Memoir 4

"Roberto, You're smart, but not sensible," said an acquaintance of mine the other day. I said, "Pleeease, tell me something I don't know." I was exaggerating, of course. I'm not sure about my being smart, but I'm positive that I'm insensible, way damned insensible. What else to explain this exercise in fictional memoir, this bellyaching about everything and nothing, that turning down of romantic and sexual offers from nice, decent female admirers, that insane wager I'm having with a friend. I'm betting with him for a hefty $5,000 that on my birthday in October of this year, I will weigh 155 lbs and be able to do 100 push-ups and 20 chin-ups. I have only 5 months left from the deadline and as of now I'm weighing 172 lbs and doing only 30 push-ups and 5 chin-ups. I'm in serious shit. Yesterday, I foolishly accepted a dinner invitation to a nice buffet. And I pigged out. So today, I'm starving myself. My body is rebelling and cursing me out. Thus far, today I have consumed one bowl of brown rice, a tiny amount of boiled chicken with a small carrot and a cup of cabbage, an orange, and a banana. I must stay away from food for the remainder of the day and night. On top of that, I must improve my physical strength.

I am sensible now, at this very moment. There's something Freudian when people degrade themselves with salacious jokes. What do they try to accomplish? Approval? Fitting in? Proving that they have a sense of humor? Well, I am the one who has a very good sense of humor. People tell me so all the time. I make them laugh, relishing at my original, striking one-liners and unexpected observations. And I do have plenty of sex jokes as part of my repertoire, but I don't tell them in mixed company or in public. I only tell them to a select intimate friends. I know better. I have done enough acts of self-degradation with shameless bragging and lecturing and showing off my arguing skills.

I am sensible now because I just woke up from an insensible dream. Well, most dreams of mine are insensible, but the one I just had was bordering on the pathological and the absurd because it involved Laura. I already told you I didn't love the bitch anymore, but why did the fuck she crop into my subconscious? Why didn't the bitch die and disappear for good? Worse still, the dream was a recurring one. Like 99% of the dreams about her, I saw her on the street, so I rushed over asked her why she left me. She would just smile and kept on walking. And of course, I woke up, as usual, feeling sad and stupid and angry at myself.

I am sensible now because I have to in order to survive. A woman young enough to be my daughter confessed to me that I turned her on and that I looked more like 52 than 62 and she wanted to be a very close friend of mine. To make the matter worse, she spoke French better than I did. And she was telling me all this in French. Several times, I told her to slow down so I could understand what she said. She was excited and nervous, you know. Since her English was not good, I had to summon all the French I had at my disposal and told her I could not regard her anything than a "chere amie" because my son would kill me if I ever get married again. Five times would be more than enough, don't you think? Come on, I ain't no Liz Taylor.

At any rate, she cried quite a bit after my clumsy exposition and then stormed off into the proverbial "sunset", leaving me "sensible" and calm and pleased and proud of myself beyond measure. I slowly drove home, walked straight into the bathroom and took a long look at myself in the mirror to check if I was indeed "beau" and "charmant" as she alleged. Please don't laugh, but after preening and looking at myself from various angles, I must admit that French woman from Montreal had a point and discerning eyes! Today, I stopped over at the 24 Hours Fitness Club after work and signed up for a membership. I used to run and keep myself in a gloriously good shape, but ever since I developed a foot problem in my left foot and had to curtail running, my body has lost quite a bit of definition and vigor. The other reason I had to fork over some money to improve my physique was because I wanted to win the stupid wager I had with a friend. I hate to lose. I have a lot of pride and ego. The next time you guys see me, you will see a new, invigorating, slimmer Roberto, I promise. Let me tell you, there is no better incentive to keep your body in good shape at the "advanced" age of 62 than hearing a sexy, attractive younger French woman told you that you were handsome, funny, and sexy, if I heard her right. My French was rusty and I was hard of hearing, so I could just probably imagine and heard things that were too good to be true. But regardless of what happened to my hearing, the fact that I heard voices and I heard a speech in French that a sexy, young, attractive woman confessed that she was falling hard for me because of my demeanor, my looks, my intellect, and my basic honesty and integrity, that was enough for me to seriously work on my body and my looks as well as my French. I was busy working on the damned Chinese and neglected several Occidental languages, but no more.

So, I suppose the theme for this fragment of memoir of mine is sensibility, rather, my struggle to be sensible in the face of cruelty and absurdity and farcicality. And I'm happy to report that I'm making some small progress. Like yesterday, I decided to take a high road in my reaction to a lowlife's desperate baiting of me by means of despicable carping and sniping words. The little twit and cheap womanizing twerp just dug his own grave of disgrace by his meandering, incoherent, rambling babbling of nonsense. The reader would look at his words and see clearly for who he has been: a little guy with a little soul with his gargantuan struggle with words to say about little things. One cannot expect big things out of a little guy with a little heart.

Was I bent out of shape because of the stupid behavior of the little twerp? Not really, I was annoyed but not upset. His stupidity annoyed me. I thought he was smarter than me, but it turned out he was more stupid than I was. I was calm today despite all the disappointments. I just kept my mouth shut and read my little handbook on Tibetan Buddhism. I want to get back to dreams. That would be more interesting than pontificating about twits and twerps and assholes, don't you think? Besides having recurring dreams about Laura, I used to dream about Agnes, too. I invariably dreamed that I was looking for her house in a certain neighborhood, but I couldn't find it. If there was ever a dream that was gravid with Freudian undertone of unattainment, this was it. And yet it took me more than 10 years to realize so. Once I did, I stopped dreaming about. Apart from the usual dreams about having vehicles stolen or showing up for exams without having done any acts preparation, there were two other dreams which used to occur with some regularity, but not anymore. I used to have dreams of extreme violence, some of them were so graphic and real that when I woke up, I had to wreck my brain to make sure I didn't actually commit all those acts. The other dream category was very odd. I would dream that I was naked on the streets and was very embarrassed to find myself in such a state. I would always woke up and was relieved that I was merely dreaming. I am 62 now (as of 2011), and so far I have had 8 dreams that involved sex, one of which was about sexual intercourse, with a real sensation that intromission did take place. The fact that I rarely had dreams about sex says a lot about me. When I was in my late teens and early 2o!2, I used to dream that I was trapped in elevators or had to walk through fields of excrement or got lost in some kind of building.

When I was 21, I got my first bachelor degree. A year later, I got another one. I also managed to get a scholarship to study overseas for a graduate education in Public Adminstration. The subject matter was excruciatingly boring. I spent most of my time reading magazines and novels and journals of psychology and books of history and philosophy. I was doing my Ph. D. when Saigon fell to the communists. I had an opportunity to get to the U.S. so I married a vixen. Once an asshole asked me how I got to America. I told him the facts involved. There was no need to lie. But the fucking bastard later used that to claim that I don't really love Vietnam because I didn't return to Vietnam but went straight to America. He taught me what evil was like. Well, I am a firm believer in karma. That's why I've tried to stay on the right path. I am even trying not to hold evil thoughts in my head. Indifference is bad enough. I meditate on the nature of misfortune everyday. It's not so much what happens as to how we react to what happens. Curb desire. Be loving, unselfish, and peaceful. I am a late bloomer. I discovered the virtues of nonviolence, gentleness, and forgiveness very late in life. I even backslide occasionally, but I am committed to higher impulses now. I even try to stay sway from greed because I know it's source for suffering. I've seen that happen to so many people. I try to think what Siddartha would do if he were in my shoes. I try to think about private sins and public humiliation. One leads to the other. I try to stay from women who offer themselves to me. I don't have much money or power, so those women would be only delusional. I wonder if they really love me and rake care if me willingly if I'm disabled or mentally incapacitated. I ask myself if they really know what love means or they are just after my body and the little money I still have. That was why I turned down that French woman's declaration of affection. I was flattered, but I didn't really believe her. I thought she dramatized her feelings. If she really cares about me, she will come back. Real love is impossible to walk away. I know. Trust me, I know. It took me almost 35 years to get rid of Laura in my mind. Even so and even then, I sometimes wonder. The long and short test about love is unselfishness and sharing, especially money. It's very simple and reliable. All other tests and measures are just excuses and talks. Once again, I should know what I talk about. I've been victimized so many times. That's why I'm working my ass off to save money for rainy day because I've a distinct feeling that I'm one of the most lonely persons in this world, despite all the women who are interested in jumping into the sack with me. Thrice bitten, forever shy. I've to go back to sleep. Lack of sleep makes me maudlin and feel sorry for myself. The secret and not so secret wish to be loved makes us weak and dream of the impossible. Be strong and firm and realistic. That's what I tell myself everyday when I wake up. I feel line crying right bow. I am so sentimental.

(cont.)