The Things I Have Carried (Edited)

The Things I Have Carried (Edited)

I’ve been carrying a lot of things in my life. No wonder my shoulders are stooped and my heart 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 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 completely 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 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, puerile “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 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  funny fact about most 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  chuckle 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, reincarnation, afterlife, heaven and hell, anthropomorphic God, Jesus “Resurrection “. If the dude Jesus of Nazareth indeed resurrected, where is he now? Could somebody tell me? It never amazes me how many humans were brainwashed into believing in Nonsense and Bullshits.

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, in the twilight of my life, 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 had no intention of  doing so. I am 75 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 Jesus, their Lord, their “Maker”. How stupid can one get? Stupid people believe in stupid things. I have a mixture and admixture of pity and contempt for stupid folks. If you die, you die, not because Jesus calls you to come home!

Most humans dreams of power, fame, sex, 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 closely with me have discerned an unmistakeable 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 about 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 behaviors .

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 loving 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 another woman, 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 persons 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 (31) women from  varying racial and educational backgrounds. 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 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 just despise 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 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 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 a 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, like so many of  them. Nobody would notice. Nobody would give a damn, unlike Sartre’s death. “

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  not that severe. The envious, stupid, ignorant scumbag merely accused me, without a single iota of substantiation, that I committed plagiarism in my writing. 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 and imprudent son of a bitch. But unlike many others, I am not  a hypocrite. You just have to take my word for it.

But enough of assholes, for now. 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, pointillistic details. 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 fame 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.

Wissai

July 2, 2010

Updated April 27, 2024