Dearest Love,
I was thinking about you and about how I miss the days where
you seemed to have more time for my nonsense, back when you
didn't play with dead bodies in your studies of the human
anatomy, back when life was simpler and colorful. Back
before I heard the voices again. I tell them always that the
voices are real, just like the song of birds in the morning
on a hot summer day, the call of the Pukeko, when he would
elegantly pick a snail with his leg and serve it to his
infants. Just like the yells of old ladies in the park
calling their grandson to come back and eat a sandwich. Why
is it accepted for some people to play with the dead and for
some it is forbidden? Life is not fair. I remember the days
when my older brother would bring back home with him one of
his science projects. I was never allowed these, I was
always told that I should wait until when I'll be old enough
to be trusted with a chemistry experiment kit. But then,
when the day had come, my teachers thought that I should
study history instead, so, despite the promises of my youth
I was forbidden from playing with dead animals and bubbling
potions. I got to read about the giants of past. They always
seemed to do as they please, I had arguments with Rbi-Akiva,
and despite the fact that he will see his doom in a den of
lions he will never listen to my advice, nor did Napoleon
who will see his last days in solitude. Galileo will never
listen to my opinions to compromise his radical thoughts for
the safety of old age. Amerigo to take more credit for his
work on geography. No one will ever listen. And I was
frustrated with how fixed it all has seemed to be, not like
the effervescent experiments my older brother was doing. I
will scream my frustration on the old books; will even try
to mix them together. I thought, maybe, if all these people
will be closer together they might be able to learn from
each others mistakes, like a chemical reaction precipitating
to some desirable result. I will put a page of old Roman
history with the tales of the fall of the English Monarchy
and the loss of the Americas, maybe King George the 3rd will
learn. But it was all in vain, mixing them up have yet to
prove any effects, and history didn't change. "History is
the study of the mistakes of the past, while recording the
mistakes of the future." My teacher, Professor Samuel (after
the famous Philosopher Samuel Daniel; "Sacred religion!
Mother of form and fear!" he would say in fury whenever the
history of the Crusades is at stake), always smiled about my
radical ideas of experimenting with history. "Books are the
holy relics of our time!" he will say, thus will never be
that understanding when I presented books with missing
pages, leftovers of my experiments. One day Alexander the
Great said,
"Why did you put me up with Atahualpa, the Inca ruler?"
and I told him,
"You might have some wisdom in you to help his people." Then
Alexander started planning his own conquest of the South
Americas. I was arguing with him, then with Attila-the-Hun
about the morality of violent takeover. It was all a big
waste of my time. Like the song of birds in the morning,
oblivious to reason or encouragement, so are the voices of
the past. Mixing them all up seemed unfruitful. And I wanted
to be a chemist. I told them all, but they will argue who
should be in world domination. Like the birds' songs, the
arguments will go on, without my participation. Then we met,
you have seemed to understand my condition, my ideas. To
listen. To appreciate. I took pages of our correspondence
and mixed them up to reform your arguments. The blue pages
of the letters you sent me in summer, with the red pages of
winter, or was it yellow for winter and green for spring?
You had time to listen, and your voice in my head drowned
all other voices, your letters tagged with stamps of faraway
countries and places, with the smell of travel and wisdom,
became my new element kit. I even stopped hearing the misery
and frustration in the cry of demise of the people of
Pompeii under the rage of one evil god Vesuvius. But then
you started playing with the dead. And your letters are no
longer blue or red or green or yellow, they are white. And
with the loss of color, your voice has stopped. And the loss
of color made the arguments of history giants loud again. So
loud. I mix my book kit in order to get the successful
experiment, the right result. I might find it one day, but
not with the white pages of your letters. Abraham told me
once that he enjoyed reading your letters, the green ones.
He said that you had a real understanding of rain in the
desert. He read your work all the way to the Dead Sea. Now
you play with dead bodies, and I'm the crazy one. My older
brother gave me a present the other day; it was his old
chemistry kit from so many years back. I might have become a
great chemist, I thought, but as my dead Professor always
said, "History is the study of the mistakes of the past,
while recording the mistakes of the future."
So I guess that my life has some purpose after all.
Variation of old ideas at that, of old people.
But maybe it's better to play with dead bodies, or be a dead
body for one to play with.
What do you reckon?