The Things I've Carried.
I've been carrying a lot of things in my life. No wonder my shoulders are stooped and my heart is heavy. For years I carried a torch and kept an image of a woman alive in my heart. I was a fool. I knew I was, but I couldn't help myself. I loved her. I knew I did. Then one day, on a beautiful Sunday morning, I took a walk in the park, alone, and as I walked on the bridge over the little pond where koi fishes and turtles were stocked, I had a Zen moment when I saw one a huge bull frog jumped on a lotus broad leaf, alert and full of life, in the full splendor of a morning awash with sunlight and with water undulating across the pond, driven by brisk winds. That was then I recognized not only the futility of my love for her, but also the prosaic nature of her personality and her subsequent betrayal of me. Ever since I hardly dream of her. Before that moment of liberation, I dreamed of her with regularity, at least once a month for years on end, decade after decade. That liberation moment taught me that humans were not to be trusted and almost all were selfish to the core. Subsequent relationships validated and confirmed that observation of mine.
I also carried in my mind feelings of unresolved anger against certain assholes. The feelings fester, simmer, and linger until I don't know when they will manifest themselves in actions. Hate is a corrosive emotion if one does not know to handle it. It must be viewed as a servant, not a boss. One thing I do know is this: the more I know humans, regardless of whether they are males or females, most are selfish and hypocritical and diseased to the core and not worth cultivating the friendship. In my view, they are nothing but animals, pure and simple. My hatred for them is immense, my contempt boundless. I feel nauseous at the mere sight of their names, let alone of their hemming and hawing, their muttering and sputtering of their ill-informed, half-digested facts and jejune, sophomoric "thoughts". Now I fully understand why tyrants acted the way they did and why there have been serial killers. Catharsis had to be achieved. Defiance and insolence had to be crushed and punished. Vengeance had to be exacted.
Those who have stayed with me so far would wonder if I am a happy person. The answer is I have my moments. And I am not as lonely as I used to. I keep myself occupied and don't have much need for human company because sooner or later most humans disappoint and nauseate me. In addition, most of them are stupid and ill-informed, making a dialogue with them a real chore. True, I am getting to be misanthropic. I know I am repeating myself, working myself into a frenzy. I ironically feel most alive when I am angry and furious. To find release for these feelings of aggression, I reach for the pen and I scribble furiously of whatever comes to my feverish mind, for hours at a time, until I am spent and the demon beats a retreat. One sad and
funny fact about humans is that the more they reveal themselves to me, the more I find them boring and petty-minded and even stupid. I mean, their concerns are interests are prosaic and vastly different from mine. It's getting to the point I keep them at arm's length from me and I no longer really talk to them because I find most of them not interesting at all apart from the sheer oppressive insipidity of their lives which is mind-boggling to me. I certainly cannot go through life as they do. Call me arrogant. Call me undeservedly elitist, if you want. Call me anything. But don't call me uninquisitive. In fact, inquisitiveness is what has kept me alive. I chuckkle when people complain that they are tired of my talking about myself. I chuckle some more when I see people take seriously "feng shui", astrology, palmistry, and similar shit. I often see humans dispense "opinions" without substantiation, dismiss other's opions and ideas without cause, just because the opinions and ideas of others are different from theirs. Frankly, as I age, I tend not to give a fuck what others think of me. As far as I'm concerned, they can kiss my royal hairy ass.
Although I denounce liars, I carry a heavy guilt for lying to a woman. I said I would marry her once I turned 30, but I have no intention of doing so. I am 65 now and she still hangs around. That makes me feel really bad. I am a coward, a rake, a raffish fellow, even a ruffian. I am no better than the scums and assholes I despise. But tell me, why should I marry anybody now? All the horror stories I've heard about divorces and ugly lawsuits concerning money disgust me. I just read in the news that Tiger Woods is going to pony up 750 million dollars to buy silence fromn his soon-to-be-ex-wife. I trust humans no more. No sir, I do not. If I have my way, everyday I would take one out for target practice.
To balance things out, I carry a romantic fantasy (in my mind, superfluously speaking) for decades now, for a dream woman. She is sweet, smart, sassy and sexy. She understands me, tolerates me, and loves me. In moments of distress and loneliness, I think of her and I would calm down. Everybody dreams. Some dream of going to heaven after they die, where they will meet their "Maker". Others dream of power and riches. I dream of a certain woman who inspires to become who I can be. What you've been reading is not the real me, you idiot. You really think I'm this bitter, this sick, this unbalanced? Haven't you heard of dramatic irony and willful suspension of disbelief? Come on, use your imagination. Don't tell me you don't have any. Really? Then get the fuck out of here. You're wasting your time. You would never "enjoy" reading these words.
Last, for now and obviously not least, those who have interacted with me have discerned an umistakeable baggage I've on my right, but wrong, shoulder, and that is my death wish. This wish has explained why I act in an irrational manner at times. Why the death wish in the ifrst place? I don't know. It certainly helps me sleep better at night and face problems---mostly created by me---better. I have a theory: suicidal people should go out and do something that put their lives in danger. If they fail, they die and thus get their wish; if they succeed, they might get rid of the depression that gave rise to suicidal thoughts in the first plac. Unfortunately, suicidal people are usually depressed and drained of energy. They don't want to do anything except of thinking of killing themselves even though they know that self-destruction is bad and "sinful" (if they happen to be Christians and were brainwashed into believing in that shit). so they struggle to stay alive until one day they give in to the thoughts because they suffer too much and they want relief and they don't care the impact of their deaths on their loved ones and their "God".
Author's Note:
Many fools take everything I've written literally, as if I have no imagination nor fantasy. Ironically, they are the ones who lack imagination, who cannot conceivably think there is no personal God who "has an interest in" human affairs and who would listen to human prayers and would pass judgment on human behavior.
My recent "story" entitled "Storyteller" sounded autobiographical and thus prompted a reader to inquire further about Anita, a character in the story. Apparently my disclaimer in the authorial note that the story was a work of pure fantasy was not convincing. The "truth" of the matter is that I have been blessed and cursed with a very rich love life, a sort that defies imagination. Out of respect for many former lovers, I have been very reticent to brag and gloat about my romantic adventures. I didn't suffer because of Anita. There was a woman named Laura who did cause me pain when I was in my early 20s. From her I've learned many valuable lessons. The most important one is that feelings are not static and don't have to be reciprocated. A
person can love you today, but may find you boring and undeserving of her love tomorrow. Thus, she will find ways to dump you. If that happens, you must accept reality for what it is and move on with your life even if you still love her very much and would be devastated if she walks away. But you must accept her decision and you soldier on and find other women, if you can. If you cannot, learn to live without a woman. The key thing is to keep your dignity. There is no need to suffer. Suffering is weak. It degrades you. It robs you of dignity. You must realize that it is stupid to love a woman who doenot or no longer love you. If you do, you just set up yourself for a world of hurt . Unrequited love is not healthy. It is sick. It is immature. It is self-destructive. Conserve your energy and resources. Invest them in person(s) who do love you back. Don't come across as desperate and clinging. You look for love and respect, not pity and charity.
Armed with hard-won lessons taught by Laura, I am now an equal opportunity lover and was a dear friend with many (20) women from varying racial and educational background. Throughout my adult life I've never lacked female company. Anita was just a figment of my imagination to address a certain fantasy. She never existed. I never met her. I didn't know her. I didn't love her. Allright? Heck, right now, besides being with a steady woman, I've been a close friend with three women. I don't need Anita to mess up my emotional life. My plate is full. My writing schedule is hectic. My work life is frenzied. I don't have time to be love sick. I have not been lovesick since Laura walked away. I don't even know what love really is. Not anymore. Somebody sent me a note, quoting the perennially sappy romance writer Nicholas Sparks that true love does not necessarily mean the two people involved will live happily together, but they definitely live happily ever after, regardless of whether together or not. I suppose there is some truth in that. Love is an inspiration, an enabler of what is good and noble within us. I once loved Laura. I dindn't love her anymore because she turned out not who I thought she was. I am now disgusted with and indifferent to her at the same time. I mean I don't give a shit about her anymore. I wouldn't care less if she drops dead in front of me. If I happen to run into her, I would just walk on by. She means nothing to me. I don't hate her. I wouldn't kill her or just her, but she means absolutely nothing to me. She is a zero, not a hero in my book. I made a bad mistake. I misplaced my affection. And I paid for my mistake. Now I am a recovering love nut. I would say I am a bit wiser, not only because of her, but also of many bitches I knew and met after her. They all wanted money and security. They all said they loved me, but what they meant they loved themselves more and they would hang around only if I would not be a burden for them, financially. You call that love? I call that calculations, but most humans are cold motherfuckers who care about themselves only. Nothing new here, but when that happens, I still feel a bit disenchanted and nervous. That's who I am: stupidly naive.
So, you understand, now? The boat in which I journey across the sea of life is fragile and precarious, but it's not leaking water anymore. I've fixed it. I deliberately chose a small boat because that was who I was. I took risks. I lived on the edge and I still do. These words of mine, however fraught with a unheathy mix of self-consciousness (uncharitable souls may even characterize them as deliberately cute) and brutal candor as they may sound, are the means for me to steer my boat out of the troubled waters I chose for myself? Ironical? I know it, pal. I am my own worst enemy.
A comment/criticism/inquiry on something, some event, or somebody is to shed light more on the comment/critic/inquirer than on the subject at hand. I have learned about that lesson a long time ago. What we see depends on where we stand. Very often, what we see are the mere projections of ourselves. I also learn that humans are both thick-skinned and touchy at the same time, depending on the subject matters. Very few humans are as noble as me (sic! I'm just kidding, all right?)
(cont.)
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Storyteller
Storyteller
I ain't no storyteller nor writer. I know that. You know that. She knew that, too. I was trying to tell her something the other day. I felt funny and restless whenever I saw her, and more so when she was standing up close and personal. I felt like I was suffocating. I couldn't breathe. In addition, blood rushed to my face. But how come, I continued, I don't feel like this when being around other young women, even when they're far prettier than you. She smiled and said, sounds like a personal problem to me, and then she sashayed away from me. I swear she swayed her hips a bit more energetically than usual because she knew I would watch her from behind at her behind. I swear she knew she had an effect on me, a newly penniless old man in his mid 60s, and she was only a chick at 20, not old enough to get a drink in most bars, and young enough to be my granddaughter.
I met her at the library, at the Green Valley Branch. She was bending over to look for a book at tbe bottom shelf. I happened to walk by. She had no bra on. And the sight was breathtaking. I was transfixed. She looked up and saw me crudely gawking at her. She stood straight up and admonishedly me gently with a smile, dirty old man, enjoyed the view? I blushed and stuttered, sorry, couldn't help myself, I normally don't do this. And then I walked on to the Foreign Languages section, feeling stupid and somewhat ashamed of myself. About five minutes later, I couldn't believe my ears when I heard, so you know Spanish?, from behind. I turned around just to be sure, but I already knew it was her. How could I ever forget such a voice, the smile, and yes, the view? For some strange reason, my normal diffidence departed from me that Saturday afternoon and my gift of gab asserted its presence.
I turned around and saw her smiling at me, eyes twinkling mischievously.
You're not following me, are you?
Gosh, no! She laughed out loud, displaying pearlish white teeth. I'm looking for some Spanish books. Then she changed into rapid-fire Spanish that I had difficulty following. So I told her in English that I read Spanish better than I speak it. I also told her my name and asked for hers (Anita) and then I looked straight at her beautiful almond eyes and said I would love to see her again.
No problema, she said, I am here most Saturdays, around this time.
After I left the library, I seriously considered for the first time in my life to dye my grey silver hair. Eventually, my pride won out. I just had to go with the flow, relying on my charm and animal magnetism to win her over. Hair color be damned. Life has a very strange way of turning out for me. Here I am, a lifelong bachelor, turning down many inquiries and overtures when I was in my prime, rich and handome, now get all excited and bothered in the twilight of my life, penniless and decaying, over a young woman who is wise and childlike at the same time.
I must make a detour. I am as "anxious" as you are to know what would or will happen to Anita and me. But I don't know; honestly, I don't. So I'm taking a break in order to meditate on the nature of our "relationship" via homespun advice I came across in an article concerning a basketball coach who lived to a ripe old age of 99.
Success comes from knowing that you did the best to become the best that you are capable of becoming. Things turn out best for the people who make the best of the way things turn out. Be more concerned with your character than your reputation, because your character is what you really are, while your reputation is merely what others think you are. Failure is not necessarily fatal, but failure to change might be. Failure to prepare is preparing to fail. Talent is God given. Be humble. Fame is man-given. Be grateful. Conceit is self-given. Be careful.
Wow, what a heady and handsome advice! I wish I had come across this when I was young and green, when hot blood coursed through my veins. This evening, as I pulled into tbe driveway of my condo, flashbacks flared up again and I was seized by a paroxysm of anger. I had to rush inside and drank a full glass of cold water. I didn't want to get angry; I didn't want to suffer. Living long and in prosperity is the best revenge. I was telling myself so as I forced myself to gulp the cold water.
Back to Anita, she is in her third year at Arizona State, majoring in Spanish. She wants to become a teacher. Quite an ordinary, unambitious dream. I told her to dream bigger. Big things come to those who dare dream big. I don't want big things, she said. Then, typically enough, she turned the table back on me: What about you? Did you dream big when you were younger? Are you still dreaming?
I went into a soliloquy in answering her questions. It's now or never. Make or break speech. I cared about her, but I had to be honest. She must know who I really was and am. So I said, sure, I dreamed big. I wanted to be a doctor, but that didn't pan out because I was not good enough to be admitted to medical school. I didn't study hard enough. I wanted then to become a writer, a world famous one, winner of Nobel Prize, but while I appreciated literature, I discovered I was not a creative writer. I used to dream of living with the Pygmies and then the San people in Africa because I was fascinated with their lifestyles, but I didn't pursue the dream because I was scared of catching some deadly tropical illnesses. So, you could say I was a quitter or a self-doubter and/or a mere idle dreamer. Now I settle for reading books on philosophy and history, studying languages for fun, and avoiding to put myself in situations where assholes would have power over me because I have a fiery temper and I can commit acts of extreme violence if sufficiently provoked. By the way, I have a hate and love relationship with humans. I love my fellow humans in the abstract, but I tend to hate most humans I run into because they are mostly selfish, lying, hypocritical motherfuckers and assholes. You should also know I used to have a lot of money, but I blew most of it away in the stock market. Now I live from hand to mouth.She didn't interrupt me. She listened very attentively. Then she said, you're okay, you're a good man, muy simpático y sincero también. Take good care of yourself. I don't care about the money. Soy tu amiga. I wish you were much younger.I wish so, too, Anita, I said. Then I turned and headed towards my Maxima which was baking in the parking lot. We only met on Saturdays at the library. I never asked her out. I never asked her if she had a boyfriend. I never touched her, but she knew I wanted to. We just talked no more than an hour and at the end, I was always the one who said, hasta próximo sábado, and she replied with a smile, de acuerdo.
I could not help but observe if she went braless again. But she didn't. I dared not ask her what happened on the day we first met. She was in a hurry? She forgot to put it on? In talking to me, she was friendly, vivacious, but she was not a flirt, not really. And I was a gentleman. I didn't ask for her number and she didn't ask for mine. I didn't know where she lived.
We saw each other on Saturdays for six months, then she disappeared. She stopped going to the library. I kind of missed her, but I didn't suffer. I refused to suffer. I am too old to suffer over a woman. When I was in my early twenties, I foolishly suffered over a woman who turned out prosaic and common. When I discovered her true nature, I realized all my sufferings were for nothing and were only the direct results of my ignorance and willful idealization. I have learned my lesson since. Go gently amidst delights and distractions, but never lose your head nor your dignity.
I still go to the same library on Saturdays. I occasionally pass by the shelf where I first spotted her bending over, searching for a book. I don't think she will ever come back to this library. I wish her luck and happiness. I am rebuilding my wealth. I look forward, not backward. Somehow, I think I will live till 105. I have 40 more years to go. Forty years are a long time. Many exciting things can happen in 40 years. I am still learning Spanish. And I still think of Anita now and then, and of her mysterious disappearance. Did she get run over by a bus or disintegrated by a falling meteorite or did she simply walk away without bothering to say goodbye? And if she's still alive and breathing somewhere, I wonder if she thinks of me whenever she bends over to look for a book in a library wherever that library may be.
Wissai
June 24, 2010
Author's explanatory note and self-criticism and praise:
I wrote this "story" on top of my head, except for a paragraph about advice from John Wooden, a famous deceased basketball coach. I lifted the advice verbatim from a magazine article.
I wrote the story without notes nor planning and without any preconceived idea where the story was going to go and how it was going to end. I didn't think the story mark any progress on my "development" as a wannabe short story writer. I write because I answer to a nagging urge, but I don't take my "craft" seriously at all. I do like the story overall, even if it is not a great story. I like it because of its good beginning and occasional striking phrases and slight but beautiful touch of eroticism and unresolved sexual tension. Although the story sounded autobiographical, it was all made up and pure fantasy.
I could not and would not stretch the "narrative" any longer. I write somewhat like some pieces of Borges: short and impressionistic. Most writers spend weeks and months, even years, to work on a story. Mine took only a few hours and I made things up as I went along with each sentence. Very often I didn't know what the next sentence would be. To me, it was hugely fascinating to witness imagination at work.
Everybody, at least those fancy that they are verbally gifted and can express themselves, has a secret wish to write well. Anybody can write memoirs, trip reports, dog bites, and "essays" about poems and songs to evince his "sensitivity". But creative writing is a different animal, difficult to tame, and almost impossible to please.
Lying is easy. A child can do it. But I hate lying and liars although I can lie as easily as the next guy. To resolve my conflict about lying, I seek refuge in creative writing where I find an outlet for my febrile imagination and lies.
One more thing. I often express my distaste for the appearance of nude and semi-nude photos in a forum of which I visit from time to time, because I don't derive feelings of aesthetics, nor even a stirring of eroticism from these photos. On the contrary, I find them quite crude and crass and damaging to the very notion of eroticism itself. I wrote the story as part of my answer to what eroticism is meant to be. I might not execute it well, but I believe I was on the right track. Eroticism often involves imagination and suggestion, not outright full revelation.
Wissai
June 26, 2010
I ain't no storyteller nor writer. I know that. You know that. She knew that, too. I was trying to tell her something the other day. I felt funny and restless whenever I saw her, and more so when she was standing up close and personal. I felt like I was suffocating. I couldn't breathe. In addition, blood rushed to my face. But how come, I continued, I don't feel like this when being around other young women, even when they're far prettier than you. She smiled and said, sounds like a personal problem to me, and then she sashayed away from me. I swear she swayed her hips a bit more energetically than usual because she knew I would watch her from behind at her behind. I swear she knew she had an effect on me, a newly penniless old man in his mid 60s, and she was only a chick at 20, not old enough to get a drink in most bars, and young enough to be my granddaughter.
I met her at the library, at the Green Valley Branch. She was bending over to look for a book at tbe bottom shelf. I happened to walk by. She had no bra on. And the sight was breathtaking. I was transfixed. She looked up and saw me crudely gawking at her. She stood straight up and admonishedly me gently with a smile, dirty old man, enjoyed the view? I blushed and stuttered, sorry, couldn't help myself, I normally don't do this. And then I walked on to the Foreign Languages section, feeling stupid and somewhat ashamed of myself. About five minutes later, I couldn't believe my ears when I heard, so you know Spanish?, from behind. I turned around just to be sure, but I already knew it was her. How could I ever forget such a voice, the smile, and yes, the view? For some strange reason, my normal diffidence departed from me that Saturday afternoon and my gift of gab asserted its presence.
I turned around and saw her smiling at me, eyes twinkling mischievously.
You're not following me, are you?
Gosh, no! She laughed out loud, displaying pearlish white teeth. I'm looking for some Spanish books. Then she changed into rapid-fire Spanish that I had difficulty following. So I told her in English that I read Spanish better than I speak it. I also told her my name and asked for hers (Anita) and then I looked straight at her beautiful almond eyes and said I would love to see her again.
No problema, she said, I am here most Saturdays, around this time.
After I left the library, I seriously considered for the first time in my life to dye my grey silver hair. Eventually, my pride won out. I just had to go with the flow, relying on my charm and animal magnetism to win her over. Hair color be damned. Life has a very strange way of turning out for me. Here I am, a lifelong bachelor, turning down many inquiries and overtures when I was in my prime, rich and handome, now get all excited and bothered in the twilight of my life, penniless and decaying, over a young woman who is wise and childlike at the same time.
I must make a detour. I am as "anxious" as you are to know what would or will happen to Anita and me. But I don't know; honestly, I don't. So I'm taking a break in order to meditate on the nature of our "relationship" via homespun advice I came across in an article concerning a basketball coach who lived to a ripe old age of 99.
Success comes from knowing that you did the best to become the best that you are capable of becoming. Things turn out best for the people who make the best of the way things turn out. Be more concerned with your character than your reputation, because your character is what you really are, while your reputation is merely what others think you are. Failure is not necessarily fatal, but failure to change might be. Failure to prepare is preparing to fail. Talent is God given. Be humble. Fame is man-given. Be grateful. Conceit is self-given. Be careful.
Wow, what a heady and handsome advice! I wish I had come across this when I was young and green, when hot blood coursed through my veins. This evening, as I pulled into tbe driveway of my condo, flashbacks flared up again and I was seized by a paroxysm of anger. I had to rush inside and drank a full glass of cold water. I didn't want to get angry; I didn't want to suffer. Living long and in prosperity is the best revenge. I was telling myself so as I forced myself to gulp the cold water.
Back to Anita, she is in her third year at Arizona State, majoring in Spanish. She wants to become a teacher. Quite an ordinary, unambitious dream. I told her to dream bigger. Big things come to those who dare dream big. I don't want big things, she said. Then, typically enough, she turned the table back on me: What about you? Did you dream big when you were younger? Are you still dreaming?
I went into a soliloquy in answering her questions. It's now or never. Make or break speech. I cared about her, but I had to be honest. She must know who I really was and am. So I said, sure, I dreamed big. I wanted to be a doctor, but that didn't pan out because I was not good enough to be admitted to medical school. I didn't study hard enough. I wanted then to become a writer, a world famous one, winner of Nobel Prize, but while I appreciated literature, I discovered I was not a creative writer. I used to dream of living with the Pygmies and then the San people in Africa because I was fascinated with their lifestyles, but I didn't pursue the dream because I was scared of catching some deadly tropical illnesses. So, you could say I was a quitter or a self-doubter and/or a mere idle dreamer. Now I settle for reading books on philosophy and history, studying languages for fun, and avoiding to put myself in situations where assholes would have power over me because I have a fiery temper and I can commit acts of extreme violence if sufficiently provoked. By the way, I have a hate and love relationship with humans. I love my fellow humans in the abstract, but I tend to hate most humans I run into because they are mostly selfish, lying, hypocritical motherfuckers and assholes. You should also know I used to have a lot of money, but I blew most of it away in the stock market. Now I live from hand to mouth.She didn't interrupt me. She listened very attentively. Then she said, you're okay, you're a good man, muy simpático y sincero también. Take good care of yourself. I don't care about the money. Soy tu amiga. I wish you were much younger.I wish so, too, Anita, I said. Then I turned and headed towards my Maxima which was baking in the parking lot. We only met on Saturdays at the library. I never asked her out. I never asked her if she had a boyfriend. I never touched her, but she knew I wanted to. We just talked no more than an hour and at the end, I was always the one who said, hasta próximo sábado, and she replied with a smile, de acuerdo.
I could not help but observe if she went braless again. But she didn't. I dared not ask her what happened on the day we first met. She was in a hurry? She forgot to put it on? In talking to me, she was friendly, vivacious, but she was not a flirt, not really. And I was a gentleman. I didn't ask for her number and she didn't ask for mine. I didn't know where she lived.
We saw each other on Saturdays for six months, then she disappeared. She stopped going to the library. I kind of missed her, but I didn't suffer. I refused to suffer. I am too old to suffer over a woman. When I was in my early twenties, I foolishly suffered over a woman who turned out prosaic and common. When I discovered her true nature, I realized all my sufferings were for nothing and were only the direct results of my ignorance and willful idealization. I have learned my lesson since. Go gently amidst delights and distractions, but never lose your head nor your dignity.
I still go to the same library on Saturdays. I occasionally pass by the shelf where I first spotted her bending over, searching for a book. I don't think she will ever come back to this library. I wish her luck and happiness. I am rebuilding my wealth. I look forward, not backward. Somehow, I think I will live till 105. I have 40 more years to go. Forty years are a long time. Many exciting things can happen in 40 years. I am still learning Spanish. And I still think of Anita now and then, and of her mysterious disappearance. Did she get run over by a bus or disintegrated by a falling meteorite or did she simply walk away without bothering to say goodbye? And if she's still alive and breathing somewhere, I wonder if she thinks of me whenever she bends over to look for a book in a library wherever that library may be.
Wissai
June 24, 2010
Author's explanatory note and self-criticism and praise:
I wrote this "story" on top of my head, except for a paragraph about advice from John Wooden, a famous deceased basketball coach. I lifted the advice verbatim from a magazine article.
I wrote the story without notes nor planning and without any preconceived idea where the story was going to go and how it was going to end. I didn't think the story mark any progress on my "development" as a wannabe short story writer. I write because I answer to a nagging urge, but I don't take my "craft" seriously at all. I do like the story overall, even if it is not a great story. I like it because of its good beginning and occasional striking phrases and slight but beautiful touch of eroticism and unresolved sexual tension. Although the story sounded autobiographical, it was all made up and pure fantasy.
I could not and would not stretch the "narrative" any longer. I write somewhat like some pieces of Borges: short and impressionistic. Most writers spend weeks and months, even years, to work on a story. Mine took only a few hours and I made things up as I went along with each sentence. Very often I didn't know what the next sentence would be. To me, it was hugely fascinating to witness imagination at work.
Everybody, at least those fancy that they are verbally gifted and can express themselves, has a secret wish to write well. Anybody can write memoirs, trip reports, dog bites, and "essays" about poems and songs to evince his "sensitivity". But creative writing is a different animal, difficult to tame, and almost impossible to please.
Lying is easy. A child can do it. But I hate lying and liars although I can lie as easily as the next guy. To resolve my conflict about lying, I seek refuge in creative writing where I find an outlet for my febrile imagination and lies.
One more thing. I often express my distaste for the appearance of nude and semi-nude photos in a forum of which I visit from time to time, because I don't derive feelings of aesthetics, nor even a stirring of eroticism from these photos. On the contrary, I find them quite crude and crass and damaging to the very notion of eroticism itself. I wrote the story as part of my answer to what eroticism is meant to be. I might not execute it well, but I believe I was on the right track. Eroticism often involves imagination and suggestion, not outright full revelation.
Wissai
June 26, 2010
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Music, Food, Being Jilted, and Memories
Music, Food, Being Jilted, and Memories
The French say the Self is loathsome. Buddhism maintains that suffering comes from a having a delusion that the Self is separate from the Other. Pop psychology preaches that to be successful, one needs to suppress talking about oneself. Dostoevsky, a sick gambler and rambling writer, once wrote that humans loved talking about
themselves. And you, an artiste manqué, concur with Dostoevsky, and openly and energetically shout and scream that humans need not pretend otherwise. Humans always concern with themselves first and foremost, with their hopes, dreams, and fears, in short, with their own survival. Once you understand that, all the human behavior you label despicable and deplorable makes sense, and you start having peace with
yourself since you accept humans for what they are: many are unable to rise above the level of animal existence. There's a reason why there exist the words "human animal" in the lexicon. When I write, you and I are always intertwined. The first and second person singular are interchangeable.
Your partner keeps complaining why you persist in being a child, talking about yourself all the time as if you are the most interesting human ever coming down the turnpike. You slyly chuckle and reply with a wink, "Maybe I am." The irony is that a person who appears excessively egotistical could be surprisingly empathetic. He just does not show his empathy openly like the pretenders do. In other words, he is a honest person. He may be foolishly honest, but he is honest all the same. Maybe he is so comfortable with himself that he doesn't care much what others think of him. On the other hand, he could be a social retard and suffers from an arrested growth. You are way past bedtime. You are destroying your good looks. You are playing with fire.
You woke up the next day with an aching loneliness, despite spending the evening making out with Sylvia. The emptiness asserted its presence during the sex marathon and lingered on after Sylvia departed in that purring Benz of hers. The aching loneliness reminded you that you were cursed with the haunting memories of Laura. No woman would be able to dislodge her from your mind. She no longer reigned in your
heart. She had travelled upwards and wormed herself into your mind, making it diseased and lonely beyond repair. Only when you are asleep, you are given a break from the torment. Even so, the dreams sometimes come back. Lately they take on the horrible specter of your finding yourself completely unprepared for the finals of a certain course. You wake up in the middle of the night, drenched with perspiration, heart racing a million miles per hour, and relieved that it was only a bad
dream. During your waking hours, you have to keep yourself constantly occupied. Your moments of peace and joy are those when certain Spanish language ballads come in on the radio during your drive to and from work, and when you eat home prepared roasted peanuts with the skin on. The aroma of tbe peanuts fill your nostrils and you inhale deeply while chewing slowly. Your overwrought mind is temporarily relaxed and you close your eyes and think of the time you ate the roasted peanuts with the skin on while standing at the window looking out to the rain falling down in a late Sunday afternoon when you were a mere lad in Vietnam, not yet troubled by feelings of sex and jilted love. Joy is nothing but memory and so is pain.
Father's Day June 20, 2010
Authorial Note:
I love writing notes, to myself and to strangers--- big and small, beautiful and ugly, kind and cruel, especially to the small, the ugly, and the cruel. My note is sort of my saying to them: sons, you are no way in the same league as mine, no matter how hard you try. You are only fucking scums and animals, diseased to the core. Look at the lyrical way I express myself! Can you do that? Can your grandfathers do that? Of course not, you all are only able to eat, shit, and fuck,
and nothing else.
The French say the Self is loathsome. Buddhism maintains that suffering comes from a having a delusion that the Self is separate from the Other. Pop psychology preaches that to be successful, one needs to suppress talking about oneself. Dostoevsky, a sick gambler and rambling writer, once wrote that humans loved talking about
themselves. And you, an artiste manqué, concur with Dostoevsky, and openly and energetically shout and scream that humans need not pretend otherwise. Humans always concern with themselves first and foremost, with their hopes, dreams, and fears, in short, with their own survival. Once you understand that, all the human behavior you label despicable and deplorable makes sense, and you start having peace with
yourself since you accept humans for what they are: many are unable to rise above the level of animal existence. There's a reason why there exist the words "human animal" in the lexicon. When I write, you and I are always intertwined. The first and second person singular are interchangeable.
Your partner keeps complaining why you persist in being a child, talking about yourself all the time as if you are the most interesting human ever coming down the turnpike. You slyly chuckle and reply with a wink, "Maybe I am." The irony is that a person who appears excessively egotistical could be surprisingly empathetic. He just does not show his empathy openly like the pretenders do. In other words, he is a honest person. He may be foolishly honest, but he is honest all the same. Maybe he is so comfortable with himself that he doesn't care much what others think of him. On the other hand, he could be a social retard and suffers from an arrested growth. You are way past bedtime. You are destroying your good looks. You are playing with fire.
You woke up the next day with an aching loneliness, despite spending the evening making out with Sylvia. The emptiness asserted its presence during the sex marathon and lingered on after Sylvia departed in that purring Benz of hers. The aching loneliness reminded you that you were cursed with the haunting memories of Laura. No woman would be able to dislodge her from your mind. She no longer reigned in your
heart. She had travelled upwards and wormed herself into your mind, making it diseased and lonely beyond repair. Only when you are asleep, you are given a break from the torment. Even so, the dreams sometimes come back. Lately they take on the horrible specter of your finding yourself completely unprepared for the finals of a certain course. You wake up in the middle of the night, drenched with perspiration, heart racing a million miles per hour, and relieved that it was only a bad
dream. During your waking hours, you have to keep yourself constantly occupied. Your moments of peace and joy are those when certain Spanish language ballads come in on the radio during your drive to and from work, and when you eat home prepared roasted peanuts with the skin on. The aroma of tbe peanuts fill your nostrils and you inhale deeply while chewing slowly. Your overwrought mind is temporarily relaxed and you close your eyes and think of the time you ate the roasted peanuts with the skin on while standing at the window looking out to the rain falling down in a late Sunday afternoon when you were a mere lad in Vietnam, not yet troubled by feelings of sex and jilted love. Joy is nothing but memory and so is pain.
Father's Day June 20, 2010
Authorial Note:
I love writing notes, to myself and to strangers--- big and small, beautiful and ugly, kind and cruel, especially to the small, the ugly, and the cruel. My note is sort of my saying to them: sons, you are no way in the same league as mine, no matter how hard you try. You are only fucking scums and animals, diseased to the core. Look at the lyrical way I express myself! Can you do that? Can your grandfathers do that? Of course not, you all are only able to eat, shit, and fuck,
and nothing else.
A Strange Animal
A Strange Animal
Almost all people have gone to the zoo at one time or another. Some have gone several times. Being human, an quintessentially curious animal, they go there to see exotic and/or wild animals. They may feel a bit sorry for the animals being scooped up in pens and cages. While being there, they enjoy quality time together with their loved ones and friends. Then they come home and that's it. Nothing really has happened to them at the zoo. They looked, but they didn't see. They don't change. Those who are into a bit of reading know something about endangered species or the exploitation of any animals for monetary gains. They are aware of the functions of the zoos as the preservers and keepers of the gene pools of certain animals, besides being the educational centers and locations for strolling around and being in touch with certain part of nature in a Saturday morning or a Sunday afternoon.
I wonder how many of us, after spending a day at the zoo, take a good look of ourselves in the bathroom mirror and arrive at an epiphany that we, not the animals at tbe zoo, are the strange ones. Heck, I just had an encounter with a very strange animal this very afternoon. I always had had some uneasy feelings about this animal before , but its behavior this afternoon removed all doubts from my mind.
Almost all people have gone to the zoo at one time or another. Some have gone several times. Being human, an quintessentially curious animal, they go there to see exotic and/or wild animals. They may feel a bit sorry for the animals being scooped up in pens and cages. While being there, they enjoy quality time together with their loved ones and friends. Then they come home and that's it. Nothing really has happened to them at the zoo. They looked, but they didn't see. They don't change. Those who are into a bit of reading know something about endangered species or the exploitation of any animals for monetary gains. They are aware of the functions of the zoos as the preservers and keepers of the gene pools of certain animals, besides being the educational centers and locations for strolling around and being in touch with certain part of nature in a Saturday morning or a Sunday afternoon.
I wonder how many of us, after spending a day at the zoo, take a good look of ourselves in the bathroom mirror and arrive at an epiphany that we, not the animals at tbe zoo, are the strange ones. Heck, I just had an encounter with a very strange animal this very afternoon. I always had had some uneasy feelings about this animal before , but its behavior this afternoon removed all doubts from my mind.
Bragging Time
Bragging Time
Today must be my lucky day. Three women--- old women, women just younger than me by a few years and I am an old man (though I keep hearing from people that I am still young-looking and devilishly handsome) in mid 60's--- called me up and beat around the bush, saying they were lonely and they wanted to have company. They kept talking, going from one gossip to another. I pretended that I was too dense to know what the first one was up to. I just listended and kept saying "ah huh " and "right" occasionally. Finally, she got tired of talking and hung up after complaining that I hardly called her. Later in the evening, as I was lying in bed, all alone, reading an anthology of short stories, trying to look for an idea to expand into a story, when another old lady called. I think I once wrote a story about her. She was the one with a silver Mercedes and stylish clothes though she claimed she was going broke because of gambling problems. Her name is Sylvia. She is still quite good-looking although lately her looks have started fading. Wrinkles are claiming territory on her face. However, she still looks hot, in fact muy caliente to me with that ample bosom of hers hardly concealed in the ever-present low-cut blouses she wears and her shapely derriere swaying when she walks. Anyway, we talked. Nothing deep or controversial. If you know women as I do, all you need to do is to listen and agree with most (not everything, otherwise they would know you're a liar) of they say, and they would be fond of you and are likely to think of you when they are blue and need a sympathetic ear.
I must admit once upon a time, like three million years ago, a woman like Sylvia would make me pant with desire and I would jump at the first available opportunity to ask her out and later when I felt she was ready, I would make my moves and waylay her and have my way with her. But I am a much older man now. My blood is not running hot anymore. I had several bad experiences. I had quite a number of cases
of misplaced affection. All I have left is my ego and my mind. I don't even have much money left, after blowing most of it away in the stock market. Money, as they said, is only important when you don't have much of it when you need it. Money used to mean very little to me when I was a millionaire. Now it means a great deal to me when there exists a small step for me to be homeless. Everyday presents a challenge for me to raise capital so I could stay put in the condo, and put food on the table and gas in the tank.
So I calmly told Sylvia that, yes, when she wants to have company, when life is a bit too much for her to bear alone and she wants me, just pick up the phone and call me and I will be ready for her to pick me up in that fancy Mercedes-Benz of hers. She shyly and sweetly said, "Si', si', gracias, buenas noches, mi querido. Hasta luego. De acuerdo?" I said, "Claro, hasta luego." I know a smattering of Spanish. I pick up languages like a flunkie picks up troubles, here and there. I study languages in order to impress women. I want to appear urbane and well-travelled and sophisticated. I have a rudimentary knowledge of Spanish, French, Italian, German, Portuguese, Latin, and Chinese. I know, I should concentrate my energy on English,
the language I have problems of mastering. I tend to mangle, masturbate, mutilate, and murder the language when I speak it. People often ask me to repeat what I said. It's downright embarrassing, let me tell you, considering I've been living in the United States for 35 years now. Okay, I admit it. I am afflicted with an inferiority complex, so I cover it up by acting full of bravado and insouciance.
Where am I now? Ah, I remember. This stream of consciousness is supposed to be a paen, a panegyric of myself, an exercise in bragging, and not an attempt of self-put down! Be careful, Roberto. Watch what you are doing. Don't talk like an old man.
Let's see if I can continue. The other day I read a piece about an accordion. The author went on and on for fifteen pages reminiscing about her father, using her father's accordion as a leitmotiv. What was remarkable was that she could sustain the interest of the reader over a story which read more like a memoir, with no dramatic tension and thus no subsequent conflict resolution. In fact, her story
inspired this bragging exercise of mine. I know, I know. Bragging is distasteful, but I can't help it. I am a distasteful kind of guy, a rake, a cad, but somehow women like me, not only in these twilight years of my life, but have been so since my first year in college, almost five decades ago. Throughout my life, my best friends have been women, and some are more than friends. Having women take a liking of me has been good not only for my ego, but also for my body. It has
forced me to keep my body in a good shape, just in case. You never know when it may come handy.
After Sylvia and I said goodnight to each other, I had a big grin on my face, all smug and confident-like, and I resumed reading the anthology I referred to earlier. Actually, I was re-reading two stories there. I have read these two several times before. They made an impact on me. They affected me. And every time I read them, I felt
much calmer and wiser. I almost came to the end of the story where the
so-called Mr. Misfit made a raw yet eloquent re-examination of the whole Christian ethos, the message allegedly brought by Christ. He said he didn't really know if Christ really did and said all the things attributed to him in the Bible because he (Mr. Misfit) was not there and he wished he had been there, so he would know if Christ actually raised the dead because the answer would have a direct import
on Man's ethical conduct. The end of the story would always shakes me up, no matter I already know how the story reaches its violent, gory ending. I would shudder, feeling drained and exhausted and in awe of the power of words and imagination. By the time I reached near the ending when the hypocritical, babbling grandmother made a desperate attempt to save her life, the stupid, smug grin already left my face.
I felt pain. I felt a shortness of breath. I felt a constriction in my throat. I felt I was snooping on a scene of execution in the primeval forest where an old, pitiful, egotistical woman was trying to save herself from a senseless death brought on by her big mouth, when my cell phone rang again.
A third call in one evening, wow, this didn't happen before. Today was really special, a day to cherish and treasure and remember. It should be recorded in the annals of the life of a man who is fond of bragging, hence these words. The call came from Saundra (that's right, with an u), an old friend with all the meanings of the word, calling from Europe, from the country with the shape of a boot. I had to make the conversation short. Remember, money is scarce nowadays to me. Saundra is Jewish. I met her there more than a decade ago when I was prosperous and brimmed with confidence. Soon, she came out saying she felt like a leaning tower and I was a construction engineer who could save her from falling down. I replied that she must have mistaken me for somebody else. I was only a talker. Words were my game and Roberto was my name. I was into books and dreams, not bricks and falling
towers. The truth was that Saundra was a good-hearted woman, a good
mother, but she was just too self-centered for my taste. She once told me in all seriousness that she survived all life's difficulties because "God watched over me". Upon hearing that, I gave her an instant, on-the-spot retort, riposte, repartee, rejoinder, and reply that essentially ventured into an inquiry of what made her so special and what made 6 million Jews and 20 million Russians, not counting countless others, who had perished in World War II, not special enough to be saved by
God. We always talk about God and this time was no different. This time she remarked that I was too "doctrinaire" (!) and rigid in my thinking and that I had to open my heart to the possibility that most others were right and I was wrong. Then she added a clincher, "what made you think YOU are so special?" I gave out a long, audible sigh, suddenly realizing my phone bill would be a bear at month's end. And I said the following to her:
"Look, all the stories you heard and read are only that--stories---all right? Products of human imagination, wishes, dreams, hopes, and fears. No scientific or even logical basis in them. There's only one force at work and that's called the physical process and transformation of energy. I have to go. By the way, why did you call? It's three a.m over there.."
She gave me a throaty cackle and intoned: "Because I want to hear your voice and I want to kiss your belly."
I said, "You certainly may and don't forget to travel south."
Today must be my lucky day. Three women--- old women, women just younger than me by a few years and I am an old man (though I keep hearing from people that I am still young-looking and devilishly handsome) in mid 60's--- called me up and beat around the bush, saying they were lonely and they wanted to have company. They kept talking, going from one gossip to another. I pretended that I was too dense to know what the first one was up to. I just listended and kept saying "ah huh " and "right" occasionally. Finally, she got tired of talking and hung up after complaining that I hardly called her. Later in the evening, as I was lying in bed, all alone, reading an anthology of short stories, trying to look for an idea to expand into a story, when another old lady called. I think I once wrote a story about her. She was the one with a silver Mercedes and stylish clothes though she claimed she was going broke because of gambling problems. Her name is Sylvia. She is still quite good-looking although lately her looks have started fading. Wrinkles are claiming territory on her face. However, she still looks hot, in fact muy caliente to me with that ample bosom of hers hardly concealed in the ever-present low-cut blouses she wears and her shapely derriere swaying when she walks. Anyway, we talked. Nothing deep or controversial. If you know women as I do, all you need to do is to listen and agree with most (not everything, otherwise they would know you're a liar) of they say, and they would be fond of you and are likely to think of you when they are blue and need a sympathetic ear.
I must admit once upon a time, like three million years ago, a woman like Sylvia would make me pant with desire and I would jump at the first available opportunity to ask her out and later when I felt she was ready, I would make my moves and waylay her and have my way with her. But I am a much older man now. My blood is not running hot anymore. I had several bad experiences. I had quite a number of cases
of misplaced affection. All I have left is my ego and my mind. I don't even have much money left, after blowing most of it away in the stock market. Money, as they said, is only important when you don't have much of it when you need it. Money used to mean very little to me when I was a millionaire. Now it means a great deal to me when there exists a small step for me to be homeless. Everyday presents a challenge for me to raise capital so I could stay put in the condo, and put food on the table and gas in the tank.
So I calmly told Sylvia that, yes, when she wants to have company, when life is a bit too much for her to bear alone and she wants me, just pick up the phone and call me and I will be ready for her to pick me up in that fancy Mercedes-Benz of hers. She shyly and sweetly said, "Si', si', gracias, buenas noches, mi querido. Hasta luego. De acuerdo?" I said, "Claro, hasta luego." I know a smattering of Spanish. I pick up languages like a flunkie picks up troubles, here and there. I study languages in order to impress women. I want to appear urbane and well-travelled and sophisticated. I have a rudimentary knowledge of Spanish, French, Italian, German, Portuguese, Latin, and Chinese. I know, I should concentrate my energy on English,
the language I have problems of mastering. I tend to mangle, masturbate, mutilate, and murder the language when I speak it. People often ask me to repeat what I said. It's downright embarrassing, let me tell you, considering I've been living in the United States for 35 years now. Okay, I admit it. I am afflicted with an inferiority complex, so I cover it up by acting full of bravado and insouciance.
Where am I now? Ah, I remember. This stream of consciousness is supposed to be a paen, a panegyric of myself, an exercise in bragging, and not an attempt of self-put down! Be careful, Roberto. Watch what you are doing. Don't talk like an old man.
Let's see if I can continue. The other day I read a piece about an accordion. The author went on and on for fifteen pages reminiscing about her father, using her father's accordion as a leitmotiv. What was remarkable was that she could sustain the interest of the reader over a story which read more like a memoir, with no dramatic tension and thus no subsequent conflict resolution. In fact, her story
inspired this bragging exercise of mine. I know, I know. Bragging is distasteful, but I can't help it. I am a distasteful kind of guy, a rake, a cad, but somehow women like me, not only in these twilight years of my life, but have been so since my first year in college, almost five decades ago. Throughout my life, my best friends have been women, and some are more than friends. Having women take a liking of me has been good not only for my ego, but also for my body. It has
forced me to keep my body in a good shape, just in case. You never know when it may come handy.
After Sylvia and I said goodnight to each other, I had a big grin on my face, all smug and confident-like, and I resumed reading the anthology I referred to earlier. Actually, I was re-reading two stories there. I have read these two several times before. They made an impact on me. They affected me. And every time I read them, I felt
much calmer and wiser. I almost came to the end of the story where the
so-called Mr. Misfit made a raw yet eloquent re-examination of the whole Christian ethos, the message allegedly brought by Christ. He said he didn't really know if Christ really did and said all the things attributed to him in the Bible because he (Mr. Misfit) was not there and he wished he had been there, so he would know if Christ actually raised the dead because the answer would have a direct import
on Man's ethical conduct. The end of the story would always shakes me up, no matter I already know how the story reaches its violent, gory ending. I would shudder, feeling drained and exhausted and in awe of the power of words and imagination. By the time I reached near the ending when the hypocritical, babbling grandmother made a desperate attempt to save her life, the stupid, smug grin already left my face.
I felt pain. I felt a shortness of breath. I felt a constriction in my throat. I felt I was snooping on a scene of execution in the primeval forest where an old, pitiful, egotistical woman was trying to save herself from a senseless death brought on by her big mouth, when my cell phone rang again.
A third call in one evening, wow, this didn't happen before. Today was really special, a day to cherish and treasure and remember. It should be recorded in the annals of the life of a man who is fond of bragging, hence these words. The call came from Saundra (that's right, with an u), an old friend with all the meanings of the word, calling from Europe, from the country with the shape of a boot. I had to make the conversation short. Remember, money is scarce nowadays to me. Saundra is Jewish. I met her there more than a decade ago when I was prosperous and brimmed with confidence. Soon, she came out saying she felt like a leaning tower and I was a construction engineer who could save her from falling down. I replied that she must have mistaken me for somebody else. I was only a talker. Words were my game and Roberto was my name. I was into books and dreams, not bricks and falling
towers. The truth was that Saundra was a good-hearted woman, a good
mother, but she was just too self-centered for my taste. She once told me in all seriousness that she survived all life's difficulties because "God watched over me". Upon hearing that, I gave her an instant, on-the-spot retort, riposte, repartee, rejoinder, and reply that essentially ventured into an inquiry of what made her so special and what made 6 million Jews and 20 million Russians, not counting countless others, who had perished in World War II, not special enough to be saved by
God. We always talk about God and this time was no different. This time she remarked that I was too "doctrinaire" (!) and rigid in my thinking and that I had to open my heart to the possibility that most others were right and I was wrong. Then she added a clincher, "what made you think YOU are so special?" I gave out a long, audible sigh, suddenly realizing my phone bill would be a bear at month's end. And I said the following to her:
"Look, all the stories you heard and read are only that--stories---all right? Products of human imagination, wishes, dreams, hopes, and fears. No scientific or even logical basis in them. There's only one force at work and that's called the physical process and transformation of energy. I have to go. By the way, why did you call? It's three a.m over there.."
She gave me a throaty cackle and intoned: "Because I want to hear your voice and I want to kiss your belly."
I said, "You certainly may and don't forget to travel south."
Death in Late Afternoon
Death in late afternoon.
Harry felt a jolt of rage coursing through his pudgy body when he saw his red Mustang up close. He was in a hurry to get to his girlfriend's apartment to take her out for dinner. Today was her birthday. He had wanted to leave work sooner than this, but at the last minute, his boss walked in and gave him a new assignment. The bastard didn 't leave. He just sat there and talked on and on. Harry got antsy and nervous like Hell, but he didn't have the guts to tell the boss that he had to go somewhere, kind of like right now. By the time the boss strolled out of tbe office, Harry just about had enough time to get to his sweetie. He called her and explained to her that he might be late. Now, not only he would be definitely late, but he must scrap the dinner plan altogether. He called her again : "But damn it, Harriette though her name suggests otherwise, she was not hairy, definitely not like her beau, the hairy Harry), it's true. You can drive over here and have a look. I don't think the tow truck will be here sooner than you. I've got to go. I hope I don't have to replace any tire."
He took a good look at the tires. Two of them were all way down, flat as a pancake, courtesy of a roofing nail imbedded in each. He was infuriated and perplexed. Somebody must have been very mad with him. Somebody from the office, but who? He tried to recall if he had pissed anybody lately. He came up with a blank. He got into the well-tinted car and turned on tbe AC and looked at his watch. He had to wait at least for twenty minutes more, at this hour when everybody was on the road, wanting to get home. The rear passenger door was suddenly yanked open. A man got in and barked an order at the same time. "Sit still, don't turn around. Your name Harry Sheethed?". No sooner than Harry said, "Yes, what you w...", three shots from the Colt 45 fitted with a silencer rang out in quick succession. The killer obviously planned ahead. The trajectory of the shots was downward. None of the bullets went through the windshield. Most of the back of Harry's head was gone. His torso stayed straight for a few seconds then slumped to the side, on the right, not to the front as usually depicted in the movies. He tucked the gun in his holster and got out of the car. He took a casual look around. There was nobody in sight. He strided towards a tinted silver grey Maxima sedan which was stolen this morning from a long term parking out at Houston International Airport and fitted with a fake license plate from Arizona. He would drive it back to the airport, dump it there, get into his own car and get out of Dodge.
He got in the Maxima and eased out of the parking lot. His phone rang. He looked at the number and smiled.
"Well, was it done yet? I'm getting nervous."
"Done. You owe me twenty more. Start the wiring procedures."
"Very good. Thank you. Of course, you'll get the money right away once his departure is confirmed. Tell me, what did he say when you mentioned my name."
"He cried and begged for mercy."
"Good! He should have never pissed me off." The other man bragged triumphantly and shut off his phone.
The Maxima driver chuckled and said to himself, "Ego and vanity. Vanity of vanities. All is ego. All is vanity. Oh my Lord, I thank Thee for endowing humans with ego and vanity". His eyes blazed with emotions and his head swayed with the gospel music blared from the radio, "In Thee I believe." and he pressed on the pedal when the light turned green, the color of money, of proceeding right straight ahead, and the Maxima turned right and merged---quite abruptly--with the freeway traffic, towards the airport. The sun swung low in the horizon, temporarily blinding him. He raised his hand to shield the glare when his car was knocked violently from behind, catapulting it to the rear of a gasoline tanker truck in front of him. Just before he passed out, he saw a big flash of intense lights everywhere.
Wissai
June 21, 2010.
Harry felt a jolt of rage coursing through his pudgy body when he saw his red Mustang up close. He was in a hurry to get to his girlfriend's apartment to take her out for dinner. Today was her birthday. He had wanted to leave work sooner than this, but at the last minute, his boss walked in and gave him a new assignment. The bastard didn 't leave. He just sat there and talked on and on. Harry got antsy and nervous like Hell, but he didn't have the guts to tell the boss that he had to go somewhere, kind of like right now. By the time the boss strolled out of tbe office, Harry just about had enough time to get to his sweetie. He called her and explained to her that he might be late. Now, not only he would be definitely late, but he must scrap the dinner plan altogether. He called her again : "But damn it, Harriette though her name suggests otherwise, she was not hairy, definitely not like her beau, the hairy Harry), it's true. You can drive over here and have a look. I don't think the tow truck will be here sooner than you. I've got to go. I hope I don't have to replace any tire."
He took a good look at the tires. Two of them were all way down, flat as a pancake, courtesy of a roofing nail imbedded in each. He was infuriated and perplexed. Somebody must have been very mad with him. Somebody from the office, but who? He tried to recall if he had pissed anybody lately. He came up with a blank. He got into the well-tinted car and turned on tbe AC and looked at his watch. He had to wait at least for twenty minutes more, at this hour when everybody was on the road, wanting to get home. The rear passenger door was suddenly yanked open. A man got in and barked an order at the same time. "Sit still, don't turn around. Your name Harry Sheethed?". No sooner than Harry said, "Yes, what you w...", three shots from the Colt 45 fitted with a silencer rang out in quick succession. The killer obviously planned ahead. The trajectory of the shots was downward. None of the bullets went through the windshield. Most of the back of Harry's head was gone. His torso stayed straight for a few seconds then slumped to the side, on the right, not to the front as usually depicted in the movies. He tucked the gun in his holster and got out of the car. He took a casual look around. There was nobody in sight. He strided towards a tinted silver grey Maxima sedan which was stolen this morning from a long term parking out at Houston International Airport and fitted with a fake license plate from Arizona. He would drive it back to the airport, dump it there, get into his own car and get out of Dodge.
He got in the Maxima and eased out of the parking lot. His phone rang. He looked at the number and smiled.
"Well, was it done yet? I'm getting nervous."
"Done. You owe me twenty more. Start the wiring procedures."
"Very good. Thank you. Of course, you'll get the money right away once his departure is confirmed. Tell me, what did he say when you mentioned my name."
"He cried and begged for mercy."
"Good! He should have never pissed me off." The other man bragged triumphantly and shut off his phone.
The Maxima driver chuckled and said to himself, "Ego and vanity. Vanity of vanities. All is ego. All is vanity. Oh my Lord, I thank Thee for endowing humans with ego and vanity". His eyes blazed with emotions and his head swayed with the gospel music blared from the radio, "In Thee I believe." and he pressed on the pedal when the light turned green, the color of money, of proceeding right straight ahead, and the Maxima turned right and merged---quite abruptly--with the freeway traffic, towards the airport. The sun swung low in the horizon, temporarily blinding him. He raised his hand to shield the glare when his car was knocked violently from behind, catapulting it to the rear of a gasoline tanker truck in front of him. Just before he passed out, he saw a big flash of intense lights everywhere.
Wissai
June 21, 2010.
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Confidential
Yesterday I felt blue and depressed. I had a tough day at the office. Several bad things happened to me. After work, I stopped at a grocery store, grabbed a can of nuts, a bag of beef jerky, and a six pack. My stomach used to look like a wash board. Now it's flabby due to my recent predilection for six packs, and bad knees. I can't run anymore. Anyway, I got home, flopped into my easy chair in front of
the TV, hit the remote, and started munching and drinking my sorrows away. But I didn't feel any better. By the time I got to the last can, I felt lonely as Hell. So I whipped out my iPhone, fished out a card from my wallet, and punched in the number.
Can I help you? A soft voice came on.
I'd like to talk with Ian Knowles, please.
He's no longer here. I am his replacement. You've used our service before, I suppose.
Can we talk in confidence?
Of course, Talking is my game. Con Fidence is my name. What's yours? Fire away!
Is Confidence your last name or first?
It's full name. Two separate words.
Ah, I see, Con as in convict or Connie?
A funny type. Good. I like funny people, but have to be real, not funny ha ha. Con is short for Conrad.
We talked for over an hour. Actually, I did most of the talking. He just listened. He occasionally asked some questions and made some surprisingly insightful comments. He turned out to be a good, caring listener. He said I could even stop by the office the next day if things got worse. He told me to stop making undue demands on myself
and stop writing to that stupid asshole a million miles away. If I need to unwind, write to him instead. He further advised me to keep very busy and resume doing physical exercises.
So, here I am, trying to come to terms with my anger; with flashbacks; with thoughts of homicide, mayhem, and wanton destruction. I am also trying to deal with a propensity to show off how smart and knowledgeable I am. So, I took the advice of Con Fidence and I am emptying my thoughts and feelings down on paper. He said if I keep doing that, one day I will find harmony inside me. One can write oneself to exhaustion. And an exhauted person has no energy left even to think of violence. All he wants to do is to rest and recharge his battery. The funny thing is that as I am writing these words, I don't feel tired at all. Instead, I feel invigorated and alive and indeed lighter. The sluggishness, the lethargy, the pre-thrombotic choke and blockage, the malaise, all those shit are replaced by a sense of triumph and delight of seeing how my thoughts, my feelings are transmuted into symbols called words. The outside world and its attendant ills and bullshit and nonsense seem so far away. I am now chortling with an irresistible caloricity and verve. I feel fluid and the demon has beaten a retreat. I still see the footprints he left
behind. They formed the words: "I'll be back!"
Wissai
June 11, 2010
_________________________________________________
Note of the author: Sorry to disappoint you. You thought you were going to be regaled with a story about phone sex, didn't you? Oh, come on, do I look like the type who has to stoop that low to get some entertainment? What I need is not some cheap, loveless sex, but a relief from the torment of violent thoughts. After I wrote the above, I went to a library and ran into an acquaintance whom I hadn't seen for three years. I was astounded to see her look quite a bit younger than the last time I saw her. I complimented her and was told she decided to be a true Buddhist and that meant to get rid of negative feelings and emotions, especially hate and greed. Upon hearing that, I felt much stronger and all thoughts of violence departed from me. I hope they were gone for good, but if they come back, I am ready to kick their ass. Oops, did I just intimate that I am into non-violence? Habits die hard, I guess. All right, I am not going to do any kicking. Just weaving and bobbing my way through life. No more fighting. No more kicking asses. Cool, I am cool. Tonight, I know for sure I will experience peace and serenity.
Note number 2:
A reader wrote back, saying he felt offended and insulted about my first note above. I wrote back a retort, a reply, a riposte, a repartee, a rejoinder that writing for me is not for aesthetic execution; rather, it is a form of therapy. I don't give a fuck about offending the readers. I am more interested in saving my life. Anyway,
didn't I say more than once that I am an "artiste manqué"? I wish I were a full-fledged artist. I have no delusions. The stupid note of the (stupid) reader triggered a tsunami of words inside me. So, I am back in front of the damned computer. My goodness, you have no idea how many times ilve been back, with the same start, over and over again. This time, I have a strange feeling that I wil get to the finish line. Where no sea runs, the waters of the heart/Push in their
tides, so said that drunk Irish bard. The following words are the tides of my heart.
My earliest memory was the street of Paul Bert, aka Tran Quang Khai. I spent a lot of time in that street as our house was located smack at the street front, and not in the alleyway.
the TV, hit the remote, and started munching and drinking my sorrows away. But I didn't feel any better. By the time I got to the last can, I felt lonely as Hell. So I whipped out my iPhone, fished out a card from my wallet, and punched in the number.
Can I help you? A soft voice came on.
I'd like to talk with Ian Knowles, please.
He's no longer here. I am his replacement. You've used our service before, I suppose.
Can we talk in confidence?
Of course, Talking is my game. Con Fidence is my name. What's yours? Fire away!
Is Confidence your last name or first?
It's full name. Two separate words.
Ah, I see, Con as in convict or Connie?
A funny type. Good. I like funny people, but have to be real, not funny ha ha. Con is short for Conrad.
We talked for over an hour. Actually, I did most of the talking. He just listened. He occasionally asked some questions and made some surprisingly insightful comments. He turned out to be a good, caring listener. He said I could even stop by the office the next day if things got worse. He told me to stop making undue demands on myself
and stop writing to that stupid asshole a million miles away. If I need to unwind, write to him instead. He further advised me to keep very busy and resume doing physical exercises.
So, here I am, trying to come to terms with my anger; with flashbacks; with thoughts of homicide, mayhem, and wanton destruction. I am also trying to deal with a propensity to show off how smart and knowledgeable I am. So, I took the advice of Con Fidence and I am emptying my thoughts and feelings down on paper. He said if I keep doing that, one day I will find harmony inside me. One can write oneself to exhaustion. And an exhauted person has no energy left even to think of violence. All he wants to do is to rest and recharge his battery. The funny thing is that as I am writing these words, I don't feel tired at all. Instead, I feel invigorated and alive and indeed lighter. The sluggishness, the lethargy, the pre-thrombotic choke and blockage, the malaise, all those shit are replaced by a sense of triumph and delight of seeing how my thoughts, my feelings are transmuted into symbols called words. The outside world and its attendant ills and bullshit and nonsense seem so far away. I am now chortling with an irresistible caloricity and verve. I feel fluid and the demon has beaten a retreat. I still see the footprints he left
behind. They formed the words: "I'll be back!"
Wissai
June 11, 2010
_________________________________________________
Note of the author: Sorry to disappoint you. You thought you were going to be regaled with a story about phone sex, didn't you? Oh, come on, do I look like the type who has to stoop that low to get some entertainment? What I need is not some cheap, loveless sex, but a relief from the torment of violent thoughts. After I wrote the above, I went to a library and ran into an acquaintance whom I hadn't seen for three years. I was astounded to see her look quite a bit younger than the last time I saw her. I complimented her and was told she decided to be a true Buddhist and that meant to get rid of negative feelings and emotions, especially hate and greed. Upon hearing that, I felt much stronger and all thoughts of violence departed from me. I hope they were gone for good, but if they come back, I am ready to kick their ass. Oops, did I just intimate that I am into non-violence? Habits die hard, I guess. All right, I am not going to do any kicking. Just weaving and bobbing my way through life. No more fighting. No more kicking asses. Cool, I am cool. Tonight, I know for sure I will experience peace and serenity.
Note number 2:
A reader wrote back, saying he felt offended and insulted about my first note above. I wrote back a retort, a reply, a riposte, a repartee, a rejoinder that writing for me is not for aesthetic execution; rather, it is a form of therapy. I don't give a fuck about offending the readers. I am more interested in saving my life. Anyway,
didn't I say more than once that I am an "artiste manqué"? I wish I were a full-fledged artist. I have no delusions. The stupid note of the (stupid) reader triggered a tsunami of words inside me. So, I am back in front of the damned computer. My goodness, you have no idea how many times ilve been back, with the same start, over and over again. This time, I have a strange feeling that I wil get to the finish line. Where no sea runs, the waters of the heart/Push in their
tides, so said that drunk Irish bard. The following words are the tides of my heart.
My earliest memory was the street of Paul Bert, aka Tran Quang Khai. I spent a lot of time in that street as our house was located smack at the street front, and not in the alleyway.
Significance of Story
Significance of Story
I ain't no storyteller nor writer. I know that and you know that. But I am always fascinated by stories because in my view, life is full of stories. A person's life or a nation's fate is nothing but a narrative. Some narratives are heroic; others unbearingly banal; still others tragic. It's up to us to shape our own stories, our own destinies. An appeal to "higher" Authority is only a stop-gap measure to calm the nerves. We all know that. Any half-intelligent human would know that, if he is really honest with himself.
Humans always know the importance of stories over dry exhortations. Religious teachings consist of many good (with plural meanings) stories. As Flannery O'Connor once said, a story really isn't any good unless it successfully resists paraphrase, unless it hangs on and expands in the mind.
The current crisis in Vietnam is an excruciatingly painful albeit fascinating story. It is unfolding, taking place right in front of our eyes. Every week there are new developments, new twists of ironies and obscenities.
How we respond to this story tells us, never mind the others, of who we really are.
We must ask ourselves if the story hangs on and expands in our mind to the point we are not at peace unless we do something to affect the outcome of the story. On the other hand, we could go on blithely with our own lives and convince ourselves that we are "decent", "caring", "nice", "sensitive" human beings.
Wissai
I ain't no storyteller nor writer. I know that and you know that. But I am always fascinated by stories because in my view, life is full of stories. A person's life or a nation's fate is nothing but a narrative. Some narratives are heroic; others unbearingly banal; still others tragic. It's up to us to shape our own stories, our own destinies. An appeal to "higher" Authority is only a stop-gap measure to calm the nerves. We all know that. Any half-intelligent human would know that, if he is really honest with himself.
Humans always know the importance of stories over dry exhortations. Religious teachings consist of many good (with plural meanings) stories. As Flannery O'Connor once said, a story really isn't any good unless it successfully resists paraphrase, unless it hangs on and expands in the mind.
The current crisis in Vietnam is an excruciatingly painful albeit fascinating story. It is unfolding, taking place right in front of our eyes. Every week there are new developments, new twists of ironies and obscenities.
How we respond to this story tells us, never mind the others, of who we really are.
We must ask ourselves if the story hangs on and expands in our mind to the point we are not at peace unless we do something to affect the outcome of the story. On the other hand, we could go on blithely with our own lives and convince ourselves that we are "decent", "caring", "nice", "sensitive" human beings.
Wissai
Saturday, June 12, 2010
Obama and Tiger and the question of Identity
Obama and Tiger are two famous half-black Americans. They are known by just one name. One is by the last name; the other by the first. They will surely go down in history books for their achievements. Let's face it and be honest with ourselves: A great majority of humans harbor a deep-seated desire to be remembered long after they are gone and consumed by bugs and bacteria. So, Obama and Tiger made it. But given a choice, whom would you rather be?
Obama dabbled in drugs (he's still hooked on nicotine) and basketball, and came from a broken family. His mother was an anthropologist who had a knack to find exotic men irresistible. She married a black while being in college, and then an Indonesian. Obama's father was cold and irresponsible in bringing up the children he sired with various women. Obama predictably wrestled with his racial identity, being biracial, and he came down on the black side. He married an older, abrasive black woman. He kept in touch with his black relatives in Kenya. He apparently has not had any affairs with lily white women. And of course, he became a President of the arguably greatest nation on earth. He is not perfect. He is known to be ruthless (he cut off his friends when they proved to be a liability), cruel (made jokes at his subordinates' expense) and a liar (the episode about his pastor when he claimed that during almost 20 years sitting in the pews, he had not heard of any racist rants). Many Republicans are now raving and ranting that Obama is a liar. Please show me one politician who is not.
Tiger, a product of a black military man and a Thai woman, seemed to have a different family experiences and outlook than Obama. Doted and trained by his father at an early age, Tiger became one of the greatest golfers in the world. He became very rich and famous. Despite intensely loved by his black father, Tiger apparently has been attracted only to lily white women, not black, not Asian (his mother's racial background). Tiger had affairs with them. His marriage to the blond Swedish woman is on the rocks, caused by his infidelity. I always wonder about black and Asian men being attracted to white women and speculate if there is some trace of inferiority complex and the resulting overcompensation dynamic in play here. Don't get me wrong. Prior to my marriage, I had dated many whites (one was 6' 1") and I still have many white female friends, but dating is one thing, marrying is another matter. Marriage is a serious commitment, especially to a person with different racial background. I am sure there were many attractive black and Asian women who had made it known to Tiger that they were available, but Tiger apparently couldn't find one to his liking. He evidently had a thing about white women. In my biased opinion, a non-white man who is not sexually attracted enough to a woman of his race while finding lily white women irresistible must be plagued by some feelings of inferiority complex. Of course, I understand love strikes at unexpected moments and there are exceptions, but consistently having affairs only with white women, as in the case of Tiger here, clearly shows his sexual predilection for whites. A normal person is comfortable with his own skin and tends to choose first and foremost women of his racial background simply he grew up in the same milieu and had more exposure. Anyway, Tiger's reputation is in tatters and he comes across as a very common person except for his golf talents. I would not bother to spill my guts out and speculate on Tiger's emotional makeup if he were an equal opportunity philanderer. Marrying a white woman is nothing to be proud of. The marriage has to be based on solid love. The white woman has to be the true object of love and desire, and not a trophy for a non-white man to come to terms with his feelings of inadequacy. In my salad days, I had white women asking me to marry them, but I said no, not because they were not accomplished (one was a dermatologist) but because I always find Vietnamese women irresistible, especially those who went to French-speaking lycées.
Obama dabbled in drugs (he's still hooked on nicotine) and basketball, and came from a broken family. His mother was an anthropologist who had a knack to find exotic men irresistible. She married a black while being in college, and then an Indonesian. Obama's father was cold and irresponsible in bringing up the children he sired with various women. Obama predictably wrestled with his racial identity, being biracial, and he came down on the black side. He married an older, abrasive black woman. He kept in touch with his black relatives in Kenya. He apparently has not had any affairs with lily white women. And of course, he became a President of the arguably greatest nation on earth. He is not perfect. He is known to be ruthless (he cut off his friends when they proved to be a liability), cruel (made jokes at his subordinates' expense) and a liar (the episode about his pastor when he claimed that during almost 20 years sitting in the pews, he had not heard of any racist rants). Many Republicans are now raving and ranting that Obama is a liar. Please show me one politician who is not.
Tiger, a product of a black military man and a Thai woman, seemed to have a different family experiences and outlook than Obama. Doted and trained by his father at an early age, Tiger became one of the greatest golfers in the world. He became very rich and famous. Despite intensely loved by his black father, Tiger apparently has been attracted only to lily white women, not black, not Asian (his mother's racial background). Tiger had affairs with them. His marriage to the blond Swedish woman is on the rocks, caused by his infidelity. I always wonder about black and Asian men being attracted to white women and speculate if there is some trace of inferiority complex and the resulting overcompensation dynamic in play here. Don't get me wrong. Prior to my marriage, I had dated many whites (one was 6' 1") and I still have many white female friends, but dating is one thing, marrying is another matter. Marriage is a serious commitment, especially to a person with different racial background. I am sure there were many attractive black and Asian women who had made it known to Tiger that they were available, but Tiger apparently couldn't find one to his liking. He evidently had a thing about white women. In my biased opinion, a non-white man who is not sexually attracted enough to a woman of his race while finding lily white women irresistible must be plagued by some feelings of inferiority complex. Of course, I understand love strikes at unexpected moments and there are exceptions, but consistently having affairs only with white women, as in the case of Tiger here, clearly shows his sexual predilection for whites. A normal person is comfortable with his own skin and tends to choose first and foremost women of his racial background simply he grew up in the same milieu and had more exposure. Anyway, Tiger's reputation is in tatters and he comes across as a very common person except for his golf talents. I would not bother to spill my guts out and speculate on Tiger's emotional makeup if he were an equal opportunity philanderer. Marrying a white woman is nothing to be proud of. The marriage has to be based on solid love. The white woman has to be the true object of love and desire, and not a trophy for a non-white man to come to terms with his feelings of inadequacy. In my salad days, I had white women asking me to marry them, but I said no, not because they were not accomplished (one was a dermatologist) but because I always find Vietnamese women irresistible, especially those who went to French-speaking lycées.
Friday, June 11, 2010
Reconciliation
The Vietnamese communist rulers are fond of advocating and talking about reconciliation whenever they travel overseas and encounter demonstrations organized the Viet exiles. They make it sound like the exiles are recalcitrant and sore losers. Reconciliation is a noble concept. Vietnamese of different political and religious colors, stripes, and persuasions should ALL work towards that end. However and unfortunately, as it is the ingrained practice of theirs, the VC never respect words. They use words to lie, to deceive, to mislead their opposition as well as their followers. If they really believe in reconciliation, then why did they rigorously follow a brutal policy of eliminating the opposition as evidenced by their assasinating non-communist Viet freedom fighters during the period 1930-1954, their brutal herding of South Vietnam's former armed forces personnel, bureaucrats, and politicians into Stalinist concentration camps after April 30, 1975, and their failure to utilize the talents of non-communist Viets? Reconciliation, to the VC, means an appeal to the non-communist Viets in Vietnam and especially active members of the Viet Diaspora overseas to stop calling to the attention of the world of what a corrupt, inhuman, money-hungry, insatiable regime in Vietnam really is, a regime that the great majority of the Viet people not only have no affection for, but also harbor an intense desire to see it collapse and implode, so in its place, a better system can be established. No people in this world like to live under communism. Just ask the run-of-the mill Russians, the Eastern Europeans, the Chinese, the North Koreans, the Cubans, the Cambodians, and the Laotians. Communism in practice is simply no good for humans. There is a flight---sometimes very desperate as the case of the Vietnamese and the North Koreans--- of people from communist countries to non-communist nations, but very rarely do we ever see people voluntarily migrate en mass to communist countries. Given a choice, only the foolish and the deluded, and of course hard-core communist cadres would care to live under communism. So, the VC please listen, reconciliation means you have to recognize reality and adjust and adapt to the needs of the people, not asking the people adjusting and adapting to your needs. Tyranny does not last forever. It never does. If you want to talk about reconciliation, study the policy practiced by South Africa when Mandela took over the country. Unlike your policy adopted when you conquered South Vietnam with the help of your communist patrons, Mandela's policy didn't result in an exodus of talents out of South Africa. Mandela openly declared a policy of national reconciliation when he came to power whereas you talked about "reeducation camps". Why did you NOT talk about reconciliation in 1975? Why now?
Confidential
Yesterday I felt blue and depressed. I had a tough day at the office. Several bad things happened to me. After work, I stopped at a grocery store, grabbed a can of nuts, a bag of beef jerky, and a six pack. My stomach used to look like a wash board. Now it's flabby due to my recent predilection for six packs, and bad knees. I can't run anymore. Anyway, I got home, flopped into my easy chair in front of
the TV, hit the remote, and started munching and drinking my sorrows away. But I didn't feel any better. By the time i got to the last can, I felt lonely as Hell. So I whipped out my iPhone, fished out a card from my wallet, and punched in the number.
Can I help you? A soft voice came on.
I'd like to talk with Ian Knowles, please.
He's no longer here. I am his replacement. You've used our service
before, I suppose.
Can we talk in confidence?
Of course, Con Fidence is my name. Talking is my game. What's your
name? Fire away!
Is Confidence your last name or first?
It's full name. Two separate words.
Ah, I see, Con as in convict or Connie?
A funny type. Good. I like funny people, but have to be real, not
funny ha ha. Con is short for Conrad.
We talked for over an hour. Actually, I did most of the talking. He just listened. He occasionally asked some questioned and made some surprisingly insightful comments. He turned out to be a good, caring listener. He said I could even stop by the office the next day if things got worse. He told me to stop making undue demands on myself and stop writing to that stupid asshole a million miles away. If I need to unwind, write to him instead. He further advised me to keep very busy and resume doing physical exercises.
So, here I am, trying to come to terms with my anger; with flashbacks; with thoughts of homicide, mayhem, and wanton destruction. I am also tryng to deal with a propensity to show off how smart and knowledgeable I am. So, I took the advice of Con Fidence and I am emptying my thoughts and feelings down on paper. He said if I keep doing that, one day I will find harmony inside me. One can write oneself to exhaustion. And an exhauted person has no energy left even to think of violence. All he wants to do is to rest and recharge his battery. The funny thing as I am writing these words, I don't feel tired at all. Instead, I feel invigorated and alive and indeed lighter. The sluggishness, the lethargy, the pre-thrombotic choke and
blockage, the malaise, all those shit are replaced by a sense of triumph and delight of seeing how my thoughts, my feelings are transmuted into symbols called words. The outside world and its attendant ills and bulkshit and nonsense seem so far away. I am now chortling with an irresistible calority and verve. I feel fluid and
the demon has beaten a retreat. I still see the footprints he left behind. They form the words: "I'll be back!"
_________________________________________________
Note of the author: Sorry to disappoint you. You thought you were going to be regaled with a story about phone sex, didn't you? Oh, come on, do I look like the type who has to stoop that low to get some entertainment? What I need is not some cheap, loveless sex, but a relief from the torment of violent thoughts. After I wrote the above, I went to a library and ran into an acquaintance whom I hadn't seen for three years. I was astounded to see her look quite a bit younger than the last time I saw her. I complimented her and was told she
decided to be a true Buddhist and that meant to get rid of negative feelings and emotions specially hate and greed. Upon hearing that I felt much stronger and all thoughts of violence departed from me. I hope they were gone for good, but if they come back, I am ready to kick their ass. Oops, did I just intimate that I am into non- violence? Habits die hard, I guess. All right, I am not going to do
any kicking. Just weaving and sliding my way through. No more fighting. No more kicking asses. Cool, I am cool. Tonight, I know for sure I am into peace and serenity.
the TV, hit the remote, and started munching and drinking my sorrows away. But I didn't feel any better. By the time i got to the last can, I felt lonely as Hell. So I whipped out my iPhone, fished out a card from my wallet, and punched in the number.
Can I help you? A soft voice came on.
I'd like to talk with Ian Knowles, please.
He's no longer here. I am his replacement. You've used our service
before, I suppose.
Can we talk in confidence?
Of course, Con Fidence is my name. Talking is my game. What's your
name? Fire away!
Is Confidence your last name or first?
It's full name. Two separate words.
Ah, I see, Con as in convict or Connie?
A funny type. Good. I like funny people, but have to be real, not
funny ha ha. Con is short for Conrad.
We talked for over an hour. Actually, I did most of the talking. He just listened. He occasionally asked some questioned and made some surprisingly insightful comments. He turned out to be a good, caring listener. He said I could even stop by the office the next day if things got worse. He told me to stop making undue demands on myself and stop writing to that stupid asshole a million miles away. If I need to unwind, write to him instead. He further advised me to keep very busy and resume doing physical exercises.
So, here I am, trying to come to terms with my anger; with flashbacks; with thoughts of homicide, mayhem, and wanton destruction. I am also tryng to deal with a propensity to show off how smart and knowledgeable I am. So, I took the advice of Con Fidence and I am emptying my thoughts and feelings down on paper. He said if I keep doing that, one day I will find harmony inside me. One can write oneself to exhaustion. And an exhauted person has no energy left even to think of violence. All he wants to do is to rest and recharge his battery. The funny thing as I am writing these words, I don't feel tired at all. Instead, I feel invigorated and alive and indeed lighter. The sluggishness, the lethargy, the pre-thrombotic choke and
blockage, the malaise, all those shit are replaced by a sense of triumph and delight of seeing how my thoughts, my feelings are transmuted into symbols called words. The outside world and its attendant ills and bulkshit and nonsense seem so far away. I am now chortling with an irresistible calority and verve. I feel fluid and
the demon has beaten a retreat. I still see the footprints he left behind. They form the words: "I'll be back!"
_________________________________________________
Note of the author: Sorry to disappoint you. You thought you were going to be regaled with a story about phone sex, didn't you? Oh, come on, do I look like the type who has to stoop that low to get some entertainment? What I need is not some cheap, loveless sex, but a relief from the torment of violent thoughts. After I wrote the above, I went to a library and ran into an acquaintance whom I hadn't seen for three years. I was astounded to see her look quite a bit younger than the last time I saw her. I complimented her and was told she
decided to be a true Buddhist and that meant to get rid of negative feelings and emotions specially hate and greed. Upon hearing that I felt much stronger and all thoughts of violence departed from me. I hope they were gone for good, but if they come back, I am ready to kick their ass. Oops, did I just intimate that I am into non- violence? Habits die hard, I guess. All right, I am not going to do
any kicking. Just weaving and sliding my way through. No more fighting. No more kicking asses. Cool, I am cool. Tonight, I know for sure I am into peace and serenity.
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
Assholes
Assholes are like flies. There are so many of them. You cannot eradicate them. All you can do is to avoid them, just like you avoid flies. Of course, now and then, if the flies get too close, you would crush and smash them. Today, an asshole tried to get a rise out of me, but he failed. I gave him more than what I took from him. I bet he is now chewing over the hurt I inflicted on him. That would teach him a lesson for messing with me. I don't attack, but I counter-attack fiercely and relentlessly until the enemy is completely vanquished. Those who dare to affront me will face a scorched earth policy.
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Suicide
I read in the paper today that a suicidal man living in the U.S. went to a mental hospital and asked to be admitted. He indicated to the "intake" coordinator that he had financial difficulties and worried about the world heading towards Armargeddon. He further disclosed that he had tried to hang himself three years ago "but the rope broke". After enduring the wait for more than 12 hours and undergoing the bureaucratic merry-go-around for the paperwork to be finalized, and the uncaring attitude and ineptitude of the mental health "professionals" (sic!) involved, he decided that he had reached the end of the rope and so he hanged himself with a belt. This time he succeeded. Here was the step-by-step mismanagement of the man's care:
* A social worker and case manager failed to read the intake coordinator's report.
* A doctor failed to complete discharge paperwork, delaying the man's
voluntary transfer to a psychiatric facility.
* The man somehow changed into street clothes, in violation of hospital policy---and obtained his belt.
* A technician who was supposed to monitor the man via a camera in his room failed to check on him when he lingered in the bathroom.
Also, here are the details of the last hours of his life:
The nurse assigned to care for the man on the overnight shift said the patient was in street clothes when he arrived at 7 p.m. At 8 p.m., the patient asked about the delay and the nurse noted that the doctor stll needed to complete the paperwork . The nurse did not call the doctor to ask about the delay.
At 11 p.m., the nurse and charge nurse decided to cancel the transfer and the patient was informed. Ten minutes later a nursing assistant found the patient hanging by his neck in the bathroom.
Suicide always fascinates me for reasons I had better keep to myself. A wave of sadness washed over me after I read the above news report this morning. I hope the health officials involved felt bad about the death of that poor man, otherwise they don't belong where they are. Trust me, I know this world is for the strong and the resilient, is for those life does provide a meaning, a reason to keep moving on despite all the pains and the ultimate aburdity since we all die in the end anyway. Albert Camus maintains there is only one truly philosophical question and that is whether to commit suicide or not. During my last sojourn in Vietnam, I ran into a middle aged, skinny, man who lost both his legs. He earnestly begged loudly in the courtyard of a Buddhist temple in Saigon. He was effective in his begging. His earnest, mournful begging voice in combination with his bowing his head down close to the ground evoked much compassion of the visitors. He thus received quite a bit of money. He picked up the money from the hat, emotionally counted the bills, and stuffed them in his bulging pocket. Then he resumed the whole process of looking straight at the eyes of each passing visitor and cryng loudly in his unforgettable mournful, anguishing voice, using the most humble expressions to elicit sympathy and pity, and finally bowing down in a dramatic manner. I watched him, completely transfixed and absorbed by the spectacle. I was marvelled at his will to live. His image has stayed inside my mind ever since. I want to find a reason to live. I want to believe my life does have meaning. I desire to hold dear to a notion that my existence makes a difference to somebody.
* A social worker and case manager failed to read the intake coordinator's report.
* A doctor failed to complete discharge paperwork, delaying the man's
voluntary transfer to a psychiatric facility.
* The man somehow changed into street clothes, in violation of hospital policy---and obtained his belt.
* A technician who was supposed to monitor the man via a camera in his room failed to check on him when he lingered in the bathroom.
Also, here are the details of the last hours of his life:
The nurse assigned to care for the man on the overnight shift said the patient was in street clothes when he arrived at 7 p.m. At 8 p.m., the patient asked about the delay and the nurse noted that the doctor stll needed to complete the paperwork . The nurse did not call the doctor to ask about the delay.
At 11 p.m., the nurse and charge nurse decided to cancel the transfer and the patient was informed. Ten minutes later a nursing assistant found the patient hanging by his neck in the bathroom.
Suicide always fascinates me for reasons I had better keep to myself. A wave of sadness washed over me after I read the above news report this morning. I hope the health officials involved felt bad about the death of that poor man, otherwise they don't belong where they are. Trust me, I know this world is for the strong and the resilient, is for those life does provide a meaning, a reason to keep moving on despite all the pains and the ultimate aburdity since we all die in the end anyway. Albert Camus maintains there is only one truly philosophical question and that is whether to commit suicide or not. During my last sojourn in Vietnam, I ran into a middle aged, skinny, man who lost both his legs. He earnestly begged loudly in the courtyard of a Buddhist temple in Saigon. He was effective in his begging. His earnest, mournful begging voice in combination with his bowing his head down close to the ground evoked much compassion of the visitors. He thus received quite a bit of money. He picked up the money from the hat, emotionally counted the bills, and stuffed them in his bulging pocket. Then he resumed the whole process of looking straight at the eyes of each passing visitor and cryng loudly in his unforgettable mournful, anguishing voice, using the most humble expressions to elicit sympathy and pity, and finally bowing down in a dramatic manner. I watched him, completely transfixed and absorbed by the spectacle. I was marvelled at his will to live. His image has stayed inside my mind ever since. I want to find a reason to live. I want to believe my life does have meaning. I desire to hold dear to a notion that my existence makes a difference to somebody.
Sufferings Redux
Sufferings Redux
I had a long chat with a young man this gorgeous morning in late spring in the highlands of a state known for breath-taking vistas of snowcapped mountains and thermal springs. He came to me because a friend of his had told him that I was a cicerone of reliefs from emotional troubles, besides a nestor of meditation within a certain circle.
We talked for over two hous while taking a hike over rolling meadows and fording rushing streams. He was amazed that I could walk for hours in light of my advanced age. I told him as long as we walked slowly I could manage. I didn't tell him in my salad days, I was a long distance runner. I didn't want to brag. I have done enough bragging in my life.
He told me the severe problems he had with his foster parents to a point he entertained thoughts of inflicting grievous bodily harm on them. He pointed out although his parents were well-to-do, they didn't have any sybaritic excesses in their lifestyle while he himself was pampered at an early age and thus developed a marked predilection for a luxurious and sensuous way of life. As he grew up, he discovered to his horror and anxiety that he didn't cope well with disappointments and failures. It appeared that he didn't have the mental toughness and resiliency to succeed in life. The more his mother upbraided him for his lack of discipline and for a propensity of self-indulgence, the more his resentment for her grew, and along with that a perverse contempt for his easy-going father. Last month, to his great surprise, his father dressed him down in a calm voice but unsparing words after he was being rude and insolent to his mother. Consequently, he found himself hating both his parents and wanted to lash out at them, but he was smart enough to realize he was being irrational in his thoughts and yet he felt powerless to stop them from entering into his head. For relief, he started going to bars in the evening and talked to the bartenders and strangers about his unhealthy wishes. Last week he ran into some guy who had heard of me. So, here he was, requesting my help.
We stopped under a tree big enough to give us ample shade. I sat on the ground slowly massaging my legs and breathing deeply the fresh air while brisk winds rustled my hair. He was pacing back and forth in front of me, listening to my words:
"Listen, Roberto, you're a very lucky man. You've got to realize that. You have the smarts, the looks, the education, and your parents' money. Yet you recoiled and ricocheted from anger, from being resentful of your parents' refusal to continue pampering you. You retreated into that aching, moody introspection of yours and came up with this "brilliant" idea of hurting your parents because they treated you as a child. Well, you are a child. You still act like a child. If you want them to treat you as an adult, you have to act like an adult.
Take one step back and have a really good look at the situation. You're just an overspoiled brat, a self-absorbed, ungrateful young man. How dare you have those stupid, violence-filled thoughts! You were adopted! You are not your parents' flesh and blood and yet they love you. Too much, I'm afraid. They owe you nothing. It's you who owe them everything, do you understand? Happiness is to think less of yourself and learn to be grateful and pay back your debts, instead of asking for more and more, otherwise you would just destroy yourself, sooner than later."
He stopped pacing. He looked at me strangely, frowning, face reddened. He wanted to say something. He half-opened his mouth, cleared his throat, but changed his mind at the last second. Then abruptly, he turned and walked briskly away from me, and then broke into a trot. I watched him running. Sunlight bounced off his white golf shirt. He made a turn at the bend of a stream. I didn't know what he ran away from. Maybe embarrassment. Maybe anger. Maybe both. I didn't really care. I then diverted my eyes to the ground in front me and saw the footprints left behind by his pacing to and fro, the footprints of a sick, selfish animal. I got up and walked slowly back to town. I felt drained. I just came in touch with something not quite evil, but definitely pathological. Pure selfishness is pathological. It makes us think only of ourselves. It reduces us. It dehumanizes us. In some cases, it makes us act smaller than animals.
I had a long chat with a young man this gorgeous morning in late spring in the highlands of a state known for breath-taking vistas of snowcapped mountains and thermal springs. He came to me because a friend of his had told him that I was a cicerone of reliefs from emotional troubles, besides a nestor of meditation within a certain circle.
We talked for over two hous while taking a hike over rolling meadows and fording rushing streams. He was amazed that I could walk for hours in light of my advanced age. I told him as long as we walked slowly I could manage. I didn't tell him in my salad days, I was a long distance runner. I didn't want to brag. I have done enough bragging in my life.
He told me the severe problems he had with his foster parents to a point he entertained thoughts of inflicting grievous bodily harm on them. He pointed out although his parents were well-to-do, they didn't have any sybaritic excesses in their lifestyle while he himself was pampered at an early age and thus developed a marked predilection for a luxurious and sensuous way of life. As he grew up, he discovered to his horror and anxiety that he didn't cope well with disappointments and failures. It appeared that he didn't have the mental toughness and resiliency to succeed in life. The more his mother upbraided him for his lack of discipline and for a propensity of self-indulgence, the more his resentment for her grew, and along with that a perverse contempt for his easy-going father. Last month, to his great surprise, his father dressed him down in a calm voice but unsparing words after he was being rude and insolent to his mother. Consequently, he found himself hating both his parents and wanted to lash out at them, but he was smart enough to realize he was being irrational in his thoughts and yet he felt powerless to stop them from entering into his head. For relief, he started going to bars in the evening and talked to the bartenders and strangers about his unhealthy wishes. Last week he ran into some guy who had heard of me. So, here he was, requesting my help.
We stopped under a tree big enough to give us ample shade. I sat on the ground slowly massaging my legs and breathing deeply the fresh air while brisk winds rustled my hair. He was pacing back and forth in front of me, listening to my words:
"Listen, Roberto, you're a very lucky man. You've got to realize that. You have the smarts, the looks, the education, and your parents' money. Yet you recoiled and ricocheted from anger, from being resentful of your parents' refusal to continue pampering you. You retreated into that aching, moody introspection of yours and came up with this "brilliant" idea of hurting your parents because they treated you as a child. Well, you are a child. You still act like a child. If you want them to treat you as an adult, you have to act like an adult.
Take one step back and have a really good look at the situation. You're just an overspoiled brat, a self-absorbed, ungrateful young man. How dare you have those stupid, violence-filled thoughts! You were adopted! You are not your parents' flesh and blood and yet they love you. Too much, I'm afraid. They owe you nothing. It's you who owe them everything, do you understand? Happiness is to think less of yourself and learn to be grateful and pay back your debts, instead of asking for more and more, otherwise you would just destroy yourself, sooner than later."
He stopped pacing. He looked at me strangely, frowning, face reddened. He wanted to say something. He half-opened his mouth, cleared his throat, but changed his mind at the last second. Then abruptly, he turned and walked briskly away from me, and then broke into a trot. I watched him running. Sunlight bounced off his white golf shirt. He made a turn at the bend of a stream. I didn't know what he ran away from. Maybe embarrassment. Maybe anger. Maybe both. I didn't really care. I then diverted my eyes to the ground in front me and saw the footprints left behind by his pacing to and fro, the footprints of a sick, selfish animal. I got up and walked slowly back to town. I felt drained. I just came in touch with something not quite evil, but definitely pathological. Pure selfishness is pathological. It makes us think only of ourselves. It reduces us. It dehumanizes us. In some cases, it makes us act smaller than animals.
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