tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-134063512024-03-08T04:46:17.398+02:00Itching for Eestimaaa blog about the world's only post-communist nordic country.Giustinohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04756707910693785516noreply@blogger.comBlogger868125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13406351.post-51231489462754935632017-04-27T12:16:00.001+02:002017-04-27T12:30:48.437+02:00clams on the half shell and roller skates<i>Head aega</i>! This is the all-purpose Estonian goodbye. It is more sincere than the forced <i>nägemist</i> which implies that you might see the person again, and though you most likely will, there is the possibility that you won't. (There is also the presumption that you might actually want to see the person again). Then there is the androgynous <i>nägemiseni</i>. I once used this with my friend Mart, but he blushed a bit and said, "Justin, men don't say <i>nägemiseni</i>." That's <i>nägemiseni</i>. It's for little girls, apparently. But <i>head aega</i>! It just means, literally, "good times." Isn't anyone worthy of good times? I can still hear Nile Rogers chinkalink guitar on Chic's old disco hit "<i>Good times/These are the good times/A new state of mind/These are the good times</i>." The funny thing is that for the Estonians, <i>head aega</i> is something an older serious person would say to you. This is the cry of the old men. For Americans, it sounds like leftover stoner. "Good times, man." "Same to you." Like you should be munching on chocolate chip cookies in the corner of a college keg party in Connecticut listening to Chic. Not that I know anything about that. Gotta run now. <i>Head aega</i>!
Comrade Doshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06592076854811518484noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13406351.post-72754941059778683012017-04-19T08:13:00.001+02:002017-04-21T12:02:54.855+02:00when the heart corrects itself<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
All of life is a process of tuning in, and a process of making decisions. I can find the very places in my old journals where certain decisions were made. These are silent, internal decisions. I wonder sometimes to what extent the Estonians around me have mastered these kinds of facts. Many seem to be experts when it comes to the human condition. I recently asked K. and M. at the cafe if they believed that it is possible to feel another person's feelings, even if they never express them, even if they are in another city. Both of them looked up from their coffees and said, in unison, <i>muidugi</i>! Of course. M. is a woman and so a witch. Most Estonian women see an equals sign between <i>nõid</i> (witch) and <i>naine</i> (woman). There is no separation between the two. If you are an Estonian woman, you are a witch. So, yes, we are dealing with some 'next-level' stuff here. The idea that your heart can correct itself, can choose to tune into something, if it so decides, makes perfect sense in this eerie place. The twin enemies of these things are fear and doubt, I've learned. If you can ignore your doubt, accept your fear, you can get somewhere.</div>
Comrade Doshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06592076854811518484noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13406351.post-75545196146872796532017-04-11T07:56:00.002+02:002017-04-11T07:58:15.971+02:00when the heart goes silent<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
A morning where it's hard to get out of bed. I used to have these long ago, before and after. After school, too I would come home and just try to sleep through the rest of the evening. And then the morning too. I felt myself in free fall without any catch. You cannot expect anyone else to bail you out in your life, but what if you can't be bothered to catch yourself? I realize this is depressing, but that's how I feel. There is something truly isolating about this country too, and this feeling does come to other foreigners here. The distance between people is greater, the embraces are not genuine, at times, or feel awkward, and beautiful women run roughshod over your heart, like one of those primitive plows they use out in the countryside. But what do you do when the heart goes silent? You try to tune in, but it tunes out. The signal is lost. No frequency.</div>
Comrade Doshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06592076854811518484noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13406351.post-66933487387044707562017-04-02T07:38:00.004+02:002017-04-02T07:41:29.462+02:00where's your seal?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
N. needs a man with a hammer, but M. is a <i>höövel</i> sort of man. This was related to me recently by an estranged yet amiable couple, one that cooperates at all levels, and yet whose personal life is that of sister-brother, not man-and-woman. I had to look up <i>höövel</i>. It's a carpenter's plane. M. would prefer to slowly and easily work his wood into shape, but N. wants it all done, now. She wants a man with a hammer to take over and nail things into place, not some easygoing <i>höövel</i>. "I don't even know what I want," I tell this troubled duo. "Maybe just some kind of Inuit woman, in a warm igloo, with a lot of sled dogs," say I. "And we just lay there in the furs and have a lot of sex and that's pretty much it." As if caught in a dream, I end my vision of the perfect relationship. "You know, you don't need hammers or a <i>höövel</i> if you live in an igloo." "You still have to provide," says N. "Are you really willing to go out and tackle some seal, pull it out of the ice, and eat it?" "It doesn't sound so complicated," I say. She squints. My seal-catching talents are in doubt. "Ready to come home to an angry Inuit woman grunting to you, "<i>Noh, kus su hüljes on?</i>" (Where's your seal?) This idea sours me out a bit, leaves me cold. I was there with the steamy igloo sex, but demanding <i>iglunaised</i> are all the same I guess. Grumpy and dissatisfied. </div>
Comrade Doshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06592076854811518484noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13406351.post-14585383210532623632017-03-26T22:16:00.005+02:002017-03-27T14:56:06.398+02:00gold paint splashes of sun<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Sunset is the time I usually arrive back home to V-town, I can see it riding up beyond the horizon as I come up past Vana-Võidu, Jaan Tõnisson's birthplace, etc., those shadowy pillars in the smoky dusk, the outline of an ancient city. I am so eternally grateful for the stars in the deep Atlantic blue sky, that come out just beyond dusk, which lingers so deliciously, those gold paint splashes of sun, the white gold light all over the facades of Old Town, the hills that roll down and away, then curl up on the horizon, with blue-green evergreens patterned up upon. Where better to be than here among the verandas and wood barns and moss? I'll take the silence, the quiet traffic hum, the too familiar faces and maddening conversations ... I feel somehow beyond the <i>kaubanduskeskuse maailm</i> of Tartu and Tallinn and anywhere else here, safe from that department store world of discount sausages and organic soaps, where most of the remaining good of the cities has been encased and surrounded and jailed in plastic and metal and escalators. There's more. When you get lost in life, as I have, you must live on not by your wits, but your "heart." If you don't, you betray yourself and get ever deeper into this labyrinth of life illusions. High rows of green hedges rise spreading to gray horizons. Somewhere a bird sadly singing. Sometimes I wonder how many other people are lost and if they even know it. </div>
Comrade Doshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06592076854811518484noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13406351.post-6109820758289822242017-03-21T11:58:00.001+02:002017-03-22T08:38:56.776+02:00you used to all come here<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
You used to all come here for the geopolitical analyses, okay. People are worried, the media shows British troops amassing in the Estonian hinterlands, the American tanks in Narva, specter of Russian aggression, the pro-Kremlin zombie stooges amok on the commenting boards, like the worst case of Montezuma's Revenge. Shit. I just don't feel it though. Maybe I am just too blissed out by the advent of spring, those lovely little birds chirping (and yes, spring did come to Europe, even in 1939) but I just don't <i>sense</i> the danger and here's why: because short of invading Estonia, losing a lot of little green men, getting into a nuclear eye-for-an-eye, city-for-a-city, and imposing Yana Toom on the throne as a yes woman (who will be perpetually pelted with rotten potatoes and turnips until driven into exile in Damascus where she can behold and becoddle her boyfriend Assad's hand lovingly), the Estonian leadership now is, quite honestly, the best the Kremlin could hope for. The President, Kaljulaid, is a born and raised Estonian woman whose outlook east is not the outraged Atlanticism of her predecessor, but the rather common moral superiority of the nordics ("the situation is not ideal, but the ethical state must make do, etc.") making her sound, in a roundabout, removed, unfinlandized yet way, like Tarja Halonen. The prime minister's party had that deal with United Russia in the '00s, which probably doesn't mean much, but it does mean <i>so very much</i> to the Kremlin ("our guys are in power there"), the same way that Lavrov still talks about Swedish "neutrality" as if it really meant something, or that they're flustered about being "engulfed by NATO," when it's obvious the West is in shit shape. That doesn't mean that the gasket protecting us from global meltdown isn't going to blow soon, but if it does, it's probably going to steam in Korea or some such place, where heavy missiles land in the seas. In which case, we all should feel alert and alarmed, no matter where we are. </div>
Comrade Doshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06592076854811518484noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13406351.post-18600458923964276672017-03-06T15:20:00.004+02:002017-03-06T15:24:50.376+02:00morsa tussu<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Back here, contemplating the human condition. Some days are wondrous, bright, sun-backed, a white light on the castle ruins, other days a bit more blue and gray. Ain't so easy to walk into a cafe and spit out a mouthful of Estonian after a few weeks back in the US. All of those vowels. Sometimes I think people only pretend to understand me. ("What is he saying? Something weird again. Who knows!) I think about the male-female back and forth, about things that are inferred, things that are never said, things that are said but that mean something else. The iceberg theory! Above water, only the tip, but below, whoa, down and down it goes. I remember how once in the New York Aquarium in Brooklyn ages and ages ago, I stood watching the walruses dip and twirl in the waters, then was astonished when one pushed its nether regions up against the glass and realized that I was looking at the largest vagina I had ever seen in my life. "Maybe she likes you," someone said to me at the sight of that massive <i>morsa tussu</i>. Maybe so. I appreciate it now, how direct nature can be. What was there to misinterpret? It was just <i>there</i>.</div>
Comrade Doshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06592076854811518484noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13406351.post-40193980265206279192017-01-24T13:18:00.002+02:002017-01-24T13:59:28.982+02:00through green house glass<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
It wasn't too long ago that the president arrived to V-town with her entourage. Some plain clothed security guards, a police escort. From the lip of the sewer across from Rohelise Maja I awaited her entry. This is my favorite sewer in Viljandi because of its most ungodly awful rot smell. "They're supposed to fix it in the next few years, because the sewer and the street stuff run together," says Enn the proprietor. "But whaddya gonna do? That's life." Enn says if it's still ripe by summer they'll put an easy chair out there for me. "Get a good whiff." Ooooooh ... that putrid funky pungent stink stank stunk of Estonia, up in your nostrils. So Kersti arrived, never saw her sneak in. In through the back door, I guess. I only glimpsed her through the dark window glass, leaning over her goat cheese salad or whatever. The telling bangs and mop of hair. She went ice skating the night before, down on the lake, or so they said. The children of Viljandi were whispering. "<i>The president is ice skating, the president is ice skating ...</i>" I was happy with my glimpse and that's all. Not a message to relay. Tell you the truth, I was invited to my share of Independence Day Galas in the Ilves era, but never went, somewhat out of shyness, mostly because my partner refused to go. She dreaded the annual edition of <i>Kroonika</i>, the garish cutthroat tabloid, where they take down the best and worst attired. <i>Hirmus!</i> Who could blame her? If I had gone though, they wouldn't have let me in anyway, because I would have worn traditional Calabrian attire, the daring clothes of <i>briganti</i>, which includes a musket and cutlass ... </div>
Comrade Doshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06592076854811518484noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13406351.post-91335535417717756322017-01-18T10:31:00.000+02:002017-01-18T10:32:06.711+02:00the ireland of russia<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I confess my ignorance of 20th century British political history. I knew the name Anthony Eden, I knew he had been prime minister, I knew he was a SIR Anthony Eden (naturally), but I did not recall that he was Churchill's foreign secretary during the majority of the Second World War, and I did not realize he urged Churchill to <a href="http://www.winstonchurchill.org/publications/finest-hour/finest-hour-147/coalition-for-victory-1941-1945-the-real-dr-win-the-war-winston-churchill-and-britains-place">recognize Soviet control</a> over the Baltic countries, which Churchill opposed. The unfortunately named Lord Beaverbrook was even more adamant about recognizing the Soviet takeover, referring to the Baltics as the "Ireland of Russia" -- an apt comparison, but one that most would see as strengthening their bid to retain full independence, rather than accommodating their subservience to an ancient imperial master. Those were the days of map rooms and sitting rooms and sitting in the map rooms looking at maps. The Aegean Islands! The Ljubljana Gap! The Ireland of Russia! It was supposed to be history. Now it's back.</div>
Comrade Doshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06592076854811518484noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13406351.post-81798090934620709682017-01-15T15:25:00.002+02:002017-01-19T12:41:45.426+02:00from here on out, etc.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Some ocean of big vulnerability these days. The whole Atlantic in my chest. New beginnings, new something. People's dissatisfaction rising. Rising within themselves, with their world. It's always been that way. Nothing's ever been satisfying. Tinkering with Eastern Philosophies. But can we Westerners ever truly understand? For so long we have lived within the Christian prism. Even the Godless ones. The way we intuit, the things that motivate us. There are regional idiosyncrasies. The distance, the space between. Does every Estonian come wrapped up in plastic or ice. Something does not happen here that happens elsewhere. I'm used to a loud kitchen, a lot of big voices and big forces. A force of nature. "You're a force of nature," a woman tells me. Sounds nice. Stacking the firewood. Lighting it up. R. is afraid to sauna. He's too English, too cultured for local tastes. He thinks that a bunch of naked men sweating in a hot room is "gay." "What do you think I am going to do with you in there?" I ask him. "Look at you, you're all hairy and ... male. I don't want to have anything to do with you." "<i>You</i> are going to sweat in there," says R., pacing the floor like a distressed cavalier. "I'm not because I won't be joining you."</div>
Comrade Doshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06592076854811518484noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13406351.post-1003839222073891062016-12-31T10:36:00.001+02:002017-04-15T13:45:32.535+02:00the one, the one<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
As the year closes, I think of its unseemly demises. With simple time, it carried away so much. Memories, people. I'll never forget that peculiar feeling I had walking along the train tracks in Tartu on the day it was over. <i>Abielu katki</i>. It was high May, California weather, sun that lingered, warmth sumptuous and succulent and erotic, the trees like Dr. Seuss would have sketched and colored them, except greener and more pungent, luscious and octopus, enveloping you up in like her red-gold locks. As I eased into single-hood, the temptation to be a bastard ever strong, I clung to ideas of her natural boughs because of what they represented to me -- the last vestiges of the soul, the last morsels of the self. Now the year ends and I am not even halfway toward her, not even a quarter of the way there, or a sixteenth. <i>"You need more time, you need more time."</i> Watch me scratch the rocky bottom of the tunnel, trying to move toward something that I'm convinced must be light. Sometimes. <i>More time, it all takes time ... </i>The<i> g</i>host of one love gone, and another arrives to take her place. Vulnerability. Deep as death. <i>Not nearly enough time, she tells me</i>. This is how it goes and goes. It's not exactly easy, all this. But what other choice do I really have? If you see light, you must move toward it, correct? Candle light flickers over dinners and there it is again, a well-contained thrill. Someday, someday. The one, the one.</div>
Comrade Doshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06592076854811518484noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13406351.post-5522176954311821882016-12-21T12:45:00.001+02:002016-12-21T12:46:43.510+02:00the darkest days<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
It didn't occur to me that light deprivation might be the cause of the immense maelstrom of sadness that has left me sprawled across a couch poking at various old wounds for days on end until I overdid it on the <i>kodujuust </i>and noticed an immediate light and easy boost in the serotonin levels. The mechanics of light, Vitamin D, cottage cheese, dark chocolate, <i>mandariinid</i>, and the like, are still not clear to me, but I understand that these are cornerstones of warding away suicidal thoughts at this time of the year. It's not just me. Most people who do not live in the north swear they would never survive without their Californian sunshine. "I could never do that." And yet we sadists contend with submarine pressure. It's sinister and dreamy all at once. Look up at those gray milk soup skies. They will turn your eyes blue, your skin white. Anyway, I am off to get some more <i>kodujuust</i>. A man's gotta do what a man's gotta do. Iceland is the land of fire and ice. Eistland is the land of cottage cheese, dark chocolate, and <i>mandariinid</i>. And the sauna.<br />
<br />
<i>Ei saa me läbi ilma saunata.</i></div>
Comrade Doshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06592076854811518484noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13406351.post-81613742677074694922016-12-11T20:01:00.001+02:002016-12-11T20:03:54.889+02:00big waters<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I wrote so much about my driving mishap three years ago, but what years have passed. The past three years have been nothing but life changing. It wasn't even every year, or month, but every week, every day of every week, that turned my life upside down. For the longest time, I clung to my ship of stability but eventually let go and began to drift in these big waters. To flow with the wet current, to accept all that comes and savor. When my US license was up, and my international one with it, I at last took my theory exam, took my driving exam, and passed fine. I have been a driver for 20 years now. The staff at <i>Maanteeamet</i> were friendly and helpful, and I found my passenger for the <i>sõidueksam</i> concise, clear-headed, and amicable. Things went smoothly, and I had no trouble. If you ask me why I never did this before, I will tell you: <b>my life used to be crazy</b>. I know I could try to explain it all to you, but no words would do it justice. But if you had been inside this person, inhabiting this flesh, it could have all happened to you exactly the same way. Now it feels quite good to be here in Eesti-land, and write in a warm cafe. Wonderful. </div>
Comrade Doshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06592076854811518484noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13406351.post-22131045919231862802016-11-30T13:37:00.002+02:002016-11-30T13:37:35.536+02:00this remote, forested place<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I do wonder sometimes about the flow of Estonian foreign policy, and the idea of the independent state in general. The idea of Estonia, going back to 1918, was to separate the country from the "rotten foundations" of the Russian Empire. Essentially, they decided their statelet was better off alone (and they were right). The story of each Baltic country's path to independence is different and involves different regional players. Consider that the first Lithuanian declaration of independence occurred under German occupation. The reemergence of the Lithuanian state on the map of Europe was a byproduct of First World War German foreign policy. One might see Lithuanian EU membership in a different light given that particular tidbit. Or that the headquarters of the Latvian Republic were for a time aboard a British vessel moored off the coast, at a moment of political upheaval at the end of the war when there were three governments in what became Latvia -- a pro-German and a pro-Russian one as well. Latvian independence owes a significant debt to the British navy. Estonia actually fought to remove foreign armies from its soil, which gives its independence a rather local, robust flavor. Yet, in 1917, when Estonian servicemen demonstrated in Petrograd, they were demanding autonomy within the Russian Empire -- the desire to manage their own affairs, not to be aligned in various military alliances. In the late 1980s, the country again demanded independence, encouraged by the example of Finland. And yet today it is Finland that remains "Finlandized," while Estonia is constructed to either the front line in the "New Cold War," or some kind of symbolic "West Berlin." As additional NATO backing arrives to this remote, forested place of 1.3 million souls, I do wonder how this all fits into the concept of Estonian independence. The people of this land just wanted to manage their own affairs. Somehow they keep getting caught up in problems many times larger than themselves.</div>
Comrade Doshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06592076854811518484noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13406351.post-88549259861512413812016-11-25T12:16:00.001+02:002016-11-25T12:19:07.585+02:00the ethical state<blockquote>An ethical state does not play with its people. A self-confident people requires an ethical state. An ethical state supports choices made by Estonians. A self-confident Estonian makes themselves happy. An ethical state does not prescribe methods of becoming happy or definitions of this concept in general or for Estonians. A self-confident Estonian is free in their choices.</blockquote>
This from the <a href="https://president.ee/en/president/biography/index.html">site</a> of the president, Kersti Kaljulaid. It seems to touch on themes central to the Estonian mindset. The 'you don't touch me, I don't touch you ideal' is played out in the concept of the 'ethical state' that 'does not play with its people' (and would like to have as little to do with them as possible, other than that which is necessary). The ethical state, therefore, will shake your hand, but with its gloves on. It will embrace you, but stiffly and ethically. Do not expect any loving kiss. You will get a chapped peck on the cheek. Enter the Estonians, preoccupied with their important work of making themselves happy. The Estonian does not look to the aloof, gloved ethical state to assist. No! The Estonian is self-reliant and industrious in all pursuits. One day, they <i>will</i> all be happy. I am quite sure of it.Comrade Doshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06592076854811518484noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13406351.post-81046985749101479022016-11-17T12:51:00.002+02:002016-11-17T12:51:56.588+02:00kennan from the grave<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Came across this <a href="http://www.nybooks.com/articles/1999/08/12/the-us-and-the-world-an-interview-with-george-kenn/">interesting old interview</a> with George Kennan, then 94 years old, from August 1999. Here is what America's premier diplomat and architect of containment had to say about Baltic-Russian relations an an interview with Richard Ullman. It's interesting for me that so many of these old issues -- NATO expansion, the Kosovo War -- seem so ancient and done with. But the Russian leadership today is the same leadership that came to power in 1999. They are stuck in the past.<br />
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***</div>
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<i>G.K.</i>: We are now being pressed by some advocates of expansion to admit the Baltic countries. I think this would be highly unfortunate. I agree that NATO, as we now know it, has no intention of attacking Russia. But NATO remains, in concept and in much of its substance, a military alliance. If there is any country at all against which it is conceived as being directed, that is Russia. And that surely is the way the Poles and others in that part of the world perceive it.</div>
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These are sensitive borders—these borders between Russia and the Baltic countries. I will not go into the history of Russia’s relations with those Baltic peoples, other than to ask you to remember that they were included in the Russian empire for nearly two hundred years in the two centuries before World War I, and much of their advance into modern life was achieved during that time. And then, for a period of almost another two decades, they were quite independent, and this was accepted by the world community and, with the exception of the Communists, by most of the Russians themselves. It took Hitler to virtually compel the Russian government to take them over in 1939, and then to put an end to their independence in 1940. And the later entry of Russian forces onto their territory occurred (and this we should remember) in the process of pushing the German army out of that region—a process which had our most complete and enthusiastic approval.</div>
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In other words, the Russian relationship to the Baltic peoples has had many ups and downs. They have been a part of Russia longer than they have been a part of anything else. For a time they were fully independent. I never doubted or challenged the desirability of their independence. I never ceased to advocate it in the years when they didn’t have it. But I don’t think that it would be a good thing for NATO to try to complicate that historic relationship by taking these countries into what the Russians are bound to see as an anti-Russian military alliance.</div>
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<i>R.U.</i>: What do you think the relationship between Russia and the former Soviet republics will look like say a decade or so from now?</div>
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<i>G.K.</i>: Oh, I don’t think it will be too troubled. After all, the Russians, under Yeltsin, took the lead in pushing them into independence ten years ago. He left them no alternative but to accept it. Why should the present Russian government wish to reverse it? By and large, Russia has been better off without them.</div>
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Of course, there are the problems of Russian minorities in two or three of those countries. In the case of Ukraine, in particular, there was the thoughtless tossing into that country, upon the collapse of Russian communism, of the totally un-Ukrainian Crimean peninsula, together with one of the three greatest Russian naval bases. For that we, too, must accept a share of the blame. But even in this case, all the recent Russian aspirations have been limited to the alleviation of the effects of these blunders; they have not taken the form of any encroachments upon Ukrainian independence.</div>
</div>
Comrade Doshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06592076854811518484noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13406351.post-62115313473572998842016-11-14T17:43:00.000+02:002016-11-14T17:43:10.398+02:00counting coup or how it went down<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Well here we are. Welcome to the cold, cynical new era. The Kremlin successfully influenced the outcome of the American presidential election in its favor. Went down a bit like this: Kremlin-backed Wikileaks divulged the information damaging the non-Kremlin candidate (Hillary Rodham Clinton). FOX and other sympathetic media turned the information into a national scandal supporting the Kremlin's favored candidate (Donald J. Trump) and other networks followed. The Kremlin candidate's past misgivings started to undermine his campaign (mid-October). The supporters of the Kremlin candidate in the FBI (Comey) reopened the investigation in a timely manner, damaging the non-Kremlin candidate by triggering another round of damaging disinformation from FOX, <i>et al</i>. This helped to depress support for the non-Kremlin candidate, pushing their selected candidate over the top. Thus the Republican Party became the United Russia of the United States. Terrifying.</div>
Comrade Doshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06592076854811518484noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13406351.post-79870432967118858722016-11-05T13:05:00.002+02:002016-11-05T13:10:07.536+02:00with f. scott at mandel<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
After going cold turkey for a while on social media I cannot go back the same way. What's more, all of the merry images and self promotion that occur there seem incredibly wasteful and vain. I can't take a person seriously anymore, he or she who prostitutes and flaunts his or her own image. It's as if the superstitious old-timers were actually right, that the camera <i>could</i> steal your soul. Never am I happier than when I am at Mandel in Tartu working or reading. This is a comforting cafe, with good coffee and good atmosphere, and lovely old-fashioned aprons and wallpaper. There, I have rekindled my friendship with F. Scott and his <i>This Side of Paradise</i>. The more I read of him, the more I recognize a similar bemused contempt for and delight with the stratum of the established and ambitious, the fiscally sound but morally hollow. And he enjoys it, you know. He does not preach disgust, but ridicules with superb fun. People ate it up.</div>
Comrade Doshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06592076854811518484noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13406351.post-12399024524110713622016-10-27T16:17:00.001+02:002016-10-27T16:20:54.372+02:00police on my back<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Standing on line at the <i>Maanteeamet</i>, overheard a fellow traveler's tale of woe. He was traveling down there in the border area, between Võru and <i>Läti</i>, when the police stopped him, judged him to be in possession of the wrong papers, and promptly <i>took his car and drove away with it</i>. "But you do have the correct paperwork," the official, an older lady, said, reviewing his file online. "You should have told him that everything was in order and he wouldn't have taken your car." At this, the man, a stocky, gray-haired sort with a jolly countenance, peered over at me with a grin, waving his hands in the air, as if to say, 'Can I get a witness?' "Don't you understand?" he told the official. "When you are stopped by a police officer, he is like the king, and I am just a peasant." He smiled to me again. "<i>Nii see on</i>," I backed him up. This is true. If a police officer in this country tells you something, there is no debate, there is no point-counterpoint, they just decide it so, and it's done. Nobody reads you your rights, although they might hand you a slip of paper that has them written somewhere. This gentleman had his car commandeered <u>by some cops in Võru</u>. The rest is just an embarrassing story. <i>Algus ja lõpp</i>.</div>
Comrade Doshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06592076854811518484noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13406351.post-70348257829233425462016-10-24T15:38:00.004+02:002016-10-24T17:48:53.256+02:00way of the samurai<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Just when this gray weather has me contemplating suicide, some little soldier inside me convinces me to go on. I have been struggling, both with cultural differences as well as physical challenges. I think people misinterpret the Estonian ideal of stoicism as being somehow Germanic, but I have after many years here begun to appreciate the populace's farther eastern links. (Ask yourself this, could any Estonian ever give a rousing, Nuremberg-like speech?) They aren't some warlike tribe from the central European peneplain, no, they are from the silent, distant east, like blond Yupik or something. So I can forgive myself for feeling lost, as lost as any Westerner would feel in, say, Japan. My eldest daughter's obsession with Japanese anime hints at recognition of that island country's mentality, the warrior-poet Art of the Samurai corresponding roughly to the stiff-backed, impersonal manner of Swedbank customer service, or the static reception you get at Eesti Post. There is a woman who works at Eesti Post who is most fetching, but whenever I give her the eye, she shrinks and wilts, as if she has never seen the sunlight.</div>
Comrade Doshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06592076854811518484noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13406351.post-83919236577486911592016-10-22T13:14:00.000+02:002016-10-22T13:14:55.439+02:00elusive inner peace<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Tomatoes, tomatoes. The chosen food. This is the one that helps against seasonal affective disorder. I could take the easy route, go for dark chocolate, but that's just too much, and it's not easy on the constitution like tomatoes. I've also got some cranberries, some mushrooms, some avocados in the mix. I saw my friend Mart at Selver, told him that avocado was the Aztec word for testicle. It's a fertility food. Maybe not a good idea for him or me (we have so many children). "Don't you know, Estonians use garlic for that," he said, bifocals on. My life is still so <i>tuuline</i>, windy, and he -- someone who knows -- said it won't ever go away, but might congeal into a scar. <i>Elu läheb edasi</i>. Life goes on. This stuff, the murky skies, the residual <i>hirm</i>, the stiff, almost sensei-like demeanor of the Estonians, it's like nine chains dragging me down. Apparently them too. All across this nation, nothing is more elusive than inner peace and self improvement. Yoga classes and tantra lessons blossom up like mushrooms. They say I should go too. Let a bunch of Estonians touch me there. Costs money though. Maybe it's worth it though. The wonderful sensation of being touched.</div>
Comrade Doshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06592076854811518484noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13406351.post-26647397226893004702016-10-21T07:16:00.001+02:002016-10-21T12:24:29.037+02:00sick for a while<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Yesterday was rough. And the day before. I am not sure when the objectionable food sneaked into my diet. Too much coffee? Too many white potatoes? White rice? You don't notice at first, then your energy gets weird. Too intense. Now I have what is called 'die-off.' This is when the bad gut bacteria dies. It releases toxins into your blood stream. I have concentration problems, I feel weak, tired, irritable. I have incredible anxiety and mood swings. In short, not a wonderful person to be around. This health problem has caused me more trouble than you know. We all have our ailments, and in Estonia, we are expected to keep quiet about them and tend to them ourselves. When someone dies, the cause of death is not announced. Too personal. In the meantime, I've decided to get the hell off of Facebook for both personal and personal reasons (yes, both kinds). Ask yourself this: is Bob Dylan regularly posting status updates? No. Too busy playing concerts. How about Haruki Murakami? No. Mr. Murakami's too busy writing great novels. What about Jerry Garcia? No. Too busy being dead. Listen, learn.</div>
Comrade Doshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06592076854811518484noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13406351.post-26273075971748434542016-10-20T08:28:00.001+02:002016-10-20T08:28:18.218+02:00a whole lot better<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Frosty mornings -- though beautiful. I don't mind shaving the ice from the windshield. The neighbor's business is called Saja Krooni Pood. I assume you got everything for a hundred kroons in the pre-euro days. I am not sure what they charge in euros, but the discount ethic is still in effect. If you ask him about the name of the firm, he'll put his hands in his pockets and say, 'Well, you never know with the euro, maybe the kroon will come back some day.' I love it. It's my own personal Õnne 13-like Estonian sitcom. My other neighbor is named Endel. He's always trimming the hedges and carrying wood and harvesting apples and cycling somewhere. He has a woman in the house too, though I never see her in light of day. Endel is always reminding me of something, because I always forget. The water meter! And the money! I really am useless. There are two older ladies who run things in these parts, both of them plump and adorable as pigeons. We talk through the windows sometimes.</div>
Comrade Doshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06592076854811518484noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13406351.post-19841254990932869702016-10-18T10:31:00.001+02:002016-10-18T10:33:06.132+02:00everything in its right place<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
America does seem to be engulfed in a sewage-like stew of molten fucked-up-ness these days, don't it? You thought the amplified instances of black men getting gunned down by the cops was enough, but then the snipers started shooting at police in daylight, and you knew the boundary had been penetrated, that there was no way back, the membrane was punctured, perforated, leaving the poisonous goo that infects the purple and green gangrenous American wound to only seep more visibly. Not just that. Everything. You know what I am talking about. Reality TV show fascism. Lord have mercy. I still do not despair for my nation of origin, though it has become synonymous with the overly indulged, overly indebted, overly gunned down obese. I do not despair when I hear the cutting remarks of the insatiable Europeans, with their fussy, pedantic, hierarchical thinking schemes. O, professor. O, great poet. O, prime minister. Yes, yes, yes! Everything in its right place.</div>
Comrade Doshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06592076854811518484noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13406351.post-54331262395150539042016-10-17T08:05:00.002+02:002016-10-17T08:05:15.475+02:00comrade dos<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
So who is this "Comrade Dos?" What happened to "Giustino"? I'll tell you -- briefly -- then I must return to typing up this column about monkey slavery and coconut oil. My handle "Giustino" developed not just out of my Italian background, but because people sensed some inner effeminacy on my part, rendering me as "Justine" in correspondence so often that I decided to add the 'o' to the end and come fully into my own as a swashbuckling Mediterranean man, a Greek sailor, which is what I am actually underneath all of this, that's what I am. I am a shipwrecked Greek sailor, except rather than being deserted on the sunny atoll of the cyclops I must fend for myself in this ghastly land of free wifi. That handle Giustino was linked to a now defunct aol account, and I moved my blogger account over to gmail, hence the birth of Comrade Dos, which is what John Dos Passos was called in E.E. Cumming's book <i>EIMI (see profile for full quotation).</i></div>
Comrade Doshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06592076854811518484noreply@blogger.com1