Then she said it was already way too late. You quickly agreed and promptly clicked off your cell phone, without giving her a fucking chance to mumble a lie or an excuse.You established at the very outset who was the boss and that you didn't need a haughty pussy like her to be your friend. You understood then why some guys had to beat up on their women occasionally just to keep them in line. From bitter experiences, you knew you could not just tolerate bossy, pushy women. There was a silver-haired woman who took a shine on you, but the fucking bitch started acting in an uppity manner once you showed that you were a caring, considerate gentleman. You then dropped her like a sack of rotten potatoes and just ignored her completely when you saw her. The fucking bitch didn't have the decency to return a book she borrowed from you. What an asshole! You just don't know what animals you run into. Another bitch just didn't understand you at all even though you poured your heart out and exposed your soul. Some humans can be really stupid. They also have a tendency and a gall to think they are "somebodies" while in fact they are fucking no good "nobodies" who are much better off dropping dead. The fact is that most humans are animals and they are better off dropping dead like being struck by a new plague.
Read every word of your recent stories. Realities speak to us loud and clear everyday. It's our ego that stands in the way. It's not just empty braggadocio or rank madness that you think you are a very good philosopher. You were endowed with a courage to see realities for what they are. That's why you despise scumbags the fraternal twins Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum, The Horse Asshole, the hypocrites and cowards in Wellington, D.C, and Saigon. These animals have no intellectual and emotional courage at all. Owing to briefly interacting with assholes like them, did you realize most humans, when stripped bare of the veneer of pretenses, are really horrible animals. Now you see them not in human terms, but only in terms of motherfucking barnyard animals.
Because of your vanity, ego, and passion, you have let several stupid and ignorant but power-hungry assert their delusional, their mother-fucking, "authority" and "power" over you. No more of that bullshit from now on. You write because you want and have to, not because you want ignorant, untalented assholes and scumbags to be impressed with and in awe of you. They are are too stupid to know any better. They are animals, remember?
You look good and powerful these days. The exercises and the resulting trim physique and the sufficient sleep make your complexion a shining, alert one. But you feel much less than powerful. A weary wariness is eating at your heart, a result of five broken marriages to sick, pathetic women. You no longer have a wandering eye, a quick wit, nor a itchy, ravenous crotch. Nowadays you feel like a crown king of lonesome, quiet, scorching solitude in the desert sun without a protective hat. Look into your heart, people, especially women, will find a scarred, wasteland of hurts and sorrows. And yet, you refuse to kill yourself. This life, this world, the clean desert air you breathe; the sick, demented, greedy, walking wounded ghosts of gamblers with vacant eyes and sallow complexion around you; the young women with asses and tits half falling out of their skimpy attires marching up and down the Strip of all hours; the flashing neon lights advertising shows and drinks and implicit availability of sex; this bright hell on earth. All of these make your existence in their mist a fascinating school for experience. You learn all bad things about the human species and you have become wiser and stronger. You learned one thing about bad humans. They are like broken traffic lights. You have to drive through, no hesitation and no mercy, but of course you need to look out for signs of trouble from the left and the right before you barrel through.
(To be continued)
Sunday, April 28, 2013
Saturday, April 27, 2013
Stories of Your Life
Stories of Your Life
There is a certain point in life you try to make sense of your life, asking yourself if the direction you're heading is really the one you have wanted all along or you are just a like a fucking fluff of cloud in the sky, wandering aimlessly, depending on the chancy meteorological forces and then poof--you are no more, you either evaporate or condense into water and fall down to earth, anonymously.
"The stories" you have been writing are your way to navigate through the remaining hurricanes of your life. They have a life of their own, strangely enough. Words come out of nowhere, that is to say, from dark, remote recesses of your mind and of others, arrive in a frenzy, and demand to be written down, decorum and common sense be damned.
There were many violent storms and hurricanes in your life. Back in 2005, as the Hurricane Katrina was forming and foaming out in the Gulf Of Mexico, you were playing poker at the Grand Casino, the best action in Biloxi, MS. It was late at night. Only the diehards and hard losers were still waging war at one another through casino chips. You were losing big and trying to recoup your losses. You were on edge and belligerent. You got into a verbal altercation with a much younger and bigger fellow who happened also to be a redneck and had bad teeth, bad breath, and a bad haircut. He asked you to step outside. You backed down. You profusely apologized. The asshole glared at you, saying "Chicken-hearted Chink!" You were behind $1,650. You had a headache. You couldn't breathe easily. You were almost out of breath; you felt suffocated. So you got up and said to him, "Sorry, man." He snorted with contempt, " Coward!". You felt hot and speechless. Conflicting thoughts were flying through your ears as you walked to the cashier window to cash your pathetic, dwindled stack of chips. Your heart was racing as you walked to the garage. You got in your Maxima and drove out of the garage, parked it in the adjoining uncovered parking lot, facing the garage exit, breathing hard.
Finally, about an hour later, a stupid dark blue Ford 150 noisily exited out of the garage and got into Beach Boulevard heading west. You tailed it. You didn't forget the stupid pick-up truck. The week prior, it almost ran over you as you were walking to the garage elevator, the driver screamed at you, "Stupid Chink!" as he zoomed by.
The red neck drove fast and furiously for about two miles and then stopped in front of one of the run-down houses on Magnolia Street, west of the beach, where humongous, ancient magnolia trees stood in front of most houses. You parked a comfortable distance behind the Ford. You called out to him as he was walking up the steps to the door, "Sir, I am lost. Would you help me with the directions?" He walked back towards you, looking puzzled and annoyed. Then he recognized you. He strode briskly to you and bellowed, "It was you, what's the fuck you want again?" He was inches from you. You could smell beer on his breath and a strong body odor.
Wordlessly (there was no longer any need for words), you shot him two times in succession in the chest, and then two more in the head as he collapsed on the curb. You didn't need to get out of your car. All the shells were ejected inside. Then you drove away slowly, and kept looking for any signs of trouble in the rear mirror, especially in the form of flashing lights and stricken sirens. None came. Most of Biloxi inhabitants already left for inland up north. Probably none stayed behind on that street as it was only a block away from the beach.
You drove to the self-served car wash place and washed your Maxima thoroughly, twice, especially the left panels. You then drove to your apartment which was two blocks from the beach, gathered your things which consisted only of books, clothes, and cooking utensils and dishes. You lived a life of simplicity. The whole process took less than 30 minutes. You drove straight, nonstop, stopping only for gas and bathroom breaks, to Tunica, to avoid the hurricane and the scene of crime. Interstate 55 North was heavy with traffic, even at late hours.
The hurricane came less than 24 hours later, wiping out your apartment, along with what was on the coast and a mile inland, and you supposed also the redneck's corpse which became fish food. There were so many deaths and destructions and floating corpses that cops wouldn't give a damn. It was tough enough to haul away the debris and bury or incinerate dead bodies
The casinos in Biloxi which were all located on the beach were thoroughly damaged. Players didn't start to come back until two years later when they were rebuilt and refurbished. Nobody would remember him nor you. You hoped so. You went back and played the other day. You tempted fate. You recognized nobody in the Beau Rivage Casino, the grandest of all.
Killing the redneck asshole was not your first. Nor was it your last. Killing was not that difficult. It is living with the aftermath that poses all kinds of problems, least of which is what commonly called conscience. The problems involve having detailed, convincing alibis and arguments and acting skills. All the people who died at your hand deserved it. You would kill them again, in a heart's beat. No hesitation. Most humans are scum, if people bother to ask your opinion. They are really animals, not fit to live. And you are an avenging angel. They don't know whom they're messing with, when they mess with you. You have become taciturn and laconic in speech, and highly observant, as the circumstances require. There is no loyalty, no trust, no need to unburden yourself and open your heart to anybody. So why the fuck are you indulging in this stupid narrative? Ah, all these words are just a fictional device. You are not that dumb to go for self-entrapment and self-confession to get things off your chest. You are not that stupid and weak-minded.
You were so at one time when you were young and green and thought love was feasible between a man and a woman, even with the disparity in family backgrounds and incomes. You met her when you were a lad of eighteen, four months shy of 19th birthday. She didn't even have an attractive face. What she had were a nice body, intelligence, and a nice heart (or so you thought). In the third year of the relationship, you decided to love her and that was a wrong decision. It caused you pain and sorrow for over 30 years until you got wised up in a gorgeous Sunday morning and recognized your folly and her unworthiness of your enduring affection and affliction. She set into motion a process that you called a search for love. During the long search you realized that love was a voluntary process and you fell victim to it. Many times. You were an impractical fool. As humans we all want to be loved, but in looking back of your life, you think in all honesty that only two women really loved you because only they didn't want money from you. They gave you money instead and refused to take money from you, even in the form of provisions in a will. People laugh at and make fun of money, but it is a fucking damn good indicator of love. As you got to the twilight of your life, it occurred to you that Love was just a story, told by a narrator with many voices and disguises. He now counsels you as follows:
"Dear friend of mine
Don't overburden your mind
Consider love is just a bon voyage
But don't forget to bring along a spatula
You may meet somebody into SM
And afterwards, you won't be the same.
Life is about discovery, growth, and transformation
Be ready for moments of elation and jubilation
Enjoy life
Don't cry too much
Life is short
At any given moment you may die"
Poker is just a little story to measure your courage, self-discipline, mental toughness, understanding of the human mind, and money management. And Love is just an affliction of yours. But Poetry and Philosophy determine and reflect who you are.
You were not a natural "poet". You came to it very late, but the seeds were planted at an early age. You had known all along you had poetic sensibilities and artistic inclinations. You studied poetry at school. You were required to "analyze" poems written in a foreign language. You struggled with rhyme schemes and meters. You developed an awareness of rhythm, however. Still, you didn't write anything the day she went away and many years after that. Only when you recovered from the affliction did you start putting words together in your first foreign language, and then occasionally in your second and third foreign languages. Now and then, a thing of beauty is born and you feel good and relieved and superior to scumbags and assholes and assorted clumps of clay. Strangely enough, you rarely write in your mother tongue. You were no Rimbaud who was very precocious in poetry and was also excellent in Latin even as a kid. But when Rimbaud became a gun runner, he stopped writing poetry. He was a honest man. You are not a gun runner, but you are a myth killer and a poker aficionado, and you still write poetry.
You may be a mediocre poker player, a fool in love, and an insignificant "poet", but you regard yourself a very good philosopher. It was philosophy that made you think you were superior to about 98% of the human race. You came to philosophy when you were a young lad of 15, wondering if you should kill yourself as your life was filled with pains and uncertainties and then you would die. You saw no point in suffering when you had to die anyway. You thought it didn't matter if you died at 15 or at 95. The key thing that you would die. Death was your starting point of inquiry. Some asshole opined that life has meaning because of death. You violently disagree with that assessment. Life is nonsensical because of death. Most humans are stupid; they invert causal relationships. They "think" or are led to believe that God created Man in His own image while it is Man who created God in his image. Most humans are always in the self-projection mode when they "think". They lack empathy and imagination. They "think" whatever is "true" to them, must also be true to others. About Life and Meaning and Death, they "think" that Death renders meaning to Life while you think Life by itself has no fucking meaning. It just is. It is there. It is the most obvious and animate and kinetic embodiment of Energy (other embodiments of Energy: fossil fuels, elements like uranium and plutonium, solar radiation, waterfalls, tidal waves, winds. All around us and including us are manifestations and embodiments of various stages of Energy. The Universe is Energy). Lower forms of life just exist and their behavioral patterns are driven by instincts and some learning. Most humans behave the same way. Only a few humans who are exceptionally smart and sensitive are bothered by existential questions. And these few humans all arrive at an inescapable truth: it is Man who ascribes Meaning to Life so that he thinks his puny, short life has meaning and purpose. Thus, he plans and sets up goals. And he cares about legacies because of his vanity even though he knows he won't be around to enjoy the nice feelings that associate with legacies. Mediocre humans only have their children as their legacies.
Anyway, eventually you didn't go through with the idea of terminating your life at 15 because you didn't want to hurt your mother whom you loved dearly and who was so proud of you and who had often expressed her desire that she would like to live with you in her old age. It was love for and responsibility to your mother that carried you through life. And you turned to philosophy for understanding and inspiration. You learned to reason and respect logic. Now you realize most humans are philosophical cowards and ignoramuses. They cannot admit their errors and their ignorance. They lie to themselves and others. They are scum and they don't deserve to live. So whenever you learn of something bad happened to them or their loved ones, you are happy and you go to a bar, having a beer or two and silently celebrate. You have what the Germans call Schadenfreude. Pious folks think Schadenfreude is despicable, but it helps humans pass through many sleepless nights and makes murder and killing and torture less frequent than they should. It is inexpensive, readily generated and available, and instantly comforting and cooling to the feverish, febrile, burning, boiling, raging passions. It is an emotional, hence social, safety valve.
The human heart is something to behold. Don't inflame it. Despite all the glib and easy talk about Love and how powerful it is, it is Hate that energizes humans, no matter how corrosive it is to their souls.
To get people to see who they really are is the most difficult thing to do because they tend to over-inflate their worth and are blind about themselves. Luckily for you, you have no such problems because of your training in philosophy and of your being endowed with intellectual and emotional courage.
Everyday is great because it's a day you didn't have before and a day you won't have again.
We all have our private truths which often clash with common wisdom. Well, fuck common wisdom, you must believe in yourself.
Respect means to accept people for what they are. So, you suppose you don't respect those you name as midget ignoramuses and stupid, ugly scumbags because they incarnate traits you despise in humans.
So these are your stories. They are not pretty, but they are yours, and they are all you have. They constitute a personhood that is you. And you have learned to accept who you are, warts and all. You are far from perfect and beautiful, but in your mind and that's what matters, you have an honesty of intellect, a quivering heart that can occasionally come up with certain sublime lines of poetry, and a sense of fairness. And you still like yourself enough so you don't feel a need to stick a gun into your mouth and blow yourself to that point of infinity.
Wissai
April 27, 2013
There is a certain point in life you try to make sense of your life, asking yourself if the direction you're heading is really the one you have wanted all along or you are just a like a fucking fluff of cloud in the sky, wandering aimlessly, depending on the chancy meteorological forces and then poof--you are no more, you either evaporate or condense into water and fall down to earth, anonymously.
"The stories" you have been writing are your way to navigate through the remaining hurricanes of your life. They have a life of their own, strangely enough. Words come out of nowhere, that is to say, from dark, remote recesses of your mind and of others, arrive in a frenzy, and demand to be written down, decorum and common sense be damned.
There were many violent storms and hurricanes in your life. Back in 2005, as the Hurricane Katrina was forming and foaming out in the Gulf Of Mexico, you were playing poker at the Grand Casino, the best action in Biloxi, MS. It was late at night. Only the diehards and hard losers were still waging war at one another through casino chips. You were losing big and trying to recoup your losses. You were on edge and belligerent. You got into a verbal altercation with a much younger and bigger fellow who happened also to be a redneck and had bad teeth, bad breath, and a bad haircut. He asked you to step outside. You backed down. You profusely apologized. The asshole glared at you, saying "Chicken-hearted Chink!" You were behind $1,650. You had a headache. You couldn't breathe easily. You were almost out of breath; you felt suffocated. So you got up and said to him, "Sorry, man." He snorted with contempt, " Coward!". You felt hot and speechless. Conflicting thoughts were flying through your ears as you walked to the cashier window to cash your pathetic, dwindled stack of chips. Your heart was racing as you walked to the garage. You got in your Maxima and drove out of the garage, parked it in the adjoining uncovered parking lot, facing the garage exit, breathing hard.
Finally, about an hour later, a stupid dark blue Ford 150 noisily exited out of the garage and got into Beach Boulevard heading west. You tailed it. You didn't forget the stupid pick-up truck. The week prior, it almost ran over you as you were walking to the garage elevator, the driver screamed at you, "Stupid Chink!" as he zoomed by.
The red neck drove fast and furiously for about two miles and then stopped in front of one of the run-down houses on Magnolia Street, west of the beach, where humongous, ancient magnolia trees stood in front of most houses. You parked a comfortable distance behind the Ford. You called out to him as he was walking up the steps to the door, "Sir, I am lost. Would you help me with the directions?" He walked back towards you, looking puzzled and annoyed. Then he recognized you. He strode briskly to you and bellowed, "It was you, what's the fuck you want again?" He was inches from you. You could smell beer on his breath and a strong body odor.
Wordlessly (there was no longer any need for words), you shot him two times in succession in the chest, and then two more in the head as he collapsed on the curb. You didn't need to get out of your car. All the shells were ejected inside. Then you drove away slowly, and kept looking for any signs of trouble in the rear mirror, especially in the form of flashing lights and stricken sirens. None came. Most of Biloxi inhabitants already left for inland up north. Probably none stayed behind on that street as it was only a block away from the beach.
You drove to the self-served car wash place and washed your Maxima thoroughly, twice, especially the left panels. You then drove to your apartment which was two blocks from the beach, gathered your things which consisted only of books, clothes, and cooking utensils and dishes. You lived a life of simplicity. The whole process took less than 30 minutes. You drove straight, nonstop, stopping only for gas and bathroom breaks, to Tunica, to avoid the hurricane and the scene of crime. Interstate 55 North was heavy with traffic, even at late hours.
The hurricane came less than 24 hours later, wiping out your apartment, along with what was on the coast and a mile inland, and you supposed also the redneck's corpse which became fish food. There were so many deaths and destructions and floating corpses that cops wouldn't give a damn. It was tough enough to haul away the debris and bury or incinerate dead bodies
The casinos in Biloxi which were all located on the beach were thoroughly damaged. Players didn't start to come back until two years later when they were rebuilt and refurbished. Nobody would remember him nor you. You hoped so. You went back and played the other day. You tempted fate. You recognized nobody in the Beau Rivage Casino, the grandest of all.
Killing the redneck asshole was not your first. Nor was it your last. Killing was not that difficult. It is living with the aftermath that poses all kinds of problems, least of which is what commonly called conscience. The problems involve having detailed, convincing alibis and arguments and acting skills. All the people who died at your hand deserved it. You would kill them again, in a heart's beat. No hesitation. Most humans are scum, if people bother to ask your opinion. They are really animals, not fit to live. And you are an avenging angel. They don't know whom they're messing with, when they mess with you. You have become taciturn and laconic in speech, and highly observant, as the circumstances require. There is no loyalty, no trust, no need to unburden yourself and open your heart to anybody. So why the fuck are you indulging in this stupid narrative? Ah, all these words are just a fictional device. You are not that dumb to go for self-entrapment and self-confession to get things off your chest. You are not that stupid and weak-minded.
You were so at one time when you were young and green and thought love was feasible between a man and a woman, even with the disparity in family backgrounds and incomes. You met her when you were a lad of eighteen, four months shy of 19th birthday. She didn't even have an attractive face. What she had were a nice body, intelligence, and a nice heart (or so you thought). In the third year of the relationship, you decided to love her and that was a wrong decision. It caused you pain and sorrow for over 30 years until you got wised up in a gorgeous Sunday morning and recognized your folly and her unworthiness of your enduring affection and affliction. She set into motion a process that you called a search for love. During the long search you realized that love was a voluntary process and you fell victim to it. Many times. You were an impractical fool. As humans we all want to be loved, but in looking back of your life, you think in all honesty that only two women really loved you because only they didn't want money from you. They gave you money instead and refused to take money from you, even in the form of provisions in a will. People laugh at and make fun of money, but it is a fucking damn good indicator of love. As you got to the twilight of your life, it occurred to you that Love was just a story, told by a narrator with many voices and disguises. He now counsels you as follows:
"Dear friend of mine
Don't overburden your mind
Consider love is just a bon voyage
But don't forget to bring along a spatula
You may meet somebody into SM
And afterwards, you won't be the same.
Life is about discovery, growth, and transformation
Be ready for moments of elation and jubilation
Enjoy life
Don't cry too much
Life is short
At any given moment you may die"
Poker is just a little story to measure your courage, self-discipline, mental toughness, understanding of the human mind, and money management. And Love is just an affliction of yours. But Poetry and Philosophy determine and reflect who you are.
You were not a natural "poet". You came to it very late, but the seeds were planted at an early age. You had known all along you had poetic sensibilities and artistic inclinations. You studied poetry at school. You were required to "analyze" poems written in a foreign language. You struggled with rhyme schemes and meters. You developed an awareness of rhythm, however. Still, you didn't write anything the day she went away and many years after that. Only when you recovered from the affliction did you start putting words together in your first foreign language, and then occasionally in your second and third foreign languages. Now and then, a thing of beauty is born and you feel good and relieved and superior to scumbags and assholes and assorted clumps of clay. Strangely enough, you rarely write in your mother tongue. You were no Rimbaud who was very precocious in poetry and was also excellent in Latin even as a kid. But when Rimbaud became a gun runner, he stopped writing poetry. He was a honest man. You are not a gun runner, but you are a myth killer and a poker aficionado, and you still write poetry.
You may be a mediocre poker player, a fool in love, and an insignificant "poet", but you regard yourself a very good philosopher. It was philosophy that made you think you were superior to about 98% of the human race. You came to philosophy when you were a young lad of 15, wondering if you should kill yourself as your life was filled with pains and uncertainties and then you would die. You saw no point in suffering when you had to die anyway. You thought it didn't matter if you died at 15 or at 95. The key thing that you would die. Death was your starting point of inquiry. Some asshole opined that life has meaning because of death. You violently disagree with that assessment. Life is nonsensical because of death. Most humans are stupid; they invert causal relationships. They "think" or are led to believe that God created Man in His own image while it is Man who created God in his image. Most humans are always in the self-projection mode when they "think". They lack empathy and imagination. They "think" whatever is "true" to them, must also be true to others. About Life and Meaning and Death, they "think" that Death renders meaning to Life while you think Life by itself has no fucking meaning. It just is. It is there. It is the most obvious and animate and kinetic embodiment of Energy (other embodiments of Energy: fossil fuels, elements like uranium and plutonium, solar radiation, waterfalls, tidal waves, winds. All around us and including us are manifestations and embodiments of various stages of Energy. The Universe is Energy). Lower forms of life just exist and their behavioral patterns are driven by instincts and some learning. Most humans behave the same way. Only a few humans who are exceptionally smart and sensitive are bothered by existential questions. And these few humans all arrive at an inescapable truth: it is Man who ascribes Meaning to Life so that he thinks his puny, short life has meaning and purpose. Thus, he plans and sets up goals. And he cares about legacies because of his vanity even though he knows he won't be around to enjoy the nice feelings that associate with legacies. Mediocre humans only have their children as their legacies.
Anyway, eventually you didn't go through with the idea of terminating your life at 15 because you didn't want to hurt your mother whom you loved dearly and who was so proud of you and who had often expressed her desire that she would like to live with you in her old age. It was love for and responsibility to your mother that carried you through life. And you turned to philosophy for understanding and inspiration. You learned to reason and respect logic. Now you realize most humans are philosophical cowards and ignoramuses. They cannot admit their errors and their ignorance. They lie to themselves and others. They are scum and they don't deserve to live. So whenever you learn of something bad happened to them or their loved ones, you are happy and you go to a bar, having a beer or two and silently celebrate. You have what the Germans call Schadenfreude. Pious folks think Schadenfreude is despicable, but it helps humans pass through many sleepless nights and makes murder and killing and torture less frequent than they should. It is inexpensive, readily generated and available, and instantly comforting and cooling to the feverish, febrile, burning, boiling, raging passions. It is an emotional, hence social, safety valve.
The human heart is something to behold. Don't inflame it. Despite all the glib and easy talk about Love and how powerful it is, it is Hate that energizes humans, no matter how corrosive it is to their souls.
To get people to see who they really are is the most difficult thing to do because they tend to over-inflate their worth and are blind about themselves. Luckily for you, you have no such problems because of your training in philosophy and of your being endowed with intellectual and emotional courage.
Everyday is great because it's a day you didn't have before and a day you won't have again.
We all have our private truths which often clash with common wisdom. Well, fuck common wisdom, you must believe in yourself.
Respect means to accept people for what they are. So, you suppose you don't respect those you name as midget ignoramuses and stupid, ugly scumbags because they incarnate traits you despise in humans.
So these are your stories. They are not pretty, but they are yours, and they are all you have. They constitute a personhood that is you. And you have learned to accept who you are, warts and all. You are far from perfect and beautiful, but in your mind and that's what matters, you have an honesty of intellect, a quivering heart that can occasionally come up with certain sublime lines of poetry, and a sense of fairness. And you still like yourself enough so you don't feel a need to stick a gun into your mouth and blow yourself to that point of infinity.
Wissai
April 27, 2013
Thursday, April 25, 2013
Be careful of where you're going
Be careful of where you're going
Have you heard of the Chinese proverb, the one that says, "if you continue the road you're on, you will get to where you're headed."? I suppose it's the same as we in the West say, "be careful what you wish for because you may get it." Voilà, we have here an indisputable case of East meets West, don't you think? Say, "yes, yes, yes."
See, it wasn't so difficult to say so, was it?
I have written about me and you in "story" after "story", "essay" after "essay". The tone is sad, bleak, dreary, negative, and depressing. There are no cheerful notes. In my writings, people are nasty, brutish, and ugly. They are vain, ignorant, and dumb. The way I look at the human species, there are only three groupings: the ones who lie to others, the ones who lie to others and to themselves, and the ones who realize the first two are not quite human and in fact should be lumped together with the lower animals.
Of course, I regarded myself as a member of the third grouping. I also happened to think that to see things in full light one had to live through darkness first. So I haunted the libraries, walked the streets, made friends with the homeless and that was among whom I met her, standing in line for free coffee and donuts in one frigid early January morning in front of the Catholic Mission on Washington Street in North Las Vegas.
She was white, but everything on her was black. The hair, the hat, the scarf, the coat, the jeans, the purse, the shoes. She stood out in white blinding sunshine of winter morning in the long line of drab, gray, brown, motley crowd. I stood behind her. She was reading a book. Curious, I asked her what she was reading. Silently and with a touch of disdain, she showed me the book's cover. It was "Ecce Homo" in English translation, a work I had read several times, and I told her so. And we started talking.
-Why's a nice lady like you being here?
-First, how do you know I am nice? Second, my standing here is none of your business. You're my father or something? What's about you? You don't look homeless and desperate for handouts. Why are you here?
-Wow, touche' and touchy at the same time. Very good (from experience, you must soften them first with flattery. All women, especially the young ones, think that they're both tough and sensitive, that they're bitches with a heart). Lady, I just make conversation. It's not everyday occurrence that I run into a sharply dressed, nice looking young lady with a liking for Nietzsche, standing in line in front of the Mission. I just feel excited and gloriously happy that I met you. You are right. I am not homeless, at least not yet (I burst out chuckling). I'm here for yes, a free stale donut and a coffee, but also to get a taste of standing in line and observing my brothers struggling with survival and dignify.
-Cut out the crap. You're here for the freebies, and none of the sociological and anthropological bullshit. You're taking away food that belongs to more deserving people. Shame on you! Go away! Get lost!
By that time, several brothers of mine told her to shut up, that she had no right to speak to me like that, that there were plenty of donated stale donouts and cheap coffee for everyone, including her. I told them she was just kidding, testing the boundary, feeling me out. One of them said, "Yeah, honey, I want to feel you, right now!". I quickly inserted myself between her and him, and firmly but gently told him to take things easy. Luckily for me, a security guard showed up and told everyone to behave and keep quiet, otherwise he had to eject the offenders from the line.
I expectedly that she would march out of the line in a huff, but she didn't. She was back to reading her book. I kept my mouth shut, feeling amused. I was not offended by her rudeness. She was angry for some reason, very likely not caused by me. I had not done anything wrong. Not really. I left her alone until we got to the table upon which were placed boxes of donuts and containers of coffee. She took one glazed donut, a coffee with neither sugar nor cream, and coolly proceeded to sit down at a long table to enjoy her breakfast. I came over to the table, gave her a piece of paper, and said, "Excuse me once again, I hate to bother you, but if you change your mind, here's my cell number, I would love to hear from you. You have a good day now. Bye. Very nice meeting you."
I walked into the bright sunshine. My senses were on fire. I was aflame with a clear realization that life was more often than not a series of serendipities and chance occurrences, and I must be ready, unappeasably ready, for them. I couldn't afford to have an emotional shutout; I must not mislay any claim to moral distance. But at all times, however, I must maintain a solid grip on, not a phantasmagorical sense of, reality, as I had seen so many weak-minded folks do. I had a strange and excited feeling that she would call me. Not right away, but she would. At the same time, if she didn't, I still felt happy, momentarily and gloriously happy, simply I ran into her, a reader of Nietzsche. I could not tell you how many times the book she was holding in her hands, and whose words she was taking in, had sustained me and helped me pass through many difficult nights.
I walked two blocks east and got on the bus to take me south to the Strip where most of Vegas' swank casinos are located. Being Saturday, Las Vegas Boulevard's sidewalks were already filled with tourists who looked happy like kids in the Disneyland. Yes, Vegas is the playground for grown-ups to seek fun, excitement, vicarious thrills and adventures via money. Some have the stupid audacity to dream that they may score big and their lives will change for the better. Like moths to flame, people with rocks in their brains and lust in their loins flock to this Mecca of sex, drugs, gambling, foods and drinks, and excellent night clubs and shows.
I walked into Aria Casino, a centerpiece of an avant-garde architectural and allegedly futuristic urban agglomeration of condos, hotels, shopping malls and art galleries. I headed for the poker room, my hunting ground for fun-seeking tourists. These well-heeled folks helped me supplement my income and maintain my middle class cognomen.
Poker attracts all kinds of players who think they are smart and can think. People who like to take risks and love excitement also flock to the game. So at the poker table, a wide range of humanity assemble and duke it out for supremacy. Only the best hand wins. Coming in consistently as second place at showdowns is a financial disaster and a blow to one conception's of oneself. There is no other human adventure where a man's true nature is laid bare for him and others to see. It is an activity where lying to others is acceptable but lying to oneself is disastrous. Poker, properly played and managed, can be a good builder of character, not counting bankroll.
Poker has exerted on the imagination of the public and has its own myths and mythos. It can be played as a recreational game, a gambling pursuit, or as a deadly mind contact sport where honor, fortune or bantrupcy are at stake. It is a social equalizer. At the poker table, the social status doesn't mean diddly shit; neither does money because if one plays poorly in a gambling way without a good grasp of mathematical probability, the nature of luck (good and bad), understanding of the human mind regarding courage, saving face, pain threshold, self-control, and money management, the money would not last and will migrate to those who initially had less money.
I left the poker room about 5 pm, a few hundred dollars more in my wallet than when I came in. As I was heading out to the bus stop to get back to my condo, I experienced a feeling of small triumph and conquest, a slightly drunken state of being a winner, an affirmation of my self-conception that I was indeed better and smarter than most folks who waged a mental contest with me. I knew my place in the world. I was not greedy. I didn't play at the level where the losses would cripple me financially and send me in a downward trajectory to being a permanent street inhabitant. A man must know his limitations and be comfortable as to who he is. It's not so much as who the monkeys and assholes think who I am as who I think I am. I am the one who determines what my reality is, no matter what the fucking yahoos and stupid ignoramuses, the ones who constantly lie to save their ugly faces, "think". Faced with incontrovertible evidence and arguments that they are ignorant and stupid, instead of accepting the facts and truths, they resort to more lyings and cheap insinuations in order to cover up their ignorance and their stupidity. To me, they are fucking and fucked-up animals deserving to be exterminated like vermin. Yet, ironically they talk about and harp on shame and dignity as if they possessed them in abundance. They think the people around them are too stupid to know of their true nature. I have solid reasons to lump those assholes and motherfuckers in the same category of animals. I know how certain individuals in history viewed them---the mental, emotional and intellectual weaklings who fancied that they were humans, who believed in prayers and in a personal "God" who "listened" to their entreaties. As I said before, those who deceive others and themselves are not fit to be considered humans. To be human is to face facts and truths, not to run away from them and then hide behind fictions like God, heaven, afterlife, and reincarnation. To run away from facts and truths is to act like a coward. Acting like a coward is to be a coward. Our actions determine who we are, not what we say who we are. Words mean nothing. Anybody who can speak can say whatever they want. What matters is we must back up our words with concrete actions, not with more words.
The sun was going down as I was waiting for the bus. Wind was picking up. Scraps of torn porn ads fluttered and swirled on the sidewalk near the bus stop. The sky was covered with long stripes of rust, orange and purple in the west. Bright city lights and neon signs were on. The day was cooling rapidly. I felt chilled. I stood up and shuffled my feet and raised my arms up and down to elevate the body heat. I looked ridiculous but I didn't give a fuck. I never cared much for public opinion.
After I got home, I changed into gym clothes and went downstairs to the exercise room in my building. I went through the routine of stretching and weight training for about 30 minutes and then headed to the nearby swimming pool. I swam for about an hour in a leisurely manner, let my mind drift to wherever it wanted to go. I thought of the girl in black, wondering if she would ever call, of the assholes and my plans for them, of the necessity of taciturnity, of my new physique.
When I got back to my condo, I checked the phone and was mildly disappointed that there was no call from her. In fact, there was no call from anybody, not that I received many calls anyway. Apart from my spouse, sisters, and son, nobody else called me except the once-a-month from CVS for anti-cholesterol medicine refill, phone marketers ( I really felt sorry for them. A tough way to make a living. I wondered how constant rejection would affect their psyche), head hunters, escort service recruiters, and late night callers from the Lonely Heart Club.
I didn't go back to the Catholic Mission to check if she would be there. I was prideful. Pride was something I had plenty of. It both hurt and helped me. I had a big ego. I fancied that I was superior to 98% of the humans on this planet, especially when it came to philosophy, thinking, logic, and intellectual courage. So I walked around feeling both superior and humble at the same time. I was a walking contradiction. There were constant wars inside me. There were no integration, no resolution, no harmony, no peace. Only constant churning and chaos. I was a primordial soup of restless creation.
She held out for ten days. By that time, I already gave up on her and started having an eye on the Somalian neighbor who just moved in a few days ago. I normally did not like dark meat, but somehow I was partial to women from Ethiopia and Somalia. To me, these women were attractive for being tall and having finely chiseled facial features and voluptuous bodies.
The call came in exactly at midnight. I almost didn't pick it up. I was asleep. But in the end, curiosity got the better of me after looking at an unfamiliar Vegas number on the cell phone screen. A female voice was on.
-Hi, we met while standing in line for donuts. You gave me your number. You remember?
-Oh, hi there (I had the presence of mind to raise my voice a bit for enthusiasm though I was annoyed at the ungodly hour). Yes, I remember. How are you?
-Not too good. That was why I called. Can you talk?
-Of course! Certainly! (I am trying hard to work up the enthusiasm. There are times you've got to stoop to conquer. Fuck Pride for now. I just have to sleep late to make up for lost time). What's going on?
-I don't know. I need somebody to talk to (Jesus! You have nobody else? Why me? Why at this hour? You must be really sick).
-I'm all ears. What's your name?
-Angie. And yours?
- Roberto is my name. Listening is my game. Shoot!
-I want to tell you I felt bad after you left. I was rude and that was uncalled for.
-That's all right. Don't worry about it. You certainly must have had a bad day.
-Yes, I did. But I shouldn't have taken it out on you. I apologize.
-That's okay. Really. How's the book? Did you finish it?
-Yes, I'm now into "Twilight of the Idols".
-Excellent choice. It and "Ecce Homo" are the more accessible among Nietzshe's works . Now please tell me why you're reading Nietzsche. You must have already read his most famous, "Thus spoke Zarathustra".
-Yes, I have. It is like poetry in prose. Somebody told me to get stronger, I must read Nietzsche.
-Are you getting stronger?
-Yeah, but....
-But what, may I ask?
- A long story.
-You don't have to tell me if you don't want to. We just met.
-Some other time.
-Fine with me (with young women, you shouldn't be pushy, not right away. Good things come to those who wait).
I was not surprised at what she said next. It was not my first rodeo with young women.
-I know it's late (now you're telling me!) Could we continue the conversation another time?
-Sure, whenever you like, Angie. Should I call you or...
-It'd be better if I call, if it's all right with you. Good night.
-Sleep tight. And please take good care of yourself.
Then I clicked off my cell with a smile on my face. I was in the driver's seat. I knew it, but I wondered if she knew it, too. Regardless, it made no difference to me if she called back. I was not smitten by her (she was aggressively rude, not really my cup of tea). It was Nietzsche's book that intrigued me. I soon slept tight, with no noticeable dreams to recall, straight through to the next morning when the sun almost got quite high in the sky as I parted the bedroom window curtain upon waking up. Spring Mountain was to my west, covered with snow in the summit. Downtown was to the left of me. And the south was where planes were landing and taking off into the azure, cloudless winter sky. I loved Vegas in the winter. Cool, crisp, and invigorating during the day. And great sleeping weather at night.
I took the shower, got dressed, then called the poker room at Aria to reserve a seat. I had the feeling I would have another wining session. Life was good. I put the Chinese vocabulary book into my backpack and rode the elevator down to the street level.
In the next four weeks, Angie would call me intermittently at all and odd hours and always at night to discuss Nietzsche, Hemingway, Wolven, philosophy, and literature. She never once asked me to call her. I didn't really care. I liked the game enough to see how it worked out. Besides, nothing delighted me as much as having a youngster who seemed to defer to me when I held court. It was not so much vanity as the all-too-human need to communicate and share my thoughts.
I spoke at length about things and issues and subjects that have bothered me a great deal.
I told her God was a necessary fiction for most people, especially the weak, the ignorant, and the stupid. I pointed out to her the important role of philosophy insofar as truths, knowledge, and values are concerned. Most monkeys and assholes love power, but they fail to see because of their ignorance in matters of philosophy, they let the so-called religious and other thinkers have power over them in making them what and how to think. Values like money, power, fame, prestige, morals, and public opinion don't mean shit to the one who really knows how to think and to live his short alloted life on this planet. That's where Nietzsche comes in handy. The dude had so many insights on so many things and he expressed them in a pithy and concise and yet so poetic way that one couldn't help but be staggered by them. A few examples would be sufficient in illustrating the true power of thoughts:
-It's hard to live with men because silence is difficult. I pointed out to Angie when I was a mere lad of 18, I came across this powerful statement and I always remember it when I run into stupid assholes and ignorant scumbags who ironically love to pontificate on matters they don't have a fucking clue.
-If you look into the abyss long enough, it will look back at you.
-When we figure out the why, we will come up with the how to live.
-The Jews love life. They will sacrifice everything in order to live, including truths. Most, if not everything, they said about God and His special relationship with them were absolute lies and tales of fiction.
-What does not kill me, will make me stronger (everybody heard about this famous insight).
-Don't die before your time. Die a timely death.
I urged her to read short stories written by Hemingway and Scott Wolven where the issue of grace under pressure and the subject of courage and cowardice were examined. I told her we are what we read and then act, not what we say we are. Words, in particular lying words, are cheap and mean nothing. Nobody believes them, except the liars who lie to themselves.
As time went on, she stopped dropping wisecracks to my outpouring of thoughts and feelings. I would even venture a bold observation that she listened spelled bound. The issue of timely death apparently fascinated her. She kept steering our conversations toward the subject. Then out of the blue, lightning struck and thunder boomed. I felt that I had to pose a question: "You are not thinking of killing yourself or somebody, are you?"
She said nothing to my inquiry. She just clicked the phone off. I should have called her back there and then, but I didn't. I was not in love with her. To me, she was just an one-person audience upon whom I unloaded my thoughts which were filling my cranium to the brim.
Then three days later, in another gorgeous, sun-drenched, beautiful winter Saturday morning exactly 6 weeks after we had met, she cheerfully called me up and asked me out on a date that very morning! She had never called me during the day. She asked me where I lived and then told me to be out in front of my building in 45 minutes. "Dress nice, but not too nice," she added.
I put on my black outfit: black jeans and dress black shirt over a black T-shirt, my jade amulet with black chain dangling over the T-shirt, black loafers with black socks. Unsurprisingly, my lady in black arrived in the same outfit I first saw her six weeks prior.
She drove a black Lexus, and stopped abruptly in front of the condo building with a squealing of brakes that made me jump. I approached the car and hardly got in the front passenger seat when she took off like a bat out of hell. I promptly fastened the seat belt, nervous like shit, but trying to be cool. I said, "you must love speed. Are you on speed, my dear". 'Fuck yes! want some?". "Hell no!", I quickly replied. "Where we are going?" "My place". Surprised once more, I looked at her. Despite make-up, she looked rather pale and thinner than before. Didn't I mention she looked in her early 30's and quite attractive? I must also say I loved her dressing in black. She looked stylish, alluring and captivating.
She lived in Turnberry Towers on Karen Avenue, one block east of the Vegas Strip, not far at all from where I lived. I could walk from my place to hers within 45 minutes. Her unit was on the 22nd floor, facing west, affording a breathtaking view of West Vegas. Compared to her unit, mine was cheap.
"Make yourself at home. The drinks are in the fridge. Take whatever you want. Lunch should be in about an hour."
I was normally a chatter box and was not above posing prying questions, but with her I was being discreet and circumspect. The only personal question I had put to her was my wondering regarding her fascination with timely death, which prompted her rude clicking off the phone and staying away from me for three days. Now her sudden turn-around of being extra-friendly should be a perfect excuse for me to make inquiry about her personal life, but I refrained from doing so. I willed myself in maintaining an emotional distance from her and letting her dictate the terms and nature of our relationship. She was a mystery. I normally didn't care for things which were mysterious, but with her I made an exception, maybe I didn't really know what and how she thought of me. I was a married man for a long time even though I had a serial quasi-romantic relationships with women of all ages. My heart was a lonely, sad hunter. Through pains, hurts, and disappointments, I had learned that women were a dangerous, cunning, manipulative, ruthless species and should be approached with utmost care, especially for a person at my age. There was no bigger fool than an old fool.
I didn't take anything out of the fridge. I just took a tour of the condo after asking her if it was okay to do so. She said cheerfully, "Go ahead, sweetie, I told you, 'make yourself at home'".
In the living room, on the credenza there were pictures of her and her parents when she was much younger. On the wall hung two photos of nature: one color of sunset, one black and white of wintry scene. Books and CDs and DVD movies on the bookshelf. Books on sociology, history, and philosophy; CDs heavy on folk rock; movies were actions and thrillers, no comedies. I noticed a bottle of Bordeaux being chilled in a stainless bucket of ice, a small vase of freshly cut red roses, and two silverware settings on the dining table off the kitchen. Sound of bubbling brook wafted from the speakers on the living room wall.
I asked her if I could be of any help in the kitchen. She laughed and told me to relax and that everything was taken care of.
We started with mixed green salad, cucumber, red onions, burgundy olives and roman tomato in oil and red vinegar. Then we proceeded to New York medium rare steak, sautéed in garlic butter, and a side dish of baby carrots and baked potatoes topped with sour cream and chives. I did most of the drinking. We indulged in freshly baked apple à la mode for dessert.
We ate slowly and it was she who did most of the prying. I told her of my vocation (insurance underwriting which elicited a delight from her and a disclosure that she used to be a claims adjuster for Farmers Insurance and her father was a big shot in the company headquarters in Los Angeles. When I asked her what she was doing now, she just wryly smiled and said, "later") and avocation (language learning, poetry, and poker). The subject of poker fascinated her. She wondered if I was a gambler and an addict. I assured her that I was not.
-Angie, I take risks, calculated risks, but I am not a gambler, definitely not. I don't want to be like those homeless guys we saw standing in front of the Mission a few weeks ago.
-But do you make money, though? Enough to be worth your while?
-No, I just make chump change to supplement my income. Poker is an outlet for me to be sociable, meeting people. Besides, it is a good character builder. To win, I must understand the human mind and exercise emotional control over myself.
She then told me she saw me standing at a bus stop one day and wanted to stop and give me a lift, but she didn't because she didn't want to give me a wrong idea. I chuckled and said,
-I dare not have a wrong idea about you or anybody. I know myself and my place in this world. I don't have an inflated sense of self as most assholes and scumbags and motherfuckers I have met in my lousy life.
-Whoa, I touched on a raw nerve, didn't I?
-Not really, I read philosophy and what's the point of acquiring a discipline in thinking and reasoning and ending up being blind as to who I am.
-So, you're saying that you have not been attracted to me?
-No, no, no, I am not saying that, not at all. But be realistic, you are young, very attractive, and apparently a person of means. I am assuming you own this nice condo which easily could fetch mid six figures or higher, even in today's market. I am a late middle-aged man. Some even say I am an old man (which prompted a protest, "No, no, you don't look your age. Not at all. You could easily pass for 50), live in a rented condo, and don't even have a car.
-But you can have a car if you want, right? You can afford one, right?
-Sure, I can, but public transportation in this town is excellent. And if I need to get somewhere for a few days, I just rent a car from Hot Wire Deals at really reasonable rates. I am a simple man and I live a life of simplicity.
-No, you are no simple man.
I helped her with the dishes. Then we retired to the living room and did more talking. She was never married. Nobody would measure up to her father; nobody would be near her father in ability. She then said I looked like her father in several ways: the smile, the laughter, and the intensity of feelings, the passions! She then asked about my spouse and all the women that went through my life with the kind of utmost seriousness that compelled me to answer her inquiries in detail, warts and all. As she was listening to whatever my love life was, she kept saying, "poor Roberto" (Yeah, yeah, yeah, woe was me). Then she complained of being tired and sleepy. I took it as a hint for me to get lost, so I stood up and said thanks for the nice meal and the wonderful time I had. But as I headed to the door, she said, "Please stay." Surprised, I stood in my track, came back to her, "Are you sure?" I breathlessly asked. She stood up from the couch, took my hand, and said, "Definitely! Let's take a nap together." I then told her before I did that, there was one thing I had to do, "What's that? Calling somebody for permission or asking "God" for forgiveness?". "Wrong on both counts. If it's not much a bother, I need to brush my teeth after a meal and I wonder if you have a spare toothbrush."
She slept like a proverbial baby, snugging close to me. I did not. I just closed my eyes and told myself that I was dreaming while listening to her intermittent snoring. We didn't have sex because I was too nervous and mystified. She was certainly sexy enough.
When she woke up, the sun was going down. She went to the bathroom and when she came back, she was bald. Then she said, melodramatically of course, that time for more real talk.
"I'm having cancer. Very serious stuff. It's spreading. I'm tired of the treatment. It makes me sick. It is draining Dad's money, although insurance pays most of the treatment, but what's for? I'm not getting any better. I'm a fighter, but one must be realistic. Stupid stubbornness is for stupid people. I'm not stupid. I want to die, on my own terms. I'm my father's only child, very spoiled. My mother died of the same thing, sixteen years ago. Dad remarried shortly thereafter. I don't care for his wife who's a bitch. I'm sure she's real happy at my dying. She couldn't wait. All the inheritance money due to me would go to her, I suppose, assuming they stay married. Dad loves the bitch, though. I care about you. Thank you so much for listening to me and being patient with me and for sharing your knowledge of Nietzsche, Hemingway, and Wolven with me. The last few weeks had meant a lot to me. I was stronger and less scared and less lonely because of you. I really wish I were not sick. I really wish I had met you sooner. But that's life. Full of ironies. I have money but don't have a long life, and the homeless people have no money and they seem to live forever. I went to the Mission to see, taste and smell the ironies of life. Why did you go there? (" Angie, almost the same reason as you, to appreciate the light, I need to experience darkness). Today is the last time we met. I am going to LA to be near my father. I told him about you. He asked to say hello. Movers will come tomorrow morning. I'm donating almost all my stuff to Goodwill. Please, I have something for you. I want you to keep them as reminders of me. Come!"
She took my hand and let me to the dresser, pulled out a drawer, and took out a box, gift wrapped. Then she said, "let me drive you home" and would not take no for an answer when I told her I could walk. We were both silent during the short drive. She drove much more slowly this time. At the driveway in front of my building, she leaned over and gave me a long strong kiss. She then said, "Be strong, my friend. Take good care of yourself. I love you!" I cried; she did not. And she drove away, without looking back, without pressing the horn. Those were the last words I heard from her.
I staggered inside and rode the elevator up to my unit in stupor and bewilderment. I opened the door and collapsed in the couch in the living room. The Strip was lit up, like a Christmas tree, as usual. Far out west and up high, stars were out in full force. I looked at the box which was now lying next to me. I shook it up. It made some strange, muffled voice. I gasped and tears welled up in my eyes when I opened it. "Ecce Homo" on top, then two bundles of cash, each was tied with a bank sticker saying $10,000, and then all sorts of rings and bracelets. I took out my cell phone and dialed, but she didn't pick it up. I left her a message, "Angie, you're an angel of mine. Thanks so much for caring". I looked at the "Ecce Homo", opened it and on the first page were the words, "To my friend and my teacher. I wish we met sooner. Love, Angie."
Life was full of ironies, all right. First, Harriet. Now, Angie. The only two women, besides my own mother, who really cared about me, both died soon after I met them. Sixteen days after our only date, a letter bearing a postmark from the state of California arrived in the mail. I looked at the return address. It said Roberto Sanchez, 2222 Rodeo Drive, Beverly Hills. I opened the letter.
"Dear Mr. Ngo,
With much sorrow and regret and a broken heart, I thought I should let you know that my daughter was no longer in this world. She talked about you all the time. Thanks for being there for her during the most difficult time of her life. Per her instructions and insistence, attached is the title to her car which has been assigned to you. Please contact me...."
I stopped reading. And my heart stopped feeling lonely. And I felt peace. Somebody cared, at last.
Wissai
April 24, 2013
Postscriptum/Self-Commentary:
I wrote the above "story" in a drunken, dreamy state of mind. The words arrived by themselves, effortlessly, in a rush, like pouring rain in late afternoon during the monsoon season of a country far away where I hailed from or like endless winter snow in upstate Wisconsin during a blizzard where I first settled when I arrived in this wonderful United States of America.
Writing it was therapeutic to me. It set free some, not all, pent-up feelings of anger and homicidal urges. I have anger issue. I have hubris issue. Fuck, I have a lot of issues. I regard myself superior to most, if not all, of the motherfuckers that I hate and about whom I have violent dreams and fantasies. I want to piss on their graves after they die. When bad things happen to them and their loved ones, I go to a bar and silently celebrate their bad lucks. I kill them vicariously in my mind. I regard them as animals deserving to be exterminated like vermin.
The story is of the magical-realistic-fantastic variety. I wanted to prove to the motherfuckers that I am superior to them in the handling of the English language. Certainly they cannot write as I do. Not in a million years. My hatred for them is a fuel that keeps me going. Fuck, fuck them. They are shameless liars and ignorant scumbags. I am so glad that I am not like them.
Have you heard of the Chinese proverb, the one that says, "if you continue the road you're on, you will get to where you're headed."? I suppose it's the same as we in the West say, "be careful what you wish for because you may get it." Voilà, we have here an indisputable case of East meets West, don't you think? Say, "yes, yes, yes."
See, it wasn't so difficult to say so, was it?
I have written about me and you in "story" after "story", "essay" after "essay". The tone is sad, bleak, dreary, negative, and depressing. There are no cheerful notes. In my writings, people are nasty, brutish, and ugly. They are vain, ignorant, and dumb. The way I look at the human species, there are only three groupings: the ones who lie to others, the ones who lie to others and to themselves, and the ones who realize the first two are not quite human and in fact should be lumped together with the lower animals.
Of course, I regarded myself as a member of the third grouping. I also happened to think that to see things in full light one had to live through darkness first. So I haunted the libraries, walked the streets, made friends with the homeless and that was among whom I met her, standing in line for free coffee and donuts in one frigid early January morning in front of the Catholic Mission on Washington Street in North Las Vegas.
She was white, but everything on her was black. The hair, the hat, the scarf, the coat, the jeans, the purse, the shoes. She stood out in white blinding sunshine of winter morning in the long line of drab, gray, brown, motley crowd. I stood behind her. She was reading a book. Curious, I asked her what she was reading. Silently and with a touch of disdain, she showed me the book's cover. It was "Ecce Homo" in English translation, a work I had read several times, and I told her so. And we started talking.
-Why's a nice lady like you being here?
-First, how do you know I am nice? Second, my standing here is none of your business. You're my father or something? What's about you? You don't look homeless and desperate for handouts. Why are you here?
-Wow, touche' and touchy at the same time. Very good (from experience, you must soften them first with flattery. All women, especially the young ones, think that they're both tough and sensitive, that they're bitches with a heart). Lady, I just make conversation. It's not everyday occurrence that I run into a sharply dressed, nice looking young lady with a liking for Nietzsche, standing in line in front of the Mission. I just feel excited and gloriously happy that I met you. You are right. I am not homeless, at least not yet (I burst out chuckling). I'm here for yes, a free stale donut and a coffee, but also to get a taste of standing in line and observing my brothers struggling with survival and dignify.
-Cut out the crap. You're here for the freebies, and none of the sociological and anthropological bullshit. You're taking away food that belongs to more deserving people. Shame on you! Go away! Get lost!
By that time, several brothers of mine told her to shut up, that she had no right to speak to me like that, that there were plenty of donated stale donouts and cheap coffee for everyone, including her. I told them she was just kidding, testing the boundary, feeling me out. One of them said, "Yeah, honey, I want to feel you, right now!". I quickly inserted myself between her and him, and firmly but gently told him to take things easy. Luckily for me, a security guard showed up and told everyone to behave and keep quiet, otherwise he had to eject the offenders from the line.
I expectedly that she would march out of the line in a huff, but she didn't. She was back to reading her book. I kept my mouth shut, feeling amused. I was not offended by her rudeness. She was angry for some reason, very likely not caused by me. I had not done anything wrong. Not really. I left her alone until we got to the table upon which were placed boxes of donuts and containers of coffee. She took one glazed donut, a coffee with neither sugar nor cream, and coolly proceeded to sit down at a long table to enjoy her breakfast. I came over to the table, gave her a piece of paper, and said, "Excuse me once again, I hate to bother you, but if you change your mind, here's my cell number, I would love to hear from you. You have a good day now. Bye. Very nice meeting you."
I walked into the bright sunshine. My senses were on fire. I was aflame with a clear realization that life was more often than not a series of serendipities and chance occurrences, and I must be ready, unappeasably ready, for them. I couldn't afford to have an emotional shutout; I must not mislay any claim to moral distance. But at all times, however, I must maintain a solid grip on, not a phantasmagorical sense of, reality, as I had seen so many weak-minded folks do. I had a strange and excited feeling that she would call me. Not right away, but she would. At the same time, if she didn't, I still felt happy, momentarily and gloriously happy, simply I ran into her, a reader of Nietzsche. I could not tell you how many times the book she was holding in her hands, and whose words she was taking in, had sustained me and helped me pass through many difficult nights.
I walked two blocks east and got on the bus to take me south to the Strip where most of Vegas' swank casinos are located. Being Saturday, Las Vegas Boulevard's sidewalks were already filled with tourists who looked happy like kids in the Disneyland. Yes, Vegas is the playground for grown-ups to seek fun, excitement, vicarious thrills and adventures via money. Some have the stupid audacity to dream that they may score big and their lives will change for the better. Like moths to flame, people with rocks in their brains and lust in their loins flock to this Mecca of sex, drugs, gambling, foods and drinks, and excellent night clubs and shows.
I walked into Aria Casino, a centerpiece of an avant-garde architectural and allegedly futuristic urban agglomeration of condos, hotels, shopping malls and art galleries. I headed for the poker room, my hunting ground for fun-seeking tourists. These well-heeled folks helped me supplement my income and maintain my middle class cognomen.
Poker attracts all kinds of players who think they are smart and can think. People who like to take risks and love excitement also flock to the game. So at the poker table, a wide range of humanity assemble and duke it out for supremacy. Only the best hand wins. Coming in consistently as second place at showdowns is a financial disaster and a blow to one conception's of oneself. There is no other human adventure where a man's true nature is laid bare for him and others to see. It is an activity where lying to others is acceptable but lying to oneself is disastrous. Poker, properly played and managed, can be a good builder of character, not counting bankroll.
Poker has exerted on the imagination of the public and has its own myths and mythos. It can be played as a recreational game, a gambling pursuit, or as a deadly mind contact sport where honor, fortune or bantrupcy are at stake. It is a social equalizer. At the poker table, the social status doesn't mean diddly shit; neither does money because if one plays poorly in a gambling way without a good grasp of mathematical probability, the nature of luck (good and bad), understanding of the human mind regarding courage, saving face, pain threshold, self-control, and money management, the money would not last and will migrate to those who initially had less money.
I left the poker room about 5 pm, a few hundred dollars more in my wallet than when I came in. As I was heading out to the bus stop to get back to my condo, I experienced a feeling of small triumph and conquest, a slightly drunken state of being a winner, an affirmation of my self-conception that I was indeed better and smarter than most folks who waged a mental contest with me. I knew my place in the world. I was not greedy. I didn't play at the level where the losses would cripple me financially and send me in a downward trajectory to being a permanent street inhabitant. A man must know his limitations and be comfortable as to who he is. It's not so much as who the monkeys and assholes think who I am as who I think I am. I am the one who determines what my reality is, no matter what the fucking yahoos and stupid ignoramuses, the ones who constantly lie to save their ugly faces, "think". Faced with incontrovertible evidence and arguments that they are ignorant and stupid, instead of accepting the facts and truths, they resort to more lyings and cheap insinuations in order to cover up their ignorance and their stupidity. To me, they are fucking and fucked-up animals deserving to be exterminated like vermin. Yet, ironically they talk about and harp on shame and dignity as if they possessed them in abundance. They think the people around them are too stupid to know of their true nature. I have solid reasons to lump those assholes and motherfuckers in the same category of animals. I know how certain individuals in history viewed them---the mental, emotional and intellectual weaklings who fancied that they were humans, who believed in prayers and in a personal "God" who "listened" to their entreaties. As I said before, those who deceive others and themselves are not fit to be considered humans. To be human is to face facts and truths, not to run away from them and then hide behind fictions like God, heaven, afterlife, and reincarnation. To run away from facts and truths is to act like a coward. Acting like a coward is to be a coward. Our actions determine who we are, not what we say who we are. Words mean nothing. Anybody who can speak can say whatever they want. What matters is we must back up our words with concrete actions, not with more words.
The sun was going down as I was waiting for the bus. Wind was picking up. Scraps of torn porn ads fluttered and swirled on the sidewalk near the bus stop. The sky was covered with long stripes of rust, orange and purple in the west. Bright city lights and neon signs were on. The day was cooling rapidly. I felt chilled. I stood up and shuffled my feet and raised my arms up and down to elevate the body heat. I looked ridiculous but I didn't give a fuck. I never cared much for public opinion.
After I got home, I changed into gym clothes and went downstairs to the exercise room in my building. I went through the routine of stretching and weight training for about 30 minutes and then headed to the nearby swimming pool. I swam for about an hour in a leisurely manner, let my mind drift to wherever it wanted to go. I thought of the girl in black, wondering if she would ever call, of the assholes and my plans for them, of the necessity of taciturnity, of my new physique.
When I got back to my condo, I checked the phone and was mildly disappointed that there was no call from her. In fact, there was no call from anybody, not that I received many calls anyway. Apart from my spouse, sisters, and son, nobody else called me except the once-a-month from CVS for anti-cholesterol medicine refill, phone marketers ( I really felt sorry for them. A tough way to make a living. I wondered how constant rejection would affect their psyche), head hunters, escort service recruiters, and late night callers from the Lonely Heart Club.
I didn't go back to the Catholic Mission to check if she would be there. I was prideful. Pride was something I had plenty of. It both hurt and helped me. I had a big ego. I fancied that I was superior to 98% of the humans on this planet, especially when it came to philosophy, thinking, logic, and intellectual courage. So I walked around feeling both superior and humble at the same time. I was a walking contradiction. There were constant wars inside me. There were no integration, no resolution, no harmony, no peace. Only constant churning and chaos. I was a primordial soup of restless creation.
She held out for ten days. By that time, I already gave up on her and started having an eye on the Somalian neighbor who just moved in a few days ago. I normally did not like dark meat, but somehow I was partial to women from Ethiopia and Somalia. To me, these women were attractive for being tall and having finely chiseled facial features and voluptuous bodies.
The call came in exactly at midnight. I almost didn't pick it up. I was asleep. But in the end, curiosity got the better of me after looking at an unfamiliar Vegas number on the cell phone screen. A female voice was on.
-Hi, we met while standing in line for donuts. You gave me your number. You remember?
-Oh, hi there (I had the presence of mind to raise my voice a bit for enthusiasm though I was annoyed at the ungodly hour). Yes, I remember. How are you?
-Not too good. That was why I called. Can you talk?
-Of course! Certainly! (I am trying hard to work up the enthusiasm. There are times you've got to stoop to conquer. Fuck Pride for now. I just have to sleep late to make up for lost time). What's going on?
-I don't know. I need somebody to talk to (Jesus! You have nobody else? Why me? Why at this hour? You must be really sick).
-I'm all ears. What's your name?
-Angie. And yours?
- Roberto is my name. Listening is my game. Shoot!
-I want to tell you I felt bad after you left. I was rude and that was uncalled for.
-That's all right. Don't worry about it. You certainly must have had a bad day.
-Yes, I did. But I shouldn't have taken it out on you. I apologize.
-That's okay. Really. How's the book? Did you finish it?
-Yes, I'm now into "Twilight of the Idols".
-Excellent choice. It and "Ecce Homo" are the more accessible among Nietzshe's works . Now please tell me why you're reading Nietzsche. You must have already read his most famous, "Thus spoke Zarathustra".
-Yes, I have. It is like poetry in prose. Somebody told me to get stronger, I must read Nietzsche.
-Are you getting stronger?
-Yeah, but....
-But what, may I ask?
- A long story.
-You don't have to tell me if you don't want to. We just met.
-Some other time.
-Fine with me (with young women, you shouldn't be pushy, not right away. Good things come to those who wait).
I was not surprised at what she said next. It was not my first rodeo with young women.
-I know it's late (now you're telling me!) Could we continue the conversation another time?
-Sure, whenever you like, Angie. Should I call you or...
-It'd be better if I call, if it's all right with you. Good night.
-Sleep tight. And please take good care of yourself.
Then I clicked off my cell with a smile on my face. I was in the driver's seat. I knew it, but I wondered if she knew it, too. Regardless, it made no difference to me if she called back. I was not smitten by her (she was aggressively rude, not really my cup of tea). It was Nietzsche's book that intrigued me. I soon slept tight, with no noticeable dreams to recall, straight through to the next morning when the sun almost got quite high in the sky as I parted the bedroom window curtain upon waking up. Spring Mountain was to my west, covered with snow in the summit. Downtown was to the left of me. And the south was where planes were landing and taking off into the azure, cloudless winter sky. I loved Vegas in the winter. Cool, crisp, and invigorating during the day. And great sleeping weather at night.
I took the shower, got dressed, then called the poker room at Aria to reserve a seat. I had the feeling I would have another wining session. Life was good. I put the Chinese vocabulary book into my backpack and rode the elevator down to the street level.
In the next four weeks, Angie would call me intermittently at all and odd hours and always at night to discuss Nietzsche, Hemingway, Wolven, philosophy, and literature. She never once asked me to call her. I didn't really care. I liked the game enough to see how it worked out. Besides, nothing delighted me as much as having a youngster who seemed to defer to me when I held court. It was not so much vanity as the all-too-human need to communicate and share my thoughts.
I spoke at length about things and issues and subjects that have bothered me a great deal.
I told her God was a necessary fiction for most people, especially the weak, the ignorant, and the stupid. I pointed out to her the important role of philosophy insofar as truths, knowledge, and values are concerned. Most monkeys and assholes love power, but they fail to see because of their ignorance in matters of philosophy, they let the so-called religious and other thinkers have power over them in making them what and how to think. Values like money, power, fame, prestige, morals, and public opinion don't mean shit to the one who really knows how to think and to live his short alloted life on this planet. That's where Nietzsche comes in handy. The dude had so many insights on so many things and he expressed them in a pithy and concise and yet so poetic way that one couldn't help but be staggered by them. A few examples would be sufficient in illustrating the true power of thoughts:
-It's hard to live with men because silence is difficult. I pointed out to Angie when I was a mere lad of 18, I came across this powerful statement and I always remember it when I run into stupid assholes and ignorant scumbags who ironically love to pontificate on matters they don't have a fucking clue.
-If you look into the abyss long enough, it will look back at you.
-When we figure out the why, we will come up with the how to live.
-The Jews love life. They will sacrifice everything in order to live, including truths. Most, if not everything, they said about God and His special relationship with them were absolute lies and tales of fiction.
-What does not kill me, will make me stronger (everybody heard about this famous insight).
-Don't die before your time. Die a timely death.
I urged her to read short stories written by Hemingway and Scott Wolven where the issue of grace under pressure and the subject of courage and cowardice were examined. I told her we are what we read and then act, not what we say we are. Words, in particular lying words, are cheap and mean nothing. Nobody believes them, except the liars who lie to themselves.
As time went on, she stopped dropping wisecracks to my outpouring of thoughts and feelings. I would even venture a bold observation that she listened spelled bound. The issue of timely death apparently fascinated her. She kept steering our conversations toward the subject. Then out of the blue, lightning struck and thunder boomed. I felt that I had to pose a question: "You are not thinking of killing yourself or somebody, are you?"
She said nothing to my inquiry. She just clicked the phone off. I should have called her back there and then, but I didn't. I was not in love with her. To me, she was just an one-person audience upon whom I unloaded my thoughts which were filling my cranium to the brim.
Then three days later, in another gorgeous, sun-drenched, beautiful winter Saturday morning exactly 6 weeks after we had met, she cheerfully called me up and asked me out on a date that very morning! She had never called me during the day. She asked me where I lived and then told me to be out in front of my building in 45 minutes. "Dress nice, but not too nice," she added.
I put on my black outfit: black jeans and dress black shirt over a black T-shirt, my jade amulet with black chain dangling over the T-shirt, black loafers with black socks. Unsurprisingly, my lady in black arrived in the same outfit I first saw her six weeks prior.
She drove a black Lexus, and stopped abruptly in front of the condo building with a squealing of brakes that made me jump. I approached the car and hardly got in the front passenger seat when she took off like a bat out of hell. I promptly fastened the seat belt, nervous like shit, but trying to be cool. I said, "you must love speed. Are you on speed, my dear". 'Fuck yes! want some?". "Hell no!", I quickly replied. "Where we are going?" "My place". Surprised once more, I looked at her. Despite make-up, she looked rather pale and thinner than before. Didn't I mention she looked in her early 30's and quite attractive? I must also say I loved her dressing in black. She looked stylish, alluring and captivating.
She lived in Turnberry Towers on Karen Avenue, one block east of the Vegas Strip, not far at all from where I lived. I could walk from my place to hers within 45 minutes. Her unit was on the 22nd floor, facing west, affording a breathtaking view of West Vegas. Compared to her unit, mine was cheap.
"Make yourself at home. The drinks are in the fridge. Take whatever you want. Lunch should be in about an hour."
I was normally a chatter box and was not above posing prying questions, but with her I was being discreet and circumspect. The only personal question I had put to her was my wondering regarding her fascination with timely death, which prompted her rude clicking off the phone and staying away from me for three days. Now her sudden turn-around of being extra-friendly should be a perfect excuse for me to make inquiry about her personal life, but I refrained from doing so. I willed myself in maintaining an emotional distance from her and letting her dictate the terms and nature of our relationship. She was a mystery. I normally didn't care for things which were mysterious, but with her I made an exception, maybe I didn't really know what and how she thought of me. I was a married man for a long time even though I had a serial quasi-romantic relationships with women of all ages. My heart was a lonely, sad hunter. Through pains, hurts, and disappointments, I had learned that women were a dangerous, cunning, manipulative, ruthless species and should be approached with utmost care, especially for a person at my age. There was no bigger fool than an old fool.
I didn't take anything out of the fridge. I just took a tour of the condo after asking her if it was okay to do so. She said cheerfully, "Go ahead, sweetie, I told you, 'make yourself at home'".
In the living room, on the credenza there were pictures of her and her parents when she was much younger. On the wall hung two photos of nature: one color of sunset, one black and white of wintry scene. Books and CDs and DVD movies on the bookshelf. Books on sociology, history, and philosophy; CDs heavy on folk rock; movies were actions and thrillers, no comedies. I noticed a bottle of Bordeaux being chilled in a stainless bucket of ice, a small vase of freshly cut red roses, and two silverware settings on the dining table off the kitchen. Sound of bubbling brook wafted from the speakers on the living room wall.
I asked her if I could be of any help in the kitchen. She laughed and told me to relax and that everything was taken care of.
We started with mixed green salad, cucumber, red onions, burgundy olives and roman tomato in oil and red vinegar. Then we proceeded to New York medium rare steak, sautéed in garlic butter, and a side dish of baby carrots and baked potatoes topped with sour cream and chives. I did most of the drinking. We indulged in freshly baked apple à la mode for dessert.
We ate slowly and it was she who did most of the prying. I told her of my vocation (insurance underwriting which elicited a delight from her and a disclosure that she used to be a claims adjuster for Farmers Insurance and her father was a big shot in the company headquarters in Los Angeles. When I asked her what she was doing now, she just wryly smiled and said, "later") and avocation (language learning, poetry, and poker). The subject of poker fascinated her. She wondered if I was a gambler and an addict. I assured her that I was not.
-Angie, I take risks, calculated risks, but I am not a gambler, definitely not. I don't want to be like those homeless guys we saw standing in front of the Mission a few weeks ago.
-But do you make money, though? Enough to be worth your while?
-No, I just make chump change to supplement my income. Poker is an outlet for me to be sociable, meeting people. Besides, it is a good character builder. To win, I must understand the human mind and exercise emotional control over myself.
She then told me she saw me standing at a bus stop one day and wanted to stop and give me a lift, but she didn't because she didn't want to give me a wrong idea. I chuckled and said,
-I dare not have a wrong idea about you or anybody. I know myself and my place in this world. I don't have an inflated sense of self as most assholes and scumbags and motherfuckers I have met in my lousy life.
-Whoa, I touched on a raw nerve, didn't I?
-Not really, I read philosophy and what's the point of acquiring a discipline in thinking and reasoning and ending up being blind as to who I am.
-So, you're saying that you have not been attracted to me?
-No, no, no, I am not saying that, not at all. But be realistic, you are young, very attractive, and apparently a person of means. I am assuming you own this nice condo which easily could fetch mid six figures or higher, even in today's market. I am a late middle-aged man. Some even say I am an old man (which prompted a protest, "No, no, you don't look your age. Not at all. You could easily pass for 50), live in a rented condo, and don't even have a car.
-But you can have a car if you want, right? You can afford one, right?
-Sure, I can, but public transportation in this town is excellent. And if I need to get somewhere for a few days, I just rent a car from Hot Wire Deals at really reasonable rates. I am a simple man and I live a life of simplicity.
-No, you are no simple man.
I helped her with the dishes. Then we retired to the living room and did more talking. She was never married. Nobody would measure up to her father; nobody would be near her father in ability. She then said I looked like her father in several ways: the smile, the laughter, and the intensity of feelings, the passions! She then asked about my spouse and all the women that went through my life with the kind of utmost seriousness that compelled me to answer her inquiries in detail, warts and all. As she was listening to whatever my love life was, she kept saying, "poor Roberto" (Yeah, yeah, yeah, woe was me). Then she complained of being tired and sleepy. I took it as a hint for me to get lost, so I stood up and said thanks for the nice meal and the wonderful time I had. But as I headed to the door, she said, "Please stay." Surprised, I stood in my track, came back to her, "Are you sure?" I breathlessly asked. She stood up from the couch, took my hand, and said, "Definitely! Let's take a nap together." I then told her before I did that, there was one thing I had to do, "What's that? Calling somebody for permission or asking "God" for forgiveness?". "Wrong on both counts. If it's not much a bother, I need to brush my teeth after a meal and I wonder if you have a spare toothbrush."
She slept like a proverbial baby, snugging close to me. I did not. I just closed my eyes and told myself that I was dreaming while listening to her intermittent snoring. We didn't have sex because I was too nervous and mystified. She was certainly sexy enough.
When she woke up, the sun was going down. She went to the bathroom and when she came back, she was bald. Then she said, melodramatically of course, that time for more real talk.
"I'm having cancer. Very serious stuff. It's spreading. I'm tired of the treatment. It makes me sick. It is draining Dad's money, although insurance pays most of the treatment, but what's for? I'm not getting any better. I'm a fighter, but one must be realistic. Stupid stubbornness is for stupid people. I'm not stupid. I want to die, on my own terms. I'm my father's only child, very spoiled. My mother died of the same thing, sixteen years ago. Dad remarried shortly thereafter. I don't care for his wife who's a bitch. I'm sure she's real happy at my dying. She couldn't wait. All the inheritance money due to me would go to her, I suppose, assuming they stay married. Dad loves the bitch, though. I care about you. Thank you so much for listening to me and being patient with me and for sharing your knowledge of Nietzsche, Hemingway, and Wolven with me. The last few weeks had meant a lot to me. I was stronger and less scared and less lonely because of you. I really wish I were not sick. I really wish I had met you sooner. But that's life. Full of ironies. I have money but don't have a long life, and the homeless people have no money and they seem to live forever. I went to the Mission to see, taste and smell the ironies of life. Why did you go there? (" Angie, almost the same reason as you, to appreciate the light, I need to experience darkness). Today is the last time we met. I am going to LA to be near my father. I told him about you. He asked to say hello. Movers will come tomorrow morning. I'm donating almost all my stuff to Goodwill. Please, I have something for you. I want you to keep them as reminders of me. Come!"
She took my hand and let me to the dresser, pulled out a drawer, and took out a box, gift wrapped. Then she said, "let me drive you home" and would not take no for an answer when I told her I could walk. We were both silent during the short drive. She drove much more slowly this time. At the driveway in front of my building, she leaned over and gave me a long strong kiss. She then said, "Be strong, my friend. Take good care of yourself. I love you!" I cried; she did not. And she drove away, without looking back, without pressing the horn. Those were the last words I heard from her.
I staggered inside and rode the elevator up to my unit in stupor and bewilderment. I opened the door and collapsed in the couch in the living room. The Strip was lit up, like a Christmas tree, as usual. Far out west and up high, stars were out in full force. I looked at the box which was now lying next to me. I shook it up. It made some strange, muffled voice. I gasped and tears welled up in my eyes when I opened it. "Ecce Homo" on top, then two bundles of cash, each was tied with a bank sticker saying $10,000, and then all sorts of rings and bracelets. I took out my cell phone and dialed, but she didn't pick it up. I left her a message, "Angie, you're an angel of mine. Thanks so much for caring". I looked at the "Ecce Homo", opened it and on the first page were the words, "To my friend and my teacher. I wish we met sooner. Love, Angie."
Life was full of ironies, all right. First, Harriet. Now, Angie. The only two women, besides my own mother, who really cared about me, both died soon after I met them. Sixteen days after our only date, a letter bearing a postmark from the state of California arrived in the mail. I looked at the return address. It said Roberto Sanchez, 2222 Rodeo Drive, Beverly Hills. I opened the letter.
"Dear Mr. Ngo,
With much sorrow and regret and a broken heart, I thought I should let you know that my daughter was no longer in this world. She talked about you all the time. Thanks for being there for her during the most difficult time of her life. Per her instructions and insistence, attached is the title to her car which has been assigned to you. Please contact me...."
I stopped reading. And my heart stopped feeling lonely. And I felt peace. Somebody cared, at last.
Wissai
April 24, 2013
Postscriptum/Self-Commentary:
I wrote the above "story" in a drunken, dreamy state of mind. The words arrived by themselves, effortlessly, in a rush, like pouring rain in late afternoon during the monsoon season of a country far away where I hailed from or like endless winter snow in upstate Wisconsin during a blizzard where I first settled when I arrived in this wonderful United States of America.
Writing it was therapeutic to me. It set free some, not all, pent-up feelings of anger and homicidal urges. I have anger issue. I have hubris issue. Fuck, I have a lot of issues. I regard myself superior to most, if not all, of the motherfuckers that I hate and about whom I have violent dreams and fantasies. I want to piss on their graves after they die. When bad things happen to them and their loved ones, I go to a bar and silently celebrate their bad lucks. I kill them vicariously in my mind. I regard them as animals deserving to be exterminated like vermin.
The story is of the magical-realistic-fantastic variety. I wanted to prove to the motherfuckers that I am superior to them in the handling of the English language. Certainly they cannot write as I do. Not in a million years. My hatred for them is a fuel that keeps me going. Fuck, fuck them. They are shameless liars and ignorant scumbags. I am so glad that I am not like them.
Saturday, April 20, 2013
Then you dreamed
That you were back home again in Saigon, attending college while the war was raging all around you. While actual fighting didn't reach Saigon, there were plenty of signs you lived in the time of war. Soldiers and MPs everywhere, both Vietnamese and American. Military trucks in the streets, barbed wire barricades and gates and guards in front of important buildings, jet fighters speeded high in the sky while helicopters including Chinooks languidly crisscrossed in the lower altitudes, artillery booms bounced in the distance. At nights flares would occasionally lit up the sky while bar girls and hookers frolicked with GIs on the ground. Everybody lived on borrowed time. The future was uncertain. Would the Americans eventually leave? Everybody hustled and tried to survive or make money off the war. Saigon was noisy and dusty. Books and exams were surreal amidst death and destruction, raw sex and rampant corruption, war profiteering, and humanoids that knew nothing about truths and honor and knowledge and self-respect.
There was nothing fatidic that you must love the humanoids. You must understand who they were, however, so you would know how to deal with them. Just remember, they were different from and inferior to you, and just a step above chimps.
There was nothing fatidic that you must love the humanoids. You must understand who they were, however, so you would know how to deal with them. Just remember, they were different from and inferior to you, and just a step above chimps.
Friday, April 19, 2013
Dreams and Stories by Scott Wolven and Jeffrey Deaver's "The Weekender"
You have had quite a number of meaningful dreams lately, the kind of dreams that woke you up in the middle of the night or early in the morning and pondered their significance. Note that you used the term "significance", not "meaning". All dreams have meaning, but not all of them have significance, a much weightier connotation.
You used to dream of fisftfights, murders and mayhem, poverty, falling through space, wandering through town without a stitch of clothes on, getting lost in your search for old lovers' houses, and of course sad encounters with Laura. You rarely dream about sexual encounters. The meaning of your existence, not sex, is what weighs heavy on your mind. At last count, your sex dreams didn't total to even ten whereas you dreamed about lost loves all the time until about seven years ago when you finally wised up and matured. In a forum, there are several interesting female posters. Two stand out for their incessant harping about sex matters. One is married, but unsatisfied in bed. The other is ugly, short, widowed, and obviously sex-starved. Obviously, to these poor women, sex matters a great deal. And they suffer of unfulfillment loudly and publicly. How sad and how pathetic!
You also had daydreams about bad hands of poker and the assholes that troubled you. They were of prosaic subject matters and you learned nothing from them. No insights were revealed. No understanding were reached either about yourself or others. Just minor, petty, daily disturbances of the psyche which were sorted out as they went in and out of your mind.
Stories written by Wolven and Deaver were phantasmagorical dreams that left you speechless, thoughtful, stronger, and transformed. In the end, we are what we look for. The Self has to be aware of the Other in order to fully understand what it is. Of course, in the end it's silence that teaches us the most and gives us strength so we won't have on our faces the tracks of pains and hurts and disappointments.
So it was all over. Wrong decision when you could not overcome the pull of the milk of human kindness and basic humanity in you. You let the bastard live. And the bastard turned on you, as expected, resulting in your brother's death and your upcoming demise. You should have known it was a case of all or nothing. Killing and maiming are for grown-ups and professionals. Chicken-hearted folks and kids should stay away from murder and mayhem. This is not a video game. This is real life where every act has consequences, some are even totally unforeseen and unexpected.
You were a dreamer, not a schemer. You were always on the lookout for putting on acts of small redemption. You stood at the raw edge of humanity. And that edge was your downfall. What could you do now? You obviously wanted to live. That was why you didn't kill yourself.
You are now sitting by yourself in a bare room which boasts a rubber foam mattres with no sheet, a stainless toilet with no cover seat, and a sink with hot water! Only in America! They even asked you if you were hungry after you asked for a Coke. They took away your clothes, saying they needed them for "analysis". New clothes would be given later, when you are ready to talk, besides, you probably need to get some sleep, the last few days must have been tough, the woman softly said, even with a touch of concern. This can't be real. But what will be, will be. She was right. You need to close your eyes for a few hours. You have not slept for over 48 hours. You missed your brother. If only he had not got out of the car.
The room is not cold. They must have adjusted the thermostat. Then you dream.
(To be continued)
You used to dream of fisftfights, murders and mayhem, poverty, falling through space, wandering through town without a stitch of clothes on, getting lost in your search for old lovers' houses, and of course sad encounters with Laura. You rarely dream about sexual encounters. The meaning of your existence, not sex, is what weighs heavy on your mind. At last count, your sex dreams didn't total to even ten whereas you dreamed about lost loves all the time until about seven years ago when you finally wised up and matured. In a forum, there are several interesting female posters. Two stand out for their incessant harping about sex matters. One is married, but unsatisfied in bed. The other is ugly, short, widowed, and obviously sex-starved. Obviously, to these poor women, sex matters a great deal. And they suffer of unfulfillment loudly and publicly. How sad and how pathetic!
You also had daydreams about bad hands of poker and the assholes that troubled you. They were of prosaic subject matters and you learned nothing from them. No insights were revealed. No understanding were reached either about yourself or others. Just minor, petty, daily disturbances of the psyche which were sorted out as they went in and out of your mind.
Stories written by Wolven and Deaver were phantasmagorical dreams that left you speechless, thoughtful, stronger, and transformed. In the end, we are what we look for. The Self has to be aware of the Other in order to fully understand what it is. Of course, in the end it's silence that teaches us the most and gives us strength so we won't have on our faces the tracks of pains and hurts and disappointments.
So it was all over. Wrong decision when you could not overcome the pull of the milk of human kindness and basic humanity in you. You let the bastard live. And the bastard turned on you, as expected, resulting in your brother's death and your upcoming demise. You should have known it was a case of all or nothing. Killing and maiming are for grown-ups and professionals. Chicken-hearted folks and kids should stay away from murder and mayhem. This is not a video game. This is real life where every act has consequences, some are even totally unforeseen and unexpected.
You were a dreamer, not a schemer. You were always on the lookout for putting on acts of small redemption. You stood at the raw edge of humanity. And that edge was your downfall. What could you do now? You obviously wanted to live. That was why you didn't kill yourself.
You are now sitting by yourself in a bare room which boasts a rubber foam mattres with no sheet, a stainless toilet with no cover seat, and a sink with hot water! Only in America! They even asked you if you were hungry after you asked for a Coke. They took away your clothes, saying they needed them for "analysis". New clothes would be given later, when you are ready to talk, besides, you probably need to get some sleep, the last few days must have been tough, the woman softly said, even with a touch of concern. This can't be real. But what will be, will be. She was right. You need to close your eyes for a few hours. You have not slept for over 48 hours. You missed your brother. If only he had not got out of the car.
The room is not cold. They must have adjusted the thermostat. Then you dream.
(To be continued)
Thursday, April 18, 2013
Stories and Sermons, Literature and Life's Lessons
Stories and Sermons, Literature and Life's Lessons
You just read a rather long short story hailed as one of 39 best American Noir stories of the century. Its title is "Running Out of Dog" and was written by Dennis Lehane, the author of the novels "Mystic River and "Shutter Island", which were both adapted for movies. You were disappointed when reaching the end of the story. In fact as you were reading it, you already knew it was not as good as it was not billed. The plot was plodding and implausible, the characters were deftly drawn but unconvincing, and the language was just so so. Worst of all, you felt that you were just wasting your time for you learned nothing; you were not transformed.
Reading a short story is like going out on a date for the first time with a woman that caught your fancy, but you hardly know anything about her, except her bright intelligent eyes, her having gone to college and been divorced ten times, and her incredibly sexy body. Then magic strikes. You are having a time of your life. You know the evening will end, and you have to go back to your place by yourself, but you sense she likes you, too. The laughter with her head tilting backward, the attentiveness to everything that came out of your mouth, the light touchings on your arm, the questions posed to you. So you say to her, "I am having a very good time. I just want you to know that. And I want to get to know you better." And you drive her home, open the car door for her, gently say goodnight, and waiting for her to get into the house before you drive off, with soft rock music humming from the car radio speakers. The next day, you order red roses sent to her work place, with a corny note "can't get you out of my mind/no matter how hard I tried/roses are red/hoping one day my tears won't be shed/ because of you/don't ever make me feel blue". She calls you up, tersely says, "I got your roses. Thank you. They're beautiful." She says nothing about the note. Neither do you. You just mumble, "You're welcome." And you hang up after feebly saying you hope to hear from her. Then you wait for another round of magic.
A good story is like having an affair with an alluring, sexy, witty, wise woman. It has a hook on you. And you are delightfully caught. You enjoy reading it. You savor every word, every sentence. You wonder how the story would end. You care about the characters. As you reach the end of the story, you put the book down, exhausted and transformed. You think about what has happened. And then you go back to the story, reading it again, word by word, sentence by sentence. And if the story is incredibly good and resonates richly with you, you copy it out of sheer love and excitement. You may even send the author a note, expressing your admiration for his gifts. If you're lucky, the author will write you back. Most are too stupid and arrogant to write back to their fans, however.
Several stories by Hemingway and Nam Le and all the stories by Scott Wolven have such an effect on you. They make you feel thankful and lucky to have a fair familiarity with the English language.
All Zen sermons are stories succinctly told. Haiku poems are even more succinct stories. You remember one Haiku poem that you came across at the age of 19, "Keep a green bough in your heart/And the birds will come singing".
Stories are life's lessons. If you heed them, you will be happy and wise. Years ago, English and Philosophy majors were often looked down as barely a step above idiocy which was accorded to majors like Physical Education, Arts, History, Sociology, and Anthropology. Science and math majors were regarded with respect. Nowadays, those in the know realize that it takes both brain and sensitivity to do well at school if one decides to pursue a major in English or Philosophy. With some exceptions, most science majors you came across were clumps of clay, ill-informed outside their area of expertise, and stupid about the human heart. You despise them, with good reasons.
Wissai
April 18, 2013.
You just read a rather long short story hailed as one of 39 best American Noir stories of the century. Its title is "Running Out of Dog" and was written by Dennis Lehane, the author of the novels "Mystic River and "Shutter Island", which were both adapted for movies. You were disappointed when reaching the end of the story. In fact as you were reading it, you already knew it was not as good as it was not billed. The plot was plodding and implausible, the characters were deftly drawn but unconvincing, and the language was just so so. Worst of all, you felt that you were just wasting your time for you learned nothing; you were not transformed.
Reading a short story is like going out on a date for the first time with a woman that caught your fancy, but you hardly know anything about her, except her bright intelligent eyes, her having gone to college and been divorced ten times, and her incredibly sexy body. Then magic strikes. You are having a time of your life. You know the evening will end, and you have to go back to your place by yourself, but you sense she likes you, too. The laughter with her head tilting backward, the attentiveness to everything that came out of your mouth, the light touchings on your arm, the questions posed to you. So you say to her, "I am having a very good time. I just want you to know that. And I want to get to know you better." And you drive her home, open the car door for her, gently say goodnight, and waiting for her to get into the house before you drive off, with soft rock music humming from the car radio speakers. The next day, you order red roses sent to her work place, with a corny note "can't get you out of my mind/no matter how hard I tried/roses are red/hoping one day my tears won't be shed/ because of you/don't ever make me feel blue". She calls you up, tersely says, "I got your roses. Thank you. They're beautiful." She says nothing about the note. Neither do you. You just mumble, "You're welcome." And you hang up after feebly saying you hope to hear from her. Then you wait for another round of magic.
A good story is like having an affair with an alluring, sexy, witty, wise woman. It has a hook on you. And you are delightfully caught. You enjoy reading it. You savor every word, every sentence. You wonder how the story would end. You care about the characters. As you reach the end of the story, you put the book down, exhausted and transformed. You think about what has happened. And then you go back to the story, reading it again, word by word, sentence by sentence. And if the story is incredibly good and resonates richly with you, you copy it out of sheer love and excitement. You may even send the author a note, expressing your admiration for his gifts. If you're lucky, the author will write you back. Most are too stupid and arrogant to write back to their fans, however.
Several stories by Hemingway and Nam Le and all the stories by Scott Wolven have such an effect on you. They make you feel thankful and lucky to have a fair familiarity with the English language.
All Zen sermons are stories succinctly told. Haiku poems are even more succinct stories. You remember one Haiku poem that you came across at the age of 19, "Keep a green bough in your heart/And the birds will come singing".
Stories are life's lessons. If you heed them, you will be happy and wise. Years ago, English and Philosophy majors were often looked down as barely a step above idiocy which was accorded to majors like Physical Education, Arts, History, Sociology, and Anthropology. Science and math majors were regarded with respect. Nowadays, those in the know realize that it takes both brain and sensitivity to do well at school if one decides to pursue a major in English or Philosophy. With some exceptions, most science majors you came across were clumps of clay, ill-informed outside their area of expertise, and stupid about the human heart. You despise them, with good reasons.
Wissai
April 18, 2013.
Tuesday, April 16, 2013
Death in the Afternoon and in the Evening
Death in the Afternoon and in the Evening
One was death in the afternoon. It happened yesterday and very publicly. Three people died and over one hundred were wounded, seventeen critically. The deaths and injuries were unexpected, resulting from terrorist bombings 17 seconds apart, at the finishing line of a marathon race in Boston, MA. Public outrage was swiftly delivered. Nobody seemed to delve into why such a horrible act would occur.
Nobody seemed to ponder and invoke history and go back to acts of atrocity and barbarity at Wounded Knee and My Lai, the 1972 Christmas bombings in Hanoi which lasted 12 days, the carpet bombings carried out by B-52 bombers during the height of the Vietnam War, the massacres inside Palestinian Sabra and Shatila refugee camps in Lebanon in 1982, not counting the ill adventures in Iraq and Afghanistan and the very long blind support of Israel which illegally annexed Arab lands.
Everybody appeared self-righteous. Everybody loudly decried the cowardice of the perpetrators. Everybody seemed to forget about karma and causality.
The death in the evening was private and no less heart-rending. A tree cutter was brutally rejected by an ambitious, enterprising woman who had a young son who had a fixation problem about pipes and tigers and who had an affectionate relationship with the tree cutter. Temporarily---and that was all it took: a temporary lapse of judgment---insane, a few days after the brutal rejection, the tree cutter was out drinking by himself and on the way back decided to stand in the railroad tracks. The woman cried after hearing of the news which was reported in the paper.
Eight years later, the young son got better, his fixation seemed to vanish and he was now a freshman in college. The woman got married to a respectable, white-collar worker who advised her in the following terms when she seemed to be hesitant to board a train to visit her son who attended college in New York City
"He robbed himself of his opportunity (of seeing your son doing very well in school). It's over now. He wanted an ending and he got what he wanted. He made it happen."
The moral of the death in the evening was this: it was horribly stupid to kill yourself over a woman. She might cry upon learning of your stupid act, but she would get over that and her life would go on while yours was finished for a stupid cause.
"People claim that death is not alive, yet it is ever-happening and constant. Death doesn't die. It feeds on loved ones and enemies alike and makes itself stronger and everywhere. It is insidious and comes in the form of everything. Whole nations have been killed by neighboring states on purpose and some people die by accident and every year a small city could be populated by the souls of those who chose to put themselves to death. We are here now, alive, and might be gone before morning. Death connects everything. All things that are alive have the same end. The fragility of things, the wish that a parent or spouse has to keep a child or spouse safe. The prayers, religious or not, spoken or silent. These things have their own freezing point, where they turn to ice-death. And that freezing pint is only one degree from life, and often moves faster than blessings and prayers." (Scott Wolven, "Controlled Burn", pp 110-111)
Wissai
April 16, 2013
One was death in the afternoon. It happened yesterday and very publicly. Three people died and over one hundred were wounded, seventeen critically. The deaths and injuries were unexpected, resulting from terrorist bombings 17 seconds apart, at the finishing line of a marathon race in Boston, MA. Public outrage was swiftly delivered. Nobody seemed to delve into why such a horrible act would occur.
Nobody seemed to ponder and invoke history and go back to acts of atrocity and barbarity at Wounded Knee and My Lai, the 1972 Christmas bombings in Hanoi which lasted 12 days, the carpet bombings carried out by B-52 bombers during the height of the Vietnam War, the massacres inside Palestinian Sabra and Shatila refugee camps in Lebanon in 1982, not counting the ill adventures in Iraq and Afghanistan and the very long blind support of Israel which illegally annexed Arab lands.
Everybody appeared self-righteous. Everybody loudly decried the cowardice of the perpetrators. Everybody seemed to forget about karma and causality.
The death in the evening was private and no less heart-rending. A tree cutter was brutally rejected by an ambitious, enterprising woman who had a young son who had a fixation problem about pipes and tigers and who had an affectionate relationship with the tree cutter. Temporarily---and that was all it took: a temporary lapse of judgment---insane, a few days after the brutal rejection, the tree cutter was out drinking by himself and on the way back decided to stand in the railroad tracks. The woman cried after hearing of the news which was reported in the paper.
Eight years later, the young son got better, his fixation seemed to vanish and he was now a freshman in college. The woman got married to a respectable, white-collar worker who advised her in the following terms when she seemed to be hesitant to board a train to visit her son who attended college in New York City
"He robbed himself of his opportunity (of seeing your son doing very well in school). It's over now. He wanted an ending and he got what he wanted. He made it happen."
The moral of the death in the evening was this: it was horribly stupid to kill yourself over a woman. She might cry upon learning of your stupid act, but she would get over that and her life would go on while yours was finished for a stupid cause.
"People claim that death is not alive, yet it is ever-happening and constant. Death doesn't die. It feeds on loved ones and enemies alike and makes itself stronger and everywhere. It is insidious and comes in the form of everything. Whole nations have been killed by neighboring states on purpose and some people die by accident and every year a small city could be populated by the souls of those who chose to put themselves to death. We are here now, alive, and might be gone before morning. Death connects everything. All things that are alive have the same end. The fragility of things, the wish that a parent or spouse has to keep a child or spouse safe. The prayers, religious or not, spoken or silent. These things have their own freezing point, where they turn to ice-death. And that freezing pint is only one degree from life, and often moves faster than blessings and prayers." (Scott Wolven, "Controlled Burn", pp 110-111)
Wissai
April 16, 2013
Saturday, April 13, 2013
Turn of the Road
Sometime ago, when you were about to turn 64, in the spring of 2222, things happened really fast. You got religious with exercise, stopped smoking, dropped drinking and doing drugs, lost weight, did Yoga and meditation, fell out of love with yourself, became taciturn and laconic in speech, got antisocial, and started writing violent tales of fiction, of the noir tradition. You cut off all social ties except with your only long-suffering fan. You felt complete and all the need to be understood and the desire to share your feelings evaporated into thin air. People at the office and the poker table, friends and mere acquaintances alike, thought then you were really nice and fun to be around because you were full of humility and self-effacing humor. Little did they know you were preparing for a mini-thermonuclear war.
What precipitated your change were three things.
First was the encounter of this passage:
"Love can die. It's a mysterious thing, the death of love. Sometimes it fades slowly, like a long sunset with amazing and rare color that lasts in the memory forever. Sometimes it becomes obese and dies from its own weight, the density and slowness that come with things grown too large. It is often killed on purpose, by someone who is in love with someone or something else. But the other person, the one still in love, is a loose end, snapping and cracking in the high wind of life passing them by. Life moves so fast it creates a back draft, that leaves things scattered and blowing in its wake. Life, of all things, is alive. It is everywhere and moves beyond speed.” (Scott Wolven, whose stories burned a hole in your heart and left it smoldering).
The death of love was no surprise, but Wolven's rhapsodic treatment of it was a delight. It brought on catharsis and closure to your wounded, tortured soul although you knew way back around 2005 that the bitch Laura didn't deserve your enduring fiction and affection. Still, a love had to die of its own way. No two love deaths were alike. Yes, as Wolven insinuated, life, unlike love, is everywhere and it moves beyond speed, beyond time, beyond sorrows and regrets. Yes, life in the abstract may not die. But an individual life surely does.
You are a firm believer that everybody should die at least twice in order to appreciate how wonderful and yet precarious how life is. So everybody should visit a hospice and hang around it all day at least once a month in order to experience what a slow death is like and how painful and sad to see life dissolve slowly into nothingness. All the fucking concerns and worries about status, power, fame, and money would be seen for what they are: a colossal waste of time. In the end of one's life, what matter are love and peace because status, power, fame, and comfort cannot comfort us as we are dying. Anybody who is reading this would think you are mental and would want no part of your mental affliction. But he or perhaps they, of course, would be wrong. You are not peddling psychobabble. Far from it.
What you are saying is that everybody would be better off if they visualize, think, meditate about their own death everyday of the week, every month of the year. Then perhaps they would not take themselves so seriously and lie to others so shamelessly. Remember, the heart knows nothing about death; it's the mind that causes all the sufferings in this world as it thinks it is really something marvellous whereas it is just a piece of shit, full of fears and ignorance and nonsense. The funny thing is only old farts with money are fearful of death. Young people or impoverished seniors never are.
Second was your coming across the portrait of a Norwegian chess prodigy in New Yorker magazine. Genius is more than just talent. Love, hard work, and imagination (which accounts for originality, otherwise everybody would play like robots, patterned after computer-generated moves) are key factors.
Third and last but by no means least was your belated realization that self-projection was a poor way of understanding others. Just because you were not evil and mendacious that didn't mean most humans were not like so either. In fact, the inverse was true. With humans, you must be prepared for the worst and the unexpected. Pick on their "pride", their ignorance, and their stupidity, and they would scream like fucked-up monkeys and reveal their true colors. Bait them with the smell of "power", and they would run for it like hogs after garbage and dogs after human shit. It's hard to love human scums. No wonder killings take place and celebrating dances ensue. After a while, it was tiresome to play a detective of the human heart. A few pieces of evidence would be enough to arrive at a conclusion that a person in front of you was a human worth saving or a scum deserving to be exterminated like a vermin.
Now all your senses are on fire. You are aflame with a clear realization that life is more often than not a series of serendipities and chance occurrences, and you must be ready, unappeasably ready, for them. You can't afford to have an emotional shutout; you can't simply have a swooning surrender to temptation; you must not mislay any claim to moral distance.
.
(To be continued)
Friday, April 12, 2013
Tweedle Dee, Tweedle Dum,
Tweedle Dee, Tweedle Dum,
Look out guys, here I come
I'm gonna make you feel stupid and then some
The Midget has cried for his Mom
Is the Lanky gonna chime
In and kiss the Midget's behind?
Come on, it's time!
Tweedle Dee, Tweedle Dum
I suppse you scums are no longer lonesome
I'm glad you two found each other
One is ignorant, the other dumb
(To be continued)
Look out guys, here I come
I'm gonna make you feel stupid and then some
The Midget has cried for his Mom
Is the Lanky gonna chime
In and kiss the Midget's behind?
Come on, it's time!
Tweedle Dee, Tweedle Dum
I suppse you scums are no longer lonesome
I'm glad you two found each other
One is ignorant, the other dumb
(To be continued)
Thursday, April 11, 2013
DM (Dim-Witted Midget) and IA (Ignorant Asshole) pontificates again
You could take a stupid and ignorant scumbag out of the tropics, gave him some education and nice food, he would still be a stupid and ignorant scumbag. His latest pontification about Joan Baez and meditation showed that he lacked empathy and didn't know Jack shit about meditation. Any animal remains an animal even if you dress him up as a human. NO human could be as brazenly shameless as the bastard.
Yes, life is full of scumbags and assholes who have no shame. They live like animals, with no higher values to guide them.
(To be continued)
Yes, life is full of scumbags and assholes who have no shame. They live like animals, with no higher values to guide them.
(To be continued)
How to
A. make anybody talk
1. Pal, it's all about free will and making choices. You can tell me now, or you can tell me after I break your legs and you end up being a cripple or worse.
2. I ask you once. I may ask you twice. But I won't ask you three times. My fists will do the asking then. Please don't tell me you are a SAS (Stupid Asshole Sometimes). It's better be a PSA. You know what a PSA is, don't you?
B. survive
1. You are an observant man. You are still alive because you notice things out of the ordinary: people who keep telling you that they are nice, people who go out of their way to make you like them. Nobody is that nice. Nobody.
2. Look, don't see. Listen, don't hear. The more you engage, the longer you survive.
3. The more you talk, the less you think, unless you are trying to deceive somebody. Nobody respects talkers, especially the boring ones.
4. You are accountable only to your own conscience.
5. Although humans are herd animals, you don't have to be one. You are much stronger if you are used to being by yourself. You learn to think more and talk less.
6. Life is a gamble, from beginning to end. Be a good gambler. People who die young tend to be bad gamblers who take long odds.
7. You need a reason for speech. You need more for silence. The less you speak, the more people fear you because they don't know what you think.
8. Be fair and don't be power-hungry. Most humans don't know how to use power although almost every human craves for it. Only born leaders know what power is. Are you a born leader?
9. Life is not about dying for your beliefs. That's gross stupidity. No beliefs are worth dying for. Make your enemy die for his.
10. Last but not least, no woman is worth dying for either. It was okay to think so when you were in high school. But if you still think so after leaving high school, you are a retard, more than in one aspect.
Wissai
April 2013
Wednesday, April 10, 2013
Life's Magic Moments
Life's Magic Moments
Yesterday as you were exiting a restaurant, an elderly lady dressed in somewhat elegant but very outmoded clothes approached you for a mere 25 cents so she could have enough money to purchase a snack. You happened to have two quarters in your pocket so you handed them over to her. To your astonishment, she gave you back a quarter, saying that she only needed one. You, of course, didn't take it back. She insisted and you refused. Finally, with much reluctance, she put it back in her pocket after saying "you're very kind". Embarrassed, you replied, "please, don't mention it." Then you walked to your car. Then something inside you clicked. You turned your head around and checked if she still loitered in the parking lot. She did not. She was heading to the grocery store next to the restaurant. You discreetly followed her. She got to the bakery department and took a loaf of bread to the cashier. You fished a $5 bill from your wallet and pressed it into her palm as she was waiting in line. Surprised and shocked, she protested. You gently hushed her and walked briskly out of the grocery store.
The sun shone brightly in the parking lot. The air was cool. There was not a single fluff of cloud in the azure sky. You felt happy and blessed and you recalled the Christian wish at leave-taking:
"May the sun shine upon thee and give thee warmth.
May the Lord bless thee and give you peace."
For a brief moment, pettiness and unease left you, and you were filled with serenity and in touch with something much bigger than your puny, little self.
You came home and opened your little book and scribbled your observations about the meaning of life.
Some wise guy said that life has meaning because it ends. You are saying life has meaning because any conscious, sensitive, intelligent individual human fancies so whereas by itself life has no meaning. It is just there, an aggregate of pulsating, living beings and an embodiment of energy.
Humans ascribe meaning to life, as they do almost just about everything else. They create; they make up; they lie and end up believing in their own lies. They are vain and cannot stand disrespect and rejection.Then they get old, sick, and die like a dog with no real achievement to speak of and no real loved ones to grieve over.
Wissai
Yesterday as you were exiting a restaurant, an elderly lady dressed in somewhat elegant but very outmoded clothes approached you for a mere 25 cents so she could have enough money to purchase a snack. You happened to have two quarters in your pocket so you handed them over to her. To your astonishment, she gave you back a quarter, saying that she only needed one. You, of course, didn't take it back. She insisted and you refused. Finally, with much reluctance, she put it back in her pocket after saying "you're very kind". Embarrassed, you replied, "please, don't mention it." Then you walked to your car. Then something inside you clicked. You turned your head around and checked if she still loitered in the parking lot. She did not. She was heading to the grocery store next to the restaurant. You discreetly followed her. She got to the bakery department and took a loaf of bread to the cashier. You fished a $5 bill from your wallet and pressed it into her palm as she was waiting in line. Surprised and shocked, she protested. You gently hushed her and walked briskly out of the grocery store.
The sun shone brightly in the parking lot. The air was cool. There was not a single fluff of cloud in the azure sky. You felt happy and blessed and you recalled the Christian wish at leave-taking:
"May the sun shine upon thee and give thee warmth.
May the Lord bless thee and give you peace."
For a brief moment, pettiness and unease left you, and you were filled with serenity and in touch with something much bigger than your puny, little self.
You came home and opened your little book and scribbled your observations about the meaning of life.
Some wise guy said that life has meaning because it ends. You are saying life has meaning because any conscious, sensitive, intelligent individual human fancies so whereas by itself life has no meaning. It is just there, an aggregate of pulsating, living beings and an embodiment of energy.
Humans ascribe meaning to life, as they do almost just about everything else. They create; they make up; they lie and end up believing in their own lies. They are vain and cannot stand disrespect and rejection.Then they get old, sick, and die like a dog with no real achievement to speak of and no real loved ones to grieve over.
Wissai
Tuesday, April 9, 2013
Desert's here, where are the rice fields?
Desert's here, where are the rice fields?
A few years ago, you read a powerful short story written by Marcus Sakey. You read it four times, savoring each and every word and sentence. You then decided to copy it word for word, initially out of love, but in the process you contributed about 65% of the words in an adapted story (you acknowledged the intellectual debt to Sakey at the end of the story). You felt cleansed after you were done writing it. Writing it was therapeutic to you. You recently came across Sakey's story again. Its impact on you was still the same: you were on fire and at peace at the same time. The sad thing was that you couldn't locate the adapted story. It got lost somewhere in the cyberspace. So you wrote the following story from scratch, where no more than twenty words and none of the ideas came from Sakey's story. You hope it's considered half as good as the one you wrote three years ago. At the very least, it is an original, now that your imagination is more fecund and despairing.
_________________________________________________________________
You love talking, especially if there's a chance of seriously hurting myself. You like your food so hot that any woman sitting next to you would catch fire and invite you home. You like to live dangerously, close to the abyss and far away from the stars. You used to live in fear, but not anymore. Now you live in rage. You know one day you will not die in bed.
Spring may be somewhere else in North America, but where you live it's already summer. The sun comes out early and stays late. By mid-morning, it's already scorchingly hot, sucking moisture and energy out of all living things. The sunshine is white and blinding. Most of the time, the air is still. There's hardly a breeze. Leaves and branches on trees hang motionless most of the time. Rustling sounds made by swaying foliage are rare events. You stand motionless in the shade of some tree which sports tiny, waxy leaves in the parking lot of a Vegas public library, thinking of what happened.
James Joyce once wrote in the "Ulysses", "A man of genius makes no mistakes. His errors are volitional and are the portals of discovery". It may be so, but since you are no genius, you know you've made mistakes and they are legion, and your mistakes are portals of horror and anguish. It's reasonable to worship financial success. In fact you had it. One day you decided to embark on a journey of self-discovery and haven't looked back. You don't regard yourself a failure, nor do you think the journey has been of no use. You still have money. There's no way you will spend all of it before you die, unless you become stupid, fall in love, and give it away to some beautiful, sexy bitch. You have had a very rich life, compared with most other humans who decided to play safe. You could have a net worth of at least $5 million if you played safe like most monkeys and cowards, but Money was not what motivated you. Love and Knowledge kept you going. And now something else really keeps you going. Did you ever regret over what you did? The head softly says yes while the heart keeps screaming, "F--- No!"
You went to Vegas, not by volition, but out of necessity. Vegas is big and full of transients and tourists, a place where an appearance of anonymity is alluring. It gives people like you a second and possibly last chance to start life all over again. You thought long and hard of other choices like Los Angeles and Biloxi, MS., but they came up short, although Biloxi came a very close second. Biloxi's slow pace of life, the quiet, and Southern hospitality appealed to you, but the anonymity was not assured. Besides, you don't like humid, hot climate, even though you originally came from the tropics. You like dry, arid, hot climate. Vegas, its size, climate, and culture appealed to you.
Like you said, you used to live in fear. Fear of failure, of poverty, of ignorance, and of death. The fear drove you to books and kept your mouth shut. But that was not exactly how you wanted to live your life. You loved talking, opening your mouth and letting whatever pass through your mind to exit through your mouth, consequences be damned. But fear made you become a stranger to yourself. So you read more books and saved more money until one day only one fear remained: fear of ignorance. The more you were fearful of ignorance, the more you read books. In the process you discovered that you were different from most humans. They had no fear of ignorance at all. Consequently, they were poseurs and full of pretenses. They presented to the world an unwarranted high regard of themselves. They had a fear of disrespect and rejection. But fear was a strange animal, whatever its manifestation. They could shut it off in a room and throw away the key, hoping the animal would die and they wouldn't hear of its presence anymore. But the animal didn't die. It kept growling and beating on the door until one day the hinges got loose and the door got busted open and the beast got out and found them. It grabbed their shoulders and looked at them in the eyes and grinned, showing its yellow, mildewed teeth and a foul odor exited from its mouth when it said to them, "Hello, it's me. We met before. Do you remember?" At that time, most of them would have a stupid, sheepish look on their faces. The assholes and scumbags craved respect so they brazenly lied and/or put others down by cheap innuendos and insinuations instead of owning up to the facts and truths. Deep down the assholes and scumbags had no self-respect nor a sense of honor. They were basically animals, fearful of just about everything, except the only thing that would make them human: ignorance. It was knowledge that set humans apart from non-humans. Real humans know who they are, why they are on this planet Earth, and where they go after they die. They also know concepts like God, reincarnation, heaven and hell are products of the imagination of mind controllers and absolutely have no basis in physical reality, and are produced for the consumption of the human animals who are too stupid or lazy to think for themselves.
It was precisely fear of disrespect and rejection that led Yvette to you. She was the mother -in-law of Chuck. Chuck was a poker dealer in one of the Indian casinos in Scottsdale, a wealthy suburb of Phoenix, AZ. Poker has exerted on the imagination of the public and has its own myths and mythos. It can be played as a recreational game, a gambling pursuit, or as a deadly mind contact sport where honor, fortune or bankruptcy are at stake. It is a social equalizer. At the poker table, the social status doesn't mean didly s--t; neither does money because if one plays poorly in a gambling way without a good grasp of mathematical probability, the nature of luck (good and bad), understanding of the human mind regarding courage, saving face, pain threshold, self-control, and money management, the money would not last and will migrate to those who initially had less money.
Poker attracts all kinds of players who think they are smart and can think. People who like to take risks and love excitement also flock to the game. So at the poker table, a wide range of humanity assemble and duke it out for supremacy. Only the best hand wins. Coming in consistently as second place is a financial disaster and a blow to one's conception of oneself. There is no other human adventure where a man's true nature is laid bare for him and others to see. It is an activity where lying to others is acceptable but lying to oneself is disastrous. Poker, properly played and managed, can be a good builder of character, not counting bankroll. Poker is life condensed and distilled where conversations can turn deadly as what happened three months ago in a poker room in Scottsdale where Chuck worked.
The game was no-limit hold 'em where one could bet whatever the amount one had in front of him. The room was full, as usual. You showed up there right after work, having called ahead for a seat reservation.
You ambled into the poker room, feeling tense and ill at ease. It was not so much from fear of losing as having a foreboding sense of something dramatic, out of joint, and unusual that was to occur. You had a highly tuned intuition. You should have listened to it and turned around and gone back to your apartment, but you did not. You were directed to a table that were was full of regulars. The banter was friendly as usual, but a bit more risqué, being Friday night and the Super Bowl was just two days away. Then it turned sick. Two old, cynical players started talking about death, cancer, and suicide, then "progressing" to necrophilia and murder and cannibalism.They seemed to relish the conversation. Now and then several others chimed in, adding wisecracks and double entendres. The conversation was now about Jeffrey Dahmer and how sick he was. Alberto, one of the two cynics wondered out loud if Dahmer's death was a spontaneous jailhouse execution or it was a murder for hire commissioned by one of Dahmer's victims' relatives. He then added that he would kill Dahmer for free. That was when you felt you had to speak because you didn't like Alberto's motor mouth and braggadocio.
-You just talked. You would not have the balls to kill him even if somebody paid you.
-Oh yeah, how the fuck that you know so much about me?
- I just know, shithead. I know your type. All talk. No action. All fucking lies to make yourself look good. Assholes like you are dime a dozen. Shit, in my college days, assholes like you, I ate for lunch.
-Oh yeah, eat me then, suck my dick!
Chuck, the dealer told us right there and then to cut it all out otherwise he would have to call the poker room shift manager over. Alberto glared at you and said nothing. You looked at him and smiled in contempt. A few minutes later, you won $375 off him and you got up and left. Chuck was still dealing. You tossed him two red birds (2 $5 chips) as tips.
You were still steaming while walking to your car in the parking. You hated scumbags like Alberto. They never owned what they said. They just wanted to look tough by talking tough. You ran into scumbags like him all the time. You should have kept your mouth shut. You knew better. Instead of going straight home, you stopped by the 24 Hours Fitness Club. You swam laps non-stop for over an hour until you could hardly raise your arms above water. When you got home you were in a somewhat better mood. You took off your clothes, soaked yourself in the warm water of the bathtub and listened to the sound of bubbling brook on tape wafting from the living room.
The next afternoon you were back to the poker room. You were somber and laconic. You were playing at the table with no regulars. You were there for no more than 15 minutes when Chuck came over and gave you a piece of paper. It said, "Meet me in the men's room 30 minutes from now. Something very serious coming up. Stop playing at once. Be alert. Watch your back. Destroy this note. Tell nobody about the note nor about meeting me. Your friend, Chuck ".
You felt short of breath after reading the note. Your throat was dry. You gulped down almost half of your bottled water. You got up from the table. You had a small loss. After cashing your chips, you went outside for fresh air and to clear your head. You kept walking around the casino in the frigid winter air. Steam of breath escaped from your mouth. You kept wondering what Chuck's cryptic note was all about. You were back inside the casino after 20 minutes of walking and headed to the restroom next to the poker room. Chuck appeared 5 minutes later, looking real serious and weary. He motioned you to the last two urinals along the wall. He whispered:
-After you left, Alberto was talking trash. Others laughed at him, saying you had a point. Then he blurted out that you and everybody else didn't know the fuck you guys were talking about. The way he talked really concerned me. The tone and the quiet fury. Then Bobby asked him what he meant. He just clammed up and got up and left. If I were you, I'd leave town immediately.
-You really think he has the balls to do something stupid?
-No, but he could hire somebody. He has the money and he is mean.
-Thanks a lot, Chuck.
-If you're in Vegas and need a place to stay for a while, call me. I have friends there.
You didn't leave town immediately, but you acted fast. Death would come to those who didn't draw fast enough. You couldn't afford to diddle and dawdle around. You left the apartment after taking with you the bare essentials (including a Glock and two magazines) which fit into two suitcases. You checked into a motel that night, paying for a week in advance in cash, using a false name and making up the license plate number. Your car was parked not in the motel's parking lot. It was parked two blocks away in the visitor's spot in an apartment complex.
You holed up in the motel room surfing the net for Alberto's address. You found it within an hour. Google Earth indicated that the house was not in a gated community. A very good sign. Then you thought and visualized and meditated and doing Yoga exercises. You didn't go out, even for food. You ordered pizza.
On Monday morning, you called in sick. You opened a post office box, completed a forwarding address card, and closed your banking accounts. Then you went on a reconnaissance mission with a rented car, after selling your car at Carmax. You already dyed your hair and were growing a beard. You had aviator glasses on. By the time you got to Alberto's house, it was almost half past ten. You drove past it with a normal speed. It was in the cul-de-sac, fairly big, two stories, no cars parked in the vicinity. The street looked quiet and empty. No toys or bicycles in the front lawns. It was winter, but Scottsdale was warmer than Vegas. The ambient temperature was around fifty degrees. The sun was out. You drove past the house again, this time more slowly. Curtains were not closed in neither floor. You knew Alberto was widowed. His wife died last year. He made a big stink about it at the poker table. Everybody, including you, made a show of conveying sympathy while he gravely acknowledged the condolences. He could live by himself. He could have roommates to share the expenses although he didn't really need the money. He was a retired successful CPA. He told everybody so. There was one way to find out if he was in the house and alone. You took out your cell phone.
About 30 minutes later, a rather beat up old car with Papa John's Pizza sign on the roof stopped in front of the house. An middle-aged Hispanic delivery man stopped out of the car and marched briskly to the door. By that time, you were by the side of the house, looking nonchalant and cool. You blocked his path. You gave him $20 for a $15 pizza, telling him to wait if your friend Alberto would answer the door, and if he did, just saying to Alberto he was delivering a free pizza, at the courtesy of a friend, and hanging around if Alberto would give him any tip. If Alberto did not, you would give him another $5. The Hispanic looked excited and happy. He rang the door bell. The door was yanked wide open in less than a minute. Alberto barked, "I didn't order any pizza!" You stepped right inside the house, your right hand was already on the trigger of the Glock inside your jacket, and said, "But I did, as a pleasant surprise, Al." "Here's your tip, " said you as pleasantly as you could as you gave the $5 bill to the Hispanic pizza man. He bowed lightly his head, saying "muchas gracias, señor", handed the pizza to Alberto and ran back to his car. You kicked the door closed, and said gravely to Alberto: "I came to make peace, Al. Are you hungry? Let's eat pizza and have a talk. Anybody else in the house? They can share with us. The pizza is big enough. Do you have any beer?"
-Stop the bullshit! How did you find my house?
-You told us. You forgot? A nice, big house just for one person.
- Get the fuck out! And take the damn pizza with you.
-Al, be nice. I am here on a peace mission. Let's take a ride. There are two persons I want you to meet. I want to check your words against theirs.
At that time, you pulled out the Glock and showed it to him. Then you said, "please don't force me to use it." By that time, you had already determined that there was nobody else in the house. You looked at his eyes and they never left you. He never looked furtively at other rooms in the house nor raised his voice to alert his roommates, but you didn't want to be over-confident, so you forced him to walk with you, with the Glock on his back to check all the rooms and closets in the house. Finally, you told him to give you his wallet, his watch, and his diamond ring. He asked you why and you told him in an über-serious tone of voice if he did as he was told, he would be okay. You added, " listen very carefully because your life depends on it. Just do as I say, no screaming for help, no running away, just sit still in the car, look straight ahead. We'll take a ride for about 45 minutes, meet two guys, have a talk, then I will return to you the wallet, the watch, and the ring, and you can go home again."
Alberto did as he was told, including carrying the pizza and putting it in the back seat of the car, although he looked scared and confused. A couple of times he tried to ask you questions, but you told him to shut up as there would be plenty of time for questions later. You drove with your left hand, the Glock in your right hand, pressing against his ribs, covered under your jacket. The car heater was on, but you could tell that Alberto was shivering. After all, he was 70 and didn't appear in robust health. You doubted if he frequently the gym as often as you did, and you were 6 years his junior. You took him to a quiet, remote part of a Arizona National Park that you went hiking from time to time in the summer. I stopped the car, motioned him to get out of the car, the gun trained on his chest.
-While waiting for two guys to show up, l want to ask you a few questions.
-What guys? Do I know them?
-No matter. Just answer my questions truthfully. After I left, did you threaten to have me wasted?
- No (after a slight hesitation of about four seconds).
-Are you sure?
-No, I meant yes, listen Roberto, we know each other. We all bullshit for "fun". I meant nothing by what I said.
- So that meant you actually did threaten me. So what was your plan? You would do yourself or you had a contract out on me?
Then the fucker stupidly tried to act smart and brave.
-Killing me would just get yourself into deeper shit. Yes, there's a guy looking for you.
-You sure about that?
-Yeah.
-Thanks, Al (for a CPA, he was fucking dumb)
Then you shot him at the chest. You blew him off his feet. He landed on his back, looking very pale and in shock. You walked over and shot him one again in the chest, aiming for his heart. You then followed up with two shots in the head. You didn't bother to check his pulse as they did in the movie because it was extremely unlikely an old man in his condition would survive with most of his face and brain missing, not counting two chest wounds, one of which in the vicinity of the heart, if not right in it.
On the way back to the car, you noticed that there was some blood on your jacket, but first thing first. You put on the gloves, carrying with you a pair of pliers and a hunting knife back to the corpse. Youyanked all of remaining teeth from his jaw, cut off the tips of all his fingers and then put them in one of the pockets of the jacket, and came back to the car. You drove away at normal speed. You met nobody on the way back to the freeway. You didn't expect any, being in January and the park was closed. Where Alberto and you got off from the car was about a mile from the park's gate. You dumped Al's teeth and finger tips one by one into the toilet and took time to flush them in the highway public restroom near Scottsdale. You threw away the blood-stained jacket in the drainage ditch near the restroom after looking around and seeing nobody. You put on another jacket and drove at the speed limit all the way to Vegas, too keyed up to sleep, too worried to stop at any rest stop for long. You ate the pizza and gulped it down with Coke. The pizza and the Coke tasted so good.
You checked into a nondescript motel in downtown Vegas, paid cash for the room, and crashed after getting on the Net and flipping on CNN and Fox News for any news about a missing retired CPA named Alberto Gonzalez. If the body was not discovered within a few days, the animals and the bugs would make the Alberto's "disappearance" quite literal in a matter of weeks, except for the remnants of his clothes. Without the denture and the finger tips, it would be next to impossible to make a link between the bones, tattered clothes, and Alberto. The next day you returned the rental car, called Chuck up and told him you were in Vegas and needed a place to stay.
He got you hooked up with his mother-in-law named Yvette who let you rent a room in a big house after her former military intelligence officer husband of over 40 years walked out on her. After staying in the house for 3 weeks, you understood why her husband left her. She was demanding and controlling and vengeful. She developed a crush on you but told everybody you had a soft spot in your heart for her. You played dumb as you needed anonymity and a quiet place to stay out of sight. You changed your appearance. The mustache stayed on and so did the dyed black hair instead of the normal salt and pepper. You didn't speak in the casino unless you absolutely had to. You didn't make friends. You just played poker for a few hours to keep you happy and sharp. Chuck never once asked you about Alberto. You kept surfing the Net about the stupid former Hispanic CPA, but apparently his disappearance was a non-event. You pawned Alberto's Rolex watch and diamond ring in a pawnshop in North Las Vegas for $5,500. You already buried his wallet in a thick bush . You didn't feel bad at all at what you did. He asked for it and you hated the fucker. You had a healthy flexibility about morality.
You have been in Vegas for 3 months now. You are not getting complacent. However, there's very little circumstantial evidence to tie you with Alberto's disappearance, let alone his demise. Two days ago, after beating around the bush, Yvette asked you for pointers on how to make the Vietnamese woman with whom her husband is shacking "disappear". Shocked, you tersely asked her what on earth that gave her an idea that you knew something about that "area". She said that Chuck had told her you knew some "friends" who were "experts" in that "department". You told her that Chuck got it all wrong. You had no such friends.
Ever since Yvette dropped the bombshell of an inquiry about the "art" of making people "disappear", you are wondering maybe you need to go back to the tropics and the rice fields where you originally came from. But doing that would deprive you of "amenities" like freedom, democracy, human rights, excellent health care, and library system, not counting the arid, hot climate to which you are acclimating and with which you are falling in love.
Killing is easy, it's living with the consequences that is the bitch, if not the butch. Don't do it if you were not really made for it, otherwise you would have tense days and sleepless nights, and your quality of life would suffer. Trust me. Take my word for it. I should know.
Wissai
March, 2013
A few years ago, you read a powerful short story written by Marcus Sakey. You read it four times, savoring each and every word and sentence. You then decided to copy it word for word, initially out of love, but in the process you contributed about 65% of the words in an adapted story (you acknowledged the intellectual debt to Sakey at the end of the story). You felt cleansed after you were done writing it. Writing it was therapeutic to you. You recently came across Sakey's story again. Its impact on you was still the same: you were on fire and at peace at the same time. The sad thing was that you couldn't locate the adapted story. It got lost somewhere in the cyberspace. So you wrote the following story from scratch, where no more than twenty words and none of the ideas came from Sakey's story. You hope it's considered half as good as the one you wrote three years ago. At the very least, it is an original, now that your imagination is more fecund and despairing.
_________________________________________________________________
You love talking, especially if there's a chance of seriously hurting myself. You like your food so hot that any woman sitting next to you would catch fire and invite you home. You like to live dangerously, close to the abyss and far away from the stars. You used to live in fear, but not anymore. Now you live in rage. You know one day you will not die in bed.
Spring may be somewhere else in North America, but where you live it's already summer. The sun comes out early and stays late. By mid-morning, it's already scorchingly hot, sucking moisture and energy out of all living things. The sunshine is white and blinding. Most of the time, the air is still. There's hardly a breeze. Leaves and branches on trees hang motionless most of the time. Rustling sounds made by swaying foliage are rare events. You stand motionless in the shade of some tree which sports tiny, waxy leaves in the parking lot of a Vegas public library, thinking of what happened.
James Joyce once wrote in the "Ulysses", "A man of genius makes no mistakes. His errors are volitional and are the portals of discovery". It may be so, but since you are no genius, you know you've made mistakes and they are legion, and your mistakes are portals of horror and anguish. It's reasonable to worship financial success. In fact you had it. One day you decided to embark on a journey of self-discovery and haven't looked back. You don't regard yourself a failure, nor do you think the journey has been of no use. You still have money. There's no way you will spend all of it before you die, unless you become stupid, fall in love, and give it away to some beautiful, sexy bitch. You have had a very rich life, compared with most other humans who decided to play safe. You could have a net worth of at least $5 million if you played safe like most monkeys and cowards, but Money was not what motivated you. Love and Knowledge kept you going. And now something else really keeps you going. Did you ever regret over what you did? The head softly says yes while the heart keeps screaming, "F--- No!"
You went to Vegas, not by volition, but out of necessity. Vegas is big and full of transients and tourists, a place where an appearance of anonymity is alluring. It gives people like you a second and possibly last chance to start life all over again. You thought long and hard of other choices like Los Angeles and Biloxi, MS., but they came up short, although Biloxi came a very close second. Biloxi's slow pace of life, the quiet, and Southern hospitality appealed to you, but the anonymity was not assured. Besides, you don't like humid, hot climate, even though you originally came from the tropics. You like dry, arid, hot climate. Vegas, its size, climate, and culture appealed to you.
Like you said, you used to live in fear. Fear of failure, of poverty, of ignorance, and of death. The fear drove you to books and kept your mouth shut. But that was not exactly how you wanted to live your life. You loved talking, opening your mouth and letting whatever pass through your mind to exit through your mouth, consequences be damned. But fear made you become a stranger to yourself. So you read more books and saved more money until one day only one fear remained: fear of ignorance. The more you were fearful of ignorance, the more you read books. In the process you discovered that you were different from most humans. They had no fear of ignorance at all. Consequently, they were poseurs and full of pretenses. They presented to the world an unwarranted high regard of themselves. They had a fear of disrespect and rejection. But fear was a strange animal, whatever its manifestation. They could shut it off in a room and throw away the key, hoping the animal would die and they wouldn't hear of its presence anymore. But the animal didn't die. It kept growling and beating on the door until one day the hinges got loose and the door got busted open and the beast got out and found them. It grabbed their shoulders and looked at them in the eyes and grinned, showing its yellow, mildewed teeth and a foul odor exited from its mouth when it said to them, "Hello, it's me. We met before. Do you remember?" At that time, most of them would have a stupid, sheepish look on their faces. The assholes and scumbags craved respect so they brazenly lied and/or put others down by cheap innuendos and insinuations instead of owning up to the facts and truths. Deep down the assholes and scumbags had no self-respect nor a sense of honor. They were basically animals, fearful of just about everything, except the only thing that would make them human: ignorance. It was knowledge that set humans apart from non-humans. Real humans know who they are, why they are on this planet Earth, and where they go after they die. They also know concepts like God, reincarnation, heaven and hell are products of the imagination of mind controllers and absolutely have no basis in physical reality, and are produced for the consumption of the human animals who are too stupid or lazy to think for themselves.
It was precisely fear of disrespect and rejection that led Yvette to you. She was the mother -in-law of Chuck. Chuck was a poker dealer in one of the Indian casinos in Scottsdale, a wealthy suburb of Phoenix, AZ. Poker has exerted on the imagination of the public and has its own myths and mythos. It can be played as a recreational game, a gambling pursuit, or as a deadly mind contact sport where honor, fortune or bankruptcy are at stake. It is a social equalizer. At the poker table, the social status doesn't mean didly s--t; neither does money because if one plays poorly in a gambling way without a good grasp of mathematical probability, the nature of luck (good and bad), understanding of the human mind regarding courage, saving face, pain threshold, self-control, and money management, the money would not last and will migrate to those who initially had less money.
Poker attracts all kinds of players who think they are smart and can think. People who like to take risks and love excitement also flock to the game. So at the poker table, a wide range of humanity assemble and duke it out for supremacy. Only the best hand wins. Coming in consistently as second place is a financial disaster and a blow to one's conception of oneself. There is no other human adventure where a man's true nature is laid bare for him and others to see. It is an activity where lying to others is acceptable but lying to oneself is disastrous. Poker, properly played and managed, can be a good builder of character, not counting bankroll. Poker is life condensed and distilled where conversations can turn deadly as what happened three months ago in a poker room in Scottsdale where Chuck worked.
The game was no-limit hold 'em where one could bet whatever the amount one had in front of him. The room was full, as usual. You showed up there right after work, having called ahead for a seat reservation.
You ambled into the poker room, feeling tense and ill at ease. It was not so much from fear of losing as having a foreboding sense of something dramatic, out of joint, and unusual that was to occur. You had a highly tuned intuition. You should have listened to it and turned around and gone back to your apartment, but you did not. You were directed to a table that were was full of regulars. The banter was friendly as usual, but a bit more risqué, being Friday night and the Super Bowl was just two days away. Then it turned sick. Two old, cynical players started talking about death, cancer, and suicide, then "progressing" to necrophilia and murder and cannibalism.They seemed to relish the conversation. Now and then several others chimed in, adding wisecracks and double entendres. The conversation was now about Jeffrey Dahmer and how sick he was. Alberto, one of the two cynics wondered out loud if Dahmer's death was a spontaneous jailhouse execution or it was a murder for hire commissioned by one of Dahmer's victims' relatives. He then added that he would kill Dahmer for free. That was when you felt you had to speak because you didn't like Alberto's motor mouth and braggadocio.
-You just talked. You would not have the balls to kill him even if somebody paid you.
-Oh yeah, how the fuck that you know so much about me?
- I just know, shithead. I know your type. All talk. No action. All fucking lies to make yourself look good. Assholes like you are dime a dozen. Shit, in my college days, assholes like you, I ate for lunch.
-Oh yeah, eat me then, suck my dick!
Chuck, the dealer told us right there and then to cut it all out otherwise he would have to call the poker room shift manager over. Alberto glared at you and said nothing. You looked at him and smiled in contempt. A few minutes later, you won $375 off him and you got up and left. Chuck was still dealing. You tossed him two red birds (2 $5 chips) as tips.
You were still steaming while walking to your car in the parking. You hated scumbags like Alberto. They never owned what they said. They just wanted to look tough by talking tough. You ran into scumbags like him all the time. You should have kept your mouth shut. You knew better. Instead of going straight home, you stopped by the 24 Hours Fitness Club. You swam laps non-stop for over an hour until you could hardly raise your arms above water. When you got home you were in a somewhat better mood. You took off your clothes, soaked yourself in the warm water of the bathtub and listened to the sound of bubbling brook on tape wafting from the living room.
The next afternoon you were back to the poker room. You were somber and laconic. You were playing at the table with no regulars. You were there for no more than 15 minutes when Chuck came over and gave you a piece of paper. It said, "Meet me in the men's room 30 minutes from now. Something very serious coming up. Stop playing at once. Be alert. Watch your back. Destroy this note. Tell nobody about the note nor about meeting me. Your friend, Chuck ".
You felt short of breath after reading the note. Your throat was dry. You gulped down almost half of your bottled water. You got up from the table. You had a small loss. After cashing your chips, you went outside for fresh air and to clear your head. You kept walking around the casino in the frigid winter air. Steam of breath escaped from your mouth. You kept wondering what Chuck's cryptic note was all about. You were back inside the casino after 20 minutes of walking and headed to the restroom next to the poker room. Chuck appeared 5 minutes later, looking real serious and weary. He motioned you to the last two urinals along the wall. He whispered:
-After you left, Alberto was talking trash. Others laughed at him, saying you had a point. Then he blurted out that you and everybody else didn't know the fuck you guys were talking about. The way he talked really concerned me. The tone and the quiet fury. Then Bobby asked him what he meant. He just clammed up and got up and left. If I were you, I'd leave town immediately.
-You really think he has the balls to do something stupid?
-No, but he could hire somebody. He has the money and he is mean.
-Thanks a lot, Chuck.
-If you're in Vegas and need a place to stay for a while, call me. I have friends there.
You didn't leave town immediately, but you acted fast. Death would come to those who didn't draw fast enough. You couldn't afford to diddle and dawdle around. You left the apartment after taking with you the bare essentials (including a Glock and two magazines) which fit into two suitcases. You checked into a motel that night, paying for a week in advance in cash, using a false name and making up the license plate number. Your car was parked not in the motel's parking lot. It was parked two blocks away in the visitor's spot in an apartment complex.
You holed up in the motel room surfing the net for Alberto's address. You found it within an hour. Google Earth indicated that the house was not in a gated community. A very good sign. Then you thought and visualized and meditated and doing Yoga exercises. You didn't go out, even for food. You ordered pizza.
On Monday morning, you called in sick. You opened a post office box, completed a forwarding address card, and closed your banking accounts. Then you went on a reconnaissance mission with a rented car, after selling your car at Carmax. You already dyed your hair and were growing a beard. You had aviator glasses on. By the time you got to Alberto's house, it was almost half past ten. You drove past it with a normal speed. It was in the cul-de-sac, fairly big, two stories, no cars parked in the vicinity. The street looked quiet and empty. No toys or bicycles in the front lawns. It was winter, but Scottsdale was warmer than Vegas. The ambient temperature was around fifty degrees. The sun was out. You drove past the house again, this time more slowly. Curtains were not closed in neither floor. You knew Alberto was widowed. His wife died last year. He made a big stink about it at the poker table. Everybody, including you, made a show of conveying sympathy while he gravely acknowledged the condolences. He could live by himself. He could have roommates to share the expenses although he didn't really need the money. He was a retired successful CPA. He told everybody so. There was one way to find out if he was in the house and alone. You took out your cell phone.
About 30 minutes later, a rather beat up old car with Papa John's Pizza sign on the roof stopped in front of the house. An middle-aged Hispanic delivery man stopped out of the car and marched briskly to the door. By that time, you were by the side of the house, looking nonchalant and cool. You blocked his path. You gave him $20 for a $15 pizza, telling him to wait if your friend Alberto would answer the door, and if he did, just saying to Alberto he was delivering a free pizza, at the courtesy of a friend, and hanging around if Alberto would give him any tip. If Alberto did not, you would give him another $5. The Hispanic looked excited and happy. He rang the door bell. The door was yanked wide open in less than a minute. Alberto barked, "I didn't order any pizza!" You stepped right inside the house, your right hand was already on the trigger of the Glock inside your jacket, and said, "But I did, as a pleasant surprise, Al." "Here's your tip, " said you as pleasantly as you could as you gave the $5 bill to the Hispanic pizza man. He bowed lightly his head, saying "muchas gracias, señor", handed the pizza to Alberto and ran back to his car. You kicked the door closed, and said gravely to Alberto: "I came to make peace, Al. Are you hungry? Let's eat pizza and have a talk. Anybody else in the house? They can share with us. The pizza is big enough. Do you have any beer?"
-Stop the bullshit! How did you find my house?
-You told us. You forgot? A nice, big house just for one person.
- Get the fuck out! And take the damn pizza with you.
-Al, be nice. I am here on a peace mission. Let's take a ride. There are two persons I want you to meet. I want to check your words against theirs.
At that time, you pulled out the Glock and showed it to him. Then you said, "please don't force me to use it." By that time, you had already determined that there was nobody else in the house. You looked at his eyes and they never left you. He never looked furtively at other rooms in the house nor raised his voice to alert his roommates, but you didn't want to be over-confident, so you forced him to walk with you, with the Glock on his back to check all the rooms and closets in the house. Finally, you told him to give you his wallet, his watch, and his diamond ring. He asked you why and you told him in an über-serious tone of voice if he did as he was told, he would be okay. You added, " listen very carefully because your life depends on it. Just do as I say, no screaming for help, no running away, just sit still in the car, look straight ahead. We'll take a ride for about 45 minutes, meet two guys, have a talk, then I will return to you the wallet, the watch, and the ring, and you can go home again."
Alberto did as he was told, including carrying the pizza and putting it in the back seat of the car, although he looked scared and confused. A couple of times he tried to ask you questions, but you told him to shut up as there would be plenty of time for questions later. You drove with your left hand, the Glock in your right hand, pressing against his ribs, covered under your jacket. The car heater was on, but you could tell that Alberto was shivering. After all, he was 70 and didn't appear in robust health. You doubted if he frequently the gym as often as you did, and you were 6 years his junior. You took him to a quiet, remote part of a Arizona National Park that you went hiking from time to time in the summer. I stopped the car, motioned him to get out of the car, the gun trained on his chest.
-While waiting for two guys to show up, l want to ask you a few questions.
-What guys? Do I know them?
-No matter. Just answer my questions truthfully. After I left, did you threaten to have me wasted?
- No (after a slight hesitation of about four seconds).
-Are you sure?
-No, I meant yes, listen Roberto, we know each other. We all bullshit for "fun". I meant nothing by what I said.
- So that meant you actually did threaten me. So what was your plan? You would do yourself or you had a contract out on me?
Then the fucker stupidly tried to act smart and brave.
-Killing me would just get yourself into deeper shit. Yes, there's a guy looking for you.
-You sure about that?
-Yeah.
-Thanks, Al (for a CPA, he was fucking dumb)
Then you shot him at the chest. You blew him off his feet. He landed on his back, looking very pale and in shock. You walked over and shot him one again in the chest, aiming for his heart. You then followed up with two shots in the head. You didn't bother to check his pulse as they did in the movie because it was extremely unlikely an old man in his condition would survive with most of his face and brain missing, not counting two chest wounds, one of which in the vicinity of the heart, if not right in it.
On the way back to the car, you noticed that there was some blood on your jacket, but first thing first. You put on the gloves, carrying with you a pair of pliers and a hunting knife back to the corpse. Youyanked all of remaining teeth from his jaw, cut off the tips of all his fingers and then put them in one of the pockets of the jacket, and came back to the car. You drove away at normal speed. You met nobody on the way back to the freeway. You didn't expect any, being in January and the park was closed. Where Alberto and you got off from the car was about a mile from the park's gate. You dumped Al's teeth and finger tips one by one into the toilet and took time to flush them in the highway public restroom near Scottsdale. You threw away the blood-stained jacket in the drainage ditch near the restroom after looking around and seeing nobody. You put on another jacket and drove at the speed limit all the way to Vegas, too keyed up to sleep, too worried to stop at any rest stop for long. You ate the pizza and gulped it down with Coke. The pizza and the Coke tasted so good.
You checked into a nondescript motel in downtown Vegas, paid cash for the room, and crashed after getting on the Net and flipping on CNN and Fox News for any news about a missing retired CPA named Alberto Gonzalez. If the body was not discovered within a few days, the animals and the bugs would make the Alberto's "disappearance" quite literal in a matter of weeks, except for the remnants of his clothes. Without the denture and the finger tips, it would be next to impossible to make a link between the bones, tattered clothes, and Alberto. The next day you returned the rental car, called Chuck up and told him you were in Vegas and needed a place to stay.
He got you hooked up with his mother-in-law named Yvette who let you rent a room in a big house after her former military intelligence officer husband of over 40 years walked out on her. After staying in the house for 3 weeks, you understood why her husband left her. She was demanding and controlling and vengeful. She developed a crush on you but told everybody you had a soft spot in your heart for her. You played dumb as you needed anonymity and a quiet place to stay out of sight. You changed your appearance. The mustache stayed on and so did the dyed black hair instead of the normal salt and pepper. You didn't speak in the casino unless you absolutely had to. You didn't make friends. You just played poker for a few hours to keep you happy and sharp. Chuck never once asked you about Alberto. You kept surfing the Net about the stupid former Hispanic CPA, but apparently his disappearance was a non-event. You pawned Alberto's Rolex watch and diamond ring in a pawnshop in North Las Vegas for $5,500. You already buried his wallet in a thick bush . You didn't feel bad at all at what you did. He asked for it and you hated the fucker. You had a healthy flexibility about morality.
You have been in Vegas for 3 months now. You are not getting complacent. However, there's very little circumstantial evidence to tie you with Alberto's disappearance, let alone his demise. Two days ago, after beating around the bush, Yvette asked you for pointers on how to make the Vietnamese woman with whom her husband is shacking "disappear". Shocked, you tersely asked her what on earth that gave her an idea that you knew something about that "area". She said that Chuck had told her you knew some "friends" who were "experts" in that "department". You told her that Chuck got it all wrong. You had no such friends.
Ever since Yvette dropped the bombshell of an inquiry about the "art" of making people "disappear", you are wondering maybe you need to go back to the tropics and the rice fields where you originally came from. But doing that would deprive you of "amenities" like freedom, democracy, human rights, excellent health care, and library system, not counting the arid, hot climate to which you are acclimating and with which you are falling in love.
Killing is easy, it's living with the consequences that is the bitch, if not the butch. Don't do it if you were not really made for it, otherwise you would have tense days and sleepless nights, and your quality of life would suffer. Trust me. Take my word for it. I should know.
Wissai
March, 2013
Monday, April 8, 2013
Fear
Fear
Death: I am not so much afraid of death as the untimely death.
Ignorance: I am afraid that I am so ignorant that I don't know I am an ignoramus.
Noise: Those who make meaningless noise are afraid of the insignificance of their existence. They believe noise, any noise, is better than oppressive silence because silence forces them to confront the lack of meaning of their existence. That explains the plethora of nonsense and stupidity of some posts on the Net.
Cowardice: Intellectual cowardice is the most pathetic of all. The dude is afraid of his own shadow which is his ignorance, but too chicken-hearted to publicly admit it, so he resorts to outright lies and cheap innuendoes to hopefully bring those who are intellectually superior down to his level.
Wissai
April 08, 2013
Death: I am not so much afraid of death as the untimely death.
Ignorance: I am afraid that I am so ignorant that I don't know I am an ignoramus.
Noise: Those who make meaningless noise are afraid of the insignificance of their existence. They believe noise, any noise, is better than oppressive silence because silence forces them to confront the lack of meaning of their existence. That explains the plethora of nonsense and stupidity of some posts on the Net.
Cowardice: Intellectual cowardice is the most pathetic of all. The dude is afraid of his own shadow which is his ignorance, but too chicken-hearted to publicly admit it, so he resorts to outright lies and cheap innuendoes to hopefully bring those who are intellectually superior down to his level.
Wissai
April 08, 2013
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