Not out of lack of egotism is he referring to himself in the third person. He's no stranger to ego, brain, and arrogance. It is not the deficiency of fear and self-loathing either. It's more like an aversion of an all-out assault of misunderstanding and willful scorn. Anyway, here he goes again into this forbidden terrain of self-recognition.
1. Why is there a lamentable lack of self-restraint and a corresponding thumping of the nose against rules and regulations? For years, he has been fascinated with his undue attraction to self-destruction. It looks like he wants to find out who he really is.
2. He thinks he knows about love and its less than perfect manifestation: sex. He looked at her picture posted in the Internet, resting peacefully beside a bubbling brook. He remebered of an all night session of arguing with her as to why there was an inconsistency of her narrative of a very insignificant event. He marveled at her failure to understand why he insisted unambiguous, unconvoluted progression of the recounting of facts which led to her decision and why glossing over of details, no matter how insignificant they were to her, bothered him. Her propensity to tell small, instantaneous lies disturbs him. At any rate, he begins to understand why loneliness is a burden to most humans.
3. He attributed his verbal fluency to his struggle to overcome stuttering during his childhood and his sudden encounter with foreign languages at an early age. His brain must have received a jolt at such a tender age and has been busy to make adjustments ever since, especially after he decided to give it a challenge every few months.
4. He was abysmally poor at self-awareness and at how people viewed him. Now he begins to be more aware of the cognitive complexity when he interacts with other humans.
5. Today he ran into her at the grocery store. She looked good as ever. She looked at him. He looked back for about two seconds and then he looked away and then marched to the nearest aisle, away from her view. Ever since he couldn't help thinking of what could have been and of what could be. But actually in the final analysis, nobody would be that good, that deserving. Life is slowly grinding to a halt and then it's all over. He was sitting in the study room, at his desk, trying to concentrate on a difficult thought: why did people express some disrespect to him? The search for the answer is making him find taciturnity and duplicity attractive. He looked outside. The end of autumn was approaching. There was only a motley of few weather-beaten brown-reddish leaves hanging onto two branches of a maple tree in his backyard. The grass on the lawn already turned grey-yellowish. Beyond the iron fence, several scrawny cranes were fishing in the large drainage pond overgrown with weeds. He thought of her stupid, ignorant remarks of a few weeks ago. Once again, he found the wisdom in being silent and not revealing his thoughts. There was no advantage to let others what he really thought of them Most of them wouldn't have the courage to accept his judgments and assessments. He reminded himself that he must at all times be as cool, not as cucumber, but as a liar in the act of trying to talk himself out of a jam, and as placid as a pond in a windless early morning in the fall. Ever since he had a satori moment a few weeks ago when the stupid hag uttered some lying words about his character, he has tried to conduct himself with shibumi. Last night he had a horrific bad luck, but he kept his mouth shut and moved on. All his knowledge and understanding about life amounted to nothing if he couldn't take bad lucks with equanimity and understated elegance.
6. He looked at women with bemused detachment. He now understood why certain women of the past viewed him the way they did. It was not their fault. He was already near the end of his life. Wisdom came a bit late. Ambition and insouciance are embedded with youth. Youth thinks it invents the world. Maturity respects the world that it finds. He used to be a man of iron will, a veritable fortress of restraint and fidelity. Somehow he lost much of it along the way. Ironically in the twilight of his life, he tried to recapture the lost will and to rebuild the citadel of self-restraint while trying not to show contempt to the fucking cowards who put on a show of wise cynicism.
7. The morning was cold, way down frigid. Winter has finally arrived at this fucking desolate patch of land. He walked outside to inspect the backyard vegetable garden. Thin layer of frost was covering the ground. Foggy breaths emanated from his nostrils, temporarily hanging in the the crisp, wintry dry air and then just disappeared. The impermanence of appearances and the cycle of life. He felt somewhat unhinged. Love was not what he conceived it to be. It had more to do with ego and pride than true flutterings of the heart. Today there was a news report about a lonely Australian obstetrician-gynecologist being swindled out of 3.5 million because he was smitten for some Chinese-Australian woman. He felt nauseous after reading the news because a tsunami of repressed bitter memories washed over him. he was wiser now, but that didn't mean the desire to set things right was completely dead. There is no bigger fool than a fool in love. And there is no blacker list than that of a perpetually disillusioned lover. Love can be beautiful. And it can be way ugly. So many dastardly deeds performed and revolting language uttered in the name of love. Recently he said goodbye to two women. They both reacted violently and used extremely vulgar language when denouncing him. Of course, he didn't actually hear the foul gutter language. He didn't answer their calls. They left their filthy messages on the voicemail.
8.
(to be continued)
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
Thursday, November 17, 2011
Poker and Day Trading
Poker and Stock Day Trading
There exists a myth concerning poker and stock day trading. Both activities are regarded as forms of gambling. But the fact of the matter is that while one can approach these activities as adventures and with an attitude of a gambler, thus exposing oneself to inordinate risks and possible financial ruin, one possibly makes a decent living by playing poker and trading stocks on a daily basis with a conservative, risk-controlled orientation.
The Factor of Chance (a.k.a. Luck)
Due to the presence of chance in poker, as in all forms of gambling, rank amateurs fail to realize that poker is essentially a game of skills (barring no cheating, thus, it is strongly recommended that you play the game in a casino where the cards are shuffled by a machine). Since skills can be acquiSred and improved by practice and learning (via books and tutors) theoretically you should defeat opponents with lesser skills as luck (good luck versus bad luck) would even out in the long run.
The elements of Greed and Fear
Greed and Fear are dominant emotions in most human activities, but they are especially predominant in poker and day trading because they involve expansion and survival. To be successful in the pursuits of poker and day trading, you must not be overly concerned with enhancement or preservation of wealth, but rather with optimal decision-making.
Psychological Dimensions
Since your opponents are most likely human (except for computer-driven trading), it pays to understand the psychological make-up of yourself and of your opponents, and the factors behind each decision, yours and theirs.
Money Management
It does not really matter if you possess all the technical skills and psychological knowledge, you would not stay a winner for long if you don't know how to manage your money. The road to financial ruin is littered with once-successful players and traders who either took on undue risks or squandered their money on ego-enhancement or sensuous pleasures.
Taxes
This is the only area where poker is different from day trading. Unless you exclusively make money by playing poker tournaments, you can hide your winnings from the prying eyes of the IRS by playing only cash games in poker.
Conclusion
This brief article has touched only the most salient points of the games of poker and day trading. There is a voluminous literature on the subjects in the bookstores and in the cyberspace. You can be a winner in these endeavors if you have a rationalistic, unemotional disposition towards games and problem-solving because poker and day trading, like most games (love, sports, languages) invented by humans, have certain rules you must follow religiously if you aspire to come out on top.
Wissai
Roberto Wissai/NKBa'
There exists a myth concerning poker and stock day trading. Both activities are regarded as forms of gambling. But the fact of the matter is that while one can approach these activities as adventures and with an attitude of a gambler, thus exposing oneself to inordinate risks and possible financial ruin, one possibly makes a decent living by playing poker and trading stocks on a daily basis with a conservative, risk-controlled orientation.
The Factor of Chance (a.k.a. Luck)
Due to the presence of chance in poker, as in all forms of gambling, rank amateurs fail to realize that poker is essentially a game of skills (barring no cheating, thus, it is strongly recommended that you play the game in a casino where the cards are shuffled by a machine). Since skills can be acquiSred and improved by practice and learning (via books and tutors) theoretically you should defeat opponents with lesser skills as luck (good luck versus bad luck) would even out in the long run.
The elements of Greed and Fear
Greed and Fear are dominant emotions in most human activities, but they are especially predominant in poker and day trading because they involve expansion and survival. To be successful in the pursuits of poker and day trading, you must not be overly concerned with enhancement or preservation of wealth, but rather with optimal decision-making.
Psychological Dimensions
Since your opponents are most likely human (except for computer-driven trading), it pays to understand the psychological make-up of yourself and of your opponents, and the factors behind each decision, yours and theirs.
Money Management
It does not really matter if you possess all the technical skills and psychological knowledge, you would not stay a winner for long if you don't know how to manage your money. The road to financial ruin is littered with once-successful players and traders who either took on undue risks or squandered their money on ego-enhancement or sensuous pleasures.
Taxes
This is the only area where poker is different from day trading. Unless you exclusively make money by playing poker tournaments, you can hide your winnings from the prying eyes of the IRS by playing only cash games in poker.
Conclusion
This brief article has touched only the most salient points of the games of poker and day trading. There is a voluminous literature on the subjects in the bookstores and in the cyberspace. You can be a winner in these endeavors if you have a rationalistic, unemotional disposition towards games and problem-solving because poker and day trading, like most games (love, sports, languages) invented by humans, have certain rules you must follow religiously if you aspire to come out on top.
Wissai
Roberto Wissai/NKBa'
Sunday, November 13, 2011
Life and Death Ad Nauseam
What can I say when I encounter lies, miserliness, self-righteousness, cowardice, and all the wonderful qualities that afflict most members of the human species? I have tried silence, sarcasm, and susurrous sermons; I have attempted thunderous denunciations; I have essayed sweet whisperings. Finally, I gave up and came back to my shell and now am attempting to bring a stone axe down on the frozen sea within me.
So, what the fuck I can say to myself, to my own private, isolated, shut-down, sheltered, completely alone self that the bitch who I thought loved me turned out just to be another nagging, motor mouth old hag with a baditude? That I was stupid and gullible and dumb and naive at the ripe old age of 62? That I have begun to beat an emotional retreat (the physical retreat will come later. I don't know when. I'm in no fucking hurry) and shut her off from the inner sanctum of my soul? Yes, I am doing all those and more. Life is full of surprises and there are no angels. Only bitches. Take my word. If you don't, you'll be in a fucking world full of hurt. Do I sound bitter and disappointed? You can bet your sweet ass that I do. Anyway, I have nobody but myself to blame for my predicament. That's what I got for ot playing the game of life right. I am getting wiser, I'm telling you, starting today. Now I know why people keep telling me that I am stupid and naive.
The weather of today has been quite gorgeous. The sky is blue; the ambient temperature hovers in the middle 50's with soft breezes blowing from the south. But I feel like I'm living in a twilight zone with a perpetual permafrost inside my heart. I feel gray and cold and cynical. I don't take any bitch's word at face value anymore. Apparently I am not the one who feels like that. This afternoon some chica intoned that she had been advised by her psychotherapist-cum-hair dresser that I was full of bs. When I expressed surprise and indignation at that faux, foolish, farty accusation, my interlocutor danced away from the outrageous characterization and clarified that the stupid and homemade and homely psychologist humbug said that the bs epithet was reserved for the whole class of Vietnamese men, and not my own puny little self. I rhetorically queried that how many Vietnamese men the stupid haircutter actually "knew". I really hate bitches who make broad, unsubstantiated categorizations and generalizations. Oops, a discerning reader probably would take me to a woodshed and spank the daylight out of me because I myself was guilty of a broad, unsavory allegation when I said earlier that life was full of surprises, at least to me, and that there were no angels, only bitches. Maybe the statistical sample (26 so far) of women that I encountered was not credible enough, but it was big enough a sample for me. And I am in no mood to "sample" any more women. You wouldn't either if you were in my shoes. Am I sounding misogynistic? Not really. Just wary and weary. A simple case of lassitude. Since I no longer adore myself nor women, nowadays I just adorn my house with books and my face with a perpetual sneer and an occasional snicker, especially when I see assholes pontificate and bitches wax poetic about how "nice" and "honest" and "high class" they are.
Predictably enough, some bitch who had nothing better to do in a Saturday evening surfed the Internet and somehow wandered into this blog of mine and had a hissy fit after reading this particular entry. The hussy a.k.a. the harridan registered ire and outrage at the tone of the language. By the way, she apparently couldn't tell advertising apart from pornography. Advertising gives beautiful names to ugly things while pornography lends ugly names to beautiful things. What I have written so far in this meandering narrative is a combination of advertising and poetry via psychotherapy. On the other hand, the narrative could be nothing but a combination of complacency, arrogance, ignorance, and petulance. I recently came to a realization that the world is a truly savage place and life in its essence is an unending contest for supremacy. While I still do try to find pabulum in higher aspirations, I now tell myself that in order to survive unscathed, I must deal with the savages in their own terms. In other words, I have to interact with them with a ferocious savagery when the circumstances call for such a conduct.
Yes, you are right if you think I am trying to infuse this blog of mine with an adrenaline-fueled, scorching, rip-roaring, unforgettable prose full of braggadocio and plain bullshit. Any reader who looks for soul-lifting verities had better look somewhere else. But if he is interested in some el cheapo verbal entertainment, he is at the right place. In fact, I would even say he has found a home. He would find out that, as I did, that when you're alone for a long time you have no choice but to confront yourself. You gain a self-knowledge if you don't break down first and go loco. Nietzsche was right. If you don't collapse and crumble, you will stand tall and strong. What didn't destroy you, will make you stronger. Your whole fucking being is like a muscle. It responds to stimuli and stress. If it can survive the challenge, it will be stronger. A simple case of experience and practice. Sounds sufficiently suffused with sagacity, right? Wrong! I just heard over the cassette some love songs of yore. And I just crumbled inside; my eyes moistened with long suppressed tears. Tears of sorrow, of a love gone horribly wrong. But what could I do now except soldiering on?
What makes me persist in asserting myself, in reminding myself that I am indelibly, undeniably Vietnamese despite all the pressures to conform to the mainstream and to forget where I was born? The language, the food, the music, I suppose. Of the three, the music is the most powerful . Certain songs trigger a tsunami of memories. They unmoor my mind. I see it drifting across space and time and I am back in Vietnam once more, the Vietnam of my youth. My body experiences a feeling, a sensation of memories of innocence and naïveté.
Somebody once told me about borders. Borders are more than just physical, he intoned. "They are often a state of mind. There are mental borders and there are moral borders. If you cross the first kind you can perhaps make the round trip. But if you cross the second, you are very unlikely to come back. Your return ticket is cancelled. You are a changed person. You are on your own. Very lonely. And very eager to justify yourself besides adopting a cynical, know-it-all persona."
I know all about borders, and not just physical kind. I crossed them, back and forth, at will. To be honest, I don't where I belong. I am a modern-day Hamlet with regard to morality. I only know I need to be more brutal and less indecisive. At any rate, one time long ago, circa 2001 right before the attack on the World Trade Center, my six-feet-two girlfriend asked me to tell her about Vietnam. Dreamily I told her "about golden beaches edged in emerald necklaces of jungle. About water so green and blue that only a stoned God could have dreamed up the colors. Told her about crazy, motley birds doing Charlie Parker riffs at the incitement of sunrise, about small-framed brownish-yellowish men and women with smiles as white and pure as winter and hearts to match. About sunsets of gentle fire, warm but not burning, satin black nights lit only by star shine."
(to be continued)
So, what the fuck I can say to myself, to my own private, isolated, shut-down, sheltered, completely alone self that the bitch who I thought loved me turned out just to be another nagging, motor mouth old hag with a baditude? That I was stupid and gullible and dumb and naive at the ripe old age of 62? That I have begun to beat an emotional retreat (the physical retreat will come later. I don't know when. I'm in no fucking hurry) and shut her off from the inner sanctum of my soul? Yes, I am doing all those and more. Life is full of surprises and there are no angels. Only bitches. Take my word. If you don't, you'll be in a fucking world full of hurt. Do I sound bitter and disappointed? You can bet your sweet ass that I do. Anyway, I have nobody but myself to blame for my predicament. That's what I got for ot playing the game of life right. I am getting wiser, I'm telling you, starting today. Now I know why people keep telling me that I am stupid and naive.
The weather of today has been quite gorgeous. The sky is blue; the ambient temperature hovers in the middle 50's with soft breezes blowing from the south. But I feel like I'm living in a twilight zone with a perpetual permafrost inside my heart. I feel gray and cold and cynical. I don't take any bitch's word at face value anymore. Apparently I am not the one who feels like that. This afternoon some chica intoned that she had been advised by her psychotherapist-cum-hair dresser that I was full of bs. When I expressed surprise and indignation at that faux, foolish, farty accusation, my interlocutor danced away from the outrageous characterization and clarified that the stupid and homemade and homely psychologist humbug said that the bs epithet was reserved for the whole class of Vietnamese men, and not my own puny little self. I rhetorically queried that how many Vietnamese men the stupid haircutter actually "knew". I really hate bitches who make broad, unsubstantiated categorizations and generalizations. Oops, a discerning reader probably would take me to a woodshed and spank the daylight out of me because I myself was guilty of a broad, unsavory allegation when I said earlier that life was full of surprises, at least to me, and that there were no angels, only bitches. Maybe the statistical sample (26 so far) of women that I encountered was not credible enough, but it was big enough a sample for me. And I am in no mood to "sample" any more women. You wouldn't either if you were in my shoes. Am I sounding misogynistic? Not really. Just wary and weary. A simple case of lassitude. Since I no longer adore myself nor women, nowadays I just adorn my house with books and my face with a perpetual sneer and an occasional snicker, especially when I see assholes pontificate and bitches wax poetic about how "nice" and "honest" and "high class" they are.
Predictably enough, some bitch who had nothing better to do in a Saturday evening surfed the Internet and somehow wandered into this blog of mine and had a hissy fit after reading this particular entry. The hussy a.k.a. the harridan registered ire and outrage at the tone of the language. By the way, she apparently couldn't tell advertising apart from pornography. Advertising gives beautiful names to ugly things while pornography lends ugly names to beautiful things. What I have written so far in this meandering narrative is a combination of advertising and poetry via psychotherapy. On the other hand, the narrative could be nothing but a combination of complacency, arrogance, ignorance, and petulance. I recently came to a realization that the world is a truly savage place and life in its essence is an unending contest for supremacy. While I still do try to find pabulum in higher aspirations, I now tell myself that in order to survive unscathed, I must deal with the savages in their own terms. In other words, I have to interact with them with a ferocious savagery when the circumstances call for such a conduct.
Yes, you are right if you think I am trying to infuse this blog of mine with an adrenaline-fueled, scorching, rip-roaring, unforgettable prose full of braggadocio and plain bullshit. Any reader who looks for soul-lifting verities had better look somewhere else. But if he is interested in some el cheapo verbal entertainment, he is at the right place. In fact, I would even say he has found a home. He would find out that, as I did, that when you're alone for a long time you have no choice but to confront yourself. You gain a self-knowledge if you don't break down first and go loco. Nietzsche was right. If you don't collapse and crumble, you will stand tall and strong. What didn't destroy you, will make you stronger. Your whole fucking being is like a muscle. It responds to stimuli and stress. If it can survive the challenge, it will be stronger. A simple case of experience and practice. Sounds sufficiently suffused with sagacity, right? Wrong! I just heard over the cassette some love songs of yore. And I just crumbled inside; my eyes moistened with long suppressed tears. Tears of sorrow, of a love gone horribly wrong. But what could I do now except soldiering on?
What makes me persist in asserting myself, in reminding myself that I am indelibly, undeniably Vietnamese despite all the pressures to conform to the mainstream and to forget where I was born? The language, the food, the music, I suppose. Of the three, the music is the most powerful . Certain songs trigger a tsunami of memories. They unmoor my mind. I see it drifting across space and time and I am back in Vietnam once more, the Vietnam of my youth. My body experiences a feeling, a sensation of memories of innocence and naïveté.
Somebody once told me about borders. Borders are more than just physical, he intoned. "They are often a state of mind. There are mental borders and there are moral borders. If you cross the first kind you can perhaps make the round trip. But if you cross the second, you are very unlikely to come back. Your return ticket is cancelled. You are a changed person. You are on your own. Very lonely. And very eager to justify yourself besides adopting a cynical, know-it-all persona."
I know all about borders, and not just physical kind. I crossed them, back and forth, at will. To be honest, I don't where I belong. I am a modern-day Hamlet with regard to morality. I only know I need to be more brutal and less indecisive. At any rate, one time long ago, circa 2001 right before the attack on the World Trade Center, my six-feet-two girlfriend asked me to tell her about Vietnam. Dreamily I told her "about golden beaches edged in emerald necklaces of jungle. About water so green and blue that only a stoned God could have dreamed up the colors. Told her about crazy, motley birds doing Charlie Parker riffs at the incitement of sunrise, about small-framed brownish-yellowish men and women with smiles as white and pure as winter and hearts to match. About sunsets of gentle fire, warm but not burning, satin black nights lit only by star shine."
(to be continued)
Thursday, November 10, 2011
Wonderful Obituary
Rarely did an obituary strike me like a thunderbolt, stunning me with its power of eloquence and unforgettable beauty. The concatenation of its words left an indelible mark on my psyche and lulled me to a peaceful, trouble-free sleep.
From Sophie Dahl about her grandmother Patricia Neal, 84, an actress:
"She delighted in the simple: the depth of a sunflower, a doggy bag, a loud curse word, a filthy story. In the dearth of her memory, one was Darling, Divine One or Beauty, and anyone who was so addressed by her would know the honor that it carried.
She was regal in every inch of her being, even in the face of the cancer that ravaged her. She told my aunt Ophelia that she was "a little offended" she had cancer, and why shouldn't she be? She had been so close to death in her life, danced neatly away from him, and here he was again, darkening her door.
Mor-Mor, as she was known to me, my siblings, and cousins, died this summer, in her own bed, surrounded by her family. She told me she'd be gone before my baby was born, and she was right. The night before, she had dinner with her kids, kissed them each, raised a glass and told them she'd had "a lovely time."
Wissai
From Sophie Dahl about her grandmother Patricia Neal, 84, an actress:
"She delighted in the simple: the depth of a sunflower, a doggy bag, a loud curse word, a filthy story. In the dearth of her memory, one was Darling, Divine One or Beauty, and anyone who was so addressed by her would know the honor that it carried.
She was regal in every inch of her being, even in the face of the cancer that ravaged her. She told my aunt Ophelia that she was "a little offended" she had cancer, and why shouldn't she be? She had been so close to death in her life, danced neatly away from him, and here he was again, darkening her door.
Mor-Mor, as she was known to me, my siblings, and cousins, died this summer, in her own bed, surrounded by her family. She told me she'd be gone before my baby was born, and she was right. The night before, she had dinner with her kids, kissed them each, raised a glass and told them she'd had "a lovely time."
Wissai
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
Courage and Meanings of Life
Some humans are cowards; others are heroes. Some humans behave like assholes and animals; others conduct themselves with grace and dignity. Why is there a difference? Why some humans lie shamelessly day in and day out while others assiduously adhere to facts and truths. Would any of you help me understand why humans don't behave the same way, why there is a marked variance in human behavior, and little in animal behavior, and why some humans are even worse than animals by virtue of their cowardice, constant lying, persistent showing off of pseudo-knowledge without an iota of substantiation, hunger for fame, and most despicable trait of all: lack of patriotism. Is that because humans allegedly have free will? Are virtues inborn or cultivated?
Thank you.
Wissai
Thank you.
Wissai
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
Memory and Loss, My Version
I woke up late and tired, as usual. In fact, I woke up on account of rain. Bursts of rolling thunder and the splattering rain hitting the bedroom window panes woke me up. I opened my eyes. The struggling light managed to get through the Venetian blinds. I looked at the watch. I only slept for five hours. Not enough if I want to live long to collect my Social Security and Pension benefits. Last night, a melancholy piece written by a black Marine veteran about the memory and the collapse of his marriage shook me to the core. I knew about memory and loss. I knew about love. I was foolish and green and stupidly idealistic. And I was madly in love with Laura who dumped me for some guy who she thought was better than me. He in turned dumped her for a beautiful woman from Hue, the former imperial city of Vietnam. I met both him and his beautiful wife, (by chance. The earth is really small, believe me.) about five years after Laura brutally left me.
Anyway, I couldn't write as well as the ex-Marine. I couldn't recapture the pain and the hurt and oppressive weight of the memory of good times. But I could feel and empathize what he went through.
Many women have loved me. Many women have had sex with me. Yet, nobody really has been able to shake loose the memory of loss and pain associated with Laura. That's why I have concluded that the idea of romantic love is bullshit and dangerous. Don't you ever open wide your heart, otherwise you will get hurt, otherwise memory of loss and pain will stay with you for a long time. And nothing really can make it fade away, not even time. Time will make it tolerable, but time will not make it disappear.
I am 62 years of age now. I think I finally get wiser and really understand myself and women from all the years of wandering in the wilderness of love and money and power and status. I have finally graduated from the School of Hard Knocks. I have blown three-fourths of my wealth on gaining the experience of understanding the human heart. I am determined to hang on the quarter of that wealth in my old age. After years of flirting with self-destruction and reckless adventures, I now want to live until 100 years of age. I now speak less, eat less, and think and study more. I find life irresistible. I want to fully live, but without the unnecessary risks of my youth. As for Laura, she never left the recesses of my mind. She is there to remind me that love is just a four-letter word, a shortcut for a longer word: bullshit. Who says life is not meaningful without love? I am going to prove that that is a fucking (pun intended) myth. However, sex is something else altogether, but not without dangers and costs to the pocketbook, health, and careers. Look the damages it has brought to the the top echelons at Penn State University after it was revealed a football's defense coordinator sexually abused boys in his "charitable programs" on the school campus. Maybe I have a low sex drive, but I never understand why certain men and women risked everything and hurt themselves and those around them in order to satisfy the sexual urge even if they knew that urge was not of the normal and thus acceptable kind. Why can't they control it or at least find an outlet for it via imagination and sublimation. I have a lot of illogical and irrational dreams and wishes, but so far I have managed to have them under control. I have not killed anybody. And I have not done any acts of sexual impropriety. I am an intensely proud man and I do have a disdain and contempt for most humans. That's why I have refrained from doing anything to invite scorn and contempt upon myself. I have lived within the boundaries of decency and decorum. There is nothing more despicable than to lack self-control and commit sexual acts which are outside the norm. Man is not an animal. He has will-power. He can use his will-power to override his instincts and desires. I pity those who are the slaves of their sex urges. As the heading of today's meditation says, one must go through life with courage and one must find meaning and purpose in one's existence. We are humans, not a pebble or a piece of dry dog shit by the side of the road. We can sing, write poetry, build awesome buildings and monuments, and fight to the death to defend our family and our fatherland. We surely can find ways to control our unwholesome sexual urges or even wild, crazy romantic feelings.
Wissai
Wissai
Anyway, I couldn't write as well as the ex-Marine. I couldn't recapture the pain and the hurt and oppressive weight of the memory of good times. But I could feel and empathize what he went through.
Many women have loved me. Many women have had sex with me. Yet, nobody really has been able to shake loose the memory of loss and pain associated with Laura. That's why I have concluded that the idea of romantic love is bullshit and dangerous. Don't you ever open wide your heart, otherwise you will get hurt, otherwise memory of loss and pain will stay with you for a long time. And nothing really can make it fade away, not even time. Time will make it tolerable, but time will not make it disappear.
I am 62 years of age now. I think I finally get wiser and really understand myself and women from all the years of wandering in the wilderness of love and money and power and status. I have finally graduated from the School of Hard Knocks. I have blown three-fourths of my wealth on gaining the experience of understanding the human heart. I am determined to hang on the quarter of that wealth in my old age. After years of flirting with self-destruction and reckless adventures, I now want to live until 100 years of age. I now speak less, eat less, and think and study more. I find life irresistible. I want to fully live, but without the unnecessary risks of my youth. As for Laura, she never left the recesses of my mind. She is there to remind me that love is just a four-letter word, a shortcut for a longer word: bullshit. Who says life is not meaningful without love? I am going to prove that that is a fucking (pun intended) myth. However, sex is something else altogether, but not without dangers and costs to the pocketbook, health, and careers. Look the damages it has brought to the the top echelons at Penn State University after it was revealed a football's defense coordinator sexually abused boys in his "charitable programs" on the school campus. Maybe I have a low sex drive, but I never understand why certain men and women risked everything and hurt themselves and those around them in order to satisfy the sexual urge even if they knew that urge was not of the normal and thus acceptable kind. Why can't they control it or at least find an outlet for it via imagination and sublimation. I have a lot of illogical and irrational dreams and wishes, but so far I have managed to have them under control. I have not killed anybody. And I have not done any acts of sexual impropriety. I am an intensely proud man and I do have a disdain and contempt for most humans. That's why I have refrained from doing anything to invite scorn and contempt upon myself. I have lived within the boundaries of decency and decorum. There is nothing more despicable than to lack self-control and commit sexual acts which are outside the norm. Man is not an animal. He has will-power. He can use his will-power to override his instincts and desires. I pity those who are the slaves of their sex urges. As the heading of today's meditation says, one must go through life with courage and one must find meaning and purpose in one's existence. We are humans, not a pebble or a piece of dry dog shit by the side of the road. We can sing, write poetry, build awesome buildings and monuments, and fight to the death to defend our family and our fatherland. We surely can find ways to control our unwholesome sexual urges or even wild, crazy romantic feelings.
Wissai
Wissai
Memory and Loss
Memory… is nothing else than a certain concatenation of ideas…
Baruch Spinoza, Ethics
I.
All photographs courtesy of Maurice Decaul
The author with fellow Marines at the 2003 birthday ball.
A while ago, I was going through my files when I came across a cache of partly crumbled photographs. One was of me holding the sight box for the M252 mortar in Garden City, N.Y., parking lot. In another, I sat with Oum in the open hatch of a UH-1W at Camp White Horse, outside Nasiriyah, Iraq. There was another of me and the guys at the 2003 Marine Corps birthday ball. I looked like a boy in those photos. At the bottom of the stack I found one photo of us standing with First Sgt. Allen. I was wearing a set of borrowed Alphas; she wore a black evening gown, First Sergeant stood adorned in dress blues, everyone was smiling, teeth shining. I stared at it and whispered to myself, “very different times.”
I’d forgotten about these photos, until one night when I was at her house searching a shoebox and I came across the mangled photo album that had stored them for years. They were all there, near the letters we had sent each other while I was overseas. The photographs were wrinkled, crushed and forgotten like the discarded notions that had once been the impetus for “us.”
Very soon after, a sentiment of resentment splashed with a bit of melancholy began to rise within me so I gathered them and took them when I left.
The parking lot photo showed me standing gaunt and blank wearing woodland camouflage the afternoon I left Garden City for Camp Lejeune to prepare to go to Iraq. This was a picture of a young man who was anxious about war but too indoctrinated to acknowledge it. My photo was taken by the woman whom I had married months before, certain that we would grow old together. The day she took my photo she had worn indigo sweatpants, a canary yellow hooded sweatshirt and plain white Converses. Her hair only lightly grazed her shoulders. As I looked at myself in the photo, I began to remember that as the bus departed Garden City that evening, what she had been wearing that day would become my singular unaided recollection of her. From then, I would need a photograph to remind me of the contours of her face. I was puzzled why but time was too precious then to ponder such things. So I let the question slip, promising myself to ask again at another juncture.
II.
I had forgotten her facial features as soon as the bus started rolling. As much as I tried to recall her face, it was as if I had never stored it in the infinite expanse of my long-term memory. But this of course is not true. I recall her face with ease now and I would describe it as round, with high cheekbones and eyes brown and intensely intelligent. She was then and is now quite beautiful. But the evening I left, remembering such details became an exercise in both frustration and futility.
Garden City, N.Y., 2003.
As I began thinking about the answer to my question, I thought that it would be helpful to first define what memory is, so I consulted a text for an answer.
According to “Psychology,” a textbook by Schacter, Gilbert and Wegner, “memories are the residue of [those] events, the enduring changes that experience makes in our brains and leaves behind when it passes.” According to the authors, “if an experience passes without leaving a trace, it might just as well not have happened.” In a sense, our memories define who we become.
Socrates describes memory “as a block of wax.”
Let us say that the tablet is a gift of memory, the mother of the muses; and that when we wish to remember anything which we have seen, or heard, or thought in our own minds, we hold the wax to the perceptions and thoughts, and in the material receive the impressions of them as from the seal of a ring; and that we remember and know what is imprinted as long as the image lasts; but when the image is effaced, or cannot be taken, then we forget and do not know.
While Aristotle, speaking on memory and recollection, notes:
It is obvious, then, that memory belongs to that part of the souls to which imagination belongs; all things which are imaginable are essentially objects of memory and those which necessarily involve imagination are objects of memory incidentally.
The lasting state of which we call memory- as a kind of picture; for the stimulus produced impresses a sort of likeness of the percept, just as when men seal with signet rings.
Hence in some people, through disability or age, memory does not occur even under a strong stimulus, as though the stimulus or seal were applied to running water; while in others owing detrition like that of old walls in buildings, or to the hardness of the receiving surface, the impression does not penetrate. …
We must regard the mental picture within us as both an object of contemplation in itself and as a mental picture of something else.
But we did have experiences that left behind traces that I could recall easily. The trip we took around lower Manhattan on the Circle Line. The day we were married. Us walking to the subway to take the No. 2 train the afternoon of the West Indian Day parade in 2002. These were all pleasant days that come to mind with out any retrieval cues and I believe that the idea of a pleasant day has much to do with why it was so difficult for me to remember her face that other day.
State dependent retrieval is defined by Schacter, Gilbert and Wegner as the tendency for information to be better recalled when the person is in the same state during encoding and retrieval, or more simply when I tried to retrieve an image of her face from that day filled with uncertainty and angst, I found it hard to do so because for the most part, my most vivid memories of her face up until that point included some sort of cheerful experience. Certainly, that day my state of mind, and I suppose hers too, was not the same as the day we were married. Still eight years since, even as our relationship and marriage have collapsed, I find it hard to remember more than what she wore for my grand sendoff and maybe it is O.K. that that day an image of her face was not imprinted on my block of wax.
III.
Kuwait, 2003.
After the initial weeks of settling into Nasiriyah, the sergeants had devised a structure for the platoon’s day to day operations. One day of guard. One day spent patrolling. The third day spent as quick reaction force a k a, the rest day. This cycle was repeated until the morning that we left Iraq for Kuwait. That morning, Frank Sinatra’s “New York, New York” streamed from our Humvees, moving us along like running cadence. That morning I smelled the smoke from our burn pit which rose from the desert like a date palm, for the final time and saw the men of the Italian carabinieri sitting in front of the compound without cover but not without cheerfulness. We waved to each other and I wondered how they would manage the monotony and defend against complacency.
Routines have a way of creating the impression of security. But in Nasiriyah one had to be hypervigilant. One’s weapon had to remain serviced and accessible. One never left the compound without a helmet or an interceptor vest or an interpreter. One stayed on edge awaiting that rare skirmish.
To relieve stress and pass time we would often pontificate about how different life would be once we returned home. For inspiration most of us relied on pictures of wives or girlfriends to ignite recollections or to stimulate dreaming. I taped the picture of her I’d fished from my cargo pocket in Garden City to the roof of my Kevlar and over the months my sweat and the sun’s rays quickened its fading. The morning that we left Nasiriyah, I shared this photo with an Italian who shared with me his talisman, a picture of his small daughter. He asked whether I had children and I said no, but we still joked about how in the future my son would marry his daughter.
There was scuttlebutt about Britain’s Royal Marines habitually burning all traces of home before going into combat and I remember thinking how stoic of them, but I could never bring myself to do it. I correlated her fading image with my tenuous conception of home. I wanted to get home; therefore I wanted to get to her. The photo was my talisman. I sealed it inside a Ziploc bag to stave off continued deterioration and there it stayed until I lost it.
In October I saw on the news that a suicide bombing had occurred in Nasiriyah, not far from where we had been relieved by the Italians, and that the bombing had killed more than a dozen of them. Maybe the Brits had it right all along. What good is sentimentality in the face of circumstance? I had not learned that Italian’s name but that night I got on my knees and prayed for all of them and for him and his family. I haven’t spoken with God in a while but I truly hope that he heard that prayer.
IV.
The author and Oum, a fellow Marine, in Iraq, 2003.
The problem with writing from memory is the problem of truth.
There is a concern when writing nonfiction, autobiography, memoir etc…about truth and relating truth to one’s readers. Truth, of course, is paramount. The reader expects it and it is the writer’s obligation to remain truthful to experience and memory but this notion of truth is not truth with a capital T. It can never be.
In fact, the notion of what is true will be colored by the author’s experience, perception of that experience, his biases and his own fading memories. Stories regardless of genre should be read with these parameters in mind. A piece of nonfiction can never be truly devoid of untruths. What is important is the author’s intention to relate the facts as he truthfully recalls them and the readers’ acceptance of the limitation imposed by nonfiction. Because our memories define who we become, when writing from memory subjectivity though not ideal will color the writing. How one perceives the self will undoubtedly inform how introspective a piece of writing culled from traces of experiences will be.
V.
Several days ago we sat at a diner to talk a few things over and she looked at me squarely and asked, “Did we not have good times?” As I spread jam on my toast, I thought back to the day we took the Circle Line, how at ease she had looked. I thought to myself, “Yes, sometimes.” When the bill came she insisted on paying her share, then we went our own ways.
The next day, I bent to scrub soap scum from my bathtub, half kneeling, half praying. I wanted to inter the unshaven face I regarded in the mirror. I turned the tap and water splattered about the sink and a few drops splashed haphazardly into the cup I was holding. Off. Water from the cup rinsing the loosened soap scum was an earsplitting contrast to life’s insufferable silence. If I succumb to the stillness, I thought… but there is not a soul to talk to in the house except, me.
It was late and the day had slipped unhurriedly by. I walked back into my bedroom and looked down at the chaos of papers and photos strewn across my bed and decided it was time to put it all away.
Maurice Decaul served in the Marine Corps for nearly five years. He deployed to Nasiriyah, Iraq, in 2003 as a squad leader with Weapons Company, 2nd Battalion, 25th Marine Regiment. He lives in Brooklyn and is studying at Columbia University.
Baruch Spinoza, Ethics
I.
All photographs courtesy of Maurice Decaul
The author with fellow Marines at the 2003 birthday ball.
A while ago, I was going through my files when I came across a cache of partly crumbled photographs. One was of me holding the sight box for the M252 mortar in Garden City, N.Y., parking lot. In another, I sat with Oum in the open hatch of a UH-1W at Camp White Horse, outside Nasiriyah, Iraq. There was another of me and the guys at the 2003 Marine Corps birthday ball. I looked like a boy in those photos. At the bottom of the stack I found one photo of us standing with First Sgt. Allen. I was wearing a set of borrowed Alphas; she wore a black evening gown, First Sergeant stood adorned in dress blues, everyone was smiling, teeth shining. I stared at it and whispered to myself, “very different times.”
I’d forgotten about these photos, until one night when I was at her house searching a shoebox and I came across the mangled photo album that had stored them for years. They were all there, near the letters we had sent each other while I was overseas. The photographs were wrinkled, crushed and forgotten like the discarded notions that had once been the impetus for “us.”
Very soon after, a sentiment of resentment splashed with a bit of melancholy began to rise within me so I gathered them and took them when I left.
The parking lot photo showed me standing gaunt and blank wearing woodland camouflage the afternoon I left Garden City for Camp Lejeune to prepare to go to Iraq. This was a picture of a young man who was anxious about war but too indoctrinated to acknowledge it. My photo was taken by the woman whom I had married months before, certain that we would grow old together. The day she took my photo she had worn indigo sweatpants, a canary yellow hooded sweatshirt and plain white Converses. Her hair only lightly grazed her shoulders. As I looked at myself in the photo, I began to remember that as the bus departed Garden City that evening, what she had been wearing that day would become my singular unaided recollection of her. From then, I would need a photograph to remind me of the contours of her face. I was puzzled why but time was too precious then to ponder such things. So I let the question slip, promising myself to ask again at another juncture.
II.
I had forgotten her facial features as soon as the bus started rolling. As much as I tried to recall her face, it was as if I had never stored it in the infinite expanse of my long-term memory. But this of course is not true. I recall her face with ease now and I would describe it as round, with high cheekbones and eyes brown and intensely intelligent. She was then and is now quite beautiful. But the evening I left, remembering such details became an exercise in both frustration and futility.
Garden City, N.Y., 2003.
As I began thinking about the answer to my question, I thought that it would be helpful to first define what memory is, so I consulted a text for an answer.
According to “Psychology,” a textbook by Schacter, Gilbert and Wegner, “memories are the residue of [those] events, the enduring changes that experience makes in our brains and leaves behind when it passes.” According to the authors, “if an experience passes without leaving a trace, it might just as well not have happened.” In a sense, our memories define who we become.
Socrates describes memory “as a block of wax.”
Let us say that the tablet is a gift of memory, the mother of the muses; and that when we wish to remember anything which we have seen, or heard, or thought in our own minds, we hold the wax to the perceptions and thoughts, and in the material receive the impressions of them as from the seal of a ring; and that we remember and know what is imprinted as long as the image lasts; but when the image is effaced, or cannot be taken, then we forget and do not know.
While Aristotle, speaking on memory and recollection, notes:
It is obvious, then, that memory belongs to that part of the souls to which imagination belongs; all things which are imaginable are essentially objects of memory and those which necessarily involve imagination are objects of memory incidentally.
The lasting state of which we call memory- as a kind of picture; for the stimulus produced impresses a sort of likeness of the percept, just as when men seal with signet rings.
Hence in some people, through disability or age, memory does not occur even under a strong stimulus, as though the stimulus or seal were applied to running water; while in others owing detrition like that of old walls in buildings, or to the hardness of the receiving surface, the impression does not penetrate. …
We must regard the mental picture within us as both an object of contemplation in itself and as a mental picture of something else.
But we did have experiences that left behind traces that I could recall easily. The trip we took around lower Manhattan on the Circle Line. The day we were married. Us walking to the subway to take the No. 2 train the afternoon of the West Indian Day parade in 2002. These were all pleasant days that come to mind with out any retrieval cues and I believe that the idea of a pleasant day has much to do with why it was so difficult for me to remember her face that other day.
State dependent retrieval is defined by Schacter, Gilbert and Wegner as the tendency for information to be better recalled when the person is in the same state during encoding and retrieval, or more simply when I tried to retrieve an image of her face from that day filled with uncertainty and angst, I found it hard to do so because for the most part, my most vivid memories of her face up until that point included some sort of cheerful experience. Certainly, that day my state of mind, and I suppose hers too, was not the same as the day we were married. Still eight years since, even as our relationship and marriage have collapsed, I find it hard to remember more than what she wore for my grand sendoff and maybe it is O.K. that that day an image of her face was not imprinted on my block of wax.
III.
Kuwait, 2003.
After the initial weeks of settling into Nasiriyah, the sergeants had devised a structure for the platoon’s day to day operations. One day of guard. One day spent patrolling. The third day spent as quick reaction force a k a, the rest day. This cycle was repeated until the morning that we left Iraq for Kuwait. That morning, Frank Sinatra’s “New York, New York” streamed from our Humvees, moving us along like running cadence. That morning I smelled the smoke from our burn pit which rose from the desert like a date palm, for the final time and saw the men of the Italian carabinieri sitting in front of the compound without cover but not without cheerfulness. We waved to each other and I wondered how they would manage the monotony and defend against complacency.
Routines have a way of creating the impression of security. But in Nasiriyah one had to be hypervigilant. One’s weapon had to remain serviced and accessible. One never left the compound without a helmet or an interceptor vest or an interpreter. One stayed on edge awaiting that rare skirmish.
To relieve stress and pass time we would often pontificate about how different life would be once we returned home. For inspiration most of us relied on pictures of wives or girlfriends to ignite recollections or to stimulate dreaming. I taped the picture of her I’d fished from my cargo pocket in Garden City to the roof of my Kevlar and over the months my sweat and the sun’s rays quickened its fading. The morning that we left Nasiriyah, I shared this photo with an Italian who shared with me his talisman, a picture of his small daughter. He asked whether I had children and I said no, but we still joked about how in the future my son would marry his daughter.
There was scuttlebutt about Britain’s Royal Marines habitually burning all traces of home before going into combat and I remember thinking how stoic of them, but I could never bring myself to do it. I correlated her fading image with my tenuous conception of home. I wanted to get home; therefore I wanted to get to her. The photo was my talisman. I sealed it inside a Ziploc bag to stave off continued deterioration and there it stayed until I lost it.
In October I saw on the news that a suicide bombing had occurred in Nasiriyah, not far from where we had been relieved by the Italians, and that the bombing had killed more than a dozen of them. Maybe the Brits had it right all along. What good is sentimentality in the face of circumstance? I had not learned that Italian’s name but that night I got on my knees and prayed for all of them and for him and his family. I haven’t spoken with God in a while but I truly hope that he heard that prayer.
IV.
The author and Oum, a fellow Marine, in Iraq, 2003.
The problem with writing from memory is the problem of truth.
There is a concern when writing nonfiction, autobiography, memoir etc…about truth and relating truth to one’s readers. Truth, of course, is paramount. The reader expects it and it is the writer’s obligation to remain truthful to experience and memory but this notion of truth is not truth with a capital T. It can never be.
In fact, the notion of what is true will be colored by the author’s experience, perception of that experience, his biases and his own fading memories. Stories regardless of genre should be read with these parameters in mind. A piece of nonfiction can never be truly devoid of untruths. What is important is the author’s intention to relate the facts as he truthfully recalls them and the readers’ acceptance of the limitation imposed by nonfiction. Because our memories define who we become, when writing from memory subjectivity though not ideal will color the writing. How one perceives the self will undoubtedly inform how introspective a piece of writing culled from traces of experiences will be.
V.
Several days ago we sat at a diner to talk a few things over and she looked at me squarely and asked, “Did we not have good times?” As I spread jam on my toast, I thought back to the day we took the Circle Line, how at ease she had looked. I thought to myself, “Yes, sometimes.” When the bill came she insisted on paying her share, then we went our own ways.
The next day, I bent to scrub soap scum from my bathtub, half kneeling, half praying. I wanted to inter the unshaven face I regarded in the mirror. I turned the tap and water splattered about the sink and a few drops splashed haphazardly into the cup I was holding. Off. Water from the cup rinsing the loosened soap scum was an earsplitting contrast to life’s insufferable silence. If I succumb to the stillness, I thought… but there is not a soul to talk to in the house except, me.
It was late and the day had slipped unhurriedly by. I walked back into my bedroom and looked down at the chaos of papers and photos strewn across my bed and decided it was time to put it all away.
Maurice Decaul served in the Marine Corps for nearly five years. He deployed to Nasiriyah, Iraq, in 2003 as a squad leader with Weapons Company, 2nd Battalion, 25th Marine Regiment. He lives in Brooklyn and is studying at Columbia University.
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
Language, Music, Consciousness, and the Brain
I took an IQ test today. I got a score of 30! That made me a very stupid idiot, considering anybody who scores 70 is considered an imbecile already. I don't know what happened to my brain. About seven years ago, I scored 135 twice with on the same test, taken two months apart. I am not worried about the deterioration of my brain. I know I am getting smarter albeit slower. I mean to say I think more deeply and more incisively. I use language more correctly. Better yet, I have more empathy, so I lie better, too. That made me realize I used to be very stupid and dumb. Anyway, I know I am quite special by virtue of my realization that not only I pay attention to language in general and nine languages (Vietnamese, English, French, Spanish, German, Chinese, Italian, Portuguese, and Latin), I also contemplate on the nature of consciousness and music.
If I seem to be bragging of my mental prowess, it ain't so. I am just taking stock of where I am. So, now you know besides talking ad nauseam about lost loves and exploring the contours of grief, I spend my time thinking about language, consciousness, and music. Yes, I know they are related. Actually, all mental processes are related in some form.
I just watched a show on History channel, talking about 2012, supposedly about prophecies of the end of time, at least on this planet. I don't believe in prophecies and all this shit about apocalypse. All this fascination about the end reflects fear and a carryover of the pernicious effects of the superstitions in the Book, that compilation of pseudo-history and bullshit, replete of tales of supposed miracles. It was designed to fool infantile minds. Still, as I watched the program, I paid attention to the reactions of my own mind, the repository of awareness and lingering rationality. Then I suddenly remembered the incredible arrogance of the dude who tried to evince that he was superior to the rest of mankind for having supposedly come up with a new theory of linguistics, but he never specified what the fucking new theory was all about. He was just being coy and cryptic while being smug that he alone possessed the key to the portal of new knowledge about linguistics. His attitude reflected nothing but intellectual dishonesty and delusions.
My mind didn't just stop there. It made a leap into the mysteries of psychedelic drugs, the pain I went through at the hands of Laurence, the deviousness of certain bitches, and the incipient doubts I am having towards Harriet for her failure to keep her word. Of course, as my mind raced through all those unpleasant memories involving human duplicity, I felt alone, very much alone.
I always have good insights while taking a dump. I don't know why. Anyway, ten minutes ago when I was sitting on the toilet, I thought about the nature of true love. True love always, to me, involves a certain irrationality and pain and anger and mixed feelings from the one who loves and a tremendous amount of inspiration and contemplation from the love object. We love others for what we long to have and and we hate them for what we hate within ourselves. I strongly disagree with a reviewer (Cathleen Schine) of Joan Didion's Blue Nights, who wrote that "there can be no preparation for tragedy, no protection from it, and so, finally, no consolation." Cathleen, you are wrong, wrong, wrong. With a proper preparation for a certain mindset (Buddhist, for instance), you can deal with anything, including death. The world we inhabit is full of surprises, but at least there is one certainty, and that is our life is finite and there are moments of pain. We just have to learn to go with the flow and maintain equanimity. Pain usually comes from a having a sense of grievance and entitlement. You don't love me so I am sad and even angry at you for your stupidity of not seeing how much I love you. That's absurd! The proper response is okay, you don't appreciate who I am. That's okay, I will just have to move on. I don't know if I can ever forget you, but I will try. I once loved Laura for over 30 years because I thought she was good and kind and worthy of my love. One Sunday morning after a good night sleep, I woke up and looked outside the window. A solitary bird was streaking across the empty vast blue sky. I had my moment of satori. I was free. I stopped loving Laura because I suddenly saw her for what she was. As simple as that. Enlightenment came from understanding. Now I'm busy working on my health, my mind, and my financial well-being. I don't give a shit about love anymore. And yet, unexpectedly, women of all ages and stripes of political and religious persuasions are falling for me. I'm shunning them all. I tell myself, "where was the fuck you women were when I was blue and stupid, lonely and dumb?"
Yesterday, a casual woman friend called me out of the blue and asked me if I wanted to fuck. I said, "No thanks, what for? Not at my age. Besides, I hardly know you. Call me back six months later. By then, I might change my mind." She said, "Fuck you!" and clicked off the phone. Some people are so predictable. I am not. People think I am, but actually I am not.
Turning down an opportunity for a free sex just like that made me realize that I have arrived, that I have made it in the art of living. Now I just have to be equally good in the art of dying. I mean, everyday I have to be calm and unperturbed, disciplined and focused, while waiting for death. It sounds morbid, but in reality (my reality, anyway) it is a lot of fun. You should try it. You might like it. People have their blogs and write all kinds of political essays. They get famous. They feel gratified. Here I write in my blog all kinds of shit but not politics. No wonder I have two followers. One is about to drop out because she is tired of waiting. Waiting for what?I wonder. Everybody thinks they are charming and pretty and desirable. I said, " Please! Look at yourself in the mirror. Examine your bank statement. Look into your mind. Be honest with yourself." The other day Kim told me that I was easy to seduce. I countered, "Try me!" Shit, does anybody really understand me?
I am tired now. Writing all these words took a lot out of me. I need to repose. I'll be back, if you're still around. If you're not, I don't give a fuck. An asshole read my blog. He called me up and said, "Who do you think you are? Another Dostoevsky." "No", I replied. He waited for me to say something more, but I didn't. He then asked me why I wrote the way I did. I told him I didn't need to explain to him. If he had to ask, he would not be able to understand my answer. Then I clicked off the phone.
(to be continued)
If I seem to be bragging of my mental prowess, it ain't so. I am just taking stock of where I am. So, now you know besides talking ad nauseam about lost loves and exploring the contours of grief, I spend my time thinking about language, consciousness, and music. Yes, I know they are related. Actually, all mental processes are related in some form.
I just watched a show on History channel, talking about 2012, supposedly about prophecies of the end of time, at least on this planet. I don't believe in prophecies and all this shit about apocalypse. All this fascination about the end reflects fear and a carryover of the pernicious effects of the superstitions in the Book, that compilation of pseudo-history and bullshit, replete of tales of supposed miracles. It was designed to fool infantile minds. Still, as I watched the program, I paid attention to the reactions of my own mind, the repository of awareness and lingering rationality. Then I suddenly remembered the incredible arrogance of the dude who tried to evince that he was superior to the rest of mankind for having supposedly come up with a new theory of linguistics, but he never specified what the fucking new theory was all about. He was just being coy and cryptic while being smug that he alone possessed the key to the portal of new knowledge about linguistics. His attitude reflected nothing but intellectual dishonesty and delusions.
My mind didn't just stop there. It made a leap into the mysteries of psychedelic drugs, the pain I went through at the hands of Laurence, the deviousness of certain bitches, and the incipient doubts I am having towards Harriet for her failure to keep her word. Of course, as my mind raced through all those unpleasant memories involving human duplicity, I felt alone, very much alone.
I always have good insights while taking a dump. I don't know why. Anyway, ten minutes ago when I was sitting on the toilet, I thought about the nature of true love. True love always, to me, involves a certain irrationality and pain and anger and mixed feelings from the one who loves and a tremendous amount of inspiration and contemplation from the love object. We love others for what we long to have and and we hate them for what we hate within ourselves. I strongly disagree with a reviewer (Cathleen Schine) of Joan Didion's Blue Nights, who wrote that "there can be no preparation for tragedy, no protection from it, and so, finally, no consolation." Cathleen, you are wrong, wrong, wrong. With a proper preparation for a certain mindset (Buddhist, for instance), you can deal with anything, including death. The world we inhabit is full of surprises, but at least there is one certainty, and that is our life is finite and there are moments of pain. We just have to learn to go with the flow and maintain equanimity. Pain usually comes from a having a sense of grievance and entitlement. You don't love me so I am sad and even angry at you for your stupidity of not seeing how much I love you. That's absurd! The proper response is okay, you don't appreciate who I am. That's okay, I will just have to move on. I don't know if I can ever forget you, but I will try. I once loved Laura for over 30 years because I thought she was good and kind and worthy of my love. One Sunday morning after a good night sleep, I woke up and looked outside the window. A solitary bird was streaking across the empty vast blue sky. I had my moment of satori. I was free. I stopped loving Laura because I suddenly saw her for what she was. As simple as that. Enlightenment came from understanding. Now I'm busy working on my health, my mind, and my financial well-being. I don't give a shit about love anymore. And yet, unexpectedly, women of all ages and stripes of political and religious persuasions are falling for me. I'm shunning them all. I tell myself, "where was the fuck you women were when I was blue and stupid, lonely and dumb?"
Yesterday, a casual woman friend called me out of the blue and asked me if I wanted to fuck. I said, "No thanks, what for? Not at my age. Besides, I hardly know you. Call me back six months later. By then, I might change my mind." She said, "Fuck you!" and clicked off the phone. Some people are so predictable. I am not. People think I am, but actually I am not.
Turning down an opportunity for a free sex just like that made me realize that I have arrived, that I have made it in the art of living. Now I just have to be equally good in the art of dying. I mean, everyday I have to be calm and unperturbed, disciplined and focused, while waiting for death. It sounds morbid, but in reality (my reality, anyway) it is a lot of fun. You should try it. You might like it. People have their blogs and write all kinds of political essays. They get famous. They feel gratified. Here I write in my blog all kinds of shit but not politics. No wonder I have two followers. One is about to drop out because she is tired of waiting. Waiting for what?I wonder. Everybody thinks they are charming and pretty and desirable. I said, " Please! Look at yourself in the mirror. Examine your bank statement. Look into your mind. Be honest with yourself." The other day Kim told me that I was easy to seduce. I countered, "Try me!" Shit, does anybody really understand me?
I am tired now. Writing all these words took a lot out of me. I need to repose. I'll be back, if you're still around. If you're not, I don't give a fuck. An asshole read my blog. He called me up and said, "Who do you think you are? Another Dostoevsky." "No", I replied. He waited for me to say something more, but I didn't. He then asked me why I wrote the way I did. I told him I didn't need to explain to him. If he had to ask, he would not be able to understand my answer. Then I clicked off the phone.
(to be continued)
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