The Things I Have Carried (New and Improved!)

I've been carrying a lot of things in my life. No wonder my shoulders
are stooped and my heart is heavy. For years I carried a torch and
kept an image of a woman alive in my heart. I was a fool. I knew I
was, but I couldn't help myself. I loved her. I knew I did. Then one
day, in the morning of a beautiful Sundayl , I took a walk in the
park, alone, and. as I walked on the bridge over the little pond where
koi fishes and turtles were stocked, I had a Zen moment when I saw one
huge bull frog jumped on a lotus broad leaf, alert and full of life,
in the full splendor of a morning awash with sunlight and with water
undulating across the pond, driven by brisk winds. That was then I
recognized not only the futility of my love for her, but also the
prosaic nature of her personality and her subsequent betrayal of me.
Ever since, I hardly dream of her. Before that moment of liberation, I
dreamed of her with regularity, at least once a month for years on
end, decade after decade. That liberation moment taught me that humans
were not to be trusted and almost all were selifish to the core.
Subsequent relationships validated and confirmed that observation of
mine.

I have also carried in my mind feelings of unresolved anger against
certain assholes. The feelings fester, simmer, and linger until I
don't know when they will manifest themselves in actions. Hate is a
corrosive emotion if one does not know to handle it. It must be viewed
as a servant, not a boss. One thing I do know is this: the more I know
humans, regardless of whether they are males or females, most are
selfish and hypocritical and diseased to the core and not worth
cultivating the friendship. In my view, they are nothing but animals,
pure and simple. My hatred for some monkeys is immense, my contempt
boundless. I feel nauseous at the mere sight of their names, let alone
of their hemming and hawing, their muttering and sputtering of their
ill-informed, half-digested facts and jejune, sophomoric "thoughts".
Now I fully understand why tyrants acted the way they did and why
there have been serial killers. Catharsis had to be achieved. Defiance
and insolence had to be crushed and punished. Vengeance had to be
exacted. Meanwhile I just have to wait for the moment of reckoning and
keep the memories and flashbacks involving the assholes at bay and
under control.

Having written the above paragraph, I am suddenly recalling a certain
D H, a county commissioner imprisoned for bribery and is now released
early for good behavior. H, the son of Cuban immigrants, is the
youngest of thre children. He was 2 when his father abandoned The
local newspaper conducted an extensive interview of H and a profile of
how he has rehabilitated himself during his imprisonment. H came
across as gifted with people skills and incredibly articulate in
assessing the reasons for his downfall and the prospect of his
recovery. While I certainly don't have his gifts, his taking anger
management class (my blood is almost reachimg boiling point as I am
typing these words and I have to tell myself to fucking wait because
haste makes waste, and I certainly don't wish to lay waste to my life
over an asshole when the opportunity has not presented itself yet) and
his words about arrogance drive home and are worth quoting at length
as a reminder to myself and for my own benefits:

"My personal and professional conduct was wrong. My conduct during
trial was wrong, and that's something I'm going to have to live with
rest of my life. The guilty verdicts didn't surprise me. They actually
brought me an incredible sense of relief. Ultimately the truth is the
truth and justice is justice. When you're operating from a place of
entitlement and arrogance as I was, you believe what you're saying is
the truth. You trick yourself.

People are fair to be skeptical when I say I have changed, but I no
longer have to worry about opinion polls and votes. I am not seeking
validation from anyone. I also know that doing the right thing is so
much more important than saying the right thing. I don't regret
anything, because I'm proud of who I am. I like whip I am, much more
than ever before in my life. And I can attribute that to all of my
experiences---the good and the bad."

By the way, in prison, H worked as an administrative clerk and
instructor in the education department, earning $18 to $30 a month. He
took anger management and parenting classes. He voluntarily taught
other classes. He played sports. He worked out and trimmed down. He
earned his certification as a personal trainer. Evidently, he used his
time constructively. Five days of leaving prison, he began working as
a senior account executive for a media company. A year and a half
later, he gave notice at the media and accepted two jobs: one as
director of community outreach and development for the Institute of
Profesdional Careers, and one as executive director for a nonprofit
organization that provides educational and recreational programs to
children in a county's child welfare system.


Those who have stayed with me so far would wonder if I am a sane and
happy fellow. The answer is that I have my moments. And I am not as
lonely as I used to. I keep myself occupied and i don't have much need
for human company because sooner or later most humans disappoint and
nauseate me. In addition, most of them are stupid and ill-informed,
making a dialogue with them a real chore. True, I am getting to be
misanthropic. I know I am repeating myself, working myself into a
frenzy. I ironically feel most alive when I am angry and furious. To
find release for these feelings of aggression, I reach for the pen and
I scribble furiously of whatever comes to my feverish mind, for hours
at a time, until I am spent and the demon beats a retreat. One sad and
fuuny fact about humans is that the more they reveal themselves to me,
the more I find them boring and petty-minded and even stupid. I mean,
their concerns and interests are prosaic and vastly different from
mine. It's getting to the point I keep them at arm's length from me
and I no longer really talk to them because I find most of them not
interesting at all, apart from the sheer oppressive insipidity of
their lives which is mind-boggling to me. I certainly cannot go
through life as they do. Call me arrogant. Call me undeservedly
elitist, if you want. Call me anything. But don't call me
uninquisitive. In fact, inquisitiveness is what has kept me alive. I
chuckkle when people complain that they are tired of my talking about
myself. I chuckle some more when I see people take seriously "feng
shui", astrology, palmistry, and similar shit. I often see humans
dispense "opinions" without substantiation. dismiss other's opions and
ideas without cause, just because the opinions and ideas of others
are different from theirs. Frankly, as I age, I tend not to give a
fuck what others think of me. As far as I'm concerned, they can kiss
my royal hairy ass. Do I come across self-absorbed and overly touchy
while claiming impervious to what others think of me? Fuck, you could
be right. I do know this for sure: although I am aware I am not the
most righteous, noble, fair-minded, pleasant, cool guy you ever met, I
am painfully aware that there are so many scumbags and douche bags and
assholes out there, guys that make me realize that I am not that bad
compared to them, guys I avoid as if they were lepers because frankly
they are the seeping sores of humanity and deserve to be exterminated.
Now I understand why people see gory and horror movies. Folks have to
get their rockers satisfied vicariously somehow, otherwise they
themselves would have to take matters into their hands.

Although I denounce liars, I carry a heavy guilt for lying to a woman.
I said I would marry her once I turned 30, but I had no intention of
doing so. I am 65 now and she still hangs around. That makes me feel
really bad. I am a coward, a rake, a raffish fellow, even a ruffian. I
am no better than the scums and assholes I despise. But tell me, why
should I marry anybody now? All the horror stories I've heard about
divorces and ugly lawsuits concerning money disgust me. I just read in
the news that Tiger Woods is going to pony up 750 million dollars to
buy silence from his soon-to-be ex-wife. I trust humans no more. No
sir, I do not. If I have my way, everyday I would take one out for
target practice.

To balance things out, I carry a romantic fantasy (in my mind,
superfluously speaking) for decades now, for a dream woman. She is
sweet, smart, sassy and sexy. She understands me, tolerates me, and
loves me. In moments of distress and loneliness, I think of her and I
would calm down. Everybody dreams. Some dream of going to heaven after
they die, where they will meet their "Maker". Other dreams of power
and riches. I dream of a certain woman who inspires me to become who I
can be. What you've been reading is not the real me, you idiot. You
really think I'm this bitter, this sick, this unbalanced? Haven't you
heard of dramatic irony and willful suspension of disbelief? Come on,
use your imagination. Don't tell me you don't have any. Really? Then
get the fuck out of here. You're wasting your time. You would never
"enjoy" reading these words.

Last, for now and obviously not least, those who have interacted with
me have discerned an umistakeable baggage I've on my right, but wrong,
shoulder, and that is my death wish. This wish has explained why I act
in an irrational manner at times. Why the death wish in the first
place? I don't know. It certainly helps me sleep better at night and
face problems---mostly created by me---better. I have a theory:
suicidal people should go out and do something that put their lives in
danger. If they fail, they die and thus get their wish; if they
succeed, they might get rid of the depression that gave rise to
suicidal thoughts in the first place. Unfortunately, suicidal people
are usually depressed and drained of energy. They don't want to do
anything except of thinking of killing themselves even though they
know self-destruction is bad and "sinful" (if they happen to be
Christians and were brainwashed into believing in that shit). So they
struggle to stay alive until one day they give in to the thoughts
because they suffer too much and they want relief and they don't care
the impact of their deaths on their loved ones and their "God".

Author's Note:

Many fools take everything I've written literally, as if I have
neither imagination nor fantasy. Ironically, they are the ones who
lack imagination, who cannot conceivably think there is no personal
God who "has an interest in" human affairs and who would listen to
human prayers and would pass judgment on human behavior.

My recent "story" entitled "Storyteller" sounded autobiographical and
thus prompted a reader to inquire further about Anita, a character in
the story. Apparently my disclaimer in the authorial note that the
story was a work of pure fantasy was not convincing. The "truth" of
the matter is that I have been blessed and cursed with a very rich
love life, a sort that defies imagination. Out of respect for many
former lovers, I have been very reticent to brag and gloat about my
romantic adventures. I didn't suffer because of Anita. There was a
woman named Laura who did cause me pain when I was in my early 20s.
From her I've learned many valuable lessons. The most important one
is that feelings are not static and don't have to be reciprocated. A
person can love you today, but tomorrow may find you boring and
unaccomplished compared to others and thus undeserving of her love.
She will find ways to dump you. If that happens, you must accept
reality for what it is and move on with your life even if you still
love her very much and would be devastated if she walks away. But you
must accept her decision and you soldier on and find other women, if
you can. If you cannot, learn to live without a woman. The key thing
is to keep your dignity. There is no need to suffer. Suffering is
weak. It degrades you. It robs you of dignity. You must realize that
it is stupid to love a woman who does not or no longer loves you. If
you do, you just set up yourself for a world of hurt . Unrequited love
is not healthy. It is sick. It is immature. It is self-destructive.
Conserve your energy and resources. Invest them in person(s) who do
love you back. Don't come across as desperate and clinging. You look
for love and respect, not pity and charity.

Armed with hard-won lessons taught by Laura, I am now an equal
opportunity lover and was a dear friend with many (20) women from
varying racial and educational background. Throughout my adult life
I've never lacked female company. Anita was just a figment of my
imagination to address a certain fantasy. She never existed. I never
met her. I didn't know her. I didn't love her. Allright? Heck, right
now, besides being with a steady woman, I've been a close friend with
three others. I don't need Anita to mess up my emotional life. My
plate is full. My writing schedule is hectic. My work life is
frenzied. I don't have time to be lovesick. I have not been lovesick
since Laura walked away, because I don't even know what love really
is. Not anymore. Somebody sent me a note, quoting tbe perennially
sappy romance writer Nicholas Sparks that true love does not
necessarily mean the two people involved will live happily together,
but they definitely live happily ever after, regardless of whether
together or not. I suppose there is some truth in that. Love is an
inspiration, an enabler of what is good and noble within us. I once
loved Laura. I didn't love her anymore because she turned out not who
I thought she was. I am now disgusted with and indifferent to her at
the same time. I mean I don't give a shit about her anymore. I
wouldn't care less if she drops dead in front of me. If I happen to
run into her, I would just walk on by. She means nothing to me. I
don't hate her. I wouldn't kill her or hurt her, but she means
absolutely nothing to me. She is a zero, not a hero in my book. I made
a bad mistake. I paid for the mistake. Now I am a recovering love nut.
I would say I am a bit wiser, not only because of her, but also of
many bitches I knew and met after her. They all wanted money and
security. They all said they loved me, but what they meant that they
loved tbemselves more and they would hang around only if I would not
be a burden for them, financially. You call that love? I call that
cold calculations, but most humans are cold motherfuckers who care
about themselves only. Nothing new there, but when that happens, I
still feel a bit disenchanted and nervous. That's who I am: stupidly
naive.

So, you understand, now? The boat in which I journey across the sea of
life is fragile and precarious, but it's not leaking water anymore.
I've fixed it. I deliberately chose a small boat because that was who
I was. I took risks. I lived on the edge and I still do. These words
of mine, however fraught with an unheathy mix of self-consciousness
(uncharitable souls may even characterize them as deliberately cute)
and brutal candor as they may sound, are the means for me to steer my
boat out of troubled waters I chose for myself. Ironical? I know it,
pal. I am my own worst enemy.

A comment/criticism/inquiry on something, some event, or somebody
sheds more light on the commentator/critic/inquirer than on the
subject at hand. I have learned about that lesson a long time ago.
What we see depends on where we stand. Very often, what we see are the
mere projections of ourselves. I also learn that humans are both thick-
skinned and touchy at the same time, depending on the subject matters.
Very few humans are as noble as me (sic! I'm just kidding, all right?)
Trust me, don't think I don't know that I am a bore who keeps going
around the circle and harping ad nauseam on certain subjects. That's
certainly better than flipping out and bringing mayhem to a certain
cicrle and embarrassing myself and my loved ones. You have no idea
what is going on in the little head of mine.

Here I go again, the fucking note is almost as long as the main act
itself. And if I keep it up, it wil be longer. That's what happens
when you have no talent in writing, yet you want to try. You write
something banal that evokes no interest in the reader. Then you get
stuck. And you rely on the note to get unstuck, to help you get over
the writer's block. High hopes get savaged by lack of talent. Lonely
roads get to nowhere. These are themes that makes their presence in
what you write. We are forever haunted by what we fear. Lately you
have recurrent dreams of not being prepared for final exams or of
bosses making life unbearable for you. When you wake up in the middle
of the night, you ask yourself a bunch of questions: "Didn't I get rid
of that fear long time ago? Why is it still here? Maybe deep down, I
am still afraid of being viewed as a failure, a flunkie, who just
makes noises and nothing else. Show me the money if you think you
really smart. At least show me the achievements. How many stories and
poems of yours have been published? Does the world know about you and
what you stand for? After you die, do people mourn for you, for their
loss? In short, are you really somebody or are you just a nobody, like
so many of them. And when you die, you die like a dog, again like so
many of them. Nobody would notice. Nobody would give a damn. Only a
handful would show up for your funeral, out of obligation rather than
love, unlike Sartre's funeral.

This morning as I got into my car to go to work, I was struck of how
persistent and deep my hatred for that asshole, yet his "crime" was
quite slight. I supposed the cause of all that was my surprise at the
unexpected, stupid aggressiveness on his part. That taught me that I
didn't know Jack shit about humans. One more thing I just learned
recently was that I should not be surprised at how ignorant some
humans are and yet they love making comments, just like some dogs bark
to live and live to bark. As long as they make noises, they feel they
are somebody. Being nobody scares them. Not me. I just try to be the
best I can be. I recognize there are many monkeys better than me as
well as there are many not as "good" as me. I am comfortable of who I
am. Don't just come near me and act in a condescending, dismissive
manner towards me. You don't know how I would react to your stupid
insolence. Not now. Not twenty years from now, but you had better
watch over your fucking shoulders. You would never know that one day I
creep up on you and fucking blow you away when you least expect, when
you think I have already "forgotten" about the "incident", you
insolent motherfucker! Another asshole sent me an impolite note with
improper greetings today. I was pissed, so I pulled out a list and
added his name to it. All my prior nice feelings about him vanished
into thin air. What a stupid fellow! Arrogance and impoliteness bring
more self-destruction than one would ever imagine. Assholes who are
into arrogance and impudence think they are clever and smart and
assertive, but they are fools who don't know their days are numbered,
much sooner than they think. Modesty and politeness are a big help in
ensuring life longevity. But I don't practice what I preach. I'm an
immodest and impudent son of a bitch. But unlike many others, I am not
a hypocrite. You just have to take my words for it. So, I reacted with
fury and outrage when an asshole called me a hypocrite. You can call
me names. I am not perfect. In fact, I am sick, but you had better
call me correct names, otherwise I would get you when the opportunity
presents itself, you motherfuckers and assholes out there.

But enough of motherfuckers and assholes, for now. I don't really
want to dwell on them. There are so many of them, like maggots in a
cesspool. Let's go to an area far more pleasant. I'm reading an
enormously entertaining short story. I'm being bowled over by the sly
wit and the crystal articulateness of the author. I then have an
epiphany of why I cared to try my hand at story telling. I want to
imitate my masters. I have a few things to get off my chest. I am
working on the stylistics of putting words and thoughts together by
trial and error.

Most stories are cumbrously told with a mythic overlay. Mine are
narrated sparsely, without twinkly, pointilistic detail. They need a
lot of augmentation to fill the void. I am not an artist as I aspire
to be. But I keep on trying till the day I die. All my stories are
part of a grand narrative of how I tried to stay alive and relevant
after Laura walked out on me. I never thought I would love her that
much until she was gone for good, until I realized I had no chance to
win her back. I was unhinged for a long time after her departure, even
when I had women around me, women who told me that I was gorgeous and
nice and that they loved me. I smiled when I heard all the kudos and
paeans, but inside me what I wished for was that she would walk
through the front door once more.

If all my stories strain credulity, so be it. I couldn't do any
better. What I am writing tonight is not exactly a story. It's a spit
into art, a forced phony confession, a paso doble, a pas de deux with
myself. What I am trying to articulate in this montage of words is
that virtue and not glory should come first and that one is not a
prerequisite of the other and we could have them both accidentally and
not purposely. I want to say all that in a framework of a story, not
an essay. Essays come very easily for me. I can write them in my
sleep. Writing a story is much harder. That's why I admire artists who
could pull it off. And in moments of being carried away by my
admiration, I even wrote to them (3 so far). Sadly, I only got one
response--and it was three months late---which didn't even address my
question about the ending of one of his stories. Of course, I was
disappointed, but what could I do? I just have to improve on my own
craft so one day I feel my stories are good enough for wider
dissemination. Meanwhile I just have to realize that writers can be
assholes, just like anybody else. Still, I cannot understand why an
author didn't bother to write back to a fan who professed an
admiration for his work. I would.

Today, once again I saw a leperous asshole farting publicly about this
and about that. That caused me throw up uncontrollably my dinner. I
know. I should have just run far away from the asshole when it
appeared on the scene, but curiosity got the better of me. I wanted to
know what more nonsense that would cone out of that diseased orifice
of its. I did discern clearly that the asshole is suffering from an
acute loneliness. It has itself to blame because who wants to
associate with an asshole like that? Very few, I would say. I, for
one, would not. Why should I when the asshole is touchy yet
insensitive to the pains it has inflicted on others over the years,
ignorant yet loves to show off its "knowledge", afflicted with ill-
disguised inferiority complex, and cowardly yet full of bravado. In
short, it is full of shit. That's why I call it an asshole.
(cont.)