Cẩn Ngôn

The Flowing Tunic That You Wore

2012-02-08T20:33:00.000-08:00

The Flowing Tunic That You Wore

Thời gian ở Pháp, Nguyên Sa có được nhiều bài thơ hay và nổi tiếng nhờ kết duyên cùng âm nhạc, như: Áo lụa Hà Đông, Tuổi mười ba, Paris có gì lạ không em, Tháng Sáu trời mưa… Tuy nhiên, khi tách khỏi âm nhạc thì thơ Nguyên Sa vẫn là thơ Nguyên Sa không lẫn vào bất cứ giá trị nào khác. Chẳng hạn như bài ông viết về chiếc áo dài, không cần phổ nhạc vẫn có rất nhiều người thuộc lòng: “Có phải em mang trên áo bay/ Hai phần gió thổi, một phần may/ Hay là em gói mây trong áo/ Rồi thở cho làn áo trắng bay”.

The Flowing Tunic That You Wore

The flowing tunic that you wore,
Was it made up of two parts blown by the winds
And one part crafted by the seamstress
Or did you pack the clouds in the tunic
Then gently exhale so the white dress could fly?

Wissai
Feb. 8, 2012

Extraneous commentary:

S:
The translation is beautiful. Your gift is demonstrated by your ability to translate from one language to another without loosing the beauty and feeling within the poem. In fact you probably add a bit of each to the work. The ability you have to do such proves my point. -- the gentleness you keep hidden so well and so deep within.
W:
Somebody sent me a write-up about the famous poet's early life in France as a philosophy student. He wrote poetry back then. His poems were philosophical and very hard to render into English. The short poem I translated was not known by me. I liked it very much so I showed off by translating it. I am widely awed and respected by my peers for my genius in translating Việt poems into English. My cockiness and arrogance are rested on this ability. The more books I read and the more poems I translated, the more reasons I have in fucking looking at others like the Monke, the Midget, and the Asshole with disdain and contempt. I don't care for the fucking satori and compassion and understanding and all that shit. Not really. What I've set out to do is to explore the hitherto hidden and unknown parts of myself.

I was driving home and the lyrics of a certain Viet song came up from the subconscious and bothered me. They reminded me of my innocent, gullible past when romantic feelings were supposed to be sublime.

"I showed up for the date
After walking through winding city streets.
You and I decided to meet
So our loneliness would abate
Oh, how lovely the sensation was
When you placed your hand over mine...."

Last night I saw Agnes in a dream. I was with a bunch of young women. In the dream I was a young man, tall, dark, handsome, brash and filled to the brim with confidence. We were catching a bus back to the convention center when she called me on the cell phone. We exchanged pleasantries that got to nowhere. The dream was a variant of the same repeat, recurrent nightmare of loss and mourning and unattainability. I certainly don't love Agnes or Laura anymore, but occasionally they crop up in my dreams, reminding me of how stupid and naive I was.

What is mood? What is suppression? What is memory? Is flashback nothing but suppressed memory roaring back in a fury? I am treading on the slippery, memory-laden terrain of suppressed homicidal flashes of fury where I recognize my stupid, naive, gullible selves being exploited and played with. I'm hearing the haunting howling of my mind at the edges of insanity. And then lo and behold, somebody is whispering the following words into my ears as Valentine Day is approaching:

"I'm looking for a free yet undisciplined spirit I can roll down hills with on sunny days and solve thorny puzzles with when the skies are cloudy. Can you see the absurd in the serious and the serious in the absurd ? Are you a curious chameleon always working to sharpen your communication skills? Might you be attracted to a sweet-talking, absurdly romantic, and wildly disorganized schizophrenic wiseass who's evolving into a holy poet and translator? Emotional package is expected, of course, but please make sure yours is organized and well-packed as mine is disorderly and haphazard. Let's create the most unexpected, intriguing, awesome versions of truth and beauty that nobody has ever imagined!"

How could I tell thee?

2012-02-06T21:57:00.000-08:00

How could I tell thee that thou art full of shit? Seriously, though, you must find out that fact for yourself as I myself did not too long ago when I achieved "satori" while taking a dump in an open field in one fine glorious Sunday morning when the sun was at its zenith and shone brightly upon me. My mind was racing like a ballistic missile through space. In a flash, I took stock of my life and I realized I was stupid and dumb and full of excuses and phony rationalizations. Since then I've been at peace with myself. Flashbacks have been swiftly dealt with; homicidal urges have been acknowledged as normal and stupid and thus discarded; recollections of romantic failures and triumphs have been seen as efforts of finding out about my attraction to the fair sex and not accurate assessments of my true worth. In the end, I must account for myself and I did. Self-honesty is the first step toward liberation from delusions and excuses.

Still, I would have to tell you that my blood boils each time I think of the cheap insults the motherfucker Asshole dished out at me. I can't help but get astounded at his stupidity for playing with fire and his pettiness. No wonder his dog hates his guts. It didn't him to its betrothal with a bitch at the City's Animal Pound. He(The Ashole, not the Dog) is a vile and loathsome animal deserving the most painful punishment.

(to be continued)

Surreptitious Student of Life

2012-01-30T20:35:00.001-08:00

Surreptitious Student of Life

   "A true poet does not bother to be poetical,
   Nor does a nursery gardener perfume his roses."
   Jean Cocteau

You are a surreptitious
C student of life
first thing hummer of Nietzsche
emotional alien
suicidal bug
Yellow Peril: neo-American
way over your head
in love and fiction
self-overrated
Mama's boy
sentimentalist
inveterately romantic
stranger in strange land
forever
lonely
yet always
trust the thrust of your heart's desires
and hanker
after
Peace

Adapted from Chang-Rae Lee, a Korean-American

Roberto Wissai/NKBa'
January 30, 2012

Ironies

2012-01-28T18:15:00.000-08:00

The Saturday morning and afternoon were spent to make friends happy. In other words, I sacrificed my own time which could have been used to make money or rest my weary body. But then unexpectedly by 3 pm, some magical event took place. I was presented with a gift that was worth $1,000, but actually purchased for only $230. As I coolly gazed at the article placed at the table surrounded by my friends who oohed and aahed at the exquisite beauty of the article, my mind turned to all the ironies of my life and I was thankful for being blessed with luck. But then I wondered what luck really was. I used to have an obstreperous personality and that accounted for many unpleasant events in my life. Now I am wiser and more pleasant to deal with, except for certain assholes I cannot stand. And that has been bringing me more luck. What I am realizing that there are humans who persistently think they are nice folks, but they are just plainly delusional. I also think those individuals begin to have no effect on me, except a rather quaint wish that I would like to exterminate them if opportunities present themselves. If you think I am a miserable unhappy, unforgiving, revenge-obsessed son of a bitch, you are half-right. And I don't bother to explain why you are half-wrong. You would neither understand nor believe me, anyway. You would conveniently forget, as the Asshole does, that I have spent decades thinking of how to make sense of my life while knowing that in the big scheme of things, I am nothing and insignificant. Okay, I've done enough inveighing and railing against trivialities and nonsense. It's time for me to get serious with my remaining time on this planet.

Einstein once was reputed to remark that everybody is a genius of some kind, but if a fish judges its worth by its ability to climb a tree, it will spend its whole life believing that it is hopelessly stupid. Think about this remark long enough and you may realize that happiness is not a state you get there by luck. It takes understanding and and knowledge of oneself and others. I'm not saying that I'm happy right now. I'm just finally realizing the world is mostly populated by liars and filthy animals which call themselves humans and I have to treat them as such.

The weather been absolutely gorgeous in the last few days. There is not a single fluff of clouds in the blue sky; temperature is hovering around low 60's with low humidity; the winds are brisk, blowing all the auto exhaust pollutants out of the valley; and I've been gloriously horny and randy and intoxicated with life. I haven't let the thoughts of any bitches and assholes disturb my psyche. Of course, if I could blow the heads off some or all of them, I would feel much better. But I know I can't have everything at once. One must enjoy life in small dosage, in whatever amount it is available. Greed is the creed of the stupid. And I am not stupid. Close, but not quite.

I've cautioned my readers more than once that they should not read my words too quickly lest they would think they really understand me. But they, especially the Asshole, wouldn't heed my advice. Armed with a meager and feeble and cursory and kindergarden level knowledge of the English language, they plunge headlong into the morass and maze of words weaved by me, and they get stuck and lost in the labyrinth of graphic symbols. And they bellow, hollow, scream, shout expressions of confusion and bewilderment while pontificating and mouthing off they understand me and my psyche.

This morning I leafed through a fancy magazine full of ads for luxury items and my mind was filled with thoughts of the nature of fashion, advertising, and simian-like traits of slavish imitation and the power of priming effect upon humans. That reminded me of the limitations of the mind of my High Priestess. Despite having a formidable intelligence and acute sensitivity, she only is at the threshold of enlightenment because of her lack of education and proper spiritual training. She has an unwarranted faith in her powers of understanding. Luckily for her, she always felt an unrelieved loneliness and that led her on a path to my door. Still, she does not quite understand me. The real world is much more complex than she has made it out to be. But that's all right. Compared to all the bitches I used to know, she is far more moralistic and spiritual. She helped me put things in perspective and deal better with my impending mortality. Every morning I sit down and tell myself that I need to be kind, understanding, and forgiving, and that I would not let memories of the bad deeds of assholes, bitches, and scumbags bother me to a point that I would pack up a gun and hunt them down because they are not worth the time and trouble for me to do so. My High Priestess keeps telling me that I am a blessed lucky son of a bitch and that I must always remember so and be happy with that, and I just must let the unpleasant memories go and be wiser next time. Life is not fun if there are no challenges, she said. She believes that all those assholes, monkeys, bitches, and scumbags are really my benefactors because they remind me that I'm made of finer stuff. She pointedly tells me that if I keep being angry at them, I am not that different from them.

(to be continued)

Ta quyet nang niu doi nghe si,

2012-01-28T17:59:00.000-08:00

Ta quyet nang niu doi nghe si,
Sao em con ap u mong giau sang.
Ngan nam cai kiep da doan ay,
Chi song ban khoan voi mong vang.

Vo danh

Rough translation

I'm determined to pursue a life of artistic niches
While you're hankering after dreams of riches
And bogged down in the mire of your schemes
In the pursuit of your golden dreams.

Translator: RW/NKBa'
January 24, 2012

Lunar New Year's Day

2012-01-23T14:26:00.000-08:00

So another Lunar New Year is knocking on the door.
The first day of the year is here once more
Without you being by my side
I don't know whether to laugh or to cry.
The mere fact I'm writing these words of mine
Indicates I can't get you out of my mind.

The New Year Festivals are celebrated outside
With firecrackers blasting themselves into petals crimson,
And dragon dance going on in a frenzy with the drumbeats
And clanging cymbals
While inside my eyes welling up in tears,
With love songs blaring from the radio,
Reminding me of a love that flowed into oblivion.
You once told me that forever you would love me.
Now it is I who would miss you for eternity,
Who would love you till I die,
Who would do nothing during the New Year but cry.

Anger and Annoyance

2012-01-16T13:14:00.000-08:00

Despite all my readings and meditations about the ultimate futility of anger and annoyance, I take to anger and annoyance like ducks to water, bees to flowers, and moths to flame. They are part of my nature, my default mode of consciousness, my dark angels of destruction who help me see the dark side of people's moons. I'm not claiming that I'm anybody extra-special. I'm just a seeker of truth and peace. Of course, truth and peace are inseparable. You cannot have one without the other, if by truth you mean the ultimate truth, not the kind that skims and glides on superficialities. I hate superficialities with a passion. Those who don't understand me are invariably tied to superficialities. The below cannot understand the above, a part cannot comprehend the whole, undeveloped minds are forever mired in ignorance and darkness, and fancy that they are the only realities in life. I'm reading about the origins and evolution of language. My fascination with language is a matter of course for a person who writes poetry and knows several languages. Reading and thinking about language makes me feel good about myself as I think I know something about the subject, not like the stupid and ignorant Asshole who loves to pontificate on subject matters of which he knows nothing. He is nothing but a jaunty, linguistically impotent pontificator, yet he is wont to foamy-mouthed, quivering pontification, and agog with sardonic, stupid triumph. For instance, the poorly educated bastard couldn't distinguish a "can" from a "cane", yet he pathetically said that he used a "can" to whack a barking dog when he was delivering mail as a postman. I was wondering what kind a postman would carry a "can" in his bag and used it as a defense against a territorial-minded dog unless it was a can of dog food that the postman was accustomed to consuming on his delivery round when hunger struck him.

Anyway, I used to pine and sigh longingly for a certain woman who in her youth attended Lycee Marie Curie, the woman with the downy outline of her pommettes in the sun, the amber-tinted darkness of quick eyes, lips shaped into a friendly smile. Nowadays, if my thoughts ever turn to her in passing, I shudder with horror at the stupidity of my youth, and the idealism of my innocence. And if my being registers any feelings of anger and annoyance, they are directed at myself and not at her because I understand she did what she had to do: she only responded to the dictates of her nature-- and to her perceptions of my nature-- and not necessarily to my true nature. As I often repeat, it's not easy to understand me. Many fools have tried and in the end they only see themselves in me. I'm like a shining mirror where men read strange matters, like the case of the Asshole who has opined that I am full of insecurity and fond of chiming in! He was counting on a possibility that his words were like the weighted tips of a flagrum across my soul. He was hoping his iniquitous, nefarious, meretricious, tawdry words would have an effect on me. And the bastard was right. I collogued with my inner self and it told me to wait and to act towards the harlequin in the mean time with a studied, persnickety shibumi while maintaining a winsome disposition.

The tragedy of my youthful misplaced affection has overshadowed and colored all the subsequent love affairs, even to this very day. I am a prisoner of my distant past. The painful memories have haunted me and shaped me into the person I am today. I've often coiled and curled and clung to my own intimate and bittersweet recollection of a love that could have been. And I often reach a painful understanding during which I understand why a piece of a broken glass sparkled so on the pavement, why the sunlight reflected on the ice cubes of a tall glass of ice tea on a picnic table at the road stop in mid afternoon, and why I loved so much the shimmering sea.

Sometime ago, a kind elderly man pulled me aside and whispered to me that as a writer, I must regard all living experiences of my own and others as gist for my creativity; thus, I shouldn't be so angry and annoyed by ignorance, taunts, and slights especially if they come from filthy dogs like the Asshole. He further advised that I must learn to manage my tapasya (Sanskirt for heat/essential energy. The gentleman was an Indian and well versed in yogic tradition) in such a way that I could achieve my evolution as a spiritual being. I asked him how he would know that I have potential to develop into a bona fide spiritual being. He replied that his master had taught him how to read people. He said, "I was observing how you were baited, drawn in, sucked into a vortex called "debate" initiated by the mangled, maimed mongrel of a creature who called himself fittingly Asshole. I listened to your arguments and the nonsense uttered by the Asshole. I watched your facial features and his simian and canine traits. While your face radiated with human beauty and intelligence, his muzzle showed the cunning of a dog. In addition, he had lousy teeth and he was short, pudgy, and ugly. He was obviously not as well-versed in reading, languages, and logic as you were. So I wondered why the fuck you were wasting your tapasya on an animal like that. He has no chance to evolve. His destiny is already set. He's well on his way straight to samsara while you still have a chance to reach nỉrvana." I explained to him that I was suffering from HDADD (High Definition Attentcion Deficit Disorder) and that I usually didn't pay attention to words spoken by dark-skinned men from India, but when I did, my attention was crystal clear and in his case, his words did hold my attention. He laughed uproariously and then stepped forward and embraced me---the pungent curry smell still clings to me to this day---and said the following parting words before jauntingly sashaying away: "Intensify your receptivity. Make yourself highly magnetic to core truths."

Well, core truths are what I am intimating today. Only those who are strong enough can withstand them or are attracted to them. The rest, like the Asshole, are scared of them and would resort to lies and cheap pontifications in order to avoid the head-on collisions with them. As Daniel Kahneman was fond of reminding us, we easily think associatively, metaphorically, and causally, but statistical thinking is the kind that gives us trouble. Statistical thinking exposes the limitations of the human mind: "our overconfidence in what we believe we know, and our apparent inability to acknowledge the full extent of our ignorance and the uncertainty of the world we live in. We are prone to overestimate how much we understand about the world and to underestimate the role of chance in events." (Thinking, Fast and Slow, pp 13-14)

(to be continued)

The Love that could have been

2012-01-15T23:08:00.000-08:00

The Love that could have been

Love comes from shared and mutual understanding and respect, not from condemnations and rebukes arising from actual or perceived hurts and slights.

Some people may go through their entire lives and to their dusty deaths without ever experiencing true love, rarely not because they are unlucky of never meeting their soul mates, but very likely because they are inherently unlovable: lying, selfish, arrogant, peevish, and self-righteous. Who in their right minds would love assholes like that? So while they may dream of the shared magic of raindrops, snowflakes, crackling fires, lightening flashes, and rolling thunderstorms, they in fact spend their time alone with TV or with a book, and with an aching awareness that there is an unending, nagging loneliness weighing down on them.

On dit que tu te maries

2012-01-14T14:33:00.000-08:00

On dit que tu te maries,
tu sais que j'en vais mourir."

Somebody sent me through snail mail an announcement of your wedding. To disambiguate my distaste for you as a harridan and to let on an impression that I thought of your matrimony was just a bagatelle, and my once affection for you was a vernal error, I dug up an old photo of mine when my "beauty" was in its prime and emailed it to you. Then I went out for a walk.

The air was bristling with winds and chilly, with a faint tang of burning logs and raucous twang of seagulls. The sea was glaucous and gray with waves busily breaking into foam. I stood at the beach, looking out to the sea, and I felt in the hollow of my solitariness the unending syllables of the sweet dark dampness of the most rumpled of small flowers. And the flutters and effluvia of that gray day filled me with an unredeemed melancholy. I still remember the day you said you loved me like it was yesterday. We were standing on the second floor of the college building, near the railing and looking at the leaves falling off the trees in the yard below us and fluttering in the winds. The dry season was in full swing. It was late afternoon. Our classes were long over. We were shooting the breeze. You asked me what would become of us. I sighed and replied that somehow I felt in my bones you would make me sad and suffer for a long, long time. You retorted that I was talking rot and that you were very much affected by our daily talks. I queried, "For sure?" To that you answered, "Je t'aime. Je t'aimerai toujours."

I am not going to share this part of me with you. I am just confining it to this cyberspace. The photo I emailed was a reminder of me, of us, when we were young and green and not yet tainted by greed and anger. I am not really angry at your decision. After all, we have been drifted apart for such a long time. Anything that is left of us is this lingering strange desire of mine to dissect and analyze a love that could not possibly last.

Another sordid story

2012-01-12T14:16:00.000-08:00

Some stupid people complained to me that I was overly harsh and out of line in denouncing the Asshole. My reply to them was that the Asshole was very lucky that I still retained my sanity. But enough of that sordid story. Let me tell you another, not that I like to wallow in sordidness, but human depravity never ceases amazing me. The other sordid story involved igmorance, dishonesty, and cowardice. This one is about greed, lies, and tawdriness in the name of love.

An ugly, homely, unaccomplished, and of course lonely middled-aged man was fixed up with a fairly attractive woman young enough to be his daughter. He fell in love, married her, got two children with her, aged five and one. She took all of his money, kicked him out of the house, and turned his children against him. He is now half crazed with love for his children and on the verge of suicide. The moral of the story: love is cheap and marriage is a sham and a scam, if you are a nobody and ugly. You are much better alone and let your hand be your guide if you feel horny in a certain Friday night.

(to be continued)

Fame

2012-01-11T16:02:00.000-08:00

Every year, as Christmas rolls around and then a new year knocks on the door, my thoughts turn to mortality and fame. We are all destined to have a brief life and then we just disappear forever. Very likely nobody will ever remember or know about us unless we were individuals of exceptional deeds and talents. Some rich individuals bought fame by donating money the establishment of colleges or hospitals. There was a special group of self-expressing artists who managed to achieve immortality through the exquisite beauty of their crafts. Among these were certain "confessional" poets whose tortured lives,, ended in self-extermination. I had in mind American poets Anne Sexton, Sylvia Plath, and John Berryman. I had an impression that these suffering poets turned to poetry for therapy, not for fame. Fame was only incidental in their lives. The Vietnamese poet Bui Giang could be labelled as a "confessional" poet. And his life could be seen as a long flirtation with self-destruction, but we must give him credit for not pulling the trigger. Somehow he must have found reasons to hang on to life. My life is also a long flirtation with self-destruction and I've been trying to fall back on words as therapy. In the process, I'm discovering the power of music. Let's hear what Anne Sexton said about "music":

Music Swims Back to Me
BY ANNE SEXTON

Wait Mister. Which way is home?
They turned the light out
and the dark is moving in the corner.
There are no sign posts in this room,
four ladies, over eighty,
in diapers every one of them.
La la la, Oh music swims back to me
and I can feel the tune they played
the night they left me
in this private institution on a hill.

Imagine it. A radio playing
and everyone here was crazy.
I liked it and danced in a circle.
Music pours over the sense
and in a funny way
music sees more than I.
I mean it remembers better;
remembers the first night here.
It was the strangled cold of November;
even the stars were strapped in the sky
and that moon too bright
forking through the bars to stick me
with a singing in the head.
I have forgotten all the rest.

They lock me in this chair at eight a.m.
and there are no signs to tell the way,
just the radio beating to itself
and the song that remembers
more than I. Oh, la la la,
this music swims back to me.
The night I came I danced a circle
and was not afraid.
Mister?

Name Le, a young Viet expatriate fiction writer assuredly gained fame with his debut collection of short stories in 2008, and possibly immortality with the story "Love and Honor and Pity and Pride and Compassion and Sacrifice" which has been widely anthologized. How many of us can honestly say to ourselves that we have lived our lives with love and honor and pity and pride and compassion and sacrifice?
Roberto Wissai/NKBa'
January 11, 2012

Words and Language

2012-01-11T16:01:00.000-08:00

Random Musings about words and language

Hearts of fire are not the same as hearts on fire
Just like speech is not the same as language
One is the subset of the other
Speech is one vehicle for language
You can have speech but without understanding of what you are saying
A lot of parrots do that, including the human ones
Ever wonder why some can write poetry while most cannot
There must be some process involved whereby a confluence
Of factors takes place: words, sounds, rhythm, and suggestions
Bilingualism or more brings on the magic of language
Have you ever wondered
In which language does the speaker dream the most
And which language he writes poetry, if he does so at all
Joseph Conrad, Samuel Beckett, Vladimir Nabokov,
Su Tong, Ha Jin, Carlos Castaneda all wrote magically in adopted tongues
What was going in their brains when they wrote
How did the words get together
Did their mother tongues get in the way
I can express my thoughts,
No matter how complex, in my secondary language,
But how come I keep making basic grammatical mistakes
What goes wrong
Back to my favorite adopted slogan:
You are what you write in an adopted tongue
You cannot fake it
No matter how hard you try
Somehow the reader can see through the stumbling, stilted prose
And recognize you for who you are: a poseur

The Moody and the Mysterious

2012-01-09T21:16:00.000-08:00

What can I say after escaping a terrible, horrifying death on the road, wasting my energy on an ignorant fool that goes by the nickname Asshole, and coming across a novel such as "Feast Day of Fools", all within one week? Not fucking much, let me tell you. Putting it this way: the events stunned and numbed me. They changed me drastically. They radicalized me further. I am now lusting for blood and hungering for peace at the same time. I am now more in touch with the moods that humans are heir to and the violence they are capable of. Insanity is the inability to say no to an obsession. And silence is invaluable to those who can wait. Have I told you that if I have to, I can have infinite patience? I bet you don't know that about me, right? What really made me hopping mad was the Asshole's hypocrisy and basic dishonesty. Anyway, I have to direct my thoughts away from the moral leper and towards more tranquil sources. As Bob Dylan once said,

"Well, it may be the Devil or it may be the Lord,
But you're gonna have to serve somebody."

(to be continued)

Vile, loathsome character

2012-01-06T15:34:00.000-08:00

So the Asshole revealed his character. That delighted me. The loathsome fellow has a peculiar, disingenuous dishonesty that verges on being pathological. He merrily constructs his own version of reality where facts don't really matter. He says whatever suits his conception of himself. Application of logic and reason is cast aside; appearance and denial take precedence over substance and fact. In short, the individual is evil and lives a life of a lie.

I don't think the Asshole has a vision of mortality when a human being makes a bet with his life with the full knowledge that his foot is on the edge of a big abyss. I don't think the Asshole realizes that he is evil. On the contrary, he fancies that he is more complex and above the common folks. And the fool tries to evince that he has some vestiges of humanity in him whereas in fact what he has is a conscience of a predator: a starving, mangled mongrel on the loose.

Anyway, I'm tired of thinking of this vile, disgusting, despicable, loathsome, repulsive dog. Evening has arrived. I'm hearing rumblings of thunder in the distance, and then rain starts falling down in buckets, hitting the roof and the window panes with a vengeance as if the sky has split up. I look up from my iPad. Streaks of lightning are arching the sky. That reminded me of the fateful evening a long time ago. I was back from a date. And it was raining cats and dogs when she drove into the driveway of my house. It was our fifth date in three weeks. My car was in the shop.

I asked her if she would like to come in. She said she'd better not. I said, really, please come in, it's raining and the roads are wet, you should sit out the rain. She said, I'd better get going. All right, then, I really had a good time and I really would like to see you again, I said. She didn't say anything to that overture. She just sat there looking at me, smiling that unforgettable smile of hers. I smiled back and then I opened the car door. When I got to the front door of my house, I looked back and waved at her. She backed her car out of the drive way. I got in the house, took off my shoes, and went upstairs to change and was getting into the bathtub when the doorbell rang. I knew it was she. I hurriedly put my bathrobe on and ran downstairs to the door.

I yanked the door wide open. And there she was, standing in the rain, her hair dripping wet, looking straight at me. I softly said, "please come in." I closed the door behind me and then touched her wet face with my fingers, and in seconds that lasted like eternity, I felt her body pressing tight against me, her wet hair against my face, her fingers fumbling to loosen my bathrobe, and all my concerns and worries about the vast age and wealth and education discrepancies between her and me dissolving and disappearing like rain water run-off into a swirling drainage pipe. I still remember her saying even to this day, "Oh, Roberto, Roberto, Roberto!" when my bathrobe fell to the floor.

Later, as she lay snuggling close to me, sound asleep in my bed, with her rhythmic inhaling and exhaling of air on my chest, I had sensations and feelings of peace and love, I thought I was lucky to have found her and for the first time in my life I became a believer in the mysterious, in the Higher Power, and in my own spiritual goodness.

A couple of years later, she disappeared from my life, but the awakened belief in the mysterious and in the Higher Power stayed. I no longer think I possess a spiritual goodness, however. My current High Priestess has been chastising me for that self-doubt. She has frequently said to me, "Roberto, you must believe that you're good, that you're blessed to be born as a handsome, intelligent, sensitive, artistic human being, that there's a Higher Power looking after you and shielding you from evil spirits. Trust me, I know what I'm talking about. I'm not babbling gibberish and spiritual nonsense. It's not so much what you actually believe in as the uplifting power of that belief that does to your soul, to your conduct and behavior towards other sentient beings, including people that you currently despise and hate. Over time, you will come to a realization that this life is brief and all too beautiful to have your precious energy expended in hating and despising benighted souls. Forgive them since you're made of better materials. Don't bite on the bait that people like the Asshole is hanging out for you."
(to be continued).

The Sound of Loneliness

2012-01-02T07:53:00.000-08:00

She got hysterical when he explained to her that the primary reason for his attraction to the other woman was her need to alleviate the oppressive loneliness that weighed down on her. It was not so much her loneliness that cried for relief as the way she said about it. She sounded so achingly sincere and vulnerable that something inside him responded. Maybe he was stupidly sentimental, but that was the way he was. Anyway, love has something to do with language. When two persons are in love, they speak and share the same language and music and in the process the loneliness each experienced prior to their union dissolved and they knew the meaning of love.

Unrequited love invariably hurts. The one who was rejected should spend more time contemplating on the reasons why his/her affection was not reciprocated than blaming the one did the rejection. Rejection usually falls within one of the two circumstances: misunderstanding or lack of acceptance. The rejector is at blame for the first scenario whereas the rejected is at fault for the second case. Nobody in his right mind would reject something/someone of value. The best way to handle rejection is to work on oneself or to lower one's standards so next time one can have a better chance to be successful in conquering somebody's heart. Remember, as unenlightened human beings, we usually have a higher opinion of ourselves than we actually deserve.

Back to first personal pronoun, I have known a lot about rejections. I have been usually at the receiving end. I didn't blame others. From each rejection, I learned something very deep about myself. Honesty is the best policy. Having courage is also very helpful. In order to be able plumb the creative well, I have to dig deep into myself to come up with something fresh and striking, but not necessarily personal. Imagination and embellishment are thus necessary.

Loneliness is not the inability to be with kinsmen and family members. It is the absence of somebody who really understands and cares about us to a point of saying, hey, you matter a great deal to me and I would do everything within my power to ensure you are alive and well, in other words, I would take care of you regardless you want to be taken care or not. You are like a wayward son or daughter whom I cannot possibly turn my back on even though at times I wish I could do so. Love is the inability to stay away from the beloved. And when we are forced to be away from those we love, we feel unavoidably lonely. In the case we have nobody to love, we feel a void within. That's when we also feel lonely. I have been lonely all my life. I have intimately known loneliness. It's my constant companion.

Tell me lies,
Tell me sweet little lies.
Tell me everything to your heart's desire
While doing so, on your face keep your smile
Don't you know
I love you so?
I would love you till the day I die.
So go on,
Tell me lies,
Tell me sweet little lies
Tell me till I cry

In your way, Asshole, you're not a stupid guy, but vastly ignorant and crude although you managed to finish college. But you're a narcissist. Like most narcissists, you're probably a self-loathing motherfucking scumbag and not a very brave one either. It's likely and I dearly wish so, one of these days you would find your sphincter failing you; any courage you might have, draining through the soles of your feet; all your assumptions about your time on earth leaching from your heart; your last glimpse of the earth dissolving in a bloody mist.

The new year didn't bring any relief of the torturing thoughts. Instead, you found yourself annoyed and irritated beyond measure. The sons of bitches and the bitches had better pray hard for their luck. They say insomnia is an affliction. I say it is a gift if one knows how to avail oneself of its power. It helps him see things with more clarity when all is still in the wee hours of the night except the beating of one's heart. I once had a very big heart. It used to beat loudly and wildly. I used to feel sorry for humans, including myself. Not anymore. I suffered too much. I no longer give a damn who else is suffering. To suffer is a sign of stupidity and naïveté. I am sick and tired of listening to tales of woe and wailing stories of self-pity. This world is tough and rough. And every motherfucker thinks he/she is nice and decent. But the reality is that they have an inflated sense of self. They are blind cowards at heart. When was the last time they actually read a book from cover to cover and when they were through, their minds were in turmoil and their hearts beat wildly for they had changed. The book had changed them. Yet they all the gall to tell me that they read books! What a bunch of liars! I could tell they didn't read many books just from the way they expressed themselves in writing. Ironiically they know how to read iniquity in others because it breeds in them. No surprise that they have accused me of stealing, pickpocketing, avarice, and lies. In them mendacity and cruelty are not occasional and accidental vices, but ingrained, inveterate, deep-rooting, and pervasive defects. They are nothing but "sanitation" engineers and bug sprayers and pond scum suckers. They probably didn't master toilet training in their childhood and thus have lived most of their lives with skid marks on their underwears. They consider themselves educated, but they understand nothing of the books they read. They are simply grandiose idiots and smug simpletons. The likes of them nauseate me no end with their endless, stupid pontifications on subjects they know nothing about. They think that armed with a college degree, they can dispense opinions.

Loneliness is not the only subject I have spent time thinking about. I have also long reflected on the subject of cowardice with all of its dimensions. And of course, a person worth his salt in the area of thinking would press on and think of honor and homicide and punishment and death if he thinks about the subject of cowardice long enough.

Revenge or fighting back is an ingrained trait in all sentient beings. I don't think I took revenge into my hands, but rather I fought for my ow survival and peace of mind when I wrote th following words:

"Your references about lagniappe and your being there when I was "teetering" left me in a foul and uncommunicative mood. You didn't really understand me. For that I didn't blame you. It would take an extraordinary human being to understand and thus appreciate me. Ordinary folks tend to underestimate me. They were thunderstruck by the obvious and underwhelmed by the bizarre and the inconsistent when it should be the other way around. Call me arrogant or whatever, but I firmly believe I am rare and beautiful. With the right person, I can bring peace and joy and security. I don't think you are the right person because you are so keen to jump to conclusions, so quick to defend yourself, and too lazy to read between the lines or listen to the unspoken words.

Peevishness and strong words from you turned me off royally. For both our sakes, we must terminate all communication. You will not hear anything further from me except silence. One day (maybe at least five years from now) when you no longer get angry or are self-righteous, you will understand these words and appreciate them for what they are.

Fare thee well, my friend."
(to be continued)

Who are you, Roberto?

2012-01-01T17:39:00.000-08:00

I just got off a long conversation with a friend. He pointed out that my so-called stories left much to be desired while my poems and essays were pretty good. He also noted that apparently I only wrote about love and violence. In reply, I said that I concurred with his assessment and that I was not really a writer of fiction. I merely wrote about the issues that preoccupied me, aesthetic and or redeeming, uplifting messages be damned. I wrote about love and violence because I was fishing, angling, hunting, searching for an answer. I like violence. I know about its function and role in life. I think I know about love, but I am not really sure anymore, despite having been married five times and having been in and out of love more than two dozen times. Almost everybody chuckled when I told them my name was Roberto Wissai. I lectured them with a straight face that it was rude to laugh at somebody's name, and what was so fucking funny about the name and sound of the words Roberto Wissai? I like the name and the way it sounds. Next time, if some asshole makes a snotty remark about my name, I hope I would be in some position of power and able to make him pay for his insolence.

I used not to be overly touchy and hypersensitive. I used to be calm, cool, collected, and reasonable kind of guy. Something happened to me way back when I finished college. Now I am plagued with a propensity for violence and a preternatural desire for love. Today is the first day of the year. If I am a sociable guy, I would call my friends up and say "Happy New Year". But I am not. I would rather read a book and be true to myself and others.

(to be continued)

I know a man, a good friend of mine

2011-12-30T21:30:00.000-08:00

Dear all:

Modified from a song. The last two stanzas were all mine.

Wissai

I know a man, a good friend of mine
He spends all his time trying to make love work out right
But the woman he loves, she doesn't feel the same,
No, she doesn't
I don't know much about love but at least I learned one thing:

If it doesn't come easy, you'd better let it go
Because when it doesn't come easy, there's no natural flow
Don't make it hard on your heart
You're better off alone
If it doesn't come easy, you'd better let it go,
You'd better.

I know a woman, she's got a heart of gold
You know she'd do anything to make her man feel right at home
But the man she loves, now,
He's a restless kind of guy
I wish there was a way I could make her realize
That if it doesn't come easy, you'd better let it go
Because when it doesn't come easy, there's no natural flow

If it doesn't come easy, you'd better let it go, yeah
Let it go, though it's hard, I know
Let it loose, I'll tell you, it's no use

You'd surely wonder how the hell that I know so
I'm telling you I just do
After so many women just come and go
Into my life like they come to watch a show
About Michaelangelo

I am no artist, but this much I know:
Life ain't pretty if you ain't got no money
And you ain't got no real women
If all you do all day is to sit on your ass and write poetry

Roberto Wissai/NKBa'
December 30, 2011
__._,_.___

Year-End Meditations

2011-12-30T20:41:00.000-08:00

I once told my High Priestess that it took more than at least three million U.S. dollars for me to find her. And she was worth it. She had a very biased (and high) opinion of herself. She didn't think she was fallible. I learned not to argue with her. Some blind people never learned to realize that they were blind. As the year of 2011 is drawing to a close, I have the following meditations:

1. Most humans are fucking no good. Education does not really make a damn difference to their character. All it does to accentuate their foibles and shortcomings, especially they have no grounding in philosophy and respect for truth and integrity like the Asshole and the Monkey I mentioned in various posts of mine.

2. The worst traits humans have are three: greed, anger, and mania. They all have to do with lack of moderation. Of those three, I have two. That's probably why greedy people turn me off. Yet these same people often righteously condemn me for being "cheap". I'm telling you, most humans are no fucking good. They are ready to condemn others and usually are easy on themselves. I look at their simian faces and I feel like putting them out of their misery.

3. With special homage to Chip Mosher, I have the following largely plagiarized words:

A few more short days, I'll turn sixty-three.
For more than thirty six years, I've been free,
Free of hunger and suppression.
But more than four million Vietnamese
Had to die so I could live with feelings of liberation.
A few weeks ago, they announced the war was over in Iraq
When the news reached me, my heart cracked
What a war! And for what?
Just like the wars in Korea and Vietnam,
All were for nothing.
I wonder what this once great country is coming to.
Useless ventures in order to serve the vultures.
The walking wounded and the living dead.
Souls maimed, humans turned animals.
Residual costs were in several trillion dollars lost,
All in the name of freedom and liberty,
But actually for the sake of making money
For the privileged few.
This adopted country of mine, sweet land of liberty,
Is now like Germany, after WW II, a nation of war criminals.
I have read the news today.
Oh boy, the war is over.
But how come no joy, no parties,
No dancing in the streets,
No parades of celebration,
No church bells clanging, banging ,
No people hugging one another.
Daily I look at the faces in the streets
And I realize I'm not in Garden of Eden,
But a cesspool of humanity,
Where Cain is chasing Abel,
Singing, I'm not my brother's keeper;
Don't you know I'm his killer
For he has what I want
And I envy who he is

4. Doesn't the fact I can't write anything these days without a shrill, strident tone suggests that I could not really shake free of the past? A friend of mine told me I had to get the past go if I wanted to be free. He was right, of course. But somehow I keep clinging to the past, my long lost country with all the noise, the dust, the music, the aroma of food wafting in the air, and the faces of young women I used to know. I don't think I suffer from a pathologization of sentiments. I think I just hang dear to the memories so I would know who I am.

5. I like the wilderness. I grew up in the tropics where the flora was abundant and verdant even during the dry season, where water and swamps and irrigation canals and ditches were everywhere, where there were bugs and birds flying around of all hours. Now I am discovering I like dry, arid lands. The few weeks ago, I camped in a national park near Las Vegas. I went for a walk on the first night. The night air was thick with an undefined odor of wilderness. The wind came down from the mountains and I felt its coolness. I saw the leaves on the some willow-like trees ripple in the wind. I smelled the pine and the scent of flowers. I looked up at the sky and thousands of twinkling stars and the full solitary shining moon. And I felt a kinship with the land, the air, and the sky. But moments like those are rare. These days I am laboring to put away my nagging desire to strike, to draw blood. With great efforts, I am writing. I write so the demon can be kept at bay.

6. As I said, I am not really a greedy man. I just want to make enough money to pay for food and shelter so I don't have to beg in order to survive. I never want to steal and cheat and lie and take away things, including money, in order to prove that I am smarter than my victims. I look at myself in the mirror have no reason to feel shame. Greed brings sufferings. I have seen that over and over again.

(to be continued)

Nỗi Lòng Tô Vũ

2011-12-30T20:11:00.000-08:00

Dear all:

With a motley admixture of temerity, hubris, and humility,
I am laying out for all to see
The wondrous words of Bui Giang's poetry
I hope I have done some justice to BG.
If not, I won't cry for not having tried.
Most translated stanzas read like prose.
For that I plead guilty for having nothing better to propose.
I strongly urge you at this to try your hand
As Confucius once said, "you hear you forget, but if you do, you will understand."

Wissai/NKBa'

Nỗi Lòng Tô Vũ
Kỷ niệm một đoạn đời 15 năm chăn dê ở núi đồi Trung Việt Nam Ngãi Bình Phú

Đồi tăm tắp chạy về ôm chân núi
San sát đồi phủ phục quấn núi xanh
Chiều xuống rồi tơ lòng rộn ràng rối
Trời núi đồi ngây ngất nhảy dê nhanh

Thôi từ nay tha hồ em mặc sức
Nhảy múa tung sườn núi vút giòng khe
Thôi từ nay tha hồ em mặc sức
Vang vang lên đồi núi giọng be be

Những bận nào Trà Linh qua Đá Dừng Hòn Dựng
Dùi Chiêng về Phường Rạnh ngược Khe Rinh
Bao lần anh cùng chúng em lận đận
Bôn ba qua rú rậm luống rùng mình

Những bận nào Quế Sơn Rù Rì con suối ngược
Nước trôi nguồn nước lũ xuống phăng phăng
Những bận nào mịt mùng mưa gió ướt
Đẫm thân mình co rúm lạnh như băng

Em nhớ hay không? hồn hoa dại cỏ
Những ngậm ngùi đầu núi canh khuya
Vàng cao gót nai đầu truông hãi sợ
Gió cây rung trút lá mộng tan lìa

Nhưng từ nay Giáp Nam anh đóng trại
Cố định rồi - em khỏi ngại ngày đêm
Dưới nắng mưa tha phương du mục mãi
Cay đắng từng, bùi ngọt mặn mà thêm

Chiều hôm nay bên chó vàng chễm chện
Anh lặng nghe em bé hé bên sườn đồi
Khoanh mấy vòng tay anh thoăn thoắt bện
Vòng cho em từng chiếc sắp xong rồi

Chiều đã xuống em đà no nê chắc
Huýt tù và! em xúm xít lại anh đeo cho
Mỗi chúng em mỗi vòng mây mỗi sắc
Lại mau đây! to nhỏ cổ anh so

Này em Đen chiếc vòng vàng tươi lắm
Này em Vàng chiếc trắng há mờ đâu
Này em Trắng chiếc hồng càng lóng lánh
Này em Hoa Cà * hỡi! chiếc nâu

Ngẩng đầu lên! dê ơi anh thong thả
Đeo vòng vào em nghển cổ cong xinh
Ngẩng đầu lên! đây lòng anh vàng đá
Gửi gắm vào vòng mây nhuộm tơ duyên

Ngẩng đầu lên nhìn anh mờ mắt lệ
Từ lần đầu vòng ngọc tuổi hai mươi
Trao người em trăm năm lời ước thệ
Đây lần đầu cảm động nhất mà thôi **

Vòng em xong, vòng anh dành riêng chiếc
Dành riêng mình - Dê hỡi hiểu vì sao ?
Vì lòng anh luống âm thầm tha thiết
Gán đời mình trọn kiếp với Dê Sao

Nhìn anh đây các em Vàng Đen Trắng
Tía Hoa Cà lổ đổ thấu lòng chưa ?
Từ từ đưa chiếc vòng lên thủng thẳng
Anh từ từ đưa xuống cổ đong đưa

Và giờ đây một lời thề đã thốt
Nghìn thu sau đồi núi chứng cho ta
Cao lời ca bê hê em cùng thốt
Hòa cùng lời anh nghẹn nỗi thiết tha

Và giờ đây hoàng hôn mờ chĩu nặng
Bốn bề tràn lan bóng mịt mùng sa
Xếp hàng ngay nhanh lên hàng ngũ thẳng
Rập ràng về bế hế rập ràng ca

Bui Giang

A soliloquy of modern-day goat herder Tô Vũ
In memory of fifteen years of tending goats among the hills and mountains of Nam Ngãi Bình Phú, Central Vietnam

Rolling foothills rushed home and hugged the mountains tight,
So tight they are intertwined with the green mountains.
When late afternoons arrive, joys explode under the sky
And among the mountains and hills where the fleet-footed goats dance.

From now on, with abandon
You could dance on the mountain slopes and leap across bubbling brooks;
From now on, with merriment
Your voice would echo among the hills.

Remember the times we passed by Halted Rock, Installed Islet, Sacred Tea,
Striking Stick, went up the Noisy Brook on the way back to Canal Hamlet;
The times through the thickets we struggled
And tramped through thick beds of forests;

The times we went up the Murmuring Stream on the Cinnamon Mountain,
Trekked by the rushing waters of flooded creeks;
The times the blinding rains fell and the winds blew nonstop.
We huddled, shivered, and were cold as ice.

Do you remember? The lost souls of wild flowers and weeds
Grieving on the mountain top in the wee hours of the night,
The tall amber-colored horns of frightened deer,
The winds shaking free off the trees the leaves of blasted dreams.

But henceforth, I settle here in Southern Frontier.
Nights and day, you should no longer fear
The endless nomadic trekking under the sun and the rains,
The kind of life full of bitter and sweet pains.

This late afternoon, sitting by the golden-haired, smug-looking dog,
I listen to your bleatings on the hillside
While my fingers nimbly fashion
Collars for each of you out of vine.

The evening's drawing near, your stomachs must be full.
I blow the whistle and you all gather around me.
For each of you I'm going to place a color collar around your neck.
Come here quick! I'm taking your measure.

Here's the bright yellow collar for you, my little Blackie
For you, little Goldie, the white one no less bright
While the gleaming gold adorns my little White
And you, my adorable Purple, the brown one.

Lift your head, my dear, I'm leisurely placing
The collar around your lovely erect neck.
Lift your head high, in this vine collar infused with love
Went my precious gemstone heart.

Lift your head and look at my teary eyes
Ever since I placed the precious stone collar
On her as a token of my love when I was twenty years of age,
I have never been as moved as I am now

Your collars done, now it's my turn.
Do you, my dear, understand the reason why?
For I've silently vouched to devote myself
To you for the rest of my life.

Look at me, all of you, White, Goldie, Blackie,
And Purple, understand me now?
Slowly I am lifting the collar up high
And slowly placing it around my swaying neck.

So the oath has been uttered
And witnessed and honored for eternity
By mountains and hills, your lilting voice
Together with mine fused in heartfelt unison.

And now dusk is firmly in place;
Misty fog is spreading far and wide
You please assemble in right formation.
We are heading home while singing in undulation.

Very rough draft translation by Roberto Wissai/NKBa'
December 30, 2011

Translations

2011-12-30T19:39:00.000-08:00

Ánh trăng mỏng quá không che nỗi
Những vẻ xanh xao của mặt hồ
Những nét buồn buồn tơ liễu rũ
Những lời năn nỉ của hư vô.

The moonlight is too faint to cover
The lake's pallidness
The willow's hanging sorrows
The cries of emptiness

The moonlight was too faint to lighten
The pale frailty of the lake
The drooping willow in melancholy
The pleading echoes from emptiness
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

That's a tough challenge. Poetry goes with culture, translating it from one language to another will filter out the uniqueness of that culture, rendering the poem into nothing.

To me I think he meant the softness moon light using the word thin. The meaning of softness here is used in its opposite sense, meaning too "bright" so all the lake, willow branches, can not be hidden.

Here is my translation, don't laugh.

Soft, feeble moon light
too weak even to hide
paleness of gloomy lake,
in misery hang willow branches,
from emptiness, its silent wail.

Assholes

2011-12-27T20:32:00.000-08:00

Though I am not a physiologist, I know a lot about assholes. My knowledge about them increased with leaps and bounds over the Christmas Day. A pompous, bumptious, ignorant, self-impressed pontificating asshole intimated that I was trying to ride the coattails of the crazed, but talented poet Bui Giang to fame despite my lack of comprehension of the poet's works. What a croak of shit the asshole proved himself to me. He went on accusing me of being deficient in both Vietnamese and English when he proved in his bumbling, babbling, sputtering, stammering, stuttering prose in Vietnamese and English that he was a fucked-up, ignorant, short, ugly peasant who often didn't know what the fuck that he was pontificating about. Luckily for him, he didn't profess that he could write poetry as the Monkey asserted, otherwise I would pillory him in the public square of the capital where the shameless liar resided.

Then at the other end of the spectrum of gender, there was a vixen who was denounced by me on the early morning of Christmas morning as the incarnation of stingy, calculating, cheap tawdriness. The bitch had long held a despairing, futulitarian, desperate, yet vainly illusional crush on me. I did nothing to encourage her. I was merely polite and courteous as she was my landlady. I rented a condo from her. Because of her affection for me, she let me stay in there with a reduced rent. To trade off, I had to endure long phone calls from her about just everything under the sun. I moved out of the condo on Christmas when I was told by a mutual friend that the landlady bitch had been telling peoole that I was trying to seduce her with my physique, but she was holding out because she thought I was not physically endowed enough. Have you ever heard of such a filthy nonsense and absurdity in your life? Women are crazy, let me tell you, especially if they think they have a hook into you. I was fooled enough in my life. I now know better.

Anyway, yesterday something very odd and moving happened to me. That is making me revise my thinking about chance, fate, and spirituality. Before I go into that wondrous experience, let me preface that I always had a vain, deep, dark, secret inkling and intuition that I was a rare man, possessing some rare gifts of clairvoyance and extrasensory perceptions that allowed me to milk and plumb some well of subconscious. My explorations of poetry via he medium of a foreign language reflect this fascination of mine about language acquisition and the question if a borrowed, non-native tongue is adequate in understanding and trasmitting beauty and truth. Back to the moving experience that I had of yesterday. I took my little harem out to lunch. We had a good time. After the lunch, we stopped at the little snack shop for desserts, where we slurped and stuffed ourselves with Viet delicacies. We were as high as kites by the time we staggered out of that paradise of sweets. I herded my aficionadas into my Toyota Sienna and headed back to my headquarters. I always took the interstate route because it was faster and thus more to my liking. But yesterday, I took the long way back home because inexplicably I failed to change into the right lane to get into the interstate. Not only that, I got into the far left lane so I could turn left once I passed the overpass bridge. As I got to the overpass bridge, I had a blowout on my front right tire. Luckily for us, I was not even driving fast as I customarily would and the van didn't flip or veer into the adjacent lane. I screamed for my High Priestess who was sitting up front to push the emergency signal light on. She was hysterical and could not even find it meanwhile I was struggling to bring the van under control while bracing for a possible rear-end collision. Because the traffic was relatively light on account of the holidays, nobody hit us. I didn't tell anybody about, except the High Priestess, the blow-out after we got back. She was deathly pale after learning of the news. She immediately went to the altar and prayed earnestly for solid ten minutes. Up until that moment, I had held prayers and similar acts of entreaties as exercises in self-deception, but listening to her emotional and moving expressions of gratitude for divine intervention, I had a sudden illuminarion that heartfelt prayers were gestures of uplifting and transcending communication, ostensibly with God, but actually inspirational dialogues with ourselves. Ever since that experience, I have been less judgmental of praying. In fact, I have been into meditation cum praying myself, with intense feelings of gratitude of being alive for not taking the interstate on that particular day.

The point of all these ostensible openings of my heart was not really to brag about myself or to blast the assholes because bragging about myself and blasting assholes don't really solve anything. I am here. I write. In writing, I may get in touch with something grander than myself because when I write, I understand more of the human heart, especially my own. I have to live my life my own way because surely I will die my own death. And I do know this: the assholes had better pray that I don't really mad because if I do, they will be really sorry for having the stupidity to bait and to denigrate me with no cause than other than their colossal ignorance and envy. I am on a mission to fuck up their lives, given a slightest opportunity. The assholes don't really know me.

(to be continued)

Social graces

2011-12-26T15:46:00.000-08:00

On a Christmas Day of this year, I knocked on the door of my psychotherapist's house, demanding that he see me, even though I didn't call ahead of time, and he already had company over for the dinner. He took one long look at me and said, "This had better be good, Roberto. You have an hour." I've seen Dr. Hammer on and off for ten years now. I'm reasonably sure that I helped pay for the fancy black Porsche he's driving. From the outset, he diagnosed my persistent flare-ups of depression as “Lack of awareness of self-impact" and “Diminished expression of ordinary social graces" after running me through a battery of questionnaires and puzzles and two weeks of probing questions. He didn't identify homicidal tendencies. I didn't tell him. He failed to ask me. The tests didn't reveal any.

On the way to his house, my mind was plagued with a question if and when the bodies would be found. I was not calm, cool, and collected in the aftermath as I had expected. I had an irresistible urge to see Hammer. He led me to his study after telling his dinner guests that he would be back after an hour. They looked at me with a barely concealed disgust and annoyance. I glared back. He closed the door, asked me to sit down and inquired if I needed a glass of water or something. I replied that a glass of water would be indeed appreciated.

He came back with two glasses, one for each of us, leaned back in his chair, and said, "What was wrong?"

And I told him, slowly, clinically, with all details I could remember. I could tell he was trying to remain impassive and professional, but flashes of anxiety and anger appeared on his intelligent, though lined face. After I was through, he asked me, "What do you expect me to do now?", instead of "Why? Why? Roberto! My goodness! What the fuck did you put yourself to?" as I had expected.

-I really don't know, Joshua (he and I were on first name basis. Hammer did care about me, despite his name and his ethnic background).
-You came here in full view of my friends. They must have guessed you were a patient of mine. And if the police know you were here, it would be hard for me to tell them that no, you never talked anything about two persons you had sent an exit tickets on Christmas Eve. I might be accused of hiding from them crucial information, even of aiding and abetting a criminal.
-But I won't tell them. I won't.
-You would just tell them that you were here on a social visit, that you missed your shrink, that you had nobody to talk to on a Christmas Day?
-Improbable, but not implausible reasons.
-Roberto, all these years I never thought you were capable of such stupid, useless act. You must have known killing in anger, and not in defense, didn't solve anything.
-Joshua, I did know that. But when I saw his piggy face, and the smug, arrogant expression on it, I flipped out.
-But why his wife also? Why her?
-She screamed and screamed. I couldn't stand the noise.
-Roberto, here is my advice. Run. Liquidate your assets fast. Change your identity. Change your appearance. Don't say anything to anybody. Don't confess. Deny everything. And hope they couldn't find you. Hope you will finally change for the better. Use your mind. Put it to good use. Go to Las Vegas or some big city where transients would not attract attention. Do let me know how you turn out, but be discreet. Don't get me into trouble. Now get the fuck out of here. Drive carefully. Be easy on the booze. Good luck to you.

Bao giờ

2011-12-26T15:44:00.000-08:00

Bao giờ

Bằng bút chì đen
Tôi chép bài thơ
Trên tường vôi trắng

Bằng bút chì trắng
Tôi chép bài thơ
Trên lá lục hồng

Bằng cục than hồng
Tôi đốt bài thơ
Từng phút từng giờ

Tôi cười tôi khóc bâng quơ
Người nghe người khóc có ngờ chi không

Bui Giang

If she ever wondered

With a black pencil
I copied the poem
On the white- washed wall

With a white pencil
I copied the poem
On the rosy green leaf

With a piece of red-hot charcoal
I burned the poem
Every minute on the hour

I laughed and I cried
Apparently with no reason
She heard me cry
But did she ever wonder why

Rough translation by Wissai
December 23, 2011

Áo xanh

2011-12-26T15:41:00.000-08:00

Áo xanh

mù sương, xuống mù sương
Bước xa bờ cỏ xa đường thương yêu
Tuổi thơ em có buồn nhiều
Thì xin cứ để bóng chiều đi qua
Biển dâu sực tỉnh giang hà
Còn sơ nguyên mộng sau tà áo xanh

Bui Giang

Green-Colored Blouse

Misty dews are getting together.
The farther you stay off the grassy path,
The more removed you are from the way to love.
If your youth is filled with melancholy,
don't let the evenings linger.
Things come and go,
But my reveries about your blouse of the green color
Stay forever

Draft translation
Wissai
December 23, 2011

Người con gái mặc quần

2011-12-26T15:39:00.000-08:00

Người con gái mặc quần

Người con gái hôm nay mặc quần đỏ
vì hôm qua đã mặc chiếc quần đen
đen và đỏ là hai màu rồi đó
cũng như đời, đường hai nẻo xuống lên

Người con gái hôm nay mặc quần trắng
vì hôm qua đã mặc chiếc quần hồng
hồng và trắng là hai màu bẽn lẽn
cũng như núi và rừng đều rất mực chênh vênh

Người con gái hôm nay mặc quần tím
vì hôm qua đã mặc chiếc quần vàng
vàng và tím là hai màu mỉm miệng
mím môi cười và chúm chím nhe răng

Người con gái hôm nay mặc quần rách
vì hôm qua đã mặc chiếc quần lành
lành và rách đều vô cùng trong sạch
bởi vì là lành rách cũng long lanh

Bui Giang

The pants she put on

Today she put on a pair of red pants
For yesterday her pants were black
Red and black, the colors of contrasts,
Like life itself, up and down

Today she put on a pair of white pants
For yesterday her pants were pink
Pink and white were colors of shyness,
Like mountains and their tottering forests are rarely apart

Today she put on a pair of purple pants
For yesterday her pants were yellow
Yellow and purple ưere colors of imperceptible smiles,
Lips spreading and teeth barely showing

Today she put on a pair of torn pants
For yesterday her pants were in good shape
Torn or not, her pants were clean
And she looked resplendent in either pants

Draft translation
Wissai
December 23, 2011

Phung Hien

2011-12-26T15:30:00.000-08:00

Phụng Hiến

Con có nghĩ: ắt là phải thế
Một đôi lần con ghì siết hai tay
Nàng thơ đẹp của trần gian ứa lệ
Bảo con rằng: hãy nhớ lấy phút giây
B.G.

Ngày sẽ hết tôi sẽ không trở lại
Tôi sẽ đi và chưa biết đi đâu
Tôi sẽ tiếc thương trần gian mãi mãi
Vì nơi đây tôi sống đủ vui sầu

Cây và cối bầu trời và mặt đất
Đã nhìn tôi dưới sương sớm trăng khuya
Mở buồng phổi đón gió bay bát ngát
Dừng bên sông bến cát buổi chia lìa

Hoàng hôn xuống, bình minh lên nhịp nhịp
Ngàn sao xanh lùi bước trước vừng hồng
Ngày rực rỡ đêm êm đềm kế tiếp
Đón chào tôi chung cười khóc bao lần

Tôi đã gửi hồn tôi biết mấy bận
Cho mây xa cho tơ liễu ở gần
Tôi đã đặt trong bàn tay vạn vật
Quả tim mình nóng hối những chờ mong

Sông trắng quá bảo lòng tôi mở cửa
Trăng vàng sao giục cánh mộng tung ngần
Gió thổi dậy lùa mơ vào bốn phía
Ba phương trời chung gục khóc đêm giông

Những giòng lệ tuôn mấy lần khắc khoải
Những nụ cười tròn mấy bận hân hoan
Những ngoảnh mặt im lìm trong ái ngại
Những bắt tay xao động với muôn vàn

Những người bạn xem tôi như ruột thịt
Những người em dâng hết dạ cho tôi
Những người bạn xem tôi là cà gật
Những người em không vẹn nghĩa mất rồi

Trần gian hỡi! Tôi đã về đây sống
Tôi đã tìm đâu ý nghĩa lầm than
Tôi ngẩng mặt ngó ngàn mây cao rộng
Tôi cúi đầu nhìn mặt đất thắp đen

Tôi chấp thuận trăm lần trong thổn thức
Tôi bàng hoàng hốt hoảng những đêm đêm
Tôi xin chịu cuồng si để sáng suốt
Tôi đui mù cho thoả dạ yêu em

Tôi tự nguyện sẽ một lần chung thuỷ
Qua những lần buồn tủi giữa đảo điên
Thân xương máu đã đành là uỷ mị
Thì xin em cùng lên thác xuống ghềnh

Em đứng mũi anh chịu sào có vững
Bàn tay bưng đĩa muối có chấm gừng
Tôi đã nguyện yêu trần gian nguyên vẹn
Hết tâm hồn và hết cả da xương

Xin yêu mãi yêu và yêu nhau mãi
Trần gian ôi! cánh bướm cánh chuồn chuồn
Con kiến bé cùng hoa hoang cỏ dại
Con vi trùng cùng sâu bọ cũng yêu luôn

Còn ở lại một ngày còn yêu mãi
Còn một đêm còn thở dưới trăng sao
Thì cánh mộng còn tung lên không ngại
Níu trời xanh tay với kiễng chân cao

Nhưng em hỡi trần gian ôi ta biết
Sẽ rồi ra vĩnh biệt với ngươi thôi
Ta chết lặng bó tay đầu lắc
Đài xiêu ôi xuân sắp rụng mất rồi

Đêm ứa lệ phồng mi hai mắt
Bàn tay ta nhỏ như lá cây khô
Mình hoa rã đầm đìa sương theo móc
Đỡ làm sao những cánh tiếp nhau rơi

Ta gửi lại đây những lời ảo não
Những lời yêu thương phụng hiến cho em
Rồi ta gục đầu trên trang giấy hão
Em bảo rằng:

- Đừng tuyệt vọng nghe không
Còn trang thơ thắm lại với trời hồng.

Bui Giang

Offerings:

I once thought: it must be so
Twice I squeezed her hands tight
The Muse's tears welled up in her eyes
She told me: remember this encounter
BG

The day will come and I won't be back
But I don't know where I'll go
I will forever miss this world
Where I've tasted both joys and sorrows

The trees, the sky, and the land
Have beheld me to take in the fresh air in the moonlight
In the wee hours of the misty morn,
And to bid farewell by the sandy riverside

The sun has gone down and the sun has risen
Rosy dawn has appeared and stars have beaten their retreat
Glorious days and gentle nights have taken their turns
In laughing and crying with me so many times

Occasionally I've sent my soul on a journey
To the distant clouds and the nearby willow tree
I've placed my steaming longing heart
In the hands of countless sentient beings

The gleaming river has urged me to open myself
The moon and the stars have hurried me to let my wings fly
The swirling winds have dispersed my dreams to four corners
Where rains fell down like midnight tears

At various times, the streams of tears have coursed in agony
The broad smiles have expanded into open elation
The silent turning asides of faces steeped in anxiety
The endless noisy shaking of hands

The friends who have considered me as their kinsman
And those who've been steadfastly devoted to me
The friends who have treated me as a buffoon
And those who didn't know the meaning of loyalty

Please hear me out! I came back in order to live
But I didn't understand the meaning of suffering
I looked at thousands of clouds in the sky up high
And at the dark ground down below

Over hundred times I sobbingly gave up
And I was in stunned panic night after night
I was willing to embrace madness in order to see
Just to love you, I didn't mind to go blind

I pledge to be faithful just once
In going through distressing sorrows
As the flesh is heir to all things sentimental
Please go with me through life's rapids and waterfalls

You and I together will steer through all obstacles
I'm offering you all my devotion:
I'm going to love you and this world
With all my body and soul

Please love forever and forever love one another
The butterflies and all the dragonflies in this world
The little ants, the weeds, the flowers,
The germs, the insects, and the worms

Continue loving, even if only one day is left
While breathing underneath the remaining night's moon and stars
Let go the wings of dream without hesitation
And reach for the sky while standing on tiptoe

But oh my dear, and this earthly realm also
I know I will have to say farewell
My heart sinks, my head and hands in gesture of resignation
Springtime is about to depart, oh tottering bastion

Night comes and my eyes are swelling up with tears
My little hands brittle like dry leaves
The flowers are laden with clinging dews
The helpless petals keep falling down

I'm leaving here with you my plaintive words,
Words of loving offerings to you
Then I will place my head on the vain pages
But you say:

"Please don't give up
Your poetic pages still tinge with the color of rosy sky"

prose and poetry

2011-12-21T14:22:00.000-08:00

EM ĐỪNG HỎI

em đừng hỏi độ cao làn gió
đừng hỏi sao trời vắng ngẩn ngơ
dù hỏi lại lời không gặp gỡ
tựa môi em nụ khép như thơ

em đừng hỏi một mai buồn nhớ
đừng hỏi bao giờ nắng vẩn mơ
bởi dáng vàng thu tuyền lá nhỏ
đổ rừng cao rực ánh bâng quơ

em đừng hỏi mỗi khi hoa nở
đừng hỏi thêm ngày tháng hững hờ
vì vĩnh cửu thời gian tột độ
cũng vừa là giờ phút đơn sơ

em đừng hỏi tận cùng duyên nợ
một thoáng qua tình nghĩa sợi tơ
lòng chớm đẹp đêm huyền thấm sợ
cánh thời gian phủ kín thành mơ

em thầm hỏi tâm hồn dang mở
một kiếp thôi khẽ ngấm vận thơ

LND

PLEASE DON'T ASK

please don't ask how high the wind is blowing
why the sky is lost and empty
for you won't get a reply
same as your lips won't yield lines of poetry

please don't ask if I will ever miss you
and if sunshine and dreams ever mixed up
for every fall golden-colored leaves
sparkle tall in the woods

please don't ask when flowers blossom
nor inquire after the passing of time
for eternity is time
and yet time is also ephemerality

please don't ask if our love will ever last
or if our brief, intoxicating moments together
in the middle of the night would suffice
while we are covered with reverie under the wings of time

still, you softly ask if your unfolding heart
could withstand a lifetime of cursed poetry

Rough draft translation by Wissai, 2011

11. NE DEMANDE PAS

ne demande pas la hauteur du vent
ni pourquoi le ciel semble si désolé
la question n'aura pas de réponse
dormant à tes lèvres un poème à jamais

ne demande pas si déjà la tristesse s'en va
ni quand le soleil se pâmera de rêve
car l'automne aura ses feuilles d'or en myriades
quittant les vỏtes hantées des forêts d'aurore

ne demande pas quand viendra la saison des fleurs
ni comment les jours et les mois nous quitteront
car l'éternité dans son parcours divers
aura le même espace de l'instant éphémère

ne demande pas l'apogée de nos séjours karmiques
car un reflet seul suffit à éclairer notre joie unique
qui au sein des nuits enivrantes d'angoisse
nous couvre secrètement de rêves sous les ailes du temps

ne demande pas non plus en ton âme fervente
pourquoi une vie humaine est si chargée d'amour

Traduit par LND.

So I have demonstrated that I am equally at home with prose and poetry, and in a borrowed tongue no less. My words are out there for anybody who is bothered to get to know me. My words are the answer to the stupid and coarse Monkey who fancies that he has poetic sensibilities. To me, he is a stupid asshole cum ignorant Philistine who is not worthy of a lowly duty of wiping my ass after I take a dump in the morning. Assholes like him are dime a dozen in this crowded world.

Today the weather is gorgeous. The air is fresh; the temperature is hovering in the 50's. And I am being truculently horny and lonely. And that despite having sex just about everyday. Not only I am horny and lonely, I am also angry. Anger has been my nemesis. It has been quite a miracle that I am still alive or not incarcerated. I am going through a breathing exercise, supposedly designed to dissipate the anger, causing to disappear into thin air. The exercise is not working. I can tell you that. So I am resorting to what I usually do when I am angry: I write and I plagiarize. And my sentences are going to be like gleaming but dull axes which hurt and bruise, but won't cut you to pieces. You are going to survive, but you won't stay the same.

Nowadays when I engage in my daily geriatric orgiastic pleasures, I can't help but think of her and all other women who have gone through my life. And I am struggling with a tentative but haunting conclusion that I was truly naive and stupidly romantic. If you read in the paper someday that I have committed an act of homicide, you would or should know that I just simply and finally acted on with my repressed feelings of vengeance and impotence.

Once I bragged : "Of all the people that you personally know, how many can wield the pen as I do? When I am truly inspired, I can invoke magic and instill awe. I can also be annoyingly unforgettable. Words are my friend and my lover. Words are all I have. I value them almost as much as money. Money helps me stay alive. Words assist me in feeling good about myself." Of course, these immoderate words were uttered when I was down in the the dumps. I was trying to revive my flagging spirit.

Perhaps sensing that my spirit needed boosting, a reader sent me the following:

" I love your words when they are not daggers that are drawn to strike or an iron fist that wallops the reader with hideous and unforeseen terminology. Your gentle stirring words are the ones that beckon. The words that come from deep within your soul are the ones that softly whisper: 'here I am, come find me, if you dare and care.'

My heart and soul have felt and been aware of your anger and disquietness since we first met and they are something I have always tried to help smother or at least diminish."

(to be continued)

White Night in Summer

2011-12-21T14:19:00.000-08:00

ĐÊM TRẮNG HẠ

đêm trắng hạ mưa buồn như suối vỡ
tóc bạc tuyền khởi dòng chữ ngẩn ngơ
rừng lá vợi cành khô buông tay mở
nối phân vân vào gốc vắng hoang sơ

mưa thiêm thiếp ngủ vùi trong khát vọng
từng giọt sa thầm kín mắt huyền mong
em im lặng nửa đêm lay tiếng sóng
khóc mỗi lần giọt xót ứa trong lòng

vết dấu tạm thì thầm trong bóng tối
con đường dài mải miết nỗi chơi vơi
thời gian hoá siêu hình trong nắng vợi
bỗng đêm qua một nét ửng làn môi

em tới đó ngâm hồn vào biển cả
ngả về đâu hạt cát giữa phù sa
ta luồng gió lạnh như vùng xa lạ
vẫn bay ngang vực tối ẩn hồn hoa

LND

WHITE NIGHT IN SUMMER

sad rain fell from the sky like waterfall in white summer night
cascading silver hair started a stream of words of wonder
the shorn forest opened its arms
in welcoming the wavering into deserted corners

the rain was sound asleep in its thirst
for the hidden tears in the longing dark eyes
you silently shook up the waves of pain in the middle of the night,
releasing the tears that welled up deep inside

fleeting memories jostled in darkness
the long road lost in its loneliness
night had passed and the sun came up,
bringing blush to your crimson lips

your soul dissolved in the vast ocean
like a grain of sand in the sediment
I was like a cold wind in strange terrain
blowing over an abyss of lost flowers

Rough draft translation by Wissai, 2011

NUIT BLANCHE D'ÉTÉ

nuit blanche d'été d'absence et de tristesse
tes cheveux argentés se tressent de langueur
et la forêt se dévide de ses feuilles
renouant au regret les écarts de solitude

la pluie s'assoupit dans ton âme assoiffée
comme des larmes au tréfonds des yeux noirs
tu gardes le silence secoué de peines
et de vagues au coeur qui saigne

les souvenirs chuchotent dans les ténèbres
au parcours sans fin d'émerveillement
le temps passe et se métamorphose au soleil
et la nuit soudain à tes lèvres s'empourpre

tu t'immerges dans l'océan d'âme
comme le grain de sable au sein d'alluvion
je suis le vent venu des espaces lointains
survolant les fleurs de tes nuits sibyllines

Traduit par LND

HOW

2011-12-20T17:07:00.000-08:00

LÀM SAO

làm sao quét sạch bụi trần
để chiều thanh thản đón ngần gió thu
để mưa trong vắt sương mù
để môi em đọng vị dư ngậm ngùi

làm sao hội đủ niềm vui
để làn sóng nhẹ lẩn vùi chân mây
để em ướp nắng tình đầy
để hoa rạo rực ngất ngây lần đầu

làm sao thăm hỏi từ đâu
để hồn cây ngả nhiệm mầu vào không
để thơ nhuộm ánh mênh mông
để em mới lạ vạn hồng hoa đăng

làm sao nghe kịp tiếng ngàn
để lời thành nhạc tim hoàng hôn em
để buồn dìu dịu chất men
để ta nhớ mãi mắt đêm ảo huyền

LND

HOW

How could I keep this world free of dust
So the easy evenings would be filled with clean flurries of winds in the fall,
And the misty rain would be composed of limpid water,
Leaving a sweet lingering taste on your lips?

How could I gather all the joys of the world
So a gentle wave would push all the clouds to the horizon,
And your overflowing love would bask in the sun,
Inflaming your passion at our very first encounter?

How could I say hello in such a manner
So the soul of my tree of love would reveal itself through empty foliage
And my poetry would shed its immense light,
Showing your splendor like thousands of rosy lamps?

How could I keep up with the cryptic voice
So the lyrics would become soulful notes of caressing music,
And my intoxicating melancholy would slowly faint away,
Leaving me with an undying yearning for your haunting, ghostly eyes?

Rough draft translation by Wissai, 2011

To grow up

2011-12-10T13:18:00.000-08:00

To grow up

I recall once a kind friend pulled me aside and softly intoned, "Roberto, everyone gets old, but not everyone grows up. Please grow up!" Every since, I have tried to live up to my friend's advice, to no avail. Maturity and wisdom are beyond my reach. I thus find succor and sustenance in words where my hurts and disappointments are slowly massaged into oblivion.

Everybody has an ego and everybody thinks they are better than they actually are. Throughout my life I have tried to avoid that trap, that cheap delusion. Recently an event belied my belief that I was not into Schadenfreude. Something foul had befallen to a lying, cowardly, cheap asshole who had irritated me beyond measure. Instead of feeling sorry for him for going through a misfortune, I felt a vast indifference. Worse still, an idea came to me that he somehow deserved the tragedy for he had been evil and nasty. And the tragedy was a way for him to learn about pain and suffering that he himself had inflicted on others throughout his long life. It would have been easy for me to pretend to others and to convince myself that I was a sensitive, caring chap, but I had too much self-honesty to engage in that exercise. Life is hard. Life is cruel. And there are many, many evil-minded human animals to populate this planet. I expect no pity from them, nor do I show them pity. Maybe that's why I think I have not grown up. Regardless, as I was driving home from the other day, a stupid yet inveterate sensation invaded my being after I listened to a Vietnamese song on the old cassette. I am trying recapture the sensation in English in the below, but I seriously doubt I am able to do it much justice.

I showed up for the first date we both looked forward to.
We had spent nights for weeks talking over the phone,
Opening our hearts to each other, hoping together
We would be lonely no longer.

You were all smiles when I arrived.
I shyly said hello.
You said, " Well, we meet at last
What do you think?"

My face turned red; my heart beat fast.
My eyes blinked.
Then you stepped forward and held me.
Instantly I felt both serenity and eternity.
I foolishly thought you would feel the same
I didn't know you later brought me nothing but shame
For being naive and stupid.

(to be continued)

Two Types of Tigone Flower

2011-12-10T10:58:00.000-08:00

T.T.Kh: Hai Sắc Hoa Ti Gôn — Two Types of Tigone Flower
Roberto Wissai.NKBa
December 10, 20110

Hai Sắc Hoa Ti Gôn

Một mùa thu trước, mỗi hoàng hôn
Nhặt cánh hoa rơi chẳng thấy buồn,
Nhuộm ánh nắng tà qua mái tóc,
Tôi chờ người đến với yêu đương.

Người ấy thường hay ngắm lạnh lùng
Dải đường xa vút bóng chiều phong,
Và phương trời thẳm mờ sương cát,
Tay vít dây hoa trắng cạnh lòng.

Người ấy thường hay vuốt tóc tôi,
Thở dài trong lúc thấy tôi vui,
Bảo rằng: “Hoa, dáng như tim vỡ,
Anh sợ tình ta cũng vỡ thôi!”

Thuở đó nào tôi đã hiểu gì
Cánh hoa tan tác của sinh ly,
Cho nên cười đáp: “Màu hoa trắng
Là chút lòng trong chẳng biến suy”.

Đâu biết lần đi một lỡ làng,
Dưới trời đau khổ chết yêu đương.
Người xa xăm quá! – Tôi buồn lắm,
Trong một ngày vui pháo nhuộm đường…

Từ đấy, thu rồi, thu lại thu,
Lòng tôi còn giá đến bao giờ?
Chồng tôi vẫn biết tôi thương nhớ…
Người ấy, cho nên vẫn hững hờ.

Tôi vẫn đi bên cạnh cuộc đời,
Ái ân lạt lẽo của chồng tôi,
Mà từng thu chết, từng thu chết,
Vẫn giấu trong tim bóng “một người”.

Buồn quá hôm nay xem tiểu thuyết
Thấy ai cũng ví cánh hoa xưa
Như hồng tựa trái tim tan vỡ.
Và đỏ như màu máu thắm pha!

Tôi nhớ lời người đã bảo tôi
Một mùa thu trước rất xa xôi…
Đến nay tôi hiểu thì tôi đã,
Làm lỡ tình duyên cũ mất rồi!

Tôi sợ chiều thu phớt nắng mờ,
Chiều thu, hoa đỏ rụng chiều thu
Gió về lạnh lẽo chân mây vắng,
Người ấy ngang sông đứng ngóng đò.

Nếu biết rằng tôi đã lấy chồng,
Trời ơi! Người ấy có buồn không?
Có thầm nghĩ tới loài hoa vỡ
Tựa trái tim phai, tựa máu hồng?

T.T.Kh

Two Types of Tigone Flower

During the fall of yore, as the sun was going down
And the fading sunlight blending into my hair
I insouciantly picked up the fallen tigone off the ground,
Pending the arrival of my beloved.

While tugging at a nearby vine of white flowers,
He would frostily gaze into the distance
Where the roads got lost in a windy late afternoon of struggling sunshine
And where the mist started settling on the sand.

He would pass his fingers through my hair
And sigh upon seeing me filled with joy.
He cautioned : “I am fearful our love would be like the shape of this flower:
A heart badly broken.”

I didn’t know then as I know now
The shape of the flower’s petals could stand for separation
So I laughingly replied: “The white color of the flower
Could only mean unchanging purity.”

I didn’t know once I couldn’t keep my word
Love would forever be in agony in this world
He was so far away! And I was so sad on my would-be happy day of wedding,
With celebrating crimson-colored, spent firecrackers strewing on the ground…

Ever since, fall has come and gone,
And how long this frigid heart of mine would go on?
My husband understands I still miss the man of the fall,
That’s why my indifference still lingers.

I still walk on by, in the sidewalk of life,
By the love and sex without passion of my husband.
With each fall season dying away, year after year,
Hides in my heart, the image of my man of yesteryear.

Today, I sought escape from sadness in a novel of romance.
I noted that everyone compared the petals of the flower of yore
With the rose color of a broken heart,
With the red color of blood freshly run!

I recalled what the man had told me
In the fall of long time ago…
Now I understood what I was told,
And the love I had betrayed!

Nowadays, I am fearful of the fading light of late afternoon in the fall,
Of late afternoons when red flowers start falling down on the ground,
Of winds gathering in the deserted horizon absent of clouds,
Where the man is waiting for a ferry at the edge of a river.

If he knows I am already married
Oh, my God! Would he be heart-broken?
Would he think of the flower of yore
Which looks like a fading broken heart, and is red like crimson-blood?

Translated by
Roberto Wissai/NKBá
November 8, 2011

Who is Roberto and what is going on?

2011-11-22T22:56:00.000-08:00

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)

Poker and Day Trading

2011-11-17T16:29:00.000-08:00

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'

Life and Death Ad Nauseam

2011-11-13T20:17:00.000-08:00

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)

Wonderful Obituary

2011-11-10T01:00:00.000-08:00

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

Courage and Meanings of Life

2011-11-09T05:24:00.000-08:00

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

Memory and Loss, My Version

2011-11-08T11:26:00.000-08:00

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

Memory and Loss

2011-11-08T02:41:00.000-08:00

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.

Language, Music, Consciousness, and the Brain

2011-11-01T00:48:00.000-07:00

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)

Wonder Of Wonders. Gem Among Rocks

2011-10-28T23:19:00.000-07:00

Wonder of Wonders, Gem among Rocks

He got a letter from a vicious vixen the other might. He didn't know what prompted her to reach out for him after she had walked out in a huff and wandered into the wilderness of self-righteousness and the wilds of the frozen tundra of Alaska in the middle of winter. She begged him to reply to her. He obliged her:

"You would never really understand how I felt about you and thought of you. You viewed me from the lenses of practicality whereas I looked at you and life from "impossible dreams". You thought I was a greedy married man who wanted everything while in fact I was and am a lonely man trapped in a snare of my own weakness and sentimentality. My "farewell" letter was a test and your reactions showed deep down you cared more about your own self, your hurts, and your desire to hurt me back, than an investigation of what drove me to write such a letter.

I have regained my peace. As I said, I would rather dwell on the beautiful, the kind, and the gentle sides of life while trying to block out from my mind your hurtful, harsh language. I am the type of person if once I address a woman in endearing terms, I cannot switch to terms of contempt even when I am angry. I would rather scream and yell to express my anger than to use contemptuous words because those words are ugly and have no place between a man and a woman, even if they are never romantically involved. Words have a way to tell the world who we really are.

Believe it or not, deep inside me, I am a very gentle and soft person. The hard, clumsy exterior is just only my poorly adapted defense.

I hope you finally got some peace of your own. While it's highly unlikely our paths ever cross again (the magic was gone for good; your vicious side glistened and glimmered and shimmered in the sun), I always wish you the best of luck in the remainder of your solitary travel along the road called life. "

Of course, she wrote back to me and this time she signed her name instead of tersely putting down "me". I already deleted her annoying and self-righteous and stupid reply so I cannot reproduce here. I vaguely remember it left a sour taste in my mouth and an unexpected surprise at how ordinary and common her values were. She talked about her pride of being practical, her low opinion of my tendency to have dreams, and the justification of her display of contempt for me. After reading her reply, I asked myself how I, a person of learning and sensitivity, would and could ever be mixed up with a coarse midget of crass and crabby values. My only answer was that my loneliness blinded me of her crassness and crabbiness. On the other hand, I was glad that I didn't get in that deep a relationship with her. She taught me one thing: I didn't know shit about bitches!

So when my longtime, almost asphyxiated, fixated aficionado called me and inquired about my latest cardiac tests, I told him about her. He exploded, "How many times I told you to get rid of the fucking bitch, the stupid, impoverished, poverty-stricken dumb ass, good-for-nothing midget? Stop taking her calls. Don't text-message her back. Completely ignore her. She is scum. She is shit. She is just plainly no good. You hear me?" I meekly and softly sighed, "Yes, Victoria. I meant Victor." He slammed the phone on me. The asshole still uses an almost antique dialed land phone that he inherited from his mother. In this age of Internet and smart phones and tablets, he owns no computer and relies on a typewriter for formal written communications. I call him Dinosaur Victor.

Where am I ? How did I get here. Where's the "He" that started this meandering narrative, this thread of self-confrontation, this wild and crazy exploration and examination of the dark recesses of the human mind in looking for the forces of attraction and destruction.

I am 62 years old. A Spanish song is saying love kills. Please, I am saying to myself, tell me something I don't already know. Yes, love is a fucking funny thing, especially to a guy like me. And so is sex.

I met a whiskey-soaked, starry-eyed girl in a bar in Tennessee
She later took me to a motel room for a ride
When it was over, I was black and blue and could hardly see
Ever since, I haven't been able to drink her off my mind

I once lay next to a divorcée on the beach
I had to put up a fight for my life
When it was through, my sanity seemed to be out of reach
She not only blew me all over, but also blew away my mind

As I am lying in bed, alone, and depressed
I think of all the girls and women that have come and gone
I would have to tell you this: "Okay, I confess
I slept with them all, but no one made me moan and groan
Like the way I do with you, sweetie.
Don't you believe me? Go ahead, make me swear
Don't you see that I love you till eternity?
You're the only one that I really do care."

I once took a lad under my wings and counseled him the "Art of Love". I said, " Son, the Art of Love ain't no different from the Art of War. You must do unto others as you wish they do unto you, and that is, with passion and imagination. You have to weave a parachute out of words, sweet and tender words. You talk to them in a slow, soft, baritone voice, telling them not you want to say, but what they want to hear, while looking straight into their eyes, and acting all sincere and gentle. Remember the difference between a truth and a lie is as light as a feather. Don't rush things. Love is like sex and wine. The longer you get there, the more satisfying it gets." Guess what the lad said to me? "But, master, if you're so good with women, why you are always by yourself in the weekend, and I never see you with any woman?" I blushed, "Son, haven't you heard 'those who don't know love to teach'? Never mind."

My voice trailed off and I stared into empty space which so resembles the void within me. I said goodbye to the young man and staggered home under the weight of loneliness. I opened the apartment's door and the emptiness of the room sucked me into its vortex. I plopped down on the sofa and instinctively reached for the remote on the coffee table. My cell phone rang. I looked at the number. A name went with it on the screen. It was the Midget. I said, "Hello." She asked, "Do you still love me?"

After a long silence, I sucked in the air and sighed, "Not really, not anymore." Then I clicked off the phone. I felt like shit, but I knew I had done the right thing. To ease off the pain of "conscience" that was tugging at my heart, I swallowed two Ambiens. I was drifting in a fog of forced sleep and unlocalized pain when the phone rang. "Did you tell the bitch Midget to get lost yet?". "Yes, I did, honey, just like I told you I would."

-You did the right thing. She was no good for you. Besides, she didn't know her place. She was stupid, vain, and thought so much of herself and not enough of you.
-Listen, Harriett, do we have to go through this again? I did that for you. I really didn't want to cause any pain and suffering to her or to anybody, no matter they desereve that or not. A loss is a loss. I knew what it felt like to be dumped. I was dumped once, maybe twice. I don't know. It was a long time ago. I finally got over the horrible memories, the terror of pain and uncommunicative shame. I know she asked for it, that I deserve better, that I deserve you. But I would rather close this chapter of my life for good. I don't want to talk about her anymore. I made a mistake. I was lonely. I thought she was a decent, caring, unselfish woman; I didn't know she was selfish, rude, and vengeful. Anyway, pain should not happen to anyone, but maybe we all learn from it. Love is not an easy thing to have. We must work hard for it. I think in the end only wise, kind, loving people really know what love is. Other people only experience the ersatz kind. That's probably why we have all kinds of separations and divorces. Love is like money. To get it, a lot of it, one must work hard, very hard, at it.
-Roberto, I love you.
-I love you, too. Now, I have to go back to sleep. I have a lot of things to do tomorrow.
-Such as?
-Honey, please, I need to go back to sleep. I'll call you tomorrow.

(to be continued)

Alarms and Red Flags

2011-10-27T23:51:00.000-07:00

In talking to anybody, you need to pay attention to signs of inconsistency, selfishness, lies, and disdain. If you perceive signs and symptoms of any of these alarming red flags, proceed with caution and be ready to run away in a moment's notice. I think you would only love those who understand and show you care and respect, not those who show you disdain and contempt.

One Of These Nights

2011-10-25T20:07:00.001-07:00

One of these nights
"Borrowed" from the original lyrics written by The Eagles

One of these nights
One of these crazy old nights
You're gonna find out
Pretty mama
What turns on your lights
What brings you smie
And who will be gonna make you cry
With absolute delights

The full moon is shining
The fever is high
And the wicked wind whispers and moans

You got your demons
You got desires
Well, I got a few of my own

Oo, someone to be kind to
In between the dark and the light
Oo, coming right behind you
Swear I'm gonna find you
One of these nights

One of these dreams
One of these wild and crazy dreams
We're gonna have one
One that really screams

I've been searching for the daughter
Of the devil himself
I've been searching for an angel in white
I've been waiting for a woman who's a little of both
And I can feel her, but she's nowhere in sight

Oo, loneliness will blind you
And you find yourself
In between the wrong and the right
Oo, coming right behind you
Swear I'm gonna find you
One of these nights

One of these nights
In between the dark and the light
You see nothing and nobody but me
Swear you will

Listen, imagine
Life without music
No poetry
No you nor me
How dreary life would be

So, girl, make tonight the night
I have you
You have me
Together we will make music
And write poetry
With our bodies
And what we feel inside

Roberto Wissai/NKBa'

Steven Pinker and Me

2011-10-24T15:51:00.000-07:00

Steven Pinker and Me

I first came across Pinker about ten years ago. I no longer remember the name of the book he wrote. I just vaguely recall that it was an important book and dealt with cognitive science. It was also the first time I was introduced to the field of study. Then from time to time I saw his name linked with Norm Chomsky as a foil. Today, I read in Newsweek that he just published a thick book called "The Better Angels of Our Nature". One paragraph in the book review stood out because it encapsulated, perhaps too neatly, human nature while explaining Pinker's thesis that contrary to facile impressions, violence in the human world has gone down. I felt compelled to share that paragraph with my fellow Mitchongs (those who have already read the book review, please read no further) in the hopes that it may shed some light on our behavior and others. Understanding leads to tolerance, hopefully.

"Human nature, he says, consists of a constant pull of good and evil. He includes five 'inner demons'-sadism, revenge, dominance, violence in pursuit of a practical benefit, and violence in pursuit of an ideology-that struggle with four 'better angels': self-control, empathy, morality, and reason. Over the years, Pinker says, the forces of civilization have increasingly given the good in us the upper hand." (0ctober 10&17, 2011 double issue, p.72)

I don't know about you, but the paragraph resonates strongly with me. In case you wonder, I have four "inner demons" and three "better angels" listed by Pinker. No wonder my angels are outgunned and I have been miserable and struggling to stay sane and out of jail.

Somebody asked me the other day what qualities I most like about myself and others. I was about to give him the usual suspects like honesty, courage, compassion, and all that shit, but then I took a look at him and saw he was not really, keenly interested in my answer ( his eyes were wandering; he just made small talks disguised as real conversation), so I blurted out with a smirk, a sneer, and a hoary laugh: "mystery and danger." That got him, he said, "come again?" I brusquely got up. "You heard me." was my parting shot. Life is a fucking jungle, full of wild animals. Some animals avoid you or pay you no attention. Others you have to watch out for because they are hiding and ambushing you. You cannot let your guard down while living or walking in a thick jungle, otherwise you just get killed.

Yes, mystery and danger. I am talking rot and rubbish. I ain't no danger to nobody but myself. Last week, I became 62 years of age. Nobody remembered my birthday. Nobody gave a fucking damn. No card. No present. So I went to the neighborhood convenience store and bought myself a six-pack, a jar of unsalted peanuts, a can of sardines, and a bag of rice. I came home, put the rice in the rice-cooker. Thirty minutes later, I plopped down in the sofa in front of a TV and ate my dinner, all alone and feeling mysterious and dangerous.

I used to have a very young girlfriend. She was only good for sex and nothing else, dumb as an ox and completely unlettered. I dumped her after two months. I was tired of talking nonsense to her and hearing nonsense from her. Sex without real communication can make you feel like a real animal. You had better believe it, take it from Grandpa. I now am dating more age-appropriate women. They don't have much in the Department of Looks, but they usually have money and they appreciate whatever attention I give them. Actually, I don't like women that much. I mean I don't enjoy dating. Too expensive and too time-consuming. I'd rather read if I feel lonely.

Shit, a reader of my blog just shot me an emai professing concern and astonishment over what I wrote above and then slyly asked if it was factual. I fired back a reply, "use your imagination, if you have any." Gosh, I am 62 years old, overweight, ugly, impotent, impoverished, impolite, impolitic, and dying. I am a very lonely man. I ain't got no girlfriend, old or young. I was just bragging to boost my ego, to regain my balance. Words are my friends. They are my toy and tool to navigate through this loneliness of mine. Don't feel sorry for me. Without lonelines and a sense of impending death, I cannot write. The othe day I learned the virtue of patience and silence. Keep your cool, old chap. I kept telling myself, be cool, old chap, even if you have the clap. Just be cool, okay? You get to bed now and close your eyes. Have no fear of bad dreams. They are merely the vehicle by which your mind is curing itself.
(to be continued)

Wissai

Who we are

2011-10-21T09:23:00.000-07:00

OP-ED COLUMNIST
Who You Are
By DAVID BROOKS
Published: October 21, 2011

Daniel Kahneman spent part of his childhood in Nazi-occupied Paris. Like the other Jews, he had to wear a Star of David on the outside of his clothing. One evening, when he was about 7 years old, he stayed late at a friend’s house, past the 6 p.m. curfew. He turned his sweater inside out to hide the star and tried to sneak home. A German SS trooper approached him on the street, picked him up and gave him a long, emotional hug. The soldier displayed a photo of his own son, spoke passionately about how much he missed him and gave Kahneman some money as a sentimental present. The whole time Kahneman was terrified that the SS trooper might notice the yellow star peeking out from inside his sweater.

Kahneman finally made it home, convinced that people are complicated and bizarre. He went on to become one of the world’s most influential psychologists and to win the Nobel in economic science.

Kahneman doesn’t actually tell that childhood story in his forthcoming book. “Thinking, Fast and Slow” is an intellectual memoir, not a personal one. The book is, nonetheless, sure to be a major intellectual event (look for an excerpt in The Times Magazine this Sunday) because it superbly encapsulates Kahneman’s research, and the vast tide of work that has been sparked by it.

I’d like to use this column not to summarize the book but to describe why I think Kahneman and his research partner, the late Amos Tversky, will be remembered hundreds of years from now, and how their work helped instigate a cultural shift that is already producing astounding results.

Before Kahneman and Tversky, people who thought about social problems and human behavior tended to assume that we are mostly rational agents. They assumed that people have control over the most important parts of their own thinking. They assumed that people are basically sensible utility-maximizers and that when they depart from reason it’s because some passion like fear or love has distorted their judgment.

Kahneman and Tversky conducted experiments. They proved that actual human behavior often deviates from the old models and that the flaws are not just in the passions but in the machinery of cognition. They demonstrated that people rely on unconscious biases and rules of thumb to navigate the world, for good and ill. Many of these biases have become famous: priming, framing, loss-aversion.

Kahneman reports on some delightful recent illustrations from other researchers. Pro golfers putt more accurately from all distances when putting for par than when putting for birdie because they fear the bogie more than they desire the birdie. Israeli parole boards grant parole to about 35 percent of the prisoners they see, except when they hear a case in the hour just after mealtime. In those cases, they grant parole 65 percent of the time. Shoppers will buy many more cans of soup if you put a sign atop the display that reads “Limit 12 per customer.”

Kahneman and Tversky were not given to broad claims. But the work they and others did led to the reappreciation of several old big ideas:

We are dual process thinkers. We have two interrelated systems running in our heads. One is slow, deliberate and arduous (our conscious reasoning). The other is fast, associative, automatic and supple (our unconscious pattern recognition). There is now a complex debate over the relative strengths and weaknesses of these two systems. In popular terms, think of it as the debate between “Moneyball” (look at the data) and “Blink” (go with your intuition).

We are not blank slates. All humans seem to share similar sets of biases. There is such a thing as universal human nature. The trick is to understand the universals and how tightly or loosely they tie us down.

We are players in a game we don’t understand. Most of our own thinking is below awareness. Fifty years ago, people may have assumed we are captains of our own ships, but, in fact, our behavior is often aroused by context in ways we can’t see. Our biases frequently cause us to want the wrong things. Our perceptions and memories are slippery, especially about our own mental states. Our free will is bounded. We have much less control over ourselves than we thought.

This research yielded a different vision of human nature and a different set of debates. The work of Kahneman and Tversky was a crucial pivot point in the way we see ourselves.

They also figured out ways to navigate around our shortcomings. Kahneman champions the idea of “adversarial collaboration” — when studying something, work with people you disagree with. Tversky had a wise maxim: “Let us take what the terrain gives.” Don’t overreach. Understand what your circumstances are offering.

Many people are exploring the inner wilderness. Kahneman and Tversky are like the Lewis and Clark of the mind.

In the silence and stillness of somnolence

2011-10-19T12:16:00.000-07:00

I always have greatest thoughts when being in the bathroom or right before falling asleep. The lyrics of a Spanish language song on the Internet were absolutely beautiful. I was tempted to copy them and then did the translation, but I was tired and lazy. Besides, I was afraid I would be too worked up to fall asleep. Male birds sing to attract potential mates. Dogs and wolves howl. Humans sing and and more ingeniously they enhance their voice by the musical instruments in order to convey the mood. Sounds seem to affect organisms. Here I am. I am writing these words silently, but if you read them correctly, you will discern a certain musicality in them. What I meant to say was that you would understand what I couldn't tell you face to face.

-How's so? You don't strike me as a bashful fellow.
-But I am.
-I don't think so.
- Stop being so fucking sure of your assessments!
-Whoa, you have a temper.
-You're so goddamned right. You're pissing me off, do you that? Here I am, about to open my heart to you so you can get see what's inside, what's been hidden from others. Then you had to ruin everything by acting so knowing, so perceptive about me. What's the fuck you really know about me, huh? We only know each other for one lousy week.
-So, why did you want to tell me about your heart and your soul, huh?
-Fuck you! See you in hell.
- Hey, come back here. I was only kidding. I like you. I really do. A lot.

So, I came back to her and haven't left since.

( to be continued)

Hello, Out There

2011-10-17T23:48:00.000-07:00

Your grandpa has a new toy. He's staying up in the wee hours to play with it even though he has an appointment early in the morning. The toy is wonderful. He should have purchased it long ago.

Anyway, he chuckled when noticed that after two years on the scene he "attracted" another follower of his blog, which makes it a grand total of two! At the grand old age of 62 and on his birthday no less, he suddenly realized that that love could be visualized by an older couple walking along the beach, while the tide tickled and tackled and tangled their ankles. The couple have never forgotten that love demands a willingness to share and an acceptance of what happens to each other. Love is a brave choice. It is not something for the faint of heart or the immature. Maybe that is why one does not always come to know what love really is until they have reached old age and or matured. Love is a commitment and will never be fully realized until one learns that it is only realized by determination, persistence, and resolve.

Okay, your grandpa didn't actually write all the words of the preceding paragraph. It came from a woman, somebody who was crazy and foolhardy enough to nurture some lingering affection for him. The words sound nice and eloquent and heartfelt, but the delivery and actualization of the sentiments portrayed by the words is an issue. He has painfully realized that love is really a delusion and highly conditional. Another woman self-righteously recently admonished him that he has been stupidly attracted to cunning, calculating, and selfish women. What does she think he is? A fool and a masochist? Nah, he is neither. He is simply too lazy and too kind to say No.

Last night, another realization dawned upon him. The bitches forgot him or stayed away from him because they thought they're better than he was. Fair enough. He did the same thing to those bitches who didn't measure up to his standards. Life is a chasing game. Meanwhile, we get lonely and frustrated and we eventually die. What the fuck! Don't be so uptight. Lighten up. And don't get so hung up with love and sex. Usually they bring you nothing but pain, loss of money, and diseases. Love is a delusion. And sex is boring and dirty and animalistic. Come to think of it, nothing beats artistic creations. They are lasting and they do bring joy and satisfaction. The preceding musings didn't mean your grandpa never had a deep, caring love or went through an intense sex session where the carnal pleasurers overwhelmed his sessions and threatened to cause a heart-attack for overexcitement and stimulation. So, he knew what the pleasures involving the flesh and the pleasant illusions and delusions brought on by the belief that he was loved. But, he also knew, from multiple experiences, the highs from artistic feelings and achievements are incredibly satisfying and ego-validating.
(to be continued)

You were a Farce and maybe a Fart, too

2011-10-16T04:12:00.001-07:00

You were a Farce and maybe a Fart, too.
Or maybe it was I, not you.
At any rate, the day came and went
Without a sound, nary a cry
From you. Shame! Shame! On me and my little heart.
I henceforth would let it die and would never give it a jumpstart.
Thanks for a lesson!
Love is a delusion.
Money is real.
I cannot get food without money
Unless I want to steal.
I am too proud to do so
So long, farewell, I've got to go.
Adios, goodbye.
I no longer give a damn if you cry.
You're cheap.
I am discarding you on a heap
Of mistakes and errors and wishes
That all smell like dead fishes.

Roberto Wissai
The day after

(to be continued)

Music and Memories

2011-10-14T16:40:00.000-07:00

Music is playing on iPod. I'm listening to it through the earpiece. The high fidelity of sound is bringing back long-repressed memories of a love that shipwrecked a long time. I no longer love her, but the pain is forever palpable when certain songs are played. And they are being played right now. Love was short. Pain is forever.

You called me at three am

2011-10-14T00:25:00.000-07:00

You called me at three
In the freaking morning.
I said, "Allo, bueno. Como estas, bonita?"

You said, "Did I wake you up?"

What kind of question is that?
You think I do nothing but stay awake waiting for your call?
But anyway, why do you call?
Haven't heard from you for months and years.
I thought you were dead.

I can't sleep. I am lonely. And I miss you.

Miss me? For real? You were the one that played hard to get!

I know. I was stupid. I heard you had a girlfriend and you looked happy and younger.

You heard it wrong. I am a married man.

Then who is the woman who hovers over you when you play cards?

That's my landlady, my pawnbroker, my bodyguard, my lucky angel.

I don't give a damn who she is.
I was stupid. I could have you, but I was too proud
To let you know I liked you a lot.

Escuchame, bonita. It's three in the morning.
I need to sleep.
Your timing is something else.
Adios. Lo siento mucho.
She is just a friend, like you.
All my friends are women, you know that.
I am nobody.
No power. No fame. No money.
Don't cry.
Love is an illusion.

Roberto Wissai

I used to run with the hunted

2011-10-13T23:21:00.000-07:00

I used to run with the hunted.
You think it was fun, huh?
No, sir. It was not.
I was scared shitless.
I hated the feeling of being the prey.
I was angry, too. More scared than angry.
I wanted to live first. The angry part came later.
Now I own two handguns and have not killed anybody yet.
Not that I am afraid, but because I am smart enough to see the futility of killing, except in defense.

I used to be very poor.
Never had much to eat.
Hungry all the time.
I knew humiliation and anxiety
Because of no money.
And then I worked and saved and became a millionaire.
Temporarily.
I blew most of my money in stocks, gambling, and women.
No drugs, though. Hated to be a slave to chemicals.
Not even to nicotine.
Now I live from hand to mouth.

But I still retain my good looks.
Plus, I work out.
That's why women of all ages are flocking to me.
I used to love very much a girl named Laura,
But she dumped me because I was poor.
Now I no longer know what love is all about.
A woman called me asshole and motherfucker because I wrote
A "dear Jane" letter to her.
I thought she loved me a lot.
Now I know she does not.
Then there was a woman who
Was very rich and smart.
Somehow she made it known she liked me,
But she was too old and uneducated to my taste.
Then another old woman was also after me.
She talked dirty and made passes at me.
I kept calling her "Auntie" to keep het at bay.
Last night, another woman called me out of state,
Asking me to visit her.
I said, "What for? I am a married man."
She sighed, "Don't be cruel. I miss you. I am tired of just listening to your sexy voice.
I want to see your face and your body without clothes on."
I sighed also, "I have news for you, mi amiga. I can't get it up anymore.
I'm chronically impotent."
She hissed at me, "Don't you lie to me!"

Why didn't these women come to me when I was young and lonely and able and willing and available, when I thought I knew what
Love was all about?
Why do I feel lonely and empty on my birthday?

Roberto Wissai

Death by cancer

2011-10-10T22:02:00.000-07:00

A Voice, Still Vibrant, Reflects on Mortality
By CHARLES McGRATH
Published: October 9, 2011

HOUSTON — Christopher Hitchens, probably the country’s most famous unbeliever, received the Freethinker of the Year Award at the annual convention of the Atheist Alliance of America here on Saturday. Mr. Hitchens was flattered by the honor, he said a few days beforehand, but also a little abashed. “I think being an atheist is something you are, not something you do,” he explained, adding: “I’m not sure we need to be honored. We don’t need positive reinforcement. On the other hand, we do need to stick up for ourselves, especially in a place like Texas, where they have laws, I think, that if you don’t believe in Jesus Christ you can’t run for sheriff.”

Sunday Book Review: ‘Arguably: Essays’ by Christopher Hitchens (September 11, 2011)

Mr. Hitchens, a prolific essayist and the author of “God Is Not Great: How Religion Poisons Everything,” discovered in June 2010 that he had Stage 4 esophageal cancer. He has lately curtailed his once busy schedule of public appearances, but he made an exception for the Atheist Alliance — or “the Triple A,” as he called it — partly because the occasion coincided almost to the day with his move 30 years ago from his native England to the United States. He was already in Houston, as it happened, because he had come here for treatment at the MD Anderson Cancer Center, where he has turned his 12th-floor room into a temporary library and headquarters.

Mr. Hitchens is gaunt these days, no longer barrel-chested. His voice is softer than it used to be, and for the second time since he began treatment, he has lost most of his hair. Once such an enthusiastic smoker that he would light up in the shower, he gave up cigarettes a couple of years ago. Even more inconceivable to many of his friends, Mr. Hitchens, who used to thrive on whiskey the way a bee thrives on nectar, hasn’t had a drink since July, when a feeding tube was installed in his stomach. “That’s the most depressing aspect,” he said. “The taste is gone. I don’t even want to. It’s incredible what you can get used to.”

But in most other respects Mr. Hitchens is undiminished, preferring to see himself as living with cancer, not dying from it. He still holds forth in dazzlingly clever and erudite paragraphs, pausing only to catch a breath or let a punch line resonate, and though he says his legendary productivity has fallen off a little since his illness, he still writes faster than most people talk. Last week he stayed up until 1 in the morning to finish an article for Vanity Fair, working on a laptop on his bedside table.

Writing seems to come almost as naturally as speech does to Mr. Hitchens, and he consciously associates the two. “If you can talk, you can write,” he said. “You have to be careful to keep your speech as immaculate as possible. That’s what I’m most afraid of. I’m terrified of losing my voice.” He added: “Writing is something I do for a living, all right — it’s my livelihood. But it’s also my life. I couldn’t live without it.”

Mr. Hitchens’s newest book, published last month, is “Arguably,” a paving-stone-sized volume consisting mostly of essays finished since his last big collection, “Love, Poverty and War,” which came out in 2004. The range of subjects is typically Hitchensian. There are essays — miniature pamphlets, almost — on political subjects and especially on the danger posed to the West by Islamic terrorism and totalitarianism, a subject that has preoccupied Mr. Hitchens since 2001. But there are just as many on literary figures; there’s a paean to oral sex, and there are little rants about unruly wine waiters, clichés and the misuse of “fuel” as a verb. The book’s epigraph is from Henry James’s novel “The Ambassadors”: “Live all you can: It’s a mistake not to.” And in an introduction Mr. Hitchens writes: “Some of these articles were written with the full consciousness that they might be my very last. Sobering in one way and exhilarating in another, this practice can obviously never become perfected.”

In his hospital room he suggested that an awareness of mortality was useful for a writer but ideally it should remain latent. “I try not to dwell on it,” he said, “except that once in a while I say, O.K., I’m not going to make that joke, I’m not going to go for that chortle. Or if I have to choose between two subjects, I won’t choose the boring one.”

He added, talking about an essay on Philip Larkin that made it into “Arguably”: “I knew the collection was going to come out even if I did not, and I was very pleased when I finished that one, because of the way it ends: ‘Our almost-instinct almost true:/ What will survive of us is love.’ I remember thinking, if that’s the last piece I write, that will do me.” After a moment he went on: “The influence of Larkin is much greater than I thought. He’s perfect for people who are thinking about death. You’ve got that old-line Calvinist pessimism and modern, acid cynicism — a very good combo. He’s not liking what he sees, and not pretending to.”

His main regret at the moment, Mr. Hitchens said, was that while he was keeping up with his many deadlines — for Slate, The Atlantic and Vanity Fair — he didn’t have the energy to also work on a book. He had recently come up with some new ideas about his hero, George Orwell, for example — among them that Orwell might have had Asperger’s — and he said he ought to include them in a revised edition of his 2002 book, “Why Orwell Matters.” He had also thought of writing a book about dying. “It could be called ‘What to Expect When You’re Expecting,’ ” he said, laughing.
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Sunday Book Review: ‘Arguably: Essays’ by Christopher Hitchens (September 11, 2011)
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Turning serious, he said, “I’ve had some dark nights of the soul, of course, but giving in to depression would be a sellout, a defeat.” He added: “I don’t know why I got so sick. Maybe it was the smokes, or maybe it’s genes. My father died of the same thing. It’s pointless getting into remorse.”

On balance, he reflected, the past year has been a pretty good one. He won a National Magazine Award, published “Arguably,” debated Tony Blair in front of a huge audience and added two states to the list of those he has visited. “I lack only the Dakotas and Nebraska,” he said, “though I may not get there unless someone comes up with some ethanol-based cancer treatment in Omaha.”

Mr. Hitchens has an extensive support network that includes his wife, Carol Blue, and his great friends James Fenton and Martin Amis. Mr. Amis is known for being cool and acerbic, but as he kissed and embraced Mr. Hitchens last week, visiting on the way to a literary festival in Mexico, his affection for his friend was unmistakable. “Hitch’s buoyancy is amazing,” he said later. “He has this great love of life, which I rather envy, because I think I may be deficient in that respect. It’s an odd thing to say, but he’s almost like a Tibetan monk. It’s as if he’d become religious.”

Sunday's Storied Surfeits and Surceases

2011-10-02T19:59:00.000-07:00

So, how are you? Ever since your shocking "Dear Jane" letter arrived, I have been living in a twilight zone of anger, pain, and bitterness.

(to be continued)

Peace, Love, and Happiness

2011-09-27T21:05:00.001-07:00

As I get near the end of my existence on this planet---the only existence I ever have, from all the evidence and facts I have amassed so far---I am trying to come to terms with whatever significance it ever has. And I have belatedly recognized the following simple verities. First, health is of primary importance. Without it, life simply is not worth living. Second, money is related to maintaining good health, apart from preserving dignity. Third, love and peace of mind, in addition to good health and money, will help me attain happiness, even if I don't actualize my potential.

One never grows out of love in principle, but one certainly may grow out of love for a specific person. Love is at once mysterious and simple, universal and personal, unchanging and conditional.

By the way, some love poems of mine can be both hypnotic and sleep-depriving because they were written with of blood, sweat, and tears. If I had not written them, I would have either gone crazy or done something worse. Now in the twilight of my life, I think I finally understand what love is all about. It is not about money, fame, or power. It's not about sex although that helps. It's about understanding, caring, and respect. I have loved quite a number of women although almost none of them deserved my love. I somehow discovered that about them quite belatedly. They were in fact common and pedestrian and boringly selfish to the core even though they put up a good acting game. No wonder there are guys who are too cool and experienced to fall for that trap. Certainly, I am not one of them, but I am learning to be wiser and more circumspect.

Anyway, today is Friday and the night is dragging on with its seemingly interminable dreariness, but the entry in today's wacky "Free Will (sic!) Astrology" restored zest and effervescence to my spirit. Life is always good if you think you are not alone and there is somebody out there in the cosmos who cares enough about you to stop you from killing yourself and to lend you a helping hand if you need it. As Vladimir Nabokov once counseled, don't be angry with the rain, it simply does not know how to fall upward. It behooves us to apply that principle to a variety of phenomena. I think you should not get all knotted up, excited, hot and bothered about any force of nature that insists on being itself, and please don't waste your time and energy trying to defy the law of gravity. It's fine and dandy and even funny if you find it tempting to go against the flow, but please don't expect the flow to follow you in your rebellion. Well, two weeks from now will be the day of reckoning for me with regard to my foolish bet against my inclination to gluttony. It looks like I am going to lose my wager on losing weight. Not only I have not shed any poundage, I have actually put on weight. Ah well, c'est la vie!

Do you know that you have about 100 billion neurons (brain cells, for the lexicon-challenged) in your brain. That also happens to be the number of stars in the Milky Way Galaxy. Please don't ask me how the scientists know how to count this. I have a lot of difficulties with math and statistics and counting. I only know how to count one, two, three, and then many. I am not smart at all although I certainly try to project an air of intellectuality by using polysyllabic words and complex sentence structures and by religiously eschewing the exhortations of Strunk and White. Anyway, back to number of neurons in the human brain and of the stars in the Milky Way Galaxy, I submit that there is no coincidence that the number is roughly the same. We all know of a mystic dictum "As above, so below" (although I do admit that that hardly applies to hair on the head and that of below!). The macrocosm and microcosm are mirrors of each other. Everything that happens on a collective level has an intensely personal impact. The better you know yourself, the more likely you are to understand how the world works, operates, and functions---and vice versa. I urge you to be alert for concrete evidence of this principle. Your life, especially your love life, will be immensely successful if you make it your daily meditation. Back to the eternal question and issue of love, the next time somebody loves you or dumps you, don't be overly excited or sad. It all amounts to the same thing, to both sides of a same coin, to the nature of emotions and feelings. Perhaps what you must be really concerned is that whether or not you really like yourself. You cannot, should not go around measuring and estimating your worth and desirability by the number of people who love and hate you. I often find it absurd and galling that some women who are short, ugly, poor, and stupid think that they are beautiful, charming, and highly desirable. Lack of self-knowledge is indeed pathetic and a stumbling block for growth. Any human worth his salt knows himself. I suppose only cowards have an unwarranted inflated sense of themselves. A thirst for knowledge implies a possession of some courage. Knowledge might hurt and wound one's sense of self, but it can also be liberating. That's probably why I have carried on with a certain insouciance and defiance and pride because I have no fear of confronting myself, warts and all. I thus feel nauseous whenever I see a certain "men" with feet of clay preaching gamely about decency and morality while unwittingly displaying their cowardice and hypocrisy. Their words and their actions are pathetically inconsistent. Seeing them wallowing in the game of chicken shit of peacocking and showboating and grandstanding makes me realize that I am at least redeemable since I don't pretend to be who I am not.

(to be continued)

Contempt Redux

2011-09-21T13:51:00.000-07:00

There are certain assholes which can't help themselves. They "inspire" distrust and contempt because of their lying and dishonesty and abhorrent self-righteousness. And yet ironically they go around despising others and feel smugly good about themselves. Assholes are like that. Take a case of a midget. I never liked this puny asshole. He looked ugly and possessed a stupid accent. Yet the asshole fancied that he was debonair and dapper. For the life of me, I never quite understand that he was able to marry and even begat children who are, expectedly, as ugly as he is but have normal height. Anyway, I disliked him for his cultivating a phony, cultivated, "mature" image. I never, ever once asked for his email address, let alone writing directly to him. But his email address happened to be included in a massive distribution list on a certain matter, so when I decided to make a comment on that matter, I hit the "Reply All" button. The asshole cavalierly and rudely and promptly sent me a short note saying he was so fucking "busy" (sic!) that he had no time to read my comment. I sent back a terse reply that I never, ever even bothered to ask for his email address and that the reason why he had the honor to see my beautiful name in his filthy, motherfucking mail inbox was because I hit the "Reply All" button. I further rhetorically reminded him that all he needed to do was to reach for the "Delete" button if he was really very busy and that he didn't have to send me an email to tell me so! But you see, assholes are like that. They fail to see the absurdity of their actions because they are so damned self-righteous. Oops, I almost forgot to tell you that I was so pissed off of this midget after I got his insulting and rude email message that I called my brother in Haiti, who was a high voodoo priest and requested that he put a curse and a hex on him and his entire family and all his relatives. Don't laugh. My brother is a very "good" priest and as far as I know, at least what he told me, that all his curses and hexes work like a "charm". I would be satisfied if only the midget will die of a prolonged, painful death. So far I have heard through the grapevine that he is having a vision problem and a rare case of STD resulting from over-consumption of Viagra and a sexual escapade in Bangkok. As I told you, I have "faith" in my Haitian brother.

Female midgets are nasty, too. I am speaking from personal experiences. About 12 years ago, I struck a friendship of sorts with a female of Eastern European descent. She was far from being a beauty, nor did she possess intimidating intelligence or captivating wit. In short, she was a plain Jane, burdened with having a very short stature, but oddly enough that didn't prevent her from having an undeserving high opinion of herself. Two years into the friendship, she told me in a roundabout way that she had a crush on me. I was not really surprised because I tended to have that kind of effect on females, midgets or not. Anyway, I hemmed and hawed, stuttered and stammered in trying to explain why I couldn't reciprocate her affection. To make a long story short, the relationship went into a twilight zone and stayed there till one day she died of heart failure. I must have been a glutton for punishment because soon after the untimely death of the first female midget, I somehow developed a relationship with another female dwarf. This one came from a certain jungle in North Vietnam and she proved to be wild and savage at heart although she cultivated an image of sophistication on the outside. When her selfishness and savagery were too much for me to put up with, I sent her a "Dear Jane" letter which promptly sent her into a paroxysm of rage which in turn told me that I had made a right decision. To make another long story short, I have learned from my mistakes. Now I am avoiding midgets, pygmies, dwarfs, and freaks like a plague. Oddities now nauseate me, instead of fascinating me.

(to be continued)

Sad facts of life

2011-09-18T14:32:00.000-07:00

There are three types of thinkers:

1. Those without formal degrees and certificates, but do contribute to growth of human knowledge and societies

2. Those with formal degrees and certificates and do contribute to growth of human knowledge and societies. They should be justifiably arrogant, but usually are not.

3. Those with formal degrees and certificates, but merely regurgitate of what they learned at school and show no independence of thoughts nor real criticism of what they were taught. After leaving school, they don't bother to improve their minds. As a consequence, they show their ignorance, stupidity, and outdated knowledge whenever they open their mouths or pen their "thoughts". I have more than one occasion exposed their ignorance and stupidity in various forums. Very often, these same so-called intellectuals are also cowardly in politics. Cowardice is in their DNA. It is shown in their failure of acquiring updated or new knowledge, their pathetic lack of logic whenever they argue and reason, and in their failure to speak up and stand up and fight even when their fatherland is in danger of being overrun by a historical enemy. All they do is to pontificate and to cover up their ignorance and cowardice. And yet these individuals mistakenly think that people are in awe of their credentials. Au contraire. Au contraire.

I must confess that I had some therapeutic release in writing the above. As I often state, any asshole that attacks me had better be prepared for a comeback from me. Contempt and hatred are often contagious and reciprocal. I must further confess that I didn't experience any sorrow or compassion when tragedy struck the Simian as I felt it deserved one of the worst punishments meted out to fhe simian race after all the nasty deeds and gratuitous sorrows it brought to other people. Now as I am witnessing first hand the nasty and quite despicable reactions of Verfe, my heart itself is hardening. And I feel that when I die, I will do so with a sardonic smile instead of tears in my eyes. Call me unforgiving and petty-minded, call me vengeful, call me anything you wish, but don't can't call me hypocritical. I am what I am. Fuck with me, and you have to pay a price, sooner or later. I don't go around attacking people willy-nilly, but counter-attacking has always been my trademark.

(to be continued)

Words and Deeds

2011-09-12T13:06:00.000-07:00

People who care about me often admonish me for flying off the handle when encountering the inconsistency between words and deeds. They remind me that such an attitude is like complaining that shit stinks. Everybody knows that fact and accepts its truism and why shouldn't I do likewise, they rhetorically ask me. Am I stupid or what, they further query. They laugh at me for naively expecting a congruence between words and deeds. They solemnly tell me that even a child knows that everybody lies, that everybody wants to show off and look good, that assholes love to pontificate and never admit defeat even faced with overwhelming evidence and irrefutable logic.

Taciturnity

2011-09-07T23:13:00.000-07:00

What do you do when you find yourself in a situation that a person with whom you are dealing suddenly acts out of character, especially if the person, a chatterbox, turns taciturn. Which persona is the real one? Garrulousness or taciturnity? You can bet your sweet ass that both personas are real, but the taciturnity is the more real.

Take myself, for example. I am a chatterbox, a talking machine, a tongue on an endless march, but the world had better watch out when I turn silent and wordless. That means I am reflecting on the nature of emotions, especially of love. Recently I walked out on a long-term relationship. When I did so, I was not sure if my decision was correct, but the vicious and untempered reaction that the bitch showed to me when she received my "Dear Jane" letter convinced me that I had made the right decision and the bitch didn't really love me because if she had really loved me, she would not have used intemperate language to show her anger. To me, True Love is mysterious and yet simple. It begins with understanding, proceeds with respect, and ends with care and devotion without expecting the same in return. I am convinced that to get true love, one must be selfless and brave, willing to incur emotional and financial costs. I am further convinced that true love, like rare gems, is rare and hard to find. One can go to one's dusty death without encountering one. To get true love, one must give true love, otherwise what one gets is the ersatz, the false, the fake, the make-believe along with the lingering sense of loneliness. Life does not really mean much if one feels oppressively and suffocatingly lonely. Something is missing in one's life. Some feeling of unfulfillment. Some sense of emptiness. And life seems insipid, tasteless, and devoid of joy, peace, and meaning.

I think I know what I am talking about. I have known lonelines. I have encountered faked emotions. And I have seen the ugly side of self-righteousness and untempered anger. I am not much into anger these days because I have seen first hand how stupid I can be under its influence.

There is one attitude and reaction jilted and jolted lovers tend to adopt is to blame the "wrongdoers" for betrayal and deception and lack of faithfulness, without ever thinking that the "wrongdoers" might have a rational decision to dump them and that they (jilted lovers) were not that worthy to hold an abiding faithfulness. Nobody throws away a good thing or runs away from an attractive and "good" and nice lover willingly. There must be something deeply wrong with a jilted lover for his/her erstwhile mate to decide a parting of ways. In short, the next time if you are dumped by anybody, it pays to go through a soul-searching and to learn from the experience of being dumped instead of reflexively blaming the dumper. That does not mean I am advocating an embrace of inferiority complex. Rather, I merely say that it pays to be objective and rational.

I am not saying that I felt good for dumping the bitch. I am just emphasizing that I was lucky to find out that she was a bitch before any real damages were done. I didn't fucking really know her as I thought I did. Oh well, I was not that really astute with bitches, I now realize. I have a long way to go as far as understanding women is concerned. But maybe I shouldn't give a fuck about women anymore. I only have a few more years left. Why give too much shit about love when all I've got are insolence and fraudulence?

Don't get me wrong. I am not always in the controlling and dumping position. I was dumped once and very badly, too. Since then there were several minor cases, but I didn't suffer much.

I just got off the phone with my therapist who helped me see the situation more clearly involving the bitch. I was told that the bitch was stupid and unjustifiably vain and definitely unworthy of my attention and affection. The therapist informed me that the bitch's reaction was intense because deep down she was feeling the impact of an accumulation of anger, frustrations, hurt pride, and inferiority complex. I was further advised that I deserved better. All I need to do is to work on my body, mind, and heart, and more importantly my proclivity for sentimentality.

(to be continued)

Stupidity and Selfishness

2011-09-04T18:34:00.000-07:00

Have you ever noticed that stupidity and selfishness tend to go hand in hand? Occasionally, self-righteousness is seen in their company. Such is the case of a bitch that I used to date in my previous reincarnation when I was young, lonely, and quite stupid myself. I thought she loved me and I convinced myself that I was in love with her until luckily for me, a friend of mine, Victor, who convinced me that I needed to put her through a test. And oh man, she failed miserably in that test. She showed her true colors as a vicious bitch. And I was glad I got out of Dodge in a nick of time. I am now convinced that I am gullible, naive, and stupid old man. I am scared now if any bitch shows affection to me. If anybody does so, I hang tight to my wallet and scan for a nearest exit just in case I am duped again. Let me tell you, women are devious and selfish like hell. You male fuckers out there must always be on guard, you hear me?

When did love begin and when did it die?

2011-08-30T18:57:00.000-07:00

When did love begin and when did it die?

Recently a friend of mine told me that he was definitely ending his 42-year marriage and would marry his 20-year- old secretary whom he had hired merely 6 months prior. He further added that he was so much in love that he had an urge to get on top of a building and shout it out. He then proceeded to show me the photo of his prospective Hispanic bride on his smart phone, I felt sorry for him because she was stunningly beautiful and sexy. I also felt in my bones that my friend was heading for some old-fashioned colossal heartache. There is no more pathetic fool than an old fool. He is a successful CPA with two offices. And now he is falling for an oldest game in human history. He has his hair dyed and is going through a weight reduction program while convincing himself that the young woman is in love with him.

Not too long ago, I was also convinced that a certain woman was in love with me. She pushed the right buttons and said the right things. I was lonely then. I just went through a painful divorce, my fifth in fifteen years and I was living south of the border in order to escape the pain and to immerse myself in a language-acquisition experiment. I met a Mexican graduate student in anthropology through a mutual friend. We hit it off right away. Soon she moved in with me. I provided her with free room and board. We had fantastic sex together and I thought she loved me simply she said so. Then I caught her lying to me on several occasions. I began to put my thinking cap on and looked at her with my eyes wide open. What started my dissociation with her was a musical instrument: a keyboard. She was taking lessons in learning how to play the keyboard. One day she bought a larger keyboard and said she would give me the old one so I would have something to work on my musical aspirations. Unfortunately, she didn't keep her word. Her excuse was that I would have no time to learn to play any musical instrument as I would be too busy with my fledging business while her nephew would surely make better use of the instrument. I just smiled when she explained to me the reason for her change of heart. Then a few months later, I had some pain in my left foot, which necessitated the aid of a walking cane. Strange as it may sound, it so happened that she had a walking cane she had bought about five years before she met me, after some pain developed in her knees. The pain disappeared after medication and she was not using the cane when she moved in with me. When I asked her if I could borrow the cane to see if it would alleviate the discomfort in my left foot. She firmly answered me in the negative and told me that I would easily afford a cane, considering my financial situation. Once again, my reaction was mild. I smiled and said nothing. I then immediately drove to a Walgreens and shelled out $46 for a cheapo cane. By then, I was fed up with her selfishness. Two months after the cane incident, my business crashed, thus giving me an opportunity to move back to the States. One morning over breakfast I told her a moving van was coming shortly and she needed to vacate her belongings within two hours. Stunned, she asked me why. I told her I had to move back to the States in a hurry and I would contact her later on. Of course, I didn't. And I rarely thought of her until my CPA friend showed me the photo of his young girl-friend because my friend's belle bore a striking resemblance to my old flame except for the hair style.

The reason I am spilling my guts out today was that this morning she somehow tracked me down and dished out some insults over the phone. Among her choice words were "stupid, crazy old fool". To be honest, I was quite glad she employed such epithets. They would vastly help me in the future should I foolishly fancy some sexy, young female would madly fall for me because of my charms and looks despite the huge age disparity.

I have to stop this confession because my cell phone just rang and my latest female friend, a 19-year-old sophore whose major is Psychology, is on the phone.

Roberto Ngo

May 21st, 2011

Bye Bye, So Long

2011-08-30T18:55:00.000-07:00

Bye bye, so long, sad cry of a love went dry

I sent you a "dear Jane" missile.
It sailed through the cyber sky
And tore your heart asunder
Or so you claimed.
In retaliation, you fired back a denunciation,
Calling me all kinds of names,
And cursing my soul be damned in Hell.
You wished me dead or not, I couldn't tell.
All I knew that you were full of bile.
You were not the same girl with a sweet smile
That used to make my heart flutter
Your bitter voicemail made me shudder
In realizing of how close to damnation I could be.

Roberto Wissai
August 29. 2011

Sad but not unexpected ending to a saga

2011-08-27T14:34:00.000-07:00

When I was in my second year of college, I came across a concept that "Character is Fate" while studying Shakespeare. Ever since I have found the concept a powerful explanatory tool to understand myself and others.

While everybody struggles to find meaning and purpose in their existence on this planet, few are honest enough to admit that most at the time their lives lack zest, meaning, and purpose. On the contrary, they falsely assert to others that there's nothing wrong with their lives while the truth of the matter is that if death comes unexpectedly for them,, that would be a blessing and a relief, rather than a sad ending to a dynamic, exciting, and meaningful life. I posed that rhetorical question to a common and unaccomplished woman. She gave me a cowardly and dishonest answer that pissed me off so badly that I decided to stay away for good because quite frankly I cannot hang around stupid but vain people. Her answer made me realize that an unexamined life is indeed worthless and a wasteful consumption of resources.

(to be continued)

A Meaningless Life, typical of of so many

2011-08-23T13:17:00.000-07:00

Recently I posed a rhetorical question to an underachiever (loser) if she thought her life had purpose and meaning. Surprisingly, she affirmed that it indeed did and proceeded to give me the reasons why she thought so. The reasons she furnished were so flimsy that I realized that I tended to underestimate the tendency of humans to inflate their own worth. Luckily for me, her ridiculous disclosure of what she thought of herself enabled me to form enough contempt for her and thus walk away from her as I finally realized that she was delusional and had an inflated, undeserving sense of self, besides being stingy and vindictive.

The unpleasant encounter with this bitch reminded me that I was still naive. Then she followed her ugly letter with two phone calls which I refused to pick up. That resulted in two vile, harsh voice messages from her, which both surprised and saddened me with their intensity. I was thus realized that words spoken in deep anger would tend to harm the speaker than the addressee. Surely enough, today I heard through the grapevine that she had died of a combination of a stroke and a heart-attack. Anger and sorrow are silent stalkers of unwise humans. I should know. They almost killed me 12 years ago. Nowadays, I just don't give a fuck anymore. Well, maybe I still do, but not as much as I used to because I have a mission. I intend to live until at least 95. You can bet your sweet ass I will. My real life has just begun.

The Heart is the Lonely Hunter

2011-08-10T20:14:00.000-07:00

Carson McCullers came up with that beautiful title and I have been caught up in that search since 1967. A fan of hers used to impress me because I thought the fan had a heart. It turned out that the fan was as common as dirt despite her intelligence. Since I regard myself as uncommon, I could not bring myself to do to Verfe what Laura did to me: being selfish and cruel. I would rather be the one who would suffer the slings and arrows of spitefulness.

Last night she called and I had to lie once more. How long will I keep up with the charade? Meanwhile my health and my finances are going down the toilet. One thing I am learning is that I am paying more to the issue of dignity and self-respect than ever, now that I realize most people around me are not as noble as they profess to be. I just have to realize they are merely insects and low forms of life masquerading as humans with their petty delights in viewing female anatomy and in telling smutty sex jokes while forgetting that they are men nearly 70 years of age . What a pathetic bunch of cowardly assholes who are ostensibly concerned about dignity and self-respect! As I often remark, we don't know who the assholes are until they are tested. I don't want to play the game of pretense anymore. Now if I don't like an asshole, I just stay away from him. I am not strong enough to engage in any acting.

So, I finally gave up pretending and wrote her a "dear Jane" letter in which I outlined two main reasons that I found her unpalatable to my taste. I was as pleasant and courteous as I could be. I concluded my goodbye missive with a heart-felt wish for her well-being. What I got back from her was an unexpected vituperative, thunderous denunciation of me couched in the most vile, unpleasant language. Thus, it turned out that not only she didn't really understand me at all, I also didn't understand her either. In fact, the bitch was dumber and more self-righteous than I thought. And my decision to dump her was right on target. Her distasteful letter taught me a lot about the psyche of human females and reminded me that I am more stupid than I think I am and that I have to be on guard in dealing with the human species. At any rate, thanks to that stupid letter of hers, I am sleeping better because I am more at peace with myself. I am not a cruel guy.

She walked in beauty

2011-08-01T10:34:00.001-07:00

She walked in beauty;
Her swaying hips sent me into ecstasy.
So I followed her from one city block to the next.
I felt I was being hexed.
She stopped at the traffic lights and looked back.
There I was, standing behind her, face reddened, feeling like a potato sack.
Then lo and behold, she smiled at me, her teeth glistened in the sun.
Emboldened, I softly said to her,
"Miss, has anybody ever told you that have very lovely buns?"
Flushed with embarrassment, she lowered her gaze and murmured "Yes"
I pressed on, "Really? I thought I was the only one with discerning eyes".
She then remarked that I was being sly.
I was fishing and fumbling for a reply
When the lights turned to green.
I walked next to her as we crossed the street.
I stuttered and stammered and sputtered against the rising heat,
"May I walk behind you for another five minutes?"
She put on a sparkling smile once more,
Dug into her purse and came out with a business card.
"Give me a call later this evening.
I hope you won't be a bore!"

Roberto Wissai
July 31, 2011l

Postcriptum:

The above literary endeavor triggered two inquiries from female aficionadas and amantes. One questioned whether I wrote it from a personal experience. The other reacted in a more peevish manner. She commented that the piece failed to hold her interest and left her feeling flat. She did state that the ending was somewhat intriguing and could lead to further development. Here was what I replied to her:

"The work was pure imagination. I was proud of it because of its originality. It was a very short story in verse. I am not a butt man, but a man endowed and cursed with a rich and romantic imagination along with some verbal dexterity. It was not easy to write a short story in verse."

The poem had its genesis in the greeting card sent by an old friend who wished "May you walk in beauty". The card showed a wintry scene. The wish stayed in my mind for hours after I viewed the card. I rarely walk in beauty or amidst splendor. On the other hand, there have been some females who moved me tremendously from the way they walked. So I just let my imagination run wild for a few minutes. The result was a poem with an intriguing ending which could be segued with the following possibility:

I was stunned. I took her card, speechless. It was one of those rare moments in my life when words failed me. She gave me a wink and sashayed away. I swear that she was swaying her hips with more energy and determination as she knew I was standing like a fool on the sidewalk watching her disappearing slowly from my view. I felt breathless. I looked at the card. It said, "Elizabeth Chavez, Attorney at Law. Personal Injuries, Divorces, and Estates." The address was in the Heights. The phones listed included a cell number.

I walked back to my office. I couldn't concentrate. I was going through the motion. I made a couple of phone calls soliciting some business, but to no avail. Finally, I left the office around six and headed to the gym. I desultorily pumped some iron and then went for a long, leisurely swim during which I replayed the encounter with Elizabeth in my mind. I was wondering if she was playing with me or I was being lucky. Either way, I would soon find out. I did realize, however, that all would depend on my performance. In all my amorous activities, this might be the toughest challenge. I told myself I would just play the prospective conversation by the seat of my pants. I had nothing to lose, except my ego.

I went home, had a banana with some roasted peanuts along with a glass of beer with plenty of ice. I liked my beer diluted, the way I used to drink when I was living in my home country where the climate was hot and humid all year round and beer was just like a cold refreshing drink to satiate the thirst rather than an alcoholic beverage. I am 62 now and have been in exile for almost 40 years, but I still cling to most Viet way of doing things, especially with regard to food, sex, and money.

She answered her cell phone after the third ring. I tried to impress her with my broken Spanish, but she tersely told me in Spanish that she would prefer that we talked in English.

-Well, what are we going to talk about? How much time do I have?
-As long as you like provided that you don't bore me.
-That's a tall order since I have a propensity to bore people, except myself, but I will try. Let me begin by stating why I followed you. Believe it or not, it was the very first time I ever did what I did. I just followed my feelings, an impulse that arose from nowhere. You walked by. I looked at you. I became breathless. The only way I could regain my breath was to follow you. I had no intention of speaking to you. I was shy. I just had an aesthetic sense that your walking gait brought me joy and I wanted to prolong that joy which I believe was private and would hurt nobody.
-Fair enough. Would you please tell me about yourself, your David Copperfield wonderland, if you know what I mean.
-I don't really understand what you meant, counselor, but this conversation will end soon enough. I am 62, will be soon retired, read stories and indulge in writing for fun and release, have had women who told me they loved me but somehow I feel lonely and misunderstood and unfulfilled. You probably wonder why I have not asked you any questions. Of course, I do understand what is going on here is like an interview and I am an interviewee, not interviewer. I agreed to subject myself to this somewhat humiliating experience because I am a sucker for exotica and serendipities. Jessica, You are exotic and I feel that maybe I am into some kind of adventure which I won't forget.
- Roberto, if that's your real name, you passed the interview. Please write to me at jessicachavez@yahoo.com. I also have the feeling that we might have some unforgettable adventure together.
- Good. One question. What makes you think I will ever write or call you again?
- I know men. Roberto, do you know women?

The pangs of Love

2011-07-27T01:57:00.000-07:00

Nguoi Tinh Cua Toi

2011-07-25T23:37:00.000-07:00

Nguoi Tinh Cua Toi

Nguoi tinh cua toi qua that tuyet voi
Toi yeu nang cho den cuoi cuoc doi
Nguoi tinh gia cua toi oi
Em lam anh choi voi
Trong bien ai song tinh
Tim anh ghi khac bong hinh
Phut giay em nguoc mat nhin
Then thung e le dam tinh yeu thuong

Draft translation

My love is truly wonderful.
I love her till the end of my life.
Oh my lady,
You make me flounder
In the sea of love.
Carved in my heart the moment
You looked at me,
Full of tender enchantment

Wissai
July 25, 2011
Night at Bally's

I've got all pissed off!

2011-07-20T21:36:00.000-07:00

A hypocritical, sex-starved, and cowardly asshole made some snide remark about me, getting me all pissed off and losing any lingering respect for him. I am tempted to use my "pretentious", ponderous, and preposterous prose to expose his cowardice, petulance, and salaciousness. I literally want to piss on his head. In fact, if I could, I would inflict pain and suffering on the little prick. But I am controlling myself and waiting for a right moment. I probably will have to wait for a long time. My mind is amazed at the depth of my anger. Is there not any improvement in my little heart? Where is the understanding and the compassion that I've been preaching and pontificating? The lesson here is that feelings are not static. They fluctuate constantly. They rise and fall in accordance with a person's internal moods as well as with the external stimuli. His fake nature is palpable through his words. The way he expresses himself and the choice of his words reveal his despicable, sneaky, cowardly, power-hungry, respect-craving nature. But enough about the asshole. Now to the more sublime subjects.

1. I think we humans all have a fierce, albeit mostly agonizingly mute abd unvocalized reaction to the loneliness we find ourselves in this world. To live us to struggle against the feelings of being misunderstood and uncared for. Marriage is the socially-sanctioned institution of conferring an illusion that we are no longer lonely. Life is a struggle and a process to be comfortable of who one is and of being alone. The Other(s) should only enhance and complement and complete us, but not to exploit and dominate us.
2. I think it is within our right to seek revenge, to redress a wrong done to us. Of course, it's far better to forgive and move on, but sometimes we have to take the trouble to exterminate the vermins masqueraded as humans.
3. "Sooner or later we begin to understand that love is more than verses on valentines, and romance in the movies. We begin to know that love is here and now, real and true, the most important thing in our lives. For love is the creator of our favorite memories, and the foundation of our fondest dreams. Love is a promise that is always kept, a fortune that can never be spent, a seed that can flourish in even the most unlikely of places. And this radiance that never fades, this mysterious and magical joy, is the greatest treasure of all -- one known only Thomas a Kempis, 1379-1471
4."Take time to be kind"

(to be continued)

Gift of Gab

2011-07-18T06:46:00.000-07:00

Two women met. They talked. One said to the other, "You're quite a glamourous, garrulous girl. You have a gift of gab. Was it how you got your man?" The other grunted and replied, "Yes, I talked him into submission."

You came up with the above joke which jibed with the theme, making everybody at the dinner table double over with laughter. In a moment of vanity and weakness, you sent, as a vixen put it, to everyone you could think of. Another old hag commented that she was busy and had no time to read items of frivolity. You quickly dashed off a reply that you were sorry and that she wouldn't receive such "items of frivolity again as now I know you are uber-serious. I didn't think the joke was risqué. It was, subjectively speaking, hilarious as hell, if hell ever can be funny.

We all march to different drummers. I temporarily forgot that. Sorry."

The hag's supercilious comment reminded you of JPS's cryptic and ironic remark, "Le serieux set un salad." (A stuffy person is a jerk.)"

Words wound and hurt, sometimes very deeply and could destroy all incipient nice feelings of friendship. Of course, you have a mixture of comic and serious sense of life. Sometimes you let the comic take over, but only in brief, euphoric moments. Deep down, you carry a sense of loss and longing for the impossible.

Wissai

Primal States

2011-07-18T00:39:00.001-07:00

You are caught in that primal state. It touches you deep in your guts. You feel transformed. Unlike Art Ickle, you don't wish to climb up a mountain and shout from the summit. Instead, you feels its presence, the way it is tunneling into the core of your being. You ask yourself, " Is this real or is it Memorex". Yesterday, Silvio, your best friend called. Since you are now a world famous movie star and a cultural icon and a supreme Walter Mitty, he would like to conduct an interview for the magazine Rolling Stone.

"Roberto, I understand you are a womanizer. Is there any truth to that rumor?
-Why would you say I am a womanizer? I was brought up by women. I lived among them as far back as I could remember. I grew up in a household full of women. I can't envision a life without women. I don't know anything else. I connect with them. They're my friends. And I love them.
-Who is the most important woman in your life?
-My mother, no doubt. I loved her. And I think of her everyday. I miss her. No other woman would come close. I think the women I've responded to the most somehow resemble my mother in some way, not only looks but also personality. There is a Mexican-American poet named Santiago Boca. His mother left him when he was five. He grew up and routinely had nightmares about being left by his mother. He screamed and cried during his sleep even when he was a full adult. I think any woman who leaves or abuses her children must be a monster. My mother loved me even when she meted out corporal punishment to me when I was a young boy. I just sensed she loved me although she never said a single word of love to me. She only said she was my mother and she had to take care of me despite my being a bad boy. And I was a very bad, naughty boy when I was young. She did express hope that she would live with me in her old age and I would take care of her. It was not meant to be. She died of illness while waiting for the immigration papers. When the news of her death reached me, loneliness hit me with a force that has not loosened its grip even though that happened 25 years ago.
-Are you happy?
-I don't know what happiness really is. Maybe it has something to do with being loved. That's probably why I keep falling in love every five minutes, why all my best friends are women, why women seem to like me, and I like them."

Far into the dreamland

2011-07-14T10:59:00.000-07:00

You know you are cursed with an impracticality. You live in memories, hopes, and dreams. Recently you acquired an appreciation for the sound and music. These days the melody of the song "Ai Cho Toi Tinh Yeu" keeps coming to you in waves after waves of haunting insistence.

Who would fall for me?

Who would give me a love
Full of innocence, poetry, and dreams?
I would welcome her with open arms
And lead her into my heart,
While my lips press upon hers.

But I am only dreaming.
That's why my heart is sobbingly lonely
It flutters its wings, but has yet taken off in love.
I call out for love to land on my heart,
But love has yet found its way.

Night after night, loneliness briskly enters my bedroom,
Cold winds get to my heart, and stars fall off the sky as the night is drawing to a close.
The quiet house is full of bitter memories, so my soul is taking an aimless stroll.

Who would fall for me, so we can join in a predestined union?
I would love her all my life
Please, oh, please, don't be shy,
My heart is choking....

Translated by Wissai
June 20, 2011.

Music and Lyrics by Truc Phuong:

Ai cho tôi tình yêu

Ai cho tôi tình yêu
Của ngày thơ ngày mộng
Tôi xin dâng vòng tay mở rộng
Và đón người đi vào tim tôi
Bằng môi trên bờ môi

Nhưng biết chỉ là mơ ...
Nên lòng nức nở, thương còn di chứ yêu thì chưa đến
Nên gọi tên tình chưa đỗ bến, (biết) nẻo mô mà tìm?

Nằm nghe cô đơn, thoáng bước trong buồng
Giá buốt về tìm, sao rơi cuối đêm
Nhà vắng mang nhiều cay đắng, xua hồn đi hoang

Ai cho tôi tình yêu, để làm duyên một người
Tôi xin dâng tình tôi trọn đời
Người ơi người, xin đừng e ấp,
làm tim nghẹn ngào ...."

Love is a waiting game for the loneliness to subside. You dream of the impossible. You long for a light to dispel, no matter fleetingly, the darkness of your sky.

The sound of her voice, the music of her soul will stay with you forever. The chance encounter gave rise to cherished memories. That is what you live for. Meanwhile you have to make money and take care of your body and mind so you can keep on dreaming.

She said, so what will happen if I decide to go ahead and love you? That would fill you with feelings of serenity, but what will happen to me? No doubt, anxiety will permeate my being for you are not free for me. Your heart won't be just for me. I know you will go on dreaming. I can't and won't take that. You're wrong. I am not a wonder woman. I am not strong. I only want you for myself. I don't wish to share you with any woman. So, as much as I love you, as much as you make my heart flutter, I have to walk away from you. You will always be in my heart. Late at night I will occasionally take your picture out and look at it. I might even display it in my bedroom. But I won't call you, ever again.

He said, true love has a way to manifest itself. If I really love you, I will find out. Meanwhile, I do know this: I like to sing nowadays. And when I sing, it's you, and nobody else, that I am thinking of. You see, Marlon Brando once said, "we put to sleep our notions about ourselves that are real and dream others." I don't know if I am acting towards you. What I sense, however, is that I am slouching towards a certain truth in myself, and that is I badly need love from others, like fish needs water. Also, I try to feel alive everyday because once you feel alive, everything is enriching and everything is possible. I used to get depressed and suicidal. I didn't want to be where I was. I wanted to be somewhere else, yet I felt weak and powerless to go somewhere. I am concerned I may come across as maudlin and melodramatic to you and that you don't understand me. This world can be vast and lonely sometimes. Last night a woman came to my room. She was the landlady of the house I was staying. Her loneliness was palpable. She wanted to convey her loneliness, but I made a pre-emptive strike at her attempt of self-disclosure. She saw I was not interested in seducing her. So she made small talk and then staggered back to her residence where loneliness is the real oqueen.

Wissai

Memoir 9

2011-07-12T18:48:00.000-07:00

It's been some time since you last revisited your life. You thought you would not bother to mention Laura, but some recent developments now make it worthwhile to examine in depth this painful episode of your life. In some ways and indeed many times you have wished that you had never met her. You met her in your freshman year in college. One day she came to you and asked to borrow lecture notes. She had been sick the week before. It is indeed a struggle to write these words, not because you had nothing to say, but because the memories you deemed once beautiful are probably merely a romanticization stemming from immaturity and impracticality. So, in the interest of sparing yourself of further signs of stupidity, you are going to gloss over soapy, childish, ridiculous memories and concentrate on events that have forced me to grow up, no matter how belatedly. Nah, you just can't do it. It is not so much the lingering pain that stopped you in spilling your guts as the farcical manner of her dumping you. Now you are facing the potential of a similar farce. Ll

Your latest forays into sociological and anthropological experiments are about to be over. You have discovered that you are weak and sentimental. You are much better off to stay in your world of reading and body-building. You came up with the joke which jibed with the theme of Gift of Gab (Two women met. They talked.

-You're quite a garrulous girl. In fact, you've got a gift of gab. Was it how you got your man?

-Yes. I talked him into submission.)

making everybody at the dinner table double over with laughter. In a moment of vanity and weakness, you sent to everyone you could think of. That won't happen again as now you know everybody was uber-serious (what is going in this world? "you need to laugh a little, joke a little, cry a little, love a little [repeat, 'little', not 'much', 'much' is stupid and dangerous, touch everything lightly, even with tragedy, life is essentially a joke in a strange and unfamiliar language) without fear. You didn't think the joke was risqué. It was, subjectively speaking, hilarious as hell, if hell ever can be funny.

We all march to different drummers. You temporarily forgot that. And that was ok you forgot. Now you remember that and you recovered. Armed with a newly found sense of absurdity and stoicism, you brushed off the brush-off and you moved on while trying to remember that tact can be a difference between life and death, success and failure. Love is to learn not to be self-righteous.

(to be continued)

Loneliness?

2011-07-10T23:34:00.000-07:00

She was a very strange woman all right. You had not met a woman like her before. She was married four times, had an affair during the fourth marriage and a child was conceived with her lover, but her fourth husband adopted the child as his own. She then dumped her lover and moved on to another one after divorcing her fourth cuckolded husband. She supported her latest lover for 14 years until she met you through a mutual friend. At that time you were quite down in the dumps after one bad relationship after another. First, you discovered that Denise to whom you took a liking was an unlicensed whore. Then Meilin suddenly turned cold on you after such a promising start. You thought you would have a chance to work on your spoken French with a native speaker. You agreed to meet Harriet, the subject of this "biography" on a lark after your landlord praised her to high heaven for her high "morality" and generosity. There were only two problems: she was uneducated and ten years older than you. The first meeting in Starbucks was not auspicious. She looked ancient and sported a ridiculous hairdo with bottled blond color. On the other hand, she kept her figure in good shape and she had a very sharp mind. She was incredibly articulate and possessed a good, charming voice. She at first called you "kiddo" but as the conversation progressed, you could see that she was impressed with you even after you told her that you were a tightwad and yet had no interest in her money. You would insist on Dutch treat all the way if she and you ever dated. She mentioned about her boyfriend from whom she was temporarily separated. He was a loser except for being gentle and great in bed! You informed her that you were nonconformist, had artistic sensibilities, and suffering from impotence in many ways, except in expressing yourself via words. She laughed her head off at your self-description. She said that you had a good sense of humor, to which you replied that sexual impotence was not a laughing matter. She laughed some more and then hinted darkly that with her, no man would worry about impotence! You then remarked that it was very reassuring to hear. After beating around the bush and dropping double entendres, she said she might call you someday. You looked at her, nodding your head and said nothing. And then you took off in bewilderment. Next day, she called just as you were arriving at your office and said she would like to invite you for lunch on the following Sunday and would you mind if she brought along a female friend. Of course not, you replied.

When you showed up at the restaurant on that fateful Sunday, she dolled herself with the same ridiculous hairdo and a sharp dress. Her friend looked even more ancient than she was and one-tenth of the beauty. Yet she brazenly hit on you! You politely fended her off. Harriet had an expression of a mixture of amusement and annoyance on her face. When the bill came, you picked it up. Her friend made a show of paying for her share, but both you and Harrriet waved her off. When you got home, the phone rang. It was she. "Thank you very much for picking up the bill, my dear gentleman. I was testing you."

She called you everyday afterwards, just like clock work, around 9:30 pm. The conversation occasionally lasted until the wee hours of the morning. She told you about her aristocratic, pampered background, about her past marriages and affairs. She also talked movingly about her lonely childhood and adolescence and how unwisely she neglected to study hard. Most importantly, she disclosed that she had dual personality and a loneliness because of it. She intimated that despite numerous marriages and affairs, she always felt lonely until she met you, but she was gravely concerned about the age discrepancy between her and you, which was aggravated by your youthful appearance. You didn't talk much. You just listened. Occasionally you made some wisecracks and she laughed or chuckled. Her favorite expression was "you little devil" when you teased her. You provided her with basic information about yourself. You told her that you were somewhat deranged, that you blew almost all of your savings in stock and gambling ventures, that you were depressed and suicidal and relying on words to keep the fogs of depression at bay, that you were indeed impotent and yet you refused to seek help, that you didn't give a damn about her money.

One night, she sounded strange and distracted. You asked why. She revealed that her boyfriend was back with her and that she might not talk to you much anymore. You firmly told her that the news was actually a blessing in disguise because talking to her every night was a big distraction and disruption to your life and indeed you needed to devote more time to reading and writing, the routine you had in the evening prior to her intrusion into your life. She hung off the phone in a huff. A feeling of disgust and anger permeated your being. You went outside, jumped into your Camero and drove to the nearby fitness club and swam until your arms and legs ached and you were panting with exhaustion.

She stopped calling. And you were too proud to call her. In fact, after two weeks of waiting for her calls, you deleted both her land line and mobile phone numbers. Weeks and then months passed by. You barely functioned but you soldiered on. You hit the gym in earnest. It helped you a lot. You set goals that you had to accomplish at the gym. Meanwhile you stayed away from women. You stopped flirting with them. Exactly six months later, she called. She opened the conversation by saying "This is Harriet. Please don't hang up. We need to talk."

She said that she missed you terribly, that she was afraid, that she was talking to her full-grown children and her nephew about you and they all told her to dump her long-time leech boyfriend and to go after you. You sulkingky told her that you were not in the competition business and that was beneath you. You added that at any rate, she deserved better, and she should keep herself busy. You earnestly added that you were not necessarily the one to replace her boyfriend, but for her financial safety and self-respect she should examine carefully why she was still
drawn and attached to her boyfriend despite his obvious using her for such a long time. You saved the best "comment" for last: she must confront her feelings, that if she really loved and respected him. She cried when she hung up the phone.

You felt cathartic and at peace with yourself. You were through with being nice and diplomatic with her. You told her what you felt inside of you. You confronted your own feelings. You cared about her, but you cared about your self-respect and dignity much more. You could survive without her, without anybody. You really didn't need anybody, any woman to know who you were and your worth. You also didn't need the financial support of anybody. You still have enough money to survive with dignity. You must be careful not to spend it unwisely as you had done before when you were younger and afflicted with foolishness.

She called back a week later, sounding strained and drained. "Why didn't you call?", she sobbed. You said nothing. She then asked you if you missed her. You replied in the affirmative. Her voice perked up. She told you she had just said goodbye to her long-time beau and you were now the only male friend she had. She then haltingly asked if you cared about her. You said, yes. More than as a friend? Yes. What about the age discrepancy? Not uncomfortable anymore. "Then please call me now and then. I woukd love that."

Two weeks after that conversation, she got rid of her stupid hairdo at your insistence. You took her to a hairstylist and told her what to do with your girlfriend's hair. When it was done, Heather (you told her you never liked the name Harriet. It made her sound ancient and hicky) looked 10 years younger and immeasurably more dignified with dark brown dyed hair and conservative, matronly style.. You paid for the haircut. She took you to Walgreens and purchased facial and hand lotions for you.

She went back with you to your apartment and spent the night with you. She was a tigress in bed, surprising you with one unexpected disclosure after another. When it was over, she told you she loved you the first time she laid her eyes on you, but she was afraid of the age discrepancy. She then said she wanted you to be happy and peaceful and she would do everything in her power to make that happens.

Then somebody knocked on your door insistently. You hurriedly got dressed and answered the door. A courtly gentleman in late 60's asked. " Excuse me, I need to to talk to Harriet urgently!" Her voice rang out behind you, "Larry, I already told you we were through. And I really meant it! How did you know I am here?"

Postcript:

You knocked yourself hard, with the result that you lay flat on your back on the floor, eyes wide shut, as the music drifted in and out of your consciousness. She was singing her heart out. She claimed she loved you. Maybe she really did. She seemed to be happy.

Others had said they loved you. Many of them were from different ethnicities and they declared their affection in various languages. That was why you chuckled when you read Victor's boastful words that he was blessed in the love department and that of all the members of the group more women loved him than anybody else. He didn't know about you!

Anyway, with so many women who have claimed to love you, then why is the curse of loneliness choking you? Maybe that's something really wrong with you and you are trying to find that out via words.

One gets out of love of what he puts/invests himself into it. Maybe you have not invested a lot of yourself because the ghosts of Laura, TTAD, and Agnes have held you back. In some ways, other women didn't come close. Maybe you are asking more than what others can deliver. Love is at once a rare and common commodity. Everybody can mouth off about love, but only a few can actually give unconditionally of themselves, without fear nor regret. Most of us wait for the others to move first. Love is a waiting game for the loneliness to subside.

Wissai

You received the following feedback from a long-time friend about the above fictional "biography" of the "tigress":

Good Morning,

I can’t seem to separate you from your writing. Maybe there is something within me and yet it is a bit more. It is the reason you say you write: catharsis. Your writing is a tool that you use to take your feelings outside of yourself and examine them. It is also a window for others if they care to gaze in

Your latest words sent me on a brief excursion into the world of loneliness. The thing is: what is loneliness to you and you to loneliness? Your loneliness hit me hard as did your poetry.

I will not take your words or your latest "story" apart. Not this morning. Will I ever share my insights? That depends on you and on how brave I am. One thing I must say is that the ghosts of Laura and some other love continue to fly around within your words.

(to be continued)

You are sweet and dark

2011-07-09T10:34:00.000-07:00

You are sweet and dark.

You are sweet and dark. You refuse to live life on a lark. You want to explore, putting yourself on a ledge, testing your limits and boundaries at all times. Life to you is a constant and chronic flirtation with disasters and last-minute triumphs. Of course, you are very sensitive. You don't phone in and tell people you are still alive. You jump right in front of people's faces and say, "I am here. Anybody is game for life?"

So, you held her up close. You pressed your groin against hers. You palmed her ass, caressing and pressing it forward. And then you kissed her. Your hand moved to her breasts. Then you unbuttoned her blouse. She wore no bra, as she had advertised. Her tiny tits were now in full view. You lowered your head and took them, in turn, into your mouth. She was groaning with delight. She was responding. She took your sex which was already hard into her hand and fingered it.

Afterwards, as she lay beside you, her head snuggling close to your chest, she said, please don't ever leave me. You said nothing. Fear and loneliness had already returned.

Your writing has taken on a disturbing Freudian overtone lately. You're a late bloomer. For years you suppressed what you envisioned what must have happened to Laura right before she left you for another man. It was too painful for you. You would not be able to take it. Now you are able to empathize. You don't get angry. You are just disappointed and cynical. And then you told yourself that you would concentrate on making money and on your body and mind, and the hell with Laura. But she keeps showing up in unexpected moments. Your mind is telling you to be very careful.

You asserted that life is richer and stranger than fiction. Fiction is just the imagination of one author at a time and his imagination must be grounded on plausibility coupled with an artistic control over his imagination while life is a daily farrago of the expected and unexpected, the strange and sometimes pathetic attempts of humans trying to assert their worth and their moments in the sun before they die in obscurity, loneliness, and amidst a sense of insignificance.

You don't think you are wrong for holding such a futilitarian and absurdist view of life. You have seen enough examples.

Mimi called and woke you up. At first you thought it was Denise. You were about to click off the phone when she identified herself. Mimi talked about Denise of course. She defended her. You were calm and serene. You simply said you had misplaced your compassion and once again you had an error of judgment. You told her that you didn't know shit about women as you bragged and boasted. In fact you were and still are a babe in the woods as far as life is concerned. You talk a good game, but you are naive and trusting and stupid. Mimi said, don't sell yourself short, why you keep talking down about yourself? you have no self-confidence or what? I like strong, confident men. You said, then you wouldn't like me, I am stupid and weak and yet full of noise and thunder. She laughed and tenderly said, you're a strange man, no wonder Denise fell for you. You said nothing to that cryptic comment. Then she queried after an awkward moment, Roberto, you still there? You replied, yes.

-Did I say anything wrong?
-No, not really.
-What do you mean?
-Listen, you know and I know you are a strong and smart woman. You don't have as much education and book knowledge as I do, but you know your street savvy has impressed me. Also, your heart has been incredible. I am just a guy floundering about in the sea of life, impractical and disdainful of money and hell-bent on destroying myself by saying the wrong things and taking unnecessary risks. I am strange, all right.
-Roberto, stop talking about yourself that way! I don't like it. I think you are definitely more than you describe yourself, otherwise I wouldn't bother to call you. By the way, why don't you EVER call me once?
-Because you already have a big-shot CEO as a boy-friend!!
- Shit! You're more stupid than I thought. Anyway, what are you doing? Did I wake you up?
-Mimi, you called me at one in the morning and now you're asking me if you woke me up?
-Sorry, go back to sleep. I was thinking of you and wanted to know if you are still seeing Denise. Please, call me sometimes, will you?

You waited for exactly ten days and called her at 10 pm

-Hi, Mimi, this is Roberto. Can you talk?
-Roberto! Of course, I can. What's up?
-You asked me to call you. Here I am. At Her Majesty Service.
-(Chuckle) I like that. Treating me a queen. Am I a queen to you, Roberto?
-Mimi, I've been thinking since we last talked. In fact, I've been thinking too much.
-What have you been thinking?
-Your calling me at one in the morning and your words. I am confused and I am afraid.
-Of what?
-Of you are toying and playing games with me.
-I'm cutting to the chase. I am very, very glad that you called. It's very good to hear your voice. What took you so long? Don't you like me?
-What's about your CEO friend?
-I am about through with him. He's too controlling and acting like he owns me. I have my own money, not as much as his, but I'm not starving.
-Mimi, I don't have much money.
-I know that, silly. I don't care. Be straight with me. Do you like me?
-I don't have to tell you that,
-Do you? I want you to say it one way or another.
-Yes, very much.
-I thought and hoped so. Good. I know you are busy and need to make money. I will fly out there and spend a couple of days with you. You go on with your daily routine. I just hang around in your apartment, reading and resting or making some phone calls. We go out when you get back from work. Okay?
-When are you coming?
-Next week. Let me see. Hmm, next Friday. I can't wait to see you.
-Neither can I.

Friday arrived not soon enough for you. You took the afternoon off from work. You arrived at the airport early although you had told Mimi that you would pick her up at the passenger pick-up area. You wanted to watch how she walked towards the rendezvous area and the expressions on her face when you surprised her. It turned out she surprised you. She had a tight cream-colored jeans on, a white blouse, a scarf, a beret, and sunglasses while dragging a LV suitcase. She walked briskly with eager anticipation, her shapely breasts bouncing happily up and down. Your heart soared. You approached her from behind, saying "Excuse me, Miss. You seem to be lost. May I help you? "She turned around and exclaimed: "Roberto!" and flew into your arms and kissed you squarely on the mouth. Then she smiled and dropped a bombshell: "Now, tell me about the old hag Heather. You are not seeing her anymore, are you?" You stopped walking, stunned, and blushed "But how did you know about Heather?"

She kept on smiling, held onto your arm, and said, "I know a lot about you, more than you ever know. Where's your car?"

Roberto Wissai
July 8, 2011

Postscript:
You showed the above "story" to several admirers and aficionados. One wrote back, saying she was upset and jealous. That led you to write the following comment:

"When you read my words, don't wonder and wander into a realm of speculation and search for any autobiographical elements. Instead, watch the words and see if they have any artistic merits: does the story make sense? Do the sentences flow? Do the words sing and dance and leave a lingering trace in your mind because they are striking and graphic and evocative as well as funny and hauntingly absurd? There is no need to shed tears over what I wrote. The story is a product of imagination. I am not that lucky nor charming. What I am blessed and cursed is a fantasy that threatens constantly to intrude into reality. Mimi does have a CEO boyfriend. And she does flirt with me, albeit very lightly and discreetly, as she couldn't help herself. She never makes any arrangement to see me, however. Fiction is just another name for wishful thinking. As I often deride, all the so-called religious "miracles" in the Bible and other texts are exercises in fiction. My life has also been a lame and tame Walter Mitty story."

Omar read the "story" in your presence. He kept asking that if you actually wrote the story yourself. Exasperated, you exclaimed, "Omar, can't you see the point? If I plagiarized and copied from somewhere, I wouldn't excitedly and proudly showed it to you, fucker!" After he finished reading, he smiled and posed a question, "Is any of these true? Where and how did you meet these women?". You touched your head with a forefinger, "It's all up here."

He then said, " Roberto, you're a writer. You have a sense of the real physical presence of feelings. You are an ego in search of an id and of love. I wish you luck."

You sighed, grasped his arm, and intoned, "I don't have a clue what you said. I was not looking for any praise. I was hoping for understanding. You don't have to praise me. The bottom line is that whether as you read the story, you wonder what happens next and whether it lingers on in your mind. Any good story is the one that compels you to go back and read it again and again and again to the point it is part of how you feel and think and remember."

The same reader who earlier expressed petulance and peevishness came back and now raised the issue that there was a disconnect between the title and the story. To that you replied:

"You have to try harder to connect the dots in the story, from the title to the postscript.

The protagonist describes himself as sweet and dark. The story begins with his musings on his restless search for "disaster and last-minute triumphs". Then suddenly he describes an erotically-charged atmosphere where there was a lack of any description of coitus despite the preceding leading in. The erotic atmosphere ended with the cryptic, Fear and loneliness had already returned.' This was the first clue of the dark character of the protagonist.

The rest of the story explored his sweetness which attracted women of all ages.

The postscript cast the story in a philosophical frame. It is an ego in search of an id and of love.

Wissai
July 8, 2011

Tropic of Cancer revisited

2011-07-04T07:22:00.000-07:00

Finally it happened and far better than you had imagined. She hoarsely said, No please, but she didn't take back her hand. She was breathing hard, eyes looking straight at you. And you knew. You drew her closer. You felt a tremor in her body. You then kissed her, on the mouth. She at first refused to part her lips. Then suddenly, she sucked in your tongue with such force that it almost flew out of your mouth. A new, unknown feeling swept over your body. You had done French kissing before, but this was more than French. It was Vietnamese, American, primordial and primeval, urgent and hungry, and full of love and longing. Then she stopped and said, please love me long and tender. And you complied.

When it was over, you knew you were entering uncharted waters. Words swirled inside your head. Music was filling in the air. And you asked her sing again your favorite song of Truc Phuong which you recently translated into English.

"Who would give me a love
full of innocence, poetry, and dreams.

I would welcome her with open arms
And lead her into my heart,
While my lips press upon hers.

But I am only dreaming.
That's why my heart is sobbingly lonely
It flutters its wings, but has yet taken off in love.
I call out for love to land on my heart,
But love has yet found its way.

Night after night, loneliness briskly enters my bedroom,
Cold winds get to my heart, and stars fall off the sky as the night is drawing to a close.
The quiet house is full of bitter memories, so my soul is taking an aimless stroll.

Who would fall for me, so we can join in a predestined union?
I would love her all my life
Please, oh, please, don't be shy,
My heart is choking...."

True feelings and their manifestations

2011-07-03T08:16:00.000-07:00

Feelings always fluctuate and are contingent on externalities. Feelings don't exist in a vacuum. They require and arise from stimuli.
So, what happens or will happen when and after you hold her hand and stroke her face and tell her that you care about her and that her words turn you on and make you wonder long after they were uttered?

Feelings are fragile and should not be trifled with. Neither would ego be a factor in harboring any feelings, but alas, ego is the boss. It wants to get involved. Thus, all feelings have an element of and the presence of Ego. Only when a person loves without ego, without attachment, without a need or hope of reciprocity will that love ever truly be a love from the heart. A parent loves a child without ever worrying if the child would love him or her back. Any true love has characteristics of a parental love: selfless devotion to the well-being of the beloved because the suffering of the beloved is unacceptable and unbearable to him/her. An unrequited love is the purest and the most beautiful.

One more thing: all sexual acts must be performed with true love in mind and heart. The act of penile penetration must be coupled with a feeling of giving and demonstrating a willingness to touch with the inner recesses and saintly sanctum of the other's being. Without such feeling, the sex act is only a grunting of animalistic desire, devoid of a higher human consciousness.

Thus spake Wissai

What would you say when she calls?

2011-07-02T08:57:00.000-07:00

-It depend on which "she" you're talking about?
-Fuck! I don't know you have more than one. My goodness, you're a player, Roberto.
-(A chuckle, a smirk, and then unexpectedly a sad, even suicidal look came over his face) What do you expect? Look at this face, this physique. Delve further into the wit, the erudition, the heart, the feelings for things that are sweet and true and eternal. No wonder women flock to me like bees to honey, like flies to shit, like overeaters to free buffet.
-Seriously, though, what do you say to her when she calls because I know she will call?
-Silvio, I don't give a fuck about her anymore. I don't. I mean it. She pissed me off so bad that I am walking away from her, figuratively and literally. She was stupid, very stupid. And I cannot stand stupid people. I am very sensitive, as you already know. I am now almost back to where I used to be. Only concerned about money and health and creativity and knowledge. Love and pussies now bore me for the stupid games involved. In the end, I have only me to rely on. That's why I always feel lonely. I cannot trust anybody. All selfishness. All talk. Glad you called. I've got to go make some money. I have to hustle. See you later.

So, Roberto got into his Ferrari and headed to his favorite haunt, despite sad memories there. He told himself that he was stronger than the memories, than whatever that made him sad and blue, that in the end he would triumph.

Be real and be realistic

2011-06-30T09:55:00.000-07:00

You told me you are realistic. You like news. You don't like novels and poetry. I am glad you told me all this shit. I am different from you. I like dreams and the impossible, the more impossible, the better. I like to swim against the tide. I want to expose myself to danger.

Haunting image

2011-06-30T09:42:00.000-07:00

If you have not read about Buddhism, you would have a hard time of the unexpected haunting image of Laura. Instead, you replaced her with a different image and you said to yourself: "She's coming back in my mind because I have some worries and concerns right now. My mind is weakened by the worries and concerns. I need more sleep. I need more self-discipline. This haunting image, like all past bothersome occurrences, shall pass. It will pass. I will pass."

Things happened. And they might turn out good for you.

2011-06-30T06:58:00.000-07:00

Your mind is now flooded with bad memories. Just to sit still and let them subside. You go with the flow. Don't be greedy. Keep your cool. You are learning more about yourself. You have to look at yourself with others' eyes, but preserve your own judgment. Use others' eyes only so you would know to interact. Don't be self-centered. Be mindful of the stranglehold power has on how humans interact, even in the matters of the heart. Keep busy. Improve your mind. Peace. Get enough sleep.

Some Like It Like This

2011-06-29T23:17:00.000-07:00

-No, I don't care if you are coming back to me. No, I'm taking it back. Of course, I do, but I'm not putting pressure on you. I'm leaving it up to you. All I know is this: I love you. You're an incredible man, a rare man. And I don't think I will meet another one like you. In fact, I know it's highly unlikely I will fall in love again. If you're not coming back, I still love you and cherish and treasure the memories that we had. I believed you when you said you loved me. And I believe you still. You do whatever you feel is right for you. I only want the best for you. And I do want you to be happy.

-Oh baby, what a speech!
What a soul!
My heart bleeds
It now has a hole
Because of what you just said.
Don't turn away your head.
Come here!
Let me hold you as I did the first time
When we both heard our hearts chimed.
I'm leaving, but my heart stays.
I love you always.
Trust me, I'll find a way to come back to you.
Don't be blue. My love is true.

Wissai

Is it Stupidity or simply Sophistry?

2011-06-29T23:13:00.000-07:00

Is it Stupidity or simply Sophistry?
I wrote a piece in simple, clear, direct English, free of the ornate, florid, convoluted, intricate expressions and advanced vocabulary. I shared it with a vixen whom I thought intelligent. Her feedback was so way off the mark that I refused to answer. I wonder if her strange comment was a product of stupidity or sophistry. Pride is always with me. It never left. It is all I have left.

Anyway, I look outside my window, elephant grass stretches for miles from the foothills to the horizon. They have been here for millions of years, changing colors and heights in accordance with the rainfall. Somewhere close by, a dog is barking weakly in the midst of the midday sun. Why I am the way I am? She said No. As I clicked off the phone, a nauseating feeling was washing over me. I will be okay. This, too, shall pass. I sometimes wonder if she really understands what I am trying to tell her. It could be that language, no matter how I try to be articulate, cannot express the music of meaning.

I am telling you all this in order to hold the demon of memories at bay. My mind, I believe, is still cold and clear. It's itching to be cruel, but I am telling it No. I look outside the window again. Shimmering heat waves are dancing atop the swaying elephant grass.

I am back to the book I am reading. It's about memories and regrets and years of saddling up and riding away into the night of tears and sorrows. I know that much about her. But she never knows that about me. Neither does she know I am walking away from her. She actually thinks the opposite. My mind is not that easy to understand, but fools and simpletons claim to possess a window into my soul.

Afternoon is now drawing to an end. The air changes. There's now moisture. Winds pick up. Dark clouds are gathering. Then it happens. The sky splits and spills. Rain. Rain. Rain. Water is coming down from the sky like there's no end of supply. I go outside, with only my shorts on. I feel cool and refreshed. I feel the stresses and sorrows being strained away from me, but not the sins. The sins stay for me to deal with. I don't believe in baptism or redemption. I believe in taking responsibility for one's actions. I also believe in memories. I am now back in time, 54-56 years ago, playing in the rain, in the streets of my neighborhood, with a bunch of friends. How carefree and happy I was. I had a good childhood. My life has gone downhill in terms of happiness since my adolescence. That was when I discovered responsibility and love. I have had no problems with responsibility, but love's tentacles have had a hold on me, even to this day. And I am now 62 years of age. In all fairness, without love coiling around my neck and in my soul, I wouldn't be bothered to work on my physique and my mind. Yesterday, as I pumped iron, I actually felt my strength coming back. For some brief moments, I felt like I was in my late 20's, brimming with vitality and rugged lust. Later, as I looked at my bulging tummy in the locker room mirror, I made a mental note that the bulginess must disappear.

I am going to live my life like a sunflower in the sun: big, blooming, full of fragrance and nectar, attracting all kinds of butterflies and bees. I am going to hang in there in the sun and throughout the night as long as I can until I buckle, blacken, and blow away in the wind.

Roberto Wissai

Amor Interruptus

2011-06-26T15:44:00.000-07:00

Amor Interruptus

In these sultry sirocco summer days
I can't help thinking of sundry ways
Of expressing my ardor for you
Without making you think it's untrue....

Well, tonight I am looking at you in full concentration
And try to fathom my infatuation.
Where is the locus of my attraction:
The eyes, the smile,
Or the shriveled tits,
The budging tummy,
Or the shrunken behind?

None of the above.
It must be your heart
That knows fairness,
And the mind that knows right from wrong,
And your plaintive cry of loneliness.

So, I'm telling you, come hither
And let me hold you tight,
Let me sing for you a lullaby
That would help you pass through the night.
You don't have to tell me that you love me
And I don't have to declare that for you I care.
We just lie in each other's arms and feel less despaired.

You said," you've got me all wrong.
I was not playing hard to get.
I was being deadly afraid,
Afraid that your feelings were not true
And what would happen to me if away you move.
You knew damned well I was falling hard for you.
It is not so much you want to hold me tonight
As about many nights in the future.
Will you still then find me a delight?"

The above poem could be expanded to constitute a narrative, but writing verse is a demanding task. And I am not up for it. So, now I have to switch to prose. Notwithstanding the opening stanza, the title of the poem is evocative of an unfulfilled and unfinished love affair. And that means Laura is back on stage, occupying a focal point. I have been harping on Laura not because I still love her, but rather she was my first experience in understanding women. Several readers of my blog (okay, I lied. Only one reader so far. And she did so for obvious reasons) have raised a question that I have been using the mythos of Laura as an excuse of not growing up emotionally. She got it all wrong, you see. Thanks to the painful memories left behind by Laura, I got more cautious and more stoic. Nothing and nobody are going to throw me off balance

(cont.)

Ironies

2011-06-24T22:40:00.000-07:00

You had a bemused and anoyed look on your face when she called. You didn't pick up the phone. You had heard through the grapevine she had descended further to new depths of depravity and loss of self-respect. Ironically, she was the one not too long ago who lectured you about dignity and self-respect and the importance of public opinion. One can always tell about liars and whores. They doth protest too much and too loudly. Then Chastity called. You picked up the phone. After beating around the bush, she asked you to go out. You accepted. The time you spent with her was mildly interesting because of her calculating "candor". She thought she could put wool over your eyes. You acted stupid and naive. Once again she was busy lecturing you about manners and social etiquette such as avoiding chewing gum in public and not using "okay?" as fillers in conversations. And this came from a woman who speaks broken, street patois of bar-girl English picked up by associating with GIs and degenerate drinkers and alcoholics. You are not saying that she is not smart. Far from it. She is sharp and keenly observant of her surroundings. She is playing hard to get with you. That annoyed you at one time, but no more. She is not as smart as she thinks she is. This time she came on strong and earnest. Little did she know your interest has faded fast. And she is now only part of a sociological and anthropological experiment. She forgot that consistency was everything and you have a good memory.

After the date, you stopped by the office to check how things were going. Patches looked sad and forelorn without his stylish Mohawk hairstyle. You asked him about the reason for its disappearance. He muttered about the presence of so many "haters" in this world. You pressed him further and he finally disclosed that his supervisor had told him not to be controversial in his appearance since he has to deal with the public. You laughed loudly at the absurdity. Patches was not amused. He looked really hurt that he had to get rid of his beloved Mohawk. Ah, the issue of power and the necessity of blending in. To beguile the time, look like the time.

You live one day at a time, building will-power to confront your demons.

(to be continued)

Qu'est ce que tu m'as dit?

2011-06-24T16:59:00.000-07:00

Tu m'as dit,
Je t'aime, je t'aimerai toujours.
Mais maintenant je sais tu m'as dit les nots mensongers
Et les sentiments maudits.

Je t'ai dit,
Je te manque beaucoup.
Et maintenant je te manque encore.
Quand me^me je pense a toi parfois.
Mais non, je pense a toi
Tous les jours et toutes les nuits.

Wissai
24 juin, 2011

What would I say after "Hello"?

2011-06-23T21:44:00.000-07:00

You complained that I didn't call you enough.
But I don't know what else to say after "Hello".
I know you're playing games with me, appearing to be tough.
While in fact you're just so so.
I do like you, but not enough to go crazy
And forfeit my dignity.
So, I won't call you anymore
You'll have to come to my door
If you want to get me,
Sweetie.

Wissai

When I First Met You

2011-06-23T17:58:00.000-07:00

When I first met you

When I first met you,
I let a song come out of my heart.
I thought it was an auspicious start.
You see, I never sang in public before,
But you made my heart quiver and vibrate and long for more.
The day after, the sunlight was soft.
Shadows of branches swayed to and fro on a polished black wall.
I thought I was in love. This soul of mine was aloft
With hopes and dreams.
I took a long walk in the park, feeling strong and tall.
With feelings like these, no wonder
I like to fall in love over
And over again
With
You.

Wissai
June

Games people play

2011-06-23T09:39:00.000-07:00

Many, many moons ago, right after Laura dumped me, when I was floundering about in the sea of depression, I chanced upon a book naned "Games people play" by Eric Berne (I think, I don't quite remember the detail. Too long ago. I am an old man now. I cannot get it up on demand anymore. And I am too proud and stubborn to seek chemical assistance). I leafed through the book. All I remember now it's part of transactional analysis. Life is a transaction, an exchange of resources, including feelings. To win the game of life, one has to follow certain rules. Sounds Machiavellian and conniving and full of common sense. But I am stupid and deficient in common sense. I insist on playing by my rules, which are: I am who I am, if you take the time to get to know me, you'll like me and perhaps even love me, otherwise I don't give a fuck (okay, I do, but not enough to change my way. I am childishly egotistical, but in a "nice" way).

Anyway, my stupid orientation and approach to life has hurt me, of course, but I am too pathological in self-destruction to change. Take her, for instance. I know she is playing a game of hot and cold with me, testing how hard I'm falling for her. She does not know the depth of my pride and the intensity of the importance I place on honesty and forthrightness and consistency. While I don't deny she does turn me on in some sick, illogical, impractical way, I am pedaling backwards emotionally and am already on a search for an exit. All these words, these confrontations with myself via songs and poetry are just my way to ease myself out of an emotional trap I find myself in. One, two, three, I will be free. Love has to be true and real and free of games. You love somebody because you cannot help yourself. You surrender yourself to a mysterious force, knowing that you may hurt yourself, but you don't really give a damn. Too much thinking of pros and cons and not enough feeling smells too much of mercantilism and commercialism. And I hate monetary and financial considerations when it comes to love. Love has to be pure and giving. Love is the gift that insists on giving until one day he or she is overwhelmed and responds decisively one way or another. Any game employed in the name of love would just sully love and leads to eventual break-up. Love in its purest state is not a choice; it's a surrender to the mysterious force of attraction and wonder and mystery and poetry and yes, insanity. What's the fuck I am yelping about? I am just playing a game with myself. That's right, you can play a game with yourself, but you must or rather, should not play with a heart of anybody. You must not be cruel, no matter how deeply you suffered in the past. You must be fair. You must not take out your hurts and disappointments on innocent people. If you want revenge and to exact vengeance, go to those who have hurt you in the first place.

So it finally happened---in the recesses of my mind

2011-06-22T15:32:00.000-07:00

She finally called after holding out for ten days. The phone rang. I saw her name on the screen. I let it ring five tines. I was tempted to let ring till the recording kicked in, but that would be cruel, and I am not a cruel person. That has been my problem, not being cruel when I need to be. I have this stupid compassion within me. And it is often misplaced.

Anyway, I picked up the phone. She said simply, it's me. And then, as I expected and wished, she sobbed uncontrollably for three solid minutes (I was looking at my iPhone's timer). Then she said, I missed you, why didn't you call? I said, I missed you too, terribly, but I was angry and proud. Why, she wailed. Then she sobbed some more. I finally sighed, please don't cry, I'm coming over. Hurry please, but drive safe, she softly whispered.

When I got to her front door about twenty-five minutes later, I didn't have to ring the doorbell. She swung the door open and flew into my arms. I held her close, very close, to me. She pressed her groin against mine, hard. We didn't make it to the bedroom. We collapsed on the sofa. She, fully clothed, was on top of me. Her lips were glued to mine.

I remember spending the whole night with her snuggling close to me, her head resting on my muscular chest, a result of decades of pumping iron. My shirt was open, exposing my massive pectorals, otherwise I was clothed. Her pajamas were on. I didn't take them off, nor did I ask her to do so. I wanted her to be completely comfortable and relaxed. I was a patient man.

The next day, I called in sick. I spent the morning with her in the park. We were lying on the grass, underneath a cherry tree. The winds wwre brisk.The cherry blossoms floated in the air and finally settled down onto our faces. I caught a whiff of fragrance, a mixture of her perfume and the cherry blossoms. I felt strong and serene. I closed my eyes, taking in the fresh air, the winds, the fragrance, the sensation of her lying next to me in the park, in full view of the public, her left hand holding my right, while asking myself if I was falling in love. Then all of a sudden, Laura surfaced from the subconscious. I felt chilled. The year was 1968, half-way through the school term. We were having a date in the Botanical Garden cum Museum and Zoo in Saigon. I was lying in her lap on the steps of a secluded area, outside the Museum. I also was feeling strong and serene. I opened my eyes. A few blossoms were left on the cherry tree. They looked perfect. And when they were really perfect, they fell. The winds picked them up and helped them in their vain struggle against gravity. That was when they were absolutely, breath-takingly beautiful, the way they floated here and there and then slowly descended upon the ground, some not far from where we were lying. The ephemerality of beauty, of love, of life. I turned to face her. She was still having her eyes closed behind the stylish Silhouette sunglasses. I wondered if there would be another woman after her. Would my search for love end with her? Or would I be damned in unfulfilment because of Laura?

Father's Day

2011-06-19T13:40:00.000-07:00

He called his son on Father's Day, not the other way around, to tell him, his surviving and only offspring that he loved him very much. The brief conversation left such a void in him that the subsequent 5 phone calls from various admirers and aficionadas could not fill. Love is a strange emotion, especially if there are blood ties involved.

Depressed and dejected on Father's Day, he dragged himself to the gym where he worked himself to exhaustion. On the way back to his apartment, he realized that his recent forays into romanticism were more for sociological investigations than the flutterings of the heart because his age and his philosophical mindset would always steer him to a tragi-comic outlook and conclusion on such last minute, desperate grasp of the straws of sentimentality before meeting the Maker.

-"Your fears and mistrusts and cynical views contribute to your loneliness, don't you know that? Don't you know that to live long, one has to have a youthful, vibrant outlook on life. Of course, one should not be too trusting or stupid and naive as one was in his youth. But one should not be a grumpy old man, spouting boring, cynical views all day long."

-Yes sir! I heard you loud and clear. Is there anything else you'd like to add? Summer is late and so am I. I normally would feel hot blood coursing through my veins by this time of the year. Instead, I hear the sirens of caution and the warnings of possible hurts and disappointments. The song "You Screwed Up My Life" was played with a note of urgency. The saxophone left a lingering, single wailing sound at the end, making me feel that the brassy sun was lost and forelorn behind thick billowing clouds.

-Roberto, I have a hard time understanding you. You walked away from a millionaire-heiress and widow. You turned down overtures of sexy admirers and aficionadas. But you're falling hard for a destitute, over-the-hill, twice-divorced, poorly-educated, occassionally untruthful woman with shriveled tits, fairly large tummy, and shrunken ass. I don't understand what she has that captivated you.

-Silvio, I know she lies occasionally, that she skirts around the truth from time to time. But she isn't that much different from many of us in that regard. On the other hand, she has basic honesty and kindness and self-respect. She isn't lazy. And she is concerned about image. She is more worried about what the common folks think of me, of my disdain for conventional wisdom than of her own image. She's poor, but she not once asked me for money. I like her smile, her courage, her singing. I know she won't be a tigress in bed, but somehow I have this feeling that if I hold her tight in my arms, she would quiver and quaver and tremble with fear and excitement and she would tell me that I need to focus on my well-being, on recapturing my wealth without damaging my health. She would say that she felt flattered and confused that I chose her over many other competing women. She would keep saying over and over again that, please don't make her suffer and bring her shame in the few years she still has on this planet. Last but not least, she wants me to be happy. My heart trampolines whenever she smiles at me.

-You're crazy. You read too many soapy, stupid novels. I have news for you. This world operates differently than you think. Forget her. She's bad news. Focus on making money. Go out with attractive, nice women. Stay away from talkative, querulous, garrulous old women. Stop looking for a mother figure. I know you miss your mother and you still love and pine for her. Be normal, Roberto, live like the rest of us. Be around attractive, young women. Don't fool around with over-the-hill old women. They are dangerous. They think too much. Don't trust them.

-Okay, here's the deal. I won't call her, not tonight nor any other night. I will be AWOL. If she really loves me, she would know where to look for me. She will break down and cry for hours. On the other hand, if silence is her route, then she will tread on that route alone, without me by her side. I won't be suffering. And essentially nothing is lost except a few dollars and time. I will be wiser. And I won't speculate if she has learned anything. I, on the other hand, have learned a lot, especially about myself. She was right the last time we talked. She said, focus on making money and take good care of your health.

-Now, you're talking! Be strong. Be practical. Don't be stupid.

(cont.)

Memoir 8

2011-06-08T10:08:00.000-07:00

The defensive and obsessive protection of her interests led to your diminution of affection for her. That was probably why you dreamed of KL last night. This was your third dream in 44 years. You kept your affection hidden. Once in a blue moon, it comes out in dreams. Yet when you woke up, the image of Laura appeared and you felt sad. You vowed to yourself that you must regain your wealth, work on your body and mind. You keep making the same mistakes in reading people. And your compassion seems constantly misplaced. Watch your words. Seal your lips. And please be more gentle with yourself and others. Forgive and forgive and forgive. Stay away from evil people. You are not strong enough to deal with them.

Watch your words, seal your lips. Be gentle to yourself and others. Those are your mantras. There are humans who can't reason, can't see the errors of their ways or are too weak to change for the better. On the other hand, there are people like LL who are unselfish and full of kindness. Your lack of attention to a string of emails of Denise led to her epithets-filled text messages. Thanks to those messages, you got to know her true nature. This morning, as you meditated, memories of Laura rushed back and made you realize that love was a game and you were ill-equipped to deal with it. Remember, don't try to break the mold or to swim against the tide. Most humans are just common. Work on yourself, not on others. Be kind-hearted, but don't harbor a Messiah Complex because you are not strong enough to save anybody. As Flannery O'Connor once famously said, "the life you save should be your own." You're trying to save yours. You have reached a point in your life where you find out that what you thought was important turned out to be trivial and ephemeral. So you now aim for peace, knowledge, and love. Also, you no longer want to be great. You simply want to be a good, peaceful person who is no longer consumed by hate and anger. Just as Denise vainly and sadly denounced you and loudly asserted for the respect that has eluded her, you have a feeling what people dislike most about you is what they hate about themselves. Your words about animals, cowardice, pontification, lying, irresponsibility, and lack of patriotism all hit home because they were all true. You wrote from the heart. You wrote what you feared the most. Your life is an effort to be what you know you can be, an answer to what is good and noble inside you. You have this vague, but intense wish to be open and vulnerable, but past pains and sufferings have taught you to be patient and indiifferent to the wish. You once expressed your state of mind as being strong and tranquil, causing consternation and concern in others. And they all fled away from you. You were not angry. You were just amused and rode out the disappointment. A man's life is the sum of his experiences and the lessons he learned from them.

Memoir 7

2011-06-02T17:45:00.000-07:00

It's quite obvious that you are afflicted with ego problem, not mercantile obsession. You are not as much keen to make money as to be loved by women. Having a lot of money does not give you a serene, peaceful feeling as you are showered of attention by members of the fair sex. And that means you are inveterately stupid and have not learned from experience. Deep down, you are a flirt, albeit a shy and honest one. Anyway as you interacted with the women, you couldn't help imagining that was how Laura must have carried on with her new beau. The realization tempered your enthusiasm and brought a much-needed wariness. Life is essentially a game where one has to play by certain rules to win. Having said that, you recall an asshole once disclosed that it was okay to hit opponents below the belt because the objective in life was to win at any price and at any cost. You shuddered when you heard of that disclosure. And you have stayed away from the moral leper ever since because you are not ruthless enough. You still believe in fair play. Anyway, despite all the annoyance lately, you have managed to stay above the morass of moral depravity. You have some pride of who you are. Like last night, as you were about to fall asleep, the phone rang. And the caller ID was blocked. You picked up the phone anyway. It was she. You were surprised, but you were not elated. In fact, a wariness rushed into the scene, ready to protect you.

She said, hi, can we talk?
-Hi, but gee, you know what the time right now, right? Fuck, it's almost one in the morning, Annie.
-I know, sorry, but I can't sleep, and I was thinking of you.
-Thanks a lot, I wish you had done that five years ago. Anyway, what's up? Did Joel leave you as I said he would? Or is it another heart-rending story of how life was unfair to you. I'm sorry, but frankly, my dear, I don't give a fuck. Not anymore. I made up my mind about two years after you left, that you don't mean shit to me. Do yourself a favor, don't call me again because I would hang up on you. Bye!

And you did. And you felt sad and sorrowful despite the bravado you had just put on. You once loved Annie. You wanted to save her. You felt sorry for her. But you soon discovered that you were the one who should be pitied. You were naive and stupid and didn't realize love was just a fucking (pun intended) game. You recently met a French-speaking video poker gambler who has been on a massive winning streak. She won $400,000 over 4 long Memorial Day holidays. She has houses everywhere, even on a little island in the Caribbean. You told her she had better quit now, right away, at once, and immediately if she wanted to preserve her wealth. Your words fell on deaf ears. She said she had a "system" and she was "beating" the casinos for over 27 years. You couldn't believe your ears. You didn't believe her. Knowing that she loved the limelight and attention, you would deduce she would have made her "success" known to the press and thus the whole wide world. Since there was no such news, she just tried to show off she was wealthy while in fact her wealth is in fact disappearing because of her addiction and her delusions. You tried to help her, but since she was delusional, you walked away. You can't help somebody who does not want to be helped for whatever the reason(s). The more you know about humans, the more you realize all of them carry within them at least one seed of self-destruction. The seed will germinate when the circumstances are right. You know your limitations and your own seeds. Meanwhile you are working on yourself, being mindful of your own illusions and delusions, talking the lessons from Lao-Tsu, Buddha, and Nietzsche. The two Asian sages taught you the virtues of moderation and non-attachment while the poor German taught you just about everything else, including all the attractions and pitfalls of power, morality, love, and vanity. This morning you got out of bed, feeling strong and serene and tall, not sad nor small. You will conduct and carry yourself with dignity. Your words will be measured and compassionate. You won't beat the blockheads, the uninformed, the vain, the inarticulate and uneducated but suffering from a delusion that they are articulate and educated solely because of some certificates, the sophistical, the cowardly, and the selfish, with your verbal two-by-fours. You will be gentle and you will be kind while establishing that you are the intellectual boss and that they are fortunate that you take the time to teach them how to take think and argue.

Having read what you just wrote the above, you realize you are nothing but strong and serene. You are indeed sad and small. You have a long way to go. You were not proud of what you wrote. There was still too much anger, too much sadness. Agnes and Laura, and now Gracie affected how you wrote.

Memoir 6

2011-05-26T20:52:00.000-07:00

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

Memoir 5

2011-05-23T13:54:00.000-07:00

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.)

Memoir 4

2011-05-17T14:38:00.000-07:00

"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.)

Expansion of Robert Browning's words

2011-05-12T10:00:00.000-07:00

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."

Harsh Language

2011-05-11T23:12:00.000-07:00

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.

Memoir 3

2011-05-09T08:57:00.000-07:00

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.

Memoir 2

2011-05-06T19:02:00.000-07:00

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.)

Reality and Grief

2011-05-04T01:53:00.000-07:00

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.”

Higher and lower impulses

2011-05-02T23:18:00.000-07:00

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.