My Folly

It is a sorrowful, sad state of affairs, this life of mine—and in this, we shall discuss parents.

Oh, but let your child be free! Beyond the age of 12, he should become the seed of a man, prepared to face the world and deal with the consequences of his thoughts and actions.

How my parents forced me!

To play violin—and did I have the beginnings of potential, invited for instance to Tanglewood, and playing first chair in my high school orchestra? How I love music, and how I live for it!

Each day, I listen to Bach for hours and hours—St. Martin’s Academy in the Fields, bright and passionate, unpretentious, delivering the gates of Heaven in the Brandenberg concerti. Or Glenn Gould, bold and eccentric Canadian Genius, who knows not what other people think and cares less. Yo-Yo Ma—stunning, rich and talented, who delivers a one-man show and dance, unparalleled!

Do I try to write my words as Bach sounds, and deliver short, musical pieces, works dedicated to God? Yes, but I shall never again touch the violin.

And did my parents teach me to swim?—and I shall never again swim. Did they force me into soccer, basketball, and tennis?—and I shall never again engage in any of those.

For everything they touched with the iron fist of a dictator—they have corrupted, and I must burn the steel chains with which they raised me, shackled and submissive. Did they give me an Asian name?—and I discarded it.

I shall have nothing that embodies what wicked spirit they have called parenthood.

Did they force me into code?—oh, difficult controversy. For, in my heart I do look soft and tender upon this.

But, never again Java—and to be safe, never Scala nor Kotlin. Thus, does a bold man yield, but God has given me other languages.

How, for every year they have taught me, I have spent half erasing it all—and re-writing my life in my image. I am a delicate spirit—and how they raped and raped this Heavenly soul!

Do you know the cruel force of authoritarianism? Then, I shall show you the gentle, yielding spirit of Divine grace.

I am the giant, the father, and the man. You are less than my child and my son.

But, I shall miss you when you are gone. Whom shall I look upon with my stern violence and vengeance?

I am worse than the Devil himself—and I shall miss my playthings.

Oh, and your inheritance? But, I shall not spend a penny of that—steeped in the blood of my soul and spirit.

Let it go to my brother, or if God wills it, my children. To me, you have paid enough.

Ah, blasted figures—for I am in your debt eternal. Thus, do I pay and repay, bond never to break, payment never to satisfy.

Behold, your prodigal son has returned home! The beloved first-born, schizophrenic, name-changing, lost and confused, burning with a fire of Satanic spirit, embarrassing the Devil and putting God to shame.

And I mean well!—only to melt the steel links of slavery, reforge them into a sword with which I may defend myself, for this world is full of violent beasts and imagery.

But am I a fool?—and at least I know it, yours truly for now and eternity.