A treatise

Reader, you and I have an aloof relationship, as is proven by the string of zeros lining the center of this webpage (like a string of pearls, really), and yet despite this distance between us I feel i must make a confession, if not for the purpose of being read, than certainly for the purpose of being written and excused from my conscience.

You of all people know I like to avoid the majority's observations, and being "back" at school certainly has been an oft-used topic for my bretheren's online diaries and journals, and under normal circumstances I would be at my most heightened awareness to avoid this topic, and yet it dawns on me that it has affected me more than I would like to admit or allow it to.

My break, while not filled with pyrotechnic social activities or scintillating affairs with intoxicated femmes, allowed me to view my college self in my home environment, and I liked what I saw, reader; I truly was proud of myself, which has always been an elusive activity. I felt I became especially close to my parents, with whom my relationship had always been cordial and familial but never much beyond that. I developed a new connection with both my parents on a deeper emotional level and a healthier psychological co-habitation of our abode on Horizon Drive. My greatest improvement, however, came in the form of my relationship to my grandparents.

My mom's parents' histories had long been filled with unconnected stories and facts and a largely gray area inbetween. Before I continue, however, know this, reader: Each summer for the past 20 years or however long it might been, they have gone back to their birthplace Vienna, the very city they were expelled from for being the dreaded "J" word. Why, you might ask, would they want to go back to a place filled with such a history of anti-semetism, that didn't want them in the first place? Why would they return to the very place they were forcibly removed from? This question plagued my mother for years and years, and she has a distaste for everything Germanic because of it. She cannot, for the holy life of her, understand their infatuation with the Viennese culture. I, too, was a bit confused by this seemingly paradoxical interest of their. It is true that it is their birthplace, their original home, but can a home that behaved in such a way continue to deserve the title of home?

As they are getting up in age, and the trip to Europe is not a short one (they live in La Costa now), they feel that this coming spring/summer could be their last chance to enjoy everything it is they like to do in Austria. As such, they have requested the presence of my family in Austria so that they can show the younger generation (myself and my siblings) where it is they came from. Indeed, I myself am only two generations removed from that city. While my parents, who have been to the area before, are not terribly excited about it (especially my mother, whose dislike of Austria cannot be understated), I am quite excited. I live for travel, I feel on top of the world when I am doing so, and I am at my happiest while doing it. I have not been to Austria, although I have been to a number of other countries on the European continent. As this time is approaching, they invited me over for Schnitzel (fried meat) and veggies, a transplanted Bavarian treat, and as we ate we would discuss plans for Austria.

What eventually occured, however, was not a scurry of maps and places, train fares and hostel availability. It turned into a question and answer session that will be ingrained in my memory for long after I am physically in Vienna. I asked question after question, every slight doubt I had about their blurry (for me) beginnings, about how they were persecuted, how they were able to get out, their parents, their parents' parents, jobs, friends, politics, journeys, the army (in my grandfather's case), my grandfather's parents who were two of 1,000 refugees allowed into the US during WW2, their early years in New York. At the end, I felt closer to them than perhaps I have with any person at any point in my life. I now carried their lives from the old world within me, and it will likely be my job to write them down and share them with my other children. I accept this job dutifully and without complaint; in fact, I do it with determination and ardor.

Allow me, reader, to now jump from occurance to idea. As I was pulled closer to my grandparents that night, I understood the torment of the human condition (such a jump!). It is indeed a sad fact, but as beings of conscience, humans are destined for sadness. We become close with others around us, yet there is no chance that these relationships may last forever. Every bond must break with nature's whisper of command. The struggle, then, is to create something that will last beyond this command, beyond what nature intended for us. I think I found it in that conversation with Oma and Opa (grandma and grandpa, in German). I began to establish it with my parents, and two other certain individuals whose eyes will likely never read these words.

I arrived back in Hartford, and upon putting my head down on the pillow I began to cry. It was not homesickness, I am safe to say. It has been 3 nights since I had that discussion with my grandparents, and already I am 3,000 miles away. Just a few short days between making that life-long connection and making my way across the country. What I came to realise is that my Oma and Opa will not be there for me forever, they will, however strong their characters are (that's another entry), be taken by nature at some point. That is the torment of my and every human's existance - the impossibility to bring them back.

But that is not why I broke down, either. I began to cry not because of that thought, but because I believe that night I started to mature in that I could now be safe to remember them after they themselves are not with me anymore. I now have their stories, their lives. I have a part of them that can be with me forever, and that is not a light burden to carry with me. I have no intent of letting it go, but as these stories slowly take the place of their faces and bodies, I believe I will become an adult. And that is no easy task itself. I want to hold onto them, I want them to be there. I want to take off my shoes before I enter their house, to eat dinner on their plastic tablecloth, to hear my grandfather's joyous, heavy laugh. But when those are no longer available, I'll have that conversation that we had.

And perhaps, reader, I have made a similar connection with you, as you have made it to the end here. You have now seen into me a fair bit, and maybe these words will help you understand me a little better, if that is an activity you had hoped to undertake. I'll have no idea whether you read this or not, or whether anyone will read this, but something invisible to you and I will connect, will change, will become one with this reading. Reading and writing are dependent activities, as you know.

If we can't be with each other now, and only that metaphysical window has been opened, I feel I'm ready for the challenge. Soon, I hope, we can be in each other's arms and taste what will be the present moments, in all their color, flavor and texture. My hope is that they are sweet, rich and without a past or future.