The Mother we Share
Jeremy Scott for Adidas, as seen Iggy Azalea Work video.
Forest Gump live at The Grammys, 2013
Orphaned thing, you never had a history. You were an object dropped into a context you neither liked nor understood. Painstakingly, over years of newspaper clippings, re-visited wireless broadcasts, silent footage, black-and-white stills, documents and excursions to the scene of atrocity, you sewed the inadequacy of your life together with the terror of theirs. The story became plausible. Then it became fact.
Daddy: who were you? You wished him into a gassed man with a star on his jacket. Mummy became a ragged skeleton with shaved head and ill-fitting shoes. You were a miracle of survival and a talisman against forgetting.
You were 54 when you first published your life-lie. Through your self-imposed victimhood, you became the informants and the overseers; you were the regime. And so you have fused yourself into history. You are history. Did it help something inside you to commit a second, ink Holocaust? No one will ever believe a word you say again. You duped everyone, but I imagine you will remain duped last, longest. I imagine memory and fiction are the same word by now. Now. But then again, you were always past tense, were you not, History?
I just cannot understand. Why, when you could have been anything, did you choose this?
Ye suit the joyless tenor of my soul!
Life’s social haunts and pleasures I resign;
Be nameless wilds and lonely wanderings mine