I'm too impatient for a formal education. I hate being told what to do. I hate that I can't smoke indoors and that I can hear birds singing through open windows, knowing that I can't always be with them. I wanna be outside singin' too! Stop your yamma-yamma and let's sit in a circle in the grass. I hate that I have no credibility and that I can't just go ahead and take a Holocaust Studies class. Once I take that class, I'm done. I'm out. I'm through. There's nothing more I want out of college. I want to have my papers about the Lodz ghetto and Sobibor and the systematic killing of the mentally unwell to be read. I want to speak with an aging old man about what should never have happened. I want to come across a person whose heart is warm and wise and has embraced the idea of 12 million. God, I love the dead. They were stolen from me and I want them back. God, I miss them. Oh, comely.
I'm asking because I want to know.
I think this idea dictates a lot of my actions and influences a lot of my decisions.
The person I am, right here, right now, is a reflection of what I've learned about human suffering.
I want to come to an understanding. Where do I start?
By the time I'm thirty, nearly every Holocaust survivor will have died. You can't survive life, lion-child. Once you're in it, you're in it. Might as well pick up a paint brush. Might as well open up your mouth and breath loudly until you're lightheaded. Might as well be okay with it, 'cause you're not goin' anywhere, ever. Coming to terms was uncomfortable, to say the least, but my studies have taught me that there is no such thing as "luck". Regardless of what you see and do, feel and think, are and are not, there is no first place. There are no prize winners. There is no consolation award. There is no drunken losers' banter and badmouthing-comradery in the back alley after the trophies have been handed out. It's best to live for those who have not yet accepted that fact. Try and comfort them, as they have not yet discovered their alien heritage.
Are we an experiment, wrapped in tradition and social curiosity?
Why are we the only species with a corrupt and out-of-control pecking order?
Why are we the only species not holding a stick in-between our round, yellow teeth?
Why are we not huddled in trees, wet from the rain, making noises through our noses?
It's good that there is always that one thing,
or hobby, or saying
that keeps me grounded, otherwise I'd float away.
It's strange that I'm a solid.
My ancestors are sitting behind a control panel, nebulae away, remembering me.
I'm doin' fine. I pray that you're gathering the data you need.
Don't worry, Father.
Oh ... and ...
if you really think it's you, it's probably you.