I grew up with the distinct feeling that I had no right to exist, no right to live, and it was only the extreme mercy of those parental units, that somehow allowed me to stay alive. But then the feeling got bleaker, a feeling that grew out of inference from lose remarks here and there, and the bleakness of it was that had my own life not only justified their own egoistical needs, and that if was not for a total commitment of keeping good appearances, my life had long been disposed of.There is pain, and there is reality in this disconnect.My life is truly insignificant; it is the result of the uncontrollable lust of two teenagers welded in collusion and isolated in their own world. Our parents have no other friends other than themselves. It is them against the world, and us children, we were minor incidents toward which, morals dictated certain acceptable behavior. Their world is such a perverted world, and it is so damn hallow! It is a world full of morals, and void of principle or warmth. It could be that they are happy in their world that seems so wretched to me. My pain makes me bitter. I am feeling like a dreadful ungrateful bitch, almost...I feel dreadful, yes. Yesterday on returning home from being to paradise for about two days, the ceiling came crashing on my head the minute I entered the house. I found myself reacting to mail, and reacting to the state of disarray in the place, to say nothing of the state of disarray in my affairs. I wanted to call the friend whose warm arms I had just left behind in paradise, but somehow I did not know what I could have told him. Would I have told him that is just my insecurity that makes me call and seek reassurance in the warm tone of his voice? What was I to tell this generous and warm man? Was I tell him that each time that I wonder into that space that we share, I find myself in paradise? Was I to tell him that I fear getting attached to him, because I fear most losing him?Unable by fear to call my friend in paradise, I called my friend in Darmstadt, the architect. The architect and I go back a long long ways, we are life friends, there is no fear of loss, no fear of deception, no fear whatsoever. The architect and I is another wondrous chapter of this little and insignificant life of mine. My architect friend in some ways does represent my own defiance: he is German. Our parents hate Germans, all Germans, because in their world all Germans are Nazis. This is not my won interpretation or inference, they have told me so much in their own words. One of my subtle and unconscientious acts of rebellion was to marry a German, a friend of this architect. My Darmstadt architect and I do share a passionate artist' soul; he paints, I write.One of my most prized possessions is one of his paintings. To me that painting of his is all about the artist not yet born, his and mine, both. It is a painting from times when we discovered that we could trust each other, we had nothing to hide from each other, or anybody. We could share anything, and we have. We share each other's choices and differences, we respect that that makes us individual and distinct. We can be with the sheer intimacy of our art, and we can be with the physical reality of our distance. My Darmstadt architect has accompanied me to the place where I was born, he has met some of my family, not my parents. We have taken measurements of that old house that I asked my parents if I could fix and use. They said no, they had their reasons.
But I am not a dreadful ungrateful bitch. I am a lucky bitch. I am grateful for my life. What difference does it make that my life was an accident? What does it matter that my life is mine, and not theirs to control? My life is here and it is not for anybody to control, not even I. My life is here to me to live, not to control.Feeling like the unwanted leftovers of a feast was never much of a warm feeling, yet that is exactly how I have felt most of my life. It is time to rewrite the script. It is time to accept that paradise is right here on this earth, right here.
When I got a mail this morning from my brother and the last line read "Here is hopping (sic) your suicide plans go as wished!" I called him because I wondered what it is that I had shared with him about the story that I am writing now. I had said nothing, still that line made me wonder if I am starting to forget what I talk about with my brother.
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