Liar...Liar....Liar

MLiar...Liar...Liar

I'm sounding like my old self in this early chilly morning of mid-Autumn, all stuttering and stammering. I still vividly remember a few years ago, in the middle of a losing debate with me after suffering from my lightning fast withering retorts, ripostes, and repartees, a dude cruelly said to my face that I was a stupid, stuttering, stammering fool. Cruel words from a big, fat, ugly guy. I smiled and said to him, "Isssssss.....th ...th...that ...that ...that....so, so, so, so?" Everybody at the table laughed uproariously except him. He just sat there, stoned faced, and lost in his struggle for a comeback. So, I delivered another punch, "What happened? The cat got your tongue?" Everybody laughed once more. I haven't  seen him since. He probably already died under his own weight.

Anyway, I am such an inveterate liar. This morning on my way back from early morning bathroom visit, I was assaulted by a certain sentiment. So I wrote it down. I wrote about magic and all that shit, but in truth my words came out just the opposite of what I really wanted to write. I wanted to write about the death of magic, the disappearance of the exquisite feeling, the vanishing of wonder. 

There was a time when a wise man, a Hindu as a matter of fact, who kindly gave me a lesson in the art of living and loving in that lilting voice of his. "My friend, life is wonderful if only we know how to look at it a certain way. Don't let the filth, the deception, the horror side of life bother you. Look at the splendor, the kindness, and especially the magic of feelings. Seize the magic, hold on to it."

So I did. Yes, for a long time I did. And I created many wonderful poems with the magic in my heart and in my memory. But as I got older, my strength got weak. I couldn't hang on to the magic anymore. It got away. 

Now what I have left are my words, not the feeling. I am trying to revive the felling, recreate the magic, rekindle the memory with my words. All what you have read are the words of lies. I've lied to you, to myself, to my own stupid heart. I've succumbed to the sirens of stupidity, instead of hanging on to the sweet succor of serenity. I've made too much noise. I've failed to observe silence. I've proved to be an embarrassment to myself. I am just a common fellow like so many others whom I've despised and pitied. 

Reading (about, more correctly) Wittgenstein is my attempt to restore my dignity and sell-respect, and my sense of superiority and uncommonality. Wittgenstein was a trailblazer in philosophy. He wasn't a publicity hound. During his lifetime of 62 years, he published one book review on logic when he was an undergraduate student, where he savagely demolished a philosophy professor's book; an essay; and a book that took the intellectual world by storm although by the time it was published he doubted if there was a single person in the world who could understand it. Later, when he submitted the book as a doctoral thesis, at the end of the questioning period, he came to his two examiners---Bertrand Russell, his former teacher, and G. E. Moore, a Cambridge professor of philosophy of world renown and a tough, fierce interlocutor---touched them on the shoulders and said to them, "Don't worry. Nobody else understands the book either." His examiners gave him a pass, despite his condescending gesture, and he was invited back to Cambridge as a lecturer. What an arrogance and what a confidence in his own greatness. Today, scholars are still debating about the book. And an average guy like me needs help from exegetical books and essays to understand what the book is all about. You see, a guy like Wittgenstein fascinates me and I want to be like him although I don't have the same talents. Still, I always can dream, while being clear-eyed about my efforts. In other words, while reaching for the stars, my feet are still anchored on earth. What have changed is the length of my arms. I am trying to be all I can be while being cool about it. 

Whereof I cannot speak, thereof I must be silent. But I didn't remain silent. I spoke, spoke, and spoke my heart out. I wanted to be understood, accepted, and loved. I wanted to be human. Now I know better. To understand and to be strong supernaturaly, I must act like the Supernatural, all mysterious and silent. I must keep my mouth shut and hide my heart. And then one day I will pass away in silence. Only the forest would hear when a sequoia tree comes crashing down. 

There was a woman who became vile and vicious when I turned my back on her. I didn't return her calls. I ignored her emails. There was no point to keep up the charade. I already knew she was common as dirt, mean as a rattlesnake, and phony as a three-dollar bill. She kept on sending me insulting emails. So one day, I wrote back simply this, "I thought you were much better than what and who you have been showing you are. I was disappointed in you and I was disappointed in my earlier faulty assessment of you." I didn't respond in kind to her. I didn't list all her faults. I didn't use words of insult although I could have done so. My verbal arsenal is always well-stocked. You see, the human heart is always mysterious and well hidden. People only show their true color when they are tested to the core. I already have a feeling what kind of color is your heart, hence the disappearance of magic and in its place are these empty words of mine. I am writing these words not for you, not really, whoever and wherever you are. I am writing for myself to read, to refer to them day after day and night after night so I can become strong like a superman. Only a supernatural would know about the Supernatural. I already told you that I am no common man. You may think about me differently, but that's your right, and I respect that right of yours. But I am who I said I am. I am no common man. Meanwhile I try to hold tight to a certain memory, a certain fantasy like that of Romeo and Juliet, like that of Zhivago and Lara. I am always a dreamer. 

We read too much into what others have written. All we can do, can control are our own words which come first from our hearts, not our brains. We are what we write and how we express ourselves. Mostly it's best we must remain silent when we feel angry, when we think our puny, little self, little ego is violated. That's when Buddhist teachings come in handy. Anger is suffering. To be self-righteous is suffering. To have attachments to outcome is suffering. Do your best, hope for the best but be prepared for the worst. Travel light on the journey of life. Don't carry too much baggage.