Of Love and Lovability

Of Love and Lovability

It may be high folly of me to claim I am full of love and lovability. But I do know this: I am only in love with those who are lovable. If you are old, ugly, ungracious, untalented, sarcastic, self-deceiving, stupid and delusional, penurious, short, fat, and poor, nobody in his or her right mind would want to be in your company. So the thrust of my point is that we must know who we are and should not harbor any illusions about our nature and make-up. If you are prone to cheap sarcasms and insults and easy lectures and facile criticisms, you must give up any hope of finding a mate. Don't be bothered to do so, because you will never find one. And please, don't say anything about the ladies in my life, because you don't know a thing about me and my secret charm. I am far more than what meets the eye. You don't know anything about me as you fancy you do. I am a mystery wrapped in an enigma, even to myself. In me, fantasies and realities constantly collide, giving off strange, odd sparks of bravura, narcissism, and tender understanding of the human heart. Don't tempt me. Don't try me. You may like me, even love me, and you may then undergo a transformation over which you have no control.

I arrived in Papeete,Tahiti, around 10 pm on a Thursday in early December of 2013. The two ladies, with the chauffeur cum yacht navigator met me as I stepped out of the customs area. The airport was small and primitive. It was not even climate controlled. The air was hot and humid, the same way inside and outside. The only difference was that there were breezes outside in the open air, thus lessening the atmospheric discomfort. I was glad to get into an air-conditioned Lincoln. The drive to the marina where the yacht docked took less than fifteen minutes, 

The yacht was far more luxurious than I imagined. I was on the luxury cruise ships before, but here on this yacht, the subdued elegance and unobtrusive luxury floored me and made me respect the sophistication and taste of the owner. I had a cabin all by myself, tastefully designed, far better than any cabin I had been in. Besides having a built in window alongside the length of the cabin and thus affords an 180-degree view, it sported a small bar, art works (paintings and sculptures), book case, bathroom with a tub, flat screen HD TV and DVD hooked up with satellite Internet. A treadmill machine was strategically placed in front of the TV. The cabin was custom built for a wealthy industrialist, now deceased. His sixty-something widow and her friend occupied the other cabin across the hallway. I met the widow via the Internet. My forays into poetry attracted her attention. She wrote to me, inquiring about my life and philosophy. After six months of correspondence, she decided to give me her cell phone number and wondered how I would look like, and after I sent my photos  over the Internet, she would like to know if they were were fake. We talked in English with occasional lapses in French. My French was terrible. I barely understood her. I had to frequently ask her to slow down. On the other hand, I was able to make myself understood. I had no problem to express myself in French, though I did so largely crudely and at times haltingly. Then my piece on Wittgenstein drove her over the edge. It turned out she knew about Wittgenstein. She and her friend wanted to know more Wittgenstein and philosophy, especially how it connected with life and practical living. Besides, she said, it was time that I had a real vacation in paradise. She wanted me to cruise with her in French Polynesia for three weeks in her yacht and she would not take no for an answer. She didn't have to twist my arms. I jumped at the invitation with both feet. It was the first time the meaning of high living was driven home to me. Heretofore I blocked out from my consciousness all manifestations of luxury. I decried them as evidence of decadence. Now I welcome them and find myself enjoy them. They give me a sense of peace and comfort and relaxation. 

I just watched the movie "The Grandmaster" while waiting for the ladies to wake up. The movie calmed me down tremendously. It even inspired me to do some old kata I had not done for the long time. The Sun came up quite early in the Southern Hemisphere in December. I could see that outside the window. The sky was azure and the sea was of a darker color. There were hardly any waves. The sea was surprisingly calm. I came out of the room for fresh air. The navigator and I exchanged some brief pleasantries in French. He seemed to understand me, but I dared not be loquacious. He was reserved and eyed me with some curiosity and envy. 

French Polynesia is comprised of a ring of inactive slowly sinking volcanic verdant islands, some of which form lagoons harboring abundant sea life and excellent white sand beaches. The water has two distinct colors, turquoise for shallow depth stretching in places for almost a mile into the ocean, and azure for greater depth. The climate is hot and humid. The natives, originating from the islands of Indonesia, are good-looking, friendly, indolent, and fun-loving. Before the arrival of the missionaries, sexuality was freely practiced. Extramarital sex was condoned. Food was plentiful. So the good life in the paradise consisted of food, music, drinks, and sex. Work was considered a chore and done at a minimum. The lifestyle underwent some changes after the arrival of the Europeans, but a laid-back, hedonistic orientation to life is still preserved. A minority (7 % of the population of 250,000 inhabitants ) of Chinese who originally were brought over to work as slaves in the middle of the 19th century in cotton plantations, control local commerce. Most tourists are from Europe, some of them are celebrities, staying in bungalows of $1,000-5,000 a night. Cost of living is high ( no income tax but sale tax is of 15%) and unemployment hovers around 30%. There is an air of third-world poverty outside of the capital. So, there is a dark side to the paradise. 

Albert, the navigator cum chauffeur, turned out to be the cook as well. After anchoring off the coast of Bora Bora, he proceeded to fix brunch. Annette and her friend, Lilian, woke up around 10 am at local time which is two hours behind U.S. Pacific Time. They joined me on the deck. Brisk breezes made the heat and humidity bearable. Brunch consisted of chilled roasted eggplant with garlic soup, mahi mahi with potatoes and asparagus. Brie cheese, red grapes and crackers for dessert. White wine accompanied the meal  while Merlot was served with dessert. 

The ladies and I partook in many tourist activities on the islands. The most memorable ones that left indelible memories involved the following:

After lunch on the first day, I went snorkeling. Since it was the very first time I walked around with the flippers, I soon lost balance and scraped my left knee on some coral rock. Then soon after that, as I tried to adjust my googles, I had an unpleasant and surprising encounter with sea urchins. The toxins left me in pain and somewhat delerious and forced me to quickly retire to the beach. When Albert saw me hobble around, he asked what was the matter with me. Upon appraising of my mishap, he told me that I needed to go behind a bush and urinate on my injured toes. The uric acid in the urine would neutralize the toxin injected by the sea urchins, he asserted. I quickly followed his advice as I realized I had nothing to lose. The remedy worked almost instantly. I was vastly relieved because I didn't want any medical complications on these supposed wanderings in the wonderland. 

But somehow troubles had a way to track me down. The next way on a visit to the famed Bora Bora island, I foolishly listened to Albert and the two ladies and we all signed up for an off-the-road mountain riding in a four-wheel-drive vehicle. The vehicle was ancient, at least 15 years olld. It was driven by an eager, in late 30's, half-French, half-Tahitian native who barely spoke English. Sitting next to him up front was a giant middle-aged Tahitian woman who weighed at least 300 lbs. To this day I didn't know why she went along  for the trip as she was obviously a local. She and the driver conversed in rapid French while I sat right behind them on a bench, trying to catch what they said. Apparently they just knew each other and used the three-hour trip to learn more about each other. At any rate, having that extra mass of at least 300 lbs didn't help with the arduous task of navigating straight up the mountainous island on unpaved, pot-holed tracks with seven passengers in the back. At one time, the jeep stalled, even on first gear, while climbing up the road. I was terrified, fearing that the jeep would slide down the mountain uncontrolled and thus very likely would roll over to the side and straight down to the beach, if the vehicle would get that far. Very likely it would be entangled in the vegetation on the way down while the occupants would be thrown out of the vehicle (it had no roof) and be dead or at least with broken necks and limbs and spirits. Apparently my time was not up yet. Such a scenario didn't happen. The vehicle was restarted and it resumed its assault up the mountain. When we got to the summit, the view was breath-taking. We had a spectacular view of the bay and the different colors of the sea. We also visited the two artillery emplacements erected during WW II by ther Anericans to protect the island against the Japanese. 

The rest of my stay in Tahiti was involved in less perilous adventures. I visited the pineapple "plantation" (a misnomer because the plot was not big though obviously commercial. The fruit was cultivated for juice, because of small size) although it was very delicious and sweet. I spent time at a painter's workshop where the artist painted on the fabric used for sarongs. We were treated to mangoes and pineapples there. By the way, mango trees and jackfruit trees are ubiquitous in Tahiti, along with hibiscus and banana plants and, of course, coconut trees.  

The last evening was spent on the yacht talking. Merlot wine flowed copiously among us while I was holding court. The wine relaxed me and words poured out of me. 

"Poetry is the celebration of language. The feelings are the catalysts for the striking display of sounds and imageries in a rhythmic and original turns of phrase. Melody and musicality come about by means of the placement of certain words containing similar-sounding speech acts. Everybody has feelings, but not everybody can be poets because not everybody can have access to the magic of poetic language. It is the poets who consecrate and immortalize those feelings via the magic of language. Once a person crosses over the threshold of magic, he feels he belongs to a special tribe. But then if he is really indeed a card-carrying member of that tribe, he realizes that he must be a moralistic person on top of being an artistic person. He cannot just be so self-absorbed and self-important that he thinks he is above morality. To live with true poetic consciousness is to be identified with ethics, and not just with the self-indulgent notion of "art for art's sake."

I am a very minor poet, but poetry leads me to self-acceptance, self-validation, and higher morality and higher values. I don't live not just for beauty anymore. I now also live for truths and justice. 

I consider it a high honor and a blessing indeed that somehow you two ladies understand and appreciate my amateurish and audacious excursions in poetry. Poetry enlightens me, purifies me, and gives me strength and identity. I hope it does the same to you. 

On the long flight from the States to Tahiti, I had epiphanies about chance and opportunity. And I must admit that overall I have been a lucky man and many times I have failed to live up to the dictum of Napoleon Bonaparte, "Opportunities only come to those who are ready." I am not vey smart. Neither am I wise. I am just a loud-mouthed blowhard who was driven to philosophy because I struggled to find meaning for my existence. 

After a long reflection induced by pain and suffering, I came to realize life that does not mean much if there is no true love nor ability, even desire, to actualize one's potential. I have many shortcomings and vices, but, unlike so many assholes and scumbags, I do possess intellectual courage and an abiding sense of honor. These two qualities are my saving grace. They have set me on a path of intellectual improvement and moral betterment, and hence self-respect so I can walk tall and face adversities. Reading Wittgenstein is part of the process of intellectual improvement. I don't pretend that I fully understand Wittgenstein, but reading him has brought a strange feeling of peace and pride. He's like Buddhism. He is teaching me how to live and be ready for death.

Don DeLillo in Libra, said that,"Les plus belles choses sont illuminés par la peur." This quote was used as an introduction to a chick novel in Italian that launched a literary career of a 25-year-old woman who studied philosophy in Bologna. I don't know any beautiful thing that is illuminated by Fear. Do you? Rather, Fear, I think, brings to light many ugly things, such as cowardice, lying, self-justification, and loss of dignity. Fear takes many forms and has many manifestations, the most common are fear of death, fear of failure, and fear of rejection. I may be deluded, but I don't think I am fearful of death, failure, and rejection. At least, not anymore. Not for the last 15 years. On the contrary, I unconsciously, if not consciously, seek death, failure, and rejection, because I want to make myself stronger. I am not quite normal. I would rather think that I am not average, not mediocre. I push myself to the limit; I test the boundary of things. Meeting you two ladies is an act of profound meaning and courage. I asked myself prior to flying over here, "What do I have to lose?" I have nothing to impress you with except my honesty and willingness to learn about myself and about you. I am approaching seventy. At most I have ten good years left. I must make the best of them. I must live authentically and serenely. There's no more time for regrets. Life in its essence comprises of experiences. A man's life is the sum total of his experiences. What kinds of experiences he wants to have is up to him. In looking back on my life, I wish I could go back and undo most of it, but I cannot. The only option left for me is to look forward and live the reminder of my life in such a way that I won't regret when I am lying on my death bed. So I'm telling myself these days is that I am going to live my life to the brim and with gusto. I have accepted who I am. I have learned to be comfortable with myself. I just have to learn to be comfortable with others, especially with whom I can't help but have affection for. As for scumbags and assholes which are plentiful in this world, I must not let them affect me too much. Just because I am honest with myself, that is not necessarily the same with everybody else. I must not be too surprised when I run into weak-minded, cowardly animals who are into self-deception. I must be vigilant to a fact that we hate in others what we hate in ourselves and mediocre folks have outlandish and ever-ready excuses as to why they are not accomplished. The funny thing is that they never regard themselves as mediocre, unaccomplished, untalented, boring, useless, parasitic individuals because if they recognize that fact, they would die of shame and discontent. So they all come up with all kinds of excuses and delusions either to explain why they are nobodies or to brazenly assert that they are really somebodies. The mind game they play with themselves is at once pathetic and ridiculous. They are too stupid to realize I see through their facade and their charade. And then they are even more stupid when they think I constantly put them down. (Trust me, there's no pleasure to beat up on helpless, hapless nobodies. No pleasure at all to be superior to scumbags and assholes. More like an annoyance.). Little do they know that I just state facts, unadorned, unembellished facts. Yes, life is very tough, and some fiction is necessary to help us go through difficult days and impossible nights, but in the end, a life steeped in lies, especially self-lies, is not worth living. I am a blowhard, a braggart, a loud-mouthed advertiser of myself, but, unlike those whom I despise, what I am boasting and advertising about is always truthful. I don't believe much in modesty and humility. I use braggadocio to boost myself to further heights. Why should one be ashamed if one does feel superior to others? Who is there to comfort him when he feels inferior to wiser, smarter, and more informed individuals? Life is all about be all you can be: the challenge and the response in accompaniment of the journey of self-discovery."

Annette pointedly asked Lilian, her supposedly best friend since childhood, and a widower sister, of what she thought of my long-winded, meandering exposition.

"Well, Roberto, Annette didn't explain fully my role or should I say, my presence here. I was supposed to be her advisor and confidante, an extra set of eyes and ears for her.  She didn't trust herself. I was glad that I came along. 

Please don't feel offended if you think you are being examined and tested and interviewed. We have tried to be subtle, but it is what it is. Actually, life, for all practical purposes, is a long movie where each of us is an actor either fully cast or being auditioned for a role in the movie. We act, we circle one another, we dance, trying to figure out who our friends and foes are. 

I have watched you the past three weeks. I have listened to your voice, your choice of words. I have seen how you react to the native Tahitian girls in their half-naked native costumes performing their sexually-charged dances, and to the mating calls emitted by them. I could be all wrong and what I told Annette in private was the same as I am going to repeat here for your benefit. You are an unusual, very strange, unconventional, rare man. Actually, you are not quite a man yet, despite your age. You are suspended somewhere between a child and an old man. Your charms, your attractiveness came from your being a child while your intelligence and analytical ability are those of an old man. It is very clear to me that you are a very lonely human being who has suffered much. You have struggled against nihilism and self-destruction. You are crying for love, but the love you seek is that of a child, not of a grown man. You have a growth problem. You have an arrested development in terms of social skills and emotions. You don't care for luxury and comfort. I watched you at dinner and tried to see if you were affected by the ambiance of wealth and sophistication. You were not. Yet when you talked about love and childhood memories and ideas, you eyes sparkled and got inflamed. Your eyes and voice showed very clearly where your true passions lay. My friend here, Annette, was very much affected by you. I hope you will treat her well."  ("Lilian! You'd better stop", Annette protested and giggled.)

-Ne te fâches pas de ce qu'elle vient de dire. Oui, c'est vrai que je t'adore. But you probablly know that already. No, you are not being interviewed or tested or watched. The invitation was warmly extended to you and the intent was for all of us to relax and get to know one another in a pleasant atmosphere. Lilian didn't quite know how to say that she was very protective of me. We are all to die soon, ten years or so. My point is that what we are going to do about that, especially if at this juncture in our life, we still feel lonely and not quite understood or accepted. What are the barriers, what stands in the way to peace and understanding and possibly love? 

-No, I 'm not offended at all (I chuckled and smiled that beautiful, innocent smile of mine). I know myself and I think I know a little bit of the human heart, at least I fancy I do. Those women who are poor and stupid think that I am after rich ladies. Rich ladies think I am poor and stupid. I have met all kinds of women and ladies. I have had a rich romantic life. I have not yet met anybody who really understands and loves me. But I am not looking for love. Not anymore. I let love come to me. I believe in fate and serendipity and destiny. I am sounding like I am a fatalistic and superstitious kind of guy, but I am not. It's just that when it comes to the throbbing and fluttering of the human heart, of my heart in particular, there is a mystery and beauty about it if we don't plan, don't calculate, don't put on airs. It's far better we just let our naked self be out there in full view, our vulnerable heart in full display. Yes, we must be true to ourselves and to others. To love is not a sin. To pretend to be someone that we are not, is. Love is the linear meeting place of understanding, acceptance, respect, and affection. There are many women and ladies who have professed to love me, but they did not and they do not. They love themselves, using me as a boost to their ego. Love is always outer-directed, not inner-directed. I am the world's authority on love. Love is at once simple and complex, intimately tied to survival and ego and yet a thing, a quality, an act of sublime beauty and deep meaning. True love makes one grow, even if it does hurt like hell. But let's not talk about love, about wealth and sophistication. Let's just enjoy each other's company and the friendship we are having. True love will have a way to make its presence known, sooner or later. Here's what I wrote about falling in love, as a take-off from 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"

But all these talks and ruminations about love and lovability don't really amount to much of anything when they are placed next to stories about death and survival and honor and loyalty and sacrifice in war zones. However, upon further reflection, when your own survival is at stake and the only thing that keeps your life from going under is the kindness and loyalty and sacrifice of your comrades and even strangers who refuse to extinguish the milk of human kindness in them, then I suppose in the end we still talk about love and kindness, the caring extended to fellow human beings who need help. So I am back to where I started: love and lovability and how important they are to me in finding my life meaningful. I must hang on to a notion that I am capable of love and I am indeed worthy of being loved. 

Wissai

December 2013

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