Another 'Story"

Another "story"

A woman told you to write a story about her life because she thought her life was interesting and worthy of dissemination. You told her that you are not a professional writer, a storyteller for hire. You further explained to her that occasionally you set words on paper in spite of your lack of narrating skills because you are weak-willed and at the mercy of an inner voice which torments you and forces you to pick up the pen. You write because you want to silence the voice,
otherwise you would go crazy and do something really stupid. Being laughed at is better than being in jail.

You coldly told her that her life was not that interesting and you were quite sure that nobody, besides her father confessor, wanted to listen to it. You would rather write about your own life, instead. You have an ego and absolutely think your life is the movie material, maybe even suitable for a play, a tragedy of Shakespearean scope and dimensions. If only you had the narrating skills. Vanity is thy name.

But she persisted. She didn't give up. She even sent you an outline of
what the story of her life should entail. You are in a quandary. Some
of your last forays into fiction writing involved a woman who coldly
walked away from you and a malajusted man who committed suicide,
prompting some nasty comments from an unoriginal (read: plagiarizing),
pseudo-artistic mind. He should realize all fiction writers are
embellishers at heart. They have an over-heated imagination which has
to be satisfied. They don't need to engage in lying in everyday life
because they can do that in their literary lives and it's more fun
that way. Lying is an art. Only a few can be called bullshit artists,
though many certainly have tried.

An early winter storm is gathering. Northern winds are blustering.
Temperature is plummeting. The sky is overcast. Weathermen are
forecasting sleet and snow . A man is pulling into a roadside motel
parking lot as darkness descends over town. He is not getting out of
the car. Tears are streaming down his face. The radio is on. A song
from Bread's "Baby, I am-a want you" is bringing back sentiments he
has long suppressed. Love was short, but memory is forever. It has a
life of its own.

The motel is one of those inexpensive establishments managed by people
from South Asia. It is not very clean. The reception office also
functions as the living quarters for the manager's family. It has an
unpleasant choking smell of lingering curry. He just needs a place to
take a warm leisurely bath and then crash for the night. Hopefully, by
tomorrow the weather wil improve and he could be on his way.

His room is at the far end of the north side of the motel. As soon as
he gets inside the room, he turns on the faucet in the bathtub.. As he
gets older, he prefers a bath to a shower. Warm, refreshing water
soothes his body and nerves whenever he wants immediate soothing. He
closes his eyes while images of Laura, the one who could easily stand
for the woman Bread was crooning about are flashing through his mind
and he just killed her. Killing her was far easier than he had
thought. Right now, the problem is eluding justice and punishment. He
does not really care if the law will catch up with him. He is tired
from long driving. He feels confident he will be able to sleep. He
does not feel anxious or remorseful. He just feels numb. He was
suffering. He was angry. Now he is numb to the core, yet he wonders
where the tears came from while he was sitting in the car. Is music
such powerful, such primordial, capable of bringing to the fore in an
instant long suppressed memories?

The irony was that Laura did not sweep off his feet when he first met
her. He wanted very much not to like her, but the fact he wound up
falling in love with her amounted to a painful personal failure. At
first, he thought he was just fooling her and himself, but it turned
out his feelings for her were not apocryphal at all. The problem was
she had told him that her mother didn't approve of her getting too
close to him on account that his family was not well off enough. He
should have got all upset and walked away, but he didn't because he
loved her. He was stupid. Love made a person do stupid things. Like
his loving her without a future together and then killing her in a fit
of anger after thirty eight years when he had told himself over and
over during waking hours that he no longer loved her after she
brutally left him for another man, barely two years after they both
graduated from college.

He was tired all of the sudden, on top of being numb from blocking out
all feelings, including those of remorse. He got out of the tub, dried
himself, and jumped into bed. Even though he had turned off all the
lights, there was a faint light from the parking lot sneaking in
through the curtain. He looked at the clock on the night table. It
said 8 pm. Way before his normal bedtime. But he would try to get some
sleep. Sleep would come eventually, if he just kept closing his eyes.
Tomorrow would be a long drive. Miles to go before he could be in bed
again.

You are tired yourself, just from thinking about the predicament he
found himself, all because she said, "Go away, you are a damned
fucking loser. I don't know you. And don't ever come back.." and he
pulled the trigger. You are tired of writing down the story as he
told you. You don't feel like keeping your word. You promised him you
would write his story, the story of pains and sorrows, of misplaced
affection, of betrayal and violence, of the sheer meaninglessness of
it all. But now you are writing your own story, with no particular
order. You would just let your subsconscious take over and your
fingers fly over the keyboard. Fuck the cogency and coherence. You are
not going to send it to any publisher. Nobody is going to want it. You
only have this desire to spill your guts out.

Life is a process full of ironies. The more I live, the more I see
ironies around me, and about me, too. When I was a young boy, I
starved for affection and attention because I didn't get it at home.
What I got was stern lecturings and a lot of beatings. I managed to
grow up and get some education, without spending time in jail though I
had several close calls. I did not do any dating during high school,
not because I was ugly or anything. In fact, I was a handsome devil,
but I was busy playing catch up with my studies. I never hit the books
until I turned fifteen when I discovered philosophy, when I discovered
that I could reason very logically. Almost overnight, I stayed home
and did almost nothing but reading and studying and dreaming of going
to college. When I got there, I promplty fell in love with a homely
looking girl at the end of my first year. The relationship lasted for
three years, but I have been strangely affected ever since. I'm
finally learning at the age of sixty that all human relationships
involve power. The question is who needs whom more. And to go through
life with the least pain is to keep my mouth shut and let nobody knows
how I feel. Also, don't be quick to get angry. It's a sign of
weakness. I almost forgot to add that life is of course about to
procure food and shelter. The issues like love, freedom, and dignity
complicate life and make it hard to face. It's easier to live like an
animal, just concerned with basic necessities and simple pleasures.
But what about ironies? You said a few minutes ago you were going to
talk about them. Right, I was digressing. In fact, I like digressions.
Just to see how my mind functions. Digressions and associations.
That's me. What I meant by ironies is that I realized very recently
despite having been married ten times and involving in thousands of
close relationships, I know nothing about love. Maybe I have finally
reached a stage where it does not make much sense to me anymore to
talk about love since I no longer view it as sacrosanct and beautiful,
but as a self-imposed delusion. You see, I'm tired of being
disappointed. Everybody talks a good game, but when tested, they turn
out to be selfish and self-centered. Everybody thinks they are a bit
better than they actually are. Well, almost everybody, my parents,
Mother Teresa, Father Damien, and maybe the current Dalai Lama are the
exceptions. Everybody else, including myself, are just fucking
talkers, half-baked humans. And believe it or not, I am trying to
break through this self-imposed half-baked encapsulation. That's why
at this age, I am still learning, to make up for lost time when I
moped around feeling for myself. I have learned that I have a zest for
facts and knowledge and from there, using my logical reasoning, I
tentatively arrive at certain impressions and conclusions which are
not necessarily truths but far closer than what my peers and
contemporaries think. I sometimes wonder if they know how to think at
all, whether they have an aptitude to arrive at logical conclusions
simply they are not morally brave enough and not intellectually
curious enough. Just because they have taken some courses in college
and passed them and received a diploma, they fancy they are educated
and entitled to call themselves "intellectuals", but based on the
opinions and comments they have mouthed off, I have concluded that
they are a bunch of cowardly nitwits and human parasites who have
taken from society but have given nothing back in return except self-
inflated egos and smug complacency. Anyway, as usual, I talk too much.
I have this lingering concern that one of these days, one of those
animals for whom I absolutely have nothing but contempt will do me in.
Animals have feelings, too, you know.

Last night, I revisited "Die Trying" by Lee Child. Whenever I feel out
of whack, disturbed, unbalanced, and homicidal (I have not felt
suicidal for quite some time now. Good!), I reach for a thriller,
preferably by Lee Child. I used to read books about Zen Buddhism when
I felt unanchored, but I think I understand as much about Zen as I
could from books. I now need hard-nosed realism and naked yet
evocative protrayal of evil and brutality, not philosophical
acceptance and escapism, in preparation of my eventual confrontation
of ultimate realities. The reason why I reread "Die Trying" because I
wanted to be reminded that foolish bravery achieved nothing but one's
early demise. Revenge is the dish best served cold. I have to wait for
the right time to act, to strike at those who dared to cross me. They
must be taught there is a price, a very steep price for their
insolence and abuses of power. That's why I am no longer interested
in killing myself. I want to live as long as I can so I can carry out
my mission. I am now doing Yoga, gigong, and meditation to strengthen
my body and mind so when the right time comes, I can execute my
mission flawlessly. It seems simple to do, but few can do it and
live peacefully afterwards.

Humans are strange indeed. Most are just blathering nonsense about
their beliefs without giving much thought on the soundness of their
beliefs. Yet they think they are the ones with truths on their side.
Blessed are the ignorant and the deluded! There's something about
some, if not most, humans that make them fall in love and stay in love
with illusions and delusions. No wonder those in the know look at and
sometimes even treat them with utter contempt for they are no
different from animals in thinking capacity. For mc to cope with
animals like those, I am adopting a perpetual sneer and lips tightly
sealed on my face. Talk is out. Silence is king. My regarding those
ignorant and deluded and smug humans as lowly animals is forcing me to
live up to my self-imposed exaltation of myself so I would not be a
hypocrite. Noblesse oblige, you know. To think yourself as superior,
you have to act in truly superior manner. No, I don't mean in the
arrogant, supercilious fashion. I am more subtle than that in my way
of thinking. Who and what do you think I am? Just an animal like so
many you see around you.? I meant to say that I've got to be calm,
self-possessed, self-assured, honest, and impervious to their
shenanigans. You no doubt have noticed that I did not mention
"forgiveness". I didn't because I am not a forgiving sort of guy. I am
working on it, though. Deep down, very few people are truly forgiving,
The instinct for revenge is strong in humans. It is a survival
mechanism. It makes others wary of inflicting harm on us. In addition,
the desire to get even, even if we have not an opportunity to put into
action the desire, brings us peace so we can move on with our lives.
As I said before, people talk a good game about love and forgiveness,
but they usually just lie to make them look good, to make themselves
feel good.

I am tired. I need to take a repose. If you're around next time when I
get here, I'll talk to you again, otherwise I'll just talk to myself.
I am my own best friend. I discovered that long time ago when Laura
proved to be a liar. Verde is no different. All liars, all
selfishness, all talks, no actions.

Some people fancy and fantasize and labor under an illusion and a
self-imposed delusion that Jesus is their Savior. Little do they know
or do they dare to know that Truth is their Savior. I have toned down
my language out of respect for their sensibilities. Obviously my
respect was not that deep, otherwise I would not have brought it up.

Few people can think straight.
Few people can escape from spiritual slavery. Few people can properly
call themselves intellectuals. A college degree does not make a person
an intellectual.

What is more beautiful to be a human than the ability to think,
besides giving love and receiving love in return? Talking about love,
I once almost fell out of my chair when I read a boasting of a
pontificator that he is the biggest lover among his emai group which
comprises of about 170 members. I later confronted him about the
veracity of his statement. He sheepishly admitted that he had lied. I
almost then disclosed that few of my peers came close to me as far
love experiences were concerned. But love is private. When you see me
occasionally straying into this territory, I only discuss in
generalties, and not specifics. I am not a kiss-and-tell guy. I am
going to say this, though: out of 20 women who told me that they loved
me, probably only one really meant it. Sad, isn't it? Now you know why
I'm depressed most of the time. I can't really trust women anymore.
And if I cannot trust them, whom can I trust? All my life, I thought
women were my best friends.

You would probably think I am full of self-congratulations and
impressed with my own little self. But it ain't so at all. The truth
is that generally humans disappoint and disgust me for their
dishonesty and poses. As I said earlier, they always try to appear
better than they actually are. The ignorant appear to be learned and
the cruel try to show that they have a heart. I have a lingering
feeling monsters like Hitler and Stalin harbored an intense contempt
for humans in general due to some unpleasant expereriences during
their formative years. So when they got absolute, unchecked power,
they acted out their dark secret desire which was to inflict pain and
destruction as much as they could in order to show their absolute
contempt for their victims. Deep in the hearts of Hitler and Stalin,
their victims did not deserve to live because they had no redeeming
qualities as humans.

True humans respond to higher ideals, not to dishonesty and poses. I'm
not saying Hitler and Stalin were true humans either. I called them
monsters, didn't I? I don't really know what I would do if I had
absolute, unchecked power. I don't think I would end up behaving like
Hitler and Stalin. I think I will have some moments of catharsis,
though.

So, you could easily detect I have been perturbed for the last few
months. I kept running into bad lucks and troubles, not counting
unpleasant, mean, power-hungry, uneducated animals. It took a great
deal of me for not killing those animals. I am feeling a bit better
now. I had a nice meal. I had a pleasant sleep last night, free of
nightmares. Now I am thinking about the true nature of reality, about
how do we know for sure that what we know is true and not a product of
wishful thinking. I am slowly aware that my mind is at once logical in
reasoning but vulnerable to the slightest cases of stupidity and
abuses of power. Here are what I am attracted to:
Postmodern
Contemporary
Geometric and yet arabesque script and design. A certain quiet,
simple, unadorned, minimalist elegance
Glass
Stainless steel
Polished granite, not marble
Black and white
Earth tone colors
Women: graceful, kind, patient. Not sassy, loud-mouthed, selfish,
calculating, sarcastic but unwitty.

Values: why some are brave and most are not. Why are there noisy,
nauseating fucking hypocritical cowards? He laid out a trap for me
today in mentioning my "fear". I just ignored the noisy cowardly
fucker. No need for me to dress him down anymore. I have done enough
of that in the past. I have to work on my inner strength.

Value is hard to define. Like Love and
even God, the term means different "things" to different people. It
can mean taste, standard, predilection, philosophy, world view, or way
of life. Value is supposed to be neutral, "value-free", objective,
free of judgment. But often it is not. We have high and low values.
Values of dissident heroes like Le Cong Dinh, Nguyen Tien Trung, and
Le Thi Cong Nhan and the like are obviously higher and nobler than
those of cowardly noise makers who mouth off daily platitudes and even
nonsense, but when actions are needed, they would slink away like
thieves in the night when burglar alarms are activated and cops are
coming.

Some values change with time, such as fashion and morality. Not too
long ago, men with earrings and homosexuality were frowned upon, even
condemned. Now they are increasingly acceptable. In the Middle Ages,
atheists and those who were alleged to be witches and devils were
burned at the stakes by self-righteous Christians. Now they are free
to pursue their own beliefs and convictions without being fearful of
being roasted alive by the mob, sanctioned by the Church.

Some values stand the test of time, like the pursuit of happiness,
freedom, and dignity; like the willingness to take arms against
invaders and not to roll over and play dead; like the courage and
virtue to fight against tyranny exemplified by the actions of the
heroes and patriots Le Cong Dinh, Nguyen Tien Trung, and others.

Some are born great or have greatness thrusted upon them when they
answer the calls of conscience and responsibility. Others are born
small and their smallness stays with them. Some of the latter even
turn out to be parasites, taking from society and giving nothing back.

A few nights ago, I had a very sad but meaningful dream. I saw Agnes.
She was at an age when I last saw her. And I was in my late teens. Of
course during my waking hours, I cursed at her and denied that I ever
loved her. I have probably dreamed about her no more than ten times my
whole life, most involving my getting lost in trying to locate her
house. There was one single time when i dreamed that she returned a
book to me and accidentally touched my hand. It was the only pleasant
dream I ever had about her. All dreams are the way our subconscious
speak to us. They tell us our deepest fears and sorrows. They rarely
tell us of our greatest joys and triumphs. This latest about Agnes was
no exception. As I said, in the dream I was merely a lad of eighteen
years old and she was a year older than me. I saw her and in the dream
she looked attractive as ever. Then all of the sudden, I burst out
crying. Tears just poured out of me. I told her I loved her but my
love led to nowhere, and I knew it and I was in pain. Surprisingly in
the dream, she reacted by rushing over and held me tight in her arms
while I was sobbing like my own mother was just run over by a bus. I
woke up with tears all over my face. I then realized I could not run
away from reality and that adolescent unfulfilled love never goes
away. I am sixty years old now. The dream was telling me that all my
love relationships were merely a footnote to that early awakening of
love when I was only a boy of eighteen. Laura was only a substitute
for Agnes. And Laura turned out to be a big disappointment also. Now I
see with a sparkling clarity that all my intellectual development was
merely an attempt to make myself worthy of being respected and loved
by them. Of course, I gained self-esteem along the way, but somehow my
loneliness seemed to deepen to a level that manifested itself in an
indifference to social acceptability and a penchant for solitude. Last
night, I watched the movie "Talk to Her" and felt peaceful despite a
wacko, highly implausible, but not impossible one-sided love story. I
am aware that besides that love story, there were other love stories
in the movie as well. But that wacko, one-sided love story was central
to the movie's narrative. It drove the movie. When it ended with the
somewhat unexpected death of the man who harbored and nurtured the one-
way affection, i was affected and i couldn't help thinking about my
own circumstances and i was glad that i was not as far out as that
man. No love is worth dying for because no woman is that good, that
deserving. They all turned out to have feet of clay. I know. Trust me.
I know. Anyway, the music and the dancing in the movie were very
aesthetically pleasing and I was moved by that.

I have felt fear and loneliness. Yet I have not lost heart since I
feel strongly before I die, I will run into or hear of somebody worthy
of my heart, somebody who is not into delusions thinking she is sweet
and patient and kind and generous while she is in fact a calculating
selfish sassy fucking bitch. Oh, my scarred little heart. May thou
have some rest! Thou doth work too much. Be still and talk no more. Be
stll and love no more. There is no magic in this world. Only
selfishness and poses.

Monkeys jumped up and down celebrating the passage of time. I wonder
if they ever know how to live in the present time.

Irony: to assert oneself, to push back, to pose, to declare one's
worth while in the back of the mind, anxiety, self-doubt, and
loneliness are raging up a storm. It's far better to give a withering
look with a sneering smile, and walk away without looking back while
vowing not ever making the same mistake again. Then when the right
time comes, strike decisively without mercy, without lingering
memories since they have to be taught that everything has a price,
including insolence.

The ersatz monkey preached about peace, but why the facial ticks, why
the need to show off his enlightenment? Why the harsh, conceited words
against me? Ego still dominates him. He stll wants to lord over others.

Despite all the effulgent prose, a stark reality keeps coming up at
moments when you are tired: the pain associated with the brusque,
abrupt, brutish departure of Laura never goes away.

Most monkeys I run into are exactly what I call them: fucking,
cowardly monkeys which love to make noises but run away at the
slightest call for actions. These assholes talk a good game, but they
fool nobody. They make me sick for their animalistic games of
deception. Whom are they trying to deceive?

I must not be taken for a fool again. Thus, taciturnity is necessary.
It balances my psyche. My mind is unexcited. It is on the even keel.
Like a mantra, my mind functions like one. It merges with the mantra
and defines me. A few minutes ago, music from Spanish language radio
merged with my mind and the mantra and mimed me. You got it? Music,
muse, mind, mantra, me. When that happened all memories associated
with mujeres were understands. My mind was forged by memories. I just
have to be careful with mujeres. No more idealism. No more trust.
Cynicism and wariness. My mind is being aware of itself. Note how
consciousness turned inward. A mind like mine is a terrible thing to
waste.

Humans are the strangest and sickest creatures on this planet because
they are the most sensitive and forever trying to break out of the
seeming limitations placed upon them. Just look at the gymnastics,
the martial artistic achievement, and the autistic savants and
scientific and artistic geniuses, not to mention the run-of-the-mill
crazies and weirdos, then you will have an idea what I am talking about.

Another Sunday has arrived. The pain came back and tormenting me. Love
is a strange process. You played with it. You would get burned. Just
leave it alone. And it would leave you "alone". You will die like a
lonely dog and she has never thought about you since the day she
walked out on you, dreaming of future happiness with the man whom she
thought highly of. Little did she know he would use her for sex and he
soon left her for a pretty woman. Life is strange. You allowed
yourself to be happy. Then you would get hurt when that happiness
turned out to be false.

Flashbacks make you angry. You let them pass through you. You notice
the anger. You also notice its depature. Nothing lasts forever,
including your state of unhappiness. So, you get a bit wiser, day by
day. Sometimes you regress, but you pick yourself up and you crawl
forward, inch by inch. You don't give up. Never. Just be mindful of
human evil which stems from weakness.

Thought that went through the mind of the young Vietnamese who strangled his pharmacist mother with his bare hands: You have to accept me and love me for who I am and who I want to be, not who you want me to be. All your life you have controlled me and shaped me into a person you want to be. You have had no regard for my own identity, my own wishes and desires for the direction of my own life. You are my mother, not my slavemaster. I resent your control. I resent your lack of respect for me as a functioning human being. I am revolting and I am putting to an end of this tyranny. From you, I have learned to put myself over all else, including your life's.

Bitterness about BF. What a bitch! It took me more than 35 years to get over the bitch. The pain is still here, but the love is gone. Yet I was a fool for having all those romantic reveries. People say harboring bitterness is not healthy, but I don't give a shit. I can't pretend the bitterness doesn't exist. The important thing is that I must be careful in not placing blind trust in anymore in anybody.


(to be continued)