The following words are more applicable to me than anybody else. I'm mentioning them in order to show I am not blind of my shortcomings and my tendency of backsliding to old habits:
The way to increase the size of the positive energy field around us is to eliminate revenge and condemnationwhile cultivating love and forgiveness.
Many people who think they are superior to others tend to become self-indulgent and self-centered and thus are harsh and cruel in their assessment and judgment of others. It is in fact their smallness that makes them think they are big.
True superiority is quiet and very moderate in its expression if it has to make its presence felt. Superiority is much better acknowledged than loudly insisted. Tooting one's horn is crass and childish. We are no longer children. Please stop acting like them. As St. Paul gently reminded us, once we reach adulthood, we should leave our childish ways behind.
I wrote the above after going through a meditation of the nature of annoyance and anger. I was not trying to justify myself at all. What I was doing was to show I had not only awareness of others, but also of myself, and to establish a dialogue with myself about the necessity to confront reality, which is what it is, not what we wish it were (most humans tend to have an over-inflated view of themselves, and I am one of the worst offenders).
After so many words spilled on paper, I don't think most people understand me at all, which is kind of surprising, but that's okay. I often think my personality is a litmus test of the character of others. In other words, how others respond to my somewhat unusual personality reveals, unwittingly to them, their normally hidden character.
Old age should not be used as an excuse for an obstacle to growth. Such an attitude is a cover-up for cowardice and lassitude. Growth comes from an awareness and then a courage to change for the better. Once again, some persons who take pride in thinking outside the box, they tend to rely on cliches and trite expressions in their search for escape hatches in order to save face.
Despite articulating quite clearly what I wanted to say, I could not help but think of the disrespect that Agnes and Laura once had for me and my own intense annoyance with the Houston Midget for his cheeky email. His stupidity once again proved sometimes assholes would hang themselves if we just give them a rope. I have quite a distasteful feeling for him now. I would chalk that one for part of experience
Thursday, May 26, 2011
Monday, May 23, 2011
Memoir 5
Yesterday, I got in the inbox a letter from her. I didn't quite understand it, but a note of melancholy hit me nonetheless. The letter reads:
"Montreal, le 22 Mai, 2011
Mon cher Roberto,
Tu ne liras jamais ces pages que j'ecris dans une ecole sage au vent mouille d'automne. Ce n'est peu-être que pour moi, pour te garder un peu; c'est la premiere fois que je te tiens dans mon decor, premiere fois que tu me viens au rythme de mes pas.
Ici, les forets se referment et je te garde en creux dans ma vallee, entre l'etude et le gouter. Tu es dans les poemes de Cadou que les enfants recitent en chantonnant;
Je t'attendrai Helene
a travers les prairies
a travers les matins
de gel et de lumiere
Pour la premiere fois, je sais chanter pour toi, quand je decroche ma guitare. Avant je ratais un arpege, ou tu n'ecoutais plus les mots qui devaient juste te parler, tu preparais le the'. J'apprends a te parler dans le silence d'une ecole.
Tu vois, il n'y a pas qu'une insolence du bonheur. Dans la tristesse aussi, tout semble enfin facile, et c'est si simple de se ressembler. Le monde s'apprivoise, on en fait soudain ce qu'on veut. "
(You will never read these pages that I'm writing in a school for kids in the damp winds of the Fall. Perhaps it's only for myself that I look after you a little; it's the first time that I hold you in my scenery, the first time you come to me in the rhythm of my footsteps.
Here, the woods close in on itself and I watch after you in the hollow of my valley, between study-time and snack time. You are in Cadou's poems recited by the children in a sing song voice:
I'll wait for thee, Helen
across the meadows
and through the mornings
of frost and sunshine
For the first time, I know how to sing for thee when I take out my guitar and play. Thou used to prepare tea before I missed the notes on the piano or when thou wouldn't listen anymore to the words that were fair and just when I was talking to thee. I am learning to talk to thee in the silence and stillness of the school.
You see, it is not only that happiness contains insolence. In the unhappiness that one also carries, everything seems easy in the end, and it's so simple that happiness and unhappiness resemble each other. The world gets tamed, and suddenly one does whatever one wishes to do. "
Denise didn't say she borrowed the words from Philippe Delerm in "La cinquieme saison". She surprsised me for her sensitivity. Her words arrived when I was feeling blue and dejected over human trickery and cruelty and boundless capacity for sophistry. In spite of the sensitivity of Denise, as shown by her borrowed words, I don't really trust her after she stormed off into the sunset and went back to Montreal, after I clumsily explained to her in my halting French that I would not, could not regard her anything more than a friend as I had commitments and enclosures and closures. But she knew and I knew the real reason for my failure to really open my heart to her: despite all my eloquent speeches about love and romanticism, deep down in the core of my being, I have lost faith in humanity, in the existence of a woman who would love me unselfishly and fearlessly and who loves me till the end of time even if I am penniless and physically infirmed and incapacitated and impotent and wrecked by self-pity and self-doubt and remorses and regrets. Of all my real amorous achievements and triumphs (unlike the fake ones of the loud-mouthed and shameless liar) and they were numerous as I alluded to in my earlier piece (and they could have been much more numerous if I had not suddenly got cynical), only one woman from Laos who would come closest in my conception of an ideal woman. Unfortunately, she already had a boyfriend when I met her. I could have pursued her relentlessly and she might have dropped her boyfriend for me as she seemed to like me very much,. But I refused to do so out of principle. She was a devout Budshist and so was I. I didn't want her to choose and I certainly didn't want to make her boyfriend unhappy. I never want to be happy over somebody's unhappiness. Her name, unfortunately, was also Laura. So I called her LL (Laotian Laura). I don't see her anymore. I purposely stay away from her. I have principles to uphold. I have my own commitments I have to keep. I have people I have to answer to. Besides, I must concentrate my energy to be financially independent. All these romantic sideshows and distractions are just for those twits and twerps who don't feel confident about their own attractiveness. I am confident about mine. My past records speak for themselves. Do I sound vain and vainglorious and conceited? Do I sound unlike a Buddhist full of modesty and serenity as I am supposed to? You can bet your sweet ass that I am. I am a walking contradictions, an embodiment of contrasts, an avatar of ambiguities. That's why you will never fully understand me while I can read you like the palm of my hand. I am beyond your imagination while I know you are just a run-of-the-mill liar and coward. I know you well, you little twit.
At any rate, I've been spending an inordinate amount of time on the little twit at the expense of somebody else. So she called me and complained that I had not paid her any attention. I explained to her that I was busy explaining myself to the twit. She said, "Fuck him! You're wasting time on the pompous prick. He's beneath you. Why are you talking to a piece of shit? By the way, are you making any money lately? No? What's the fuck you're doing, Robby? You're stupid or what? Concentrate and focus on making money. Stop arguing with the little bastard." Guess what? I was busy talking to her on the phone and didn't pay attention to my driving and I ended up rear-ending a Lexus at a stop sign. The ensuing traffic ticket, the insurance mess, the repairs, and the emotional turbulence I experienced over the insolence and haughtiness of the traffic cop took a toll of my serenity. I am now madder than hell, and I'm going not to take it anymore. I'm going to talk to the twisted twit in person and let him know what I'm thinking of him. Oops, perhaps I already did, in the damp, dark recesses of my mind.
I am not going to answer to Denise's email. She disappointed me quite a bit. I thought she was honest and direct, but it appeared that she was merely an unaccomplished woman looking for a Sugar Daddy. I am glad she went back to Montreal. I still remember the evening I first saw her naked. A bold, impetuous move on her part. She looked straight at my eyes while lying in that unmade bed of hers. Then she rose up. Her clothes were on the floor in a matter of seconds. Her triangle was absolutely beautiful, innocent-looking and yet inviting. I asked her to help me. She readily complied. She kept saying I was handsome and sexy, especially my lips. She asked me if any other woman ever found my lips sexy. I said, yes, there was another one, up in Alaska. She laughed, for real? she inquired. I said, mais oui, vraiment. We spoke in French. She clung tight to me and called my name, Oh Roberto, Roberto as she reached the summit. Later, she fell soundly asleep in my arms. I felt peaceful, then, but not now. I just bought a journal so I can talk to her, without her knowing. She is coming softly to me on the velvet of words. She would think I am maudlin and mawkish. I will write to her with music, to tell her about my days and nights, with fresh wounds oozing hurts and blood. I will write neatly, in my best cursive style, with my Parker pen. I will tell her again and again what we talked to each other the first night we were together, how she said she was afraid she might be falling in love with me. I am looking outside. The night is still. The sky is immense and sparkles with stars. All of a sudden, I see her burning brightly in the sky. Flames envelop her naked beautiful body. And she is looking straight at my eyes, like she did the first night, right before she took off her clothes.
(cont.)
"Montreal, le 22 Mai, 2011
Mon cher Roberto,
Tu ne liras jamais ces pages que j'ecris dans une ecole sage au vent mouille d'automne. Ce n'est peu-être que pour moi, pour te garder un peu; c'est la premiere fois que je te tiens dans mon decor, premiere fois que tu me viens au rythme de mes pas.
Ici, les forets se referment et je te garde en creux dans ma vallee, entre l'etude et le gouter. Tu es dans les poemes de Cadou que les enfants recitent en chantonnant;
Je t'attendrai Helene
a travers les prairies
a travers les matins
de gel et de lumiere
Pour la premiere fois, je sais chanter pour toi, quand je decroche ma guitare. Avant je ratais un arpege, ou tu n'ecoutais plus les mots qui devaient juste te parler, tu preparais le the'. J'apprends a te parler dans le silence d'une ecole.
Tu vois, il n'y a pas qu'une insolence du bonheur. Dans la tristesse aussi, tout semble enfin facile, et c'est si simple de se ressembler. Le monde s'apprivoise, on en fait soudain ce qu'on veut. "
(You will never read these pages that I'm writing in a school for kids in the damp winds of the Fall. Perhaps it's only for myself that I look after you a little; it's the first time that I hold you in my scenery, the first time you come to me in the rhythm of my footsteps.
Here, the woods close in on itself and I watch after you in the hollow of my valley, between study-time and snack time. You are in Cadou's poems recited by the children in a sing song voice:
I'll wait for thee, Helen
across the meadows
and through the mornings
of frost and sunshine
For the first time, I know how to sing for thee when I take out my guitar and play. Thou used to prepare tea before I missed the notes on the piano or when thou wouldn't listen anymore to the words that were fair and just when I was talking to thee. I am learning to talk to thee in the silence and stillness of the school.
You see, it is not only that happiness contains insolence. In the unhappiness that one also carries, everything seems easy in the end, and it's so simple that happiness and unhappiness resemble each other. The world gets tamed, and suddenly one does whatever one wishes to do. "
Denise didn't say she borrowed the words from Philippe Delerm in "La cinquieme saison". She surprsised me for her sensitivity. Her words arrived when I was feeling blue and dejected over human trickery and cruelty and boundless capacity for sophistry. In spite of the sensitivity of Denise, as shown by her borrowed words, I don't really trust her after she stormed off into the sunset and went back to Montreal, after I clumsily explained to her in my halting French that I would not, could not regard her anything more than a friend as I had commitments and enclosures and closures. But she knew and I knew the real reason for my failure to really open my heart to her: despite all my eloquent speeches about love and romanticism, deep down in the core of my being, I have lost faith in humanity, in the existence of a woman who would love me unselfishly and fearlessly and who loves me till the end of time even if I am penniless and physically infirmed and incapacitated and impotent and wrecked by self-pity and self-doubt and remorses and regrets. Of all my real amorous achievements and triumphs (unlike the fake ones of the loud-mouthed and shameless liar) and they were numerous as I alluded to in my earlier piece (and they could have been much more numerous if I had not suddenly got cynical), only one woman from Laos who would come closest in my conception of an ideal woman. Unfortunately, she already had a boyfriend when I met her. I could have pursued her relentlessly and she might have dropped her boyfriend for me as she seemed to like me very much,. But I refused to do so out of principle. She was a devout Budshist and so was I. I didn't want her to choose and I certainly didn't want to make her boyfriend unhappy. I never want to be happy over somebody's unhappiness. Her name, unfortunately, was also Laura. So I called her LL (Laotian Laura). I don't see her anymore. I purposely stay away from her. I have principles to uphold. I have my own commitments I have to keep. I have people I have to answer to. Besides, I must concentrate my energy to be financially independent. All these romantic sideshows and distractions are just for those twits and twerps who don't feel confident about their own attractiveness. I am confident about mine. My past records speak for themselves. Do I sound vain and vainglorious and conceited? Do I sound unlike a Buddhist full of modesty and serenity as I am supposed to? You can bet your sweet ass that I am. I am a walking contradictions, an embodiment of contrasts, an avatar of ambiguities. That's why you will never fully understand me while I can read you like the palm of my hand. I am beyond your imagination while I know you are just a run-of-the-mill liar and coward. I know you well, you little twit.
At any rate, I've been spending an inordinate amount of time on the little twit at the expense of somebody else. So she called me and complained that I had not paid her any attention. I explained to her that I was busy explaining myself to the twit. She said, "Fuck him! You're wasting time on the pompous prick. He's beneath you. Why are you talking to a piece of shit? By the way, are you making any money lately? No? What's the fuck you're doing, Robby? You're stupid or what? Concentrate and focus on making money. Stop arguing with the little bastard." Guess what? I was busy talking to her on the phone and didn't pay attention to my driving and I ended up rear-ending a Lexus at a stop sign. The ensuing traffic ticket, the insurance mess, the repairs, and the emotional turbulence I experienced over the insolence and haughtiness of the traffic cop took a toll of my serenity. I am now madder than hell, and I'm going not to take it anymore. I'm going to talk to the twisted twit in person and let him know what I'm thinking of him. Oops, perhaps I already did, in the damp, dark recesses of my mind.
I am not going to answer to Denise's email. She disappointed me quite a bit. I thought she was honest and direct, but it appeared that she was merely an unaccomplished woman looking for a Sugar Daddy. I am glad she went back to Montreal. I still remember the evening I first saw her naked. A bold, impetuous move on her part. She looked straight at my eyes while lying in that unmade bed of hers. Then she rose up. Her clothes were on the floor in a matter of seconds. Her triangle was absolutely beautiful, innocent-looking and yet inviting. I asked her to help me. She readily complied. She kept saying I was handsome and sexy, especially my lips. She asked me if any other woman ever found my lips sexy. I said, yes, there was another one, up in Alaska. She laughed, for real? she inquired. I said, mais oui, vraiment. We spoke in French. She clung tight to me and called my name, Oh Roberto, Roberto as she reached the summit. Later, she fell soundly asleep in my arms. I felt peaceful, then, but not now. I just bought a journal so I can talk to her, without her knowing. She is coming softly to me on the velvet of words. She would think I am maudlin and mawkish. I will write to her with music, to tell her about my days and nights, with fresh wounds oozing hurts and blood. I will write neatly, in my best cursive style, with my Parker pen. I will tell her again and again what we talked to each other the first night we were together, how she said she was afraid she might be falling in love with me. I am looking outside. The night is still. The sky is immense and sparkles with stars. All of a sudden, I see her burning brightly in the sky. Flames envelop her naked beautiful body. And she is looking straight at my eyes, like she did the first night, right before she took off her clothes.
(cont.)
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
Memoir 4
"Roberto, You're smart, but not sensible," said an acquaintance of mine the other day. I said, "Pleeease, tell me something I don't know." I was exaggerating, of course. I'm not sure about my being smart, but I'm positive that I'm insensible, way damned insensible. What else to explain this exercise in fictional memoir, this bellyaching about everything and nothing, that turning down of romantic and sexual offers from nice, decent female admirers, that insane wager I'm having with a friend. I'm betting with him for a hefty $5,000 that on my birthday in October of this year, I will weigh 155 lbs and be able to do 100 push-ups and 20 chin-ups. I have only 5 months left from the deadline and as of now I'm weighing 172 lbs and doing only 30 push-ups and 5 chin-ups. I'm in serious shit. Yesterday, I foolishly accepted a dinner invitation to a nice buffet. And I pigged out. So today, I'm starving myself. My body is rebelling and cursing me out. Thus far, today I have consumed one bowl of brown rice, a tiny amount of boiled chicken with a small carrot and a cup of cabbage, an orange, and a banana. I must stay away from food for the remainder of the day and night. On top of that, I must improve my physical strength.
I am sensible now, at this very moment. There's something Freudian when people degrade themselves with salacious jokes. What do they try to accomplish? Approval? Fitting in? Proving that they have a sense of humor? Well, I am the one who has a very good sense of humor. People tell me so all the time. I make them laugh, relishing at my original, striking one-liners and unexpected observations. And I do have plenty of sex jokes as part of my repertoire, but I don't tell them in mixed company or in public. I only tell them to a select intimate friends. I know better. I have done enough acts of self-degradation with shameless bragging and lecturing and showing off my arguing skills.
I am sensible now because I just woke up from an insensible dream. Well, most dreams of mine are insensible, but the one I just had was bordering on the pathological and the absurd because it involved Laura. I already told you I didn't love the bitch anymore, but why did the fuck she crop into my subconscious? Why didn't the bitch die and disappear for good? Worse still, the dream was a recurring one. Like 99% of the dreams about her, I saw her on the street, so I rushed over asked her why she left me. She would just smile and kept on walking. And of course, I woke up, as usual, feeling sad and stupid and angry at myself.
I am sensible now because I have to in order to survive. A woman young enough to be my daughter confessed to me that I turned her on and that I looked more like 52 than 62 and she wanted to be a very close friend of mine. To make the matter worse, she spoke French better than I did. And she was telling me all this in French. Several times, I told her to slow down so I could understand what she said. She was excited and nervous, you know. Since her English was not good, I had to summon all the French I had at my disposal and told her I could not regard her anything than a "chere amie" because my son would kill me if I ever get married again. Five times would be more than enough, don't you think? Come on, I ain't no Liz Taylor.
At any rate, she cried quite a bit after my clumsy exposition and then stormed off into the proverbial "sunset", leaving me "sensible" and calm and pleased and proud of myself beyond measure. I slowly drove home, walked straight into the bathroom and took a long look at myself in the mirror to check if I was indeed "beau" and "charmant" as she alleged. Please don't laugh, but after preening and looking at myself from various angles, I must admit that French woman from Montreal had a point and discerning eyes! Today, I stopped over at the 24 Hours Fitness Club after work and signed up for a membership. I used to run and keep myself in a gloriously good shape, but ever since I developed a foot problem in my left foot and had to curtail running, my body has lost quite a bit of definition and vigor. The other reason I had to fork over some money to improve my physique was because I wanted to win the stupid wager I had with a friend. I hate to lose. I have a lot of pride and ego. The next time you guys see me, you will see a new, invigorating, slimmer Roberto, I promise. Let me tell you, there is no better incentive to keep your body in good shape at the "advanced" age of 62 than hearing a sexy, attractive younger French woman told you that you were handsome, funny, and sexy, if I heard her right. My French was rusty and I was hard of hearing, so I could just probably imagine and heard things that were too good to be true. But regardless of what happened to my hearing, the fact that I heard voices and I heard a speech in French that a sexy, young, attractive woman confessed that she was falling hard for me because of my demeanor, my looks, my intellect, and my basic honesty and integrity, that was enough for me to seriously work on my body and my looks as well as my French. I was busy working on the damned Chinese and neglected several Occidental languages, but no more.
So, I suppose the theme for this fragment of memoir of mine is sensibility, rather, my struggle to be sensible in the face of cruelty and absurdity and farcicality. And I'm happy to report that I'm making some small progress. Like yesterday, I decided to take a high road in my reaction to a lowlife's desperate baiting of me by means of despicable carping and sniping words. The little twit and cheap womanizing twerp just dug his own grave of disgrace by his meandering, incoherent, rambling babbling of nonsense. The reader would look at his words and see clearly for who he has been: a little guy with a little soul with his gargantuan struggle with words to say about little things. One cannot expect big things out of a little guy with a little heart.
Was I bent out of shape because of the stupid behavior of the little twerp? Not really, I was annoyed but not upset. His stupidity annoyed me. I thought he was smarter than me, but it turned out he was more stupid than I was. I was calm today despite all the disappointments. I just kept my mouth shut and read my little handbook on Tibetan Buddhism. I want to get back to dreams. That would be more interesting than pontificating about twits and twerps and assholes, don't you think? Besides having recurring dreams about Laura, I used to dream about Agnes, too. I invariably dreamed that I was looking for her house in a certain neighborhood, but I couldn't find it. If there was ever a dream that was gravid with Freudian undertone of unattainment, this was it. And yet it took me more than 10 years to realize so. Once I did, I stopped dreaming about. Apart from the usual dreams about having vehicles stolen or showing up for exams without having done any acts preparation, there were two other dreams which used to occur with some regularity, but not anymore. I used to have dreams of extreme violence, some of them were so graphic and real that when I woke up, I had to wreck my brain to make sure I didn't actually commit all those acts. The other dream category was very odd. I would dream that I was naked on the streets and was very embarrassed to find myself in such a state. I would always woke up and was relieved that I was merely dreaming. I am 62 now (as of 2011), and so far I have had 8 dreams that involved sex, one of which was about sexual intercourse, with a real sensation that intromission did take place. The fact that I rarely had dreams about sex says a lot about me. When I was in my late teens and early 2o!2, I used to dream that I was trapped in elevators or had to walk through fields of excrement or got lost in some kind of building.
When I was 21, I got my first bachelor degree. A year later, I got another one. I also managed to get a scholarship to study overseas for a graduate education in Public Adminstration. The subject matter was excruciatingly boring. I spent most of my time reading magazines and novels and journals of psychology and books of history and philosophy. I was doing my Ph. D. when Saigon fell to the communists. I had an opportunity to get to the U.S. so I married a vixen. Once an asshole asked me how I got to America. I told him the facts involved. There was no need to lie. But the fucking bastard later used that to claim that I don't really love Vietnam because I didn't return to Vietnam but went straight to America. He taught me what evil was like. Well, I am a firm believer in karma. That's why I've tried to stay on the right path. I am even trying not to hold evil thoughts in my head. Indifference is bad enough. I meditate on the nature of misfortune everyday. It's not so much what happens as to how we react to what happens. Curb desire. Be loving, unselfish, and peaceful. I am a late bloomer. I discovered the virtues of nonviolence, gentleness, and forgiveness very late in life. I even backslide occasionally, but I am committed to higher impulses now. I even try to stay sway from greed because I know it's source for suffering. I've seen that happen to so many people. I try to think what Siddartha would do if he were in my shoes. I try to think about private sins and public humiliation. One leads to the other. I try to stay from women who offer themselves to me. I don't have much money or power, so those women would be only delusional. I wonder if they really love me and rake care if me willingly if I'm disabled or mentally incapacitated. I ask myself if they really know what love means or they are just after my body and the little money I still have. That was why I turned down that French woman's declaration of affection. I was flattered, but I didn't really believe her. I thought she dramatized her feelings. If she really cares about me, she will come back. Real love is impossible to walk away. I know. Trust me, I know. It took me almost 35 years to get rid of Laura in my mind. Even so and even then, I sometimes wonder. The long and short test about love is unselfishness and sharing, especially money. It's very simple and reliable. All other tests and measures are just excuses and talks. Once again, I should know what I talk about. I've been victimized so many times. That's why I'm working my ass off to save money for rainy day because I've a distinct feeling that I'm one of the most lonely persons in this world, despite all the women who are interested in jumping into the sack with me. Thrice bitten, forever shy. I've to go back to sleep. Lack of sleep makes me maudlin and feel sorry for myself. The secret and not so secret wish to be loved makes us weak and dream of the impossible. Be strong and firm and realistic. That's what I tell myself everyday when I wake up. I feel line crying right bow. I am so sentimental.
(cont.)
I am sensible now, at this very moment. There's something Freudian when people degrade themselves with salacious jokes. What do they try to accomplish? Approval? Fitting in? Proving that they have a sense of humor? Well, I am the one who has a very good sense of humor. People tell me so all the time. I make them laugh, relishing at my original, striking one-liners and unexpected observations. And I do have plenty of sex jokes as part of my repertoire, but I don't tell them in mixed company or in public. I only tell them to a select intimate friends. I know better. I have done enough acts of self-degradation with shameless bragging and lecturing and showing off my arguing skills.
I am sensible now because I just woke up from an insensible dream. Well, most dreams of mine are insensible, but the one I just had was bordering on the pathological and the absurd because it involved Laura. I already told you I didn't love the bitch anymore, but why did the fuck she crop into my subconscious? Why didn't the bitch die and disappear for good? Worse still, the dream was a recurring one. Like 99% of the dreams about her, I saw her on the street, so I rushed over asked her why she left me. She would just smile and kept on walking. And of course, I woke up, as usual, feeling sad and stupid and angry at myself.
I am sensible now because I have to in order to survive. A woman young enough to be my daughter confessed to me that I turned her on and that I looked more like 52 than 62 and she wanted to be a very close friend of mine. To make the matter worse, she spoke French better than I did. And she was telling me all this in French. Several times, I told her to slow down so I could understand what she said. She was excited and nervous, you know. Since her English was not good, I had to summon all the French I had at my disposal and told her I could not regard her anything than a "chere amie" because my son would kill me if I ever get married again. Five times would be more than enough, don't you think? Come on, I ain't no Liz Taylor.
At any rate, she cried quite a bit after my clumsy exposition and then stormed off into the proverbial "sunset", leaving me "sensible" and calm and pleased and proud of myself beyond measure. I slowly drove home, walked straight into the bathroom and took a long look at myself in the mirror to check if I was indeed "beau" and "charmant" as she alleged. Please don't laugh, but after preening and looking at myself from various angles, I must admit that French woman from Montreal had a point and discerning eyes! Today, I stopped over at the 24 Hours Fitness Club after work and signed up for a membership. I used to run and keep myself in a gloriously good shape, but ever since I developed a foot problem in my left foot and had to curtail running, my body has lost quite a bit of definition and vigor. The other reason I had to fork over some money to improve my physique was because I wanted to win the stupid wager I had with a friend. I hate to lose. I have a lot of pride and ego. The next time you guys see me, you will see a new, invigorating, slimmer Roberto, I promise. Let me tell you, there is no better incentive to keep your body in good shape at the "advanced" age of 62 than hearing a sexy, attractive younger French woman told you that you were handsome, funny, and sexy, if I heard her right. My French was rusty and I was hard of hearing, so I could just probably imagine and heard things that were too good to be true. But regardless of what happened to my hearing, the fact that I heard voices and I heard a speech in French that a sexy, young, attractive woman confessed that she was falling hard for me because of my demeanor, my looks, my intellect, and my basic honesty and integrity, that was enough for me to seriously work on my body and my looks as well as my French. I was busy working on the damned Chinese and neglected several Occidental languages, but no more.
So, I suppose the theme for this fragment of memoir of mine is sensibility, rather, my struggle to be sensible in the face of cruelty and absurdity and farcicality. And I'm happy to report that I'm making some small progress. Like yesterday, I decided to take a high road in my reaction to a lowlife's desperate baiting of me by means of despicable carping and sniping words. The little twit and cheap womanizing twerp just dug his own grave of disgrace by his meandering, incoherent, rambling babbling of nonsense. The reader would look at his words and see clearly for who he has been: a little guy with a little soul with his gargantuan struggle with words to say about little things. One cannot expect big things out of a little guy with a little heart.
Was I bent out of shape because of the stupid behavior of the little twerp? Not really, I was annoyed but not upset. His stupidity annoyed me. I thought he was smarter than me, but it turned out he was more stupid than I was. I was calm today despite all the disappointments. I just kept my mouth shut and read my little handbook on Tibetan Buddhism. I want to get back to dreams. That would be more interesting than pontificating about twits and twerps and assholes, don't you think? Besides having recurring dreams about Laura, I used to dream about Agnes, too. I invariably dreamed that I was looking for her house in a certain neighborhood, but I couldn't find it. If there was ever a dream that was gravid with Freudian undertone of unattainment, this was it. And yet it took me more than 10 years to realize so. Once I did, I stopped dreaming about. Apart from the usual dreams about having vehicles stolen or showing up for exams without having done any acts preparation, there were two other dreams which used to occur with some regularity, but not anymore. I used to have dreams of extreme violence, some of them were so graphic and real that when I woke up, I had to wreck my brain to make sure I didn't actually commit all those acts. The other dream category was very odd. I would dream that I was naked on the streets and was very embarrassed to find myself in such a state. I would always woke up and was relieved that I was merely dreaming. I am 62 now (as of 2011), and so far I have had 8 dreams that involved sex, one of which was about sexual intercourse, with a real sensation that intromission did take place. The fact that I rarely had dreams about sex says a lot about me. When I was in my late teens and early 2o!2, I used to dream that I was trapped in elevators or had to walk through fields of excrement or got lost in some kind of building.
When I was 21, I got my first bachelor degree. A year later, I got another one. I also managed to get a scholarship to study overseas for a graduate education in Public Adminstration. The subject matter was excruciatingly boring. I spent most of my time reading magazines and novels and journals of psychology and books of history and philosophy. I was doing my Ph. D. when Saigon fell to the communists. I had an opportunity to get to the U.S. so I married a vixen. Once an asshole asked me how I got to America. I told him the facts involved. There was no need to lie. But the fucking bastard later used that to claim that I don't really love Vietnam because I didn't return to Vietnam but went straight to America. He taught me what evil was like. Well, I am a firm believer in karma. That's why I've tried to stay on the right path. I am even trying not to hold evil thoughts in my head. Indifference is bad enough. I meditate on the nature of misfortune everyday. It's not so much what happens as to how we react to what happens. Curb desire. Be loving, unselfish, and peaceful. I am a late bloomer. I discovered the virtues of nonviolence, gentleness, and forgiveness very late in life. I even backslide occasionally, but I am committed to higher impulses now. I even try to stay sway from greed because I know it's source for suffering. I've seen that happen to so many people. I try to think what Siddartha would do if he were in my shoes. I try to think about private sins and public humiliation. One leads to the other. I try to stay from women who offer themselves to me. I don't have much money or power, so those women would be only delusional. I wonder if they really love me and rake care if me willingly if I'm disabled or mentally incapacitated. I ask myself if they really know what love means or they are just after my body and the little money I still have. That was why I turned down that French woman's declaration of affection. I was flattered, but I didn't really believe her. I thought she dramatized her feelings. If she really cares about me, she will come back. Real love is impossible to walk away. I know. Trust me, I know. It took me almost 35 years to get rid of Laura in my mind. Even so and even then, I sometimes wonder. The long and short test about love is unselfishness and sharing, especially money. It's very simple and reliable. All other tests and measures are just excuses and talks. Once again, I should know what I talk about. I've been victimized so many times. That's why I'm working my ass off to save money for rainy day because I've a distinct feeling that I'm one of the most lonely persons in this world, despite all the women who are interested in jumping into the sack with me. Thrice bitten, forever shy. I've to go back to sleep. Lack of sleep makes me maudlin and feel sorry for myself. The secret and not so secret wish to be loved makes us weak and dream of the impossible. Be strong and firm and realistic. That's what I tell myself everyday when I wake up. I feel line crying right bow. I am so sentimental.
(cont.)
Thursday, May 12, 2011
Expansion of Robert Browning's words
Robert Browning in "Bishop Blougram's Apology":
"Our interest here is on the dangerous edge of things,
The honest thief, the tender murderer,
The superstitious atheist.
What we are interested in is not the consistency, but the efficacy of actions.
We are here not to speak of my past actions, my past mistakes.
Rather, we are going to talk about the present and the future.
The past was gone, done, and finished;
The present and the future are ripe with opportunities and potentialities.
So, friends and comrades, let's focus on the present and the future.
Be ready to transform ourselves to meet the changing times and realities.
Above all, keep love and gentleness alive in out hearts.
Be patient with one another.
Respect what one has to say.
Hear him out.
Don't shout him down.
Avoid vulgar language
For we are what we speak.
If we speak with a loving heart
Day in and day out,
We'll be transformed.
Words have a way to enter into our bodies
And change us.
Words are nothing but thoughts articulated.
And our bodies and our souls (consciousness) are thoughts manifested.
Peace to you all.
Now, let's start over
and let go of the vulgarity."
"Our interest here is on the dangerous edge of things,
The honest thief, the tender murderer,
The superstitious atheist.
What we are interested in is not the consistency, but the efficacy of actions.
We are here not to speak of my past actions, my past mistakes.
Rather, we are going to talk about the present and the future.
The past was gone, done, and finished;
The present and the future are ripe with opportunities and potentialities.
So, friends and comrades, let's focus on the present and the future.
Be ready to transform ourselves to meet the changing times and realities.
Above all, keep love and gentleness alive in out hearts.
Be patient with one another.
Respect what one has to say.
Hear him out.
Don't shout him down.
Avoid vulgar language
For we are what we speak.
If we speak with a loving heart
Day in and day out,
We'll be transformed.
Words have a way to enter into our bodies
And change us.
Words are nothing but thoughts articulated.
And our bodies and our souls (consciousness) are thoughts manifested.
Peace to you all.
Now, let's start over
and let go of the vulgarity."
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
Harsh Language
Today you came across harsh language which reflected poorly on the speaker. You remained gracious under pressure while facing hostilities and provocations. The character of a person is shown when he is angry and annoyed. You have made some improvement. You don't need to hit somebody with a verbal two by four. You just quietly state your case and move on. The desire to win at any costs and at any price just makes a person look ugly.
Monday, May 9, 2011
Memoir 3
Facts are simple and clear. They are what they are. But nitwits don't accept that. They have to inject their own biases and prejudices into them. Take the Book (Byblos, Biblia, Bible, I don't bother to add here the Vietnamese word since it offends my sensibilities so much. Saintly Scripture, my ass!), for example. It contains some verifiable facts, but it has far more baloney and bullshit stories than a man like me can stomach. Yet millions of nitwits believe in the literal meanings of those bullshit stories about miracles and resurrections and the like. How can you explain that except to give credence to a theory that the feeble-minded nitwits need fairy tales to help them go through life. You just can't argue with stupidity and sophistry. In the end, you just shake your head and walk away with a mixture of contempt and pity for undeveloped minds.
So, I zipped through the episode involving Laura, without bothering to touch on the gory details of courtship, the three-year bliss, and the shattering lies and bullshit that preceded and followed her dumping of me. I often wonder if I still love her. I don't think I do, but I am not sure. At any rate, as mentioned earlier, I don't believe in Love anymore. Not really. I've seen too much selfishness, too much preoccupation with self, too much self-righteousness to fall for that myth again. Love has to be gentleness and acceptance and caring and sacrifice and endless giving. Love is not an expectation of reciprocity, not peevishness, not temper tantrum, not defensiveness, not sarcasm and gamesmenship. Love is constant and patient forgiveness since deep down we understand the person we love and the values and attributes he/she possesses. That person may no longer love us or has never loved us, but if the values and attributes he/she once possessed are still there, we should continue loving that person. Just because our love is not reciprocated, it would wither and dry up and blow away. That kind of love is not love. It's called commercialism and bartering. It's called cheap and crass. Yet, all too often what we offer as love for another human being is nothing but a cheap, easy instrument of exchange.
So, we open our minds to understand, and our hearts to accept and maybe to love. Love is impossible without understanding. But sometimes even though we understand, we can't bring ourselves to love the person because he's so evil, so obnoxious, and so stupid for us to be bothered to open our hearts, because the person disrupts our sense of peace and is a threat to our equilibrium and sanity. We thus walk away in indifference and relief from such a person because his presence, his very existence, his words, and his deeds are so disgusting that they are no different from a pile of stinking shit. Nobody in their right mind woukd come close to a pile of steaming, stinking shit and poke his fingers into it and plays with it. Similarly, no right-thinking human would come near a loathsome, obnoxious, disgusting person. Yet, despite having this insight, I purposely behave in an manner that makes me appear unloveable. Why? Perhaps I am looking for a love that is rare, constantly forgiving, and eternally patient and sweet? Admittedly, I have tried to be more pleasant and socially acceptable lately. I have been less confrontational and belligerent. I have learned to be quiet and undisturbed. May the wisdom in me gently guide me to peace.
I've been mouthing off about love, but I know much more about love's flip side, hate. And right now, I am working on my body and my spirit to prepare myself for the day of reckoning when I must deal with the Midget, the Monkey, and the Coward. The Big Mouth, the Arrogant, and the Hypocrite are not on the distinguished black list yet, but they soon will be if they keep up their antics. Those who fucking attack me without any provocations must pay a price sooner or later. Life, in essence, is very simple: avoid troubles, but when troubles visit you, you don't run away. You deal with them. Silvio once told me that. I retorted, "But, Silvio, you complicate life with that attitude of yours. Why don't we just walk away." Silvio just doubled over laughing and said, "Roberto, I never told you not to walk away. Feign retreat, but don't ever forget. And always be ready. Don't be a weakling, especially mentally."
I was busy bragging and boasting about my preoccupation with foreign languages and forgot the underlying Freudian reason for doing so until I read in the news that Colin Firth, the actor who got an Oscar for his virtuoso performance as a stuttering monarch in the "King's Speech" is now ironically developing a stammer in real life. That reminded me that when I was a young child, I had a severe speech impediment. Not only I stuttered badly, I also mispronounced words. I got that from my father and now my son also has the problem but only when he is nervous. I still can't pronounce and articulate certain sounds, but I hardly stutter now. I think with years of being laughed at, I developed an ever-ready aggressiveness, bordering on truculence and belligerence. More importantly, the intense efforts of making my thoughts known verbally somehow awakened all latent language skills, making me more attuned in language acquisition finer points. I thus developed and have maintained an interest in languages and linguistics.
I lost control of my cool today when I told Kim off. She was too concerned with herself to see any reality. She reminded me of myself and the oroblems I ran into when realities came crashing down and then I had to endure the disrespect from everybody. I started all over at the bottom and worked my way back up. And I still didn't see the light until I blew 150 big ones down the drain. Now I am working for peanuts when I could take it easy and work for big bucks. Well, life was like that. You didn't learn to see until you burst your nose crashing around in the dark. The nonchalance Tina took with regard to your lost mail was just incredible.
So, I zipped through the episode involving Laura, without bothering to touch on the gory details of courtship, the three-year bliss, and the shattering lies and bullshit that preceded and followed her dumping of me. I often wonder if I still love her. I don't think I do, but I am not sure. At any rate, as mentioned earlier, I don't believe in Love anymore. Not really. I've seen too much selfishness, too much preoccupation with self, too much self-righteousness to fall for that myth again. Love has to be gentleness and acceptance and caring and sacrifice and endless giving. Love is not an expectation of reciprocity, not peevishness, not temper tantrum, not defensiveness, not sarcasm and gamesmenship. Love is constant and patient forgiveness since deep down we understand the person we love and the values and attributes he/she possesses. That person may no longer love us or has never loved us, but if the values and attributes he/she once possessed are still there, we should continue loving that person. Just because our love is not reciprocated, it would wither and dry up and blow away. That kind of love is not love. It's called commercialism and bartering. It's called cheap and crass. Yet, all too often what we offer as love for another human being is nothing but a cheap, easy instrument of exchange.
So, we open our minds to understand, and our hearts to accept and maybe to love. Love is impossible without understanding. But sometimes even though we understand, we can't bring ourselves to love the person because he's so evil, so obnoxious, and so stupid for us to be bothered to open our hearts, because the person disrupts our sense of peace and is a threat to our equilibrium and sanity. We thus walk away in indifference and relief from such a person because his presence, his very existence, his words, and his deeds are so disgusting that they are no different from a pile of stinking shit. Nobody in their right mind woukd come close to a pile of steaming, stinking shit and poke his fingers into it and plays with it. Similarly, no right-thinking human would come near a loathsome, obnoxious, disgusting person. Yet, despite having this insight, I purposely behave in an manner that makes me appear unloveable. Why? Perhaps I am looking for a love that is rare, constantly forgiving, and eternally patient and sweet? Admittedly, I have tried to be more pleasant and socially acceptable lately. I have been less confrontational and belligerent. I have learned to be quiet and undisturbed. May the wisdom in me gently guide me to peace.
I've been mouthing off about love, but I know much more about love's flip side, hate. And right now, I am working on my body and my spirit to prepare myself for the day of reckoning when I must deal with the Midget, the Monkey, and the Coward. The Big Mouth, the Arrogant, and the Hypocrite are not on the distinguished black list yet, but they soon will be if they keep up their antics. Those who fucking attack me without any provocations must pay a price sooner or later. Life, in essence, is very simple: avoid troubles, but when troubles visit you, you don't run away. You deal with them. Silvio once told me that. I retorted, "But, Silvio, you complicate life with that attitude of yours. Why don't we just walk away." Silvio just doubled over laughing and said, "Roberto, I never told you not to walk away. Feign retreat, but don't ever forget. And always be ready. Don't be a weakling, especially mentally."
I was busy bragging and boasting about my preoccupation with foreign languages and forgot the underlying Freudian reason for doing so until I read in the news that Colin Firth, the actor who got an Oscar for his virtuoso performance as a stuttering monarch in the "King's Speech" is now ironically developing a stammer in real life. That reminded me that when I was a young child, I had a severe speech impediment. Not only I stuttered badly, I also mispronounced words. I got that from my father and now my son also has the problem but only when he is nervous. I still can't pronounce and articulate certain sounds, but I hardly stutter now. I think with years of being laughed at, I developed an ever-ready aggressiveness, bordering on truculence and belligerence. More importantly, the intense efforts of making my thoughts known verbally somehow awakened all latent language skills, making me more attuned in language acquisition finer points. I thus developed and have maintained an interest in languages and linguistics.
I lost control of my cool today when I told Kim off. She was too concerned with herself to see any reality. She reminded me of myself and the oroblems I ran into when realities came crashing down and then I had to endure the disrespect from everybody. I started all over at the bottom and worked my way back up. And I still didn't see the light until I blew 150 big ones down the drain. Now I am working for peanuts when I could take it easy and work for big bucks. Well, life was like that. You didn't learn to see until you burst your nose crashing around in the dark. The nonchalance Tina took with regard to your lost mail was just incredible.
Friday, May 6, 2011
Memoir 2
I'm having a hard time to narrate the year of 1966, the year that I already called the most momentous of my life. This morning as I was awakened by an ill-timed phone call, I waxed philosophical about the very definition of life: the reproduction of a patterned process of chemical reaction. Life is just a cross over of a chemical process where a pattern keeps repeating itself (reproduction). The universe itself is nothing but a chemical process.
Enough of this sidetrack. The year of 1966 saw a full awakening of my sexuality and emotional attraction for the opposite sex. Anh Dao was still in my mind, but I had not seen her for years . She only served as an inspiration for me to study and to dream about. There was one girl in the group that went with me to America. Her name was Agnes. She went to a French lycee in Saigon. She had an oval face and was quite pretty and of course she had long hair. Of course she was a good student, like Anh Dao. Unexpectedly, writing these words has been a tough slough for me. Maybe that is a way my mind is telling me my suffering is deep and my disappointment immense. Today is Sunday in the first week of May of the year 2011. It so happens that today is the Mother's Day. Agnes is not the mother of my son. And she never will be the mother of any children I have or will have. At one time in my life when I was young and green and stupid and naive, I wished she were. Now I am glad she is not. I am typing this as I walk around in the park in the sun. The desert air is fresh and warm and the sun shines brilliantly above. Winds from the west, crossing over the mountains and descending into the valleys and making the molecules of my body dance. I feel calm, serene, and a bit wiser. I just threw away the phone number of a librarian into the trash bin. I don't believe in romantic entanglements and complications anymore. Not at my age. I made a vow to stop at the number of 23. I forced myself not to flatter my ego and test my attractiveness and desirability to women. I didn't wish to bring pain and suffering to others. I didn't want to say things that I couldn't deliver. I do have a sense of responsibility. The sorrow that began with Agnes is deep and indelible. That does not mean she was not useful. Because of her, I forced myself to study in earnest French. As a consequence, I was always first of the class of the subject. English as a subject was tougher going, but my years at the International School and the year spent in America did help. At the tender age of 17, I was introduced to Chekhov, Skakespeare, Arthur Miller, and Nathaniel Hawthorn, not to speak of T.S. Eliott and W.H. Auden. I didn't know the hell I was reading. I was struggling with the mechanics and structure of the English language and its vast vocabulary, let alone the suggestive meanings behind the words. The more I struggled with the language, the more determined I was in mastering it. I studied day and night. I didn't go on dates although I had plenty of opportunities and my hormones were raging. I remember I once spent a weekend with a family sailing in the lake of Michigan and walking in the woods near their cottage on an island in the lake. Their young daughter of 16 was beautiful and she sported a low-cut shirt and a pair of short shorts, revealing breath-takingly beautiful, budding breasts and shapely legs, and driving me delirious and drunk with sexual excitement. I kept glancing at her breasts while she nonchalantly chatted away the afternoon, jumping from one topic to another.
I was still a virgin when I returned to Vietnam in July 1967. The year in America did wonders to my comprehension of the spoken English. I also developed a taste for reading in English. I picked up on my own some rudiments of German. My parents asked me what I wanted to major in college. Without hesitation, I said English. They were crestfallen. I explained to them that I had this crazy idea that I wanted to be really good at English. They were not happy at my decision, but they didn't nag too much. College life in Vietnam was medieval, boring, and unchallenging. I spent most of my time reading philosophy and brushing up on my French and German while enjoying a tumultuous love affair with Laura, a high-school classmate of Agnes.
You know what? I am so glad that I am still lucid and capable of rendering my thoughts into words. This morning an asshole sent me a request to take his fucking name off the email list. The motherfucker had an honor to receive my wondrous thoughts because I just hit the "Reply All" button when I made a comment. The motherfucker typically felt self-important to write to me. He just could simply hit "Delete" button to deal with unwanted emails. Fools are plagued with a sense of self-importance and sly insults. They are so fucking stupid that they think they are smart. By sending me a stupid request like that, the motherfucker got his rocks off by thinking that he got me annoyed. Well, I was and much, much more. From the very beginning since I first laid my eyes on him I knew there was something fishy and odd about the midget. Assholes like him make me want to reach for the nuclear button so they would join the cockroaches in the conflagration of Hell. At any rate, where was I? Ah, I remember now. I was talking about Laura, that flat-faced bitch that caused me so much suffering. But in the final analysis, most of the fault lay with me. I was stupid and naive and idealistic. And it took me almost 40 years to realize so. Once I saw the errors of my conception and perception of Love, I had some peace. The bottom line is that Love is conditional and very much commercial in nature because the individuals involved are concerned about their own survival and benefits. To put it bluntly, one only loves another person when and if it is conducive to one's well-being and survival unless one is sick in the head like I am. Once again, I did get inspired to really work on my French and English just to keep up with her. Also, I became a poet mostly because of her. I had to deal with pain somehow. I am breathing slowly now. I am trying to regain my equilibrium.
(cont.)
Enough of this sidetrack. The year of 1966 saw a full awakening of my sexuality and emotional attraction for the opposite sex. Anh Dao was still in my mind, but I had not seen her for years . She only served as an inspiration for me to study and to dream about. There was one girl in the group that went with me to America. Her name was Agnes. She went to a French lycee in Saigon. She had an oval face and was quite pretty and of course she had long hair. Of course she was a good student, like Anh Dao. Unexpectedly, writing these words has been a tough slough for me. Maybe that is a way my mind is telling me my suffering is deep and my disappointment immense. Today is Sunday in the first week of May of the year 2011. It so happens that today is the Mother's Day. Agnes is not the mother of my son. And she never will be the mother of any children I have or will have. At one time in my life when I was young and green and stupid and naive, I wished she were. Now I am glad she is not. I am typing this as I walk around in the park in the sun. The desert air is fresh and warm and the sun shines brilliantly above. Winds from the west, crossing over the mountains and descending into the valleys and making the molecules of my body dance. I feel calm, serene, and a bit wiser. I just threw away the phone number of a librarian into the trash bin. I don't believe in romantic entanglements and complications anymore. Not at my age. I made a vow to stop at the number of 23. I forced myself not to flatter my ego and test my attractiveness and desirability to women. I didn't wish to bring pain and suffering to others. I didn't want to say things that I couldn't deliver. I do have a sense of responsibility. The sorrow that began with Agnes is deep and indelible. That does not mean she was not useful. Because of her, I forced myself to study in earnest French. As a consequence, I was always first of the class of the subject. English as a subject was tougher going, but my years at the International School and the year spent in America did help. At the tender age of 17, I was introduced to Chekhov, Skakespeare, Arthur Miller, and Nathaniel Hawthorn, not to speak of T.S. Eliott and W.H. Auden. I didn't know the hell I was reading. I was struggling with the mechanics and structure of the English language and its vast vocabulary, let alone the suggestive meanings behind the words. The more I struggled with the language, the more determined I was in mastering it. I studied day and night. I didn't go on dates although I had plenty of opportunities and my hormones were raging. I remember I once spent a weekend with a family sailing in the lake of Michigan and walking in the woods near their cottage on an island in the lake. Their young daughter of 16 was beautiful and she sported a low-cut shirt and a pair of short shorts, revealing breath-takingly beautiful, budding breasts and shapely legs, and driving me delirious and drunk with sexual excitement. I kept glancing at her breasts while she nonchalantly chatted away the afternoon, jumping from one topic to another.
I was still a virgin when I returned to Vietnam in July 1967. The year in America did wonders to my comprehension of the spoken English. I also developed a taste for reading in English. I picked up on my own some rudiments of German. My parents asked me what I wanted to major in college. Without hesitation, I said English. They were crestfallen. I explained to them that I had this crazy idea that I wanted to be really good at English. They were not happy at my decision, but they didn't nag too much. College life in Vietnam was medieval, boring, and unchallenging. I spent most of my time reading philosophy and brushing up on my French and German while enjoying a tumultuous love affair with Laura, a high-school classmate of Agnes.
You know what? I am so glad that I am still lucid and capable of rendering my thoughts into words. This morning an asshole sent me a request to take his fucking name off the email list. The motherfucker had an honor to receive my wondrous thoughts because I just hit the "Reply All" button when I made a comment. The motherfucker typically felt self-important to write to me. He just could simply hit "Delete" button to deal with unwanted emails. Fools are plagued with a sense of self-importance and sly insults. They are so fucking stupid that they think they are smart. By sending me a stupid request like that, the motherfucker got his rocks off by thinking that he got me annoyed. Well, I was and much, much more. From the very beginning since I first laid my eyes on him I knew there was something fishy and odd about the midget. Assholes like him make me want to reach for the nuclear button so they would join the cockroaches in the conflagration of Hell. At any rate, where was I? Ah, I remember now. I was talking about Laura, that flat-faced bitch that caused me so much suffering. But in the final analysis, most of the fault lay with me. I was stupid and naive and idealistic. And it took me almost 40 years to realize so. Once I saw the errors of my conception and perception of Love, I had some peace. The bottom line is that Love is conditional and very much commercial in nature because the individuals involved are concerned about their own survival and benefits. To put it bluntly, one only loves another person when and if it is conducive to one's well-being and survival unless one is sick in the head like I am. Once again, I did get inspired to really work on my French and English just to keep up with her. Also, I became a poet mostly because of her. I had to deal with pain somehow. I am breathing slowly now. I am trying to regain my equilibrium.
(cont.)
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
Reality and Grief
Please read and digest this article which was written by a psychiatrist who is not part of an anthem-singing and flag-waving mob, who is not easily swayed by group think and herd behavior, who was trained to think dispassionately and to have respect for fact, truths, and logic, and who had some training about how humans think and feel, along with all the trapdoors attendant in those endeavors.
Thinking about human behavior is hard work. Those who think differently only kid themselves. The first thing one should be mindful of in the thinking process about human behavior is one could start with a wrong, off the mark, or insensible premise. That's why open dialogues and discussions about policies and issues in open societies, while time-consuming, tend to lead to fewer costly mistakes compared to decisions made in autocratic societies.
I made so many mistakes in my conceptions and perceptions that it was a miracle that I am still alive and sane. The main reason why I am now sharing my thoughts and ideas publicly is because I would like to benefit from dissenting opinions. Nobody holds a monopoly on truths.
OP-ED CONTRIBUTOR
My Sister, My Grief
By ROBERT KLITZMAN
Published: May 3, 2011
“AFTER someone has been murdered, their family members often feel peace when the murderer has been executed,” a friend called to tell me on Monday. “Do you feel peace?” Another friend asked, “Are you going to dance in the streets now and celebrate?”
On Sept. 11, 2001, my sister Karen died while working at the World Trade Center.
In the weeks that followed, my family and I held a memorial service for her, and emptied and sold her apartment. Then, my body gave out. For weeks, I couldn’t get out of bed. I lost all interest in watching TV, listening to music or reading.
I thought I had the flu, but friends told me my symptoms were all due to grief. I had trained as a psychiatrist, but grief and the sense of dread I experienced were far more physical than I would have ever expected. Over the months that followed, I began to feel better. My friends asked periodically if I’d had closure. But I did not fully. I still felt haunted. My remaining family spent more time together, feeling closer than we had since my sisters and I were children. Every year since, we have gone on long family vacations, and come to appreciate one another more. We have managed to move on with our lives — though Karen will always remain with us in some way. Then, out of the blue, we learned that Osama bin Laden had died. We were surprised at the large numbers of phone calls and e-mails we received, asking how we felt. We phoned one another. How did we feel?
Decidedly mixed. “It’s anti-climactic,” one of my two surviving sisters said.
Yes, the body of the man who, more than anyone else, had caused my sister’s death 10 years ago was now at the bottom of the sea. I was glad for that, and that Americans were the ones who had found him and ended his life, and that years of planning had finally succeeded. But the news of his death still feels surreal. I realize now how much our loss is both personal and political. I suppose people who ask us about our reactions are often uncertain how to react themselves — how much to celebrate or still fear. But we do not want to be simply emblems of grieving family members.
Still, I understand that in the chaos of any act of destruction, people need something tangible to hold onto, an embodiment, a story. They need to know who is responsible, and they want to know the responses of those most affected: Have the deaths of 9/11 now been sufficiently avenged? Is it over?
Bin Laden’s death was cathartic — his terrorist attacks traumatized all of us — but in large part it is only a symbolic victory. Al Qaeda may even have more cells and members than it did 10 years ago, though no one knows. Certainly, Islamic extremists are vowing to avenge his death. “An eye for an eye” perpetuates a never-ending cycle of destruction. Dangers continue.
My family has struggled to adapt and move forward, and so, too, has everyone else. In the past decade, the world has, of course, drastically changed. As a result of the deaths of my sister and the thousands of others at the trade center and Pentagon, George W. Bush invaded Afghanistan, and then under false pretenses invaded Iraq. Thousands of American and foreign soldiers and untold thousands of civilians have been killed or wounded. Politicians have exploited the deaths on 9/11 for their own ends.
When the members of Al Qaeda attacked on 9/11, Americans wondered, “Why do they hate us so much?” Many here believe they dislike us for our “freedom,” but I think otherwise.
There are lessons we have not yet learned. I feel Karen would share my concerns that underlying forces of greed and hate persevere. American imperialism, corporate avarice, abuses of our power abroad and our historical support of corrupt dictators like Hosni Mubarak have created an abhorrence of us that, unfortunately, persists. We need to recognize how the rest of the world sees us, and figure out how to change that. Until we do that, more Osama bin Ladens will arise, and more innocent people like my sister will die.
I hope that the death of Bin Laden will bring closure and peace. I am relieved that this chapter is over, somewhat, for me. But I fear the war will not end.
Robert Klitzman is a professor of clinical psychiatry at Columbia and the author of “When Doctors Become Patients.”
Thinking about human behavior is hard work. Those who think differently only kid themselves. The first thing one should be mindful of in the thinking process about human behavior is one could start with a wrong, off the mark, or insensible premise. That's why open dialogues and discussions about policies and issues in open societies, while time-consuming, tend to lead to fewer costly mistakes compared to decisions made in autocratic societies.
I made so many mistakes in my conceptions and perceptions that it was a miracle that I am still alive and sane. The main reason why I am now sharing my thoughts and ideas publicly is because I would like to benefit from dissenting opinions. Nobody holds a monopoly on truths.
OP-ED CONTRIBUTOR
My Sister, My Grief
By ROBERT KLITZMAN
Published: May 3, 2011
“AFTER someone has been murdered, their family members often feel peace when the murderer has been executed,” a friend called to tell me on Monday. “Do you feel peace?” Another friend asked, “Are you going to dance in the streets now and celebrate?”
On Sept. 11, 2001, my sister Karen died while working at the World Trade Center.
In the weeks that followed, my family and I held a memorial service for her, and emptied and sold her apartment. Then, my body gave out. For weeks, I couldn’t get out of bed. I lost all interest in watching TV, listening to music or reading.
I thought I had the flu, but friends told me my symptoms were all due to grief. I had trained as a psychiatrist, but grief and the sense of dread I experienced were far more physical than I would have ever expected. Over the months that followed, I began to feel better. My friends asked periodically if I’d had closure. But I did not fully. I still felt haunted. My remaining family spent more time together, feeling closer than we had since my sisters and I were children. Every year since, we have gone on long family vacations, and come to appreciate one another more. We have managed to move on with our lives — though Karen will always remain with us in some way. Then, out of the blue, we learned that Osama bin Laden had died. We were surprised at the large numbers of phone calls and e-mails we received, asking how we felt. We phoned one another. How did we feel?
Decidedly mixed. “It’s anti-climactic,” one of my two surviving sisters said.
Yes, the body of the man who, more than anyone else, had caused my sister’s death 10 years ago was now at the bottom of the sea. I was glad for that, and that Americans were the ones who had found him and ended his life, and that years of planning had finally succeeded. But the news of his death still feels surreal. I realize now how much our loss is both personal and political. I suppose people who ask us about our reactions are often uncertain how to react themselves — how much to celebrate or still fear. But we do not want to be simply emblems of grieving family members.
Still, I understand that in the chaos of any act of destruction, people need something tangible to hold onto, an embodiment, a story. They need to know who is responsible, and they want to know the responses of those most affected: Have the deaths of 9/11 now been sufficiently avenged? Is it over?
Bin Laden’s death was cathartic — his terrorist attacks traumatized all of us — but in large part it is only a symbolic victory. Al Qaeda may even have more cells and members than it did 10 years ago, though no one knows. Certainly, Islamic extremists are vowing to avenge his death. “An eye for an eye” perpetuates a never-ending cycle of destruction. Dangers continue.
My family has struggled to adapt and move forward, and so, too, has everyone else. In the past decade, the world has, of course, drastically changed. As a result of the deaths of my sister and the thousands of others at the trade center and Pentagon, George W. Bush invaded Afghanistan, and then under false pretenses invaded Iraq. Thousands of American and foreign soldiers and untold thousands of civilians have been killed or wounded. Politicians have exploited the deaths on 9/11 for their own ends.
When the members of Al Qaeda attacked on 9/11, Americans wondered, “Why do they hate us so much?” Many here believe they dislike us for our “freedom,” but I think otherwise.
There are lessons we have not yet learned. I feel Karen would share my concerns that underlying forces of greed and hate persevere. American imperialism, corporate avarice, abuses of our power abroad and our historical support of corrupt dictators like Hosni Mubarak have created an abhorrence of us that, unfortunately, persists. We need to recognize how the rest of the world sees us, and figure out how to change that. Until we do that, more Osama bin Ladens will arise, and more innocent people like my sister will die.
I hope that the death of Bin Laden will bring closure and peace. I am relieved that this chapter is over, somewhat, for me. But I fear the war will not end.
Robert Klitzman is a professor of clinical psychiatry at Columbia and the author of “When Doctors Become Patients.”
Monday, May 2, 2011
Higher and lower impulses
I understand the reasons for the displays of jubilant, cathartic celebrations of the Americans of all stripes the death of a man-okay, a terrorist, who was responsible of shaking to the core the placid complacency of the Americans of the security of the homeland and brought them face to face, up close and personal, the meaning of modern-day terrorism.
The spectacle of a spontaneous crowd gathering in front of the White House late last night and engaging in flag waving, anthem singing, and primal chanting of "USA, USA" was a sight to behold and think about.
While the feeling that justice was finally delivered was palpably experienced, not only by the crowd, but also by the TV viewers, I wonder how many in the crowd gave any thought as to why Bin Laden did what he did.
Regardless of the revulsion and hatred brought on by the attack of Al Queda on American soil, causing around 3,000 innocent deaths and boundless griefs to their loved ones, the current on-going unrestrained celebrations by Americans over the death of the figure head of Al Queda, are somehow to me quite juvenile and not dignified. It would be much better if the Americans greet the death of Osama bin Laden with solemnity and grace, including a joint ceremony attended by the dignitaries of all major faiths (including Islam) during which the body of bin Laden is returned to his family for proper burial. Such a magnanimous gesture would bring healing and expedite a closure with the Islamofascists.
There is something unseemly to celebrate wildly over the death of anybody, including that of an evil man.
In case we overlook, Osama bin Laden caused no more than 5,000 people worldwide since the establishment of Al Queda whereas Bush Lite brought, directly and directly, death to hundreds of thousands of Iraqis when he invaded Iraq under false pretenses, and caused displacement of millions, not counting destruction to the infrastructure of Iraq.
I used to carry a newspaper clipping with me, which reported what a white grandmother of a young man killed by a young black man said after the black man was given a very long sentence. I am writing from memory:
"I have been in this court for days and watched you. I tried to hate you, but I couldn't. Hating you would not bring my grandson back. I feel very sorry for you. You made a very bad mistake and you are going to pay for it with your time in prison. I hope you survive and are a better person when your sentence expires. I feel very sorry for your family, especially your mother. They suffer as much as I do. You are such a good-looking man and you appear to be bright. You could have made better choices."
The reporter added that he saw the smirk and swagger of the black criminal disappeared after the elderly white lady spoke. The reporter thought he saw tears formed in the eyes of the black man.
We all make mistakes. Some of us even commit evil deeds. We all need forgiveness and understanding. Schadenfreude does not do anybody any good. Somewhere, mother of Osama, his wives, and his children are grieving. They are human like us. We need to restrain our celebrations and show some respect to the departed and his loved ones. We will feel much better about ourselves if we do so. And the world, especially the Islamic world, would like and respect us more.
We all die someday. It is our preparation for our own death and our reactions to the death of friends and foes, known acquaintances and strangers, thatells us, if we indeed care to know, what we are really made of.
By virtue of the way I expressed my reaction to the death of Osama bin Laden (bin for Arabic and ben for Hebrew, if I am not mistaken, means "son of"), I already held a service for him in my heart. I acknowledged his living for a cause, although it was misguided. I realized it was his wayward religious sentiment and thus political mission that led to the deaths of many innocent people and caused pain and suffering to many more, including his large immediate family who are grieving now (the press reported 23 children from the compound are now in the custody of Pakistani authorities).
Look at his face. Read the story about his life. How the gentle-looking, pious, altruistic, caring young man turned into a charismatic leader and mass murderer. He must have known he would die of a violent death. One big lesson from his life, at least for me, was this: be very careful of what you believe in to the point you would stake your life on such belief. Is religion the only avenue to truth? Or is there a better way? Philosophy, maybe?
Yes, justice and fairness are ingrained in us and society needs them to function well and exist in harmony. However, we don't have to engage in an orgy of wild and garish and unrestrained celebrations once justice is achieved. A more subdued and solemn acknowledgement that justice is achieved would speak better about us.
On further reflection, it is our passionate, fierce crying for justice that leads to no peace and closure. That's why a heart-rending screaming or shouting of hatred and expression of condemnation at the guilty party from the loved ones of the person who suffered from injustice, at the defendant at the end of the trial is not likely to bring real peace and closure to them whereas the gentle, quiet expression of sorrow and compassion of the elderly white grandmother moved the reporter and the evildoer alike. That is why Nelson Mandela's policy of true reconciliation and not settling scores and exacting justice with the privileged whites has long been an inspiration for those who are more attuned to the dynamics of pain and how to resolve it effectively and permanently. Buddha was another person who had a higher understanding of justice, of knowing how to demolish hatred.
Don't get me wrong. I am very glad that bin Laden was killed. It was the manner the people celebrated his death that bothered me. It was his wayward, violent embrace of a rigid, uncompromising religious stance that in turn caused so much unnecessary suffering that bothered me. He could have channeled all his energy, wealth, and charisma for peace and for a more gentle approach to his own perceived notion of "justice", once the war against the Soviets in Afghanistan was over. It seemed to me he was carried away. Nothing exceeds like excess.
No comparison or analogy hitherto was drawn between the behavior of the American mobs and the Muslim mobs. Just as two Wongs don't make a White, two wrongs don't make a right. Granted, there was a difference in the degree of jubilance, but I wonder if the body of OBL had been in the hands of the American mob, would they have been able to show "honorable restraints" or would they have just descended into the depths of human depravity as their far-flung fellow human beings did to the bodies of dead American soldiers in Somalia and Iraq?
For whatever its worth, today the Associated Press reported "The Vatican said Christians could never rejoice about the death of any human being." Well, most of the American celebrants are Christians and rejoice they did indeed. It looks like the Vatican was wrong once again.
Note:
I was glad that I wrote the above words. They reflected the angel side of me. They reflect my higher impulses. I know too well my dark side, too. I got some flaky reactions to my views, but I didn't bother to reply to dogs and pigs. I was glad that I refused to stoop down to their level. I had some peace tonight because of my higher impulses. Sentiments are the products if habit. I believe if I keep having good and noble thoughts, I will stay away from inner turmoil and suffering. I can be good. The hairdresser was in pain, it was obvious. Too much ego. Too much pride.
The spectacle of a spontaneous crowd gathering in front of the White House late last night and engaging in flag waving, anthem singing, and primal chanting of "USA, USA" was a sight to behold and think about.
While the feeling that justice was finally delivered was palpably experienced, not only by the crowd, but also by the TV viewers, I wonder how many in the crowd gave any thought as to why Bin Laden did what he did.
Regardless of the revulsion and hatred brought on by the attack of Al Queda on American soil, causing around 3,000 innocent deaths and boundless griefs to their loved ones, the current on-going unrestrained celebrations by Americans over the death of the figure head of Al Queda, are somehow to me quite juvenile and not dignified. It would be much better if the Americans greet the death of Osama bin Laden with solemnity and grace, including a joint ceremony attended by the dignitaries of all major faiths (including Islam) during which the body of bin Laden is returned to his family for proper burial. Such a magnanimous gesture would bring healing and expedite a closure with the Islamofascists.
There is something unseemly to celebrate wildly over the death of anybody, including that of an evil man.
In case we overlook, Osama bin Laden caused no more than 5,000 people worldwide since the establishment of Al Queda whereas Bush Lite brought, directly and directly, death to hundreds of thousands of Iraqis when he invaded Iraq under false pretenses, and caused displacement of millions, not counting destruction to the infrastructure of Iraq.
I used to carry a newspaper clipping with me, which reported what a white grandmother of a young man killed by a young black man said after the black man was given a very long sentence. I am writing from memory:
"I have been in this court for days and watched you. I tried to hate you, but I couldn't. Hating you would not bring my grandson back. I feel very sorry for you. You made a very bad mistake and you are going to pay for it with your time in prison. I hope you survive and are a better person when your sentence expires. I feel very sorry for your family, especially your mother. They suffer as much as I do. You are such a good-looking man and you appear to be bright. You could have made better choices."
The reporter added that he saw the smirk and swagger of the black criminal disappeared after the elderly white lady spoke. The reporter thought he saw tears formed in the eyes of the black man.
We all make mistakes. Some of us even commit evil deeds. We all need forgiveness and understanding. Schadenfreude does not do anybody any good. Somewhere, mother of Osama, his wives, and his children are grieving. They are human like us. We need to restrain our celebrations and show some respect to the departed and his loved ones. We will feel much better about ourselves if we do so. And the world, especially the Islamic world, would like and respect us more.
We all die someday. It is our preparation for our own death and our reactions to the death of friends and foes, known acquaintances and strangers, thatells us, if we indeed care to know, what we are really made of.
By virtue of the way I expressed my reaction to the death of Osama bin Laden (bin for Arabic and ben for Hebrew, if I am not mistaken, means "son of"), I already held a service for him in my heart. I acknowledged his living for a cause, although it was misguided. I realized it was his wayward religious sentiment and thus political mission that led to the deaths of many innocent people and caused pain and suffering to many more, including his large immediate family who are grieving now (the press reported 23 children from the compound are now in the custody of Pakistani authorities).
Look at his face. Read the story about his life. How the gentle-looking, pious, altruistic, caring young man turned into a charismatic leader and mass murderer. He must have known he would die of a violent death. One big lesson from his life, at least for me, was this: be very careful of what you believe in to the point you would stake your life on such belief. Is religion the only avenue to truth? Or is there a better way? Philosophy, maybe?
Yes, justice and fairness are ingrained in us and society needs them to function well and exist in harmony. However, we don't have to engage in an orgy of wild and garish and unrestrained celebrations once justice is achieved. A more subdued and solemn acknowledgement that justice is achieved would speak better about us.
On further reflection, it is our passionate, fierce crying for justice that leads to no peace and closure. That's why a heart-rending screaming or shouting of hatred and expression of condemnation at the guilty party from the loved ones of the person who suffered from injustice, at the defendant at the end of the trial is not likely to bring real peace and closure to them whereas the gentle, quiet expression of sorrow and compassion of the elderly white grandmother moved the reporter and the evildoer alike. That is why Nelson Mandela's policy of true reconciliation and not settling scores and exacting justice with the privileged whites has long been an inspiration for those who are more attuned to the dynamics of pain and how to resolve it effectively and permanently. Buddha was another person who had a higher understanding of justice, of knowing how to demolish hatred.
Don't get me wrong. I am very glad that bin Laden was killed. It was the manner the people celebrated his death that bothered me. It was his wayward, violent embrace of a rigid, uncompromising religious stance that in turn caused so much unnecessary suffering that bothered me. He could have channeled all his energy, wealth, and charisma for peace and for a more gentle approach to his own perceived notion of "justice", once the war against the Soviets in Afghanistan was over. It seemed to me he was carried away. Nothing exceeds like excess.
No comparison or analogy hitherto was drawn between the behavior of the American mobs and the Muslim mobs. Just as two Wongs don't make a White, two wrongs don't make a right. Granted, there was a difference in the degree of jubilance, but I wonder if the body of OBL had been in the hands of the American mob, would they have been able to show "honorable restraints" or would they have just descended into the depths of human depravity as their far-flung fellow human beings did to the bodies of dead American soldiers in Somalia and Iraq?
For whatever its worth, today the Associated Press reported "The Vatican said Christians could never rejoice about the death of any human being." Well, most of the American celebrants are Christians and rejoice they did indeed. It looks like the Vatican was wrong once again.
Note:
I was glad that I wrote the above words. They reflected the angel side of me. They reflect my higher impulses. I know too well my dark side, too. I got some flaky reactions to my views, but I didn't bother to reply to dogs and pigs. I was glad that I refused to stoop down to their level. I had some peace tonight because of my higher impulses. Sentiments are the products if habit. I believe if I keep having good and noble thoughts, I will stay away from inner turmoil and suffering. I can be good. The hairdresser was in pain, it was obvious. Too much ego. Too much pride.
Sunday, May 1, 2011
Memoir! Memoir!
Memoir is like a call for May Day. It's a call for attention and help in an otherwise insipid, uninspiring life, especially if written by an incompetent writer. I am well aware of all the pitfalls of writing a memoir, but I can't help myself. In a way, all my words bear a stamp of an ill-disguised memoir, a trek through memory lanes and a willful reconstruction of what could have been.
And who would be my readers? Who would care to read about my journey? In the end, as always, I write only for myself. I am my only and best reader and critic. Anyway, here I go, once again, the 20th time. This time, I hope, I will stick around.
A memoir usually starts chronologically and with all the details of David Copperfiled crap. In my previous attempts, I did just that. But I somehow felt unsatisfied and unfulfilled revisiting my life that way. This time, I opted for the Pulp Fiction route, via the alleyways and byways of flashbacks and associations. The account will be confusing as hell. I am a confused man, living in hell most of the time, the hell of my own creation through ignorance, pride, and odd preoccupation and flirtation with self-destruction. Often times, I wonder if I am afflicted with some kind of mental illness as I seem to go against the flow, too often and unnecessarily so. But then maybe I am not sick after all. The following paraphrased words of a successful risk-taker have been a source of comfort to me:
"I liked to take risks, but I liked to win much more. My whole being cried for victory. I hated defeats. I couldn't stand to lose, in whatever endeavors I found myself, I had to emerge as a winner, as a survivor. I enjoyed the moment of triumph. I had a lot of hunting and killing instinct inside me. That was why I never regarded my taking chances as a form of self-punishment. Not consciously anyway. I had to win, I told myself. That was my mantra. That was always in my favor.
We all have destructive urges. We eat too much, drink too much, even talk too much. Gambling is no different. It is a challenge to overcome. Others have failed at overcoming this challenge and end up destitute, but not us. We are better humans. It's part of man's nature to stand stubborn in the face of challenge. And many of us feel compelled to create challenges whenever none present themselves. This is not wholly unhealthy. All champions share this trait. They drive themselves forward. A person who skydives is tempting fate. He earns the exhilaration of feeling alive after a dive. But his activity is only healthy if the subconscious payoff is survival and not death.
We must learn to modify our flirtations with danger. Our psyches must be geared to dueling with fate while assuring ourselves that we have the best of it. We must recognize we have destructive urges but these can be a life motivating force to be controlled by us." (Bobby Baldwin, an executive of MGM Entertainment)
At any rate, I am now engaging in a very public debate with a less than honest dude about patriotism. The debate is unhealthy and does me no good, yet I went for the bait like a moth irresistibly heads for the light in the night. This is not the first time I debate about patriotism. Several months and moons ago, I got into an argument with another dude about the same topic. I walked away from that debate with a decidedly unflattering impression and opinion of the "debater", just like I am having similar sentiments about the current guy who foolishly decided to cross sword with me. So, you see, I am not a man who likes to run for a popularity contest. Rather, I am a gent who revels in controversies in a search for truth and myself. You probably speculate that perhaps I have not been loved. Au contraire! I would loudly protest.
Love is my middle name. Roberto Amor Wissai here is at your service. And he's spilling his guts out for the world to see. I have been in and out of one romantic adventure after another since the age of eight. At last count, I've been married seven times, and have had romantic liaisons with 23 women. Right now, there are three women who want to marry me, but only one is relatively well-off, unfortunately, and she does not seem to relish the prospect of sharing her wealth with me. Not that I am a gold-digger, but I am not going to marry a destitute woman either. Be real! That's why I am holding out for better prospects. Even at the relatively advanced age of 62, I can afford to wait as I am a handsome devil and have a way with women you never dream of. Women flock to me like bees to honey. Am I bragging? You can bet your sweet ass that I am. As I hinted earlier, I am no ordinary man. I am a cannon with words. Sadly, with all these women around and hovering over me day and night, I still feel sad and lonely and misunderstood, and I am not sure if I understand what Love really is. I am blaming it on Ton Thi Anh Dao, the first female that made my heart quiver and quaver when I was only a lad of eight. Digression: since I am writing this so-called memoir in a blog, one reader who happens to have a sweet spot for me just emailed me and formally lodged a protest that while she may love me, she would never consider marrying me. I fired back an answer to the effect that, as usual, she failed to read between the lines and obviously overlooked the cheeky tone of this memoir, with its obvious overtones and undertones of irony and hyperbole. Does such a reader exist or I just made her up to spice things up and make me look good and credible? I honestly don't know. In the excitement of writing this confession, I have got things and people mixed up. Reality and fantasy keep colliding and causing unstoppable Big Bangs in my puny, little mind.
Yes, Ton Thi Anh Dao was her full name. An aristocratic name it was, don't you think? The Cherry Blossoms of The Ton Family. That was how her name would be known if I translated it into English. For short, I just called her Anh Dao. In my playful moods, I called her Em Dao Cua Anh (My Little Cherry Blossom). In response, she called me "Mi Amor Roberto Wissai". I once disclosed the reason for my unusual name to a bunch of nitwits who didn't take me at my word, and demanded to see my birth certificate. I made an offer to these incredulous "birther" ignoramuses that they had to take me a fine Italian restaurant at my own choosing if they wanted to see evidence of my royal roots. They stupidly agreed and lost the wager. My father was an Italian aristocrat and adventurer who ran into my Vietnamese fiery mother on high seas during an Atlantic crossing cruise. I was conceived in one of those storm-tossed nights during the crossing. I grew up in a large family (14 children, but only 8 could make it into adulthood). My mother's roots were in the Mekong Delta. Our family lived in Saigon where I was sent to an International School where the medium of instruction was English. That was where I met Anh Dao and she immediately captivated me with her exquisite Vietnamese spoken with the Imperial accent. We spoke to each other in Vietnamese during recess and after school while we were waiting to be picked up by our chauffeurs. She was breath-takingly beautiful, with blemish-free, smooth oval-shaped face, sparkling with bright, large eyes and two dimples while sporting long hair cascading to the length of half her back. She was vivacious, friendly, and always at the top of the class whereas I managed to crawl along at the bottom. She didn't mind the discrepancy in grades between us. She even tried to tutor me, not to much success. I supposed she was drawn to me because of my exotic looks, height, friendly disposition, and irrepressible humor. I was the class clown. She laughed and giggled at my jokes. I always have a weakness for any girl and lady from the Imperial City Hue because of this early exposure to Anh Dao.
My idyllic time at the International School came to an end when I turned eleven because my family's fortunes took a dive. One day, my mother told me I had to attend a Viet school where the tuition was much lower. She would rather see me go to one of those Viet public schools where there was no tuition, but I goofed off too much during my "salad days" that I couldn't pass the entrance exam. Anyway, I would never forget the day I told Anh Dao after class that that day would be the last time I saw her. She cried when l said the following last words to her: "Je t'aime. Je t'aimerai toujours, ma petite." I did and still do to this day. She has set a standard for all others to follow.
I was a mediocre student until 9th grade when I discovered philosophy and history. Overnight, I decided to be a great man like one of the heroes and philosophers I read about. I hit the books in earnest and tried to pursue a catch-up game in acquiring knowledge. I am still far behind and I have not given up on my dream. When I was seventeen I was selected as one of fourteen students in the whole country to attend Grade 12 in America. That year was a momentous year of my life, a watershed year. But before I tell you about that year, I have to interrupt all regular programming in order to address the big news on hand, the cold, brutal harsh reality that intruded into our ordered, even slightly disordered, but nonetheless truly insignificant lives: the killing of Osama bin Laden by U.S. Navy Seals on Pakistani soil in a military town, barely 100 kilometers from Islamabad, the capital of Pakistan.
His violent death didn't bother me. It had been a foregone conclusion. It was the the aftermath frenzied, spontaneous jubilance of American mobs engaging in anthem singing, flag waving, and primal chanting of "USA, USA" that bothered me for its lack of dignity. A more subdued, solemn acknowledgment that justice had been rendered would have come across much better to the eyes of the Islamists and Muslims throughout the world and hopefully would have started a process of resolution and closure. Instead, the juvenile display of unrestrained over the death of a human being, no matter how evil he was, was unchristian and offensive to Muslim sensibilities and sensitive folks. It was not so much the holier-than-thou attitude, but the awareness that grace and dignity would go further in relations, even with enemies, than self-righteous revelry. We should respect our enemies even if they don't respect us. Eventually the enemies will see us for who we are, and hopefully change their attitude.
(cont.)
And who would be my readers? Who would care to read about my journey? In the end, as always, I write only for myself. I am my only and best reader and critic. Anyway, here I go, once again, the 20th time. This time, I hope, I will stick around.
A memoir usually starts chronologically and with all the details of David Copperfiled crap. In my previous attempts, I did just that. But I somehow felt unsatisfied and unfulfilled revisiting my life that way. This time, I opted for the Pulp Fiction route, via the alleyways and byways of flashbacks and associations. The account will be confusing as hell. I am a confused man, living in hell most of the time, the hell of my own creation through ignorance, pride, and odd preoccupation and flirtation with self-destruction. Often times, I wonder if I am afflicted with some kind of mental illness as I seem to go against the flow, too often and unnecessarily so. But then maybe I am not sick after all. The following paraphrased words of a successful risk-taker have been a source of comfort to me:
"I liked to take risks, but I liked to win much more. My whole being cried for victory. I hated defeats. I couldn't stand to lose, in whatever endeavors I found myself, I had to emerge as a winner, as a survivor. I enjoyed the moment of triumph. I had a lot of hunting and killing instinct inside me. That was why I never regarded my taking chances as a form of self-punishment. Not consciously anyway. I had to win, I told myself. That was my mantra. That was always in my favor.
We all have destructive urges. We eat too much, drink too much, even talk too much. Gambling is no different. It is a challenge to overcome. Others have failed at overcoming this challenge and end up destitute, but not us. We are better humans. It's part of man's nature to stand stubborn in the face of challenge. And many of us feel compelled to create challenges whenever none present themselves. This is not wholly unhealthy. All champions share this trait. They drive themselves forward. A person who skydives is tempting fate. He earns the exhilaration of feeling alive after a dive. But his activity is only healthy if the subconscious payoff is survival and not death.
We must learn to modify our flirtations with danger. Our psyches must be geared to dueling with fate while assuring ourselves that we have the best of it. We must recognize we have destructive urges but these can be a life motivating force to be controlled by us." (Bobby Baldwin, an executive of MGM Entertainment)
At any rate, I am now engaging in a very public debate with a less than honest dude about patriotism. The debate is unhealthy and does me no good, yet I went for the bait like a moth irresistibly heads for the light in the night. This is not the first time I debate about patriotism. Several months and moons ago, I got into an argument with another dude about the same topic. I walked away from that debate with a decidedly unflattering impression and opinion of the "debater", just like I am having similar sentiments about the current guy who foolishly decided to cross sword with me. So, you see, I am not a man who likes to run for a popularity contest. Rather, I am a gent who revels in controversies in a search for truth and myself. You probably speculate that perhaps I have not been loved. Au contraire! I would loudly protest.
Love is my middle name. Roberto Amor Wissai here is at your service. And he's spilling his guts out for the world to see. I have been in and out of one romantic adventure after another since the age of eight. At last count, I've been married seven times, and have had romantic liaisons with 23 women. Right now, there are three women who want to marry me, but only one is relatively well-off, unfortunately, and she does not seem to relish the prospect of sharing her wealth with me. Not that I am a gold-digger, but I am not going to marry a destitute woman either. Be real! That's why I am holding out for better prospects. Even at the relatively advanced age of 62, I can afford to wait as I am a handsome devil and have a way with women you never dream of. Women flock to me like bees to honey. Am I bragging? You can bet your sweet ass that I am. As I hinted earlier, I am no ordinary man. I am a cannon with words. Sadly, with all these women around and hovering over me day and night, I still feel sad and lonely and misunderstood, and I am not sure if I understand what Love really is. I am blaming it on Ton Thi Anh Dao, the first female that made my heart quiver and quaver when I was only a lad of eight. Digression: since I am writing this so-called memoir in a blog, one reader who happens to have a sweet spot for me just emailed me and formally lodged a protest that while she may love me, she would never consider marrying me. I fired back an answer to the effect that, as usual, she failed to read between the lines and obviously overlooked the cheeky tone of this memoir, with its obvious overtones and undertones of irony and hyperbole. Does such a reader exist or I just made her up to spice things up and make me look good and credible? I honestly don't know. In the excitement of writing this confession, I have got things and people mixed up. Reality and fantasy keep colliding and causing unstoppable Big Bangs in my puny, little mind.
Yes, Ton Thi Anh Dao was her full name. An aristocratic name it was, don't you think? The Cherry Blossoms of The Ton Family. That was how her name would be known if I translated it into English. For short, I just called her Anh Dao. In my playful moods, I called her Em Dao Cua Anh (My Little Cherry Blossom). In response, she called me "Mi Amor Roberto Wissai". I once disclosed the reason for my unusual name to a bunch of nitwits who didn't take me at my word, and demanded to see my birth certificate. I made an offer to these incredulous "birther" ignoramuses that they had to take me a fine Italian restaurant at my own choosing if they wanted to see evidence of my royal roots. They stupidly agreed and lost the wager. My father was an Italian aristocrat and adventurer who ran into my Vietnamese fiery mother on high seas during an Atlantic crossing cruise. I was conceived in one of those storm-tossed nights during the crossing. I grew up in a large family (14 children, but only 8 could make it into adulthood). My mother's roots were in the Mekong Delta. Our family lived in Saigon where I was sent to an International School where the medium of instruction was English. That was where I met Anh Dao and she immediately captivated me with her exquisite Vietnamese spoken with the Imperial accent. We spoke to each other in Vietnamese during recess and after school while we were waiting to be picked up by our chauffeurs. She was breath-takingly beautiful, with blemish-free, smooth oval-shaped face, sparkling with bright, large eyes and two dimples while sporting long hair cascading to the length of half her back. She was vivacious, friendly, and always at the top of the class whereas I managed to crawl along at the bottom. She didn't mind the discrepancy in grades between us. She even tried to tutor me, not to much success. I supposed she was drawn to me because of my exotic looks, height, friendly disposition, and irrepressible humor. I was the class clown. She laughed and giggled at my jokes. I always have a weakness for any girl and lady from the Imperial City Hue because of this early exposure to Anh Dao.
My idyllic time at the International School came to an end when I turned eleven because my family's fortunes took a dive. One day, my mother told me I had to attend a Viet school where the tuition was much lower. She would rather see me go to one of those Viet public schools where there was no tuition, but I goofed off too much during my "salad days" that I couldn't pass the entrance exam. Anyway, I would never forget the day I told Anh Dao after class that that day would be the last time I saw her. She cried when l said the following last words to her: "Je t'aime. Je t'aimerai toujours, ma petite." I did and still do to this day. She has set a standard for all others to follow.
I was a mediocre student until 9th grade when I discovered philosophy and history. Overnight, I decided to be a great man like one of the heroes and philosophers I read about. I hit the books in earnest and tried to pursue a catch-up game in acquiring knowledge. I am still far behind and I have not given up on my dream. When I was seventeen I was selected as one of fourteen students in the whole country to attend Grade 12 in America. That year was a momentous year of my life, a watershed year. But before I tell you about that year, I have to interrupt all regular programming in order to address the big news on hand, the cold, brutal harsh reality that intruded into our ordered, even slightly disordered, but nonetheless truly insignificant lives: the killing of Osama bin Laden by U.S. Navy Seals on Pakistani soil in a military town, barely 100 kilometers from Islamabad, the capital of Pakistan.
His violent death didn't bother me. It had been a foregone conclusion. It was the the aftermath frenzied, spontaneous jubilance of American mobs engaging in anthem singing, flag waving, and primal chanting of "USA, USA" that bothered me for its lack of dignity. A more subdued, solemn acknowledgment that justice had been rendered would have come across much better to the eyes of the Islamists and Muslims throughout the world and hopefully would have started a process of resolution and closure. Instead, the juvenile display of unrestrained over the death of a human being, no matter how evil he was, was unchristian and offensive to Muslim sensibilities and sensitive folks. It was not so much the holier-than-thou attitude, but the awareness that grace and dignity would go further in relations, even with enemies, than self-righteous revelry. We should respect our enemies even if they don't respect us. Eventually the enemies will see us for who we are, and hopefully change their attitude.
(cont.)
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