Friday, July 9, 2010
Nobility of Human Spirit
Yesterday I read an op.ed piece in the New York Times in which Nicholas Kristof profiled an American born rabbi who has stuck his neck out to help Palestinians who were victimized by the Israeli settlers in the West Bank. He has been arrested, beaten, and threatened by rabid, rapacious settlers, but he has refused to give up his cause because he believes in justice and fairness. Reading about him has been a great deal of help to heal my wounded spirit. I feel uplifted and healed. My wounds caused by assholes and motherfuckers has stopped festering.
The Things I Have Carried (New and Improved!)
I've been carrying a lot of things in my life. No wonder my shoulders
are stooped and my heart is heavy. For years I carried a torch and
kept an image of a woman alive in my heart. I was a fool. I knew I
was, but I couldn't help myself. I loved her. I knew I did. Then one
day, in the morning of a beautiful Sundayl , I took a walk in the
park, alone, and. as I walked on the bridge over the little pond where
koi fishes and turtles were stocked, I had a Zen moment when I saw one
huge bull frog jumped on a lotus broad leaf, alert and full of life,
in the full splendor of a morning awash with sunlight and with water
undulating across the pond, driven by brisk winds. That was then I
recognized not only the futility of my love for her, but also the
prosaic nature of her personality and her subsequent betrayal of me.
Ever since, I hardly dream of her. Before that moment of liberation, I
dreamed of her with regularity, at least once a month for years on
end, decade after decade. That liberation moment taught me that humans
were not to be trusted and almost all were selifish to the core.
Subsequent relationships validated and confirmed that observation of
mine.
I have also carried in my mind feelings of unresolved anger against
certain assholes. The feelings fester, simmer, and linger until I
don't know when they will manifest themselves in actions. Hate is a
corrosive emotion if one does not know to handle it. It must be viewed
as a servant, not a boss. One thing I do know is this: the more I know
humans, regardless of whether they are males or females, most are
selfish and hypocritical and diseased to the core and not worth
cultivating the friendship. In my view, they are nothing but animals,
pure and simple. My hatred for some monkeys is immense, my contempt
boundless. I feel nauseous at the mere sight of their names, let alone
of their hemming and hawing, their muttering and sputtering of their
ill-informed, half-digested facts and jejune, sophomoric "thoughts".
Now I fully understand why tyrants acted the way they did and why
there have been serial killers. Catharsis had to be achieved. Defiance
and insolence had to be crushed and punished. Vengeance had to be
exacted. Meanwhile I just have to wait for the moment of reckoning and
keep the memories and flashbacks involving the assholes at bay and
under control.
Having written the above paragraph, I am suddenly recalling a certain
D H, a county commissioner imprisoned for bribery and is now released
early for good behavior. H, the son of Cuban immigrants, is the
youngest of thre children. He was 2 when his father abandoned The
local newspaper conducted an extensive interview of H and a profile of
how he has rehabilitated himself during his imprisonment. H came
across as gifted with people skills and incredibly articulate in
assessing the reasons for his downfall and the prospect of his
recovery. While I certainly don't have his gifts, his taking anger
management class (my blood is almost reachimg boiling point as I am
typing these words and I have to tell myself to fucking wait because
haste makes waste, and I certainly don't wish to lay waste to my life
over an asshole when the opportunity has not presented itself yet) and
his words about arrogance drive home and are worth quoting at length
as a reminder to myself and for my own benefits:
"My personal and professional conduct was wrong. My conduct during
trial was wrong, and that's something I'm going to have to live with
rest of my life. The guilty verdicts didn't surprise me. They actually
brought me an incredible sense of relief. Ultimately the truth is the
truth and justice is justice. When you're operating from a place of
entitlement and arrogance as I was, you believe what you're saying is
the truth. You trick yourself.
People are fair to be skeptical when I say I have changed, but I no
longer have to worry about opinion polls and votes. I am not seeking
validation from anyone. I also know that doing the right thing is so
much more important than saying the right thing. I don't regret
anything, because I'm proud of who I am. I like whip I am, much more
than ever before in my life. And I can attribute that to all of my
experiences---the good and the bad."
By the way, in prison, H worked as an administrative clerk and
instructor in the education department, earning $18 to $30 a month. He
took anger management and parenting classes. He voluntarily taught
other classes. He played sports. He worked out and trimmed down. He
earned his certification as a personal trainer. Evidently, he used his
time constructively. Five days of leaving prison, he began working as
a senior account executive for a media company. A year and a half
later, he gave notice at the media and accepted two jobs: one as
director of community outreach and development for the Institute of
Profesdional Careers, and one as executive director for a nonprofit
organization that provides educational and recreational programs to
children in a county's child welfare system.
Those who have stayed with me so far would wonder if I am a sane and
happy fellow. The answer is that I have my moments. And I am not as
lonely as I used to. I keep myself occupied and i don't have much need
for human company because sooner or later most humans disappoint and
nauseate me. In addition, most of them are stupid and ill-informed,
making a dialogue with them a real chore. True, I am getting to be
misanthropic. I know I am repeating myself, working myself into a
frenzy. I ironically feel most alive when I am angry and furious. To
find release for these feelings of aggression, I reach for the pen and
I scribble furiously of whatever comes to my feverish mind, for hours
at a time, until I am spent and the demon beats a retreat. One sad and
fuuny fact about humans is that the more they reveal themselves to me,
the more I find them boring and petty-minded and even stupid. I mean,
their concerns and interests are prosaic and vastly different from
mine. It's getting to the point I keep them at arm's length from me
and I no longer really talk to them because I find most of them not
interesting at all, apart from the sheer oppressive insipidity of
their lives which is mind-boggling to me. I certainly cannot go
through life as they do. Call me arrogant. Call me undeservedly
elitist, if you want. Call me anything. But don't call me
uninquisitive. In fact, inquisitiveness is what has kept me alive. I
chuckkle when people complain that they are tired of my talking about
myself. I chuckle some more when I see people take seriously "feng
shui", astrology, palmistry, and similar shit. I often see humans
dispense "opinions" without substantiation. dismiss other's opions and
ideas without cause, just because the opinions and ideas of others
are different from theirs. Frankly, as I age, I tend not to give a
fuck what others think of me. As far as I'm concerned, they can kiss
my royal hairy ass. Do I come across self-absorbed and overly touchy
while claiming impervious to what others think of me? Fuck, you could
be right. I do know this for sure: although I am aware I am not the
most righteous, noble, fair-minded, pleasant, cool guy you ever met, I
am painfully aware that there are so many scumbags and douche bags and
assholes out there, guys that make me realize that I am not that bad
compared to them, guys I avoid as if they were lepers because frankly
they are the seeping sores of humanity and deserve to be exterminated.
Now I understand why people see gory and horror movies. Folks have to
get their rockers satisfied vicariously somehow, otherwise they
themselves would have to take matters into their hands.
Although I denounce liars, I carry a heavy guilt for lying to a woman.
I said I would marry her once I turned 30, but I had no intention of
doing so. I am 65 now and she still hangs around. That makes me feel
really bad. I am a coward, a rake, a raffish fellow, even a ruffian. I
am no better than the scums and assholes I despise. But tell me, why
should I marry anybody now? All the horror stories I've heard about
divorces and ugly lawsuits concerning money disgust me. I just read in
the news that Tiger Woods is going to pony up 750 million dollars to
buy silence from his soon-to-be ex-wife. I trust humans no more. No
sir, I do not. If I have my way, everyday I would take one out for
target practice.
To balance things out, I carry a romantic fantasy (in my mind,
superfluously speaking) for decades now, for a dream woman. She is
sweet, smart, sassy and sexy. She understands me, tolerates me, and
loves me. In moments of distress and loneliness, I think of her and I
would calm down. Everybody dreams. Some dream of going to heaven after
they die, where they will meet their "Maker". Other dreams of power
and riches. I dream of a certain woman who inspires me to become who I
can be. What you've been reading is not the real me, you idiot. You
really think I'm this bitter, this sick, this unbalanced? Haven't you
heard of dramatic irony and willful suspension of disbelief? Come on,
use your imagination. Don't tell me you don't have any. Really? Then
get the fuck out of here. You're wasting your time. You would never
"enjoy" reading these words.
Last, for now and obviously not least, those who have interacted with
me have discerned an umistakeable baggage I've on my right, but wrong,
shoulder, and that is my death wish. This wish has explained why I act
in an irrational manner at times. Why the death wish in the first
place? I don't know. It certainly helps me sleep better at night and
face problems---mostly created by me---better. I have a theory:
suicidal people should go out and do something that put their lives in
danger. If they fail, they die and thus get their wish; if they
succeed, they might get rid of the depression that gave rise to
suicidal thoughts in the first place. Unfortunately, suicidal people
are usually depressed and drained of energy. They don't want to do
anything except of thinking of killing themselves even though they
know self-destruction is bad and "sinful" (if they happen to be
Christians and were brainwashed into believing in that shit). So they
struggle to stay alive until one day they give in to the thoughts
because they suffer too much and they want relief and they don't care
the impact of their deaths on their loved ones and their "God".
Author's Note:
Many fools take everything I've written literally, as if I have
neither imagination nor fantasy. Ironically, they are the ones who
lack imagination, who cannot conceivably think there is no personal
God who "has an interest in" human affairs and who would listen to
human prayers and would pass judgment on human behavior.
My recent "story" entitled "Storyteller" sounded autobiographical and
thus prompted a reader to inquire further about Anita, a character in
the story. Apparently my disclaimer in the authorial note that the
story was a work of pure fantasy was not convincing. The "truth" of
the matter is that I have been blessed and cursed with a very rich
love life, a sort that defies imagination. Out of respect for many
former lovers, I have been very reticent to brag and gloat about my
romantic adventures. I didn't suffer because of Anita. There was a
woman named Laura who did cause me pain when I was in my early 20s.
From her I've learned many valuable lessons. The most important one
is that feelings are not static and don't have to be reciprocated. A
person can love you today, but tomorrow may find you boring and
unaccomplished compared to others and thus undeserving of her love.
She will find ways to dump you. If that happens, you must accept
reality for what it is and move on with your life even if you still
love her very much and would be devastated if she walks away. But you
must accept her decision and you soldier on and find other women, if
you can. If you cannot, learn to live without a woman. The key thing
is to keep your dignity. There is no need to suffer. Suffering is
weak. It degrades you. It robs you of dignity. You must realize that
it is stupid to love a woman who does not or no longer loves you. If
you do, you just set up yourself for a world of hurt . Unrequited love
is not healthy. It is sick. It is immature. It is self-destructive.
Conserve your energy and resources. Invest them in person(s) who do
love you back. Don't come across as desperate and clinging. You look
for love and respect, not pity and charity.
Armed with hard-won lessons taught by Laura, I am now an equal
opportunity lover and was a dear friend with many (20) women from
varying racial and educational background. Throughout my adult life
I've never lacked female company. Anita was just a figment of my
imagination to address a certain fantasy. She never existed. I never
met her. I didn't know her. I didn't love her. Allright? Heck, right
now, besides being with a steady woman, I've been a close friend with
three others. I don't need Anita to mess up my emotional life. My
plate is full. My writing schedule is hectic. My work life is
frenzied. I don't have time to be lovesick. I have not been lovesick
since Laura walked away, because I don't even know what love really
is. Not anymore. Somebody sent me a note, quoting tbe perennially
sappy romance writer Nicholas Sparks that true love does not
necessarily mean the two people involved will live happily together,
but they definitely live happily ever after, regardless of whether
together or not. I suppose there is some truth in that. Love is an
inspiration, an enabler of what is good and noble within us. I once
loved Laura. I didn't love her anymore because she turned out not who
I thought she was. I am now disgusted with and indifferent to her at
the same time. I mean I don't give a shit about her anymore. I
wouldn't care less if she drops dead in front of me. If I happen to
run into her, I would just walk on by. She means nothing to me. I
don't hate her. I wouldn't kill her or hurt her, but she means
absolutely nothing to me. She is a zero, not a hero in my book. I made
a bad mistake. I paid for the mistake. Now I am a recovering love nut.
I would say I am a bit wiser, not only because of her, but also of
many bitches I knew and met after her. They all wanted money and
security. They all said they loved me, but what they meant that they
loved tbemselves more and they would hang around only if I would not
be a burden for them, financially. You call that love? I call that
cold calculations, but most humans are cold motherfuckers who care
about themselves only. Nothing new there, but when that happens, I
still feel a bit disenchanted and nervous. That's who I am: stupidly
naive.
So, you understand, now? The boat in which I journey across the sea of
life is fragile and precarious, but it's not leaking water anymore.
I've fixed it. I deliberately chose a small boat because that was who
I was. I took risks. I lived on the edge and I still do. These words
of mine, however fraught with an unheathy mix of self-consciousness
(uncharitable souls may even characterize them as deliberately cute)
and brutal candor as they may sound, are the means for me to steer my
boat out of troubled waters I chose for myself. Ironical? I know it,
pal. I am my own worst enemy.
A comment/criticism/inquiry on something, some event, or somebody
sheds more light on the commentator/critic/inquirer than on the
subject at hand. I have learned about that lesson a long time ago.
What we see depends on where we stand. Very often, what we see are the
mere projections of ourselves. I also learn that humans are both thick-
skinned and touchy at the same time, depending on the subject matters.
Very few humans are as noble as me (sic! I'm just kidding, all right?)
Trust me, don't think I don't know that I am a bore who keeps going
around the circle and harping ad nauseam on certain subjects. That's
certainly better than flipping out and bringing mayhem to a certain
cicrle and embarrassing myself and my loved ones. You have no idea
what is going on in the little head of mine.
Here I go again, the fucking note is almost as long as the main act
itself. And if I keep it up, it wil be longer. That's what happens
when you have no talent in writing, yet you want to try. You write
something banal that evokes no interest in the reader. Then you get
stuck. And you rely on the note to get unstuck, to help you get over
the writer's block. High hopes get savaged by lack of talent. Lonely
roads get to nowhere. These are themes that makes their presence in
what you write. We are forever haunted by what we fear. Lately you
have recurrent dreams of not being prepared for final exams or of
bosses making life unbearable for you. When you wake up in the middle
of the night, you ask yourself a bunch of questions: "Didn't I get rid
of that fear long time ago? Why is it still here? Maybe deep down, I
am still afraid of being viewed as a failure, a flunkie, who just
makes noises and nothing else. Show me the money if you think you
really smart. At least show me the achievements. How many stories and
poems of yours have been published? Does the world know about you and
what you stand for? After you die, do people mourn for you, for their
loss? In short, are you really somebody or are you just a nobody, like
so many of them. And when you die, you die like a dog, again like so
many of them. Nobody would notice. Nobody would give a damn. Only a
handful would show up for your funeral, out of obligation rather than
love, unlike Sartre's funeral.
This morning as I got into my car to go to work, I was struck of how
persistent and deep my hatred for that asshole, yet his "crime" was
quite slight. I supposed the cause of all that was my surprise at the
unexpected, stupid aggressiveness on his part. That taught me that I
didn't know Jack shit about humans. One more thing I just learned
recently was that I should not be surprised at how ignorant some
humans are and yet they love making comments, just like some dogs bark
to live and live to bark. As long as they make noises, they feel they
are somebody. Being nobody scares them. Not me. I just try to be the
best I can be. I recognize there are many monkeys better than me as
well as there are many not as "good" as me. I am comfortable of who I
am. Don't just come near me and act in a condescending, dismissive
manner towards me. You don't know how I would react to your stupid
insolence. Not now. Not twenty years from now, but you had better
watch over your fucking shoulders. You would never know that one day I
creep up on you and fucking blow you away when you least expect, when
you think I have already "forgotten" about the "incident", you
insolent motherfucker! Another asshole sent me an impolite note with
improper greetings today. I was pissed, so I pulled out a list and
added his name to it. All my prior nice feelings about him vanished
into thin air. What a stupid fellow! Arrogance and impoliteness bring
more self-destruction than one would ever imagine. Assholes who are
into arrogance and impudence think they are clever and smart and
assertive, but they are fools who don't know their days are numbered,
much sooner than they think. Modesty and politeness are a big help in
ensuring life longevity. But I don't practice what I preach. I'm an
immodest and impudent son of a bitch. But unlike many others, I am not
a hypocrite. You just have to take my words for it. So, I reacted with
fury and outrage when an asshole called me a hypocrite. You can call
me names. I am not perfect. In fact, I am sick, but you had better
call me correct names, otherwise I would get you when the opportunity
presents itself, you motherfuckers and assholes out there.
But enough of motherfuckers and assholes, for now. I don't really
want to dwell on them. There are so many of them, like maggots in a
cesspool. Let's go to an area far more pleasant. I'm reading an
enormously entertaining short story. I'm being bowled over by the sly
wit and the crystal articulateness of the author. I then have an
epiphany of why I cared to try my hand at story telling. I want to
imitate my masters. I have a few things to get off my chest. I am
working on the stylistics of putting words and thoughts together by
trial and error.
Most stories are cumbrously told with a mythic overlay. Mine are
narrated sparsely, without twinkly, pointilistic detail. They need a
lot of augmentation to fill the void. I am not an artist as I aspire
to be. But I keep on trying till the day I die. All my stories are
part of a grand narrative of how I tried to stay alive and relevant
after Laura walked out on me. I never thought I would love her that
much until she was gone for good, until I realized I had no chance to
win her back. I was unhinged for a long time after her departure, even
when I had women around me, women who told me that I was gorgeous and
nice and that they loved me. I smiled when I heard all the kudos and
paeans, but inside me what I wished for was that she would walk
through the front door once more.
If all my stories strain credulity, so be it. I couldn't do any
better. What I am writing tonight is not exactly a story. It's a spit
into art, a forced phony confession, a paso doble, a pas de deux with
myself. What I am trying to articulate in this montage of words is
that virtue and not glory should come first and that one is not a
prerequisite of the other and we could have them both accidentally and
not purposely. I want to say all that in a framework of a story, not
an essay. Essays come very easily for me. I can write them in my
sleep. Writing a story is much harder. That's why I admire artists who
could pull it off. And in moments of being carried away by my
admiration, I even wrote to them (3 so far). Sadly, I only got one
response--and it was three months late---which didn't even address my
question about the ending of one of his stories. Of course, I was
disappointed, but what could I do? I just have to improve on my own
craft so one day I feel my stories are good enough for wider
dissemination. Meanwhile I just have to realize that writers can be
assholes, just like anybody else. Still, I cannot understand why an
author didn't bother to write back to a fan who professed an
admiration for his work. I would.
Today, once again I saw a leperous asshole farting publicly about this
and about that. That caused me throw up uncontrollably my dinner. I
know. I should have just run far away from the asshole when it
appeared on the scene, but curiosity got the better of me. I wanted to
know what more nonsense that would cone out of that diseased orifice
of its. I did discern clearly that the asshole is suffering from an
acute loneliness. It has itself to blame because who wants to
associate with an asshole like that? Very few, I would say. I, for
one, would not. Why should I when the asshole is touchy yet
insensitive to the pains it has inflicted on others over the years,
ignorant yet loves to show off its "knowledge", afflicted with ill-
disguised inferiority complex, and cowardly yet full of bravado. In
short, it is full of shit. That's why I call it an asshole.
(cont.)
are stooped and my heart is heavy. For years I carried a torch and
kept an image of a woman alive in my heart. I was a fool. I knew I
was, but I couldn't help myself. I loved her. I knew I did. Then one
day, in the morning of a beautiful Sundayl , I took a walk in the
park, alone, and. as I walked on the bridge over the little pond where
koi fishes and turtles were stocked, I had a Zen moment when I saw one
huge bull frog jumped on a lotus broad leaf, alert and full of life,
in the full splendor of a morning awash with sunlight and with water
undulating across the pond, driven by brisk winds. That was then I
recognized not only the futility of my love for her, but also the
prosaic nature of her personality and her subsequent betrayal of me.
Ever since, I hardly dream of her. Before that moment of liberation, I
dreamed of her with regularity, at least once a month for years on
end, decade after decade. That liberation moment taught me that humans
were not to be trusted and almost all were selifish to the core.
Subsequent relationships validated and confirmed that observation of
mine.
I have also carried in my mind feelings of unresolved anger against
certain assholes. The feelings fester, simmer, and linger until I
don't know when they will manifest themselves in actions. Hate is a
corrosive emotion if one does not know to handle it. It must be viewed
as a servant, not a boss. One thing I do know is this: the more I know
humans, regardless of whether they are males or females, most are
selfish and hypocritical and diseased to the core and not worth
cultivating the friendship. In my view, they are nothing but animals,
pure and simple. My hatred for some monkeys is immense, my contempt
boundless. I feel nauseous at the mere sight of their names, let alone
of their hemming and hawing, their muttering and sputtering of their
ill-informed, half-digested facts and jejune, sophomoric "thoughts".
Now I fully understand why tyrants acted the way they did and why
there have been serial killers. Catharsis had to be achieved. Defiance
and insolence had to be crushed and punished. Vengeance had to be
exacted. Meanwhile I just have to wait for the moment of reckoning and
keep the memories and flashbacks involving the assholes at bay and
under control.
Having written the above paragraph, I am suddenly recalling a certain
D H, a county commissioner imprisoned for bribery and is now released
early for good behavior. H, the son of Cuban immigrants, is the
youngest of thre children. He was 2 when his father abandoned The
local newspaper conducted an extensive interview of H and a profile of
how he has rehabilitated himself during his imprisonment. H came
across as gifted with people skills and incredibly articulate in
assessing the reasons for his downfall and the prospect of his
recovery. While I certainly don't have his gifts, his taking anger
management class (my blood is almost reachimg boiling point as I am
typing these words and I have to tell myself to fucking wait because
haste makes waste, and I certainly don't wish to lay waste to my life
over an asshole when the opportunity has not presented itself yet) and
his words about arrogance drive home and are worth quoting at length
as a reminder to myself and for my own benefits:
"My personal and professional conduct was wrong. My conduct during
trial was wrong, and that's something I'm going to have to live with
rest of my life. The guilty verdicts didn't surprise me. They actually
brought me an incredible sense of relief. Ultimately the truth is the
truth and justice is justice. When you're operating from a place of
entitlement and arrogance as I was, you believe what you're saying is
the truth. You trick yourself.
People are fair to be skeptical when I say I have changed, but I no
longer have to worry about opinion polls and votes. I am not seeking
validation from anyone. I also know that doing the right thing is so
much more important than saying the right thing. I don't regret
anything, because I'm proud of who I am. I like whip I am, much more
than ever before in my life. And I can attribute that to all of my
experiences---the good and the bad."
By the way, in prison, H worked as an administrative clerk and
instructor in the education department, earning $18 to $30 a month. He
took anger management and parenting classes. He voluntarily taught
other classes. He played sports. He worked out and trimmed down. He
earned his certification as a personal trainer. Evidently, he used his
time constructively. Five days of leaving prison, he began working as
a senior account executive for a media company. A year and a half
later, he gave notice at the media and accepted two jobs: one as
director of community outreach and development for the Institute of
Profesdional Careers, and one as executive director for a nonprofit
organization that provides educational and recreational programs to
children in a county's child welfare system.
Those who have stayed with me so far would wonder if I am a sane and
happy fellow. The answer is that I have my moments. And I am not as
lonely as I used to. I keep myself occupied and i don't have much need
for human company because sooner or later most humans disappoint and
nauseate me. In addition, most of them are stupid and ill-informed,
making a dialogue with them a real chore. True, I am getting to be
misanthropic. I know I am repeating myself, working myself into a
frenzy. I ironically feel most alive when I am angry and furious. To
find release for these feelings of aggression, I reach for the pen and
I scribble furiously of whatever comes to my feverish mind, for hours
at a time, until I am spent and the demon beats a retreat. One sad and
fuuny fact about humans is that the more they reveal themselves to me,
the more I find them boring and petty-minded and even stupid. I mean,
their concerns and interests are prosaic and vastly different from
mine. It's getting to the point I keep them at arm's length from me
and I no longer really talk to them because I find most of them not
interesting at all, apart from the sheer oppressive insipidity of
their lives which is mind-boggling to me. I certainly cannot go
through life as they do. Call me arrogant. Call me undeservedly
elitist, if you want. Call me anything. But don't call me
uninquisitive. In fact, inquisitiveness is what has kept me alive. I
chuckkle when people complain that they are tired of my talking about
myself. I chuckle some more when I see people take seriously "feng
shui", astrology, palmistry, and similar shit. I often see humans
dispense "opinions" without substantiation. dismiss other's opions and
ideas without cause, just because the opinions and ideas of others
are different from theirs. Frankly, as I age, I tend not to give a
fuck what others think of me. As far as I'm concerned, they can kiss
my royal hairy ass. Do I come across self-absorbed and overly touchy
while claiming impervious to what others think of me? Fuck, you could
be right. I do know this for sure: although I am aware I am not the
most righteous, noble, fair-minded, pleasant, cool guy you ever met, I
am painfully aware that there are so many scumbags and douche bags and
assholes out there, guys that make me realize that I am not that bad
compared to them, guys I avoid as if they were lepers because frankly
they are the seeping sores of humanity and deserve to be exterminated.
Now I understand why people see gory and horror movies. Folks have to
get their rockers satisfied vicariously somehow, otherwise they
themselves would have to take matters into their hands.
Although I denounce liars, I carry a heavy guilt for lying to a woman.
I said I would marry her once I turned 30, but I had no intention of
doing so. I am 65 now and she still hangs around. That makes me feel
really bad. I am a coward, a rake, a raffish fellow, even a ruffian. I
am no better than the scums and assholes I despise. But tell me, why
should I marry anybody now? All the horror stories I've heard about
divorces and ugly lawsuits concerning money disgust me. I just read in
the news that Tiger Woods is going to pony up 750 million dollars to
buy silence from his soon-to-be ex-wife. I trust humans no more. No
sir, I do not. If I have my way, everyday I would take one out for
target practice.
To balance things out, I carry a romantic fantasy (in my mind,
superfluously speaking) for decades now, for a dream woman. She is
sweet, smart, sassy and sexy. She understands me, tolerates me, and
loves me. In moments of distress and loneliness, I think of her and I
would calm down. Everybody dreams. Some dream of going to heaven after
they die, where they will meet their "Maker". Other dreams of power
and riches. I dream of a certain woman who inspires me to become who I
can be. What you've been reading is not the real me, you idiot. You
really think I'm this bitter, this sick, this unbalanced? Haven't you
heard of dramatic irony and willful suspension of disbelief? Come on,
use your imagination. Don't tell me you don't have any. Really? Then
get the fuck out of here. You're wasting your time. You would never
"enjoy" reading these words.
Last, for now and obviously not least, those who have interacted with
me have discerned an umistakeable baggage I've on my right, but wrong,
shoulder, and that is my death wish. This wish has explained why I act
in an irrational manner at times. Why the death wish in the first
place? I don't know. It certainly helps me sleep better at night and
face problems---mostly created by me---better. I have a theory:
suicidal people should go out and do something that put their lives in
danger. If they fail, they die and thus get their wish; if they
succeed, they might get rid of the depression that gave rise to
suicidal thoughts in the first place. Unfortunately, suicidal people
are usually depressed and drained of energy. They don't want to do
anything except of thinking of killing themselves even though they
know self-destruction is bad and "sinful" (if they happen to be
Christians and were brainwashed into believing in that shit). So they
struggle to stay alive until one day they give in to the thoughts
because they suffer too much and they want relief and they don't care
the impact of their deaths on their loved ones and their "God".
Author's Note:
Many fools take everything I've written literally, as if I have
neither imagination nor fantasy. Ironically, they are the ones who
lack imagination, who cannot conceivably think there is no personal
God who "has an interest in" human affairs and who would listen to
human prayers and would pass judgment on human behavior.
My recent "story" entitled "Storyteller" sounded autobiographical and
thus prompted a reader to inquire further about Anita, a character in
the story. Apparently my disclaimer in the authorial note that the
story was a work of pure fantasy was not convincing. The "truth" of
the matter is that I have been blessed and cursed with a very rich
love life, a sort that defies imagination. Out of respect for many
former lovers, I have been very reticent to brag and gloat about my
romantic adventures. I didn't suffer because of Anita. There was a
woman named Laura who did cause me pain when I was in my early 20s.
From her I've learned many valuable lessons. The most important one
is that feelings are not static and don't have to be reciprocated. A
person can love you today, but tomorrow may find you boring and
unaccomplished compared to others and thus undeserving of her love.
She will find ways to dump you. If that happens, you must accept
reality for what it is and move on with your life even if you still
love her very much and would be devastated if she walks away. But you
must accept her decision and you soldier on and find other women, if
you can. If you cannot, learn to live without a woman. The key thing
is to keep your dignity. There is no need to suffer. Suffering is
weak. It degrades you. It robs you of dignity. You must realize that
it is stupid to love a woman who does not or no longer loves you. If
you do, you just set up yourself for a world of hurt . Unrequited love
is not healthy. It is sick. It is immature. It is self-destructive.
Conserve your energy and resources. Invest them in person(s) who do
love you back. Don't come across as desperate and clinging. You look
for love and respect, not pity and charity.
Armed with hard-won lessons taught by Laura, I am now an equal
opportunity lover and was a dear friend with many (20) women from
varying racial and educational background. Throughout my adult life
I've never lacked female company. Anita was just a figment of my
imagination to address a certain fantasy. She never existed. I never
met her. I didn't know her. I didn't love her. Allright? Heck, right
now, besides being with a steady woman, I've been a close friend with
three others. I don't need Anita to mess up my emotional life. My
plate is full. My writing schedule is hectic. My work life is
frenzied. I don't have time to be lovesick. I have not been lovesick
since Laura walked away, because I don't even know what love really
is. Not anymore. Somebody sent me a note, quoting tbe perennially
sappy romance writer Nicholas Sparks that true love does not
necessarily mean the two people involved will live happily together,
but they definitely live happily ever after, regardless of whether
together or not. I suppose there is some truth in that. Love is an
inspiration, an enabler of what is good and noble within us. I once
loved Laura. I didn't love her anymore because she turned out not who
I thought she was. I am now disgusted with and indifferent to her at
the same time. I mean I don't give a shit about her anymore. I
wouldn't care less if she drops dead in front of me. If I happen to
run into her, I would just walk on by. She means nothing to me. I
don't hate her. I wouldn't kill her or hurt her, but she means
absolutely nothing to me. She is a zero, not a hero in my book. I made
a bad mistake. I paid for the mistake. Now I am a recovering love nut.
I would say I am a bit wiser, not only because of her, but also of
many bitches I knew and met after her. They all wanted money and
security. They all said they loved me, but what they meant that they
loved tbemselves more and they would hang around only if I would not
be a burden for them, financially. You call that love? I call that
cold calculations, but most humans are cold motherfuckers who care
about themselves only. Nothing new there, but when that happens, I
still feel a bit disenchanted and nervous. That's who I am: stupidly
naive.
So, you understand, now? The boat in which I journey across the sea of
life is fragile and precarious, but it's not leaking water anymore.
I've fixed it. I deliberately chose a small boat because that was who
I was. I took risks. I lived on the edge and I still do. These words
of mine, however fraught with an unheathy mix of self-consciousness
(uncharitable souls may even characterize them as deliberately cute)
and brutal candor as they may sound, are the means for me to steer my
boat out of troubled waters I chose for myself. Ironical? I know it,
pal. I am my own worst enemy.
A comment/criticism/inquiry on something, some event, or somebody
sheds more light on the commentator/critic/inquirer than on the
subject at hand. I have learned about that lesson a long time ago.
What we see depends on where we stand. Very often, what we see are the
mere projections of ourselves. I also learn that humans are both thick-
skinned and touchy at the same time, depending on the subject matters.
Very few humans are as noble as me (sic! I'm just kidding, all right?)
Trust me, don't think I don't know that I am a bore who keeps going
around the circle and harping ad nauseam on certain subjects. That's
certainly better than flipping out and bringing mayhem to a certain
cicrle and embarrassing myself and my loved ones. You have no idea
what is going on in the little head of mine.
Here I go again, the fucking note is almost as long as the main act
itself. And if I keep it up, it wil be longer. That's what happens
when you have no talent in writing, yet you want to try. You write
something banal that evokes no interest in the reader. Then you get
stuck. And you rely on the note to get unstuck, to help you get over
the writer's block. High hopes get savaged by lack of talent. Lonely
roads get to nowhere. These are themes that makes their presence in
what you write. We are forever haunted by what we fear. Lately you
have recurrent dreams of not being prepared for final exams or of
bosses making life unbearable for you. When you wake up in the middle
of the night, you ask yourself a bunch of questions: "Didn't I get rid
of that fear long time ago? Why is it still here? Maybe deep down, I
am still afraid of being viewed as a failure, a flunkie, who just
makes noises and nothing else. Show me the money if you think you
really smart. At least show me the achievements. How many stories and
poems of yours have been published? Does the world know about you and
what you stand for? After you die, do people mourn for you, for their
loss? In short, are you really somebody or are you just a nobody, like
so many of them. And when you die, you die like a dog, again like so
many of them. Nobody would notice. Nobody would give a damn. Only a
handful would show up for your funeral, out of obligation rather than
love, unlike Sartre's funeral.
This morning as I got into my car to go to work, I was struck of how
persistent and deep my hatred for that asshole, yet his "crime" was
quite slight. I supposed the cause of all that was my surprise at the
unexpected, stupid aggressiveness on his part. That taught me that I
didn't know Jack shit about humans. One more thing I just learned
recently was that I should not be surprised at how ignorant some
humans are and yet they love making comments, just like some dogs bark
to live and live to bark. As long as they make noises, they feel they
are somebody. Being nobody scares them. Not me. I just try to be the
best I can be. I recognize there are many monkeys better than me as
well as there are many not as "good" as me. I am comfortable of who I
am. Don't just come near me and act in a condescending, dismissive
manner towards me. You don't know how I would react to your stupid
insolence. Not now. Not twenty years from now, but you had better
watch over your fucking shoulders. You would never know that one day I
creep up on you and fucking blow you away when you least expect, when
you think I have already "forgotten" about the "incident", you
insolent motherfucker! Another asshole sent me an impolite note with
improper greetings today. I was pissed, so I pulled out a list and
added his name to it. All my prior nice feelings about him vanished
into thin air. What a stupid fellow! Arrogance and impoliteness bring
more self-destruction than one would ever imagine. Assholes who are
into arrogance and impudence think they are clever and smart and
assertive, but they are fools who don't know their days are numbered,
much sooner than they think. Modesty and politeness are a big help in
ensuring life longevity. But I don't practice what I preach. I'm an
immodest and impudent son of a bitch. But unlike many others, I am not
a hypocrite. You just have to take my words for it. So, I reacted with
fury and outrage when an asshole called me a hypocrite. You can call
me names. I am not perfect. In fact, I am sick, but you had better
call me correct names, otherwise I would get you when the opportunity
presents itself, you motherfuckers and assholes out there.
But enough of motherfuckers and assholes, for now. I don't really
want to dwell on them. There are so many of them, like maggots in a
cesspool. Let's go to an area far more pleasant. I'm reading an
enormously entertaining short story. I'm being bowled over by the sly
wit and the crystal articulateness of the author. I then have an
epiphany of why I cared to try my hand at story telling. I want to
imitate my masters. I have a few things to get off my chest. I am
working on the stylistics of putting words and thoughts together by
trial and error.
Most stories are cumbrously told with a mythic overlay. Mine are
narrated sparsely, without twinkly, pointilistic detail. They need a
lot of augmentation to fill the void. I am not an artist as I aspire
to be. But I keep on trying till the day I die. All my stories are
part of a grand narrative of how I tried to stay alive and relevant
after Laura walked out on me. I never thought I would love her that
much until she was gone for good, until I realized I had no chance to
win her back. I was unhinged for a long time after her departure, even
when I had women around me, women who told me that I was gorgeous and
nice and that they loved me. I smiled when I heard all the kudos and
paeans, but inside me what I wished for was that she would walk
through the front door once more.
If all my stories strain credulity, so be it. I couldn't do any
better. What I am writing tonight is not exactly a story. It's a spit
into art, a forced phony confession, a paso doble, a pas de deux with
myself. What I am trying to articulate in this montage of words is
that virtue and not glory should come first and that one is not a
prerequisite of the other and we could have them both accidentally and
not purposely. I want to say all that in a framework of a story, not
an essay. Essays come very easily for me. I can write them in my
sleep. Writing a story is much harder. That's why I admire artists who
could pull it off. And in moments of being carried away by my
admiration, I even wrote to them (3 so far). Sadly, I only got one
response--and it was three months late---which didn't even address my
question about the ending of one of his stories. Of course, I was
disappointed, but what could I do? I just have to improve on my own
craft so one day I feel my stories are good enough for wider
dissemination. Meanwhile I just have to realize that writers can be
assholes, just like anybody else. Still, I cannot understand why an
author didn't bother to write back to a fan who professed an
admiration for his work. I would.
Today, once again I saw a leperous asshole farting publicly about this
and about that. That caused me throw up uncontrollably my dinner. I
know. I should have just run far away from the asshole when it
appeared on the scene, but curiosity got the better of me. I wanted to
know what more nonsense that would cone out of that diseased orifice
of its. I did discern clearly that the asshole is suffering from an
acute loneliness. It has itself to blame because who wants to
associate with an asshole like that? Very few, I would say. I, for
one, would not. Why should I when the asshole is touchy yet
insensitive to the pains it has inflicted on others over the years,
ignorant yet loves to show off its "knowledge", afflicted with ill-
disguised inferiority complex, and cowardly yet full of bravado. In
short, it is full of shit. That's why I call it an asshole.
(cont.)
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
Smoky Mountain
The first time you saw Smoky Mountain up close, the stench was unbearable and you had to stop the car and retched. Your big breakfast of steak and eggs was wasted. You made a mistake of driving with the windows down. You wanted to save money. Besides, it was late December and the weather was not that hot. No, this Smoky Mountain was not verdant and effulgent with vitality like the one along Tennessee and North Carolina border. This one is near Manila, the Philippines, and serves as a landmark for local denizens. It was a gigantic tower of garbage infested with rats and writhing maggots, and growing bigger with each passing year, as Linda later told you, with the debris and detritus of urban life. The huge dump got its name from curls of grayish methane that hovered and hung over it. As the car got closer to the dump, what might have been taken for animals swarming over it were young children and old people. They were scavenging over the city disgrace, over a mountainous mass of steaming and stinking garbage. Your eyes were filled with tears from the acridity and pity. There is a garbage dump like this near Hanoi, Vietnam, but over there the scavengers ply their trade at night, right after the garbage trucks begin emptying their contents at the dump, and cease working once light breaks out. You wondered why here the locals have to work in the heat, under the glaring sun. It could be that over here the trucks dump their contents during the day.
You also wondered why some people, especially Vietnamese immigrant upstarts, with proudly acquired cockamamie "Republican" values, talked about self-help and no need for governmental social interventions. The Smoky Mountain should be a redoubt against hard-nosed cynicism and cold-blooded indifference to poverty.
Where you grew up in Saigon--former capital of the now defunct Republic of (South) Vietnam, there are mounds of garbage scattered around the city, but none is as gigantic as this Smoky Mountain. The one you got to know most intimately was the one in your neighborhood when you were between two and ten, in the 1950's. The experience of living quite closely to this dump shaped your outlook on life. Nothing else would come close on having an impact on how you think about social issues, especially as they relate to the poor. Normally, those who escaped from oppressive, stultifying poverty tend to forget their past and align and wed themselves to the present and the future. Not you. You couldn't forget the past, not childhood poverty, not first love ending badly for you.
Later, well fed and lubricated, and ensconced in a leather armchair in a hotel suite overlooking Manila Bay, you watched the night sky take over. The moon slowly made its ascent, surrounded by the icy gleam of diamonds of distant stars in a galaxy that does not know that you exist and does not care if you live or die. Meanwhile, faint but urgent sounds of lovemaking echoed from the suite next door. You wondered if the muffled, persistent sounds reflected inarticulate expressions of love and affection or merely cries of animal lust. Regardless, they made you ache with loneliness.
You also wondered why some people, especially Vietnamese immigrant upstarts, with proudly acquired cockamamie "Republican" values, talked about self-help and no need for governmental social interventions. The Smoky Mountain should be a redoubt against hard-nosed cynicism and cold-blooded indifference to poverty.
Where you grew up in Saigon--former capital of the now defunct Republic of (South) Vietnam, there are mounds of garbage scattered around the city, but none is as gigantic as this Smoky Mountain. The one you got to know most intimately was the one in your neighborhood when you were between two and ten, in the 1950's. The experience of living quite closely to this dump shaped your outlook on life. Nothing else would come close on having an impact on how you think about social issues, especially as they relate to the poor. Normally, those who escaped from oppressive, stultifying poverty tend to forget their past and align and wed themselves to the present and the future. Not you. You couldn't forget the past, not childhood poverty, not first love ending badly for you.
Later, well fed and lubricated, and ensconced in a leather armchair in a hotel suite overlooking Manila Bay, you watched the night sky take over. The moon slowly made its ascent, surrounded by the icy gleam of diamonds of distant stars in a galaxy that does not know that you exist and does not care if you live or die. Meanwhile, faint but urgent sounds of lovemaking echoed from the suite next door. You wondered if the muffled, persistent sounds reflected inarticulate expressions of love and affection or merely cries of animal lust. Regardless, they made you ache with loneliness.
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
The Things I've Carried
The Things I've Carried.
I've been carrying a lot of things in my life. No wonder my shoulders are stooped and my heart is heavy. For years I carried a torch and kept an image of a woman alive in my heart. I was a fool. I knew I was, but I couldn't help myself. I loved her. I knew I did. Then one day, on a beautiful Sunday morning, I took a walk in the park, alone, and as I walked on the bridge over the little pond where koi fishes and turtles were stocked, I had a Zen moment when I saw one a huge bull frog jumped on a lotus broad leaf, alert and full of life, in the full splendor of a morning awash with sunlight and with water undulating across the pond, driven by brisk winds. That was then I recognized not only the futility of my love for her, but also the prosaic nature of her personality and her subsequent betrayal of me. Ever since I hardly dream of her. Before that moment of liberation, I dreamed of her with regularity, at least once a month for years on end, decade after decade. That liberation moment taught me that humans were not to be trusted and almost all were selfish to the core. Subsequent relationships validated and confirmed that observation of mine.
I also carried in my mind feelings of unresolved anger against certain assholes. The feelings fester, simmer, and linger until I don't know when they will manifest themselves in actions. Hate is a corrosive emotion if one does not know to handle it. It must be viewed as a servant, not a boss. One thing I do know is this: the more I know humans, regardless of whether they are males or females, most are selfish and hypocritical and diseased to the core and not worth cultivating the friendship. In my view, they are nothing but animals, pure and simple. My hatred for them is immense, my contempt boundless. I feel nauseous at the mere sight of their names, let alone of their hemming and hawing, their muttering and sputtering of their ill-informed, half-digested facts and jejune, sophomoric "thoughts". Now I fully understand why tyrants acted the way they did and why there have been serial killers. Catharsis had to be achieved. Defiance and insolence had to be crushed and punished. Vengeance had to be exacted.
Those who have stayed with me so far would wonder if I am a happy person. The answer is I have my moments. And I am not as lonely as I used to. I keep myself occupied and don't have much need for human company because sooner or later most humans disappoint and nauseate me. In addition, most of them are stupid and ill-informed, making a dialogue with them a real chore. True, I am getting to be misanthropic. I know I am repeating myself, working myself into a frenzy. I ironically feel most alive when I am angry and furious. To find release for these feelings of aggression, I reach for the pen and I scribble furiously of whatever comes to my feverish mind, for hours at a time, until I am spent and the demon beats a retreat. One sad and
funny fact about humans is that the more they reveal themselves to me, the more I find them boring and petty-minded and even stupid. I mean, their concerns are interests are prosaic and vastly different from mine. It's getting to the point I keep them at arm's length from me and I no longer really talk to them because I find most of them not interesting at all apart from the sheer oppressive insipidity of their lives which is mind-boggling to me. I certainly cannot go through life as they do. Call me arrogant. Call me undeservedly elitist, if you want. Call me anything. But don't call me uninquisitive. In fact, inquisitiveness is what has kept me alive. I chuckkle when people complain that they are tired of my talking about myself. I chuckle some more when I see people take seriously "feng shui", astrology, palmistry, and similar shit. I often see humans dispense "opinions" without substantiation, dismiss other's opions and ideas without cause, just because the opinions and ideas of others are different from theirs. Frankly, as I age, I tend not to give a fuck what others think of me. As far as I'm concerned, they can kiss my royal hairy ass.
Although I denounce liars, I carry a heavy guilt for lying to a woman. I said I would marry her once I turned 30, but I have no intention of doing so. I am 65 now and she still hangs around. That makes me feel really bad. I am a coward, a rake, a raffish fellow, even a ruffian. I am no better than the scums and assholes I despise. But tell me, why should I marry anybody now? All the horror stories I've heard about divorces and ugly lawsuits concerning money disgust me. I just read in the news that Tiger Woods is going to pony up 750 million dollars to buy silence fromn his soon-to-be-ex-wife. I trust humans no more. No sir, I do not. If I have my way, everyday I would take one out for target practice.
To balance things out, I carry a romantic fantasy (in my mind, superfluously speaking) for decades now, for a dream woman. She is sweet, smart, sassy and sexy. She understands me, tolerates me, and loves me. In moments of distress and loneliness, I think of her and I would calm down. Everybody dreams. Some dream of going to heaven after they die, where they will meet their "Maker". Others dream of power and riches. I dream of a certain woman who inspires to become who I can be. What you've been reading is not the real me, you idiot. You really think I'm this bitter, this sick, this unbalanced? Haven't you heard of dramatic irony and willful suspension of disbelief? Come on, use your imagination. Don't tell me you don't have any. Really? Then get the fuck out of here. You're wasting your time. You would never "enjoy" reading these words.
Last, for now and obviously not least, those who have interacted with me have discerned an umistakeable baggage I've on my right, but wrong, shoulder, and that is my death wish. This wish has explained why I act in an irrational manner at times. Why the death wish in the ifrst place? I don't know. It certainly helps me sleep better at night and face problems---mostly created by me---better. I have a theory: suicidal people should go out and do something that put their lives in danger. If they fail, they die and thus get their wish; if they succeed, they might get rid of the depression that gave rise to suicidal thoughts in the first plac. Unfortunately, suicidal people are usually depressed and drained of energy. They don't want to do anything except of thinking of killing themselves even though they know that self-destruction is bad and "sinful" (if they happen to be Christians and were brainwashed into believing in that shit). so they struggle to stay alive until one day they give in to the thoughts because they suffer too much and they want relief and they don't care the impact of their deaths on their loved ones and their "God".
Author's Note:
Many fools take everything I've written literally, as if I have no imagination nor fantasy. Ironically, they are the ones who lack imagination, who cannot conceivably think there is no personal God who "has an interest in" human affairs and who would listen to human prayers and would pass judgment on human behavior.
My recent "story" entitled "Storyteller" sounded autobiographical and thus prompted a reader to inquire further about Anita, a character in the story. Apparently my disclaimer in the authorial note that the story was a work of pure fantasy was not convincing. The "truth" of the matter is that I have been blessed and cursed with a very rich love life, a sort that defies imagination. Out of respect for many former lovers, I have been very reticent to brag and gloat about my romantic adventures. I didn't suffer because of Anita. There was a woman named Laura who did cause me pain when I was in my early 20s. From her I've learned many valuable lessons. The most important one is that feelings are not static and don't have to be reciprocated. A
person can love you today, but may find you boring and undeserving of her love tomorrow. Thus, she will find ways to dump you. If that happens, you must accept reality for what it is and move on with your life even if you still love her very much and would be devastated if she walks away. But you must accept her decision and you soldier on and find other women, if you can. If you cannot, learn to live without a woman. The key thing is to keep your dignity. There is no need to suffer. Suffering is weak. It degrades you. It robs you of dignity. You must realize that it is stupid to love a woman who doenot or no longer love you. If you do, you just set up yourself for a world of hurt . Unrequited love is not healthy. It is sick. It is immature. It is self-destructive. Conserve your energy and resources. Invest them in person(s) who do love you back. Don't come across as desperate and clinging. You look for love and respect, not pity and charity.
Armed with hard-won lessons taught by Laura, I am now an equal opportunity lover and was a dear friend with many (20) women from varying racial and educational background. Throughout my adult life I've never lacked female company. Anita was just a figment of my imagination to address a certain fantasy. She never existed. I never met her. I didn't know her. I didn't love her. Allright? Heck, right now, besides being with a steady woman, I've been a close friend with three women. I don't need Anita to mess up my emotional life. My plate is full. My writing schedule is hectic. My work life is frenzied. I don't have time to be love sick. I have not been lovesick since Laura walked away. I don't even know what love really is. Not anymore. Somebody sent me a note, quoting the perennially sappy romance writer Nicholas Sparks that true love does not necessarily mean the two people involved will live happily together, but they definitely live happily ever after, regardless of whether together or not. I suppose there is some truth in that. Love is an inspiration, an enabler of what is good and noble within us. I once loved Laura. I dindn't love her anymore because she turned out not who I thought she was. I am now disgusted with and indifferent to her at the same time. I mean I don't give a shit about her anymore. I wouldn't care less if she drops dead in front of me. If I happen to run into her, I would just walk on by. She means nothing to me. I don't hate her. I wouldn't kill her or just her, but she means absolutely nothing to me. She is a zero, not a hero in my book. I made a bad mistake. I misplaced my affection. And I paid for my mistake. Now I am a recovering love nut. I would say I am a bit wiser, not only because of her, but also of many bitches I knew and met after her. They all wanted money and security. They all said they loved me, but what they meant they loved themselves more and they would hang around only if I would not be a burden for them, financially. You call that love? I call that calculations, but most humans are cold motherfuckers who care about themselves only. Nothing new here, but when that happens, I still feel a bit disenchanted and nervous. That's who I am: stupidly naive.
So, you understand, now? The boat in which I journey across the sea of life is fragile and precarious, but it's not leaking water anymore. I've fixed it. I deliberately chose a small boat because that was who I was. I took risks. I lived on the edge and I still do. These words of mine, however fraught with a unheathy mix of self-consciousness (uncharitable souls may even characterize them as deliberately cute) and brutal candor as they may sound, are the means for me to steer my boat out of the troubled waters I chose for myself? Ironical? I know it, pal. I am my own worst enemy.
A comment/criticism/inquiry on something, some event, or somebody is to shed light more on the comment/critic/inquirer than on the subject at hand. I have learned about that lesson a long time ago. What we see depends on where we stand. Very often, what we see are the mere projections of ourselves. I also learn that humans are both thick-skinned and touchy at the same time, depending on the subject matters. Very few humans are as noble as me (sic! I'm just kidding, all right?)
(cont.)
I've been carrying a lot of things in my life. No wonder my shoulders are stooped and my heart is heavy. For years I carried a torch and kept an image of a woman alive in my heart. I was a fool. I knew I was, but I couldn't help myself. I loved her. I knew I did. Then one day, on a beautiful Sunday morning, I took a walk in the park, alone, and as I walked on the bridge over the little pond where koi fishes and turtles were stocked, I had a Zen moment when I saw one a huge bull frog jumped on a lotus broad leaf, alert and full of life, in the full splendor of a morning awash with sunlight and with water undulating across the pond, driven by brisk winds. That was then I recognized not only the futility of my love for her, but also the prosaic nature of her personality and her subsequent betrayal of me. Ever since I hardly dream of her. Before that moment of liberation, I dreamed of her with regularity, at least once a month for years on end, decade after decade. That liberation moment taught me that humans were not to be trusted and almost all were selfish to the core. Subsequent relationships validated and confirmed that observation of mine.
I also carried in my mind feelings of unresolved anger against certain assholes. The feelings fester, simmer, and linger until I don't know when they will manifest themselves in actions. Hate is a corrosive emotion if one does not know to handle it. It must be viewed as a servant, not a boss. One thing I do know is this: the more I know humans, regardless of whether they are males or females, most are selfish and hypocritical and diseased to the core and not worth cultivating the friendship. In my view, they are nothing but animals, pure and simple. My hatred for them is immense, my contempt boundless. I feel nauseous at the mere sight of their names, let alone of their hemming and hawing, their muttering and sputtering of their ill-informed, half-digested facts and jejune, sophomoric "thoughts". Now I fully understand why tyrants acted the way they did and why there have been serial killers. Catharsis had to be achieved. Defiance and insolence had to be crushed and punished. Vengeance had to be exacted.
Those who have stayed with me so far would wonder if I am a happy person. The answer is I have my moments. And I am not as lonely as I used to. I keep myself occupied and don't have much need for human company because sooner or later most humans disappoint and nauseate me. In addition, most of them are stupid and ill-informed, making a dialogue with them a real chore. True, I am getting to be misanthropic. I know I am repeating myself, working myself into a frenzy. I ironically feel most alive when I am angry and furious. To find release for these feelings of aggression, I reach for the pen and I scribble furiously of whatever comes to my feverish mind, for hours at a time, until I am spent and the demon beats a retreat. One sad and
funny fact about humans is that the more they reveal themselves to me, the more I find them boring and petty-minded and even stupid. I mean, their concerns are interests are prosaic and vastly different from mine. It's getting to the point I keep them at arm's length from me and I no longer really talk to them because I find most of them not interesting at all apart from the sheer oppressive insipidity of their lives which is mind-boggling to me. I certainly cannot go through life as they do. Call me arrogant. Call me undeservedly elitist, if you want. Call me anything. But don't call me uninquisitive. In fact, inquisitiveness is what has kept me alive. I chuckkle when people complain that they are tired of my talking about myself. I chuckle some more when I see people take seriously "feng shui", astrology, palmistry, and similar shit. I often see humans dispense "opinions" without substantiation, dismiss other's opions and ideas without cause, just because the opinions and ideas of others are different from theirs. Frankly, as I age, I tend not to give a fuck what others think of me. As far as I'm concerned, they can kiss my royal hairy ass.
Although I denounce liars, I carry a heavy guilt for lying to a woman. I said I would marry her once I turned 30, but I have no intention of doing so. I am 65 now and she still hangs around. That makes me feel really bad. I am a coward, a rake, a raffish fellow, even a ruffian. I am no better than the scums and assholes I despise. But tell me, why should I marry anybody now? All the horror stories I've heard about divorces and ugly lawsuits concerning money disgust me. I just read in the news that Tiger Woods is going to pony up 750 million dollars to buy silence fromn his soon-to-be-ex-wife. I trust humans no more. No sir, I do not. If I have my way, everyday I would take one out for target practice.
To balance things out, I carry a romantic fantasy (in my mind, superfluously speaking) for decades now, for a dream woman. She is sweet, smart, sassy and sexy. She understands me, tolerates me, and loves me. In moments of distress and loneliness, I think of her and I would calm down. Everybody dreams. Some dream of going to heaven after they die, where they will meet their "Maker". Others dream of power and riches. I dream of a certain woman who inspires to become who I can be. What you've been reading is not the real me, you idiot. You really think I'm this bitter, this sick, this unbalanced? Haven't you heard of dramatic irony and willful suspension of disbelief? Come on, use your imagination. Don't tell me you don't have any. Really? Then get the fuck out of here. You're wasting your time. You would never "enjoy" reading these words.
Last, for now and obviously not least, those who have interacted with me have discerned an umistakeable baggage I've on my right, but wrong, shoulder, and that is my death wish. This wish has explained why I act in an irrational manner at times. Why the death wish in the ifrst place? I don't know. It certainly helps me sleep better at night and face problems---mostly created by me---better. I have a theory: suicidal people should go out and do something that put their lives in danger. If they fail, they die and thus get their wish; if they succeed, they might get rid of the depression that gave rise to suicidal thoughts in the first plac. Unfortunately, suicidal people are usually depressed and drained of energy. They don't want to do anything except of thinking of killing themselves even though they know that self-destruction is bad and "sinful" (if they happen to be Christians and were brainwashed into believing in that shit). so they struggle to stay alive until one day they give in to the thoughts because they suffer too much and they want relief and they don't care the impact of their deaths on their loved ones and their "God".
Author's Note:
Many fools take everything I've written literally, as if I have no imagination nor fantasy. Ironically, they are the ones who lack imagination, who cannot conceivably think there is no personal God who "has an interest in" human affairs and who would listen to human prayers and would pass judgment on human behavior.
My recent "story" entitled "Storyteller" sounded autobiographical and thus prompted a reader to inquire further about Anita, a character in the story. Apparently my disclaimer in the authorial note that the story was a work of pure fantasy was not convincing. The "truth" of the matter is that I have been blessed and cursed with a very rich love life, a sort that defies imagination. Out of respect for many former lovers, I have been very reticent to brag and gloat about my romantic adventures. I didn't suffer because of Anita. There was a woman named Laura who did cause me pain when I was in my early 20s. From her I've learned many valuable lessons. The most important one is that feelings are not static and don't have to be reciprocated. A
person can love you today, but may find you boring and undeserving of her love tomorrow. Thus, she will find ways to dump you. If that happens, you must accept reality for what it is and move on with your life even if you still love her very much and would be devastated if she walks away. But you must accept her decision and you soldier on and find other women, if you can. If you cannot, learn to live without a woman. The key thing is to keep your dignity. There is no need to suffer. Suffering is weak. It degrades you. It robs you of dignity. You must realize that it is stupid to love a woman who doenot or no longer love you. If you do, you just set up yourself for a world of hurt . Unrequited love is not healthy. It is sick. It is immature. It is self-destructive. Conserve your energy and resources. Invest them in person(s) who do love you back. Don't come across as desperate and clinging. You look for love and respect, not pity and charity.
Armed with hard-won lessons taught by Laura, I am now an equal opportunity lover and was a dear friend with many (20) women from varying racial and educational background. Throughout my adult life I've never lacked female company. Anita was just a figment of my imagination to address a certain fantasy. She never existed. I never met her. I didn't know her. I didn't love her. Allright? Heck, right now, besides being with a steady woman, I've been a close friend with three women. I don't need Anita to mess up my emotional life. My plate is full. My writing schedule is hectic. My work life is frenzied. I don't have time to be love sick. I have not been lovesick since Laura walked away. I don't even know what love really is. Not anymore. Somebody sent me a note, quoting the perennially sappy romance writer Nicholas Sparks that true love does not necessarily mean the two people involved will live happily together, but they definitely live happily ever after, regardless of whether together or not. I suppose there is some truth in that. Love is an inspiration, an enabler of what is good and noble within us. I once loved Laura. I dindn't love her anymore because she turned out not who I thought she was. I am now disgusted with and indifferent to her at the same time. I mean I don't give a shit about her anymore. I wouldn't care less if she drops dead in front of me. If I happen to run into her, I would just walk on by. She means nothing to me. I don't hate her. I wouldn't kill her or just her, but she means absolutely nothing to me. She is a zero, not a hero in my book. I made a bad mistake. I misplaced my affection. And I paid for my mistake. Now I am a recovering love nut. I would say I am a bit wiser, not only because of her, but also of many bitches I knew and met after her. They all wanted money and security. They all said they loved me, but what they meant they loved themselves more and they would hang around only if I would not be a burden for them, financially. You call that love? I call that calculations, but most humans are cold motherfuckers who care about themselves only. Nothing new here, but when that happens, I still feel a bit disenchanted and nervous. That's who I am: stupidly naive.
So, you understand, now? The boat in which I journey across the sea of life is fragile and precarious, but it's not leaking water anymore. I've fixed it. I deliberately chose a small boat because that was who I was. I took risks. I lived on the edge and I still do. These words of mine, however fraught with a unheathy mix of self-consciousness (uncharitable souls may even characterize them as deliberately cute) and brutal candor as they may sound, are the means for me to steer my boat out of the troubled waters I chose for myself? Ironical? I know it, pal. I am my own worst enemy.
A comment/criticism/inquiry on something, some event, or somebody is to shed light more on the comment/critic/inquirer than on the subject at hand. I have learned about that lesson a long time ago. What we see depends on where we stand. Very often, what we see are the mere projections of ourselves. I also learn that humans are both thick-skinned and touchy at the same time, depending on the subject matters. Very few humans are as noble as me (sic! I'm just kidding, all right?)
(cont.)
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Storyteller
Storyteller
I ain't no storyteller nor writer. I know that. You know that. She knew that, too. I was trying to tell her something the other day. I felt funny and restless whenever I saw her, and more so when she was standing up close and personal. I felt like I was suffocating. I couldn't breathe. In addition, blood rushed to my face. But how come, I continued, I don't feel like this when being around other young women, even when they're far prettier than you. She smiled and said, sounds like a personal problem to me, and then she sashayed away from me. I swear she swayed her hips a bit more energetically than usual because she knew I would watch her from behind at her behind. I swear she knew she had an effect on me, a newly penniless old man in his mid 60s, and she was only a chick at 20, not old enough to get a drink in most bars, and young enough to be my granddaughter.
I met her at the library, at the Green Valley Branch. She was bending over to look for a book at tbe bottom shelf. I happened to walk by. She had no bra on. And the sight was breathtaking. I was transfixed. She looked up and saw me crudely gawking at her. She stood straight up and admonishedly me gently with a smile, dirty old man, enjoyed the view? I blushed and stuttered, sorry, couldn't help myself, I normally don't do this. And then I walked on to the Foreign Languages section, feeling stupid and somewhat ashamed of myself. About five minutes later, I couldn't believe my ears when I heard, so you know Spanish?, from behind. I turned around just to be sure, but I already knew it was her. How could I ever forget such a voice, the smile, and yes, the view? For some strange reason, my normal diffidence departed from me that Saturday afternoon and my gift of gab asserted its presence.
I turned around and saw her smiling at me, eyes twinkling mischievously.
You're not following me, are you?
Gosh, no! She laughed out loud, displaying pearlish white teeth. I'm looking for some Spanish books. Then she changed into rapid-fire Spanish that I had difficulty following. So I told her in English that I read Spanish better than I speak it. I also told her my name and asked for hers (Anita) and then I looked straight at her beautiful almond eyes and said I would love to see her again.
No problema, she said, I am here most Saturdays, around this time.
After I left the library, I seriously considered for the first time in my life to dye my grey silver hair. Eventually, my pride won out. I just had to go with the flow, relying on my charm and animal magnetism to win her over. Hair color be damned. Life has a very strange way of turning out for me. Here I am, a lifelong bachelor, turning down many inquiries and overtures when I was in my prime, rich and handome, now get all excited and bothered in the twilight of my life, penniless and decaying, over a young woman who is wise and childlike at the same time.
I must make a detour. I am as "anxious" as you are to know what would or will happen to Anita and me. But I don't know; honestly, I don't. So I'm taking a break in order to meditate on the nature of our "relationship" via homespun advice I came across in an article concerning a basketball coach who lived to a ripe old age of 99.
Success comes from knowing that you did the best to become the best that you are capable of becoming. Things turn out best for the people who make the best of the way things turn out. Be more concerned with your character than your reputation, because your character is what you really are, while your reputation is merely what others think you are. Failure is not necessarily fatal, but failure to change might be. Failure to prepare is preparing to fail. Talent is God given. Be humble. Fame is man-given. Be grateful. Conceit is self-given. Be careful.
Wow, what a heady and handsome advice! I wish I had come across this when I was young and green, when hot blood coursed through my veins. This evening, as I pulled into tbe driveway of my condo, flashbacks flared up again and I was seized by a paroxysm of anger. I had to rush inside and drank a full glass of cold water. I didn't want to get angry; I didn't want to suffer. Living long and in prosperity is the best revenge. I was telling myself so as I forced myself to gulp the cold water.
Back to Anita, she is in her third year at Arizona State, majoring in Spanish. She wants to become a teacher. Quite an ordinary, unambitious dream. I told her to dream bigger. Big things come to those who dare dream big. I don't want big things, she said. Then, typically enough, she turned the table back on me: What about you? Did you dream big when you were younger? Are you still dreaming?
I went into a soliloquy in answering her questions. It's now or never. Make or break speech. I cared about her, but I had to be honest. She must know who I really was and am. So I said, sure, I dreamed big. I wanted to be a doctor, but that didn't pan out because I was not good enough to be admitted to medical school. I didn't study hard enough. I wanted then to become a writer, a world famous one, winner of Nobel Prize, but while I appreciated literature, I discovered I was not a creative writer. I used to dream of living with the Pygmies and then the San people in Africa because I was fascinated with their lifestyles, but I didn't pursue the dream because I was scared of catching some deadly tropical illnesses. So, you could say I was a quitter or a self-doubter and/or a mere idle dreamer. Now I settle for reading books on philosophy and history, studying languages for fun, and avoiding to put myself in situations where assholes would have power over me because I have a fiery temper and I can commit acts of extreme violence if sufficiently provoked. By the way, I have a hate and love relationship with humans. I love my fellow humans in the abstract, but I tend to hate most humans I run into because they are mostly selfish, lying, hypocritical motherfuckers and assholes. You should also know I used to have a lot of money, but I blew most of it away in the stock market. Now I live from hand to mouth.She didn't interrupt me. She listened very attentively. Then she said, you're okay, you're a good man, muy simpático y sincero también. Take good care of yourself. I don't care about the money. Soy tu amiga. I wish you were much younger.I wish so, too, Anita, I said. Then I turned and headed towards my Maxima which was baking in the parking lot. We only met on Saturdays at the library. I never asked her out. I never asked her if she had a boyfriend. I never touched her, but she knew I wanted to. We just talked no more than an hour and at the end, I was always the one who said, hasta próximo sábado, and she replied with a smile, de acuerdo.
I could not help but observe if she went braless again. But she didn't. I dared not ask her what happened on the day we first met. She was in a hurry? She forgot to put it on? In talking to me, she was friendly, vivacious, but she was not a flirt, not really. And I was a gentleman. I didn't ask for her number and she didn't ask for mine. I didn't know where she lived.
We saw each other on Saturdays for six months, then she disappeared. She stopped going to the library. I kind of missed her, but I didn't suffer. I refused to suffer. I am too old to suffer over a woman. When I was in my early twenties, I foolishly suffered over a woman who turned out prosaic and common. When I discovered her true nature, I realized all my sufferings were for nothing and were only the direct results of my ignorance and willful idealization. I have learned my lesson since. Go gently amidst delights and distractions, but never lose your head nor your dignity.
I still go to the same library on Saturdays. I occasionally pass by the shelf where I first spotted her bending over, searching for a book. I don't think she will ever come back to this library. I wish her luck and happiness. I am rebuilding my wealth. I look forward, not backward. Somehow, I think I will live till 105. I have 40 more years to go. Forty years are a long time. Many exciting things can happen in 40 years. I am still learning Spanish. And I still think of Anita now and then, and of her mysterious disappearance. Did she get run over by a bus or disintegrated by a falling meteorite or did she simply walk away without bothering to say goodbye? And if she's still alive and breathing somewhere, I wonder if she thinks of me whenever she bends over to look for a book in a library wherever that library may be.
Wissai
June 24, 2010
Author's explanatory note and self-criticism and praise:
I wrote this "story" on top of my head, except for a paragraph about advice from John Wooden, a famous deceased basketball coach. I lifted the advice verbatim from a magazine article.
I wrote the story without notes nor planning and without any preconceived idea where the story was going to go and how it was going to end. I didn't think the story mark any progress on my "development" as a wannabe short story writer. I write because I answer to a nagging urge, but I don't take my "craft" seriously at all. I do like the story overall, even if it is not a great story. I like it because of its good beginning and occasional striking phrases and slight but beautiful touch of eroticism and unresolved sexual tension. Although the story sounded autobiographical, it was all made up and pure fantasy.
I could not and would not stretch the "narrative" any longer. I write somewhat like some pieces of Borges: short and impressionistic. Most writers spend weeks and months, even years, to work on a story. Mine took only a few hours and I made things up as I went along with each sentence. Very often I didn't know what the next sentence would be. To me, it was hugely fascinating to witness imagination at work.
Everybody, at least those fancy that they are verbally gifted and can express themselves, has a secret wish to write well. Anybody can write memoirs, trip reports, dog bites, and "essays" about poems and songs to evince his "sensitivity". But creative writing is a different animal, difficult to tame, and almost impossible to please.
Lying is easy. A child can do it. But I hate lying and liars although I can lie as easily as the next guy. To resolve my conflict about lying, I seek refuge in creative writing where I find an outlet for my febrile imagination and lies.
One more thing. I often express my distaste for the appearance of nude and semi-nude photos in a forum of which I visit from time to time, because I don't derive feelings of aesthetics, nor even a stirring of eroticism from these photos. On the contrary, I find them quite crude and crass and damaging to the very notion of eroticism itself. I wrote the story as part of my answer to what eroticism is meant to be. I might not execute it well, but I believe I was on the right track. Eroticism often involves imagination and suggestion, not outright full revelation.
Wissai
June 26, 2010
I ain't no storyteller nor writer. I know that. You know that. She knew that, too. I was trying to tell her something the other day. I felt funny and restless whenever I saw her, and more so when she was standing up close and personal. I felt like I was suffocating. I couldn't breathe. In addition, blood rushed to my face. But how come, I continued, I don't feel like this when being around other young women, even when they're far prettier than you. She smiled and said, sounds like a personal problem to me, and then she sashayed away from me. I swear she swayed her hips a bit more energetically than usual because she knew I would watch her from behind at her behind. I swear she knew she had an effect on me, a newly penniless old man in his mid 60s, and she was only a chick at 20, not old enough to get a drink in most bars, and young enough to be my granddaughter.
I met her at the library, at the Green Valley Branch. She was bending over to look for a book at tbe bottom shelf. I happened to walk by. She had no bra on. And the sight was breathtaking. I was transfixed. She looked up and saw me crudely gawking at her. She stood straight up and admonishedly me gently with a smile, dirty old man, enjoyed the view? I blushed and stuttered, sorry, couldn't help myself, I normally don't do this. And then I walked on to the Foreign Languages section, feeling stupid and somewhat ashamed of myself. About five minutes later, I couldn't believe my ears when I heard, so you know Spanish?, from behind. I turned around just to be sure, but I already knew it was her. How could I ever forget such a voice, the smile, and yes, the view? For some strange reason, my normal diffidence departed from me that Saturday afternoon and my gift of gab asserted its presence.
I turned around and saw her smiling at me, eyes twinkling mischievously.
You're not following me, are you?
Gosh, no! She laughed out loud, displaying pearlish white teeth. I'm looking for some Spanish books. Then she changed into rapid-fire Spanish that I had difficulty following. So I told her in English that I read Spanish better than I speak it. I also told her my name and asked for hers (Anita) and then I looked straight at her beautiful almond eyes and said I would love to see her again.
No problema, she said, I am here most Saturdays, around this time.
After I left the library, I seriously considered for the first time in my life to dye my grey silver hair. Eventually, my pride won out. I just had to go with the flow, relying on my charm and animal magnetism to win her over. Hair color be damned. Life has a very strange way of turning out for me. Here I am, a lifelong bachelor, turning down many inquiries and overtures when I was in my prime, rich and handome, now get all excited and bothered in the twilight of my life, penniless and decaying, over a young woman who is wise and childlike at the same time.
I must make a detour. I am as "anxious" as you are to know what would or will happen to Anita and me. But I don't know; honestly, I don't. So I'm taking a break in order to meditate on the nature of our "relationship" via homespun advice I came across in an article concerning a basketball coach who lived to a ripe old age of 99.
Success comes from knowing that you did the best to become the best that you are capable of becoming. Things turn out best for the people who make the best of the way things turn out. Be more concerned with your character than your reputation, because your character is what you really are, while your reputation is merely what others think you are. Failure is not necessarily fatal, but failure to change might be. Failure to prepare is preparing to fail. Talent is God given. Be humble. Fame is man-given. Be grateful. Conceit is self-given. Be careful.
Wow, what a heady and handsome advice! I wish I had come across this when I was young and green, when hot blood coursed through my veins. This evening, as I pulled into tbe driveway of my condo, flashbacks flared up again and I was seized by a paroxysm of anger. I had to rush inside and drank a full glass of cold water. I didn't want to get angry; I didn't want to suffer. Living long and in prosperity is the best revenge. I was telling myself so as I forced myself to gulp the cold water.
Back to Anita, she is in her third year at Arizona State, majoring in Spanish. She wants to become a teacher. Quite an ordinary, unambitious dream. I told her to dream bigger. Big things come to those who dare dream big. I don't want big things, she said. Then, typically enough, she turned the table back on me: What about you? Did you dream big when you were younger? Are you still dreaming?
I went into a soliloquy in answering her questions. It's now or never. Make or break speech. I cared about her, but I had to be honest. She must know who I really was and am. So I said, sure, I dreamed big. I wanted to be a doctor, but that didn't pan out because I was not good enough to be admitted to medical school. I didn't study hard enough. I wanted then to become a writer, a world famous one, winner of Nobel Prize, but while I appreciated literature, I discovered I was not a creative writer. I used to dream of living with the Pygmies and then the San people in Africa because I was fascinated with their lifestyles, but I didn't pursue the dream because I was scared of catching some deadly tropical illnesses. So, you could say I was a quitter or a self-doubter and/or a mere idle dreamer. Now I settle for reading books on philosophy and history, studying languages for fun, and avoiding to put myself in situations where assholes would have power over me because I have a fiery temper and I can commit acts of extreme violence if sufficiently provoked. By the way, I have a hate and love relationship with humans. I love my fellow humans in the abstract, but I tend to hate most humans I run into because they are mostly selfish, lying, hypocritical motherfuckers and assholes. You should also know I used to have a lot of money, but I blew most of it away in the stock market. Now I live from hand to mouth.She didn't interrupt me. She listened very attentively. Then she said, you're okay, you're a good man, muy simpático y sincero también. Take good care of yourself. I don't care about the money. Soy tu amiga. I wish you were much younger.I wish so, too, Anita, I said. Then I turned and headed towards my Maxima which was baking in the parking lot. We only met on Saturdays at the library. I never asked her out. I never asked her if she had a boyfriend. I never touched her, but she knew I wanted to. We just talked no more than an hour and at the end, I was always the one who said, hasta próximo sábado, and she replied with a smile, de acuerdo.
I could not help but observe if she went braless again. But she didn't. I dared not ask her what happened on the day we first met. She was in a hurry? She forgot to put it on? In talking to me, she was friendly, vivacious, but she was not a flirt, not really. And I was a gentleman. I didn't ask for her number and she didn't ask for mine. I didn't know where she lived.
We saw each other on Saturdays for six months, then she disappeared. She stopped going to the library. I kind of missed her, but I didn't suffer. I refused to suffer. I am too old to suffer over a woman. When I was in my early twenties, I foolishly suffered over a woman who turned out prosaic and common. When I discovered her true nature, I realized all my sufferings were for nothing and were only the direct results of my ignorance and willful idealization. I have learned my lesson since. Go gently amidst delights and distractions, but never lose your head nor your dignity.
I still go to the same library on Saturdays. I occasionally pass by the shelf where I first spotted her bending over, searching for a book. I don't think she will ever come back to this library. I wish her luck and happiness. I am rebuilding my wealth. I look forward, not backward. Somehow, I think I will live till 105. I have 40 more years to go. Forty years are a long time. Many exciting things can happen in 40 years. I am still learning Spanish. And I still think of Anita now and then, and of her mysterious disappearance. Did she get run over by a bus or disintegrated by a falling meteorite or did she simply walk away without bothering to say goodbye? And if she's still alive and breathing somewhere, I wonder if she thinks of me whenever she bends over to look for a book in a library wherever that library may be.
Wissai
June 24, 2010
Author's explanatory note and self-criticism and praise:
I wrote this "story" on top of my head, except for a paragraph about advice from John Wooden, a famous deceased basketball coach. I lifted the advice verbatim from a magazine article.
I wrote the story without notes nor planning and without any preconceived idea where the story was going to go and how it was going to end. I didn't think the story mark any progress on my "development" as a wannabe short story writer. I write because I answer to a nagging urge, but I don't take my "craft" seriously at all. I do like the story overall, even if it is not a great story. I like it because of its good beginning and occasional striking phrases and slight but beautiful touch of eroticism and unresolved sexual tension. Although the story sounded autobiographical, it was all made up and pure fantasy.
I could not and would not stretch the "narrative" any longer. I write somewhat like some pieces of Borges: short and impressionistic. Most writers spend weeks and months, even years, to work on a story. Mine took only a few hours and I made things up as I went along with each sentence. Very often I didn't know what the next sentence would be. To me, it was hugely fascinating to witness imagination at work.
Everybody, at least those fancy that they are verbally gifted and can express themselves, has a secret wish to write well. Anybody can write memoirs, trip reports, dog bites, and "essays" about poems and songs to evince his "sensitivity". But creative writing is a different animal, difficult to tame, and almost impossible to please.
Lying is easy. A child can do it. But I hate lying and liars although I can lie as easily as the next guy. To resolve my conflict about lying, I seek refuge in creative writing where I find an outlet for my febrile imagination and lies.
One more thing. I often express my distaste for the appearance of nude and semi-nude photos in a forum of which I visit from time to time, because I don't derive feelings of aesthetics, nor even a stirring of eroticism from these photos. On the contrary, I find them quite crude and crass and damaging to the very notion of eroticism itself. I wrote the story as part of my answer to what eroticism is meant to be. I might not execute it well, but I believe I was on the right track. Eroticism often involves imagination and suggestion, not outright full revelation.
Wissai
June 26, 2010
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Music, Food, Being Jilted, and Memories
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.
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.
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.
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