Reconciliation

The Vietnamese communist rulers are fond of advocating and talking about reconciliation whenever they travel overseas and encounter demonstrations organized the Viet exiles. They make it sound like the exiles are recalcitrant and sore losers. Reconciliation is a noble concept. Vietnamese of different political and religious colors, stripes, and persuasions should ALL work towards that end. However and unfortunately, as it is the ingrained practice of theirs, the VC never respect words. They use words to lie, to deceive, to mislead their opposition as well as their followers. If they really believe in reconciliation, then why did they rigorously follow a brutal policy of eliminating the opposition as evidenced by their assasinating non-communist Viet freedom fighters during the period 1930-1954, their brutal herding of South Vietnam's former armed forces personnel, bureaucrats, and politicians into Stalinist concentration camps after April 30, 1975, and their failure to utilize the talents of non-communist Viets? Reconciliation, to the VC, means an appeal to the non-communist Viets in Vietnam and especially active members of the Viet Diaspora overseas to stop calling to the attention of the world of what a corrupt, inhuman, money-hungry, insatiable regime in Vietnam really is, a regime that the great majority of the Viet people not only have no affection for, but also harbor an intense desire to see it collapse and implode, so in its place, a better system can be established. No people in this world like to live under communism. Just ask the run-of-the mill Russians, the Eastern Europeans, the Chinese, the North Koreans, the Cubans, the Cambodians, and the Laotians. Communism in practice is simply no good for humans. There is a flight---sometimes very desperate as the case of the Vietnamese and the North Koreans--- of people from communist countries to non-communist nations, but very rarely do we ever see people voluntarily migrate en mass to communist countries. Given a choice, only the foolish and the deluded, and of course hard-core communist cadres would care to live under communism. So, the VC please listen, reconciliation means you have to recognize reality and adjust and adapt to the needs of the people, not asking the people adjusting and adapting to your needs. Tyranny does not last forever. It never does. If you want to talk about reconciliation, study the policy practiced by South Africa when Mandela took over the country. Unlike your policy adopted when you conquered South Vietnam with the help of your communist patrons, Mandela's policy didn't result in an exodus of talents out of South Africa. Mandela openly declared a policy of national reconciliation when he came to power whereas you talked about "reeducation camps". Why did you NOT talk about reconciliation in 1975? Why now?

Confidential

Yesterday I felt blue and depressed. I had a tough day at the office. Several bad things happened to me. After work, I stopped at a grocery store, grabbed a can of nuts, a bag of beef jerky, and a six pack. My stomach used to look like a wash board. Now it's flabby due to my recent predilection for six packs, and bad knees. I can't run anymore. Anyway, I got home, flopped into my easy chair in front of
the TV, hit the remote, and started munching and drinking my sorrows away. But I didn't feel any better. By the time i got to the last can, I felt lonely as Hell. So I whipped out my iPhone, fished out a card from my wallet, and punched in the number.

Can I help you? A soft voice came on.

I'd like to talk with Ian Knowles, please.

He's no longer here. I am his replacement. You've used our service
before, I suppose.

Can we talk in confidence?

Of course, Con Fidence is my name. Talking is my game. What's your
name? Fire away!

Is Confidence your last name or first?

It's full name. Two separate words.

Ah, I see, Con as in convict or Connie?

A funny type. Good. I like funny people, but have to be real, not
funny ha ha. Con is short for Conrad.

We talked for over an hour. Actually, I did most of the talking. He just listened. He occasionally asked some questioned and made some surprisingly insightful comments. He turned out to be a good, caring listener. He said I could even stop by the office the next day if things got worse. He told me to stop making undue demands on myself and stop writing to that stupid asshole a million miles away. If I need to unwind, write to him instead. He further advised me to keep very busy and resume doing physical exercises.

So, here I am, trying to come to terms with my anger; with flashbacks; with thoughts of homicide, mayhem, and wanton destruction. I am also tryng to deal with a propensity to show off how smart and knowledgeable I am. So, I took the advice of Con Fidence and I am emptying my thoughts and feelings down on paper. He said if I keep doing that, one day I will find harmony inside me. One can write oneself to exhaustion. And an exhauted person has no energy left even to think of violence. All he wants to do is to rest and recharge his battery. The funny thing as I am writing these words, I don't feel tired at all. Instead, I feel invigorated and alive and indeed lighter. The sluggishness, the lethargy, the pre-thrombotic choke and
blockage, the malaise, all those shit are replaced by a sense of triumph and delight of seeing how my thoughts, my feelings are transmuted into symbols called words. The outside world and its attendant ills and bulkshit and nonsense seem so far away. I am now chortling with an irresistible calority and verve. I feel fluid and
the demon has beaten a retreat. I still see the footprints he left behind. They form the words: "I'll be back!"
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Note of the author: Sorry to disappoint you. You thought you were going to be regaled with a story about phone sex, didn't you? Oh, come on, do I look like the type who has to stoop that low to get some entertainment? What I need is not some cheap, loveless sex, but a relief from the torment of violent thoughts. After I wrote the above, I went to a library and ran into an acquaintance whom I hadn't seen for three years. I was astounded to see her look quite a bit younger than the last time I saw her. I complimented her and was told she
decided to be a true Buddhist and that meant to get rid of negative feelings and emotions specially hate and greed. Upon hearing that I felt much stronger and all thoughts of violence departed from me. I hope they were gone for good, but if they come back, I am ready to kick their ass. Oops, did I just intimate that I am into non- violence? Habits die hard, I guess. All right, I am not going to do
any kicking. Just weaving and sliding my way through. No more fighting. No more kicking asses. Cool, I am cool. Tonight, I know for sure I am into peace and serenity.

Assholes

Assholes are like flies. There are so many of them. You cannot eradicate them. All you can do is to avoid them, just like you avoid flies. Of course, now and then, if the flies get too close, you would crush and smash them. Today, an asshole tried to get a rise out of me, but he failed. I gave him more than what I took from him. I bet he is now chewing over the hurt I inflicted on him. That would teach him a lesson for messing with me. I don't attack, but I counter-attack fiercely and relentlessly until the enemy is completely vanquished. Those who dare to affront me will face a scorched earth policy.

Suicide

I read in the paper today that a suicidal man living in the U.S. went to a mental hospital and asked to be admitted. He indicated to the "intake" coordinator that he had financial difficulties and worried about the world heading towards Armargeddon. He further disclosed that he had tried to hang himself three years ago "but the rope broke". After enduring the wait for more than 12 hours and undergoing the bureaucratic merry-go-around for the paperwork to be finalized, and the uncaring attitude and ineptitude of the mental health "professionals" (sic!) involved, he decided that he had reached the end of the rope and so he hanged himself with a belt. This time he succeeded. Here was the step-by-step mismanagement of the man's care:

* A social worker and case manager failed to read the intake coordinator's report.
* A doctor failed to complete discharge paperwork, delaying the man's
voluntary transfer to a psychiatric facility.
* The man somehow changed into street clothes, in violation of hospital policy---and obtained his belt.
* A technician who was supposed to monitor the man via a camera in his room failed to check on him when he lingered in the bathroom.

Also, here are the details of the last hours of his life:

The nurse assigned to care for the man on the overnight shift said the patient was in street clothes when he arrived at 7 p.m. At 8 p.m., the patient asked about the delay and the nurse noted that the doctor stll needed to complete the paperwork . The nurse did not call the doctor to ask about the delay.

At 11 p.m., the nurse and charge nurse decided to cancel the transfer and the patient was informed. Ten minutes later a nursing assistant found the patient hanging by his neck in the bathroom.

Suicide always fascinates me for reasons I had better keep to myself. A wave of sadness washed over me after I read the above news report this morning. I hope the health officials involved felt bad about the death of that poor man, otherwise they don't belong where they are. Trust me, I know this world is for the strong and the resilient, is for those life does provide a meaning, a reason to keep moving on despite all the pains and the ultimate aburdity since we all die in the end anyway. Albert Camus maintains there is only one truly philosophical question and that is whether to commit suicide or not. During my last sojourn in Vietnam, I ran into a middle aged, skinny, man who lost both his legs. He earnestly begged loudly in the courtyard of a Buddhist temple in Saigon. He was effective in his begging. His earnest, mournful begging voice in combination with his bowing his head down close to the ground evoked much compassion of the visitors. He thus received quite a bit of money. He picked up the money from the hat, emotionally counted the bills, and stuffed them in his bulging pocket. Then he resumed the whole process of looking straight at the eyes of each passing visitor and cryng loudly in his unforgettable mournful, anguishing voice, using the most humble expressions to elicit sympathy and pity, and finally bowing down in a dramatic manner. I watched him, completely transfixed and absorbed by the spectacle. I was marvelled at his will to live. His image has stayed inside my mind ever since. I want to find a reason to live. I want to believe my life does have meaning. I desire to hold dear to a notion that my existence makes a difference to somebody.

Sufferings Redux

Sufferings Redux

I had a long chat with a young man this gorgeous morning in late spring in the highlands of a state known for breath-taking vistas of snowcapped mountains and thermal springs. He came to me because a friend of his had told him that I was a cicerone of reliefs from emotional troubles, besides a nestor of meditation within a certain circle.

We talked for over two hous while taking a hike over rolling meadows and fording rushing streams. He was amazed that I could walk for hours in light of my advanced age. I told him as long as we walked slowly I could manage. I didn't tell him in my salad days, I was a long distance runner. I didn't want to brag. I have done enough bragging in my life.

He told me the severe problems he had with his foster parents to a point he entertained thoughts of inflicting grievous bodily harm on them. He pointed out although his parents were well-to-do, they didn't have any sybaritic excesses in their lifestyle while he himself was pampered at an early age and thus developed a marked predilection for a luxurious and sensuous way of life. As he grew up, he discovered to his horror and anxiety that he didn't cope well with disappointments and failures. It appeared that he didn't have the mental toughness and resiliency to succeed in life. The more his mother upbraided him for his lack of discipline and for a propensity of self-indulgence, the more his resentment for her grew, and along with that a perverse contempt for his easy-going father. Last month, to his great surprise, his father dressed him down in a calm voice but unsparing words after he was being rude and insolent to his mother. Consequently, he found himself hating both his parents and wanted to lash out at them, but he was smart enough to realize he was being irrational in his thoughts and yet he felt powerless to stop them from entering into his head. For relief, he started going to bars in the evening and talked to the bartenders and strangers about his unhealthy wishes. Last week he ran into some guy who had heard of me. So, here he was, requesting my help.

We stopped under a tree big enough to give us ample shade. I sat on the ground slowly massaging my legs and breathing deeply the fresh air while brisk winds rustled my hair. He was pacing back and forth in front of me, listening to my words:

"Listen, Roberto, you're a very lucky man. You've got to realize that. You have the smarts, the looks, the education, and your parents' money. Yet you recoiled and ricocheted from anger, from being resentful of your parents' refusal to continue pampering you. You retreated into that aching, moody introspection of yours and came up with this "brilliant" idea of hurting your parents because they treated you as a child. Well, you are a child. You still act like a child. If you want them to treat you as an adult, you have to act like an adult.

Take one step back and have a really good look at the situation. You're just an overspoiled brat, a self-absorbed, ungrateful young man. How dare you have those stupid, violence-filled thoughts! You were adopted! You are not your parents' flesh and blood and yet they love you. Too much, I'm afraid. They owe you nothing. It's you who owe them everything, do you understand? Happiness is to think less of yourself and learn to be grateful and pay back your debts, instead of asking for more and more, otherwise you would just destroy yourself, sooner than later."

He stopped pacing. He looked at me strangely, frowning, face reddened. He wanted to say something. He half-opened his mouth, cleared his throat, but changed his mind at the last second. Then abruptly, he turned and walked briskly away from me, and then broke into a trot. I watched him running. Sunlight bounced off his white golf shirt. He made a turn at the bend of a stream. I didn't know what he ran away from. Maybe embarrassment. Maybe anger. Maybe both. I didn't really care. I then diverted my eyes to the ground in front me and saw the footprints left behind by his pacing to and fro, the footprints of a sick, selfish animal. I got up and walked slowly back to town. I felt drained. I just came in touch with something not quite evil, but definitely pathological. Pure selfishness is pathological. It makes us think only of ourselves. It reduces us. It dehumanizes us. In some cases, it makes us act smaller than animals.

Visible and Invisible Sufferings

Visible and Invisible Sufferings

You walked for about 90 minutes in the cold and the rain instead of standing in a long line waiting for a bus to take you to the landmark La Sagrada Familia. The city is big and known for its avant-garde artists. The furniture and decor at the hotel have a distinctive, modernist simplicity and functionality instead of the wasteful and spacious extravanganza that most high-priced American hotels are allied to. On the way back, since the line for the bus was not long, you decided to endure the wait. You dozed on and off during the long bus ride. And of course, your mind turned to Laura and the two ignorant, insolent nitwits. Forgiveness is an art. Some are not born for it. But then you wondered how the 35-year old Hughes de Montalembert, French painter and filmmaker, managed to transcend the bitter, absurd loss of sight when one of the surprised burglars whom he caught in the act of trashing his New York apartment, threw paint remover in his face. He wrote a memoir about the transforming experience thirty years later in a book entitled Invisible.

In Montalembert's sightless world, some dirtiest words have nothing to do with profanity or sordid sex; rather, they revolve around pity. Montalembert fiercely denounced pity in any shape or form, including self-pity. He emerged strong and ferociously combative after predictably plunging into despair and darkness after the loss of his sight. He is now proudly and defiantly wearing an eye-catching big
stainless steel pair of glasses on his rugged, handsome face.

He lives well in Paris, Denmark, and Marjorca. He has been married for 15 years to the artist Lin Utzon (daughter of the architect Jorn Utzon, who designed the Sydney Opera House). And, of course, he writes.

Pain will either drive people into drinking or writing.

(I know you want to say "bye, bye, bye"
So, don't be surprised
When you see me cry, cry, cry)
Some may even engage in killing in order to inflict and spread the
pain they feel within.

Montalembert writes well. He can be a great help for those who feel bitter, unhappy, and full of self-pity. Whenever I catch myself on the verge of feeling weak and sorry for myself, I remember Montalembert and I see very clearly that my loss was minor and self-induced, unlike Montalembert's which was spectacular and unexpected. I also remind myself that I lived through the horrific Vietnam War largely unscathed, unlike millions of Vietnamese who suffered heart-rending losses. I was lucky and still am lucky, compared with my compatriots who are now forced to live under totalitarianism where brazen lies and rank corruption are facts of everyday occurrences, and change for the better is no where in sight.

In the dark hours of the night,
I have a fervent desire
To plunge this knife of mine
Deep into that stupid heart of yours
So I can have a satisfaction
To see you jerk around for a few brief seconds under the quivering
knife and then you lie completely still
As a stream of blood that first spurts from your chest settles down to
a slow oozing, certifying the kill.

Would I have pity for you then
Or would I experience a peace
That long eludes me?

Nietzsche once said the thoughts of suicide
Help many men go through the night.
I would like to add, the thoughts of killing you
Have helped me stay alive.

How I hate you so!
Until you came along,
I didn't know how strong
Public insolence can wreak
Havoc of my soul.
You now make everything complete.
You brought understanding to the meaning
Of hatred and defeat.

Thanks to you, I have become an actor
And no longer wish to be a martyr.
I now have a zest for life
And no longer care to cry.

A man's got to do what he has to do, but to do the task well requires self-knowledge, A man's got to know his limitations. He has to know not to talk much, not to give off too much information about himself, about his intentions enen when he is angry and upset. Self-righteousness is for small and stupid people. Silence and forbearance are what drive a man to success. To lord over others, one must first master oneself. To get upset over small things saps a man of his strength and makes him look like a whiner. Sarcasm is a cheap wit. Anything worth saying has to be said with poetry and dignity. To inflict pain on others through sarcasm is to invite retribution.

To be lovable is a sign of maturity. A lonely and unloved man is usually a man not at peace with himself, who takes himself too seriously. So what if he is insulted and ignored, he would suck it up and will not internalize the hurts. He lets them roll off him like water. He does not open his mouth and absorbs water. Instead, he goes to a warm, sunny place and dries himself. There is virtue in silence. To fulminate against others is a sign of weakness. One has to be pertinacious in making oneself strong in all aspects---physically, morally, and intellectually. I always wonder a belief in a personal God ultimately makes a person strong or not. I suspect the answer lies in what kind of a man a person is. Some people need to fashion a staff to lean on when they feel weak. Other people have no use for a staff. They make themselves strong. They learn to rely on themselves. They cannot take fiction for reality. Truth is truth. They don't want to take in fiction in order to make their lives meaningful and bearable. They have true pride and courage. True humans are different from false humans and lesser animals by virtue of their knowledge. They care to learn. They know their place in the overall scheme of things, even if that knowledge is imperfect. How matter how imperfect and incomplete that knowledge is, they know it provides a better guidance than a wholesale surrender to a fiction called God when all the evidence screams there is no such entity.

I further wonder how can an intelligent man subscribe to a ridiculous notion that an illiterate carpenter--no matter how loving of others that person is--is God in the flesh who was conceived not through an ordinary process called fucking, but through "Immaculate Conception"? When an otherwise intelligent man believes in such nonsense, I call him sick and weak emotionally. He cannot endure loneliness. He cannot face hardship without help.

Today a petty-minded woman called me up and told me about a gossip that people have spread about me. She at first tried to appear sympathetic and said that she didn't believe the rumor, but in the end she couldn't contain herself and asked me if there was any truth in the rumor. I calmly told her that the rumor was so fantastical that it was laughable and that gossip-mongering was a cheap form of Schadenfreuden. She insisted that I had to clear my good name. I said that I had more important things to worry about than to spend time feeling concerned of what people may feel about me, especially when I haven't done anything remotely connected to what the rumor suggested. I further told her that there was one thing worthy of my attention--
and that was the law. As long as I have not done anything that the long arm of the law would reach me, I have nothing to worry about.

As I was terminating the conversation, I could tell she was embarrassed for calling me to check on the rumor. I was glad I was strong during the conversation and didn't lose my temper. The problems presented to me by my son and by my financial situation have strengthened me to the point that I only devote my energy to real issues. However, I must be careful in my speech so that animals and assholes wouldn't be able to twist my words around in order to defame me. I have to remind myself that most humans are nothing but animals who traffic in gossip, laziness, and viciousness while believing in a fiction invented by priestly parasites. The fiction is called God. If any of those animals try to tell you about their God, please tell them to talk to the Frenchman Montalembert and asks him how he lost his eyesight. As I mentioned at the beginning of this monologue, Montalembert's blindness has made my problems look all puny, including the latest rumor about me. For your information, I have stopped all efforts to bring an early demise to my life. I now assiduously, sedulously, pertinaciously work to make sure that I will live the next 40 years of my life in serenity and boundless joy ang good health.

This morning I couldn't shake off the flashback about two assholes. I knew then I was suffering from invisible suffering.

Exhortation

Exhortation

There are some individuals who exhort, encourage, plod, push, plead,beg, bessech, implore others to take actions, but they themselves refuse to lift up even a little finger when their participation is needed.

There are two types of cowards. The silent ones live their lives of quiet desperation. The others are loud-mouthed cowards. They make a spectacle of themselves because they crave attention and thus assume it's a matter of course for humans to behave that way. Little do they know that when words are not translated into actions, the persons who have uttered those words only invite contempt from onlookers. I have nothing but contempt for loud-mouthed cowards.

Cowardice is not a very pleasant way to go through life. Cowards never experience moments of triumph when adversities are overcome, nor do they savor feelings of solidarity when accomplishments are acknowledged by appreciative populace.

Cowards may live a long time and pass on their genes, but their lives are no different from those of asses on the farm and shrubs in the desert. Nobody respects them. To be fully human is to command respect, in one way or another.