True Character and Nature

True Character and Nature

Humans are complex social intelligent beings. They instinctively know the values of camouflage, deception, betrayal, and ruthlessness in the struggle for survival and supremacy. Yet they also know about the soothing and balming effects of solidarity, love, compassion, and truthfulness. So, when they interact with one another, they probe, test, and look for which camp their interlocutors and associates and opponents belong to: the animalistic camp whose credo is to win no matter what or the truly human camp where higher ideals and values are observed and followed.

I have personally fought many verbal battles. I can safely report with high degree of confidence that most humans I have fought with could not resist in reverting back to the animalistic heritage. Only a few fought with fairness and dignity, citing facts and displaying cogent reasoning in the service of truth as they see it. Once I see very clearly the basic animalism which dominates the personality of my opponents, I stay away from them for good. And I get down on my knees thanking the stars, my parents, and the confluence of various forces that gave rise to the emergence of an entity which is me, which is beautifully human in the nobler sense of the word, because I was tested and I have never fought in a dirty, animalistic manner.

Laura Lorrington's Lessons

Laura Lorrington's Lessons:

1. True love is rare.
2. Almost everybody is arrogant in some way.
3. Don't swim against the current.
4. Be dignified.
5. Be practical. Don't let others hurt you first.
6. The way she feels about you is the same as how you feel about BF, Rodeo, JL, Flat Ass, and many others.
7. Indifference and Fodder for experience. Pining or staying angry is a sign of ignorance and lack of understanding how the human mind works.
8. It's nonsense to say we need to love like we have never been hurt before because the truth is once you were hurt, you learned to love differently. Man is an animal with a long memory.
9. Love is overrated. Be strong and self-sufficient.
10. We all die in the end. Don't suffer unnecessarily. Be carefree and happy.

Silence

Silence is a sign of strength. It tells others you don't need to be understood and accepted and respected anymore. You have passed the point of validation and affirmation. You are secure and confident of who you are. You no longer need to explain yourself to others. And you refuse to let others be in a position of power to you. Power breeds resentment and odiousness.

Pleasures of Well-Being

After a sufficient sleep, a routine of yoga breathing and exercises, a nutritious meal but not heavy along with a glass of fine wine (you're getting old--you can't overeat like you used to without feeling sluggish and stupid afterwards), a good reading, and an articulate exposition of your thoughts on paper, you feel pleasurable and want to duplicable the experience. Fuck, let's be honest here. Sometimes you even feel strong and superior and have a clear sensation of soaring high above simpletons who are stuck in the soggy sordidity of sophistry and scurrilousness and ignorance, not to mention selfishness and cowardice.

Humility

True humility means not to crave for respect and recognition. And when and if they come, you would treat them with utter indifference. Life should not be a process of proving that you are superior to most others but actualizing your potential. By correcting others, you cater to your ego. Correct yourself constantly. Stop correcting others.

All the harsh words and attitudes of others to us are very useful to us if they have merit. They should spur us towards improving ourselves. A beautiful flower, like a sweet word, is pleasant and useful to only those who don't know the value of a living, vibrant flower. Only when such flower is dead and becomes rotten, like a harsh word, can it be useful and becomes fertilizer for a tree to grow and yield more flowers.

On Aggression and Compassion

You wish you were just a simplistic fellow, doing and discharging your duties and fulfilling your desires solely on the basis of the wishes of your selfish heart, without giving a damn about anybody else's concerns and considerations. You would sleep better and have more money in the bank. But somehow you keep hearing the persistent calls of your conscience and gravitate towards reading about philosophy and religion and serious fiction late at night and early in the morning till recently you began getting the vibrations of the presence of grace and of the higher truths of understanding and compassion to the point you realized the limitations of aggression and the clamorings of the ego. The idea of violence and vengeance no longer holds much attraction. You begin crawling and creeping and getting on the path of peace and liberation. As a consequence, you see the pettiness of the notion of getting even. You begin to recognize the efforts of those who have to resort to sophistry, low blows, lies, and denial when they are in the midst of an argument or the cheap, despicable, contemptible shots of their friends and allies who rush to their aid, succor, and rescue when they are floundering around and are on the verge of losing an argument, as merely pitiful, desperate actions of little, petty, small men and women and you must not get angry or self-righteous. Instead, you must be glad you are not like them. Stay on the higher ground. Those who preach and shout loudly the slogan that winning is not everything are the ones who fear losing the most. Humans tend to appear more virtuous than they actually are. Noble-minded men are usual the quiet ones who state their case calmly and with dignity. Remember, the words we use very often tell the world what and who we are and whether we are close to enlightenment or not. Some men were born as children and slowly and finally became adults. Most men stay as children till the day they die. By self-righteously denouncing others as immature, very often those denouncers are immature themselves. Mature men use words with care and understanding and compassion; they don't use words to denigrate and denounce others. They state their case and views quietly and they move on. They don't care if they win an argument or have changed the mind and the heart of their opponents. They are not in this world to change people. Change must come from within, from recognizing that a virtuous life is a life devoted to truth and compassion.
Amen!

Wissai
August 28, 2010.

Intolerance and Book Burning

You have lately come to a reluctant acceptance of a view that we cannot really understand what is going on betwen the ears of our fellow humans. Okay, we can guess. We can do so all day long. In fact, we have been doing that since Adam opened his mouth, but since Man is not really part of a physical process subject to immutable laws, we often guess wrong and then we profess surprise. What's more reliable as an indicator of what's going on in his brain is the kind of behavior he exhibits and then to a much lesser extent what he says.

So when you read in the news that a Christian pastor is planning to burn the Korans to commemorate 9/11 attack on America, you say, what a sorry piece of rotten meat of a human. Rotten Christians have vilified Muhammad and heaped scorn on Islam while some Muslims have burned down churches, they have not attacked Christianity publicly and called it a religion of a devil as some Christians have openly and publicly characterized Islam. More noticeably, Jesus has never been attacked by Muslims. Why is there a glaring contrast in the behavior of the zealots in each religion regarding the founder of the other religion? While both Jesus and Muhammad preached tolerance and love and fairness, Muhammad specifically commanded his followers to respect Moses and Jesus because to Muhammad, they were prophets. Muslims, even the zealots and the extremists, took the teaching and commandment to heart whereas Christian zealots do not. Who take their religion more seriously? You have not heard Muslims burning the Chrsitian bibles while Americans in Iraq have been reported to treat the Korans with lack of respect such as placing them on toilets or throwing them on the floor.

Intolerance comes from ignorance. Book burning of any kind is an affront to civilization. Burning a religious text of a religion one happens to hate is an act of utter and complete human degradation,

Envy, Resentment, Inferiority Complex, Fear of Facts and Truths

You often wonder why there exists such a despicable human who is envious and resentful of those who seem to be smarter or more knowledgeable than he is instead of just accepting reality for what it is and maybe learning a thing or two from obviously superior humans. The answer could lie in the deep-rooted sense of inferiority complex and fear of facts and truths. No wonder such a despicable fellow is often deep into denial and hypocrisy and accusations of others of unpleasant traits which are often found within him. Once you understand such a dynamics operating within the dark recesses of the pitiful mind of that despicable fellow, he should not bother you anymore and you view him lower than a dog, more foul-smelling than a skunk or a bad fart.

Intolerance, Hypocrisy, Moral Authority

Today the NYT reported that a rider asked the cabbie if he was a Muslim and when the cabbie said yes, the rider took out a long knife and stabbed him!

The article is worth reading about. It shows how intolerance leads to hate to acts of violence on innocent victims. Not all Muslims are like the terrorists of 9/11 or the Talibans. Not all Muslims practice child marriage. Not all Muslims hate America.

On a related topic, it takes real character not to fall for a kneejerk reaction against the planned construction of the Islamic Center near Ground Zero in New York City. The core principle of equal rights of religions in America is being tested. If America shows her confidence and lives up to her image as a country which adheres to laws and to the respect of human rights, and does not stand in the way of the construction of the Islamic Center, the world will respect America more for her moral authority and will look up to her for leadership.

If America fights against Islamic fundamentalists with her own brand of intolerance, she descends down to the same gutter with her enemy. Likewise with individual behavior, if a person who replies in kind to an individual who is a hysterical hypocrite and who is being consumed and taken over by a desire to lash out in unjustified name calling, that person is no better than his attacker. It's far better to respond calmly and rebut with facts. Let the facts speak for themselves and establish for the world to see who is telling the truth.

Function of Criticism

The following was lifted from Newsweek, issue June 28 7 July 5, 2010, p. 8:

"Criticism is a crucial thing (the lifeblood of democracy, the fuel of freedom---choose your noble phrase), but the problem is that there are many more carpers than critics. The fact that anybody can say anything does not mean anything anybody says is worth hearing. Is this an elitist view? Probbably, but I am not arguing for even the remotest limitation on what people can say. The beauty of democracy and the wonder of the digital public square is that more people can express themselves more freely to more eyes and ears than at any other time in history. Such liberation is to be celebrated and honored and defended. With power, though, comes responsibility, for all of us. We can learn to sigh when you think you should sigh, but then have the courage to be constructive."

Sarah Palin and the power of emotionalism

Palin is an intellectual lightweight who speaks with a slight hick accent. She is also a polarizing figure, despised and scorned by the leftists and feminists, but adored by conservative, Bible-believing Christians. You have to look at her ability to make a difference in endorsing Republican candidates in the primary contests and the starry-eyed adulation her supporters greet her in order to be amazed, if not dumbfounded, by the forces of emotionalism and ignorance on human behavior. Then you would understand why it's hard to be really and properly human: to use rationality in dealing with life's problems and not to resort to emotionalism as a default. But in order to be able to do that, you must have a respect for intellect and knowledge, something Palin and her supporters apparently don't have much in abundance.

Lust, Love, and Loneliness

You tell yourself that you have a fecund, overripe imagination, the type that upsets the order of your life and that of the one you set your eyes on. And yes, you have set your eyes on her a long time, way back in time, when you turned 21. She set your heart on fire at first glance. And then you looked at her again and again when she was not aware of being watched by you. You took in her beauty, her physique, her intelligent face, and her intellect (you almost fainted with excitement when you later found out which school she went to). The more you looked at her, the more you regretted you had been lazy and ill-disciplined when you were in your early teens. But regardless, you knew you had fallen in love, sight seen aplenty, but you knew nothing about your beloved, not her name, where she lived, what foods she liked, what books hshe had read, and what her dreams were. You knew nothing, and yet you knew you were in love, but you were a coward despite her giving you signs of encouragement like she always smiled nicely and shyly at you when you stepped inside the library and how if you showed up late, she would show signs of relief and joy when she looked kup from her lecture notes and saw you finally appearing at the entrance door. As you are writing these words, you travel back in time and the memories are choking you because you realize with blinding clarity of how stupid and insecure you were.

Yes, you fell in love with her with a swiftness and tenacity that had not existed hitherto and henceforth has not been duplicated. You did not just fall in love; you lusted after her with an intensity that you have not felt ever since.

They said spoken words are nothing in comparison with the written ones. If a man can write down exactly how he feels, then his feelings are real and clearly felt. Vague, amorphous feelings are merely vapid sentiments.

You hope one day you run into her. And this time, you will boldly seize both her hands and force her to listen to this long tale of loss and longing and show her all the poems inspired by her. You also will tell her about your life which has been chaos of slippages and blunders, a life lacking a narrative architecture, and how you have used words to bring order to this chaos. And of course, before you bid her farewell, you would ask her for her name, the names of her favorite books, the foods she likes, and the songs she loves singing in the shower.

Afterword:

All acts of creativity in music and poetry are attempts to deal with some strongly felt emotions. A man's true character and worth reflect in how he expresses himself about matters of the heart. Some do so in unrhymed and unmusical lines of crude and barren words and call them poetry. Others just can't help themselves. Words just spill and spew out of them till one day they somehow have the shape and sound of music, of poetry.

I do have an arrogance to hold an opinion that a man of sensitivity is a more evolved and developed being because a monkey cannot make music or write poetry. All it does is howling to express its feelings. An insensitive man does not do much differently. While in essence all humans are the same and thus equal in the eyes of the law, in reality there is a hierarchy among men, just like there exists a hierarchy in the animal kingdom. To be truly human is to know both our essence and the order we stand in relationship with everything and everybody around us. We can try to change our position in the order by being all we can be, with an understanding that nurture and effort alone sometimes can't transcend the nature under which we were born. In other words, each of us was born with a certain gift and a certain personality. That gift and that personality usually differentiate us from one another.

Geopolitical Realities

Honey, I don't call thee baby anymore because thou once said thou didn't like it. You were no baby of anybody, you snarled. You obviously missed the point. You need to go back to school and learn some English. While you are there, enroll in a course of communication with an emphasis on semantics. But I am digressing. What I am trying to tell you today is not a lecture on terms of endearment, but sone insights into geopolitical realities. China is rising, like Prussia in 18th century and the United States in 19th century. The rise took a long time to come about and will take a long time to come to a stop on its own, unless China's current and potential enemies (India, Vietnam, Japan, Australia, and the U.S.) have the foresight to stop right now this growing menace to world peace due to its vaunting ambition to dominate the world. All the protests about construction of dams in the upper reaches of the Mekong River and the military assertions in the South China Sea don't mean diddley squat to China because China only understands one language: the language of force, including military opposition. Forget the trade benefits with China. China gets more out of it than those countries mentioned above. China must be contained and reduced in strength. It is another Prussia in the making. We must learn from the past. The world didn't take seriously the rise of the militaristic Prussia and thus had to pay for its lack of vigilance in the costs of WW I and WW II. Japan got cocky after defeating Russia in 1905. Forty years later, it had two atomic bombs dropped on its soil, a very fitting karma for its own crimes against humanity in China and elsewhere. China has been on a rise for 30 years now. Whether its cocky and irresponsible behavior will have no opposition or the world has learned to put out tbe fire right away before it becomes a conflagration remains to be seen. Meanwhile I plan to be around to see how this drama called the rise of China plays out. I earlier had an exit ticket from this world, but I just cancelled it and asked for a refund. "God" has not sent me a reimbursement yet. For an omnipotent guy, he is really slow.

Guess what? Just saw the news that there is a traffic jam in China which is going on for 10 days. Traffic backs up for 60 miles. Mind-boggling. I don't know it is a good sign or not this phenomenon called China.

On writing

I almost twisted and sprained my right shoulder while trying to congratulate myself for a newly-acquired self-discipline. I am spilling and spewing my guts here, and not elsewhere because I no longer wish to see some motherfucker peevishly make some stupid and ignorant comment about my intention of posting my words there. Fuck them, it's their loss, not mine. I just read that a story/poem/essay isn't any good unless it resists paraphrase, unless it hangs on and expand in the mind of the reader. I am egotistical enough to assert that most of my words have that characteristic, that stamp of haunting effect on the readers because the words I chose and the way I put them together left an impression on the readers and they would inevitably say to themselves, "Gee, this fucker can write. He has a style of his own which is not like anything I've read. There's an intimate, urgent voice in his words. I may not like him because he forces me to think and to confront myself and to question my values, but I cannot ignore him. He is a tumor growing in my ass. He doesn't go away. I have to deal with him, intellectually and emotionally one way or another."

Of course, you have a conversation with yourself like the above only if there is some lingering vestige of humanity inside you. I certainly hope so. Anyway, talking about the impact of words, I just reread "The Good Man Is Hard To Find" and "The Appointment in Samarra". I felt calm and all collected and centered. I wonder if a hard man is good to find also. Whether a man is good or hard, it's not that big a deal; the key thing is whether he is for real and authentic and lives by certain bedrock principles of morality, and not some asshole who bends with the prevailing wind in order to survive or to seek fame and glory. I absolutely despise assholes like that. They have an appearance of a shameless brazenness and smugness that borders on animalistic obscenity. There is an animalistic alertness about them for any crumbs of opportunity to advance themselves by whatever means, fair or foul. To them morality means nothing. They only have one code of ethics and that is to survive by whatever means. To me, they are animals through and through. True humans are different. True humans have certain qualities that animals don't have: cultivation of the arts, compassion, forgiveness, altruism, no fear of death because they know death is just part of the process of life---the moment you are born, you are already dying, it is not how long you live, but how you live your life.

(continued)

A Cute Arse

-Hey, mate. You've got a cute arse there.
I turned around. I was washing my hands in a public restroom. A man about 30, with a finely chiseled face and a trim physique was looking at me, grinning and eyes blinking like a malfunctioned traffic light. I said sternly, "Not interested. Get lost." Faggots make passes at me all the time. Just last week, a dude with an effeminate manner but with a daring and insouciance of a trained prowler, casually asked me for a cigarette, and when I said I didn't smoke, he followed with an inquiry if I was interested in having a cup of coffee. When I further said I was not into coffee either, he laughed good-naturedly and warmly suggested he and I take a walk together in the Lincoln Park. I said,"What for? I don't know you. Where are you from? San Francisco? No, it can't be it. From your voice, you must be from either Santa Barbara or Santa Ana." Then I walked off, showing him my middle finger behind my back.

I don't know what about me that attracts faggots like honey to flies. I don't look or dress the part. It must be the looks. Women all tell me I am cute and gorgeous-looking. I have had at least two dozen girl-friends, thanks to my looks, not to mention my sparkling intellect and a wet, sloppy wit. Am I boring you yet? I am boring myself already. I am no writer. I just know a few words and I like to string words together to create an effect that I am sensitive and well-read while in reality I am just a crude and rude Philistine. I read somewhere the origins of speech lie in song, and the origins of song in the need to fill with sound the sad, empty, and restless soul. I think the description fits my state of being, my soul right now. I feel misunderstood. And I thus feel lonely, despite the fact that women tell me that they love me, because I feel deep down what they have for me are just empty words. I have a nagging feeling they would not come to my succor if I desperately need it. They would walk away. In other words, they don't give a damn. Don't take me wrong. I am not feeling sorry for myself. I am just stating the facts. Nothing but the facts, Madam. And the fact is that I do feel alone, cold, and brutally indifferent to all the displays of piety and politically correct gestures. I am getting to be a cynic. I am turning into a person I used to hate. Tonight I worked the second shift and I suddenly had an insight into the reason for my unhappiness: I tried too hard to be loved and accepted.

I just reread what I wrote elsewhere. I couldn't understand why anybody could find anything wrong with them. They were cogently argued and eloquently expressed and full of facts, not just opinions. Only fools and jealous dudes would not find them informative and pleasurable to read.

I had trouble sleeping last night. The feelings of being misunderstood bothered me and made me feel lonely. Reading Maugham's story The Appointment in Samarra did help. It calmed me down. Death has not touched me yet. I still have a second chance to remake my life and continue dreaming. The decision not to approach the Kong showed my essence. I don't believe in hard work. I have faith in serendipities. I must invest my resources wisely, like in 4Y to make it the whole enterprise worth my while.
(continued)

My blog and the blogs of others

By chance I read a blog of somebody and I was blown away by the abundance of photos and signs of normalcy. There is not a single photo in my blog because I just don't fucking know how to post photos there. I am a computer illiterate. All you guys see here are words and more words. I am a guy into words. They are my friends when I am disturbed. I don't drink nor smoke weed nor have sex nor go out when I feel disturbed. I write instead. And I fantasize and I dream of that impossible dream of mine. The dream is so sweet and impossible that I cry sometimes. Then I close my eyes, call softly the name of the person in my dream and I visualize and I wish for things that could have been and could be. And I feel better and better. My heart would beat more slowly and my eyes would get misty from crying and I would fall asleep , wishing, really wishing things would work out eventually, probably when I turn 110 years old.

Dreaming

Dreaming

I'm dreaming that thou art dreaming of me
And see that all I've been doing is to dream of thee
Ever since we first met
Outside the library
And sharing a cigarette
While rain kept falling,
Winds howling
And leaves fluttering and floundering
And I myself was struggling from falling
In love
With your laughing,
With your teeth sparkling
In the fading light of the evening.

Wissai
August 22, 2010

So, I wrote this minor masterpiece and shared it with a few friends. One wrote back, saying that I was insensitive and full of myself because I kept talking about myself. What a croak of shit! It seemed to me the author of that "comment" failed to see the beauty of the sentiments expressed. The poem was not about me at all. It had nothing to do with me. It was purely an exercise in fantasy and imagination triggered by insufficient sleep and the inappropriate, forced, awkward use of the terms "cogitation" and " meditation" employed in a manual of mental masturbation. I merely wanted to say, hey, if you guys really wanted to talk about dreaming, just go ahead and say it, why beat around the bush, why whistle in the dark, why piss behind the tree? If you really wanted to see what dreaming was all about, take a look at this. Pearls before swine. When a monkey looks into a mirror, don't expect a Brad Pitt looks backs. All the monkey sees is its own reflection, and bananas, maybe. But I must confess his "comment" bothered me because I wondered how people could misread what was obviously a showing off of my ability to weave words together when I am in a right mood and my brain in a weird state. I must further confess I read with care what and how people express themselves. I look for evidence of authencity or false notes of trying to be cute and smug. Shit, I guess I must stop sharing what I write from now on. Too much misunderstanding. Too many insensitive, stupid monkeys masquerading as humans. Let's see if I could do it. Ground zero. Today. Sunday August 22, 2010. I just got chastised and verbally flogged for posting my words here. I was accused of unhealthy narcissism. How could I defend myself? I posted my views because I felt I could eloquently articulate what meant a lot to me. A discerning reader would and should see behind all the sound and the fury and the voluminosity of my words lies the "soul" of a dreamer. I dream of the impossible, of vanishing beauty, and of the redeeming and restorative powers of love. The poem in question was a product of insufficient sleep and the image of the falling rain in a windswept evening. I don't smoke cigarette. There was no woman laughing with teeth sparkling in the fading light of the evening. I wrote the "poem" in 7 minutes.

I don't need to lie in real life. I do enough lying in my imaginary life. Lying in fiction is much harder. I always like to do things the hard way. The easy way bores me and does not hold my interest.

It Is What It is

Boy, it is what it is. There's no use denying it. Just accept it is what it is and move on. The problem with this world is that dogs and monkeys pretend to be humans while humans act like canines and chimpanzees. There is no social order anymore. Every living organism acts out of character. Every Dick, Tom, and Harry run away from truths and rely on empty words and false logic so they can get some sleep at night. What for, I wonder. There will be plenty of time to sleep later. Just when I thought a sophist just died, another one appeared on stage and mouthed off nonsense. My goodness, how naive and gullible I was. Why can't we just say as little as we can and stop being impressed with ourselves? I would have never imagined such an utterance was made. I thought I was a brash, cocky, rudely arrogant son of a bitch, and nobody could be more obnoxious than I was, but I was unexpectedly surprised. I really was. That would tell you I knew nothing about dogs, monkeys, assholes, masturbators, and motherfuckers out there in the real world. I had a sheltered life.

Criticism and Hypocrisy and Stupidity

Criticism is much more an art than a science. It's also an enterprise fraught with danger, not only to the target but also to the critic. To criticize or even to critique are stronger terms than to comment or to suggest, because the critic assumes he has found the target, either the personage himself (the behavior because we and the behavior are the same. A man is the sum of his behavior) or the efforts (theory, a work) of the personage ineffective, wrong, defective, ridiculous, etc...So the critic takes on the role of superiority. And if he is not sensitive of how to convey disagreement without arousing the ire of the target, he ends up incurring enmity and/or contempt from the target. I find most critics of me and of my words stupid and dumb. I am not sure they come across that way to me because they were born stupid and dumb or because they are not versed enough in the English language to perform their self-appointed task. And I find it childishly easy to demolish their jejune, puerile reasonings. I have the following suggestions for them.

1. First and foremost, spend more time to learn English. Pay special attention to the nuances of meanings of every single word that convey emotions and judgment.
2. Write clearly and simply and politely and gently.
3. Use disclaimers and qualifiers to express a possibility they failed to understand correctly what my intentions and intents were.
4. Absolutely avoid assuming a role of superiority or position of "power" or taking on a tone of reproach and condemnation.

Our words tell the world our nature and the level of our understanding of ourselves and others. When we commit our thoughts in writing, we left a legacy. Be sure it is a good and endearing legacy, not an unflattering one. My decision to use strong words and a tone of disdain to my misguided and stupid critics reflects my contempt of them and I don't care to let them know so. I am who I am. And I hate phonies and fakers. I repeat, when we criticize others we reveal ourselves more than we care to do.

Foods and Memories

Many humans, writers skilled with words and ordinary folks alike, have been known to rhapsodize in the twilight years of their lives about certain foods, of how the mere sight, not to mention the taste and the texture of the foods bring back fond memories of times long past, especially childhood memories. In my case, two dishes and a snack always evoke peaceful, pleasant memories. The first two have their connection with my Mom while the last one has special personal meaning to me.


I was very fortunate to have a wonderful mother in every sense of the word. She was 36 years old when she brought me into this world. She, my elder brother, and I shared the zodiac sign of water buffalo. But I resembled her the most in temperament and looks while my only brother (I had three others, but they all died in childhood) took after my father.I was very attached to my mother at a very early age. I slept snuggling close to her until kindergarten age. Even after I started elementary education, I still liked to take a nap close to my mother. She took me with her every summer to spend time with my maternal grandmother until 1963 when the war got too intense. I followed her everywhere she went. The bond developed betwen us was deep. She was the first woman I loved. When I reached adulthood, every woman I felt attracted to always in one way or another reminded me of my mother. Despite all sufferings and heartaches at the hands of scheming, calculating women, I always love and trust women because of my mother. She was proud of me and I of her. She was virtuous, intelligent, daring, imperious, impulsive, and fond of salty and colorful language when she was upset. If I may say so, I am the same way. She kept the family together and even started a thriving business after the VC took Saigon. One of her talents was cooking. And of numerous dishes she prepared, I loved most the crepes (banh xeo) and che xoi nuoc. In fact, I always order these two dishes whenever I eat out in a Vietnamese restaurant, and so far, not a single restaurant would even come close to making them as my Mom did. Still, when I eat them, I remember my mother and I visualize her preparing from scratch as I stood around watching her. When they were served, she always asked for my opinions if how they tasted because she knew I always told the truth. Nine out of ten, they would be wonderful and I was transported to Paradise. I would say: "Mom, this is wonderful. This is so good." And she would beam, looking at me devouring the dishes. If they were not up to par, I would tell her so. She wouldn't say anything; she just nodded her head with solemnity.

The snack which had special significance to me ever since I was a kid was roasted peanuts with the skin on. I always liked to dry roast them myself on a frying pan. I would stand in the kitchen and stir them until they were golden brown and the aroma began wafting in the air. I remember one afternoon the rain was falling down and I was in the loft, eating freshly roasted peanuts and looking out the window at the falling rain. I experienced peace and pleasure that afternoon. So even to this day, I still buy raw peanuts with the skin on and I would roast them in the oven (300 degrees Fahrenheit for 20 minutes). Afterwards when I eat them, just as I just did about 15 minutes ago, the falling rain in that distant afternoon would come back to me, and I would experience pleasure and peace.

Wissai

Ethics and Morality

I am not a perfect guy. I am not even a good guy. I have had lapses of judgment. I swear too much. I talk too much, mostly about myself. I am somewhat of a narcissist. I overeat. I eat fast and talk fast. I do everything fast, including making love, and falling in love. But I do have standards about morality. I beg but I don't steal nor rob. I don't lie in order to make myself look good or to get out of a jam. I am not afraid of facts and truths. If I make mistakes and hurt people's feelings unnecessarily, I apologize. I believe in the grace of forgiveness and the power of love. I do love women and I have had tons of women friends and admirers. Yet I feel eternally lonely.

I hate thieves and robbers and liars and cowards and traitors. To me they are worse than animals and lower than dirt. Reason: one and one only: low or no morality. All these animals are reprobates. They lack probity. Yet they all try to be thespians, presenting a false image to the world, hoping people are too naive and trusting to delve into a bit deeper and to probe for inconsistencies. But I know them and their true nature because I have a keen sense of smell. Although they bathe and adorn themselves constantly with mellifluous words, they cannot disguise their scents. They all share a similar smell of a skunk and a bad odor of a fart.

Thus spake Wissai

Search for truths and meanings

Satiated and laden and weighed down with food, you lumbered around in the backyard of your mind. Plopped down on a sofa and feeling guilty and animalistic for overeating, you had a sudden flash of insight of the connection between food and meaning of life and sex and friendship and love and calmness and longing for company yet disdain for any efforts to impose ostracism on you. The more you read and the more knowledge you acquire, the more you are aware of the animal heritage in Man. All your problems derive from feelings of loneliness and the desire to be understood and loved. Once you are aware of this dynamics, you are undertaking a project of transcending this emotional and social need. As for biological needs, apart from food and shelter you really don't care for anything else. Sex is a joke. A temporary respite from loneliness. Another battleground of power. All the assholes and motherfuckers have failed to realize is that you are very independent-minded and don't mind being alone. You do have pride. Fuck them!

Inferiority and Superiority

Inferiority and Superiority:

What we have here is not a failure to communicate, but a case of a petty-minded individual suffering from an acute sense of inferiority and a lingering childish mischievousness coupled with a disturbing viciousness reinforced by a cowardice suffused with a penchant for denial of reality and fear of truth. You sound like a Freudian analyst, fresh out of school, Silvio. Where did you go to school, School of Big Words and Small Ideas? Shut the fuck up! Roberto, why you keep interrupting my train of thoughts? Where am I?

With an existence of such an human organism, what possible redeeming qualities it has? It serves as what a living, breathing incarnation of evil looks like. And when it dies, it can serve as food for bugs and fertilizer for the soil.

Now, what were you saying about big words and small ideas?

"sweet Caroline"

dear, dear friend
the branches stir the breeze
to bid you sweet goodbye
we just briefly met
yet somehow
I'll remember thee
with every tree I meet

Words and Reality

Words and Reality

Reality, especially the metaphysical kind, can be reached by many ways: fasting, silence, music and chanting, words from teachers, observations of behavior of teachers, and your own words which rise from deep within as your soul is tested and tortured by acts of evil, ignorance, pride, or fraud.

Since you are a man of words, you invite others to talk so you can have access to their souls, if they have any. The more a man talks, especially in moments of anger, the more he reveals himself and his true character.

You talk too much nowadays. Time to back off.

You look at the women parading themselves up and down the street with hardly any clothes on and you feel sad, not excited. You feel sad not for them, but for yourself, for things that could be with Laura and how you were so naive and gullible with her. The wound went deep into the center of your being and stayed there and refused to heal simply you loved, adored, and trusted her so much. In other words, you were so stupid of not cultivating a touch of cynicism in you.

That was why you suffered. And you suffer still.

Many years I suffered in ignorance

For years I suffered in ignorance.
I relied on others for affirmation and acceptance.

Now I am startled
when willows sway in the wind, without a care
And leaves depart from trees and hang in the air
And birds on tall branches call for one another

Now my only companion is my own shadow
And I feel complete.

Still, I miss my mother
And do I miss her so.

Am I Cold?

Was I Cold?

Was I cold?
Did something in me die because I had suffered so much?
That was why maybe I felt indifferent
to all tragedies
and joys
and annoyances?
That was perhaps why I stopped
letting praises and condemnations get into my head and travel down to my heart?
That was why I could no longer cry
Because my tears already went dry?

Wonder of wonders, the wonder of Grace

Wonder of wonders, the wonder of Grace.

Some lady had a get-to-know-neighbors party. She tried hard to evince that she possessed artistic tender sensibilities. What a piece of work! You got amused and bemused beyond measure, but you were calm and self-possessed. How prosaic and predictable of her!. How disgustingly self-righteous! Most humans are like that. They all need to be ordered to parade up and down the Avenue of Self-Righteousness all day and all night in full uniforms and combat gear until they cry for mercy from exhaustion and feel deep in their bones that they have to be true to everybody, including themselves. Then, and only then, would they be ready to turn the corner and walk down the path of Grace. Only then would they be ready for compassion, acceptance, and Love. You cannot stand hypocrisy anymore. You have to shop around for an army of mercenaries. You have to go Africa.

But no, no, no, it is suffering talking. It was the old song of arrogance, of self, of clinging to dualism. Rise up. Be all that you can be. Stay in touch with the grace which is you. Your life, the wonderful mind you have: the sensitivity, the retentive memory, the logical reasoning, the ability to see the broad picture, the sense of history, the gift with languages and philosophy, not counting the looks and the vitality. Yes, grace is you. You are the avatar of grace. Grace has seeped inside you for a long time. And it is finally giving you peace.

May thy heart be kept open.
So the Sun can shine upon thee
And keeps thee warm
And gives thee peace.

May the Spirit walk alongside thee
So thou won't feel lonely
Ever
Again.

One Returning to Many

One Returning to Many

When we die and finally see God,
We won't say
Lord, I could never have guessed
How beautiful you are.
No, we will not say that.
Rather, we will say,
So it was you all along.
Everyone I ever loved,
It was you.
Everything that decent or fine that ever
Happened to me or within me,
Everything that made me reach out
And try to be better,
It was you and you and you
All along.

Adapted of C.S. Lewis, an atheist turned Christian.
Adapter: Wissai
After the storm, Friday the 13th of August, 2010

A Soldier's Story

A Soldier's Story

I did a lot of things in 'Nam I was not proud of. The war protesters were right. I was a baby killer. Women, too. After I raped them. I burned the thatch-roofed huts of the peasants. I shot down the civilians like dogs. I called in airstrikes to drop napalm bombs on them, on one village after another. I had blood on my hands. You asked me how many I killed? You said 30? More like 3,000!

I was not proud of myself afterwards. In fact I was ashamed. I was only a hick from south Texas. I went to 'Nam when I was barely 18, straight out of high school. The Army made a killer out of me.

Of course, I did all kinds of drugs over there, but I liked marijuana and heroin best. Very high quality, too. And cheap.

When I came back to the States, I soon had a breakdown. The babies I killed and the women that I raped and the smell of burned human flesh from all those Napalm bombs got to me. I saw the bodies and I smelled the burning smell of human flesh almost 24/7. I wanted to kill myself to end the misery, but a buddy of mine begged me to seek help. He got on my case and dragged me to counseling sessions. I was hypnotized. I was given medicine. I am not saying I am cured, but I am barely okay. I still think I am a tickling time bomb. My Special Forces friends who are living in Thailand all want me to go there and live with them, but I have my Mom and my kids here. I don't want to be away from them.

Don't you believe a thing about bullshit stories about MIA (missing in action) soldiers. Most were deserters. Some of them are my buddies. They are living in Thailand, married Thai women, have kids, all established and well-off. Here's another thing you may not know. We were on good terms with the Cong. We sold them our guns and food supply. I still stay in touch with some of them. Hell, the last time I was back in 'Nam, just 6 months ago, they took me out eating and drinking and talking about the "good" times we did business together. What a war huh? I am telling you one more thing, the FBI and CIA knew about me and my deserter buddies and they wanted me to help them build up a case against my buddies. I said, go fuck yourself, I'm already dead. I'm not going to betray my friends. I said, don't you threaten me either. Back in the late 60's, I myself trained some of you the art of torture and killing.

I see you next Thursday. Take care. Don't read too fucking much. It'll ruin your eyes.

Wissai
Friday 13th of August, 2010

P.S. I wrote this "moving" piece of confession by a remorse-filled ex-Special Forces guy. It was meant to read as piece of fiction, as it really was. While there were aspects in the story that could be based on real events, his "confession" sounded more like a boast and an exaggeration of a tortured soul. And guess what? I received only a single response to my story, apart the usual adulation from a rabid fan that I have. The response triggered me to write two pieces called One Returning to Many and Wonder of Wonder, the Wonder of Grace. Please read them, will you? and please tell how "wonderful" I am with words, how "lovely" my soul is, and all that shit, even though you don't mean it.

Rejection of Dualism

Dualism as an intellectual framework is attractive because it smacks and smells of common sense. Thus, it is instinctively embraced and practiced by most humans. It was even given a philosophical reinforcement by Descartes. However, there are some humans who reject dualism and turn to Monism or Oneness.

If we reject Dualism and embrace Oneness, we would see that all discussions and disputes-- past, present, and future-- if not involved with facts and truths, i.e., to use info in order to arrive at reality, but with efforts to establish the primacy of one Ego over another Ego, are exercises in futility. Once we see this, we recognize ourselves in our friends and vice versa, compassion and forgiveness and acceptance (it is a step by step process: compassion to forgiveness to acceptance) will take place, and then friendship reveals its true meaning and beauty, and we yield ourselves to friendship because of its meaning and beauty. The end result: peace and serenity and life longevity.

Every word of the above is mine. The insight arrived after my going through a crucible of receiving and giving hurtful feelings. Without going through the crucible, one would not be able to grow. Man is not born; Man is made. So my friends, my past apologies were sincere; they were not an empty exercise of using words. That does not mean I will never go through the crucible ever again. A man's life is a constant effort to actualize what is potentially good inside him.

Christianity and Buddhism

The following is mostly lifted from a little book named Zen Spirit, Christian Spirit, The Place of Zen in Christian Life by Robert E. Kennnedy, published by Continuum International Publishing Group Inc., 2007

Faith must not be identified with the cultural forms of any given age. Faith must be a truth burned into the soul.

(cont.)

Power, Status, Fame, and all that shit

Do you know why monkeys and canines love power, status, fame and all that shit while truly enlightened humans do not? You don't know? I don't know either, but that does not prevent me from speculating because I am a speculator at heart, because I am a Freudian analyst (I don't quite know what distinguishes him from other analysts, say, Jungian analyst, for instance. I have an idea, but I am loath to share it with you for fear you would look up in Google and see me for I am: an intellectual fraud and charlatan who tries to evince scholarship and depth, but in reality is dumb as shit). Anyway, the following is my wild and wooly theory:

Those monkeys and canines which are attracted to these ephemeral values because they want to be adored, admired, or feared. In other words, they want recognition or the ability to force others to follow their wishes and orders. All these desires stem from insecurity or a sense of superiority in some areas. Those who covet and hunger for these transitory values have a simian, phony desire to please or an air of aloof superiority and love to speak in cryptic, pseudo-psychological mumbo-jumbo. Among fame, status, and power, only power has some utilitarian values if wisely exercised for the benefits of group/community/nation, and not solely for the benefits of the power holder. Thus, a person who has power, especially absolute power, needs to play a role of a philosopher king, and not a dictator. Remember power breeds abuse and fosters resentment. Very few humans know how to use it wisely, although almost all monkeys and canines, not to mention assholes, thirst for it.

Real men look into the abyss of life and wonder about its mystery. They strive for timeless verities such as freedom, honor, justice, love, and friendship. They eschew empty, trivial, transitory attractions.

Real men are men of unshaken confidence and quiet superiority. They are not hermits, but they don't hunger for status and recognition. They know they are rare. They are confident they are real humans and thus definitely infinitely better than canines and monkeys.

Are you a real man or are you just a little doggie or a pathetic monkey which indulgences in pathetic, unrhymed, unmusical verses of absolute nonsense and drivel?

Power of Music

We all know the power of music, a testament of human sensitivity. Besides possessing a vocal box, Man has learned to make music from things (strings, instruments of percussions, wind instrument, and of course that marvellous melody-maker: the piano) outside of him, to create melodies to evoke the mood. I just listened to a piano sonata (or whatever the hell it is. I am a fake. I just know the word sonata, so I inserted it here to appear sophisticated. Don't you take everything I write literally, otherwise you will be in for a world of hurt, pals) and I felt good and mellow and calm beyond description.
(cont.)

I Was Tested and I Failed

I Was Tested and I Failed. Miserably. Dismally. Abysmally.

Let me tell you this up front. I thought I was a nice guy, deep down, a kind possessing a real soul and rare sensitivity to boot, despite my rough, repulsive exterior of having a pock-marked face, balding hair, yellow teeth, sallow complexion, and packing 285 lbs  on a frame of 5'10".

I thought when the chips are down, I would rise to the occasion and show the world what a nice, decent human being I really was. But yesterday I was tested and I failed. What you see from the outside is what is inside me.

I arrived at my office late. The traffic was a bear. Two, not one, accidents on the same damn freeway I-45. So by the time I closed the door of my office, and settled down to do some work, I was already in a foul mood. That changed instantly with a phone call.

-Roberto, this is your buddy Silvio.
-What's the fuck you want? Listen, I was late for work this morning and I've got tons of things to do.
-Fuck the work. I've got something you need to know. You wouldn't believe what I'm gonna tell you.
-Spit the fuck out. I don't have all day.
-Okay, pal. The Asshole was dead.
-What? You're not shitting me, right? But how the fuck do you know this? Who told you?
-Nobody. I was there. I couldn't believe it. Just like watching a movie.
-What do you mean you were there?
-I was there when the bastard got shot and died.
-Now, back up and tell me everything. If this is one of your stupid jokes, I will cut your dick off  and slice and dice it into hundreds of pieces and feed to the dogs.
-Don't go too postal on me. Do you want to hear what happened or not?
-Silvio, cut the crap out. Just tell me what happened.
-Okay. You know the Asshole and I weren't really buddy buddy, but I tolerated him, while you all hated his guts. Yesterday evening he called me up and asked me if I wanted to go bar hopping with him. Something was bothering him, he said, he needed to talk to somebody about it. He even said, please. I felt sorry for him. I said, can't you just tell me over the phone. He said, no, I would rather talk over a few beers. Then he added, don't worry, I'm buying. That clinched it for me. He picked me up. We were driving and some Mexican dudes cut us off. The Asshole got mad, honked the horn and flipped the bird to those guys. The next thing I knew was the Asshole slammed hard on his brakes. I almost got my head snapped off due to the whip saw effect. His Mustang stopped right behind a bright red Corvette. Two big, well dressed beaners got out and walked towards us. One to the driver side, one to me. The Asshole wanted to get out of the car, but I hissed "Don't be stupid. Stay in the car." By that time, the Mexican on the Asshole side already was at the window. The Asshole pushed the window button down and snarled, "What you want?". The Mexican softly spoke. "Sir, why did you honk and why gave us the finger?" I got the chill running up my spine, when I heard the Asshole snorted and screamed, "Because you assholes cut me off!". I jumped right in, "Sir, we are very sorry. My friend here got too much to drink. I apologize." The Mexican was nodding his head after hearing what I said. But the Asshole turned and screamed at me, "Shut the fuck up, Silvio, let me talk. Why you have to lie? We haven't started drinking yet." By the time he turned back to the Mexican, he was looking at a Glock just inches from him and then bang! bang! Most of his head was gone, his blood and brains all over inside the car. I froze and thought I was going to die, too. But the two beaners just walked back to their 'Vette and then drove off slowly, as if nothing happened. Meanwhile cars honked and passed by us left and right. Stunned and dazed and embarrassed because I just shit in my pants, I then slowly got out of the car, being careful not to get run over. I got to the sidewalk and collapsed and called the cops. I just got back to my house from the police station about two hours ago. I cleaned up, took a long bath and called you the first thing I got out of the bathroom. I still didn't know what was bothering him. I am really curious. Are you going to his funeral?

-No, I will go visit his grave. I'll bring my little Chihuahua with me. I'll command it to piss and shit on his grave.
-Wow! Why you hated him so much, man. I never quite understand what was going on between you two.
-Silvio, I don't have time to go into all the gory and glorious details. Trust me, I knew him more than you did. Many others did, too. You were probably the only guy who could stand him. Nobody else did. But you're weird, anyway. A self-proclaimed philosopher. A perennial unemployed carpenter. And a preacher. Who do you think you are? A modern-day Jesus? Want a real job? You could come and work for me. But, first, you have to buy some real clothes. I've got to go. Thanks for the call. You made my day.

Love--Is Anybody Game for That?

Love--Is Anybody game for that?

I am back to my old self, using the first person singular pronoun and talking about myself and singing about love, something I often do when having nothing to occupy my mind.

A young girl of 16, imagine that, only 16, sweet little sixteen, called me up this afternoon, interrupted my nap, and told me she loved me. Not just some Platonic love, but apparently romantic kind. Her words jerked me wide awake. I sat straight up, asked her to repeat herself because it sounded too good to be true, since you see, I am 66 years old, though still virile and looking at least 15 years younger, I am old enough to be her grandpa. At first, I thought she played a joke on me or someone put her to it, like a dare or something. But, heavens no, she sounded damn serious, and got all pissed off and cried when I kept asking her " Are you sure?".

Her grandpa and I are old (pun intended) buddies. We went to high school and college together. At first, we didn't really like each other much. But one day, Harry, her grandpa, didn't do his homework on world history class in our sophomore year in high school, and since I was known to be a whiz on the subject (I often challenged and talked back to Mr. Zimmerman, our dull, drooling, curmudgeon, close-to-retirement, history teacher who reluctantly admitted from time to time that I could be right. Nobody knew that I had been interested in history of the world since I was six and read almost nothing else), he shyly asked me if he could "borrow" my homework. To his relief, I quickly said yes. Ever since that day, he and I became close friends. It also helped that he lived in a much bigger house than I did. He often invited me for a snack of cookies and ice cream and a game of pool after school. We often played until 5 pm, before his Dad came home from work.

(cont.)

Nostalgia

You are writing fast and furious as usual. But before talking about nostalgia, something just came up on the news. Another lustful CEO got shot down for getting involved with a woman who was not his wife. When will all those stupid boys ever learn that women are dangerous to men with money? They don't love you. They just love your fucking (pun intended)money, but no, you convinced yourself that you are good, that you are handsome and virile and all that shit, and women are falling for you left and right. But it turned out time and time again, the women got you to court and you had to cough up some cold cash to stay out of trouble. Chastised, you look at your dick in the middle of the night, alone in bed, and wonder if there is real love. Let me tell you, there is, but it takes place before the women turn 25, and with men at any age. Those bitches are just different from us, boys.

Anyway, back to nostalgia. Last night I was reading an old NGS magazine issue, dated way back to December, 1975, and flood of memories rushed back and almost choked me to death. My eyes were flooded with tears. I thought of her, of how I got to America in August, with a woman who was into games, but I was too stupid and naive to know. I recall I arrived in Los Angeles Aiport, the LAX, in the afternoon, around 5 pm. I got processed and driven to a Marine base for further processing. I looked at the land and I heard the language. This was not the first time I set foot on America. I had been here before, at the tender age of 17 when my command of the language was raw and unpolished and unidiomatic, but I could get by. I reminded myself that hot afternoon in August when the sweltering heat still lingered on and didn't even begin to dissipate, that I was older, better educated and could start a new life without much difficulty, but I had to be sure of there was love which somehow seemed tenuous and slippery. My instinctive feeling proved to be correct, the woman became who she really was. I endured, but the bitterness never left me despite twenty plus women came after her. Meanwhile I managed to feed myself and made myself fairly respectable in society. Meanwhile the void got bigger with each passing day until one day, I don't quite remember when, it engulfed ne and drowned me and sucked me into its vortex of sorrow. As I was leafing through the magazine and looked at the ads of cars and TVs, I shuddered and cried some more for my naïveté. Thirty five years came and went just like that, in a flash. All of the sudden, I realized how lonely, how achingly lonely, I had been.

(to be continued)

Interpretations

Something happened. Every Dick, Tom, and Harry has his own theory why the event occurred. Each looked at the event from his own perspective built over the years on past similar events and his own hang-ups and values. Each insists that his interpretation is closest to the truth. But which theory/interpretation is correct? The principals who were involved had insider information and refused to talk. Outsiders only speculated and conveniently looked around for a scapegoat. They went from one household to another in the village and then settled their eyes on you and decided, that was him, he was the guilty one. What a fucking croak of shit! Where did you guys learn how to reason? Why the fuck I am the one who got the blame? You motherfuckers made me sick with your puerile, childish theories and reasonings. I had nothing to do with anything. I was in my own little hut, reading, drinking some beer and occasionally jerking off. All of the sudden, I heard the king decided to marry a commoner and settle in the land of his bride which is overseas and the country is now a republic and there might be some voting involved to choose a president. And do you fuckers really think I am that significant, that I had a bearing on what is going on in the land? You guys are out of your mind! Get the fuck out of my hurt, no, I meant hut and leave me alone. I am just a pathetic, whining, unpublished and unpublishable writer and poet. I am a failure. I am an hopeless braggart. Please, go away. I have not slept for days. And I have not paid my rent yet. Please, please go away, otherwise I have to call upon my old friends, Colt and Glock for help.

Guess what? They went away, but not for long. Two of them came back and insisted on having a real conversation with you. They said, this land used to be peaceful and free of strife. You might think we are frivolous, but we were fine and happy the way we were. We interacted amicably, until you emigrated to over here. We didn't know what planet you came from, but we took pity in you and even granted you citizenship. We though you were normal until you started talking and singing all hours. Don't you ever sleep? Your singing somehow got to the attention of the king. He ordered a surreptious recording of it. And then he listened to your horrible off-key voice, with the discordant melodies and strange lyrics. He became wacko and fell in love with a commoner. He now wants to settle overseas. We think he has become stir crazy all because of you. We want you to get back to your planet.

You listened to the speech, mouth open, and could not believe what you just heard. The world is gone mad. Or is it you?

You looked at them. You didn't say a word. You got up, and showed them the door. They looked at you with both sorrow and anger registered on their faces. You watched them walking slowly to their car. They got in. The driver honked the horn to get your attention, rolled down the window and gave you the bird, and floored the pedal. The car rocketed out of your driveway, left a burning rubber smell and whitish smoke wafting in the air.

You got inside your house and thought long and hard the nature of happiness. The two visitors said they were happy and carefree until you came along. Wow! You didn't know. If they were truthful with their account, then you would be cursed with this unhappiness with yours.

Nietzsche and Inconsistency and of course, me.

There has been no more self-conflicting philosopher than Nietzsche. He held conflicting views. He changed his mind. He spoke about fortitude and defiance and wrote poetry about loneliness. He made disparaging remarks about women but made haphazard marriage proposals which were all turned down. However, there was one thing about which he was consistent: throughout his life of despair of not seeing his greatness recognized, he was steadfast in his conviction that he was a real thinker. And he was right. He has been influential, and now scholars and laymen alike are attracted to him. He is no longer ignored.

Nietzsche was not a trained philosopher. He studied philology in college. His interests were Greek, Latin, and French. He was well versed in Greek thought. Above all, he was an artist. He had temperament of an artist. He wrote poetry and composed music. His best known and loved book, Thus Spake Zarathustra, is a long rambling poem of sorts. He came up with striking and memorable aphorisms. When you came across those aphorisms, they stopped you in your track. And you were struck by the incisiveness of the thoughts and their elegant and unusual expressions. And you said to yourself maybe Nietzsche was your long lost twin brother, even though you definitely were not as gifted as he was, not by a long shot. Still, you recognized the kindred spirit.

Nietzsche died of tertitiary consequences of syphilis, caught from visiting whorehouses in his university days. You have proudly told everybody, including strangers, that you have had a very rich love life and you have not had sex with a single prostitute in your life because you always have women as dear friends, even though you didn't actively seek them out. After one dismal failure at a relationship when you were 23, you discovered the secret of making friends with women. Strange as it sounds, although you have had a rich sex and love life, deep in your heart there is only one love and only one gratifying, satisfying, meaningful sexual experience. You still love women but you are more wary of them now, especially those who pursue you and use threats of suicide as a ploy. You have learned your lesson. The life you save must be your own.

Nobility in Thoughts and Actions

People say thoughts are the mother of actions. You must be a mother with the longest gestation period in human history. While you have plenty of noble thoughts, none of which has been translated into actions. Instead, your life seems to be governed by pettiness, resentment, and anger stemming from unpleasant haunting memories. Today, a random act of nobility calmed you much and restored somewhat your faith in human decency in most people. Of course there are some cases of human incorrigibility and utter self-debasement, exemplified by the ever self-righteous sicko AHI.

What is canine, herdlike behavior?

Most mammals are social. That means they live together as a group. They band together in order to draw strength and protection from one another. Humans are social animals and often get sucked into the dynamics of group behavior, feeling and acting as one unit, instead of exercising their "God (sic!)- given faculty" of independent thinking and judgment. Humans behave in such manner show that they are not evolved yet. They are no different from dogs which are well known to live in packs. Each pack is ruled by an alpha (Greek word for letter A, meaning beginning, or top) or top dog. Other dogs look to the alpha dog for clues of behavior. If the alpha dog attacks somebody, the pack would do the same. Conversely, if the alpha dog or any dog in the pack gets attacked by a human or another dog outside of the pack, the rest of the pack would instinctively jump in to the aid of the attacked dog.

Your point is, humans are not dogs, and must not act like dogs. Unlike dogs, humans have a built-in sense of fairness and justice. If somebody in a group is in combat with an outsider, let the fight continue fairly between the original combatants. It is despicable to jump in like a pack of dogs to the aid of the fellow member of the group.

By the way, if some doggie wants to renounce friendship, please do with taste. There is no need to do with trumpets and clarions and loud barking. Some quiet gestures would do. Some humans might value friendship from a doggie, not you. You prefer company of real humans, not humans with canine behavior.

True Character

Your hypothesis was confirmed once again. Assholes invariably have an undue exalted sense of self. Some pompously display it; others take pains to camouflage it under some veneer or color of respectability, but when they are tested, they would reveal their assholeness all the same which stinks to high heaven. And you then recognize them for the animals that they are. Indeed, they make you feel better about yourself. So like shit and garbage, they do have a role in the overall ecological scheme of things.

Anyway, enough talk about assholes, you are reading a story which is propelled by a blend of knowledge and skill, terror and release. The story calms and strengthens you. It's about a man and his shadow; it's about you. In the end your shadow killed you out of envy. It was sick of being the secondary, not the primary. Talking about killing, maybe it's time to get the old friends Colt and Glock out of the stuffy house and into the open for some practice shooting. Bang! Bang! I shot you down, asshole!! Bang! Bang! Don't tell me you're stll alive! Bang! Good, you stop moving. Just like old advice says, to the head, boys, if you can.

Right after you announced your retirement your phone rang almost constantly. Most expressed dismay and frustrations that you were a quitter and that you didn't stay and fight to the bitter end, as you said you would. You said you were tired of dealing with phonies and cowards and animals. You wanted to go home and get back to what you had been doing before you went to war against ignorance and phoniness. One woman cried and wailed and screamed, "Roberto, without you, the assholes would have a field day." You said, "Who cares? I don't. Birds of the same feathers flock together. Assholes of the same stink fart together." Then you gently said goodnight to her. You went outside and sat on the porch. Strong winds rushed in from the west. There was a whiff of moisture in the air. Soon, flashes of lightning were seen at the distance. You muttered, "Shit! It looks like there could be rain. It's about time". No sooner than you said that, as if on cue, rain drops began spattering down, haltingly at first, and then insistently. In no time at all there was a real downpour of summer rain in the desert.

The winds drove the rain almost perpendicularly, soaked you wet to the bones. You just sat there, motionless, tasting the rain running past your lips. You felt fresh, not cold, and cleansed, inside and out. You suddenly realized that your departure was a right thing to do and it was their loss. You are free spirit and would not be content in a world of midgets and dwarfs. Let them hem and haw, sputter and stutter with inarticulate cries of canine solidarily.

The Lure and Allure of Power

So, you were right about AH2 all along. It proved by its pompous barking in the Garden of Self-Importance that it was just a common garden variety of a little doggie which aspired to become a top dog. Ah, the shit dogs are attracted to. They eat shit, you know. It could have phrased and couched its barking far better, to make it more pleasing and palatable and less jarring to the ear, but no, it had to appear dominant and decisive and all that fucking hidden message for Him, but fuck, He didn't really give a damn. He told you so, didn't He? Day 1 is supposed today, The D-Day of Devotion to the Arts. In retrospect and in looking at its pompous barking of today, you learned one thing: the ever importance of smoothness and softness, but no weakness. It could be done. It has been done.

Facts, Logic, and Truths

You don't quite understand what it is about assholes and animals that make them so fearful of facts, logic, and truths while you and the philosophers don't have that fear---in fact, you and all the critical thinkers live by a relentless devotion to these realities. It could be simply that you and fellow like-minded humans are just morally, really morally, superior and intellectually more honest.

You didn't get nauseous as usual when you saw the loathsome creature exhibited its usual canine, herdlike behavior in support of its equally loathsome, but far more clever--because of better thespian aptitude, brother. You were amused. In fact, you had a smile on your face. This time, however, a self-proclaimed genius shut its mouth. That was an improvement. And of course, the ever enigmatic man remained silent and thus solidified your respect and thus earned a human designation "he", in lieu of "it". Where you came from, "it" refers to an animal, even when it has human appearance.

You wrote a piece about catharsis and wishes, expressing your desire to join the realm of the enlightened. A curious human wrote back and made some encouraging exhortations. You replied that you certainly are trying hard to get there. These words which are oozing slowly out of you are definitely not part of that effort. You are cleaning house. You are sweeping the mental debris.

You were not agitated yesterday. You were both amused and slightly annoyed to see the forces of sophistry---indicating a deep-rooted cowardice and animal devotion to survival and yet perversely a longing for respectability at the same time--- at work.

A Lucky Man

A Lucky Man

I don't know about you, but I consider myself a very lucky man over
all. Not a clever and smart man, but definetely lucky. Like I was
supposed to die of pneumonia when I was 13 months old. There was no
medicine available where I grew up then. The war for independence
against France was going in full swing. My mother gave birth to me in
a hut, not in a hospital, with some help of a self-taught midwife in
the village. I came out skinny and crying like a banshee, with a big
head full of hair, hungry and determined to live. Mom was weak and
sick and didn't produce much milk. I was fed mostly liquid drained
from rice gruel, with sugar and salt added. I was born skinny and I
stayed skinny and often got sick. Like I said, when I was 13 months
old, pneumonia supposed to finish me off. I had high fever. I wheezed.
I coughed when I was not crying. In desperation, Mom went to a healer
in the nearby village. He gave her a pouch containing dried biles of
snakes and some instructions. Mom put the biles in boiling water,
waited for the concoction to cool off and then forced me to drink. I
then promptly threw up and along with the foul liquid out came a huge
amount of phlegm. But strangely, soon after that the fever broke, the
wheezing and the coughing ceased, and I was on my way to recovery. Two
weeks later, the French Legionnaires troops arrived at the village. We
fled from them. Six of us, my parents and my brother (aged 13) and
sisters (11 and 3) and I hid in an irrigation canal thick with aquatic
coconut groves. My mom was holding me. She said I was wild-eyed and
clung tightly to her and somehow did not cry. We all watched the
French troops torching the houses in the village, including my
family's hut. That incident must have buried itself deep into my
subconsciousness because how else I could account for my intense
hatred for any invaders of the land of my birth, be they French,
American, and now Chinese and how else I could explain the nauseating
feeling I feel whenever I see houses burning.

When I was twelve years old, I came down hard with typhoid for
drinking contaminated water. This time I lived in Saigon and had
access to Western medicine. I still remember to this day the illness.
I had very high fever and I panted. My breathing was belabored. My
brother put ice in a towel and placed the towel on my forehead
throughout the night while crying and saying, don't die, don't die.
Once more I cheated death. The fever broke and I subsisted on a liquid
diet for a week before I could take in solid food. The doctor said the
solid food would cause my intestines to burst as they were weak and
fragile as a consequence of the marauding actions of the bacteria or
something like that. He warned my father and sternly lectured me that
a lot of recovering patients died from unknowingly consuming solid
food too soon. As I insinuated earlier, I was not too smart, but not
too dumb either. I didn't want to die. I was constantly hungry and did
have intense cravings for meat and cooked rice, but I called upon my
will to put up with the hunger. To this day, I could go without food
for four days without suffering undue discomfort. My body was
trained. After the typhoid episode, I have had an inkling I will live
to ripe old age if don't give in to the urge of self-destruction and
shoot myself in the head, along with the foot (I have not yet decided
the right one or the left).

As I said earlier, I have been incredibly lucky. All my problems and
troubles were self-inflicted, but they all turned out okay in the end.
The fact that I made it to America was a prime example of karma in
action. How I met a woman, who later became my wife, two days before
my birthday was a remarkable story by itself. Tonight was another
example of how good luck has followed me.

(to be continued elsewhere)

Anger and Contempt

Introductory note:

The following is a work in progress and a work of fiction. Most words are mine; a few phrases and ideas are borrowed. Everything about me and from me is a work in progress and mostly fictional and contradictory. I am a walking contrast. I am also a walking lexicon. I walk a lot. I walk from here to eternity and back, in search of peace and a certain feeling long gone.

I am afflicted with an overactive imagination, not an overactive sex drive, otherwise I would have availed myself of all the opportunities I had, and enjoyed myself much more. Raw sex, unaccompanied by love, is repugnant to me. I was born to suffer. I don't know what pleasure means.

One reader intimated, in fact complained, to me that there are so many "I"s in what I write. He missed the point completely. My words are not a celebration of narcissism, but rather a resistance to self- destruction, and a search for relevance and meaning. I am a mirror. People see themselves in me. So, be careful before denouncing me. You may unwittingly denounce yourself because we can only see what we can undestand and relate to, while glossing over the inconsistency and the puzzle, failing to realize the soul of a man lies in his inconsistency, in his being a puzzle to others. That was probably why Mark Twain (or whoever that was) remarked that consistency was a hallmark of a scoundrel. There is nothing contradictory and conflicting about being a scoundrel. He is here to hurt and exploit others. Case is closed.The same thing with cowards and assholes. They specialize in sneak attacks and sidebar comments. They are despicable and not fit to live. If I had a chance, I would exterminate them all, from coast to coast, starting with California where I know a most loathsome asshole of all.

I started many fires, but could not put out the conflagrations. I am a firestarter in some ways. I revel in controversies and confrontations. A person I confront most often and most viciously is myself. I think I both love and hate myself, otherwise how else I could explain the penchant for ascetism and the attraction to suffering.

Anyway, here I go, one more time:

To say my thoughts out loud and, worse still, to commit them in paper and broadcast them far and wide in the Internet, is an illness that I've got and no endless visits to my psychiatrist or twelve-step meetings at the local AA seem able to cure me of this affliction.

Yesterday's late afternoon, at dusk, when the Sun got tired of seeing my face and wanted to say goodbye, I saw the sky piled high with thick orange, red, and purple clouds, like the immediate aftermath of a chemical fire. Sitting at the edge of a man-made lake, in the shade of a willow tree, I saw across the expanse of water, trees of some familiarity, and as much as a genius that I am, I could not recall their name, bending in the brisk winds. The winds picked up strongly, buffeting a large Confederate flag in front of an antebellum mansion from my right. Just about twenty yards in front of me, a mallard with its brood of ducklings in its tow, swam towards shore to settle for the night.

Yet in this seemingly serene pastoral setting, my enemies didn't leave me alone. My oldest enemy is anger. It was born in times long past, grew strong and sturdy over the years, with gratuitous insults from phonies and cowards and animals which had no business to evince contempt or fling wild accusations and calumnies to my face. So my anger has bloomed and blossomed and ballooned in my chest and sent a rush of bile into my throat. I felt bitter. All flushed and flustered, I got up, and walked back to my car, all the while scheming and plotting an inarticulate, wild venture of a worst kind.
(to be continued)