When I was 17 my dad walked out on us. Not quite as dramatic
as it sounds, mostly because of the irregular life style we
were used to for so many years in which he'd always been a
passerby; but in our way, the Katz way (which is never the
traditional way and never the better for it), these are the
facts:
Perhaps he spent too much time in the shadow of his brother,
who found new meaning for life with his new dearest.
In any case, as always, my dad's choice was less than second
rate to his exemplar; instead of a high-society beauty he
settled for a no-ablo-anglais Russian whore, Svetlana
instead of Sweetalah'; instead of a mansion, a 4 story
apartment on top of a failing store (also owned by him, for
who will willingly rent under that filth? Not to withhold
well-deserving credit: he is quite successful, and for this
I am immeasurably grateful: note the quality of the paper on
which these words are engraved); instead of restraining his
desires, he committed the terminal sin. Adultery. For which
there is no atonement. For which and such a grave betrayal I
wish on no one to face, none can forgive and by forgiving
never forget.
And yet -
with endless marvel and awe I discover -
Surely only Jobe could contend on her patience: With no
doubt the Lord alone tests her tolerance and forgiving heart
-
As it turns out, the first time they separated for six years
and she alone raised the two daughters. The second time she
left him on his death bed vowing to stay in a year and
vowing not to care. The third time she threw it all in the
air, hopefully with force enough that she'll manage to catch
it by the time she returns and in the meantime to beg for
his forgiveness."
And I can't help but wonder, why?
And I can't help but wonder, how can my own mother, who
brought me forth to this world, love such a fucking
asshole?
And I can't but wonder, Christ Jesus and God Almighty, fuck
the world and all of its inhabitants to hell and back sane,
my father?

My father?

My father?

On a side view I would hold dear the rigidity of my belief
that this is an asshole we're faced with, a fucking
cock-sucker!
Say these views in my face and you will be faced with a
fight on your hands, for though I am a girl I'm a strong one
at that and care not for my pain once a certain amount of
wrath is unleashed and surely this amount will overflow for
in addition to your offending my father and in that me you
are telling me something I already know and I hate being
bored and this can't be true:
He's more than my flesh and blood. From his cock I exist. On
him I depend. For him I long. It is he I try to please: what
better proof of that well-hidden (at least from myself) fact
that as soon as the rage for him was unleashed deep within,
my 7 grew a line through its middle and I embraced my
Israeli influences?
My heart is shattered glass and I keep stepping on the
shards and what is not left within could contain the world.