The smile, the mind, and the body

You asked me about her, what makes me remember about her, after all these years. What can I say? The smile, the mind, and the body, especially the skin. Even if I continue scraping the bottom of the barrel of depravity and crawling along the tunnel of loneliness, I won't forget her. She is my curse and in some ways my blessing. The memory of her disdain for me compels and impels me to move forward, to improve my mind. I have to prove to her and to myself that I do possess some potential and I will eventually surpass her. Maybe I did already.

She has a dimpled smile
A mind for poetry, but a body for sin

Yêu em như biết yêu lần đầu
Yêu em nhiều để yêu thương dài lâu
Da em trắng, anh không cần ánh sáng
Má em hồng, anh mơ tưởng mùa đông
Nụ cười xuân, làm tim anh bay bổng
Theo thời gian kéo dài cõi lang thang.

I love you like I never loved anybody before
I love you a lot so I can love you forever more
Your skin so white, I need no light
Your ruddy cheeks make me dream of the winter sun
My heart takes off to the sky with your smile in the spring
Forever hangs in the air with the time passing

I wrote the above two nights ago. All this dreamy, romantic reminiscing was shattered by the nightmare I just had a few hours ago. I dreamed that she was
talking about me in really condescending tone. I was sad and mad when I woke
up. That and the dark, stormy night I had last Thanksgiving really forced me to
take stock of my life now and assess whether it really has any meanings that I
heretofore have fancied it does.

First, one thing I am absolutely sure now is that I am a loner, in every sense of the
world. I feel alone and I am alone. I trust and love no woman now. They are selfish
to the core, at least those that I know. They all talk and act nice, but in reality they all love money and security and don't really give a fig about me. Not really.

Second, if I have to unburden myself, these pages are the place I should go to. I am now suffering from delayed reactions to the words and actions of some
assholes and nitwits and cowards and sons of bitches. The more I think of them, the more I want to get on a plane. But I am tired now and quite sick of continuing
complicating my life because of the siren calls of my ego. At least those bastards revealed their true colors. They helped me see clearly that beneath the human appearances and some education, they are really filthy animals, unworthy of my
attention and my time. Now I know why Hitler really felt. So, you see the wisest course of action a man can have when provoked is to walk away in silence. Doing so reveals nothing of your state of mind. All the stupid noise one makes is toreveal one's thinking unnecessarily. Strike back fast and strong and in silence, without warning, that is what my only friend in this world, Silvio, always says.

Third, my mind is not that easy to understand, contrary to what the assholes, nitwits, cowards, and sons of bitches think. I don't even understand it sometimes,
so how can they? That's why I couldn't help laughing when some fucker is so stupid and presumptuous enough to put forward some comments about the state of my mind. Really, tell me, can we understand what's going on in the black box of
a highly developed and evolved human, the one like me? Be honest, now. We cannot. The more there are signs of inconsistency and strangeness, the more we should be alerted that we are dealing with a rarity, a work in progress, a mind in
conflict with itself.

Now, I don't wish to go on listing all the rhymes and reasons I need to take stock
of my life. Suffice to say it is a mess. My sister just called me and said of all th
women that went through my life, MF was the worst. I already knew that. I wanted to forget the bitch. I didn't want to think of the fucking bitch at all, so I cut the
conversation short. I am going to be drifting somewhere in the Eastern Caribbean with my son tomorrow and I didn't want to be disturbed by any bad memories. I am going to pack really light. A few minutes ago, the train passed through the area
I was staying. The whistling and the rumbling was okay with me, but they drove my son crazy. He threatened to move far from the noise, the nuisance distraction. In fact, he wanted to move to China. I said, good luck, I hope your Chinese is getting good. He retorted, don't you worry. Maybe they don't have trains in China, I slyly
added. He gave me a dirty look and stormed out of the house. That was typical behavior of my son. Intellectually quite smart, but downright a spoiled child in
many ways. During this trip, I hope he will run into some girl that catches his fancy. He is a social retard. He doesn't know how to talk to people, let alone girls. I don't know either. His mother always remarked that why I had to keep talking about myself. I said, because I am the most interesting person I know. You
married me, didn't you? She gave me a ready-made riposte, I was young and stupid. I was going to grace her with a sarcastic repartee, but I bit my tongue. I never won arguing with women, so I just walked away and stewed. However, I was too stupid not to fall in love over and over again. I supposed that I had a big romantic heart! Plus, somehow I fancied that women were attracted to me. At least
until the Thanksgiving Day Fiasco. Now I am on the run, so to speak. I didn't tell my son what happened during that dark, stormy night. He would fall into pieces. I did tell Silvio and my worries of the aftermath. Silvio said, "Roberto, listen, stupid ass! Do you know how many unsolved murders and killings in this country? Tons. Talk with any cop, any detective when their guard is down. They'll tell you. Just go
on living as normal. If you get caught, so what? An
eye for an eye. Justice served. Besides, you're getting old anyway. Time for you to go." I screamed, shut the fuck up, you're a real pal, you know that? Silvio is my best friend, actually, the only real friend I have, but he can be a real ass, a real pain in the you-know-what.

I didn't tell my ex-landlady that I was out of town and would be incomunicado for
almost two weeks. She usually calls me now and then to check on me even though I don't stay in the apartment she owns anymore. When she calls, she always prefaces with a plaintive, mournfoul preamble that I don't care about her and seem to forget her already. I have a strong feeling that she likes me and wants to "seduce" me even though I'm not a spring chicken anymore. I'm 65 years old! And she is even older than me! She isn't ugly or repulsive-looking or anything like that. It helps that she has money. However, she is quite crass and uncultivated. I am not that desperate. Not yet. I am holding out for somebody really special, like Grace Kelly of yore, or a real bombshell like Raquel Welch in er prime. I know I am common and predictable, you don't have to tell me. Did I tell you that I was a gentleman but not a saint? Some lady told me that I had an erroneous perception of myself. She advised me, no, emphatically told me, that I rush out to get a big mirror and have a good look at myself and then I would realize that I am simply a scoundrel. Guess what? I took up on her adamantine advice. And voilà , what I saw in the mirror was a devilishly handsome elderly fellow and that was me! I was naturally pleased. I called my son over and asked for a second opinion. He took a look and said: " Dad, I hope I will look half as good as you when I get your age." So, I guessed that the lady had a vision problem or was just simply a crazy, jealous old hag, a virago, a vixen, or simply
was an ugly, old, short, fat, impoverished, sharp and tart-tongued bitch. She
apparently took my self-effacing words at face value and thought that I had no girl-friends, but my wife and my son both know where the truth lies. That's the problem with stupid people. They cannot tell the difference between truth and fiction. But I should not blame them, really, because very often my words come straight from the Twilight Zone where reality and fantasy collide and dreams and wishes never subside.

The ship I am cruising with my son Brian is leaving Galveston behind and is
heading east, towards Key West and beyond. Brian is happy to be on a cruise. He is restless and is and out of the cabin constantly. I'm writing all these words
primarily for my benefit. Again, I would suppose some idiot would think I write for her pig-like eyes because she couldn't conceive nor envision that the words one
writes don't have to be directed by a desire for readership. Many times, the author is just having fun with himself or simply venting. That's what monologues or talking with oneself means. The ugly simpleton assumes the writer needs an audience. Apparently she never heard of the concept and practice of a journal or catharsis.
When Sylvia Plath wrote the poem "Daddy" prior to sticking her head in the gas
oven, she had no intention for her deceased father or anybody else to read the
poem. She was in pain and she was fumbling and struggle to find a way to lighten
herself and to lessen her pain. She didn't feel better. So, she killed herself. As simple as that. It was what it was.

As I said before, the comments one has on the words of others, especially when one is too stupid and incoherent to express oneself, especially in a creative, fictional manner tell more about her than the target of her "comments". But I was and am very glad she revealed her true color. From the very beginning, I sensed something not quite right about the woman, something pathological, something nasty, something cheap. Her latest outburst and I hope her last and final, reminded me of my own reactions when Janie revealed her true devious, manipulative character. I didn't say anything nasty and hurtful. I walked away in silence. Ever since, Janie is rarely on my mind. It would be cheap and contemptible of me to have the last word and to lash out in anger. If somebody wants to be left alone without any doubt, we must respect his or her wishes. Harsh words spoken in anger reveal one's true character. True love is always gentle and caring and healing. I know. Despite all the pains and disappointments Brian has brought, I always speak to him with gentleness and love because I care for his feelings. I would rather feel hurt than causing him hurt. He does not come out and says it, but he knows that I forgive him for all his immature outbursts because I love him. In love, actions always speak louder than words. There must be a lot in me because ladies of all ages have flicked to me like bees come to flowers. I am in many ways, a bright, fragrant flower in full bloom. Oops, here comes the bees. I need to stop writing in order to give them a proper welcome.

(to be continued)