I am not a confident geneologist. I don’t see brave generals or visionary statesmen in my family’s musty portmanteau. My paternal grandfather was a minister, strict, Finnish Lutheran, with a homeland in the sky. My great grandfather, I don’t know. I tell myself this does not matter, that we’re dust. I don’t need a grand, familial narrative. I try to live without a vain heart.
This is a splendid thing to do. But here’s a cautionary note: without the queen of Sweden in your trouseau you must live with things. Vacant lots. Poor sky. Corrosive rust. Fat stars.
Live and let live. Lean from the window railings. Talk to strangers. Walk about with the aloof majesty of an idiot.
Trust in the alien reality of stray dogs.
Planet of the Blind 