Knowledge and Truths

Knowledge and Truths

The assholes that I know all are very annoyed that I don't show them any respect in spite of their "advanced" degrees and money. They are too stupid to realize that to me, degrees and money and status in life don't mean shit. Higher values like integrity, extensive and varied knowledge about the world, and deep honesty, not facile hypocrisy, are what earn my respect. 

Compared to me, the assholes are woefully ignorant of history, religion,  logic, philosophy, and languages, linguistics, sociology, anthropology, psychology, ethology, and political science, and yet they think they are "educated". To me, outside of their field of specially, they are ignorant bastards and assholes and don't impress me at all, not a bit, not a fucking iota. 

Right now I am reading a scholarly book ("Zealot") about Jesus, whom I always considered an ambitious, odd, deluded, fanatical unlettered guy, and not at all a figure of some link to divinity as his followers stupidly, very stupidly, and fervently believe. I never respect humans who believe in the nonsense and the absurd because these humans are emotionally and intellectually weak and have to rely on superstitions and stupidities, instead of reason and logic, to deal with problems. There is nothing more revolting to human dignity than self-deception. These so-called humans are not interested in knowledge and truths. I am. 

Grace and Sublimity

Grace and Sublimity

In a profession that demands perfection, he is sublimely reliable. In an avocation that calls for composure and calmness amidst calamities, he is a Zen master of cool. He is an assassin by trade and a poker player by amusement. He kills with efficiency and plays poker with detachment to the outcome. He is a winner in both endeavors, well-to-do, kind, self-effacing, and a friend of mine. His name is Omar Sabat. You have met him before. But you don't know I have become a better man, thanks to him, if such a thing is possible. From him, I learned about grace and sublimity. Not humility. 

"Humility, Roberto, is for sissies and phonies. I have not met a truly humble man, have you? All the motherfuckers who preach about humility and modesty and tell us to listen to advice and "constructive" comments and "truths" from friends and relatives are a bunch of poseurs if you dissect and analyze not the words they use, but their tone of voice, their priggish, prickly, haughty behavior, their undue pride of their "accomplishments" which under close scrutiny are pedestrian and not striking or earth-shaking at all. Any moron with a high degree of perseverance would be all able to do all those. None of the motherfuckers is an Einstein or a Shakespeare or a Beethoven. Nobody will remember them after they die because they are, in essence, mediocre, and in fact, not as good and well-rounded as you are. You must be convinced of your own worth and excellence. You must be proud of who you are and what you are made of. That doesn't mean you should walk around with a false and fake sense of superiority because of some imagined greatness. Rather, be objective and honest with yourself as to why you think you're "better" than most humans you've met, and then move on to your areas of weakness and work on them. Respect facts and truths, no matter how unpleasant and painful they are. You're a war survivor. So am I. We are more alike than you think, although you're a bit more damaged than me. But you're doing great. You haven't killed anybody. Nor have you spent a day in jail. And you have neither robbed nor stolen nor begged to survive. You survive on the fruits of your labor and the sweats of your efforts. You're honest, sensitive, artistic, funny, extremely articulate, multilingual, well-informed, good-looking, healthy, sexy, and still popular with women, then why do the fuck you have to be falsely humble? You're a rarity. Be proud of that.

I understand after the war, we all had to navigate the waters of the aftermath all by ourselves, cut off from the psychological support that we no longer everyday had to deal with the specter of death. Previously, trying to stay alive kept our minds busy and focused. Little things didn't bother us. We thought after the war, we were liberated and free, but we were not. We now had to deal with the problems associated with being alive. Unlike me, you didn't have to cope with the anger of realizing that my life was almost wasted in order to line up the pockets of politicians and their friends. I became an assassin in order to sublimate my anger. Would you believe that several of my marks were politicians? I would have carried out  the contracts for free. 

This life after the war, this feeling of why there were men who were nicer and better people than I was, and deserving to live than I was, died while I was still alive brought to the fore of my consciousness that life is unfair and capricious and has no meaning by itself. And my very own life intrinsically has no meaning either. I have to create meaning for it. I have to make it purposeful and useful and relevant. You understand what I'm saying? That is the realization with which I still have to wrestle every fucking day. So I decided to avoid acts of self-aggrandizement, which are themselves very farcical and childish. I didn't want to do the same thing as so many hypocritical assholes did. I went for authenticity. I refused to pathologize life any more than it already was. I refused to be psychologically damaged. I didn't feel sorry for myself. I didn't want to romanticize life either. I took life as it came, accepting whatever it offered. It may be not a poetic way of living life, but by doing so I didn't let the scumbags get to me. I knew I could get rid of them easily, but there were so many of them. I would get no satisfaction from exterminating cockroaches. I liked challenges and I wanted to get paid handsomely for a job well done. I turned to Buddhism and tried to travel light. I stopped carrying memories of the war in my mind. If they came---and they still do sometimes, especially when I am fatigued or don't sleep well--- I just let them come. I was not afraid of them anymore. They lost power over me. I  realized they were just remnants of some neural activities and I was the boss and the real mensch who would not let those fleeting recollections destroy me. They came on their own and they left a few minutes or even seconds later on their own, when they saw me indifferent to them. Buddhism also taught me about grace and sublimity. I now conjure up in my mind whenever I meditate: bamboo trees gracefully sway with the winds, their leaves forever green, sunlight dancing on the leaves, and I sit in a clearing nearby, feeling alive and breathing in and out the breath of life, and feeling the sublime serenity of peace of mind, and the humming vibrations of life around me. 

I may quit my profession anytime now and go to Mexico to live out the remainder of my life. Will you come with me? A smart man quits when he's ahead, knowing that enough is enough. Napoleon Bonaparte and Hitler should have done that. I'm a student of history. I don't want to repeat the errors of others. I have more money than I can spend. I should retire from my business which is really an intimate, close dance with a drawn sword while trying not to get hurt. I'm only a man. For all I know, there may be a contract out on me at any given time, just to close out all the loopholes. 

You know, there's a progression from thought to talk to action. Talking is just thought being articulated and tested for soundness prior to committing to action. Sometimes, the intermediate talking stage is bypassed. But in my case, I'm glad you're my friend and such a good listener. You know what? I don't think anymore. I'm through with thinking and toying with quitting my profession. I've just made up my mind. I'll tell my contact that I'm out. I'll text him. I owe him at least that. You have a week to get all your shit together if you want to join me in Mexico, maybe Costa Rica. The language wouldn't be a problem for us."

September 30, 2013.
Roberto Wissai/NKBa', BSR

No compromises nor negotiations with adversaries?

No compromises nor negotiations with the VC?

The following is my edited comment on a recent article in the VT website in which the author cogently argued against any "hoà giải dân tộc"  with the VC:

"A cogent, closely reasoned article, but---like many other articles of the same theme: no compromises nor negotiations with the VC because of their evils (which include the untrustworthiness of the VC leadership)---it fails to take into account of the following considerations:

1. Staking and loudly broadcasting a cast-in-stone, inflexible, unyielding position, however correct and justified the position is, is not a wise strategy since it forces and boxes the adversary into a corner and thus he has to adopt, as a reaction, a fight-to-the-death counter-position because he fears, and rightfully so, if he ever loses power, he will be exterminated. A more practical and psychologically more solid strategy is to appeal to the inherent patriotism of our people as well as our fear of genocide and intense hatred for the Chinese, concomitant with a solemn promise of forgiveness and national reconciliation in the spirit of Nelson Mandela when he came to power. Revenge and seeking catharsis by bloodletting are stupid and a waste of human resources. The enemy of the Vietnamese is the Chinese, not other Vietnamese. We need to recognize power in the forgiveness of our wayward brothers. There is true power in the act of forgiveness. It brings forth a healing process to both parties. On the contrary, if everybody in a family seeks an eye for an eye, everybody in that family will be blind and become easy prey for outsiders. 

2. A concrete setting of behavioral examples by Viet expatriates, especially their leaders. What we exhort the local people to do, we must do likewise. So far, the local people have shown more guts than self-appointed leaders and pundits of the Viet expatriates. We must show that the expatriates care as much for Vietnam as our compatriots at home.

3. A unified opposition group that presents itself a better alternative than the VC, and inspires widespread support inside and outside of Vietnam.

4. Short of massive and widespread and unending uprisings of our compatriots at home, the opportunistic and/or patriotic elements of the VC establishment would not seize power and ally themselves with the people in order to ensure the independence of Vietnam from China. How are the self-appointed leaders and pundits of the expatriates going to be a catalyst for such a scenario? Certainly, not by just sitting in an arm-chair outside of Vietnam, and writing unyielding speeches and articles exhorting the local people to rise up while these so-called leaders and pundits don’t put their own necks on the line. These leaders and pundits need to be back to Vietnam with much fanfare and publicity, and be willing to spearhead demonstrations and to risk arrest, torture, and death. Until then their pretty and eloquent words are just pieces of "literature" and acts of self-aggrandizement. Actions speak louder than words. 

Roberto Wissai/NKBa', BSR

Life, Law, and You

Life, Law, and You

You have been told over and over again if you want ever to see your words in print and read by a curious and adoring reading public, you must follow certain rules when writing, two of which are to write what the reader wants to read, not what you want to write; and to avoid being cute. You say screw to those recommendations because you write for fun and release and not to seek fame and fortune. If there is only one reader in this worldwide world and on this vast planet, who appreciates and enjoys reading what you have to offer, that's fine and sufficient to you. 

Yesterday you accidentally cut yourself quite badly---blood rushed out in a torrent and you couldn't stop the bleeding---and had to rush to the emergency room of a local hospital. The middle-aged female doctor and the nurses who attended to you were very nice. You were touched by their kindness and professionalism. All too often in the past you had to put up with the condescending haughtiness of health professionals. They appeared uncaring and acted as if they were doing you a big favor and their services were free of monetary compensation. That was why you developed an intense dislike and distrust, if not disdain and contempt, of these individuals who, in your eyes, performed their services purely in exchange of money, instead of a noble calling of saving lives. 

A life, by itself may not not mean much, if any at all,  for the outsiders and the uninterested, but certainly means a damned whole lot to the entity who possesses that life. The instinct for self-preservation kicks in when the entity perceives that it is in mortal danger.  At least that was what how you felt and acted yesterday.You acted purely on instinct. You were nervous, but alert and were aware that you must act quickly to save yourself, and money be damned. And you were glad that you did. You of course realized at that time all your prior flirtations with self-destruction were childish, immature acts and words of "literature". Your life, whatever left of it, is still beautiful and worthy to be preserved at all costs, except perhaps not including honor and justice. You still have to live with yourself everyday when darkness falls and stillness of the soul returns. Conscience must count for something. That "something" sets apart men from boys, real humans from vain simians. Compared to the lives of many others around you, it is far more precious and worthy. You still have a lot to offer, at least to those who know you and need your help when they need it. Later on, you told your mishap to various persons who knew you. Their reactions to your mishap told you a lot of how they felt about you. Succinctly speaking, nobody really gave a damn about you, except yourself. No wonder there are so many long, sad, faces wherever you go. A happy, caring man is hard to find. Speaking about a happy, caring man, last month you gave in to the sirens of human kindness and lent $200 to an acquaintance, even though you had sworn to yourself that you would never do such a thing again because you had been screwed in the past. But the pleading voice and the anxiety registered on the face of that acquaintance were too much for you to bear. Besides, you liked the dude. He was a cool Asian  who just let the gambling addiction overwhelm him.You said to him, "Bert, please don't disappoint me. Pay me back two weeks from now as you promised. I like you and you know it. Don't screw somebody who likes and trusts you. Here's the money. I don't want to make a big production out of this, but you know it is my hard-earned money. I had to sweat for it." He nervously chuckled, but embraced you and said, "Thank you, Roberto, thank you. You "saved" my life! Don't worry, I'll pay you back." And he did. You were relieved, but were prepared not to see those $200 again. Gamblers are notorious for not keeping their word. 

You are now sitting in a court of law, awaiting a trial involving alleged traffic violation, and quite woozy from the tetanus shot you received yesterday. You didn't run the red light as the power-hungry, rednecked, lily white, pasty-faced police officer who wrote so on the traffic ticket. The light changed to yellow when you were right in the middle of the intersection. You had no choice but to proceed. The officer pulled you over and lied on the ticket. He also gave you a citation for failure to carry the vehicle registration. The sticker on the license plate was not enough for him. What a sorry piece of humanity! While talking to you, he turned around and lectured a woman who jaywalked. Humans love to assert power whenever they have a chance. Anyway, while waiting for your case to come up, you watched a variety of non-traffic cases being adjudicated. The tone of the voice of the presiding judge, the body language of the opposing attorneys, the marshals, and the defendants---some of them were in prison garb and in chains, all reflected the interplays of the principles of power. Life, in its purest form, is about power. No wonder assholes, scumbags, and simians love it so much. 

Your case came up.  The cop, a certain Thompson was there. Here is the transcript of the court proceedings as you remember them:

-Mr. Wissai, the records say that you ran a red light and failed to have the vehicle registration. How do you plead?
-Not guilty, Your Honor. I didn't run a red light. The officer knew it. And I knew it. What he wrote in the ticket was not true and he knew it. The light turned to yellow when I was in the intersection. I had no choice but to proceed. I could not stop right in the intersection. About the registration form, I had it in the glove compartment, but I was too flustered and upset for being accused of running a red light when I did not do it, that I could not find it. I asked the officer that if he ran the license plate he would easily see that the vehicle was registered to me and that I paid the registration fee.
-Officer Thompson, do you have anything to say about what Mr. Wissai just said.
-Your Honor, he lied. He ran the red light. I was right behind him. I saw him do it.
-Your Honor, may I say something?
-You may, go ahead, Mr. Wissai.
-What I said about the light turning to yellow when I was in the middle of the intersection was absolutely true. Now the officer disputed that and accused me of being a liar. Obviously, one of us here is not telling the truth. I have a conscience. The officer has a conscience. I am at peace with my conscience. I hope the officer is at peace with his. I am an immigrant. I came to this country primarily to live in freedom and in justice and respect for the law. I certainly feel I have not violated the law at all. 
-Officer Thompson, you have anything to add? 
-He violated the law. He ran the red light. I saw him do it. It was my duty to carry out the law. 
-Okay, here's my ruling, Mr. Wissai. I give you a benefit of the doubt about the traffic violation. Also, please keep the registration handy and produce it when asked by an officer of the law. Okay? Case dismissed. 
-Thank you, your Honor. 

You have personally known two judges, both are self-important, supercilious, and ignorant assholes. This judge was the first one that restored some confidence of yours in the competency of American judges at the lower levels. You walked out of the court room, feeling vindicated and triumphant, despite the intensifying wooziness caused by the tetanus shot.

Outside Fall is in full swing. The air is fresh and crispy. All the oppressive heat and humidity of the Summer were gone. Leaves are changing colors. Later on, as you walked into the Bellagio, the season's Fall exhibition in the atrium of the Conservatory was thronged with tourists, and your eyes caught sight of a picture of the woods in the Fall at the entrance of the exhibition. The picture showed red and yellow leaves on the ground in sharp contrast of the whiteness of the bark of birch trees. Your mind flashed back to the wonderful memories of pheasant hunting in the Fall with your host family back in 1966. The sensation of walking on thick beautiful dead colorful leaves in the woods while your scanned the trees for any sight of pheasant came back to you. You wonder if non-humans appreciate beauty as humans do. You doubt it, but you are not sure since you are a human, not a non-human. While male bowerbirds are known for building elaborate structures with sticks, grass, and objects of bright colors to attract females, you have a feeling that they do so with built-in imperatives of instinct, and not with a deliberate, conscious of choice as with the case of humans. Humans are notorious for their inaptitude to put up with boredom. They are forever on the search for the new, the different, new ways of expression, different modes of communication.  Just look at the changing tastes in fashion, painting, and sculpture. 

With fashion, we had the "progression" of nudity to crude clothing made of animal hides, leaves, and tree barks to elaborate, fanciful clothing with an odd emphasis on male masculinity to female sexuality, to androgyny, and current bold displays of female pubic region with a concomitant rise of tattooing and body piercings among both sexes. 

With painting and sculpture we have the "progression" from  realism to grotesque, oversized symbols, back to realism then to impressionist, post-impressionist, modernist, surrealist, and  post-modernist which is a fancy term for incommunicative and incomprehensible. Poetry as an art form at first was very communicative since it was designed for memorization and a tool to transmit history and literature. Its communicative power lasted until the second half of 20th century when incomprehensible forms of poetry appeared. The trend goes on unabated into the 21st century. Just open an issue of New Yorker, a barometer of modern sensibilities, at least in the U.S., you would bet very few readers would understand what the hell the poets wanted to say in a smattering of poems published in there.  It seems that contemporary poets suffer from a malaise called over-self indulgence. They write just to please themselves. No wonder very few, none as far as you know, books of poetry in the U.S. are in the bestseller category. Poets used to command respect and affection of the people. A few good ones were considered the souls of the people. And they used to write what the people wanted to articulate. Not anymore. No poet can make a living just from his poems. They have to have a "real" job to sustain themselves. You read somewhere that said art reflects the sensibilities of the times the artists live in. If that's so, modern and contemporary life must be a sad, dreary long stretch of alienation. 

But you are over-indulging yourself with this digressive diatribe. What you really wanted to convey in this maudlin, meandering missive is that if one wants to escape boredom and to appreciate life and freedom, one must at least once a month visit an emergency room of a local hospital and then spend some time in a court of law where the naked, relentless, brutal interplays of power are exhibited. 

September 27, 2013
Roberto Wissai/NKBa', BSR

P.S.

Thx for stating yr concern. I'm going to live. The wound is healing slowly with the help of antibiotics. Bleeding mercifully has stopped. Maybe the accident happened for a reason. A smart human drew lessons from his experiences. Bloodshed is the last resort and only as a defense. A bloody revenge is an unwise response to a problem. So is any act of malice. It causes nothing but troubles although it appears to bring momentary relief and release. Note your past angry words to me and mine to you. All acts of negativity are demeaning to the person who commits such acts. Of things we cannot speak nicely, we must remain silent unless they involve truths and justice and survival of a people or a group of which we are members. Still, I value truths and justice above all else, so if you find me wandering off the path of righteousness, feel free to call me on it. And I don't care if you resort to harshness to wake me up. Unfortunately, it is you who is the one who is afflicted with an inability to think straight, low level of intelligence, inadequate knowledge, penchant for cheap sarcasm, and an undying, recalcitrant propensity for self-righteousness. You need to cultivate an intense self-awareness and an ability to learn from criticism. Your critics are your unpaid teachers, even if some of them are malicious because if they are, now you know more about them and stay away from them. Unaccomplished (or not much accomplished) but egocentric folks tend to think unduly high of themselves. They don't really seem to understand they are only a legend in their own minds. After they die, nobody remembers or knows about them. They are a zero while they live and remain a zero after they die. I am such a person, but at least I am aware of my lot and condition. I laugh at and despise those who hanker and lust after power when they possess no real talents. Pursuing power, especially political power, when one has no talents is an act of supreme stupidity. I repeat what I wrote before, real humans (Buddha was a prime example) assert power over themselves; fools and jackasses try to assert power over fellow men, and many pay with their lives while trying to do that. Power is a double-edged sword. Only skillful swordsmen know how to use it without hurting themselves. 

She and You

She and You

She told me it was okay to confront darkness within,
But not cool to romanticize sorrow, especially coming from you.
She said, "throw that bitch into history's dustbin, don't be a bumpkin. 
It's high time for you to fall in love anew, 
With some woman nice and decent and sexy, somebody like me!"
So, what do you think of her forthright advice?
Should I throw you out of my mind and become her new devotee?
Should I welcome her into my life and make her my new spice? "

Wissai
September 25, 2015

Life's Simple Pleasures and Your Life as a "Thinker" and "Writer"

Life's Simple Pleasures and Your Life as a "Thinker" and "Writer"

Life is "good" and supposed to be "fun", too. That is what people have told you all these years, but you never believed them until now. You were too stupid, too wrapped up with your own little miseries to know any better. Until very recently. Humor helped you see the light. It opened your eyes. You were blessed with a sense of humor. It was dumb of you not to use it. You see, if you learn to laugh at certain people, you would not be that mad at them. 

People are often very funny, unwittingly funny. They take themselves too seriously while they are full of shit. They think they are better than they actually are. They think the world pays them attention and takes note of whatever they do, but the reality is that the world is supremely indifferent about them.  Everybody is busy to survive and to be free from pain. You used to be trusting and gullible, but are not anymore, hence no longer disappointed. To really love somebody means you must trust and respect the person, otherwise it is just empty words and wet dreams and complex signs and gestures of literature. 

Life has a lot to offer in terms of pleasures: food, sex, friendship, humor, nature, dogs as pets, music, reading, writing, singing, and physical exercises. Please note you don't mention fame or "power". You think only stupid assholes would be after power. They may not know by hankering and lusting after power, they make enemies and may actually die in the pursuit of what they set their myopic sights on. In addition, most of "powerful" people are not really happy. They know some people hate them, actually want to kill them, so they worry most of the time, even after they lose power. 

As a self-declared "thinker" and "philosopher", you always grapple with these basic existential questions: Why are you here? Where will you go after you die? What makes you happy and why? What do you want to do with your life? By confronting these questions and coming up with the answers you can't help but think poorly of those noise-makers who have no real talents, despite their having advanced degrees and have a certain status in society simply because they have not achieved anything that is momentous and earth-shaking. Somebody is really somebody when he revolutionizes the thinking of mankind about certain subject or comes up with a piece of artistic creation that is lasting in impact. An engineer is nobody unless he is an Eiffel; a physicist will be an unknown unless he is a Newton, Einstein, or a Hawking; an architect means shit unless he is a Corbusier; a painter is crap unless he is a Van Gogh; a doctor is just an ordinary prescription drug writer unless he is a Pasteur; a lawyer is just a glorified legal clerk unless he is a Warren or a Marshall; a philosopher is just a crabby dreamer unless he is a Kant, a Nietzsche, a Hegel, a Marx, or a Heidegger; and a writer is miserable unless he is a Nobel Prize winner. Most bestseller writers in pop fiction who make tons of money but receive no attention from literary critics and establishment know they just prostitute themselves because they dare not or cannot go for high fiction. Nobody will ever read them in college literature classrooms. Your point is that the world is full of ordinary, untalented clerks and professionals but these assholes think they are really somebodies just because they can read and put words together. They are clogging the Internet with their stupid nonsense. 

Back to the existential questions, here are your answers:

1. You are here because of a gratuitous event and chance encounter of an egg and a sperm. Luckily for you, the egg and the sperm were of good source, and their possessors were decent folks and took care of you. You were an accident and a choice. 

2. After you die, your body will swell up with gas as a result of decomposition and you will be eaten by bugs, animals (if not properly buried),and bacteria. The elements that made up of you will be absorbed into these organisms or into the ground. You will not go to heaven or descend to hell or reincarnate as some stupid religions say so. And you don't believe in God, and definitely think those who do so are very stupid or brainwashed. 

3. What makes you happy is when you are able to sleep well, write cogently on a subject, compose a good poem or short story, able to laugh at the follies and stupidities and ignorance of yourself and others, look at yourself in the mirror and think you are still good-looking and sexy, read a good book, and are loved by a caring, unselfish, pretty woman.

4. As long as you live, you want to improve your mind, acquire knowledge, and try to write memorable poems and short stories. 

You have high standards. Most humans you encounter in real life and on the Internet are assholes and don't impress you at all, not a bit. So why do you have to show them respect? Why, Why, Why??? Oh, you get it!  Because society, common sense and decorum, "civilization" and "culture",  wisdom, cleverness, and "you get what you dish out" say so. 

But you are stopping short. You have not really declared who you are, what you have accomplished, and who are the influences on your "thinking".

You repeat, none of the people you have met either in real life or on the Internet really impress you. Some are decent, caring, even knowledgeable individuals, and worthy of your respect. But that's about it. They don't make your eyes glaze over and you want to rush over and bow to them and ask them to accept you as a pupil. 

You always ask yourself what is your contribution to mankind in terms of ideas and art. The answer is none in ideas and insignificant in art. 

You cannot really think of an idea that you have is really original and revolutionary. All you have is what you learned from others. So, what are they? Okay, let's hear them.

1. You are an accident, a gratuitous event in a world that has no meaning by itself. You were born, grow up, and die, and will not live again. Those who think differently are stupid simpletons and slaves of religious charlatans. What do you want to do with your life is up to you. Most humans are stupid so they chose to go after money, security, fame and power. You go after knowledge and the arts. You maintain that life is a process to become who you are.

2. You hold that most humans are scumbags and deserve to be exterminated. They have no decency, no sense of honor, no loyalty, no compassion and feelings for other forms of life besides themselves. They are animals so they do whatever necessary to survive. They are born shameless liars and hypocrites. They are the opposites of whatever they present themselves. Societal rules and laws were designed to control and keep these animals in check because to kill them outright is an impractical and impossible matter.

3. Human life is always a tension between self-preservation and self-destruction.

4. Love between two humans does exist, but it is rare. If you love somebody, but that person does not love you back, don't blame that person. You may not be good enough for him or her. Nobody,  in his right mind, throws away a good thing. Most unhappiness in love pursuit occurs when we aim too high. Yet if we aim too low, we get bored and dissatisfied. Most divorces take place because the people involved didn't wait long enough for the right partner. They were scared and impatient, so they settled for second, third, or fourth best. They really had no confidence in themselves. 

5. Social life operates on the principles of power. The sooner you understand that, the less unhappy and angry you become.

6. No matter what, and how tempting the urge is, you must fight against injustice and unfairness. You only hurt those who have hurt you. Spare innocent bystanders. Hitler was wrong in ordering Paris be burned to the ground. And the Shabaah terrorists were wrong in shooting at women and children in the mall in Kenya. 

7. Buddha was a wise psychologist, Muhammad was the most rounded individual compared to Buddha and Jesus, though still ignorant of causes of things. Jesus was delusional and power-hungry. His early death was no surprise. Dying then and dying now for your political and religious beliefs is not a smart thing to do because there's always a possibility that you are wrong. Most humans who become politicized are angry people. Anger is an energizer, but often is a lousy teacher. 

8. It is a stupid thing for the Vietnamese to keep fighting among themselves Their enemy is the Chinese, not the other Vietnamese. Not finding a common ground with your fellow countrymen in the midst of a foreign invasion does nothing good to your cause, but everything good for the invaders. 

9. Thinkers who have exerted an intellectual influence on you are many, but Nietzsche and Sartre are the most pronounced. From N you learned to become who you are and to live life dangerously. From S you find the ideas of authenticity and existence preceding essence attractive. 

10. In spite of your whining and crying, you have been blessed. You believe in second chances, in starting over and over again until you die, in persistence, and in redemption. 

As for the arts, you have written some good poems and amateurish short stories. 

Wissai
September 23, 2013

Verbosity and Silence

Verbosity and Silence

-So, Omar, what do you think? What's going on here?
-Well, I'm glad you trusted me and told me everything. You seriously didn't know what transpired? 
-Hell, no! If I did, I wouldn't treat you for dinner, and set myself back for almost a hundred bucks, and asked for your opinion. I'm feeling like a stupid fool, old enough to be your father yet not smart enough to fathom this mystery called the human mind manifested through his behavior and the thing called language.
-Thanks for the nice dinner, Roberto. I'm always partial to Thai fine cuisine and the sake wine that goes with it. It always reminds me of Kalaya, my first Thai girl-friend of the times long ago and of the place far south in Southern Hemisphere where I was an ignorant, clumsy, stupid, scholarship graduate student in Public Administration. Anyway, I'm digressing. Talking is important, very important, for a soul in distress. Freud recognized that. It was his first applied insight. Ordinary laymen, priests, monks, bosom friends all knew the importance of listening and letting a troubled soul ramble on, but Freud was the first physician who got paid by just sitting in an armchair while his patients, mostly over-refined Viennese ladies, talked their hearts out while reclining on a couch. We all have a need to unburden ourselves; we all want to be understood and appreciated and respected. Remember that, Roberto. All of us have that need. Not just you. Do you know how I can tell if a person is just lonely and needs a listener or a mind on the verge of breaking down?
-No, doctor Omar cum professional assassin cum modern day Don Juan, prithee, tell me!
-The coherence, the organization of thoughts, the choice of words, the hidden message. Or lack of the above. Just an angry, digressing flow of words reflecting hurt feelings because of perceived self-importance. You asked me the other day if indeed you were going crazy because of your all-consuming, powerful need to talk to me. Remember, my answer then was that I wasn't sure about your mental and emotional states. Now I know. 
-Stop beating around the bushes! Am I really okay or not?

Omar loved theatrics and histrionics. I think he was an artiste manqué. He looked at me intensely, put on a grin, and then put his enormous, manicured hands (both of them) out and asked me to put mine on the table, which I did. He then took both my hands into his and softly said, but with a tone of finality as if he was rendering a judgment on the Judgment Day, "of course, you are....okay. Just work on being silent. You certainly talked enough."

That evening, I took a long hot bath. I stayed in the tub for hours, alternating dozing and letting thoughts course through my brain. Then I had a brainstorm. Barely drying myself, I rushed out to the living room, fished the slim book of poems of e.e. cummings from the bottom shelf, and looked for a poem that always turned me on whenever I felt a wave of music washing over me. I then read it over and over again. Then words arrived from somewhere deep inside me. I thought of her, of Kalaya, of my stupid past love affairs, of my mistakes, my gullibility and naïveté, and I wrote the following, with the aid of the poem written by e.e.cummings right in front of me. I swear to you, to God, to whoever that's willing to listen to me, my poem is far better than the original that inspired me. If you don't believe me, just look up the original and compare it with mine. You then perhaps would probably forgive me if I indulge in a fantasy, in an audacity, in an untimorous temerity to call myself a poet and to think I just wrote a poem that is going to be immortal:

"voices to voices, lips to lips"

                    with heavy homage to e.e. cummings

voices to voices, lips to lips
i swear to you and to everyone else
that they make up the undying
of this sentiment that refuses to sleep

what's beyond logic can only be magic
in this moment that even God
cannot compete 
i bring you no flowers but only
scuplture of my words
if you close your eyes
you'll miss their kiss

voices and lips are more than just for songs and kisses
who cares if some sons of bitches
insist that Spring be the opening
of hearts and smiles

i am not afraid to dream that and this
nor am i afraid to fly
into a zone called land of kisses

The Passions of Roberto

The Passions of Roberto

You share with Bertrand Russell's two of three passions: "Three passions, simple but overwhelmingly strong, have governed my life: longing for love, love of knowledge, and unbearable pity for the suffering of mankind." You used to have much pity for the suffering for mankind, but not much anymore. These days you are struggling against the impulse of striking against human scumbags and assholes, against the temptation to give in to a dark view of humanity.You do know that it takes strength of character to open one's heart to compassion while keeping cynicism and nihilism at bay. It is futile to decry darkness. It is better to accept it as part of life, and not to be overwhelmed by it. To be overwhelmed and traumatized by darkness is a sign of weakness of character. 

You keep thinking the reason you are so dead set against scumbags and assholes is that you are afraid you would end up like one of them if you are not careful, if you are careless of not taking care of your conscience,  your sense of outrage, your understanding and hence respect of fairness and justice. In short, you feel you cannot afford to be a hypocrite. If you think you are not only intellectually, but also morally superior, you must walk the walk. When you were young, you didn't know much about the power of conscience and self-respect. But as time came and went, you realized for you personally, you couldn't live with a lie, a pretense, of who you were not. Others could, but not you, not any longer. 

You said earlier that one of your passions was longing for love. Many years ago, you watched a movie titled "The Contender". A line about love was spoken and you thought the line was great. You kept referring to it in your stories,  thinking it was good. Little did you know that it was corny as hell. It said, "Love is an involuntary reflex and I felt victim to it." Now, you are finally free and untethered with the past, you are saying that love is never an involuntary reflex. Love  is a choice. You are free not to fall in love. Nobody is putting a gun to your head and tell you that you must fall in love with a certain person. You fall in love because of the delusions and illusions created by you or your beloved, but you still have a choice to walk away before you become stupid and get hurt. Love, deep down and of the true kind, is never about you. It is always about the beloved. And if you insist on dragging your own "little"ego into the Love Equation, you will get disappointed and hurt. So if you only think of your beloved and never about yourself, then love is really an involuntary reflex. Then love will enrich and empower you. And you keep on loving your beloved as long as he is what you think he is and worthy of your love. So love is a perceptual, phenomenological process. 

Hoa Phi Hoa

Hoa Phi Hoa

Hoa phi hoa, vụ phi vụ
Dạ bán lai, thiên minh khứ.
Lai như xuân mộng kỷ đa thì,
Khứ tự triêu vân vô mịch xứ.

Bạch Cư Dị

Looks like Flower

Looks like flower, seems like dew,
Arrives at midnight, gone by morning light.
Appears briefly like dreams in the Spring, 
Gone like early clouds to places unknown 

Translated by Wissai
September 14, 2013

Em không Quỳnh Hoa, lại chẳng phải sương,
Đến anh nửa đêm, đi khi trời sáng.
Như mộng Xuân ngắn trong phút yêu thương 
Như mây sớm đi không còn tăm dạng

Dịch thoáng bởi Wissai 
September 14, 2013 

So, honey, the above translation had its genesis from times long past and got a boost from you, a beloved at a place far away. It was translated under a midnight impulse, an impulse at once inchoate and undefined but powerful  nonetheless. The translation didn't quite capture the beautiful pithiness of the original's theme which is the effervescence of romantic  love. Our love is exactly like that portrayed in the poem. But I dearly wish and hope when it's gone, it leaves behind a beautiful, lingering, nostalgic fragrance and indelible footsteps in our hearts. We yielded to our romantic impulses and surrendered to our needs to be understood and appreciated. 

Please go back and reread what I post on the Net the last few weeks The real me hid somewhere in that montage of words. I am proud, I am arrogant, and I am different from all the men you have known. 

I may not be generous, but I am fair and principled. And I am not a cheap hypocrite, like so many men I know, pretending to be somebody who I am not. 

I am not perfect, but I am real and true and I march to my own music. We can only love those whom we trust and respect. So let's be good and kind and true to each other while the sun still shines and we are still alive. 

You're a beloved of mine. You're not merely a lover or a girlfriend. 

Human Hearts

Human Hearts 

In the Summer of 2013, you discovered something about yourself and your fellow men, something hitherto you had only read about in books and the news. 

1. Stupid and ignorant and yet stubborn bitches cannot help themselves. They are too stupid and ignorant to know better, and too stubborn to change. Anytime they open their mouths, their bitchiness comes out. Yet they loudly thump their chests and say they are students (sic!)  of Buddhism.You see, there is a large variation in human behaviors. Some humans are not much different from vain and stupid monkeys. They cannot be helped. These monkeys even think they are good-looking. Maybe they don't have mirrors in their houses, but there are mirrors in public restrooms. You suppose that they are too cowardly and insecure to look at themselves in the mirror because if they do, they would see that they are exceedingly and incredibly and horribly ugly because of their piggy eyes, obesity, and midget "height". No wonder they have no boyfriends. You wonder how some of them would even be married. Their husbands must have been uglier than them or suffered from congenital blindness and/or idiocy. These motherfucking, ugly bitches need to be exterminated and eradicated since they are a disgrace to the human race. Hitler was right about them. Where is he when we need him?

One of them told you that her words are personal (sic!) and sacred (sic! and sick!) and should not be shared with others. Fuck, her words don't mean shit to you . If you want to spread them around, that's your business. If she didn't want her words leave a trace, she should not have committed them in writing. She should have just talked to herself in that pigsty apartment of hers. 

2. Okay, you are wondering what set you off to this verbal savagery and meaningless  destruction of goodwill and affection, why your hard-earned inner peace is devolving into chaos, and why you seem to get a delight from moments of turmoil and rupture. Is it because you feel unanchored, angry, nihilistic, even homicidal? Of course, you were  being aware what you were doing with the above verbal thundering denunciation. You  hesitated long enough to realize you were making an emotional suicide, but then you kept going. You have made so many wrong moves in your life that one more wouldn't make that much difference. Not anymore. And not really. You already feel alone in this world: a man without a country, a home, a wife, a friend. You are just here, occupying space and feeling unconnected and unrelated. You just don't know what's going on anymore in a human's heart at any moment in time, you own heart or anybody else's. A guy pontificated that a man with true pride didn't need approval of others. Wise words, but are they necessary or even really true? Nobody is so strong that a gesture of understanding and approval doesn't mean shit to him. 

So you deftly soldier on while Wagner's haunting music is ringing in your ears. You are the music, the symphony of the universe. What you just wrote was not just rhetorical flourish. You feel the music. In fact, you are the music. The day the music dies is the time for you to go. 

Unlike many others, the mediocre ones of this world, your words announce themselves. They draw attention to themselves, as if they exist independently of you. The gap between fantasy and reality lies in the magic of words. And you keep on going as day rolling into night and night evaporating  into sunlight.

3. Ego makes a person do and or say foolish, stupid things. Silence is strength fortified with wisdom. Why do you dislike the bitch and others and why do others dislike you? Because of stupid, harsh words uttered in moments of anger and smugness. The bitch has no fucking grace and neither do you. 
   

Lovability and Gracelessness

Lovability and Gracelessness 

A former girlfriend of mine, very dead and deceased and diseased, kept complaining to me via email and about me with our mutual friends. She (her name is Crazy Suzie) said I was coarse, crude, and uncouth. She thought by saying so she would ignite my temper and rekindle my attention, but she was wrong. I wondered if I was that bad as she alleged. If I really was, then why she was attracted to me in the first place. Her words were redolent with nastiness. She said she was giving me the same medicine I had dispensed to her. What a cheap and stupid bitch! I didn't know what in the world and why I took an interest in her in that month of January. Maybe I was unbearably lonely and desperate. You know, desperate men do desperate things. Going out with her, in retrospect, was an act of desperation. 

Since I don't believe I am coarse, crude, and uncouth, I've hit on women of all ages trying to prove my irresistible charm and lovability. Boy, was I right and Crazy Suzie was just dead wrong. I've made women chuckle and laugh with my wit, and delirious and delighted with my slippery, silver Cicero tongue; I've dazzled, amazed, astounded them with my "intellect" and "erudition"; and I've made them swoon at the sight of my sculpted physique. I am 64, but easily pass for 54, a result of having been going to the gym religiously for almost three years running now. In the last three months, three women, all of them far more attractive and financially solid than Crazy Suzie, have wanted me to be more than just a ship passing through the night. I am holding out for a better prospect. I am on the lookout for a really "deep harbor". 

I post everything I write in my blog. Crazy Suzie promptly fired a salvo of emails denouncing me after reading the above. I told you, the woman is crazy and bitchy. She never realizes bitchiness is a sign of weakness and gracefulness is a sign of strength and nobility. Hemingway, the Ernest, not the Margaux one (they are related, however), once famously said, "a real man, a man with courage and heart, must maintain grace under pressure; he wouldn't blink; he wouldn't yield to panic and pettiness." Crazy Suzie's penchant for tit for tat is a big turnoff and an indication of pettiness. She never seems to understand that I am an aspiring fiction writer (at a late age of 64!). Most, if not all, I write is stylized fiction and tongue-in-cheek narration. They are all lies to convey some truth, my personal version of truth, a truth that guides me, that makes sense to me. Okay, I confess, I made up the Hemingway's quote, but he did say something about grace under pressure. The phrase holds a mysterious mystique, an alluring attraction, a charming captivation to me, and has been a guiding light for me to go through life. Of course, I fall short constantly. I am often graceless and prone to anger and moodiness and homicidal thoughts. Only occasionally do I exhibit mental strength and emotional fortitude. I'm telling you, what I really hope is that what I write would make you laugh at first, and then later, maybe late at night when things calm down a bit and a stillness begins to descend and wash over you, you go back and reread what you have read earlier in the day---in the haste and hassle and harried and harrowing moments of your daily life--- and finally my words begin to sink slowly to the bottom of your soul and you recognize them for what they are, and your heart would break into pieces like mine already did and tears would arrive. In my heart of hearts, I hold an undying view that I am a lovable, loving man even if my lugubrious though limpid and lambent prose sounds cute and pretty and manufactured. Actually my prose is unfinished, unprocessed, unadorned, and very unsettling, at least to a sensitive soul, leaving an unforgettable fragrance and sillage. I am not saying that after you really experience and savor my prose for what it actually is, you would rush over and knock on my door and ask me if I know what cataglottism means because it is what you would like to do to me. No, ma'am. Not what I mean nor imply nor hope. I am too jaded now to conjure up such a scenario. There are certain realities that have hardened in me. I can't free myself from the curses that various vicious souls placed on me in times not long ago. These individuals are masters of the black, dark arts whose own pain made them cruel and stupid. Having said that, I am not suggesting that I am worthless. As the drunk master of free verse Bukowski exhorted the self-doubters, "Nobody can save you but yourself, and you're worth saving." If I sound uninhibited and yet hesitant, if I sound self-conflicting, then that's it. That's the really me speaking. Truth is not always a big, bright, polished diamond glittering in the afternoon sunlight or sparkling under neon lights at night. Sometimes it is a lazy stream of smoke snaking from a drunk's cigarette in a poorly lighted, damp, smoky bar. 

Morning has broken. There are no blackbirds singing in my neighborhood. There is just a humming of early morning traffic echoing off the streets down below. I need to get some repose. See you. 

Living in the Moment

Living in the Moment

So Ariel Castro, the sick dude who kidnapped 3 women and held them captive for years, was found dead in his cell, killing himself by hanging. Apparently he couldn't live in the moment. Prison life wasn't agreeable to him. You wondered if he ever wondered how his victims thought of their own long imprisonment by him. Castro was an example of how degrading and depraved a human could be if he gave in to the impulses and lures of lording over others. 

Man is a very interesting, self-conflicting animal, capable of acts of sublime nobility as well as deeds of horrific depravity. You shudder when reading in the news about robberies of pizza delivery men and taxi drivers. The other day, a taxi driver told you his colleague was burned alive by the robbers. Apparently they were not content of robbing him. They felt they had to do something extra. Those accounts remind you that you live in a dog-eat-dog world and you must be on eternal vigilance if you want to survive. There are many human animals who have no true pride and would do anything, absolutely anything, to survive or to feel superior to others or to feel good about themselves. If you run into an ignorant and stupid human that has no respect for facts and is very comfortable about lying to make himself look good while making others look bad, you would include that such human has no pride and is a vicious and yet pathetic animal and must be avoided, if you aren't in a position to exterminate it. 

So you don't really blame your friend Omar who has concluded time and again that some animals really deserve to die. And when they do and get buried, he would visit their graves  and piss on them. A catharsis has to be obtained somehow, he keeps reminding you, otherwise a sensitive being would explode and do something really stupid. He said, "Roberto, stay in touch with your feelings, whatever they are. Don't suppress them. Deal with them, instead, one way or another. Don't pretend to be somebody else. You must be comfortable with who you are, warts and all."

You replied to Omar, "okay, mi amigo, I know I have a lot of fantasies and all my literary productions have been of the Walter Mitty variations, but I do think I'm endowed with a high degree of intuition, even with some paranormal powers. My life has been nothing but a serial episodes of pain and suffering because I didn't make use of my powers. But I'm gonna change my attitude about who I really am." To that assertion of yours, Omar just chortled and rolled his eyes and smiled at you, but said nothing. 

Yesterday you had lunch with Donny, a Chinese-Korean old friend of yours. He asked you where was the black Lexus you claimed a woman who was stricken by cancer, bequeathed to you. You coolly told him that you sold that beautiful fully loaded car for 30 and some change because as much as you loved it, holding onto it would be a painful reminder of Angie. He then quickly and slyly followed up with an inquiry that if any chance you took a picture of the car. You  whipped out your HTC smartphone and showed photos of the car. You also showed him the photos of you and Angie in her unit at Turnberry Towers. He looked confused and perplexed and then said, " So...Angie was...real. You didn't make her up." You nodded your head while tears were beginning to form in your eyes. "Shit!", exclaimed Donny "What's about Omar? Is he real?" You answered, "Want to meet him? It'll cost you some real cold cash." Donny was stubborn and a die-hard skeptic. Although he claimed to be of Chinese and Korean ancestry, but the way he acted, you'd swear he must be related to David Hume, the famous and rotund skeptic Scotsman. "How much?"

-Ten grand

-Ten grand? Get the fuck out of here. Why so much? (He protested and looked visibly upset).

-Omar's not cheap, not like me. It cost you nothing to have lunch with me, but with him, you must come up with ten grand and I'll arrange a meeting and a guy that fits the description of Omar will show up. And you can interrogate him and ask him all the questions you want and then decide for yourself if he's for real. 

You could see that Donny was mulling over a decision and looked straight at my face, trying really hard to detect any signs of bullshitting from me. He then bargained.-Two grand.

-Ten grand. The guy must make preparations and research before flying over here. He'll ask me all kinds of questions about you to make sure you are legit. He doesn't come cheap. Take it or leave it.

-You serious? 

-As serious as a heart attack. How about you? How serious are you?

-Not that much (he sighed and shook his head and looked outside at the sidewalk as if he was hoping that at that time Omar would materialize out of thin air and that would cost him not a single red cent to meet the world famous but reclusive assassin).

But Donny was tenacious. The son-of-a-bitch didn't give up.

-For all I know, you would ask some guy pretending to be Omar and telling me bullshit stories just to get the money and split it with you. 

-Donny, how long have you known me? Would I do such a thing to you? Would I need money that bad? You know my net worth. I showed you the other day. Fuck, I really am upset that you would think I am that low (your voice was rising).

-Sh! Tone it down, will you? I'm sorry. Just forget about it. Let's talk about something else. You were saying about the counterfeiter who was also a poet. Tell me more about her. You sure know a lot of interesting people. 

- Donny, I can talk about her, but you probably wouldn't believe any of what I'm gonna say because you're a born skeptic, a modern-gay, oops, I meant, modern-day doubting Thomas, a cynic who thinks I'm nothing but a teller of tall tales. 

-Cut the crap out Roberto. Either you're gonna tell me about this counterfeit-cum-poet or you're not. Don't beat around the bush. Let me reserve the right tosay what you're gonna say sounds plausible or too fantastical to be true. Now go ahead.

-Since you insist. In fact, it sounds lie you're actually begging for it. So I'm gonna oblige you since after all you're an old friend of mine. I just met her two days ago at my former land lady's house. I didn't know it was all pre-arranged or what, but it didn't really matter. I was invited for lunch. We had the bánh xèo (Vietnamese crêpes containing shrimp, pork, mung bean, bean sprouts, onions wrapped by lettuce leaves and garnished with cilantro, mint leaves, and dipped in fish-based sauce containing pickled diced carrot and white radish, and red chilli) and chè xôi nước (rice flour fortified with coconut oil wrapped around mung bean paste boiled in a sweet syrup containing slices of fresh ginger) as dessert. We just finished eating and were shooting the breeze when the counterfeiter dropped by. I had never met her before but had heard of her. Being a Vietnamese woman and got involved in a counterfeit ring made her well known, if not downright notorious, in the community. Anyway, the former landlady introduced us, saying that I was a "poet". I corrected her. I said I never really regarded myself as a poet, even a poet of sorts. What I have are poetic sentiments which occasionally overflow and demand expressions. That was when Annie, the counterfeiter or more precisely speaking, the passer of counterfeited bills, said she was a real poet. She then proceeded discussing poetry with me. She apparently was a good poet. What struck me, however, was her intense personality and her colorful life which the Yvette, the former landlady, told me after Annie had departed and left me with four (!) CDs of her poetry collections.

It appeared to me Annie lived in the moment with gusto and daring and a strange mixture of kindness and hard-boiled realism. She was arrested for her offense and had to post some bail money.  She was married several times to old men who left her with money when they died. She wrote widely circulated anti-VC poetry and is no longer welcome in Vietnam. She has a boyfriend in Vietnam and is sending him money every month to support him. Yvette phone me later in the evening that Annie had called and asked her if I said anything after her departure. Yvette said that I thought kindly and highly of her "Roberto said that beneath your exterior of rough, intense language lies a bruised but still caring heart". Apparently Annie liked that and told Yvette that I was a good (sic!) "judge" of people. I told Yvette that Annie was a self-conflicting poet, just like several intense, but egotistical persons I know. We all have our seamy side and try hardest not to show it. I am probably one of the very few humans on this planet reveling in revealing my warts and all. I am unlike those motherfucking unartistic liars out there who are ugly, short, fat, ignorant, and stupid, but think the world of themselves. 

-Roberto, next time you meet Annie, bring me along, won't you ? 

-That will cost you money.

-What? Money again? What's happening to you? Why did you turn into a kike, all of a sudden?

-Just kidding. 

Wissai

September 6, 2013

Love, Power, Politics, Religion and all that Jazz

Love, Power, Politics, Religion and all that Jazz

In 'Reflections on My Eightieth Birthday' ("Postscript" in his Autobiography), Bertrand Russell wrote: "I have lived in the pursuit of a vision, both personal and social. Personal: to care for what is noble, for what is beautiful, for what is gentle; to allow moments of insight to give wisdom at more mundane times. Social: to see in imagination the society that is to be created, where individuals grow freely, and where hate and greed and envy die because there is nothing to nourish them. These things I believe, and the world, for all its horrors, has left me unshaken." 

Russell's vision resonated with me and recalled my father's oft-repeated saying when he deigned to speak to me at all in my early teenage years: "one should live for ' le vrai, le beau et le bien' (the true, the beautiful, and the good) . He often evinced contempt for my aimless existence and sloth. Little did he know that his verbal reprimands and occasional physical beatings administered to me left an indelible mark on my psyche. (I never told him about the impact. He died shortly after I turned twenty). Neither did he know that I discovered philosophy when I was fifteen. My father's corporeal punishments meted out to me and my later orientation to philosophy as a solace largely made me become who I am today: incorrect, nonconformist, disdainful, irreverent toward authority, and fond of le vrai, le beau, and le bien.  Russell is one of the earliest writers that left an influence on me. I read his eminently readable "A History of Western Philosophy", a collection of essays with the eponymous provocative title 'Why I am not a Christian",  and some fragments of his autobiography in which he disclosed somewhat gleefully that as a teenager he tried to fondle a house servant and she protested, saying he was the son of the aristocrats and she was a commoner and he shouldn't do that! He further revealed as a youngster he was fond of the play on words:

"What's mind?" 
"No matter."
"What's matter?"
"Never mind!"

He was at first the teacher of Wittgenstein, but later publicly said that he found the later Wittgenstein too much of a mystic for him to stomach. Russell impressed me for his political courage and incredible clear English prose. He was a mathematician. His sentences read like mathematical arguments: clear, concise, and articulate. I don't know if his writing style left any mark on mine because I was equally enthralled by Vladimir Nabokov whose prose was the opposite of that of Russell. Nabokov, a Russian aristocrat, was an artist and an authority on butterflies.. He studied English at Cambridge, not really as a non-native speaker of the English language. He was trilingual (Russian, French, and English) thanks to having French and English governesses at a very early age. His English is universally acknowledged as something out of this world. He was considered the world's best prose stylist in English in his times. He wrote in a stylized, captivating, ornate, vocabulary-rich English. Just read the first ten pages or so of his most famous book, "Lolita" and you would be amazed. If you are not, well, words are not your thing and you have missed out something beautiful in this world. 

Nabokov, whose family fortunes suffered a reversal because of politics and was forced to become an emigrant in various countries before settling in the US and found literary fame and comfortable living again, apparently found politics distasteful and refrained from taking part in political activities. But Russell, on the other hand, whose family blood ran deep in politics, was a political activist and jailed for his political beliefs and activities. Russell used his fame to advance his views on politics. He loved women. He was four times married and involved in numerous affairs. He also loved justice and freedom. He hated tyranny, be it in politics or in religion. In fact, he found religion more harmful than useful. It was of no surprise to me that he was an atheist. Most eminent thinkers are atheists and have no use of the notion of a Personal God. God makes sense only for the stupid, the ignorant, the weak, the delusional, and various combinations of the above. That is my crystallized view and you can take it to the bank. 

But I know for the masses, God and religion (instead of philosophy and rational thinking) are part and parcel of their lives. Religion and power and economics are intertwined and inseparable. They're so strong that they even transcend blood ties and ethnicity. That's what happening in the Middle East. What else to explain why the Syrians are killing each other while receiving support from their allies, even from the racially unrelated. There the Sunni Arab majority are in open revolt against the Assad regime which gets the support from the Arab Alawites (branch of Shia Islam) and the Arab Christians. The Iranian Shias and their protégés, the  Arab Hezbollah Shias in Lebanon, are fighting alongside the Syrian Arab Alawites while the Arab Sunnis in Saudi Arabia, Jordan and Qatar,  and the Turkish Sunnis are helping the Syrian rebels with arms and money. What we are having is the old-fashioned sectarian bloodletting between the Muslim Sunnis and Shias which has been going on intermittently after the death of the Muhammad of Mecca, with a potential horrific regional war looming if Israel and the US join the fray. 

Iran has publicly warned that it would not stand by idly if the US bombs the Assad regime forces. Assad himself told the French daily Le Figaro that the Middle East would become a powder keg and a regional war would break out if the US goes through with the bombing threat. 

How credible is the American threat? It looks pretty damned credible to me, given Obama put himself in a box when declaring that if Assad used chemical weapons, the red line would be crossed. Now the red line has been crossed, for the sake of his credibility and the credibility of the US, he would have to act, even if the charade of seeking authorization of the heavily Jewish-influenced American Congress isn't fruitful. Given the war-weary American public and the drain on the treasury, the charade is absolutely necessary because the war would not be limited and short-lived as outlined to the public. 

War by its very nature is rarely limited and of short duration, especially if lethal weapons are involved and regional in scope. For Israel and America, the objective is not really to stop Assad from ever using chemical weapons again, but at least to degrade the Assad regime sufficiently enough for the rebels to achieve victory. And if Iran and its proxies are foolish enough to join the war, it is the perfect time for Israel to take out Iranian nuclear installations. Considering that Iran views Syria as its buffer zone, it's difficult to imagine that Iran would not support Syria in full force if Syria is attacked by the US. So for what it is worth, it is my calculus, regardless of what the American Congress decides to do regarding the attack (read: war) authorization, that a regional war in the Middle East will break out shortly. 

It's time to gather cash and take advantage of the swoon of the stock market when the war gets on in earnest. In addition, be prepared for the war repercussions at home. The enemy will not go down without putting up a fight. 

Few wars are absolutely necessary. Most are born out of greed and ambitions and blind surrender to emotions and religious beliefs. Man is driven more by his Heart and his Beliefs than by his Mind and Reason. He cannot help himself. That's how he is made up. While he speaks of peace and order, his heart revels in the drunken intoxication of power and the lures of chaos. Additionally, he has this strange fascination with intangible things called Honor and Respect. He would rather die for them rather than to retreat or surrender in order to live another day. That is the paradox of a being called Man. Few men live for "le vrai, le beau et le bien". I once took an informal survey of a group of players at a poker table. I asked them what they would prefer in life: love or power? All nine of them replied in a decisive manner: "power". I knew then why I always felt I was a loner and why I was different and alienated from my fellow men. Let me tell you something else: all the jackasses I have met in my life who hunger for and lust after power don't really know what power is and how to use it. They are just plain animals who want power so they can do what they want and force others to comply with their stupid commands. Jackasses love to assert and exert power over others. Real humans assert and exert power over themselves. If we want to go to war, let's hunt down jackasses and kill them all. I will be the first one to volunteer into the such a war and I will be glad to be the first one to pull the trigger. And I will not rest until I kill every one of them on this planet.

Wissai
September 3, 2013

Silence and Ego, Roberto and Omar, a Fantasy.

Ego and Silence, Roberto and Omar, A Fantasy 

The more you live, the more you realize the more stupid and ignorant a person, the more likely he speaks nonsense in defending his fragile, petty, inconsequential ego. Upon reflection, you would see that he does not have much to defend. That's why he is very touchy about his meager ego which is a pathetic constellation of unfulfilled desires, fanciful wishes, and midnight wet dreams. He hems and haws and makes a fool of himself, thinking he's somebody and that he's left a mark for posterity. He hungers for fame and lusts after power while the truth of the matter is that he is a big zero, a nothing, a stupid and ignorant bumpkin fellow who loves making noises to attract attention. He can't sit still. Silence is foreign to him. 

In addition, the asshole, whose totem must be a jackass, loves being sarcastic. His propensity for sarcasm used to bother you, but not anymore. You now see him for what he is: a fly that eats shit and bothers  people. You are now beyond homicidal rage. You have ascended to silence. You can't bear to hear nonsense and stupidity and ignorance coming out of monkeys' mouths. This beautiful planet is being overrun by simians. The only thing you can have silence is not to talk with simians. Just tune them out. Look at them and laugh your head off inside. Say, if you have one week left to live, would you waste your precious energy to talk with monkeys and jackasses? No way, right? In fact, if you had  power and resources, you no doubt would blow their motherfucking heads off. That's what I would do. 

You probably know by now that the stories and tales told by me aren't usually sweet and harmonious. Instead, they smack and smell of bewilderment and confusion, inchoate anger and near-madness, obsessions and dreams, the stuff nobody really wants to know and read about. More importantly, perhaps, they are about thwarted and unfulfilled loves and screaming, suffocating silence. If what I just wrote is a shade and a shadow beyond your understanding and you're shivering and shuddering in anticipation of a breakthrough, I don't really blame you. For years I had stood in fear and trembling of the specter of a thing called love until a few months ago I had a revelation that while love was real and beautiful for a lucky few, to me it was forever an illusion. And yet I keep writing sappy, romantic love poetry. Ironic, isn't it? Last week, I changed my will. I erased the names of three individuals whom I determined unworthy of my love.They were selfish. All they cared about were themselves. They talked a good game of love, but their actions indicated otherwise. Ego is an ugly thing. Selfishness smacks and smells of animalism. 

You (first and second singular pronouns in this piece and many others of mine are interchangeable) woke up from a dream. Lonely and sad and confused, you called Omar, a dear friend of yours, up and asked for his comments. Omar is a modern-day Renaissance man and an assassin. He reads widely and has a keen understanding of the human mind. He said:

-Roberto, wake up. You're an old fool. Don't you see she's fucking with your mind? Stop dreaming impossible dreams. Only fools do that. I admit you're difficult to understand and harder to love, but you must maintain a high standard. Work on your writing and learning languages. Take care of your health. Stay away from monkeys and jackasses. They would just annoy and anger you. Unlike them, you're no scoundrel. Those who think you are, don't know you and are fucking imbeciles. Life is unfair. Some are born smart and sensitive; most are born stupid and stay stupid. Don't hang around with stupid and ignorant people. Sooner or later, they would say or do something that offends you. Life is too short to feel offended all the time. Besides, you're not that strong to take offenses. Capisci? (not "capisce", as most fools would use. Capisce is used formally to address second person. I know capisce as an American slang, has degenerated and degraded the original meaning in Italian. The same thing has happened with the au courant 'no problemo' used by Americans who don't know shit about Spanish. The correct usage is 'no problema') 

You feel okay? Want to travel with me next Saturday to Chicago? I have a "job" there waiting for me. I've done a thorough research. It would take three days to a week to put finishing touches to it. You wouldn't have to do anything. Just sight-seeing and staying in a hotel-room, watching TV or reading books. That'd be a nice change of pace for you, a break from the rut of cooping up in that high-rise condo and fantasizing that this woman or that woman is falling for your "charms". Traveling with me would help you confront naked, real, brutal, arbitrary  realities where people die violently, for their sins, for their being an inconvenience or an obstacle of somebody's ambitions and greed or just being at the wrong place at the wrong time. A taste of death at close range would make you appreciate life more, even from the distance. Of course, you don't have to pay for anything. I need a "traveling companion" to relieve me of the "existential loneliness" that's been weighing hard on me lately.

-I'd have to think about that. I hate to be a "collateral damage" while you're carrying out your "duties". But what's this shit about "existential loneliness" that you're talking about? I thought you were above that. 

-Nobody is, Roberto. Nobody. If they say they are, they're lying. I'd bet you that the Pope's lonely. Ditto Obama. Putin. Assad. The only humans that are not lonely are kids under six. They're too young to feel it, to have that consciousness. What they have instead is separation anxiety if being away from their caretakers. 

-Okay,  "professor". Seriously, I thought with your "knowledge", "savoir-faire" and "savoir-vivre", a commonality like "existential loneliness" wouldn't bother you, but apparently it does. Then tell me, frankly, what do you live for? What makes you wake up in the morning and decide to go through the whole day without giving into the temptation of putting a bullet through your head? 

-Roberto, there's not a single day I don't think of Death, the finality that puts an end to our absurd, arbitrary, gratuitous existence on this planet. I think of Death not so much because of my "profession" but as the result of a careful confrontation with and examination of various metaphysical questions: God, why I'm here on this planet and in this world, and what I should do with my life.

You already know what I think of the notion God as an entity that has an interest in the welfare of earthlings. I definitely have a firm, adamantine conviction that those who believe in a Personal God are stupid or cowardly or both because all the empirical evidence points out in a very crystal clear direction that the entity called God is man-made and an exercise in wishful thinking and willful delusion. 

With God not being part of the equation we call Life, Life becomes impersonal, arbitrary, and meaningless by itself. It is up to us---humans mostly if not exclusively because I really doubt if subhumans have an awareness beforehand of their inevitable death ---to create, to make up the meaning of our existence. Each human goes to the business of making up the meaning by himself, ideally speaking, but the reality is that for most humans who have the slave mentality, the meaning of life is already made up for them by the mind controllers: their religious and political "leaders". 

Of course, I am not part of that majority. I never was and I never will be. I live out of curiosity. I want to know what I am really made of. Thus, I put myself in extreme situations to test myself. I also want to know about what will take place in the near term, in my life span. I have to eat. I have to earn my daily bread, but I don't want to feel like a cog in a machine, a slave in a modern-day corporation, a farmer whose livelihood depends on the weather and economic forces. So I opt to be a hunter. Everybody has to die, sooner or later, if not at my hand, then at somebody else's or by illness or accident. If I don't carry out the contract, somebody else would. That's the nature of the business, of the world. The question of "morality" does crop up from time to time because of my penchant and predisposition to metaphysics and ethics and fairness and justice, but I "solve" it by deriving no "pleasure" from my "work", just like a munitions worker who has no qualms of contributing to destruction and death in faraway places. He does his job because he has to eat. If he does not take the job, somebody will. He can choose another job if his conscience bothers him. I chose to be a hired killer because I was trained to be a killer by the government to protect the vested interests. I used to kill for some faceless bureaucrats and businessmen and politicians. Now I kill for my benefits. But I do thorough research. Almost all of my targets deserved to die. I have turned down job offers when I feel something fishy is going on. And I don't do work that involves women and children. Listen, most assholes in this world think that my line of work is despicable, but they assassinate the character of the people they don't like by spreading false, malicious rumors and innuendos. They bring destruction to the lives of many people by their sheer everyday conduct in the form of deception, lying, and hypocrisy. Those assholes are truly animals. Every time I hear one of them or their loved ones get mortally sick or meet some unfortunate accident, I feel overjoyed and I go to a bar quietly celebrating. Yes, I do have Schadenfreude in abundance. Call me Omar. Call me Ishmael. Call me amoral and heartless. Call me whatever name you want. But don't call me a liar because if you do, I probably have to pay you a visit. Capisci?

But I spoke too much, too frankly, and in too personal terms. I'm tired, Roberto, very tired. Too much blood for too easy money. I sometimes feel I have to speak very softly, when I must speak at all,  because I'm afraid I'd wake up the dead. I've tried to rationalize that if I hadn't taken the jobs, somebody else would have taken them anyway, but the rationalization is getting old. 

(To be continued)