There is always time for rewrites… Here is the updated history of a young Reuben Remus.
“It was 1918 – war’s end – time to rebuild.
The resurgence of intellectualism reinvigorating Poland attracted Benjamin and Martha Remus to the Mokotòw district of Warsaw, where Benjamin Remus was offered a position at the National Library of Poland. They made a home there, situated amongst parks, dainty streets and welcoming fields. The Mokotòw district was a mildly industrialized borough of Warsaw and instead attained importance through a multitude of foreign embassies, and the Mokotòw Prison located at 37 Rakowiecka Street; and whether you came to Mokotòw as a free man or a prisoner, most would say that it was a place of learning and revival; arguably, more people would claim that more truths were learned in the halls of the Mokotòw Prison than in the National Library of Poland during the early twentieth century… Certain inconsistencies are assured during times of war, however. So then, it was in this land of learning – this soft place that teemed with nature and people of substance – where concrete rigidity coexisted with sculpted flora, in which a young Reuben Remus, adjusting from the rural isolation of Galicia, pondered the universal language that allowed synchronicity between built cities and the natural world. And perhaps this curiosity, too, was predetermined before Reuben’s conception, having been charted once Benjamin Remus’s mathematical, systematic mind fell in love with a beautiful botanist who wore scarlet begonias in her hair. Reuben Remus – fused with a father’s love for arithmetic and a mother’s gentle respect for Mother Earth – was powered by curiosity… and in time, in the early days of pondering the philosophy of the universal language, a loving cadence livened that curiosity. He was eleven years old when his imagination was gripped by that obvious melody that lingered just out of reach – a melody that pulled him from Martha’s garden while she remained focused on sugar beets. He wandered his neighborhood alone, skipping from one sidewalk to the next, following the cadence until he was standing behind a rusted, chain-link fence, staring into the hollow darkness of an abandoned house that had been suffocated by two large apartment buildings years before his conception… Reasonably, it remains possible that years before Reuben Remus’s conception this place, too, was abandoned with purpose. That a heavenly voice had also come to that home, arriving in the dead of night as neither a whisper nor a shout to instruct the one living there to leave his home, taking everything with him except one possession: a treasure meant to be discovered by a young boy a decade later. And within the realm of premeditation one must now ponder Reuben Remus’s true lineage – one purposed by heavenly voices; a life nurtured by three mothers: that of the mother that is a lover, the mother that is a mother, and a mother that is a great-great-great grandmother… a life, yes, purposed by Aristeia… He pushed the rusted gate open and entered through the dark passageway as any son with three mothers would…”