The end of July in 2016, captured by Laura Vilva. The place is called Sigvartsby, an old village near Hamina, where my parents live and where I spent my early youth in misery and pain. This picture tries to speak. It is the Master of the Mandolin, Tomi Pekkola, on the right. I am next to him, and we are playing Love itself or maybe Suzanne, on a garden party. My little sister Laura is on the left with my little daughter.
One theme could be the bed where I had my first kiss of love. The room has a view over this garden and the apple trees. But it's not what I want to tell now. My little brother, who was born the next morning (in May 1995), told me a story about KISS. Paul Stanley said in an interview that sometimes the musing and the atmosphere seem to be at odds with the reality. A good song could be written on a thin story. The muse may be someone who only exchanges a few words with the poet, or just a glance. Neither does this mean that a poet who writes the song is caught up in it (although it could happen).
This was my little brother's response to my whining. I had told him about my guitar, how it was named after St. Anne. There is a Lady of Romance, too. But only as a memory of the ballad of a young man that happened to receive another verse or three. In the beginning of 2010 I was finishing my old collection of poetry (Flor & Blancheflor), and I walked the streets of Helsinki when someone passed by, who may have been the one mentioned in The Thin Young Men. I sent her a letter, telling about my poem and her initials in the notes. She did not respond, but I'd soon receive a name for my new guitar, two alternative verses for Suzanne and a part of the poem called Beautiful (detached from the original TYM). After a year or so I searched her out and realized a few odd synchronicities that seemed to relate to my songs and performances. I made a decision not to approach her "in real life", because it could be trespassing. Then a f(r)iend of mine wanted to take me along to see her, for they had some business to deal with. This happened on the day I'd give Virta 8 magazine's final version to Unigrafia printing house. When we met her I smiled in a foolish way, not saying anything or introducing myself. She did not tell me anything, either, only introduced herself by name. They had a private discussion and after that my f(r)iend accused me of stalking. In vain I tried to tell him about "meaningful coincidences" (the poem with her initials would be printed right after our meeting that never happened). Another reason behind this nonsense is that she was the one who gave me that image of Tryst, a meeting (place) of lovers, already in 2003. She had been like a muse, and I never understood why or how it came to be that way. Because we only met a few times, and pretty much nothing ever happened. Well, you know what..... Poetry is like that.