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
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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.