After a heavy meal, you feel drowsy and lethargic and plain lazy. So you retire to bed early, hoping for a rest. As you lie on the side, deep inside you mixed feelings of loneliness and horniness and nostalgia and dual opposing forces of being drawn to and repelled by members of the opposite sex hit you with a hurricane force. Somewhere haunting words of a woman who experienced and practiced onanism, teenage sex, and intense, excruciating loneliness echoed in your mind:
Loneliness is the human condition. Cultivate it. Learn to accept it and love it. Once you manage to do that, you will know true independence and will not care for casual sex and an easy romp in the hay. You let loneliness tunnel deep into you until it hits your soul. And then a strange thing happens, you feel your soul expand and grow and understand not only yourself but others as well. Don't expect to outgrow loneliness. Don't think it will go away. It may lie dormant while you are having an intense sex session, but it surely will come back and knock on the door of your soul once the sex is over and you look closely at the face of your sex partner, at his sex organ and back to his face and you wonder if you love him enough to die for him or conversely he for you. You have doubts, so you ask him. And he says, after two seconds of hesitation, of course, I do, baby, but why you ask. You know then he has lied. You are glad he does not ask you the same question. But you remember once when you were young and green and first gingerly yet eagerly at the same time explored the sensations of love and sex or whatever the hell people call it, with the local boy four houses down the street, he swore up and down that he loved you and would die for you and you believed him until you discovered he slept with your best friend, too. So, now you give up hope to find people who will understand you, cherish you, and love you as much as, if not more than, they love themselves; people who will be sweet and tender and patient to you; people who will forgive you and stay with you and be there for you. You give up to find somebody to fill the huge space now occupied by the queen called loneliness. The best that you ever hope for is for you to understand yourself and accept who you are and find out what you want out of life and go for it. All the memories and nostalgia and longings and wishful thinking that come to you late at night or at odd moments when you listen to the oldies on the radio only serve as a reminder that life is a long process of coping with disappointment and yet we all long for love, for the impossible.
Monday, October 25, 2010
What we talk about when we talk about Love"
The captioned is one of Raymond Carver's best and better-known stories. You read it and at the end you realized you were lonely and didn't know a damn thing about love. You recall sharing the story with a woman who said she loved you. It didn't make an impact on her. Alarm bells rang deep and long in your heart then. And your intuition was right. She was into games of ego-sustenance. She didn't love you. Not really. Once again, you realized that you didn't know a thing about women. But you soldiered on. Two more women later told you they loved you. Did that make you a serial womanizer or a hopeless, pathetic romantic? You didn't know then. You don't know now. Today you called a friend an inquisitive womanizer. He seemed surprised. But that could be an act. As you explained to him, being a womanizer is not bad by and in of itself. As long as one treats all ladies, including one's spouse, with respect and tender loving care, who says womanizing is bad? Some men were born to love women, to be hopelessly attracted to the opposite sex, to fall victim to their feminine charms and beauty.
Last week, a woman told you that she wanted to go on a trip with you, out of town, just to get away from the tedium and rut of life for a few days. She said she was depressed. You said you would think about that. You told her money was getting tight with you. You had some problems with your stock portfolio. She laughed, saying that she would pay for all of the expenses. You didn't tell her your reluctance was having more to do with Laura and the woman you still love dearly than with money.
Rain was falling hard tonight. A downpour in the desert. Arizona was overdue for a deluge. After the rain which lasted for two hours, the temperature dropped fast. The ground gave off an odor of life and fecundity, an earthy, musty, pungent smell which made him feel lonely and horny. Twice he picked up his iPhone and twice his finger froze, unable to punch in her number.
Unlike his friend, he was not a womanizer. He was into real love.
Last week, a woman told you that she wanted to go on a trip with you, out of town, just to get away from the tedium and rut of life for a few days. She said she was depressed. You said you would think about that. You told her money was getting tight with you. You had some problems with your stock portfolio. She laughed, saying that she would pay for all of the expenses. You didn't tell her your reluctance was having more to do with Laura and the woman you still love dearly than with money.
Rain was falling hard tonight. A downpour in the desert. Arizona was overdue for a deluge. After the rain which lasted for two hours, the temperature dropped fast. The ground gave off an odor of life and fecundity, an earthy, musty, pungent smell which made him feel lonely and horny. Twice he picked up his iPhone and twice his finger froze, unable to punch in her number.
Unlike his friend, he was not a womanizer. He was into real love.
Who and Where Am I, and What Will Happen to Me When I Die?
Who and Where Am I, and What Will Happen to Me When I Die?
Very few men have many original ideas, ideas that they come up largely by themselves and from which they view themselves and the world. Most of us, if we are lucky, have one or two. And we work on them constantly, repeating and refining them. That makes cowards cum hypocrites who don't have a single idea of their own tartly and pointedly complain that we sound like a broken record. They think that by making fun of us, they get a satisfaction that they show their displeasure and contempt. Little do they know that they sow their own self-destruction. Humans have long memories for hurtful feelings and very limited capacity for forgiveness. They instinctively thirst for vengeance, for exacting justice, for punishing those who dared to be insolent to them. That's why wise men throughout the ages have counseled us to be circumspect with our words for they can cause mayhem and bloodshed. But fools like me, because of inflated ego, don't give a damn about the advice and thus manage to irritate and infuriate almost everybody. Take the case of the existence of God as a personhood, most humans subscribe to this notion. I wonder if they embrace the notion out of personal contemplation and conviction or simply out of mindless acceptance of socialization and indoctrination.
Jews were credited with inventing monotheism. But I suppose other peoples in the world are also capable of conceiving a single God, the top dog, the Supreme Being who rules the universe. Such a notion is not hard to come up with although polytheism was more common with humans in ancient times. But seriously folks, do you really believe that Moses found The Ten Commandments from God in Mt Sinai, that Jesus was Son of God, that Muhammad was the last prophet on earth, and that Buddha was right when he talked about eternal reoccurrence and reincarnation? I have not met personally Moses, Jesus, Muhammad and Siddhartha so I only go by what others have said about them. The only thing I found credible and common about these gentlemen was that they all stressed love and charity, although Jesus and Muhammad were also quoted of speaking passionately about vengeance and punishment. I regarded these founders of religion as mere men and had no divine connection none whatsoever simply because to my way of thinking there is no divinity to begin with. What we have are manifestations of energy and a vast ignorance of why the Big Bang occurred. Any talk about God as a personhood to whom humans can pray to and ask for help smacks of human sophistry and self-deception. True humans always go for honesty and dignity. There is no need to rely on a fiction in order to gain strength.
But enough bellyaching about metaphysics or mention of scumbags and sordid beings. I write in order to get off steam, and not to look for admirers with whom I can snicker at the world, neither do I write in order to search for a pocket mirror and studio audience. What I search for when I write is myself because sometimes in the process of stringing words together I recognize that I am not the only thing of beauty in this world and that there is burnished teak as well as alabaster, rippling mahogany as well as smooth, soothing silk. I write because I like to hack through a thorn forest. I want to emerge from it bloodied but defiant and unbowed. And when I do, I would give off a blood-curdling scream to startle the sleeping simians and docile sheep in the valley down below. I might come across as jagged and spiteful, not mellow and sympathetic, but my obligation is to what is true, not what sounds sweet but false.
As to where I will go after I die, I am the child of the universe, an embodiment of some energy. When the life-force that holds my being together weakens, and it cannot fend off the forces of atrophy and disintegration, the compound being that is me will be broken to simpler elements in order to be recombined into other forms and embodiments of energy. I never once in my life, after I turned 11 years of age, entertain a notion, a fairly tale belief that I will go to "Heaven" or will be reincarnated as another human being (as the Tibetan Buddhists are fond of believing) or as another organism after I die. Surely the chemical elements that used to make up an entity called Wissai are now recycled into forming other embodiments of energy, but the consciousness-- the soul, if you will- that used to be mine is gone once my body breaks down into simpler elements. Any talk which says that if I behave in this current life, I will be rewarded by coming back on this planet earth as a (better) human being and if I don't behave, I will be punished to reincarnate as lower forms of life, is a crude scheme of reward and punishment to ensure moral behavior is practiced. It is no different from the visions of physical heaven and hell in Christian and Islamic faiths. I am too sophisticated a thinker and too informed a reader to believe in such nonsense.
Very few men have many original ideas, ideas that they come up largely by themselves and from which they view themselves and the world. Most of us, if we are lucky, have one or two. And we work on them constantly, repeating and refining them. That makes cowards cum hypocrites who don't have a single idea of their own tartly and pointedly complain that we sound like a broken record. They think that by making fun of us, they get a satisfaction that they show their displeasure and contempt. Little do they know that they sow their own self-destruction. Humans have long memories for hurtful feelings and very limited capacity for forgiveness. They instinctively thirst for vengeance, for exacting justice, for punishing those who dared to be insolent to them. That's why wise men throughout the ages have counseled us to be circumspect with our words for they can cause mayhem and bloodshed. But fools like me, because of inflated ego, don't give a damn about the advice and thus manage to irritate and infuriate almost everybody. Take the case of the existence of God as a personhood, most humans subscribe to this notion. I wonder if they embrace the notion out of personal contemplation and conviction or simply out of mindless acceptance of socialization and indoctrination.
Jews were credited with inventing monotheism. But I suppose other peoples in the world are also capable of conceiving a single God, the top dog, the Supreme Being who rules the universe. Such a notion is not hard to come up with although polytheism was more common with humans in ancient times. But seriously folks, do you really believe that Moses found The Ten Commandments from God in Mt Sinai, that Jesus was Son of God, that Muhammad was the last prophet on earth, and that Buddha was right when he talked about eternal reoccurrence and reincarnation? I have not met personally Moses, Jesus, Muhammad and Siddhartha so I only go by what others have said about them. The only thing I found credible and common about these gentlemen was that they all stressed love and charity, although Jesus and Muhammad were also quoted of speaking passionately about vengeance and punishment. I regarded these founders of religion as mere men and had no divine connection none whatsoever simply because to my way of thinking there is no divinity to begin with. What we have are manifestations of energy and a vast ignorance of why the Big Bang occurred. Any talk about God as a personhood to whom humans can pray to and ask for help smacks of human sophistry and self-deception. True humans always go for honesty and dignity. There is no need to rely on a fiction in order to gain strength.
But enough bellyaching about metaphysics or mention of scumbags and sordid beings. I write in order to get off steam, and not to look for admirers with whom I can snicker at the world, neither do I write in order to search for a pocket mirror and studio audience. What I search for when I write is myself because sometimes in the process of stringing words together I recognize that I am not the only thing of beauty in this world and that there is burnished teak as well as alabaster, rippling mahogany as well as smooth, soothing silk. I write because I like to hack through a thorn forest. I want to emerge from it bloodied but defiant and unbowed. And when I do, I would give off a blood-curdling scream to startle the sleeping simians and docile sheep in the valley down below. I might come across as jagged and spiteful, not mellow and sympathetic, but my obligation is to what is true, not what sounds sweet but false.
As to where I will go after I die, I am the child of the universe, an embodiment of some energy. When the life-force that holds my being together weakens, and it cannot fend off the forces of atrophy and disintegration, the compound being that is me will be broken to simpler elements in order to be recombined into other forms and embodiments of energy. I never once in my life, after I turned 11 years of age, entertain a notion, a fairly tale belief that I will go to "Heaven" or will be reincarnated as another human being (as the Tibetan Buddhists are fond of believing) or as another organism after I die. Surely the chemical elements that used to make up an entity called Wissai are now recycled into forming other embodiments of energy, but the consciousness-- the soul, if you will- that used to be mine is gone once my body breaks down into simpler elements. Any talk which says that if I behave in this current life, I will be rewarded by coming back on this planet earth as a (better) human being and if I don't behave, I will be punished to reincarnate as lower forms of life, is a crude scheme of reward and punishment to ensure moral behavior is practiced. It is no different from the visions of physical heaven and hell in Christian and Islamic faiths. I am too sophisticated a thinker and too informed a reader to believe in such nonsense.
Music in the night
You are attracted to the night. That's when you do your best thinking, have wild ideas, grow restless, and are bowled over by music. A saxophone wails in the night. A lovely lilting voice sings about love or loneliness. The fingers over the piano create a cascading melody of exquisite feelings. The violin lingers on, lengthens on a sensation. And when all these sounds blend and meld together into a symphony, a harmonious vibration, you experience ecstasy, peace, culture, and civilization. Your soul trembles. Your body rocks. Your heart leaps with joy at one moment and then another song comes on, your heart breaks into thousand pieces with sorrows.
Sounds travel far in the desert at night. A train rumbles on iron wheels, making a soothing percussion from the distance. You lie in bed, listening to the music and to all the sounds. Your bedroom window is open. Cool desert air is filling the room. You feel alive. The thought of suicide seems silly and weak and absurd. Life is worth living. Life is sound, music, of vibration and of fighting to the end.
Wissai
Sounds travel far in the desert at night. A train rumbles on iron wheels, making a soothing percussion from the distance. You lie in bed, listening to the music and to all the sounds. Your bedroom window is open. Cool desert air is filling the room. You feel alive. The thought of suicide seems silly and weak and absurd. Life is worth living. Life is sound, music, of vibration and of fighting to the end.
Wissai
Jovian Fantasies
Dark clouds are gathering once again in the desert. They are a welcome sight because they only venture this far into the interior a few times a year. Temperature drops. All living things feel good and expecting and are eager for life-sustaining rains. There's a sense of joyous anticipation in the air, a crackling electricity coursing through the environment or at least that's how you feel or think you feel. Reality is all perception. You are aware of that, especially as far as simpletons are concerned because they foolishly think what they believe in are absolute truths, instead of merely their mental constructs. They don't know what absolute truths are if the truths hit them over the head because they either lack sufficient gray matter or they are full of fears and wishful thinking. You are different from them. You know that and most of the time you don't bother to hide that fact from them. There's an unresolved anger inside you. You have tried hard to keep it under control. It has been your biggest enemy.
It's now seven in the evening. Rains have not arrived yet, just the air laden with moisture. A loneliness tries to climb onto you. You kick it away, but it is persistent. It keeps jumping back to the bed. Finally you let it curl up next to your heart, heavy and warm and purring like a baby in dreams. You are rereading a letter from her, a precocious 17-year-old girl finishing her master's thesis on John Keats:
Dear Heart
How have you been doing? I hope your cold is gone by now. At your age, you must take better care of yourself, please. Stop putting your body and mind through such a punishing regimen.
The thesis is almost over. Now I'm wondering what I'm going to do with it. Teaching is an obvious choice, but I'm not sure it will be my calling. I'm not keen on going on for a doctorate. I want to write, but have serious doubts about how wide my readership would be and thus success.
My roommate is heavy into sex these days. That's all what she talks about. She rhapsodizes about the size and the configuration of the member of her boyfriend and the prismatic catalogue of his erotic experience. She is into onanistic practices and fantasies. She imagines enormous organs; she's having congress with horses, bulls, elephants, camels, and giraffes. She is positively Jovian in her imagination.
All her talks about sex and outrageous fantasies have had an impact on me. Honey, are you aware we have had only 11 encounters in toto, and the last two you had to resort to manual manipulation? Please consider asking your doctor for Viagra or Cialis. I know you are a proud and stubborn man, but please be considerate of my passion for you and my youth.
Anyway, while my roommate ponders and pines for the configuration of the member of her boyfriend, I ponder the configuration of molecules in the walls. I meditate upon the nature of matter, a prevalence of void within the whirling electron rodeo. I try to vibrate between the packets of quanta, phasing at exactly the opposite wavelength, so that eventually I will exist on between the pulses, and matter will become wholly permeable (does all these make sense to you? I copied them down from a book about quantum mechanics since I liked the sound of them). One day, I will walk right through the walls of your house, kidnap you from the prison built by Laura, and make you permanently mine.
Your girl,
Judy
It's now seven in the evening. Rains have not arrived yet, just the air laden with moisture. A loneliness tries to climb onto you. You kick it away, but it is persistent. It keeps jumping back to the bed. Finally you let it curl up next to your heart, heavy and warm and purring like a baby in dreams. You are rereading a letter from her, a precocious 17-year-old girl finishing her master's thesis on John Keats:
Dear Heart
How have you been doing? I hope your cold is gone by now. At your age, you must take better care of yourself, please. Stop putting your body and mind through such a punishing regimen.
The thesis is almost over. Now I'm wondering what I'm going to do with it. Teaching is an obvious choice, but I'm not sure it will be my calling. I'm not keen on going on for a doctorate. I want to write, but have serious doubts about how wide my readership would be and thus success.
My roommate is heavy into sex these days. That's all what she talks about. She rhapsodizes about the size and the configuration of the member of her boyfriend and the prismatic catalogue of his erotic experience. She is into onanistic practices and fantasies. She imagines enormous organs; she's having congress with horses, bulls, elephants, camels, and giraffes. She is positively Jovian in her imagination.
All her talks about sex and outrageous fantasies have had an impact on me. Honey, are you aware we have had only 11 encounters in toto, and the last two you had to resort to manual manipulation? Please consider asking your doctor for Viagra or Cialis. I know you are a proud and stubborn man, but please be considerate of my passion for you and my youth.
Anyway, while my roommate ponders and pines for the configuration of the member of her boyfriend, I ponder the configuration of molecules in the walls. I meditate upon the nature of matter, a prevalence of void within the whirling electron rodeo. I try to vibrate between the packets of quanta, phasing at exactly the opposite wavelength, so that eventually I will exist on between the pulses, and matter will become wholly permeable (does all these make sense to you? I copied them down from a book about quantum mechanics since I liked the sound of them). One day, I will walk right through the walls of your house, kidnap you from the prison built by Laura, and make you permanently mine.
Your girl,
Judy
Who are we?
Who are we?
Who we are is what we think we are, not what we really are. It only matters when the discrepancy between who we think we are and who we really are no longer sustains itself and crumbles right in front of our eyes. Only then we are forced to confront reality and accept who really are. Very few humans are able to accept who they are. Most often fantasize they are better than they really are.
Take the matter of patriotism. Most Viet expats would vehemently claim that they care and love Vietnam, but when you inquire and probe a little more deeply as to what they have done to support their claim, you would then encounter excuses and rationalizations.
Take another intimate matter, say, love and sexuality. Most would claim that they were or still are attractive to the opposite sex, but few offer hard evidence. Most would assert that they are still virile, but quietly rely on sex-enhancing drugs for performance. Sadly there has been a plethora of essays or poems about sexual matters, but a dearth of essays and poems about love, duty, and responsibility. As men get closer to death, there is a marked preoccupation with frivolity and little concern with meaning and purpose of life and with honor and marital vows.
Last Sunday, you went to Scottsdale to ply your trade at the avocation of poker. You saw your friend Mike from
Ethiopia talking with an attractive but provocatively clad young woman. Later you came over and asked who the woman was. Mike said she was only a friend. He explained that the evening before, he was playing at the slot machine, the woman played at the machine next to him. She went broke and pathetically asked him if she would "borrow" two dollars from him. Mike gave her $5 and said that it was a gift. Then he went home. The following day she was looking for Mike and found him taking a break smoking cigarette outside the poker room. That was when you saw them talking. It turned out that she managed to turn that $5 gift to $200 win. And she was looking for Mike to give him $100! You were astounded to hear that. You were then completely bowled over by Mike's revelation that Mike refused to take the $100 and told her that she needed to manage her money better. The woman was swept off her feet by Mike's magnanimous gesture. She embraced Mike and told Mike they could go out to have dinner together and later to have "a good time". Mike, aged 36, thanked her but said that he was married and he didn't want to betray his wife. Now, please bear in mind that the woman was young and very attractive, and thus rendered the story told by Mike incredibly beautiful and rare. You wonder how many people in this world would behave like the young woman and Mike. Mike was not rich by any means. He made only $50,000 a year and was not a very successful poker player and could use the $100. Mike told her that she was indeed a very rare person. She replied that he was very rare himself.
After hearing the story from Mike, you couldn't help thinking about it and felt compelled to disseminate it. You also realized that life was stranger than fiction and that there were some rare, beautiful people in this world who made you feel small and ugly. You then vouched to yourself to be who you could be. Starting that Sunday afternoon, you would stop feeling and acting superior to those who don't share your views on life and who don't seem to possess the same bookish knowledge or the same reasoning skills or the same morality as you do. You would have to mind your own business and work on improving yourself.
Wissai
October 20, 2010
Who we are is what we think we are, not what we really are. It only matters when the discrepancy between who we think we are and who we really are no longer sustains itself and crumbles right in front of our eyes. Only then we are forced to confront reality and accept who really are. Very few humans are able to accept who they are. Most often fantasize they are better than they really are.
Take the matter of patriotism. Most Viet expats would vehemently claim that they care and love Vietnam, but when you inquire and probe a little more deeply as to what they have done to support their claim, you would then encounter excuses and rationalizations.
Take another intimate matter, say, love and sexuality. Most would claim that they were or still are attractive to the opposite sex, but few offer hard evidence. Most would assert that they are still virile, but quietly rely on sex-enhancing drugs for performance. Sadly there has been a plethora of essays or poems about sexual matters, but a dearth of essays and poems about love, duty, and responsibility. As men get closer to death, there is a marked preoccupation with frivolity and little concern with meaning and purpose of life and with honor and marital vows.
Last Sunday, you went to Scottsdale to ply your trade at the avocation of poker. You saw your friend Mike from
Ethiopia talking with an attractive but provocatively clad young woman. Later you came over and asked who the woman was. Mike said she was only a friend. He explained that the evening before, he was playing at the slot machine, the woman played at the machine next to him. She went broke and pathetically asked him if she would "borrow" two dollars from him. Mike gave her $5 and said that it was a gift. Then he went home. The following day she was looking for Mike and found him taking a break smoking cigarette outside the poker room. That was when you saw them talking. It turned out that she managed to turn that $5 gift to $200 win. And she was looking for Mike to give him $100! You were astounded to hear that. You were then completely bowled over by Mike's revelation that Mike refused to take the $100 and told her that she needed to manage her money better. The woman was swept off her feet by Mike's magnanimous gesture. She embraced Mike and told Mike they could go out to have dinner together and later to have "a good time". Mike, aged 36, thanked her but said that he was married and he didn't want to betray his wife. Now, please bear in mind that the woman was young and very attractive, and thus rendered the story told by Mike incredibly beautiful and rare. You wonder how many people in this world would behave like the young woman and Mike. Mike was not rich by any means. He made only $50,000 a year and was not a very successful poker player and could use the $100. Mike told her that she was indeed a very rare person. She replied that he was very rare himself.
After hearing the story from Mike, you couldn't help thinking about it and felt compelled to disseminate it. You also realized that life was stranger than fiction and that there were some rare, beautiful people in this world who made you feel small and ugly. You then vouched to yourself to be who you could be. Starting that Sunday afternoon, you would stop feeling and acting superior to those who don't share your views on life and who don't seem to possess the same bookish knowledge or the same reasoning skills or the same morality as you do. You would have to mind your own business and work on improving yourself.
Wissai
October 20, 2010
What do we get from reading?
Words you encountered and modified and added on the way to dusty death:
We read in order to learn about the world, about others and about ourselves in that world of ours. We want to get informed. We also want to get "entertained". We read stories so we can remember our moral education learned during childhood and later about the movements of the heart. We soar with the language. The stories get hold of us and give us hope and strength. They remind us that people who are hurt and vulnerable can also be feisty and resourceful and ultimately become in their own ways the owners of their fates, notwithstanding the observations of some of us who have not been able to put ourselves in their shoes.
You are reading two books that argue that there's a non-materialistic basis for God. You want to know how the opposing camp thinks. You want to keep an open mind. As a writer wannabe, you must learn to live comfortably with irony and paradox and inconsistency and contradiction, and to be able to render that in a story spacious enough to allow for ambiguity, rather than feeling the need to resolve it through pronouncements. Art is evocation, not exhortation.
We read so we can grapple with the issue of power which manifests itself in all aspects of human society. Power is intimately linked with control of resources and how and what to think and thus survival itself. You instinctively resent power because you love independence and have confidence of who you are and the powers of your brain. You sometimes can't help but evince contempt and arrogance for ignoramuses and cowards because you are angry, but you are now more conscious of the emotional dynamics at work and hence keep things in check and perspective. The meaning of any human action, especially yours, can only be understood by putting it in a context and in a broader pattern. But in the end our ability to understand others is limited by our ability to understand ourselves and our imagination. Humans simply cannot understand the unfamiliar. Thus, almost all comments, criticisms, and interpretations are expressions of self-projection. One way to understand a person is to make him angry, for in anger we often reveal our true self. We let others see our emotional makeup without the normal interference of the higher neocortex. Very often we show to the world we are men made of clay, unbaked and unhardened. One hard rain---a few chosen biting words of comment---will reduce us to a lump of melting, crumbling, and pathetic being, a slave of emotions, instead of a dignified, stoic, wise man who tried to show to the world before with our sagacious advice and bon mots. You used to be like a sword cutting through the hypocrisy and falsehood, exposing the raw cowardice masqueraded as a desire for peace and quiet. You demanded other humans live a life of authenticity and responsibility, not rampant selfishness. You made them uncomfortable. You got into their faces, itching for a debate. Nobody wanted to debate with you because it was hard to debate against truth and reason and responsibility. You were the voice of truth and reason and responsibility. You sounded superior because you were superior. An asshole wondered out loud of who the hell you thought you were by asking other humans living up to their potential. By asking such a stupid question in a peevish, crude, and rude manner, the asshole revealed to the world its true color, that it was a true, stinking asshole, afraid and unwilling to live up to the pious advice it had dispensed to the world. It could not walk the talk. One simple test and it failed miserably. It showed to the world that it was weak and undisciplined. All fat men are weak and undisciplined. It earned your eternal contempt, disdain, and scorn. From that moment on, you have regarded it as a piece of stinking dogshit lying on a sidewalk that every man, woman, and child all want to avoid contact. One stupid outburst and it revealed itself. It didn't know one simple rule of human communication: by showing contempt to others in a vile, profane, crude manner, it ironically earned and got the disrespect and disdain it wished to inflict on its target. Its two predecessors didn't fare much better, but at least they managed to avoid using the profane language. Hypocrisy is a sign of moral weakness. Failure to apologize is an indication of gross sensibilities, a failure to know the difference between right and wrong. All three assholes are prime examples of hypocrisy and moral cowardice. Your words are tough and demanding. Your questions are not idle; they go to the core of being, of asking who we really are, and what we are here for on this planet, for what purpose and for what meaning?
Wissai
We read in order to learn about the world, about others and about ourselves in that world of ours. We want to get informed. We also want to get "entertained". We read stories so we can remember our moral education learned during childhood and later about the movements of the heart. We soar with the language. The stories get hold of us and give us hope and strength. They remind us that people who are hurt and vulnerable can also be feisty and resourceful and ultimately become in their own ways the owners of their fates, notwithstanding the observations of some of us who have not been able to put ourselves in their shoes.
You are reading two books that argue that there's a non-materialistic basis for God. You want to know how the opposing camp thinks. You want to keep an open mind. As a writer wannabe, you must learn to live comfortably with irony and paradox and inconsistency and contradiction, and to be able to render that in a story spacious enough to allow for ambiguity, rather than feeling the need to resolve it through pronouncements. Art is evocation, not exhortation.
We read so we can grapple with the issue of power which manifests itself in all aspects of human society. Power is intimately linked with control of resources and how and what to think and thus survival itself. You instinctively resent power because you love independence and have confidence of who you are and the powers of your brain. You sometimes can't help but evince contempt and arrogance for ignoramuses and cowards because you are angry, but you are now more conscious of the emotional dynamics at work and hence keep things in check and perspective. The meaning of any human action, especially yours, can only be understood by putting it in a context and in a broader pattern. But in the end our ability to understand others is limited by our ability to understand ourselves and our imagination. Humans simply cannot understand the unfamiliar. Thus, almost all comments, criticisms, and interpretations are expressions of self-projection. One way to understand a person is to make him angry, for in anger we often reveal our true self. We let others see our emotional makeup without the normal interference of the higher neocortex. Very often we show to the world we are men made of clay, unbaked and unhardened. One hard rain---a few chosen biting words of comment---will reduce us to a lump of melting, crumbling, and pathetic being, a slave of emotions, instead of a dignified, stoic, wise man who tried to show to the world before with our sagacious advice and bon mots. You used to be like a sword cutting through the hypocrisy and falsehood, exposing the raw cowardice masqueraded as a desire for peace and quiet. You demanded other humans live a life of authenticity and responsibility, not rampant selfishness. You made them uncomfortable. You got into their faces, itching for a debate. Nobody wanted to debate with you because it was hard to debate against truth and reason and responsibility. You were the voice of truth and reason and responsibility. You sounded superior because you were superior. An asshole wondered out loud of who the hell you thought you were by asking other humans living up to their potential. By asking such a stupid question in a peevish, crude, and rude manner, the asshole revealed to the world its true color, that it was a true, stinking asshole, afraid and unwilling to live up to the pious advice it had dispensed to the world. It could not walk the talk. One simple test and it failed miserably. It showed to the world that it was weak and undisciplined. All fat men are weak and undisciplined. It earned your eternal contempt, disdain, and scorn. From that moment on, you have regarded it as a piece of stinking dogshit lying on a sidewalk that every man, woman, and child all want to avoid contact. One stupid outburst and it revealed itself. It didn't know one simple rule of human communication: by showing contempt to others in a vile, profane, crude manner, it ironically earned and got the disrespect and disdain it wished to inflict on its target. Its two predecessors didn't fare much better, but at least they managed to avoid using the profane language. Hypocrisy is a sign of moral weakness. Failure to apologize is an indication of gross sensibilities, a failure to know the difference between right and wrong. All three assholes are prime examples of hypocrisy and moral cowardice. Your words are tough and demanding. Your questions are not idle; they go to the core of being, of asking who we really are, and what we are here for on this planet, for what purpose and for what meaning?
Wissai
First thing first: self-acceptance
We all need a true sense of self and of being comfortable of who we are, warts and all. Some of us don't ever get that, even in old age. Others get too comfortable and fail to see that they are full of inflation and distortion. Before we ask others to accept us of who we are, we must accept ourselves first.
Wissai
Wissai
When You Went AWay
When You Went Away
Years ago, you and I were lying
Next to each together, hand in hand,
Skin on skin, breathing
in each other
When the song came on
The radio. It said something like
If you go away, you might as well take
The sun and the moon with you.
And if you stay, well, the lyrics escaped me now.
There was no if then;
There was a when.
When you did go away,
The sun and the moon stayed,
But my soul was lost
And my eyes moist
My body heavy
And my heart kept crying for you.
Wissai
Oct. 23, 2010
Years ago, you and I were lying
Next to each together, hand in hand,
Skin on skin, breathing
in each other
When the song came on
The radio. It said something like
If you go away, you might as well take
The sun and the moon with you.
And if you stay, well, the lyrics escaped me now.
There was no if then;
There was a when.
When you did go away,
The sun and the moon stayed,
But my soul was lost
And my eyes moist
My body heavy
And my heart kept crying for you.
Wissai
Oct. 23, 2010
Sunday reverie
You got up this morning to the beautiful melody of a Spanish ballad. The music made you feel good though you are not thoroughly refreshed. As usual, last night you stayed up late, reading and writing until the wee hours of the morning. When words arrive, you're at their beck and call. You've got to respond to their command.
You couldn't linger in bed because you got an appointment early in the morning. A potential client wanted to do business over breakfast after a racquetball game.
You staggered to the bathroom and stepped into the shower stall. The warm-hot water revived and relaxed you. As you dried yourself, you looked closely at your face in the mirror. The once ravishingly handsome, Adonis face has begun to show signs of decay. Lines are appearing under the eyes; blotches of discoloration are here and there. Still, compared to most men your age, you still look good. Judy has commented several times that your lips are irresistibly sexy. You chuckled at the recollection. You dropped down to the floor, straining to do 50 push-ups. You used to be able to 100 without being of breath afterwards. You're indeed getting old.
The meeting didn't go as well as you had hoped. The bastard didn't take seriously your sale's pitch.
You drove back to the apartment and resumed sleeping fitfully with the radio on. Music drifted in and out of your consciousness, reminding you of the pains and vagaries of love.
Finally you got up and drove to Scottsdale. After four hours of playing poker and dozing on and off at the table, you were ahead with a lousy sum of $134. Then your landlord's son called and said he wanted to meet you for dinner as he had something to discuss with you. You replied why the matter had to be talked over dinner, and not over the phone. He insisted that you meet him since he valued your advice. You are 22 years his senior.
You arrived on time at the restaurant and Kenny was already there, looking anxious and worried. No sooner did you sit down that he dropped you a bomb that he was thinking of marrying his nymphomaniac girlfriend of his. You told him of the following:
"Kenny, your father told me to look after you. He is worried about you. We are friends. We hang out together about town several times after hours. I have met your girlfriend Tricia. You've told me incredible stories about her. I'm glad you respect my opinions and ask for my advice.
I'm not a wise man. I talk too much about everything, most of all about myself. I am too open, too confessional, too chatty. I'm not discreet. So, for what's worth, I 'm going to be straight with you. Marriage is not a child's game. It's a fucking goddamn, deadly serious business. Tricia is attractive and very sexy and I know you love her, considering what she has done to you. But, please remember, love is not everything. Take it from me, a guy who could write a book about love. I've told you about my love life, the tragedies and triumphs of it. I've told you my past. I think I finally know something about women. A woman can only love a man if she respects him, besides the physical attraction and monetary and status considerations. From what Tricia has done to you, I can safely, if not definitely, concluded that she has no respect for you. She didn't care about your feelings when she screwed around while dating you. No self-respecting man would tolerate that. They say life is stranger than fiction. I think your love for Tricia certainly is. Please think what would happen if marrying you, she continues screwing other men and you get mad again and hit her again and she has grounds for divorce. You would lose her, your money, and children if there are any. Kenny, a nymphomaniac stays a nymphomaniac. Like love, sex is not everything. There are other things in life worth fighting for. Self-respect is one. Patriotism is another. Filial duty and responsibility is yet another. You told me that your father would disown you if you go ahead with the marriage plan. Don't be self-centered. Try to make your dad happy. He won't be around forever. He loves you very much. I don't really know what's wrong with you, with your taste with women. Why don't you settle down with a decent, sensible girl? Like the other night, you wanted me to fix you up with the Mongolian girl because she was physically attractive even after I told you she was uneducated and ignorant. She doesn't know anything about the history of her country. Besides, she is tough, not sweet at all. Women like that, you've got to stay away from them. Don't get your life ruined by pussies. Don't think with your dick. Have some love for your dad. Strive to make him happy. He loves you."
You couldn't linger in bed because you got an appointment early in the morning. A potential client wanted to do business over breakfast after a racquetball game.
You staggered to the bathroom and stepped into the shower stall. The warm-hot water revived and relaxed you. As you dried yourself, you looked closely at your face in the mirror. The once ravishingly handsome, Adonis face has begun to show signs of decay. Lines are appearing under the eyes; blotches of discoloration are here and there. Still, compared to most men your age, you still look good. Judy has commented several times that your lips are irresistibly sexy. You chuckled at the recollection. You dropped down to the floor, straining to do 50 push-ups. You used to be able to 100 without being of breath afterwards. You're indeed getting old.
The meeting didn't go as well as you had hoped. The bastard didn't take seriously your sale's pitch.
You drove back to the apartment and resumed sleeping fitfully with the radio on. Music drifted in and out of your consciousness, reminding you of the pains and vagaries of love.
Finally you got up and drove to Scottsdale. After four hours of playing poker and dozing on and off at the table, you were ahead with a lousy sum of $134. Then your landlord's son called and said he wanted to meet you for dinner as he had something to discuss with you. You replied why the matter had to be talked over dinner, and not over the phone. He insisted that you meet him since he valued your advice. You are 22 years his senior.
You arrived on time at the restaurant and Kenny was already there, looking anxious and worried. No sooner did you sit down that he dropped you a bomb that he was thinking of marrying his nymphomaniac girlfriend of his. You told him of the following:
"Kenny, your father told me to look after you. He is worried about you. We are friends. We hang out together about town several times after hours. I have met your girlfriend Tricia. You've told me incredible stories about her. I'm glad you respect my opinions and ask for my advice.
I'm not a wise man. I talk too much about everything, most of all about myself. I am too open, too confessional, too chatty. I'm not discreet. So, for what's worth, I 'm going to be straight with you. Marriage is not a child's game. It's a fucking goddamn, deadly serious business. Tricia is attractive and very sexy and I know you love her, considering what she has done to you. But, please remember, love is not everything. Take it from me, a guy who could write a book about love. I've told you about my love life, the tragedies and triumphs of it. I've told you my past. I think I finally know something about women. A woman can only love a man if she respects him, besides the physical attraction and monetary and status considerations. From what Tricia has done to you, I can safely, if not definitely, concluded that she has no respect for you. She didn't care about your feelings when she screwed around while dating you. No self-respecting man would tolerate that. They say life is stranger than fiction. I think your love for Tricia certainly is. Please think what would happen if marrying you, she continues screwing other men and you get mad again and hit her again and she has grounds for divorce. You would lose her, your money, and children if there are any. Kenny, a nymphomaniac stays a nymphomaniac. Like love, sex is not everything. There are other things in life worth fighting for. Self-respect is one. Patriotism is another. Filial duty and responsibility is yet another. You told me that your father would disown you if you go ahead with the marriage plan. Don't be self-centered. Try to make your dad happy. He won't be around forever. He loves you very much. I don't really know what's wrong with you, with your taste with women. Why don't you settle down with a decent, sensible girl? Like the other night, you wanted me to fix you up with the Mongolian girl because she was physically attractive even after I told you she was uneducated and ignorant. She doesn't know anything about the history of her country. Besides, she is tough, not sweet at all. Women like that, you've got to stay away from them. Don't get your life ruined by pussies. Don't think with your dick. Have some love for your dad. Strive to make him happy. He loves you."
Saturday, October 23, 2010
Why nostalgia galore?
Today you wonder why you are so afflicted by nostalgia, the kind that is unhealthy, demeaning, and sapping of your self-confidence. You question your own penchant of dwelling on failures and sorrows, instead of triumphs and joys. The past was long gone. Everybody made mistakes.. You turned out to be actually more honorable and caring and responsible than she was, so why is this business of languishing in memories and nostalgia?
What you should do is to meditate on private sins and omissions that nobody knows you have committed. Then you confront yourself and force yourself to grow up and be more dignified in thoughts. Once your thoughts are filled with a sense of nobility and self-respect, your actions will follow. Don't compare yourself with scumbags and assholes; compare yourself with heroes and men of noble character. Work on yourself . Be dignified in the privacy of your home as well as outside of it.
What you should do is to meditate on private sins and omissions that nobody knows you have committed. Then you confront yourself and force yourself to grow up and be more dignified in thoughts. Once your thoughts are filled with a sense of nobility and self-respect, your actions will follow. Don't compare yourself with scumbags and assholes; compare yourself with heroes and men of noble character. Work on yourself . Be dignified in the privacy of your home as well as outside of it.
Saturday, October 16, 2010
Eccentric
Yesterday I met a very interesting man. He is 64 years old. He was a math professor in college even though he only had a bachelor degree. For the last 20 years, however, he has made money playing backgammon and poker. He wrote definitive books on backgammon and has been featured in Esquire magazine and on 60 minutes. He has made almost $500,000 playing poker tournaments and is a consistent winner in cash games. He recognizes that he is an eccentric from the way he dresses and expresses himself. His name is Paul Magriel Jr. Wikipedia has an entry about him, written by his first wife, a woman who was admitted to college when she was only 15 years of age. She is now a professor of English and Comparative Literature. Paul claims that she can speak 30 languages. She is French and speaks to their son in rapid French. The son understands everything his mother speaks to him, but he answers back in English! The information about his first wife delights me and is a source of inspiration to me.
Friday, October 15, 2010
Birthday
He was born today, many moons ago, but it seems like yesterday. How time flies, waiting for nobody. Somehow this year he reflected hard on his birthday. And only this year he felt a mixture of sadness and bitterness. So many friends and acquaintances are dropping dead. Some died before their time; others didn't die soon enough. He has to take care of his body better. Day after day, he has to stay away from monkeys and apes and assholes.
Today was also the day Emperor Friederick of Prussia and his brother Nietzsche were born. In fact, Nietzsche's first name was named after the Emperor himself. All good men, men of courage and sensitivity and even bombasts and bombs and beauty are born on this wonderful day.
He recalled last night once he had sex with an admirer of his on his birthday. When it was over, she noticed tears welled up in his eyes. She said, what's wrong? honey. Something in your eyes? He said nothing, but heaved out a long sigh. She then exploded. Fuck you! Roberto. You're thinking of that stupid bitch Laura, aren't you? I've news for you, mister. The bitch not even once thinks of you. To her, you're not even a chapter in her life. You're only a footnote. You hear me? A footnote, a very short, insignificant footnote. She never loved you. You were merely a plaything for her, a phase, a stepping stone, a transition period, a human dildo. You're really a very stupid, pathetic man, do you know that? You keep thinking of the past while everybody else has moved on with their lives long ago. Get the fuck out of my sight and out of my house and don't let the door hit your ass on the way out. I'm through with you. I'm sorry that I loved you. You know fucking well that nobody in this world loved you as much as I loved you, not your wife, not your legion of girlfriends, but you're sick. I can't cure you, no matter how hard I've tried to prove to you that I am the only best thing, the only reliable human you can count on in this entire world, but you don't seem to get that in your thick skull. Find God fast, Roberto. Only He can save you. Only He can make you feel whole and loved and accepted. Stop that smirk on your face. What makes you think you are special and right and billions and billions of people are wrong? GivE God a chance so you can have a chance.
Today was also the day Emperor Friederick of Prussia and his brother Nietzsche were born. In fact, Nietzsche's first name was named after the Emperor himself. All good men, men of courage and sensitivity and even bombasts and bombs and beauty are born on this wonderful day.
He recalled last night once he had sex with an admirer of his on his birthday. When it was over, she noticed tears welled up in his eyes. She said, what's wrong? honey. Something in your eyes? He said nothing, but heaved out a long sigh. She then exploded. Fuck you! Roberto. You're thinking of that stupid bitch Laura, aren't you? I've news for you, mister. The bitch not even once thinks of you. To her, you're not even a chapter in her life. You're only a footnote. You hear me? A footnote, a very short, insignificant footnote. She never loved you. You were merely a plaything for her, a phase, a stepping stone, a transition period, a human dildo. You're really a very stupid, pathetic man, do you know that? You keep thinking of the past while everybody else has moved on with their lives long ago. Get the fuck out of my sight and out of my house and don't let the door hit your ass on the way out. I'm through with you. I'm sorry that I loved you. You know fucking well that nobody in this world loved you as much as I loved you, not your wife, not your legion of girlfriends, but you're sick. I can't cure you, no matter how hard I've tried to prove to you that I am the only best thing, the only reliable human you can count on in this entire world, but you don't seem to get that in your thick skull. Find God fast, Roberto. Only He can save you. Only He can make you feel whole and loved and accepted. Stop that smirk on your face. What makes you think you are special and right and billions and billions of people are wrong? GivE God a chance so you can have a chance.
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Death in the family
I've been thinking much about Death lately for two reasons: a failed attempt on my life and the deaths of my friends and acquaintances from cancers and heart attacks. I suppose I have to be more careful with my mouth from now on if I wish to live past male actuarial age of 74 or so. My father didn't make it past 60. His roommate at the hospital was a young medical student who was admitted for some heart ailment. He was brash and arrogant and talkative even though he looked like shit. He died two weeks after getting to the hospital. His beautiful girlfriend wailed and cried her heart out. I felt sorry for her, but not her prick boyfriend. I hated the fucker. He acted as if he was a little god, bragging and boasting that he would beat this ailment of his and all the false braggadocio. I personally know quite a number of doctors and hate most of them. I am often accused of harboring an inferiority complex towards doctors. I, of course, don't share that belief. I am working hard to read about the body and general knowledge. I want to know as much as I can before I die. The more I know, the more arrogant I get. That's bad. I must hide my contempt.
Power of swords and words
Swords are for primitives and barbarians and martial artists who want to get in touch with the distant past and to exercise their bodies at the same time. Guns are more effective as instruments of killing: simpler and safer and easier to carry and conceal.
Words are timeless as weapons of both offense and defense. However, a wise man does not use words as weapons. Rather, he uses them as instruments of peace, love, and learning. Today, two small-minded who are not particularly gifted at words, used them to express their small and narrow views. You have had a bad habit to use words as weapons. It's time to use them as vehicles of love and tools for survival.
Words are timeless as weapons of both offense and defense. However, a wise man does not use words as weapons. Rather, he uses them as instruments of peace, love, and learning. Today, two small-minded who are not particularly gifted at words, used them to express their small and narrow views. You have had a bad habit to use words as weapons. It's time to use them as vehicles of love and tools for survival.
Unbreakable
To be unbreakable, you must regard whatever bothers you is merely a temporary phase in a long development of your strong, unbreakable character. Take one step back and be philosophical about it. For example, take today's crappy and carping comments from two small minds about the nature and purpose of your work for Vietnam. Come on, what you and your friends have done is tiny, minuscule and frankly doesn't merit the envy, suspicion, and the nasty comments. You were very surprised when they arrived since you couldn't believe how people would and could misperceive the purity of the motives. You were not that upset; you were merely annoyed at the all-too-human exhibition of self-projection. You moved on, however (but did you really? All unpleasant experiences got stuck like pieces of iron to that magnet mind of yours).
To be unbreakable means you would not be petty-minded like your self-appointed commentators. You are strong and you will act strong. The funny thing is that you thought you would be the one who was afflicted with and tormented by pettiness, but now these two and at least four (simian, hypocrite, poorly brought up, and womanizer) other assholes made you realize that you are actually more broad-minded than they are. That should tell you that you should not ever feel so bad about yourself. If you look down the cesspool, you will always find writhing maggots.
Then you passed out. When you came to, two weeks later, in a hospital, you found flowers in your room and her letter on the side table next to your bed.
"Roberto, they told me they didn't know if you would last till morning. You lost so much blood. They were not sure if you would be able to walk again. I told them you must live and I did't care you couldn't walk, but your mind must be okay and you must still be able to talk. Gosh, how can I live if I can't hear your voice, that unmistakeable, strangely seductive stuttering voice of yours which has imparted to me much wisdom and poetic phrasings? I love you so much, Roberto. There's no
one else in this world but you and me, don't you know that? Please don't leave me
alone here. By all the powers of light and darkness, please, please don't leave me
alone.
I am sure you have heard of the Stockholm syndrome. Let us not thank some hypothetical God. Instead, rest and gain strength for the new campaign.
Be strong. And always remember I always love you. My love is real. It's not a teenager's crush.
Your girl."
You scowled when the physical therapist humored you. It took almost all morning to walk up and down the corridor. They moved you from Demoral to oral Percodan. You tried visualization, white knights on white horses arriving in battalions to chase the black demons of pain away.
You stayed on for two more weeks until you would walk with a cane and the
bandages came off. She came to see you everyday, after class. She was then a college freshman, majoring in English. She would leave when you fell asleep in the
evening. Then you were given a new placement, sent home with a thirty-day
prescription for Percodan. She wanted to know the name of the asshole who shot you and where he lived. You told her nobody would do the job for you. As soon
as you could walk and then run, you would go to the range for practice. Unlike him, you would not miss the vital areas. She said she wanted to come along. You
said, don't be silly, don't be crazy like me.
To be unbreakable means you would not be petty-minded like your self-appointed commentators. You are strong and you will act strong. The funny thing is that you thought you would be the one who was afflicted with and tormented by pettiness, but now these two and at least four (simian, hypocrite, poorly brought up, and womanizer) other assholes made you realize that you are actually more broad-minded than they are. That should tell you that you should not ever feel so bad about yourself. If you look down the cesspool, you will always find writhing maggots.
Then you passed out. When you came to, two weeks later, in a hospital, you found flowers in your room and her letter on the side table next to your bed.
"Roberto, they told me they didn't know if you would last till morning. You lost so much blood. They were not sure if you would be able to walk again. I told them you must live and I did't care you couldn't walk, but your mind must be okay and you must still be able to talk. Gosh, how can I live if I can't hear your voice, that unmistakeable, strangely seductive stuttering voice of yours which has imparted to me much wisdom and poetic phrasings? I love you so much, Roberto. There's no
one else in this world but you and me, don't you know that? Please don't leave me
alone here. By all the powers of light and darkness, please, please don't leave me
alone.
I am sure you have heard of the Stockholm syndrome. Let us not thank some hypothetical God. Instead, rest and gain strength for the new campaign.
Be strong. And always remember I always love you. My love is real. It's not a teenager's crush.
Your girl."
You scowled when the physical therapist humored you. It took almost all morning to walk up and down the corridor. They moved you from Demoral to oral Percodan. You tried visualization, white knights on white horses arriving in battalions to chase the black demons of pain away.
You stayed on for two more weeks until you would walk with a cane and the
bandages came off. She came to see you everyday, after class. She was then a college freshman, majoring in English. She would leave when you fell asleep in the
evening. Then you were given a new placement, sent home with a thirty-day
prescription for Percodan. She wanted to know the name of the asshole who shot you and where he lived. You told her nobody would do the job for you. As soon
as you could walk and then run, you would go to the range for practice. Unlike him, you would not miss the vital areas. She said she wanted to come along. You
said, don't be silly, don't be crazy like me.
Monday, October 11, 2010
Sources of suffering
We suffer because we have cravings and attachments and because we hope for the possible and refuse to accept reality for what it is. We must find the fortitude within us to move on and not to dwell on the past. Also, if we are truly mindful of our dignity, we would not suffer. Suffering is ugly and self-pitying and longing for understanding. No explain. No complain. No pain. No sorrow. Completely disinterested and indifferent. We do everything to the best of our abilities and don't really care for results since results could be impacted by the intervention of luck factor.
Sunday, October 10, 2010
Althemus
Althemus, supposedly name of a God, is also the first name of a 77-year-old man I met recently. I met Althemus at my neighborhood bar where I dropped in after work if I feel depressed and don't wish to go home right way. I go there for anonymous human company. I would sit at a table in a corner and nurse two beers while reading a book. Now and then some curious dudes would come over and strike a conversation. Althemus was the third interesting person I have met through this unorthodox modus operandi of mine. His life story was interesting, at least to me.
Al's language was laced and peppered with profanity. He stopped by and made conversation when he saw that I was reading a book by Sam Harris. The following was the conversation between Al and me:
-That Harris was right. There is no fucking God. I knew that when I was 11 and cursed at him and challenged him to kill me, but so far the motherfucker has not done a damned thing. I am 77 years old. And I hate the day I was born. I want to die but I don't want to kill myself because that's cowardly.
-Sorry to hear about that. You look strong and healthy and prosperous. Why do you want to die? Don't you find life interesting? I've tons of problems, but I no longer wish to kill myself because I am curious, because I want to know what will happen to the U.S., to see how far down it will go; to China, to see how high it will rise; and to Vietnam, whether it can survive Chinna's current designs on its territories. A lot of people would kill to be in your shoes. Don't you see you are lucky to live this long?
-Lucky, my ass! That was what I told the captain chaplain when I was plucked wounded from the cold sea in Korea. I also told him if I could get up, I would hit him. The son of the bitch tried to get me court-martialed for threatening an officer. As I told you, I hate the day I was born. Do you know why? Because all I've experienced in life are hardship, bitterness, bigotry, and prejudice. You think I look Mediterranean, right? You're wrong. I am half black, but unlike Obama, I took after my mother and easily passed for white until my late teens when everybody thought I looked Italian or something. My parents had a hard life because of the bigotry. My Dad worked as a postman, supporting my Mom and me. I remember how life was when I was little, growing up in Flint, Michigan. One day, my Mom and I boarded a bus. As the front of the bus was full, she and I moved to the back and got ourselves the seats. The bus driver stopped the fucking bus and told us to move up front and stand holding to the bar because the back was only for the "colored". Now, you would understand how I felt when the damned chaplain told me that I was lucky to survive the war, just like if somebody told my Mom that she was lucky to be born white.
-But you were lucky to survive the Korean War. A lot of soldiers didn't make it. Apparently you didn't lose any limbs or your mind. And you are lucky for being strong and healthy to live this long. You don't smoke and you don't seem to have a drinking problem. I have not seen you order any drink yet.
-No, I don't like to be a slave to anything nor to anybody. You've got to understand this. I grew up poor and I hung in the streets all day long. I saw people got hooked on booze and drugs and I told myself that I would not be like them. I worked since I was 11, for the Mafia, running numbers for them. In those days, there was no lottery yet, but we created something similar to lottery for the folks in the neighborhood. I saw people got killed left and right. I still remember the first week after I started working, an older boy and I walked down the street early one Sunday morning and we saw a naked black man got hanged from the lamppost, with his dick in his mouth. I never saw such a horrible thing before in my life. My friend then asked me "Al, do you know why that poor man got his dick stuffed in his mouth?". I said, "No!" My friend had this weird laugh that I still remember to this day. He said: "Because he snitched! Remember that, don't you ever snitch." Like I was saying, I was working for the Mafia since I was 11, getting paid $5 a week. I felt rich. I was making almost as much money as my old man. I am telling you something else. My parents loved each other very much. That was my only source of comfort in life. They suffered because of bigotry, but they refused to give up on each other. They stayed together. A Catholic priest performed the marriage ceremony for them. In those days, it was not easy to find one who had the courage to do so. Anyway, at the age of 47, my Dad died of liver cancer. Four hours after his death, my mother died of a massive heart attack. I was 24 then and single. I was single not because I was not popular with the ladies. Far from it. One of my street names was Magic because I had magical relationship with women. Women loved me. I was trained early. Soon after I started working and had money on me when I was only 11, a 14-year-old white girl took a liking to me and proceeded to teach me about women. I learned about sex from her. We had a relationship for three years, without her parents' knowledge. Then one day when I was only 14, this girl suddenly told me that she would not have sex with me anymore because she was about to be engaged to a white boy in Detroit. I was furious, but there was nothing that I could do. So, you see, I learned really early not to trust women. I didn't get married till I got to be 35. My wife is Japanese. I met her while I was on vacation in Hawaii. We are still married. And she is still working as a receptionist in an insurance agency. She enjoys working. I am now goofing off and taking it easy. I worked hard enough. I told you I started working when I was 11.
I felt fortunate in meeting interesting people in this bar. A high school Hispanic math teacher, a former Special Forces sergeant, and now a street-wise former errand boy of the Mafia. Their lives are not as well known as those famous men in history, but no less interesting. They felt they had a rapport with me and thus shared their life stories with me. Life is not easy, but as long as we learn to show respect and understanding to one another, we can learn from one another's experiences and perspectives. In some ways, I find these three individuals more worthy of esteem and affection than some of the more learned friends and acquaintances that I know because these three individuals exhibited candor and unpretentiousness while the others have shown nothing to me of their inner world except lies and cowardice and excuses and pretenses, and even pathetic ignorance of hard facts and knowledge.
Al's language was laced and peppered with profanity. He stopped by and made conversation when he saw that I was reading a book by Sam Harris. The following was the conversation between Al and me:
-That Harris was right. There is no fucking God. I knew that when I was 11 and cursed at him and challenged him to kill me, but so far the motherfucker has not done a damned thing. I am 77 years old. And I hate the day I was born. I want to die but I don't want to kill myself because that's cowardly.
-Sorry to hear about that. You look strong and healthy and prosperous. Why do you want to die? Don't you find life interesting? I've tons of problems, but I no longer wish to kill myself because I am curious, because I want to know what will happen to the U.S., to see how far down it will go; to China, to see how high it will rise; and to Vietnam, whether it can survive Chinna's current designs on its territories. A lot of people would kill to be in your shoes. Don't you see you are lucky to live this long?
-Lucky, my ass! That was what I told the captain chaplain when I was plucked wounded from the cold sea in Korea. I also told him if I could get up, I would hit him. The son of the bitch tried to get me court-martialed for threatening an officer. As I told you, I hate the day I was born. Do you know why? Because all I've experienced in life are hardship, bitterness, bigotry, and prejudice. You think I look Mediterranean, right? You're wrong. I am half black, but unlike Obama, I took after my mother and easily passed for white until my late teens when everybody thought I looked Italian or something. My parents had a hard life because of the bigotry. My Dad worked as a postman, supporting my Mom and me. I remember how life was when I was little, growing up in Flint, Michigan. One day, my Mom and I boarded a bus. As the front of the bus was full, she and I moved to the back and got ourselves the seats. The bus driver stopped the fucking bus and told us to move up front and stand holding to the bar because the back was only for the "colored". Now, you would understand how I felt when the damned chaplain told me that I was lucky to survive the war, just like if somebody told my Mom that she was lucky to be born white.
-But you were lucky to survive the Korean War. A lot of soldiers didn't make it. Apparently you didn't lose any limbs or your mind. And you are lucky for being strong and healthy to live this long. You don't smoke and you don't seem to have a drinking problem. I have not seen you order any drink yet.
-No, I don't like to be a slave to anything nor to anybody. You've got to understand this. I grew up poor and I hung in the streets all day long. I saw people got hooked on booze and drugs and I told myself that I would not be like them. I worked since I was 11, for the Mafia, running numbers for them. In those days, there was no lottery yet, but we created something similar to lottery for the folks in the neighborhood. I saw people got killed left and right. I still remember the first week after I started working, an older boy and I walked down the street early one Sunday morning and we saw a naked black man got hanged from the lamppost, with his dick in his mouth. I never saw such a horrible thing before in my life. My friend then asked me "Al, do you know why that poor man got his dick stuffed in his mouth?". I said, "No!" My friend had this weird laugh that I still remember to this day. He said: "Because he snitched! Remember that, don't you ever snitch." Like I was saying, I was working for the Mafia since I was 11, getting paid $5 a week. I felt rich. I was making almost as much money as my old man. I am telling you something else. My parents loved each other very much. That was my only source of comfort in life. They suffered because of bigotry, but they refused to give up on each other. They stayed together. A Catholic priest performed the marriage ceremony for them. In those days, it was not easy to find one who had the courage to do so. Anyway, at the age of 47, my Dad died of liver cancer. Four hours after his death, my mother died of a massive heart attack. I was 24 then and single. I was single not because I was not popular with the ladies. Far from it. One of my street names was Magic because I had magical relationship with women. Women loved me. I was trained early. Soon after I started working and had money on me when I was only 11, a 14-year-old white girl took a liking to me and proceeded to teach me about women. I learned about sex from her. We had a relationship for three years, without her parents' knowledge. Then one day when I was only 14, this girl suddenly told me that she would not have sex with me anymore because she was about to be engaged to a white boy in Detroit. I was furious, but there was nothing that I could do. So, you see, I learned really early not to trust women. I didn't get married till I got to be 35. My wife is Japanese. I met her while I was on vacation in Hawaii. We are still married. And she is still working as a receptionist in an insurance agency. She enjoys working. I am now goofing off and taking it easy. I worked hard enough. I told you I started working when I was 11.
I felt fortunate in meeting interesting people in this bar. A high school Hispanic math teacher, a former Special Forces sergeant, and now a street-wise former errand boy of the Mafia. Their lives are not as well known as those famous men in history, but no less interesting. They felt they had a rapport with me and thus shared their life stories with me. Life is not easy, but as long as we learn to show respect and understanding to one another, we can learn from one another's experiences and perspectives. In some ways, I find these three individuals more worthy of esteem and affection than some of the more learned friends and acquaintances that I know because these three individuals exhibited candor and unpretentiousness while the others have shown nothing to me of their inner world except lies and cowardice and excuses and pretenses, and even pathetic ignorance of hard facts and knowledge.
Friday, October 8, 2010
Why do some people do degrading things to themselves in order to get notice?
Here are the comments from a true, not ersatz, pontificator upon seeing a woman using her oversized bosom like a wrecking ball:
1. Deep from inside every human lurks a desire to be a standout. The woman fulfills that desire by transforming an oversized asset, in fact an inverted liability, to an object of mixed feelings: awe, disgust, humor, and a weapon of mass destruction of any romantic feeling for the human female's prime asset of attraction. Sex is very private and mysterious. A person's reaction to anything connected with sex (e.g. posting and viewing X-rated materials on the Internet) speaks volumes of the dark recesses of his mind.
2. In her quest to get notice, she overcame human natural instinct of fear of ridicule.
3. Humans laugh at almost anything.
4. The black judge showed his deep sense of aesthetics and decorum in his reactions to the freak show. He was horrified by it. Unlike many others in the audience, he was not delighted. His body language said it all. He often turned both his body and his eyes away from the demonstration. His facial expressions registered horror, disgust, and disbelief. He represented his racial heritage well: nice looking face and physique and he could not bring himself to check for himself if the boobs were for real as the other two judges did. Instead, he ran away from the over-bosomy woman. He had my deep respect. At this late stage of my life, all of a sudden, true dignity, not false pride (some small minds never think of apologies because they think that by apologizing they would do violence to their dignity. Little do they know the opposite is what reality is. So, they laugh at my penchant for apologizing. I do so because I respect fairness and justice, not because I don't respect myself. Oops, no complain, no explain. However, sometimes explanation has to be provided so the not-so-intelligent folks can understand, hopefully) means something to me.
5. We must, yours truly included, guard ourselves against the possibility of doing things to degrade and humiliate ourselves in order to get a little laugh, a little notice, or to show contempt.
1. Deep from inside every human lurks a desire to be a standout. The woman fulfills that desire by transforming an oversized asset, in fact an inverted liability, to an object of mixed feelings: awe, disgust, humor, and a weapon of mass destruction of any romantic feeling for the human female's prime asset of attraction. Sex is very private and mysterious. A person's reaction to anything connected with sex (e.g. posting and viewing X-rated materials on the Internet) speaks volumes of the dark recesses of his mind.
2. In her quest to get notice, she overcame human natural instinct of fear of ridicule.
3. Humans laugh at almost anything.
4. The black judge showed his deep sense of aesthetics and decorum in his reactions to the freak show. He was horrified by it. Unlike many others in the audience, he was not delighted. His body language said it all. He often turned both his body and his eyes away from the demonstration. His facial expressions registered horror, disgust, and disbelief. He represented his racial heritage well: nice looking face and physique and he could not bring himself to check for himself if the boobs were for real as the other two judges did. Instead, he ran away from the over-bosomy woman. He had my deep respect. At this late stage of my life, all of a sudden, true dignity, not false pride (some small minds never think of apologies because they think that by apologizing they would do violence to their dignity. Little do they know the opposite is what reality is. So, they laugh at my penchant for apologizing. I do so because I respect fairness and justice, not because I don't respect myself. Oops, no complain, no explain. However, sometimes explanation has to be provided so the not-so-intelligent folks can understand, hopefully) means something to me.
5. We must, yours truly included, guard ourselves against the possibility of doing things to degrade and humiliate ourselves in order to get a little laugh, a little notice, or to show contempt.
Where did you take my summer away?
Bâng khuâng dưới ánh nắng vàng
Tặng nhau cánh phượng ai mang đi rồi
Ngày xưa chỉ có vậy thôi
Có ai biết được để rồi cách xa
Mùa Hè từng mùa Hè qua
Tiếc hoài cái tuổi ngọc ngà chẳng quên
Nỗi buồn không thể đặt tên
Nhẹ nhàng nhưng lại mông mênh trong lòng
Ai còn nhớ kỷ niệm không?
Ngày xưa, một cánh phượng hồng đã trao.
Where did you take my summer away?
Once, when we were both very young and green,
In the golden sunshine, I handed you a bouquet of crimson ponciana flowers,
A simple present from me to you in the distant past.
Soon thereafter you and your family moved away.
As the years roll by, one summer after another comes and goes,
Reminding me of our unforgettable precious childhood memories.
I harbor a nameless nostalgia,
Delicate yet pervasive inside me.
Do you ever remember as I always do
I once handed you a bouquet of crimson ponciana flowers?
Tặng nhau cánh phượng ai mang đi rồi
Ngày xưa chỉ có vậy thôi
Có ai biết được để rồi cách xa
Mùa Hè từng mùa Hè qua
Tiếc hoài cái tuổi ngọc ngà chẳng quên
Nỗi buồn không thể đặt tên
Nhẹ nhàng nhưng lại mông mênh trong lòng
Ai còn nhớ kỷ niệm không?
Ngày xưa, một cánh phượng hồng đã trao.
Where did you take my summer away?
Once, when we were both very young and green,
In the golden sunshine, I handed you a bouquet of crimson ponciana flowers,
A simple present from me to you in the distant past.
Soon thereafter you and your family moved away.
As the years roll by, one summer after another comes and goes,
Reminding me of our unforgettable precious childhood memories.
I harbor a nameless nostalgia,
Delicate yet pervasive inside me.
Do you ever remember as I always do
I once handed you a bouquet of crimson ponciana flowers?
Monday, October 4, 2010
Remarkable people
Every asshole who got some education and intelligence that I know personally all think they are remarkable, but in reality they all have unremarkable lives which are governed by cowardice and selfishness. They even don't really know much of anything outside their chosen field of study and work. The more I know them, the more I understand the mindset of a guy like Hitler or Charles Manson. Some motherfuckers even dare raise the question who the fuck I think I am to show my disdain of their tastes and values. Obviously those motherfuckers don't see that just because they finished college and have a certificate showing that they managed to finish the curriculum, that means they can call themselves educated. Little did they know a college education only provided them with a training in how to think logically and to respect facts and knowledge. Obviously they didn't learn how to do that because the majority of them clearly have shown to me that they don't know how to think logically, nor do they show evidence that they respect facts. They are intellectually dishonest and cowardly and have shown no intellectual curiosity. They don't deserve to wipe my ass nor to hold a candle for me. What the fuck do they actually know? I have not seen any evidence of the independence of thought nor the clarity of expression nor the marshaling of facts in a logical fashion. All I have seen are cliches and facile, sophistical thinking to hide their cowardice and ignorance.
All these ventings of mine are actually part of the process to accept those animals as they are and to stay away from them for good while concentrating on the balming, soothing influences in life such as nice gestures and actions of true humans and the power of music. Today Spanish music on the radio and the song The Wonderful World sung by Louis Armstrong recharged my battery and made me stronger to stay in this race to stay alive.
All these ventings of mine are actually part of the process to accept those animals as they are and to stay away from them for good while concentrating on the balming, soothing influences in life such as nice gestures and actions of true humans and the power of music. Today Spanish music on the radio and the song The Wonderful World sung by Louis Armstrong recharged my battery and made me stronger to stay in this race to stay alive.
Saturday, October 2, 2010
Power of Imagination
A guy who has followed my blog earnestly asked me today if any of my posts, especially those involving female friends and adolescent admirers, had any basis in reality. I wrote back, saying to me the demarcation line between reality and fantasy is very blurry. One thing for sure, however, I have been cursed and blessed with having many, many lady friends of all ages. Women like me and I adore them even though they have made me suffer and lose a great deal of money.
Gripping, hypnotic power of words
He was depressed last night. So he went out, first to a movie starring George Cllooney called "the American". It was a waste of time. The screenplay, adapted from a novel, lacked coherence. He stayed to the end in order to find out what the damned movie was all about, although he had already suspected, through the meandering narrative, that it was much ado about nothing, and he was right. There were three redeeming features about the movie: Clooney's surprisingly somewhat chiseled physique, the prostitute's body and smile, and winter landscape in Sweden. Still feeling lonely and depressed, he ambled to a nearby bar. There he sat reading a novel while nursing two beers. By the time he got home, it was past midnight. After brushing his teeth and soaking himself in the bathtub, he staggered to bed, feeling more numb than tired. He turned on his iPhone and saw the following:
"Dear Heart:
Where the hell have you been? Why didn't you have your phone on? Please don't do that again. Are you in one of those black, uncommunicative moods? Or are you out roaming the streets with the slut Patricia who is trying to seduce you? Have you told her that you no longer have any money and that you are cursed with a bad case of impotence? At any rate, don't ever let the bitch perform fellatio on you, nor, heavens forbid! do you go down on her as I just read you would run a high risk of developing throat cancer if you are into that kinky practice.
I am not as verbally gifted as you are, so I have to rely on images and words of others to express my feelings. The following was lifted from some chick lit book about mother and daughter. The mother was a poet who murdered her lover who had dumped her after succeeding in winning her over after a long campaign. The daughter had to bounce from one foster home to another while her mother was in jail. Very melodramatic and predictable story, I could hear what you think in that weird head of yours. What saved the book was the language which was marked by a haunting, gripping, hypnotic power. The narrator was the daughter.
'The hot westerly winds blew in from the desert, shriveling the last of the spring grass into whiskers of pale straw. I couldn't sleep in the hot dry nights. I climbed to the roof and easily spotted her blond hair like a white flame in the light of the three-quarter moon.
When he first appeared, he was so small and pathetic. Smaller than a comma, pathetic as a dry, persistent cough in the middle of the night. But when he opened his mouth, his voice made me drunk---deep and sun-warmed, a hint of foreign accent in one of the countries of the North Sea, one generation removed, then I realized the power of that hypnotic, seductive voice.
I hate people who use words carelessly, who bleed shameless cliches, stock nouns and slack verbs, while my poor mother would agonize for hours over whether to write corpulent or pudgy or heavy or simply fat.
My mother once told me "Don't stay overnight in a man's house or let him stay the night. Dawn always has a way to cast a pall on any night magic." Later on, I experienced what she meant by the night magic: the music of the voices in the dark except for the dim glow of the incense in the corner, their soft laughter and giggling and then the sighing, the groaning, the hurried breathing, and the calling of each others' names, and the musky scent of lovemaking mingling with that of incense. I felt then on the verge of something, a mystery that surrounded me like gauge, something I was beginning to explore and unwind.
She also told me, "Always learn some poems and some lines of Shakespeare's plays by heart. They have to become the marrow in your bones. Like fluoride in the water, they'll make your soul impervious to the world's relentless decay. They'll make you strong and enduring. Remember some beautiful lines in the movies also ("Love is an involuntary reflex. And I fell victim to it"). They need to stay with you, providing you the anchor, so you won't drift in the sea of life.
One night, out the window, the glow of the Hollywood sign was slightly blurred with June fog, a soft wetness on the hills raising the smell of sage and chamise, moisture wiping the glass with dreams.
Beauty was my mother's law, her creed, her religion. You could do anything to your heart's desire, as long as you did them beautifully, with grace and with class. If you didn't, you were nothing. You didn't exist. You were insignificant, unworthy of attention and love and pity. You must execute them with Zen-like precision. No flaw. No moment's hesitation. Fearlessly and resolutely. A moment into grace. A surrender into Death, and thus a possibility for Life. Also, observe silence as much as you can. Only fools and common folks made excuses for themselves. Never complain. Never explain. Always carry your head high, even in defeat, even on your way to the gallows. What you really had was dignity. What you called life was an illusion. Only dignity was real. It would make you work hard, toil in the night; it would keep you away from petty temptations.
My mother's words created in me a brain wave beyond all betas and alphas and thetas, a brain wave that paralyzed the normal channels of thought and forced new ones grow outside them, in the untouched regions of the mind, like parallel blood vessels that form to accommodate the damaged heart.
Sadly, after she killed Barry and was taken away from me, she told me during one of my visits, "Love is temperamental. It makes demands. It uses you. It changes its mind. But hatred is a different animal. You can train it. You can use it. Sculpt. Wield. Soft or hard, however you need it. You must have patience, though. Contrary to popular misconception, love does not transcend you. It humiliates you. It makes you suffer. But hatred cradles you; it nourishes you. It gives you a sense of purpose."
My dear, dear Roberto, I cannot hate you. I love you even if I suffer in doing so. I know you think I am too young for you. But remember, I am not an ordinary 16-year- old. I am precocious for my age. I will start college next Spring. You think my love for you is just an ordinary crush, but you are wrong and I know you are making a terrible mistake for not taking me seriously. But I really don't blame you. After the terrible experiences you had with Laura and other bitches, you have the right to be skeptical and cynical, but why are you pushing me away from you by encouraging me to go out with boys my age? I find them boring. Besides, I don't regard you as a man in his 60s at all. To me you are merely in your 20s. You look young (you must dye your hair! How many times do I have to beg you?) and you act young. So stop talking about old age and death. You fulfill me. I need nobody else. There may be others that have affection for you, but I am sure they do not possess the passion that is boiling inside me. My obsession for you is a healing one and I must fight for you and for myself. You touch my inner core and reveal to me what it is for two to become one and for one to join life and the Universe. You lead me down the path of discovery of “Be still and know”.
Wissai
October 2, 2010
"Dear Heart:
Where the hell have you been? Why didn't you have your phone on? Please don't do that again. Are you in one of those black, uncommunicative moods? Or are you out roaming the streets with the slut Patricia who is trying to seduce you? Have you told her that you no longer have any money and that you are cursed with a bad case of impotence? At any rate, don't ever let the bitch perform fellatio on you, nor, heavens forbid! do you go down on her as I just read you would run a high risk of developing throat cancer if you are into that kinky practice.
I am not as verbally gifted as you are, so I have to rely on images and words of others to express my feelings. The following was lifted from some chick lit book about mother and daughter. The mother was a poet who murdered her lover who had dumped her after succeeding in winning her over after a long campaign. The daughter had to bounce from one foster home to another while her mother was in jail. Very melodramatic and predictable story, I could hear what you think in that weird head of yours. What saved the book was the language which was marked by a haunting, gripping, hypnotic power. The narrator was the daughter.
'The hot westerly winds blew in from the desert, shriveling the last of the spring grass into whiskers of pale straw. I couldn't sleep in the hot dry nights. I climbed to the roof and easily spotted her blond hair like a white flame in the light of the three-quarter moon.
When he first appeared, he was so small and pathetic. Smaller than a comma, pathetic as a dry, persistent cough in the middle of the night. But when he opened his mouth, his voice made me drunk---deep and sun-warmed, a hint of foreign accent in one of the countries of the North Sea, one generation removed, then I realized the power of that hypnotic, seductive voice.
I hate people who use words carelessly, who bleed shameless cliches, stock nouns and slack verbs, while my poor mother would agonize for hours over whether to write corpulent or pudgy or heavy or simply fat.
My mother once told me "Don't stay overnight in a man's house or let him stay the night. Dawn always has a way to cast a pall on any night magic." Later on, I experienced what she meant by the night magic: the music of the voices in the dark except for the dim glow of the incense in the corner, their soft laughter and giggling and then the sighing, the groaning, the hurried breathing, and the calling of each others' names, and the musky scent of lovemaking mingling with that of incense. I felt then on the verge of something, a mystery that surrounded me like gauge, something I was beginning to explore and unwind.
She also told me, "Always learn some poems and some lines of Shakespeare's plays by heart. They have to become the marrow in your bones. Like fluoride in the water, they'll make your soul impervious to the world's relentless decay. They'll make you strong and enduring. Remember some beautiful lines in the movies also ("Love is an involuntary reflex. And I fell victim to it"). They need to stay with you, providing you the anchor, so you won't drift in the sea of life.
One night, out the window, the glow of the Hollywood sign was slightly blurred with June fog, a soft wetness on the hills raising the smell of sage and chamise, moisture wiping the glass with dreams.
Beauty was my mother's law, her creed, her religion. You could do anything to your heart's desire, as long as you did them beautifully, with grace and with class. If you didn't, you were nothing. You didn't exist. You were insignificant, unworthy of attention and love and pity. You must execute them with Zen-like precision. No flaw. No moment's hesitation. Fearlessly and resolutely. A moment into grace. A surrender into Death, and thus a possibility for Life. Also, observe silence as much as you can. Only fools and common folks made excuses for themselves. Never complain. Never explain. Always carry your head high, even in defeat, even on your way to the gallows. What you really had was dignity. What you called life was an illusion. Only dignity was real. It would make you work hard, toil in the night; it would keep you away from petty temptations.
My mother's words created in me a brain wave beyond all betas and alphas and thetas, a brain wave that paralyzed the normal channels of thought and forced new ones grow outside them, in the untouched regions of the mind, like parallel blood vessels that form to accommodate the damaged heart.
Sadly, after she killed Barry and was taken away from me, she told me during one of my visits, "Love is temperamental. It makes demands. It uses you. It changes its mind. But hatred is a different animal. You can train it. You can use it. Sculpt. Wield. Soft or hard, however you need it. You must have patience, though. Contrary to popular misconception, love does not transcend you. It humiliates you. It makes you suffer. But hatred cradles you; it nourishes you. It gives you a sense of purpose."
My dear, dear Roberto, I cannot hate you. I love you even if I suffer in doing so. I know you think I am too young for you. But remember, I am not an ordinary 16-year- old. I am precocious for my age. I will start college next Spring. You think my love for you is just an ordinary crush, but you are wrong and I know you are making a terrible mistake for not taking me seriously. But I really don't blame you. After the terrible experiences you had with Laura and other bitches, you have the right to be skeptical and cynical, but why are you pushing me away from you by encouraging me to go out with boys my age? I find them boring. Besides, I don't regard you as a man in his 60s at all. To me you are merely in your 20s. You look young (you must dye your hair! How many times do I have to beg you?) and you act young. So stop talking about old age and death. You fulfill me. I need nobody else. There may be others that have affection for you, but I am sure they do not possess the passion that is boiling inside me. My obsession for you is a healing one and I must fight for you and for myself. You touch my inner core and reveal to me what it is for two to become one and for one to join life and the Universe. You lead me down the path of discovery of “Be still and know”.
Wissai
October 2, 2010
Friday, October 1, 2010
Anger and Language
Somebody called me up and chewed me out, using derogatory language. I hung up on him twice. I didn't lose my cool. I refused to retaliate in kind. I was accused of being a trouble-maker and stuck up on myself. Upon reflection, the accusation was not way off the mark, but I didn't think I deserved the abusive language heaped upon me. We could always use some civilly.
What I have done, although not as much as I used since I have my own blog and since I joined another egroup, is to confront and expose cowardice, hypocrisy, indifference, ignorance, poor reasoning skills, and plain lack of patriotism in most of my friends and acquaintances. Most humans don't like to admit that they are ignorant, so they tend to show that they know more than they actually do. Since I am a fanatic about facts and truths, I love to correct those who are afflicted with the disease of not respecting facts and truths. In addition, since I have verbal facility and am blessed with an ability to express my thoughts in a logical and cogent manner, I tend to come across as superior and cocky. That disturbs quite a number of individuals who fancy that they are way smarter than me.
The long and short of the cause of many (?) people's unhappiness with me is that I shake up their lethargy and expose the intrinsic meaninglesness of their lives. Come on, when you refuse to do anything for your birth country out of cowardice and selfishness, you cannot really say that you have lived your life in a caring, responsible manner, can you? As a matter of fact, some animals would sacrifice their lives to defend their group.
I rest my case.
What I have done, although not as much as I used since I have my own blog and since I joined another egroup, is to confront and expose cowardice, hypocrisy, indifference, ignorance, poor reasoning skills, and plain lack of patriotism in most of my friends and acquaintances. Most humans don't like to admit that they are ignorant, so they tend to show that they know more than they actually do. Since I am a fanatic about facts and truths, I love to correct those who are afflicted with the disease of not respecting facts and truths. In addition, since I have verbal facility and am blessed with an ability to express my thoughts in a logical and cogent manner, I tend to come across as superior and cocky. That disturbs quite a number of individuals who fancy that they are way smarter than me.
The long and short of the cause of many (?) people's unhappiness with me is that I shake up their lethargy and expose the intrinsic meaninglesness of their lives. Come on, when you refuse to do anything for your birth country out of cowardice and selfishness, you cannot really say that you have lived your life in a caring, responsible manner, can you? As a matter of fact, some animals would sacrifice their lives to defend their group.
I rest my case.
Friday Reverie
The sky was overcast. You just avoided catastrophe. Today you flirted with disaster and you escaped. You felt good. Rain is actually coming down. A hurricane (how many know the word came from Spanish via American Indian Taino language? We have hurricanes in Western hemisphere but typhoons and storms somewhere else) of sentiments and memories are sweeping over your body and mind. Winds and rains have an effect on you. You become slightly unhinged and you want to fly, to do outrageous things, to push your limits to the extreme while pushing everybody's button to see what exactly they are made of? hard stone or mere clay which can be easily washed away from a hard rain?
You remember walking in the rain after learning that you just passed your first academic hurdle in high school. Your success surprised everybody in the neighborhood because for years you had neglected schooling and spending more time roaming the streets than hitting the books. Your success overwhelmed your mother. When you broke the news to her, she was first speechless and then tears came to her eyes and rolled down her cheeks. You said nothing. You wanted to embrace her and tell her that from now on she would not have to worry about you, but you knew she didn't want physical display of affection. So you just said you wanted to get out of the house and go to see a friend. In the rain? She said. Now? You replied that you had to go right now. So, you put the raincoat on, took your bicycle out, and pedaled slowly in the rain and in the wind. The wind drove the rain to your face and down your neck, but you kept on pedaling for hours while inside you a maelstrom of mixed emotions was swirling. You kept telling yourself you got to be good and you got to be sane. Two years later, you got another academic success along with an opportunity to spend a year with an American family. You remember you had to compete with students from French-speaking lycees. The American interviewer had a Ph.D. You no longer remember his name. He was big and fat and middled-aged and appeared kindly. He asked you if you were selected to represent your country and while being in the States if people told you all Asians looked alike and to them there were no differences between Chinese and Vietnamese, how you would answer to that observation. Without a moment's hesitation, you launched an impassioned speech in simple but clear English of the differences between the two peoples not only in physical appearances (Chinese, especially Northern Chinese, are taller and fairer , but also cultural activities (betal nut chewing, dresses, lacquering, food). The examiner sat there and smiled from beginning to end. When you left the room, you knew you aced it. That year there were two girls from Lycee Marie Curie selected. One of them occupied your heart for a while, but one day, again while riding in the rain, (this time on a motorbike) you realized that your affection was misplaced and you had to walk away.
Today, rain is falling down like the rain of yore. You are a middle-aged man now and about to die. You are no longer the boy of 15, 17, and 19. You wonder where all that time went. You then realize life is just a memory and a reverie. The other day, a dude grossly impressed with himself used bad language in "communicating" with you. You used words to show him and the world that he had made a bad mistake. By trying to degrade you, he degraded himself. You wondered out loud that you were completely and utterly taken by surprise by his odious display of opprobrium and ill-manner and his failure of following his own pious, sanctimonious advice he had dispensed to other people when they had differences with you. You pointedly concluded that bad manners reflect poor upbringing and lousy character.
When it cones to words, you are very much at home, way back when you first talked with the American examiner. In fact, way, way back when you were a little boy, you had speech impediments. You stuttered badly and you mispronounced words. Even to this day, there are certain sounds in your mother tongue you cannot articulate, but somehow your brain compensated for that defect by developing a network of associations and you found yourself curious about words and their functions. As a consequence, you have a verbal facility and have no problem of articulating precisely what you want to say.
You remember walking in the rain after learning that you just passed your first academic hurdle in high school. Your success surprised everybody in the neighborhood because for years you had neglected schooling and spending more time roaming the streets than hitting the books. Your success overwhelmed your mother. When you broke the news to her, she was first speechless and then tears came to her eyes and rolled down her cheeks. You said nothing. You wanted to embrace her and tell her that from now on she would not have to worry about you, but you knew she didn't want physical display of affection. So you just said you wanted to get out of the house and go to see a friend. In the rain? She said. Now? You replied that you had to go right now. So, you put the raincoat on, took your bicycle out, and pedaled slowly in the rain and in the wind. The wind drove the rain to your face and down your neck, but you kept on pedaling for hours while inside you a maelstrom of mixed emotions was swirling. You kept telling yourself you got to be good and you got to be sane. Two years later, you got another academic success along with an opportunity to spend a year with an American family. You remember you had to compete with students from French-speaking lycees. The American interviewer had a Ph.D. You no longer remember his name. He was big and fat and middled-aged and appeared kindly. He asked you if you were selected to represent your country and while being in the States if people told you all Asians looked alike and to them there were no differences between Chinese and Vietnamese, how you would answer to that observation. Without a moment's hesitation, you launched an impassioned speech in simple but clear English of the differences between the two peoples not only in physical appearances (Chinese, especially Northern Chinese, are taller and fairer , but also cultural activities (betal nut chewing, dresses, lacquering, food). The examiner sat there and smiled from beginning to end. When you left the room, you knew you aced it. That year there were two girls from Lycee Marie Curie selected. One of them occupied your heart for a while, but one day, again while riding in the rain, (this time on a motorbike) you realized that your affection was misplaced and you had to walk away.
Today, rain is falling down like the rain of yore. You are a middle-aged man now and about to die. You are no longer the boy of 15, 17, and 19. You wonder where all that time went. You then realize life is just a memory and a reverie. The other day, a dude grossly impressed with himself used bad language in "communicating" with you. You used words to show him and the world that he had made a bad mistake. By trying to degrade you, he degraded himself. You wondered out loud that you were completely and utterly taken by surprise by his odious display of opprobrium and ill-manner and his failure of following his own pious, sanctimonious advice he had dispensed to other people when they had differences with you. You pointedly concluded that bad manners reflect poor upbringing and lousy character.
When it cones to words, you are very much at home, way back when you first talked with the American examiner. In fact, way, way back when you were a little boy, you had speech impediments. You stuttered badly and you mispronounced words. Even to this day, there are certain sounds in your mother tongue you cannot articulate, but somehow your brain compensated for that defect by developing a network of associations and you found yourself curious about words and their functions. As a consequence, you have a verbal facility and have no problem of articulating precisely what you want to say.
Ego and Suffering
An ugly incident took place. Some individuals couldn't resist the temptation and had to say something about it. By saying something about it, they unwittingly revealed something unpleasant about themselves. I respected more those who opted to stay silent. Sometimes silence is the best policy. Too much chatter of the nonessentials robs a man of dignity. Speak sparingly. Only speak the essentials and move on. Some people are not made for dialogues. They don't know nor care to listen. They are too much in love with themselves.
Trungpa's life and that of his wife got wilder and more dissolute as their lives improved economically. The end came predictably sad. Rationalization is avoidance of reality. Sanity must be the rule and be respected. Motivation for living must be to enrich the lives of others in addition to our own and to make the world a better place.
What lessons have I learned from reading about the extraordinary and brief life of Trungpa? Yes, fearlessness and candor are precious and so are the connection and love for others. But the thing that would haunt me the most about Trungpa is that he should have learned and followed the example of the original teacher, Siddhartha. He should have observed moderation in all things and avoidance of being intoxicated with one's own grandeuur. We can feel that we are special and unique as much as we want, but in daily interactions with others we must practice humility and pleasantness. We must observe basic rules of decorum. To gain respect, we must show respect. Contempt, instead of compassion, must be avoided. It's best to walk away in silence than to utter words of dismissal or worse, words of profanity and obscenity. When we fling ugly epithets at others, we show weakness, not strength. We show we are losing control of our feelings and we are behaving at raw, animal level. We should not expect others understand and appreciate us as much as we know and understand ourselves. We are all islands of existence. There is always a gap. That gap produces feelings of loneliness and solitude, and accounts for the search---frantic when we were younger and intermittent as we age and learn from experiences---for alleviation through friendship and love. Siddhartha knew this. He urged his students to look at themselves as their own saviors. The life you save should be your own. At one time I foolishly tried to save somebody else's and was sucked into the vortex of disappointment and deception. In so many ways, I have been incredibly gullible because of my respect for words. I tend to take people's words at their face value. Somehow I keep forgetting humans love to lie in order to make themselves look good.
Trungpa's life and that of his wife got wilder and more dissolute as their lives improved economically. The end came predictably sad. Rationalization is avoidance of reality. Sanity must be the rule and be respected. Motivation for living must be to enrich the lives of others in addition to our own and to make the world a better place.
What lessons have I learned from reading about the extraordinary and brief life of Trungpa? Yes, fearlessness and candor are precious and so are the connection and love for others. But the thing that would haunt me the most about Trungpa is that he should have learned and followed the example of the original teacher, Siddhartha. He should have observed moderation in all things and avoidance of being intoxicated with one's own grandeuur. We can feel that we are special and unique as much as we want, but in daily interactions with others we must practice humility and pleasantness. We must observe basic rules of decorum. To gain respect, we must show respect. Contempt, instead of compassion, must be avoided. It's best to walk away in silence than to utter words of dismissal or worse, words of profanity and obscenity. When we fling ugly epithets at others, we show weakness, not strength. We show we are losing control of our feelings and we are behaving at raw, animal level. We should not expect others understand and appreciate us as much as we know and understand ourselves. We are all islands of existence. There is always a gap. That gap produces feelings of loneliness and solitude, and accounts for the search---frantic when we were younger and intermittent as we age and learn from experiences---for alleviation through friendship and love. Siddhartha knew this. He urged his students to look at themselves as their own saviors. The life you save should be your own. At one time I foolishly tried to save somebody else's and was sucked into the vortex of disappointment and deception. In so many ways, I have been incredibly gullible because of my respect for words. I tend to take people's words at their face value. Somehow I keep forgetting humans love to lie in order to make themselves look good.
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