I went once into the labyrinth of a Helsinki library—no plan—and found a hundred books by your father. Old philosopher he was, though not “always” “old” but still, I bet he was “old” so you had to be fast and odd.
You got yourself some wristwatch utopias right away.
And a red piano.
**
I met a ghost in Helsinki. I was young enough to be surprised, old enough to worry.
I was walking with Tim, our mutual friend.
We stopped at a toy store. Six year old Pablo went inside to see the insect kites.
It was April. There was weak afternoon sun, the sun you get in the far north.
We lit cigarettes, I remember, and talked about poetry—Tim said something and I said something, and then I said—“I see!” And poof! There beside us was an extremely old man.
He was agitated. His skin was thin as paper. He had a wisp of white hair on his crown which stood up.
He looked at us, pointed, shook a bony finger and said: “Why do you say you see? You don’t see! You understand! You understand!”
“Yes,” said Tim. “You’re right.” And Tim looked at me, and I, with my legally blind eyes looked at Tim. And then we turned back and he was gone. Quite gone.
Tim ran up the block and looked down a perpendicular street. The man had been frail, old as the city’s bricks, and zounds! he’d appeared and disappeared in an electrostatic bolt.
This is a true story. Inwardly I knew this event had something to do with my being profoundly blind and pretending I wasn’t.
What a good ghost. What a fine city Helsinki really is.
**
If poetry is architecture for the odd, let us climb in the windows.
If its music and light, let’s get the party started.
Planet of the Blind 