deep you are.

You’re one of the oldest of your kind in northern Finland.

By archaeological criteria, you are significant, unique.

But to me you are even more: you are a saviour.

In your wake, I feel like I’m staying afloat.

Just as you see the light in August 2019 for the first time in a long time, for a sharp, heavenly moment I feel the same way.

Who are you, where did you come from, what do you want to be done to you?

With you?

On you?

You are miraculously well-preserved, but human has already done you harm: when the hotel was built in the early 1970s, you were knocked down by a machine or a shovel or a devilish and indifferent mind, and now parts of your north-facing tapered body and east-facing ribs have already rotted away.

The air is poisonous to you.

Did they even apologize?

Once upon a time

there was a brackish, shallow sea.

The Romans called it Mare Barbarum, and on the shore of that sea was a small country.

In the narrow and shallow inlet of that sea, in the seventh zone of the geographer Claudius Ptolemy, far to the north, there was a small harbor where a tiny little clinker-built pinewood ship floated.

The harbor served a small town of a thousand inhabitants and small houses along muddy alleys.

In the small houses of the small town lived people with big dreams.

Along the river, large tar barrels were brought into the town in long boats like pea pods and large merchant ships with large sails were moored in front of the town.

Neighboring the small country were lands whose rulers dreamed big.

There was a great country, ruled with great desire and great fear.

In that small harbor in the seventh zone floated a small ship carved of pine wood, suitable for small waves.

There was great wrath and many great fires.

That little clinker-built ship sank beneath small waves and fell into a deep sleep lasting three times that of Sleeping Beauty.

Once upon a time there was a small country, far to the north, in the seventh zone.

That small country had an angry neighbor and in that small country, in that shallow inlet of the sea, there was a small town and a small harbor and a robust and simple clinker-built vessel for big dreams.

And there they are to this day.

Dreams and all.

Love boat exposed. Katariina Vuori 2023

“Should the wreck of an ancient ship ever be discovered, a collection of a multitude of its timbers, knees, ribs, beams, standards, fragments of masts and yards, bolts, planks, and blocks, would be une chose à voir, and would make the learned as well as the unlearned stare and wonder…”

Thomas Pownall 1782

“Account of a singular Stone among the Rocks at West Hoadley, Sussex.” Archaeologia 6: 54–60.

To start with,