Music, Food, Being Jilted, and Memories
The French say the Self is loathsome. Buddhism maintains that suffering comes from a having a delusion that the Self is separate from the Other. Pop psychology preaches that to be successful, one needs to suppress talking about oneself. Dostoevsky, a sick gambler and rambling writer, once wrote that humans loved talking about
themselves. And you, an artiste manqué, concur with Dostoevsky, and openly and energetically shout and scream that humans need not pretend otherwise. Humans always concern with themselves first and foremost, with their hopes, dreams, and fears, in short, with their own survival. Once you understand that, all the human behavior you label despicable and deplorable makes sense, and you start having peace with
yourself since you accept humans for what they are: many are unable to rise above the level of animal existence. There's a reason why there exist the words "human animal" in the lexicon. When I write, you and I are always intertwined. The first and second person singular are interchangeable.
Your partner keeps complaining why you persist in being a child, talking about yourself all the time as if you are the most interesting human ever coming down the turnpike. You slyly chuckle and reply with a wink, "Maybe I am." The irony is that a person who appears excessively egotistical could be surprisingly empathetic. He just does not show his empathy openly like the pretenders do. In other words, he is a honest person. He may be foolishly honest, but he is honest all the same. Maybe he is so comfortable with himself that he doesn't care much what others think of him. On the other hand, he could be a social retard and suffers from an arrested growth. You are way past bedtime. You are destroying your good looks. You are playing with fire.
You woke up the next day with an aching loneliness, despite spending the evening making out with Sylvia. The emptiness asserted its presence during the sex marathon and lingered on after Sylvia departed in that purring Benz of hers. The aching loneliness reminded you that you were cursed with the haunting memories of Laura. No woman would be able to dislodge her from your mind. She no longer reigned in your
heart. She had travelled upwards and wormed herself into your mind, making it diseased and lonely beyond repair. Only when you are asleep, you are given a break from the torment. Even so, the dreams sometimes come back. Lately they take on the horrible specter of your finding yourself completely unprepared for the finals of a certain course. You wake up in the middle of the night, drenched with perspiration, heart racing a million miles per hour, and relieved that it was only a bad
dream. During your waking hours, you have to keep yourself constantly occupied. Your moments of peace and joy are those when certain Spanish language ballads come in on the radio during your drive to and from work, and when you eat home prepared roasted peanuts with the skin on. The aroma of tbe peanuts fill your nostrils and you inhale deeply while chewing slowly. Your overwrought mind is temporarily relaxed and you close your eyes and think of the time you ate the roasted peanuts with the skin on while standing at the window looking out to the rain falling down in a late Sunday afternoon when you were a mere lad in Vietnam, not yet troubled by feelings of sex and jilted love. Joy is nothing but memory and so is pain.
Father's Day June 20, 2010
Authorial Note:
I love writing notes, to myself and to strangers--- big and small, beautiful and ugly, kind and cruel, especially to the small, the ugly, and the cruel. My note is sort of my saying to them: sons, you are no way in the same league as mine, no matter how hard you try. You are only fucking scums and animals, diseased to the core. Look at the lyrical way I express myself! Can you do that? Can your grandfathers do that? Of course not, you all are only able to eat, shit, and fuck,
and nothing else.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
A Strange Animal
A Strange Animal
Almost all people have gone to the zoo at one time or another. Some have gone several times. Being human, an quintessentially curious animal, they go there to see exotic and/or wild animals. They may feel a bit sorry for the animals being scooped up in pens and cages. While being there, they enjoy quality time together with their loved ones and friends. Then they come home and that's it. Nothing really has happened to them at the zoo. They looked, but they didn't see. They don't change. Those who are into a bit of reading know something about endangered species or the exploitation of any animals for monetary gains. They are aware of the functions of the zoos as the preservers and keepers of the gene pools of certain animals, besides being the educational centers and locations for strolling around and being in touch with certain part of nature in a Saturday morning or a Sunday afternoon.
I wonder how many of us, after spending a day at the zoo, take a good look of ourselves in the bathroom mirror and arrive at an epiphany that we, not the animals at tbe zoo, are the strange ones. Heck, I just had an encounter with a very strange animal this very afternoon. I always had had some uneasy feelings about this animal before , but its behavior this afternoon removed all doubts from my mind.
Almost all people have gone to the zoo at one time or another. Some have gone several times. Being human, an quintessentially curious animal, they go there to see exotic and/or wild animals. They may feel a bit sorry for the animals being scooped up in pens and cages. While being there, they enjoy quality time together with their loved ones and friends. Then they come home and that's it. Nothing really has happened to them at the zoo. They looked, but they didn't see. They don't change. Those who are into a bit of reading know something about endangered species or the exploitation of any animals for monetary gains. They are aware of the functions of the zoos as the preservers and keepers of the gene pools of certain animals, besides being the educational centers and locations for strolling around and being in touch with certain part of nature in a Saturday morning or a Sunday afternoon.
I wonder how many of us, after spending a day at the zoo, take a good look of ourselves in the bathroom mirror and arrive at an epiphany that we, not the animals at tbe zoo, are the strange ones. Heck, I just had an encounter with a very strange animal this very afternoon. I always had had some uneasy feelings about this animal before , but its behavior this afternoon removed all doubts from my mind.
Bragging Time
Bragging Time
Today must be my lucky day. Three women--- old women, women just younger than me by a few years and I am an old man (though I keep hearing from people that I am still young-looking and devilishly handsome) in mid 60's--- called me up and beat around the bush, saying they were lonely and they wanted to have company. They kept talking, going from one gossip to another. I pretended that I was too dense to know what the first one was up to. I just listended and kept saying "ah huh " and "right" occasionally. Finally, she got tired of talking and hung up after complaining that I hardly called her. Later in the evening, as I was lying in bed, all alone, reading an anthology of short stories, trying to look for an idea to expand into a story, when another old lady called. I think I once wrote a story about her. She was the one with a silver Mercedes and stylish clothes though she claimed she was going broke because of gambling problems. Her name is Sylvia. She is still quite good-looking although lately her looks have started fading. Wrinkles are claiming territory on her face. However, she still looks hot, in fact muy caliente to me with that ample bosom of hers hardly concealed in the ever-present low-cut blouses she wears and her shapely derriere swaying when she walks. Anyway, we talked. Nothing deep or controversial. If you know women as I do, all you need to do is to listen and agree with most (not everything, otherwise they would know you're a liar) of they say, and they would be fond of you and are likely to think of you when they are blue and need a sympathetic ear.
I must admit once upon a time, like three million years ago, a woman like Sylvia would make me pant with desire and I would jump at the first available opportunity to ask her out and later when I felt she was ready, I would make my moves and waylay her and have my way with her. But I am a much older man now. My blood is not running hot anymore. I had several bad experiences. I had quite a number of cases
of misplaced affection. All I have left is my ego and my mind. I don't even have much money left, after blowing most of it away in the stock market. Money, as they said, is only important when you don't have much of it when you need it. Money used to mean very little to me when I was a millionaire. Now it means a great deal to me when there exists a small step for me to be homeless. Everyday presents a challenge for me to raise capital so I could stay put in the condo, and put food on the table and gas in the tank.
So I calmly told Sylvia that, yes, when she wants to have company, when life is a bit too much for her to bear alone and she wants me, just pick up the phone and call me and I will be ready for her to pick me up in that fancy Mercedes-Benz of hers. She shyly and sweetly said, "Si', si', gracias, buenas noches, mi querido. Hasta luego. De acuerdo?" I said, "Claro, hasta luego." I know a smattering of Spanish. I pick up languages like a flunkie picks up troubles, here and there. I study languages in order to impress women. I want to appear urbane and well-travelled and sophisticated. I have a rudimentary knowledge of Spanish, French, Italian, German, Portuguese, Latin, and Chinese. I know, I should concentrate my energy on English,
the language I have problems of mastering. I tend to mangle, masturbate, mutilate, and murder the language when I speak it. People often ask me to repeat what I said. It's downright embarrassing, let me tell you, considering I've been living in the United States for 35 years now. Okay, I admit it. I am afflicted with an inferiority complex, so I cover it up by acting full of bravado and insouciance.
Where am I now? Ah, I remember. This stream of consciousness is supposed to be a paen, a panegyric of myself, an exercise in bragging, and not an attempt of self-put down! Be careful, Roberto. Watch what you are doing. Don't talk like an old man.
Let's see if I can continue. The other day I read a piece about an accordion. The author went on and on for fifteen pages reminiscing about her father, using her father's accordion as a leitmotiv. What was remarkable was that she could sustain the interest of the reader over a story which read more like a memoir, with no dramatic tension and thus no subsequent conflict resolution. In fact, her story
inspired this bragging exercise of mine. I know, I know. Bragging is distasteful, but I can't help it. I am a distasteful kind of guy, a rake, a cad, but somehow women like me, not only in these twilight years of my life, but have been so since my first year in college, almost five decades ago. Throughout my life, my best friends have been women, and some are more than friends. Having women take a liking of me has been good not only for my ego, but also for my body. It has
forced me to keep my body in a good shape, just in case. You never know when it may come handy.
After Sylvia and I said goodnight to each other, I had a big grin on my face, all smug and confident-like, and I resumed reading the anthology I referred to earlier. Actually, I was re-reading two stories there. I have read these two several times before. They made an impact on me. They affected me. And every time I read them, I felt
much calmer and wiser. I almost came to the end of the story where the
so-called Mr. Misfit made a raw yet eloquent re-examination of the whole Christian ethos, the message allegedly brought by Christ. He said he didn't really know if Christ really did and said all the things attributed to him in the Bible because he (Mr. Misfit) was not there and he wished he had been there, so he would know if Christ actually raised the dead because the answer would have a direct import
on Man's ethical conduct. The end of the story would always shakes me up, no matter I already know how the story reaches its violent, gory ending. I would shudder, feeling drained and exhausted and in awe of the power of words and imagination. By the time I reached near the ending when the hypocritical, babbling grandmother made a desperate attempt to save her life, the stupid, smug grin already left my face.
I felt pain. I felt a shortness of breath. I felt a constriction in my throat. I felt I was snooping on a scene of execution in the primeval forest where an old, pitiful, egotistical woman was trying to save herself from a senseless death brought on by her big mouth, when my cell phone rang again.
A third call in one evening, wow, this didn't happen before. Today was really special, a day to cherish and treasure and remember. It should be recorded in the annals of the life of a man who is fond of bragging, hence these words. The call came from Saundra (that's right, with an u), an old friend with all the meanings of the word, calling from Europe, from the country with the shape of a boot. I had to make the conversation short. Remember, money is scarce nowadays to me. Saundra is Jewish. I met her there more than a decade ago when I was prosperous and brimmed with confidence. Soon, she came out saying she felt like a leaning tower and I was a construction engineer who could save her from falling down. I replied that she must have mistaken me for somebody else. I was only a talker. Words were my game and Roberto was my name. I was into books and dreams, not bricks and falling
towers. The truth was that Saundra was a good-hearted woman, a good
mother, but she was just too self-centered for my taste. She once told me in all seriousness that she survived all life's difficulties because "God watched over me". Upon hearing that, I gave her an instant, on-the-spot retort, riposte, repartee, rejoinder, and reply that essentially ventured into an inquiry of what made her so special and what made 6 million Jews and 20 million Russians, not counting countless others, who had perished in World War II, not special enough to be saved by
God. We always talk about God and this time was no different. This time she remarked that I was too "doctrinaire" (!) and rigid in my thinking and that I had to open my heart to the possibility that most others were right and I was wrong. Then she added a clincher, "what made you think YOU are so special?" I gave out a long, audible sigh, suddenly realizing my phone bill would be a bear at month's end. And I said the following to her:
"Look, all the stories you heard and read are only that--stories---all right? Products of human imagination, wishes, dreams, hopes, and fears. No scientific or even logical basis in them. There's only one force at work and that's called the physical process and transformation of energy. I have to go. By the way, why did you call? It's three a.m over there.."
She gave me a throaty cackle and intoned: "Because I want to hear your voice and I want to kiss your belly."
I said, "You certainly may and don't forget to travel south."
Today must be my lucky day. Three women--- old women, women just younger than me by a few years and I am an old man (though I keep hearing from people that I am still young-looking and devilishly handsome) in mid 60's--- called me up and beat around the bush, saying they were lonely and they wanted to have company. They kept talking, going from one gossip to another. I pretended that I was too dense to know what the first one was up to. I just listended and kept saying "ah huh " and "right" occasionally. Finally, she got tired of talking and hung up after complaining that I hardly called her. Later in the evening, as I was lying in bed, all alone, reading an anthology of short stories, trying to look for an idea to expand into a story, when another old lady called. I think I once wrote a story about her. She was the one with a silver Mercedes and stylish clothes though she claimed she was going broke because of gambling problems. Her name is Sylvia. She is still quite good-looking although lately her looks have started fading. Wrinkles are claiming territory on her face. However, she still looks hot, in fact muy caliente to me with that ample bosom of hers hardly concealed in the ever-present low-cut blouses she wears and her shapely derriere swaying when she walks. Anyway, we talked. Nothing deep or controversial. If you know women as I do, all you need to do is to listen and agree with most (not everything, otherwise they would know you're a liar) of they say, and they would be fond of you and are likely to think of you when they are blue and need a sympathetic ear.
I must admit once upon a time, like three million years ago, a woman like Sylvia would make me pant with desire and I would jump at the first available opportunity to ask her out and later when I felt she was ready, I would make my moves and waylay her and have my way with her. But I am a much older man now. My blood is not running hot anymore. I had several bad experiences. I had quite a number of cases
of misplaced affection. All I have left is my ego and my mind. I don't even have much money left, after blowing most of it away in the stock market. Money, as they said, is only important when you don't have much of it when you need it. Money used to mean very little to me when I was a millionaire. Now it means a great deal to me when there exists a small step for me to be homeless. Everyday presents a challenge for me to raise capital so I could stay put in the condo, and put food on the table and gas in the tank.
So I calmly told Sylvia that, yes, when she wants to have company, when life is a bit too much for her to bear alone and she wants me, just pick up the phone and call me and I will be ready for her to pick me up in that fancy Mercedes-Benz of hers. She shyly and sweetly said, "Si', si', gracias, buenas noches, mi querido. Hasta luego. De acuerdo?" I said, "Claro, hasta luego." I know a smattering of Spanish. I pick up languages like a flunkie picks up troubles, here and there. I study languages in order to impress women. I want to appear urbane and well-travelled and sophisticated. I have a rudimentary knowledge of Spanish, French, Italian, German, Portuguese, Latin, and Chinese. I know, I should concentrate my energy on English,
the language I have problems of mastering. I tend to mangle, masturbate, mutilate, and murder the language when I speak it. People often ask me to repeat what I said. It's downright embarrassing, let me tell you, considering I've been living in the United States for 35 years now. Okay, I admit it. I am afflicted with an inferiority complex, so I cover it up by acting full of bravado and insouciance.
Where am I now? Ah, I remember. This stream of consciousness is supposed to be a paen, a panegyric of myself, an exercise in bragging, and not an attempt of self-put down! Be careful, Roberto. Watch what you are doing. Don't talk like an old man.
Let's see if I can continue. The other day I read a piece about an accordion. The author went on and on for fifteen pages reminiscing about her father, using her father's accordion as a leitmotiv. What was remarkable was that she could sustain the interest of the reader over a story which read more like a memoir, with no dramatic tension and thus no subsequent conflict resolution. In fact, her story
inspired this bragging exercise of mine. I know, I know. Bragging is distasteful, but I can't help it. I am a distasteful kind of guy, a rake, a cad, but somehow women like me, not only in these twilight years of my life, but have been so since my first year in college, almost five decades ago. Throughout my life, my best friends have been women, and some are more than friends. Having women take a liking of me has been good not only for my ego, but also for my body. It has
forced me to keep my body in a good shape, just in case. You never know when it may come handy.
After Sylvia and I said goodnight to each other, I had a big grin on my face, all smug and confident-like, and I resumed reading the anthology I referred to earlier. Actually, I was re-reading two stories there. I have read these two several times before. They made an impact on me. They affected me. And every time I read them, I felt
much calmer and wiser. I almost came to the end of the story where the
so-called Mr. Misfit made a raw yet eloquent re-examination of the whole Christian ethos, the message allegedly brought by Christ. He said he didn't really know if Christ really did and said all the things attributed to him in the Bible because he (Mr. Misfit) was not there and he wished he had been there, so he would know if Christ actually raised the dead because the answer would have a direct import
on Man's ethical conduct. The end of the story would always shakes me up, no matter I already know how the story reaches its violent, gory ending. I would shudder, feeling drained and exhausted and in awe of the power of words and imagination. By the time I reached near the ending when the hypocritical, babbling grandmother made a desperate attempt to save her life, the stupid, smug grin already left my face.
I felt pain. I felt a shortness of breath. I felt a constriction in my throat. I felt I was snooping on a scene of execution in the primeval forest where an old, pitiful, egotistical woman was trying to save herself from a senseless death brought on by her big mouth, when my cell phone rang again.
A third call in one evening, wow, this didn't happen before. Today was really special, a day to cherish and treasure and remember. It should be recorded in the annals of the life of a man who is fond of bragging, hence these words. The call came from Saundra (that's right, with an u), an old friend with all the meanings of the word, calling from Europe, from the country with the shape of a boot. I had to make the conversation short. Remember, money is scarce nowadays to me. Saundra is Jewish. I met her there more than a decade ago when I was prosperous and brimmed with confidence. Soon, she came out saying she felt like a leaning tower and I was a construction engineer who could save her from falling down. I replied that she must have mistaken me for somebody else. I was only a talker. Words were my game and Roberto was my name. I was into books and dreams, not bricks and falling
towers. The truth was that Saundra was a good-hearted woman, a good
mother, but she was just too self-centered for my taste. She once told me in all seriousness that she survived all life's difficulties because "God watched over me". Upon hearing that, I gave her an instant, on-the-spot retort, riposte, repartee, rejoinder, and reply that essentially ventured into an inquiry of what made her so special and what made 6 million Jews and 20 million Russians, not counting countless others, who had perished in World War II, not special enough to be saved by
God. We always talk about God and this time was no different. This time she remarked that I was too "doctrinaire" (!) and rigid in my thinking and that I had to open my heart to the possibility that most others were right and I was wrong. Then she added a clincher, "what made you think YOU are so special?" I gave out a long, audible sigh, suddenly realizing my phone bill would be a bear at month's end. And I said the following to her:
"Look, all the stories you heard and read are only that--stories---all right? Products of human imagination, wishes, dreams, hopes, and fears. No scientific or even logical basis in them. There's only one force at work and that's called the physical process and transformation of energy. I have to go. By the way, why did you call? It's three a.m over there.."
She gave me a throaty cackle and intoned: "Because I want to hear your voice and I want to kiss your belly."
I said, "You certainly may and don't forget to travel south."
Death in Late Afternoon
Death in late afternoon.
Harry felt a jolt of rage coursing through his pudgy body when he saw his red Mustang up close. He was in a hurry to get to his girlfriend's apartment to take her out for dinner. Today was her birthday. He had wanted to leave work sooner than this, but at the last minute, his boss walked in and gave him a new assignment. The bastard didn 't leave. He just sat there and talked on and on. Harry got antsy and nervous like Hell, but he didn't have the guts to tell the boss that he had to go somewhere, kind of like right now. By the time the boss strolled out of tbe office, Harry just about had enough time to get to his sweetie. He called her and explained to her that he might be late. Now, not only he would be definitely late, but he must scrap the dinner plan altogether. He called her again : "But damn it, Harriette though her name suggests otherwise, she was not hairy, definitely not like her beau, the hairy Harry), it's true. You can drive over here and have a look. I don't think the tow truck will be here sooner than you. I've got to go. I hope I don't have to replace any tire."
He took a good look at the tires. Two of them were all way down, flat as a pancake, courtesy of a roofing nail imbedded in each. He was infuriated and perplexed. Somebody must have been very mad with him. Somebody from the office, but who? He tried to recall if he had pissed anybody lately. He came up with a blank. He got into the well-tinted car and turned on tbe AC and looked at his watch. He had to wait at least for twenty minutes more, at this hour when everybody was on the road, wanting to get home. The rear passenger door was suddenly yanked open. A man got in and barked an order at the same time. "Sit still, don't turn around. Your name Harry Sheethed?". No sooner than Harry said, "Yes, what you w...", three shots from the Colt 45 fitted with a silencer rang out in quick succession. The killer obviously planned ahead. The trajectory of the shots was downward. None of the bullets went through the windshield. Most of the back of Harry's head was gone. His torso stayed straight for a few seconds then slumped to the side, on the right, not to the front as usually depicted in the movies. He tucked the gun in his holster and got out of the car. He took a casual look around. There was nobody in sight. He strided towards a tinted silver grey Maxima sedan which was stolen this morning from a long term parking out at Houston International Airport and fitted with a fake license plate from Arizona. He would drive it back to the airport, dump it there, get into his own car and get out of Dodge.
He got in the Maxima and eased out of the parking lot. His phone rang. He looked at the number and smiled.
"Well, was it done yet? I'm getting nervous."
"Done. You owe me twenty more. Start the wiring procedures."
"Very good. Thank you. Of course, you'll get the money right away once his departure is confirmed. Tell me, what did he say when you mentioned my name."
"He cried and begged for mercy."
"Good! He should have never pissed me off." The other man bragged triumphantly and shut off his phone.
The Maxima driver chuckled and said to himself, "Ego and vanity. Vanity of vanities. All is ego. All is vanity. Oh my Lord, I thank Thee for endowing humans with ego and vanity". His eyes blazed with emotions and his head swayed with the gospel music blared from the radio, "In Thee I believe." and he pressed on the pedal when the light turned green, the color of money, of proceeding right straight ahead, and the Maxima turned right and merged---quite abruptly--with the freeway traffic, towards the airport. The sun swung low in the horizon, temporarily blinding him. He raised his hand to shield the glare when his car was knocked violently from behind, catapulting it to the rear of a gasoline tanker truck in front of him. Just before he passed out, he saw a big flash of intense lights everywhere.
Wissai
June 21, 2010.
Harry felt a jolt of rage coursing through his pudgy body when he saw his red Mustang up close. He was in a hurry to get to his girlfriend's apartment to take her out for dinner. Today was her birthday. He had wanted to leave work sooner than this, but at the last minute, his boss walked in and gave him a new assignment. The bastard didn 't leave. He just sat there and talked on and on. Harry got antsy and nervous like Hell, but he didn't have the guts to tell the boss that he had to go somewhere, kind of like right now. By the time the boss strolled out of tbe office, Harry just about had enough time to get to his sweetie. He called her and explained to her that he might be late. Now, not only he would be definitely late, but he must scrap the dinner plan altogether. He called her again : "But damn it, Harriette though her name suggests otherwise, she was not hairy, definitely not like her beau, the hairy Harry), it's true. You can drive over here and have a look. I don't think the tow truck will be here sooner than you. I've got to go. I hope I don't have to replace any tire."
He took a good look at the tires. Two of them were all way down, flat as a pancake, courtesy of a roofing nail imbedded in each. He was infuriated and perplexed. Somebody must have been very mad with him. Somebody from the office, but who? He tried to recall if he had pissed anybody lately. He came up with a blank. He got into the well-tinted car and turned on tbe AC and looked at his watch. He had to wait at least for twenty minutes more, at this hour when everybody was on the road, wanting to get home. The rear passenger door was suddenly yanked open. A man got in and barked an order at the same time. "Sit still, don't turn around. Your name Harry Sheethed?". No sooner than Harry said, "Yes, what you w...", three shots from the Colt 45 fitted with a silencer rang out in quick succession. The killer obviously planned ahead. The trajectory of the shots was downward. None of the bullets went through the windshield. Most of the back of Harry's head was gone. His torso stayed straight for a few seconds then slumped to the side, on the right, not to the front as usually depicted in the movies. He tucked the gun in his holster and got out of the car. He took a casual look around. There was nobody in sight. He strided towards a tinted silver grey Maxima sedan which was stolen this morning from a long term parking out at Houston International Airport and fitted with a fake license plate from Arizona. He would drive it back to the airport, dump it there, get into his own car and get out of Dodge.
He got in the Maxima and eased out of the parking lot. His phone rang. He looked at the number and smiled.
"Well, was it done yet? I'm getting nervous."
"Done. You owe me twenty more. Start the wiring procedures."
"Very good. Thank you. Of course, you'll get the money right away once his departure is confirmed. Tell me, what did he say when you mentioned my name."
"He cried and begged for mercy."
"Good! He should have never pissed me off." The other man bragged triumphantly and shut off his phone.
The Maxima driver chuckled and said to himself, "Ego and vanity. Vanity of vanities. All is ego. All is vanity. Oh my Lord, I thank Thee for endowing humans with ego and vanity". His eyes blazed with emotions and his head swayed with the gospel music blared from the radio, "In Thee I believe." and he pressed on the pedal when the light turned green, the color of money, of proceeding right straight ahead, and the Maxima turned right and merged---quite abruptly--with the freeway traffic, towards the airport. The sun swung low in the horizon, temporarily blinding him. He raised his hand to shield the glare when his car was knocked violently from behind, catapulting it to the rear of a gasoline tanker truck in front of him. Just before he passed out, he saw a big flash of intense lights everywhere.
Wissai
June 21, 2010.
Sunday, June 20, 2010
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, Talking is my game. Con Fidence is my name. What's yours? 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 questions 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 trying 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 is that 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 bullshit and nonsense seem so far away. I am now chortling with an irresistible caloricity and verve. I feel fluid and the demon has beaten a retreat. I still see the footprints he left
behind. They formed the words: "I'll be back!"
Wissai
June 11, 2010
_________________________________________________
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, especially 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 bobbing my way through life. No more fighting. No more kicking asses. Cool, I am cool. Tonight, I know for sure I will experience peace and serenity.
Note number 2:
A reader wrote back, saying he felt offended and insulted about my first note above. I wrote back a retort, a reply, a riposte, a repartee, a rejoinder that writing for me is not for aesthetic execution; rather, it is a form of therapy. I don't give a fuck about offending the readers. I am more interested in saving my life. Anyway,
didn't I say more than once that I am an "artiste manqué"? I wish I were a full-fledged artist. I have no delusions. The stupid note of the (stupid) reader triggered a tsunami of words inside me. So, I am back in front of the damned computer. My goodness, you have no idea how many times ilve been back, with the same start, over and over again. This time, I have a strange feeling that I wil get to the finish line. Where no sea runs, the waters of the heart/Push in their
tides, so said that drunk Irish bard. The following words are the tides of my heart.
My earliest memory was the street of Paul Bert, aka Tran Quang Khai. I spent a lot of time in that street as our house was located smack at the street front, and not in the alleyway.
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, Talking is my game. Con Fidence is my name. What's yours? 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 questions 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 trying 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 is that 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 bullshit and nonsense seem so far away. I am now chortling with an irresistible caloricity and verve. I feel fluid and the demon has beaten a retreat. I still see the footprints he left
behind. They formed the words: "I'll be back!"
Wissai
June 11, 2010
_________________________________________________
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, especially 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 bobbing my way through life. No more fighting. No more kicking asses. Cool, I am cool. Tonight, I know for sure I will experience peace and serenity.
Note number 2:
A reader wrote back, saying he felt offended and insulted about my first note above. I wrote back a retort, a reply, a riposte, a repartee, a rejoinder that writing for me is not for aesthetic execution; rather, it is a form of therapy. I don't give a fuck about offending the readers. I am more interested in saving my life. Anyway,
didn't I say more than once that I am an "artiste manqué"? I wish I were a full-fledged artist. I have no delusions. The stupid note of the (stupid) reader triggered a tsunami of words inside me. So, I am back in front of the damned computer. My goodness, you have no idea how many times ilve been back, with the same start, over and over again. This time, I have a strange feeling that I wil get to the finish line. Where no sea runs, the waters of the heart/Push in their
tides, so said that drunk Irish bard. The following words are the tides of my heart.
My earliest memory was the street of Paul Bert, aka Tran Quang Khai. I spent a lot of time in that street as our house was located smack at the street front, and not in the alleyway.
Significance of Story
Significance of Story
I ain't no storyteller nor writer. I know that and you know that. But I am always fascinated by stories because in my view, life is full of stories. A person's life or a nation's fate is nothing but a narrative. Some narratives are heroic; others unbearingly banal; still others tragic. It's up to us to shape our own stories, our own destinies. An appeal to "higher" Authority is only a stop-gap measure to calm the nerves. We all know that. Any half-intelligent human would know that, if he is really honest with himself.
Humans always know the importance of stories over dry exhortations. Religious teachings consist of many good (with plural meanings) stories. As Flannery O'Connor once said, a story really isn't any good unless it successfully resists paraphrase, unless it hangs on and expands in the mind.
The current crisis in Vietnam is an excruciatingly painful albeit fascinating story. It is unfolding, taking place right in front of our eyes. Every week there are new developments, new twists of ironies and obscenities.
How we respond to this story tells us, never mind the others, of who we really are.
We must ask ourselves if the story hangs on and expands in our mind to the point we are not at peace unless we do something to affect the outcome of the story. On the other hand, we could go on blithely with our own lives and convince ourselves that we are "decent", "caring", "nice", "sensitive" human beings.
Wissai
I ain't no storyteller nor writer. I know that and you know that. But I am always fascinated by stories because in my view, life is full of stories. A person's life or a nation's fate is nothing but a narrative. Some narratives are heroic; others unbearingly banal; still others tragic. It's up to us to shape our own stories, our own destinies. An appeal to "higher" Authority is only a stop-gap measure to calm the nerves. We all know that. Any half-intelligent human would know that, if he is really honest with himself.
Humans always know the importance of stories over dry exhortations. Religious teachings consist of many good (with plural meanings) stories. As Flannery O'Connor once said, a story really isn't any good unless it successfully resists paraphrase, unless it hangs on and expands in the mind.
The current crisis in Vietnam is an excruciatingly painful albeit fascinating story. It is unfolding, taking place right in front of our eyes. Every week there are new developments, new twists of ironies and obscenities.
How we respond to this story tells us, never mind the others, of who we really are.
We must ask ourselves if the story hangs on and expands in our mind to the point we are not at peace unless we do something to affect the outcome of the story. On the other hand, we could go on blithely with our own lives and convince ourselves that we are "decent", "caring", "nice", "sensitive" human beings.
Wissai
Saturday, June 12, 2010
Obama and Tiger and the question of Identity
Obama and Tiger are two famous half-black Americans. They are known by just one name. One is by the last name; the other by the first. They will surely go down in history books for their achievements. Let's face it and be honest with ourselves: A great majority of humans harbor a deep-seated desire to be remembered long after they are gone and consumed by bugs and bacteria. So, Obama and Tiger made it. But given a choice, whom would you rather be?
Obama dabbled in drugs (he's still hooked on nicotine) and basketball, and came from a broken family. His mother was an anthropologist who had a knack to find exotic men irresistible. She married a black while being in college, and then an Indonesian. Obama's father was cold and irresponsible in bringing up the children he sired with various women. Obama predictably wrestled with his racial identity, being biracial, and he came down on the black side. He married an older, abrasive black woman. He kept in touch with his black relatives in Kenya. He apparently has not had any affairs with lily white women. And of course, he became a President of the arguably greatest nation on earth. He is not perfect. He is known to be ruthless (he cut off his friends when they proved to be a liability), cruel (made jokes at his subordinates' expense) and a liar (the episode about his pastor when he claimed that during almost 20 years sitting in the pews, he had not heard of any racist rants). Many Republicans are now raving and ranting that Obama is a liar. Please show me one politician who is not.
Tiger, a product of a black military man and a Thai woman, seemed to have a different family experiences and outlook than Obama. Doted and trained by his father at an early age, Tiger became one of the greatest golfers in the world. He became very rich and famous. Despite intensely loved by his black father, Tiger apparently has been attracted only to lily white women, not black, not Asian (his mother's racial background). Tiger had affairs with them. His marriage to the blond Swedish woman is on the rocks, caused by his infidelity. I always wonder about black and Asian men being attracted to white women and speculate if there is some trace of inferiority complex and the resulting overcompensation dynamic in play here. Don't get me wrong. Prior to my marriage, I had dated many whites (one was 6' 1") and I still have many white female friends, but dating is one thing, marrying is another matter. Marriage is a serious commitment, especially to a person with different racial background. I am sure there were many attractive black and Asian women who had made it known to Tiger that they were available, but Tiger apparently couldn't find one to his liking. He evidently had a thing about white women. In my biased opinion, a non-white man who is not sexually attracted enough to a woman of his race while finding lily white women irresistible must be plagued by some feelings of inferiority complex. Of course, I understand love strikes at unexpected moments and there are exceptions, but consistently having affairs only with white women, as in the case of Tiger here, clearly shows his sexual predilection for whites. A normal person is comfortable with his own skin and tends to choose first and foremost women of his racial background simply he grew up in the same milieu and had more exposure. Anyway, Tiger's reputation is in tatters and he comes across as a very common person except for his golf talents. I would not bother to spill my guts out and speculate on Tiger's emotional makeup if he were an equal opportunity philanderer. Marrying a white woman is nothing to be proud of. The marriage has to be based on solid love. The white woman has to be the true object of love and desire, and not a trophy for a non-white man to come to terms with his feelings of inadequacy. In my salad days, I had white women asking me to marry them, but I said no, not because they were not accomplished (one was a dermatologist) but because I always find Vietnamese women irresistible, especially those who went to French-speaking lycées.
Obama dabbled in drugs (he's still hooked on nicotine) and basketball, and came from a broken family. His mother was an anthropologist who had a knack to find exotic men irresistible. She married a black while being in college, and then an Indonesian. Obama's father was cold and irresponsible in bringing up the children he sired with various women. Obama predictably wrestled with his racial identity, being biracial, and he came down on the black side. He married an older, abrasive black woman. He kept in touch with his black relatives in Kenya. He apparently has not had any affairs with lily white women. And of course, he became a President of the arguably greatest nation on earth. He is not perfect. He is known to be ruthless (he cut off his friends when they proved to be a liability), cruel (made jokes at his subordinates' expense) and a liar (the episode about his pastor when he claimed that during almost 20 years sitting in the pews, he had not heard of any racist rants). Many Republicans are now raving and ranting that Obama is a liar. Please show me one politician who is not.
Tiger, a product of a black military man and a Thai woman, seemed to have a different family experiences and outlook than Obama. Doted and trained by his father at an early age, Tiger became one of the greatest golfers in the world. He became very rich and famous. Despite intensely loved by his black father, Tiger apparently has been attracted only to lily white women, not black, not Asian (his mother's racial background). Tiger had affairs with them. His marriage to the blond Swedish woman is on the rocks, caused by his infidelity. I always wonder about black and Asian men being attracted to white women and speculate if there is some trace of inferiority complex and the resulting overcompensation dynamic in play here. Don't get me wrong. Prior to my marriage, I had dated many whites (one was 6' 1") and I still have many white female friends, but dating is one thing, marrying is another matter. Marriage is a serious commitment, especially to a person with different racial background. I am sure there were many attractive black and Asian women who had made it known to Tiger that they were available, but Tiger apparently couldn't find one to his liking. He evidently had a thing about white women. In my biased opinion, a non-white man who is not sexually attracted enough to a woman of his race while finding lily white women irresistible must be plagued by some feelings of inferiority complex. Of course, I understand love strikes at unexpected moments and there are exceptions, but consistently having affairs only with white women, as in the case of Tiger here, clearly shows his sexual predilection for whites. A normal person is comfortable with his own skin and tends to choose first and foremost women of his racial background simply he grew up in the same milieu and had more exposure. Anyway, Tiger's reputation is in tatters and he comes across as a very common person except for his golf talents. I would not bother to spill my guts out and speculate on Tiger's emotional makeup if he were an equal opportunity philanderer. Marrying a white woman is nothing to be proud of. The marriage has to be based on solid love. The white woman has to be the true object of love and desire, and not a trophy for a non-white man to come to terms with his feelings of inadequacy. In my salad days, I had white women asking me to marry them, but I said no, not because they were not accomplished (one was a dermatologist) but because I always find Vietnamese women irresistible, especially those who went to French-speaking lycées.
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