Autorretrato con Traje de Terciopelo by Frida Kahlo, 1926
…Yesterday, I got in the inbox a letter from Denise. I didn’t quite understand it, but a note of melancholy hit me nonetheless. The letter reads:
“Montréal, le 3ème Janvier, 2014
Mon cher Roberto,
Tu ne liras jamais ces pages que j’écris dans une école sage au vent mouillé d’automne. Ce n’est peu-être que pour moi, pour te garder un peu; c’est la première fois que je te tiens dans mon décor, première fois que tu me viens au rythme de mes pas.
Ici, les forêts se referment et je te garde en creux dans ma vallée, entre l’étude et le goûter. Tu es dans les poèmes de Cadou que les enfants récitent en chantonnant;
Je t’attendrai Hélène a travers les prairies a travers les matins de gel et de lumière
Pour la première fois, je sais chanter pour toi, quand je décroche ma guitare. Avant je ratais un arpège, ou tu n’écoutais plus les mots qui devaient juste te parler, tu préparais le thé. J’apprends à te parler dans le silence d’une école.
Tu vois, il n’y a pas qu’une insolence du bonheur. Dans la tristesse aussi, tout semble enfin facile, et c’est si simple de se ressembler. Le monde s’apprivoise, on en fait soudain ce qu’on veut.”
Gustav Klimt, the kiss
(You will never read these pages that I’m writing in a school for kids in the damp winds of the Fall. Perhaps it’s only for myself that I look after you a little; it’s the first time that I hold you in my scenery, the first time you come to me in the rhythm of my footsteps.
Here, the woods close in on itself and I watch after you in the hollow of my valley, between study-time and snack time. You are in Cadou’s poems recited by the children in a sing song voice:
I’ll wait for thee, Helen
across the meadows
and through the morning
of frost and sunshine
For the first time, I know how to sing for thee when I take out my guitar and play. Thou used to prepare tea before I missed the notes on the piano or when thou wouldn’t listen anymore to the words that were fair and just when I was talking to thee. I am learning to talk to thee in the silence and stillness of the school.
You see, it is not only that happiness contains insolence. In the unhappiness that one also carries, everything seems easy in the end, and it’s so simple that happiness and unhappiness resemble each other. The world gets tamed, and suddenly one does whatever one wishes to do.”
Denise didn’t say she borrowed the words from Philippe Delerm in La Cinquième Saison. She surprised me with her sensitivity. Her words arrived when I was feeling blue and dejected over human trickery and cruelty and boundless capacity for sophistry.
I met Denise on Halloween’s Day in Las Vegas at Bellagio. We were sitting next to each other in a no limit hold ’em poker game. We were more interested in each other than the game itself. The chemistry between us was strong. The air was charged with electricity. I swear I saw sparks arching that evening. I had goosebumps whenever she leaned over and whispered double entendres. I couldn’t help glancing at her pyramids, to her undisguised delight. Red wine loosened our tongues, especially mine. I was more loquacious than usual. Then around the bewitching hour ofmidnight, she ceremoniously invited me up to her room for “coffee”. She was young enough to be my daughter. She also confessed to me that I turned her on and that I looked more like 45 than 65 and she wanted to be a “very close friend” of mine. To make the matter more delirious and delectable and delightful, she spoke French much better than I did. And she was telling me all this in rapid Canadian French. Several times, I told her to slow down so I could understand what she said. She was excited and nervous, you know. Since her English was not good, I had to summon all the French I had at my disposal and told her I could not regard her anything more than a “chère amie” because my son would kill me if I ever got married again. Seven times would be more than enough, don’t you think? Come on, I ain’t no Liz Taylor.
In spite of the sensitivity of Denise, as shown by her borrowed words, I don’t really trust her after she stormed off into the sunset and went back to Montréal, after I clumsily explained to her in my halting French that I would not, could not regard her anything more than a friend as I had commitments and enclosures and closures. But she knew and I knew the real reason for my failure to really open my heart to her: despite all my eloquent speeches about love and romanticism, deep down in the core of my being, I have lost faith in humanity, in the existence of a woman who would love me unselfishly and fearlessly and who loves me till the end of time even if I am penniless and physically infirmed and incapacitated and impotent and wrecked by self-pity and self-doubt and remorses and regrets. Of all my real amorous achievements and triumphs (unlike the fake ones of the loud-mouthed and shameless liar) and they were numerous as I alluded to in my earlier piece (and they could have been much more numerous if I had not suddenly got cynical), only one woman from Laos who would come closest in my conception of an ideal woman. Unfortunately, she already had a boyfriend when I met her. I could have pursued her relentlessly and she might have dropped her boyfriend for me as she seemed to like me very much,. But I refused to do so out of principle. She was a devout Budshist and so was I. I didn’t want her to choose and I certainly didn’t want to make her boyfriend unhappy. I never want to be happy over somebody’s unhappiness. Her name, unfortunately, was also Laura. So I called her LL (Laotian Laura). I don’t see her anymore. I purposely stay away from her. I have principles to uphold. I have my own commitments I have to keep. I have people I have to answer to. Besides, I must concentrate my energy to be financially independent. All these romantic sideshows and distractions are just for those twits and twerps who don’t feel confident about their own attractiveness. I am confident about mine. My past records speak for themselves. Do I sound vain and vainglorious and conceited? Do I sound unlike a Buddhist full of modesty and serenity as I am supposed to? You can bet your sweet ass that I am. I am a walking contradictions, an embodiment of contrasts, an avatar of ambiguities.
At any rate, Denise cried quite a bit after my clumsy exposition and then stormed off into the proverbial “sunset”, leaving me “sensible” and calm and pleased and proud of myself beyond measure. I slowly drove home in the morning, and walked straight into the bathroom and took a long look at myself in the mirror to check if I was indeed “beau” and “charmant” as she alleged. Please don’t laugh, but after preening and looking at myself from various angles, I must admit that French woman from Montréal had a point and discerning eyes! Today, I stopped over at the 24 Hours Fitness Club after work and signed up for a membership. I used to run and keep myself in a gloriously good shape, but ever since I developed a foot problem in my left foot and had to curtail running, my body has lost quite a bit of definition and vigor. The other reason I had to fork over some money to improve my physique was that I wanted to win a stupid wager about physical fitness (100 continuous push-ups and then 20 chin-ups on my birthday in October) I had with a friend. I hate to lose. I have a lot of pride and ego. The next time you guys see me, you will see a new, invigorating, slimmer Roberto, I promise. Let me tell you, there is no better incentive to keep your body in good shape at the “advanced” age of 65 than hearing a sexy, attractive younger French woman told you that you were handsome, funny, and sexy, if I heard her right. My French was rusty and I was hard of hearing, so I could just probably imagine and heard things that were too good to be true. But regardless of what happened to my hearing, the fact that I heard voices and I heard a speech in French that a sexy, young, attractive woman confessed that she was falling hard for me because of my demeanor, my looks, my intellect, and my basic honesty and integrity, that was enough for me to seriously work on my body and my looks as well as on my French.
I am glad she went back to Montréal, however. That saved me a lot of potential headaches. Anyway, I still remember that wonderful Halloween evening when I first saw her naked. A bold, impetuous move on her part. She looked straight at my eyes while lying in that unmade bed of hers. Then she rose up. Her clothes were on the floor in a matter of seconds. Her triangle was absolutely beautiful, innocent-looking and yet inviting. I asked her to help me. She readily complied. She kept saying I was handsome and sexy, especially my lips. She asked me if any woman ever found my lips sexy. I said, yes, there was another one, up in Alaska. She laughed, for real? she inquired. I said, mais oui, vraiment. We spoke in French. She clung tight to me and called my name, Oh Roberto, Roberto, mon chéri, as she reached the summit. Later, she fell soundly asleep in my arms. I felt peaceful, then, but not now. I just bought a journal so I can talk to her, without her knowing. She is coming softly to me on the velvet of words. She would think I am maudlin and mawkish. I will write to her with music, to tell her about my days and nights, with fresh wounds oozing hurts and blood. I will write neatly, in my best cursive style, with my Parker pen. I will tell her again and again what we talked to each other the first night we were together, how she said she was afraid she might be falling in love with me. I am looking outside. The night is still. The sky is immense and sparkles with stars. All of a sudden, I see her burning brightly in the sky. Flames envelop her naked beautiful body. And she is looking straight at my eyes, like she did the first night, right before she took off her clothes.
A magazine reporter who called herself Leslie Lovely contacted me out of the blue, saying that I have generated a lot of traffic on Facebook and my blog due to the controversial, funny, thought-provocative, anger-arousing posts I put up there almost on a daily basis. Her boss wanted her to do an interview with me and so she wondered if I would agree to talk to her.
I had been interviewed three times before: once by a radio station in New Zealand, once by a TV station in Houston, and once by some stupid guy working for a French radio news outlet. And each time it was a disaster. I came across inarticulate and stupid and ignorant. So this time, with Leslie, I was prepared. I asked her what she wanted to talk about. I demanded the right to edit the transcript. And I wanted the agreement in writing. I also wanted to tape the interview to verify the veracity of my answers. I didn’t want any bitch reporter put words in my mouth. Since she came to me, she finally agreed to my terms, albeit reluctantly.
-Gosh, you have a gorgeous view up here. We can see all over the city, and far to the mountains. Let’s get down to business. You think you are smart, don’t you? At least that’s the impression the readers have of you.
-I’m cerebral but I’m dumb and stupid in practical living. I can think. I have some moments of awareness and self-awareness.
-Why and how you write every freaking day, like a man possessed, like a dying man who wants to leave a written testimony behind?
– I wake up every morning, feeling angry and dissatisfied with myself and the world. I want to kill somebody, but of course I cannot do that. I take it back. Yes, I can, but the consequences are so heavy, so expensive, so drastic, so final. So I write instead. I engage in sublimation, you understand? I split skulls with my words. I stab hearts with my tenderness. A man must have a reason to get up in the morning instead of lying in bed and die. I find anger fuels me, activates me, makes me do things I wouldn’t do otherwise. Because of anger, I read more, study more, exercise more, and am determined to hang onto my money this time. The last time I had it, I just squandered it. Then I found out, as I should, that people judged me on the basis of how much money I had in the bank and treated me accordingly.
-Looks like you do all right for yourself. A nice high-rise condo you have, tastefully decorated. You wrote in your blog that you also own a black Lexus.
-I am getting by. I don’t have as much money as I used to, but I am getting there.
-Let’s change the subject. All this talk about money nauseates me. Are you really popular with women as you’ve been incessantly bragging about that? Isn’t there an undercurrent of inferiority complex here?
-Well, I’m not lying. Having known 23 women in the Biblical sense is no big deal. Look at me closely, won’t you? Listen to my words. If you were a normal woman, you would like me, too. I simply possess looks and charms and what you call animal magnetism. I give off strong vibrations. Women pick up on the vibrations. Let me tell you something. The number could easily go to 30 and higher. But I was faithful to Harriette. After I met Harriette, there was a whole bunch of women strongly interested in me. I didn’t want to lose Harriette, so I was cold to the overtures. Besides, I am tired now, and more difficult and selective. Common women bore me and turn me off, no matter how much they are turned on by me. I’ve learned my lessons. Actually, I was a lazy man. I did not go out of my way to look for women. I just made myself available to them. I was receptive to their overtures. But you should know there was a time I actively chased after women and I didn’t know what the hell I was doing. I was rejected left and right. But I learned from my experiences. I didn’t let failures undermine who I thought I was. Then, I hit on a formula of success. I haven’t looked back since.
-Could you tell us what the formula is?
-No, I did tell my son. I hope he’s using it.
-Did any of the women really love you?
-Four. Two died. One is married. She lives in Chicago. I think of her now and then and wonder how she’s doing.
-Why didn’t the relationships last?
-I was bored with them. They had nothing to offer me intellectually or emotionally. They only fulfilled a social need. Harriette was no intellectual, but she sure had a heart. She satisfied me emotionally plus you what.
-I think I know what you meant, but let’s not go there. This is a family publication.
-Is that so?
-Can we talk about Laura? Who is she? She appeared a lot in your earlier writings, but not lately. What happened?
-She was my incubus for a long time. Thirty-three long years. I finally got rid of her in 2005. She has not got into my dreams since. There was a time, especially during the third and final year of the relationship, I thought the world of her. I could have died for her. I loved her that much. I thought she was a better human being than I was. I also thought she loved me. But I was wrong on both counts. She was simply more intelligent than I was and came from a family that had some more money than mine did. That was all. If I ran into her today, I wouldn’t even look at her. To me, she was already dead. Dead in my heart. Indifference is a sign of death of love. In a way, she and Anita shaped me into who I am today.
-Who is Anita? Anita Ekberg?
-Don’t be silly. Anita Pasado, that’s who. A ghost in the past. Because of her, I’ve tried to improve my mind and body. A long, sad story. I can either talk about her for days or I just clam up. I prefer to not talk about her now.
-Do you like sex?
-I thought you told me you worked for a family publication.
-Yes, but you still can talk about sex in a sanitized, dignified, not salacious fashion, can’t you? A man’s sexuality says a lot about himself, psychologically speaking. I was sent over here to interview you because you are a very interesting man. You have been arousing, no pun intended, a lot of interest in you. Our readers want to know everything about you. So would you answer the question, please. Do you like sex?
-What kind of question is that? Of course I like it, but not as much as my women would like me to do. I find it boring after a while, not counting dirty and inconvenient and tiring. Sex is only beautiful if there is love involved. And I realized that the women didn’t really love me. They loved themselves. They used me as a tool to love themselves. So I guess that was one of the reasons why the relationships didn’t last. Harriette did love me, however. With the totality of her heart. May she rest in peace. I miss her terribly. Why did she have to die before I do?
-Do you lie?
-Another interesting question. Of course, I do, only when I have to (chuckling). I don’t make a career out of it as some, scratch that, as most people do. I am generally a forthright, honest person. I want people to accept me and love me on the basis of who I really am, not who I pretend to be. In my writings, however, I’ve taken a lot of poetic license. I let my imagination and wishful thinking run wild.
-It seems to us you are awfully proud of your writings though you have not gathered them in book form and publish them. Why not?
-Because I am a coward who has no faith and confidence in his abilities. Most of what I have written are trash. Only a few poems of mine may endure.
-You are tackling Wittgenstein, a very tough row to hoe. Why?
-I approach philosophy in an amateur, dilettante sort of way. I pick up a bit of wisdom here and there so I can feel good about myself. Wittgenstein and Nietzsche are the only two philosophers I am trying to digest. I have tried to understand Wittgenstein for a long time, but made no serious efforts until now. Wittgenstein talked about the death of philosophy as traditionally conceived. He talked about language. The two areas interest me,
-You come across as angry, immature, old man. Why?
-I don’t know. That’s who I am, I guess (chuckling). I have ego. I have pride. I cannot stand people who are ignorant and stupid but think they are well-informed and smart. I just cannot stand them. Those people have no intellectual courage. They are poseurs and liars and cheaters. I am not.
-Does anybody love you right now, given that Harriette is dead and buried and gone for over a year now?
-Yes, besides my wife, there is at least one, but she does not really understand me, so there are problems. There’s another one that’s piqued my interest, but there are vastly complicating factors involved so I ruled that one out, too. And then there’s another woman living far away who’s taken a keen interest in me, but she appears to be a very bad cheapskate, much worse than me, so that won’t fly. I have enough money to last me until I die, but I won’t share it with cheapskate women. I would share it with fair-minded women, though.
-Are you a happy man?
-Much better than I used to. I don’t think of suicide and homicide much anymore.
-Why is there obsession with violence?
-Because I am a violent guy. That’s how my brain is constituted. But I am also capable of gentleness and compassion and love. The woman in Florida named Sassy knows that. I am trying to write violence away. It’s working, albeit slowly.
-Thank you very much for your time, Mr. Wissai. I am sure, no, I hope that the readers will find this interview interesting.
-Listen, are you free next week? Would you like to have dinner with me sometime?
-I am sorry. I can’t. I am a lesbian.
-I thought so (chuckling) but I wanted to make sure. Please allow me to ride the elevator with you down to the street. May I do that? It’s been splendid talking with you.
Three weeks later, Leslie Lovely, the strange, weird, sharp-tongued journalist who worked for a “family publication” called me back and begged for another interview. This time, she said her employer would offer me some financial incentive. Naturally, I asked her what the financial incentive entailed. An eight-day first class cruise for two around the Society Islands, airfare included, or $13,000 in cash, she informed me. I gave her the routing and checking number of my bank account.
She showed up, doll-like, with tasteful make-up—slight rouge, almost indiscernible eyeshadow; with a low-cut white blouse, sporting a jade pendant between two nice pyramids topped by perky, pointed nipples, hardly covered by sheer white bra; and stylish jeans on top of expensive-looking shoes, enhancing her statuesque shapely figure and height of around 5’8″. She dressed as if she went for an informal date with an artist. I liked what I saw on her, but I didn’t dispense any flattering remark after giving her a quick-over with my appraising look and sporting a most friendly smile on my still drop dead gorgeous, chiseled face.
I offered her a choice of tea and biscuits or wine with an assortment of nuts. She opted for the latter. It was Thanksgiving eve. Dinner time. I didn’t invite her to dinner. I never gave a woman an opportunity twice. She didn’t say anything about the view of the city this time. Lights were already all over town. A big globe of full moon was on the rise over the mountains in the west. Instead, she asked me if it was okay to look at the books on my bookcase which was lined up against the wall in the living room.
-You sure have a lot of interesting books. You read all those?
-No, they are for show.
-I thought so.
-Leslie, I don’t really care what you think. Are you here to talk about me or about you?
-What’s eating you? You sure are not friendly this evening. What’s wrong, honey?
-Don’t “honey” me, please. So are we proceeding with the interview or you’re preferring with chitchat over sweet nothings?
-Okay, Mr. Wissai. Please tell our readers in ten words who you really are. They want to know. And I want to know, too. I’ve been intrigued.
-Poet-philosopher-writer-hunter-poker player who loves taking risks.
-Elaborate, amplify, elucidate, clarify, please.
-Look, after being able to put food on the table, I’m not interested in hoarding money for rainy days. I’m not terribly intelligent. I know that. Everybody knows that. But I am always attracted to the idea that I am different than most, better than many. My ideas are different. My values are different, maybe even better. Very few humans impress me. I look at my fellow men and I see mostly loud-mouthed monkeys, neurotic chimps, and defective, stupid, greedy, lying humans. I don’t want to be like them. I can be like them, but I don’t want to. That’s the difference between me and most human beings on this planet. You can write that down and take it to the bank. So I read, trying to know who I am and what was out there beyond the noise and the din. I wanted to write poems for a long time, but I couldn’t because I was stupidly bogged down by rhyme and meter and all that shit. Then one day about 15 years ago, I got a breakthrough. I ignored all the rules. I just concentrated on the rhythm. And I have not looked back since. About being a hunter, any moron can be a farmer. All you need to do is to follow the rules and the weather and the politics and you survive until retirement. Then you really start to live. For many it’s too late. Most monkeys are proud of that regimen, however, at least outwardly. They skimp and save for rainy days while their life is slipping away from them. I could not be a farmer, not for long. I have a temperament of a nomadic hunter. I hunt dangerous carnivorous beasts, besides easy herbivores. I feel alive when I hunt. I feel a rush of adrenaline when my life is in danger and a calming, satisfying feeling of triumph when I bag a prey and carry it back to my tent. Hunters usually don’t have a respect for farmers, for easy, safe living. I am not rich, but I am not starving either. You can see that.
-Yes, I can see that. Like I said last time, you seem to do all right.
-Let’s talk about love. It features predominantly in your writings.
-What’s there to talk about? I wrote about love but I don’t believe in it anymore, after being mistreated by whores and douche bags. I don’t know women. I gave an impression, even bragged, that I knew women, but I didn’t. I still do not.
-Do you love any women right now?
-Are you kidding me? Are you hard of hearing?
-Nothing’s wrong. It is what it is. I don’t believe in love anymore. No women love me. And I love no women. That’s fair. That’s an equation.
-Are you feeling lonely then? (Leslie gave me a seductive smile. She bent forward, fingering her pendant, watching my reaction. Her pyramids were in full view. The nipples were fully erect and inviting. I leaned back, giving a sigh)
-I am too tired from hunting to feel lonely, too disillusioned and angry to feel horny. In fact, I feel like killing some woman, maybe two or three right now.
-Really? How exciting! Do you really? Or just a thought, an idle thought, and not really an obsession?
-As I told you the last time, killing is not hard at all. It’s dealing with the aftermath, that’s hard.
-Are you prepared to deal with the aftermath?
-I don’t know yet. But right now, I don’t give a shit about love and loneliness. I just don’t.
-Mr. Wissai, honey, yes, I am calling you honey, please allow me. Tell me what’s going on. Can I help? I really mean that. Fuck! Can’t you see I am being sincere here? I didn’t tell you it was I who badgered my boss into going back and getting another interview with you.
-Leslie (I was sighing, once more. I looked away, at the moon now high above the mountain. I could see the snow on the mountain summit reflecting the moonlight. It was quite a lovely sight), certain realities just dawned on me. A midget bitch called me names. I was suppressing the anger. Now it’s rebelling, demanding me take immediate action. I told it to wait, telling it that in hunting you must learn to wait for the right time to strike and that you must maintain silence. You don’t want to alert and scare the prey away. Talks and threats are cheap.
-Roberto, I hope you don’t mind if I call you you by your first name. You’ve been calling me Leslie. It’s only fair, right? All what you just said excited me beyond measure. Do you know that? Nobody has talked like that to me. Nobody. You’re the first one. I smell blood. I smell passion. I smell pain and anger. Deadly combustion. The result is either jail time, even death or “great literary works”‘(sic!) in the waiting. Of course, I want literary works, not a mundane court trial, then long prison term. That would be too boring, too predictable, deep down, although it looks exciting at first, ratings would go up. I would profit tremendously. I could write a book about you. No, honey, you are too good for any bitch. You don’t have to stoop down to their level. About the midget bitch, she is not worth your trouble. She is scum. She is human trash. A cheap parasite. She is not even self-supporting. She is living on charity. And yet she has the stupidity to be proud of herself. Of what? She can’t fuck, can’t cook, can’t read, can’t understand what’s the fuck going on with the world because she’s half-assed literate. She should just roll over and die like a little bug that she is. I understand you were lonely at one time and she was your plaything for a while. But you are okay now. You have money again, health, good looks, and talents. Forget the bitch. Let’s go to the gym and work out. I lied to you the last time I was here. I am no lesbian. I am a full-blooded heterosexual woman. I like you a lot. In time, you will like me. I guarantee you that. Don’t be shy. Let’s go. But first, I need to go to the bathroom. Honey, please show me where it is.
When Leslie came back from the sojourn in the bathroom (she stayed there for a long time, at least half an hour. I didn’t know what the fuck she did in there. Either she had a very bad case of constipation or she was playing game, testing me if I became impatient and then knocked on the door, asking what the hell was going on. I didn’t do anything. I stayed fixed in the living from, “thinking”. She could have dropped dead in there for all I cared. I was in my violent misogynistic mood), she was surprised that I just looked at her with my eyebrows raised. She sheepishly smiled. I silently pointed to the chair, indicating that I was not in any mood to go anywhere. Not yet. Then I opened my mouth,
-I was thinking of what you had said about the midget bitch. Her name is Lund, by the way. That’s my nick for her, very pregnant and gravid with meanng. Look it up. You must be a linguist, well versed in many languages, to know what it means. The other nick I have for her is VAW. Exotic, but mundane. If you can figure what that means, that would make my day. Anyway Lund/VAW Is just a very stupid bitch. She didn’t understand me at all. She thought she would make me angry and mad with her fucking cheap insults. She didn’t know by doing so she travelled into a fucking dangerous terrain. Everything looked so fucking clear in hindsight. She was kicked out of an association of exiles. She quarreled with her neighbor, screaming bloody murder at the top of her voice in the dead of the night, waking the whole fucking neighborhood up. Her neighbors called the cops. They and the ambulance arrived, sirens blared off, the whole fucking scene of mayhem and black comedy. She held a lowly job which paid barely above minimum wage. She has no job now. Who the fuck would want to hire her? One must be stupid and crazy to hire her. The woman is a ticking time bomb of troubles and annoyance. She speaks broken English. She does not know shit about anything, except sitting on her ass all day watching TV. She is living on the kindness of humanity. Her relatives disowned her because she quarreled with them. She quarreled with everybody. She is a fucking parasite, and yet she had the gall to criticize me for being a lousy lay in bed, and of my erratic income for being a hunter! I am self-supporting. I don’t live on handouts as she does. I play the stock market. I am into consulting. I make money in poker. I am financially independent. I have money to travel, to go anywhere in the world at the drop of a hat. Lucky for me, I didn’t show her what I had in the bank, otherwise I would be more upset now. I didn’t want to tell her that I was a stud in bed with Harriette out of the kindness my heart. I didn’t want to tell her I performed poorly in bed with her because she had a lousy, unsexy body and she didn’t know how to excite a man (At that time, Leslie interjected, saying, “I do! I do!”, I smiled warmly at her). I’m telling you, she is a walking defnition of failure in every sense of the word. Her ex-husband beat her, chasing her all around the neighborhood. She had to take refuge in a neighbor’s house. She is a midget but has a very big mouth. She was full of Midget Complex. You no doubt wondered why the fuck I went out with her. She chased after me, not the other way around. I am a man. I want to experience life, high and low. As simple as that. Anyway, I’m tired of talking about the bitch. Let’s go. You said you like me, heh? I have that effect on women. Don’t be so bitchy and tart-tongued, all right? I am in no mood for that. I want to relax, taking things easy.
We went to the gym and then to a Thai restaurant called Lotus of Siam and had a grand time. She picked up the tab on her expense account. We talked just about everything under the sun. With Leslie, I felt free and uninhibited in thoughts and language. I didn’t have to watch out for the social “etiquette”. I just had to be myself and I was.
Amedeo Modigliani. Nude Sdraiato [cropped]
We dated on and off for six months. We fought and made up and fought again. Then she wanted me to spend time with her and her friends in Tahiti on a vacation. I declined, saying that I didn’t feel like “bourgeois” enough. From Tahiti, she send me two poems two days apart.
Sea of Love
Dost thou ever remember once I told thee
When I first saw thee, I felt like swimming in a sea
Of love. Thou just smiled that sweet smile of yours
And said nothing. Well, I’m having that feeling once more.
A guy just swam by and my memory is triggered.
He looked so much like thee and I remember
How I felt like floating in a sea of love by thy side
Little did I know that all thou did was to make me cry
Where art thou now, the man of my past?
I’m swimming in a sea near Tahiti and my sadness suddenly is vast.
The sea I’m swimming is not the sea of love at all
Rather, it’s the sea of loneliness I often feel when walking in a mall
One of these days thou wilt die
One of these days thou wilt die
Maybe the one to go first is me
If that’s the case, would thou cry?
And ever wonder why I loved thee?
But if thou goest before I do
Without ever saying thou lovest me, too
Forever and ever I would rue
Well, the one who “went first” was her, I sadly report. Her return plane went down as it approached Los Angeles. All on board perished. I was stunned. First Harriette, then Anita, and now Leslie. I must have the touch of Death. All the women who really cared and loved me died not too long after they had confessed their affection for me. Now I feel like I am being jinxed and hexed. I am afraid to go on a date and to fall in love……