Father, my father, is in my blood and
in my head–mother, too! Don’t forget
the whole goddam family is in there,
dwelling like blood-sucking leeches,
which, on the contrary, give life with
each puckering suckering. I cannot
escape myself: I am who I am, what-
ever it is that I myself am in who I
am; was I ever not myself at any
point, a mere figment of the imag-
ination that I cannot access by di-
rect recollection, but only in latent
dreams that scatter the memories
of myself abroad. Father, are you
there? Of course, you are! In me,
with me, on me, upon me, in my
midst. This is the kingdom I have
inherited and which has become
mine, my own, what I must now
build with in myself, by myself,
with myself: I am the bread and
the wine of the stalk and the vine;
I am the brick and the stone with
which this house is built, but I
cannot escape this imprint up-
on me, in the fabric of my DNA.
Father, my father, you were what I
am and am to be; how can I change
that which is only my destiny?