kim.southisms.com » Fiction

Protected: Taning (rough)

Kim — Fri, 26 Mar 2010 06:05:58 +0000

Philosophy of the Sociopath

Kim — Fri, 11 Sep 2009 09:35:56 +0000

She was at the most confused state of her existentialist grappling: reaching the point of having won her desires and then being faced with the absurdity of perpetual dissatisfaction. Though it remains true that being controlled had caused great misery to our heroine – who constantly sought for a semblance of freedom from expectation – she was overwhelmed by the implications of receiving no expectations at all now that it was granted. It was beginning to appear that there is some endlessness to being imbibed into yet another culture, another system, another pitfall of modern banality. And now there is nothing expected of her, and then she waits – but must she wait? What becomes of a person with no undertaking, no miserable struggle? Does one wait for the next task at hand that makes the next demand? That you must eat? That you must work? That you must find bliss? Can there never be a moment throughout life that remains motionless? Tell why is there a voice in one’s head that says: something must be done.

The absurdity ensues.

She has spent a great deal of time thinking about what she had done wrong. And that maybe, Freud was a considerate enough man to have thought that one is destined to do what they do, for one is not their own shaper. For if that was the case, and then whatever that was done whether of sound judgment or not, has been pinned down by a most powerful unconscious. There is nothing gorgeous about isolation and desertion – but how is it humanly possible to cause others to leave? Everyday there are people who are called fuck-ups for that reason. (Makes you wonder what their childhood was like). Try to open your mind to the possibility that they are not their own fault. Ask: why are there persons who are condemned? Why punished? Why are they carted away to incarceration, as far away as possible from the “normal”? Truth be told, normal people are as mad and as vicious and as poor as their own complacency. There is no such thing as impalpable madness, only personal history.

Please read this woman right.

This woman I am writing about; this woman who has done so much of nothing to deserve so much of nothing. She is the heroine but she is the heroine of a tragedy. Her personality and resolve is triumphant but not her deeds or the result of them. Do we really want a hero that has done so many things so easily and have taken the certain steps that were recommended to get to that point? What’s the point of this? To finally get there. Wherever that might be. The woman asks herself that if her world view has been distorted and has been cruelly reduced to a vague and impractical lifestyle, why does she speak as though she gripped her words, nursed them in her mind for so long and uttered them with so much affection and certainty. Is that not the sign of clarity? For the person who is mad, everything appears to be clear and full of eccentric meanings that they fully assert. The half-wits, the safeties, the squares, the planned futures, and the comfortable – they don’t sound at all like they’ve understood. Because why else do they categorically call the impractical, the clochards, the sloths, the gays, the drop outs, the criminals, and the marginalized as misunderstood? Yes, misunderstanding exists. But the problem is on how to respond to it. Do you confront misunderstanding by showing no interest or no compassion? The assumption that a person can be a cut above the other permits ignorance. On their part, they have failed to inspect close enough. They don’t really care.

So look.

Who do you think that woman is? Do you really know who she is or is there an assumption that you know her better than she thinks she knows? Have you spent more time thinking about her life than she has? Shall we count in hours? Shall we count in years? Shall we count at all?

One stopped flight

Kim — Tue, 11 Aug 2009 04:46:53 +0000

A Boeing 747 was flying across the East China Sea, from Tokyo’s Narita International Airport to Ninoy Aquino International Airport in Manila when one of the plane’s passengers begun to have a heart attack. Despite efforts to resuscitate her by a dermatologist who happened to be riding on the plane, Valerie Fukazawa gasped her last breathe just 45 miles shy of landing on the closest airport located at Hualien, a province at the eastern coast of Taiwan. Normally, when an onboard situation was over the plane would postpone its emergency stopover and fly back toward its original route so as not to further delay arrival at the intended destination, however, the fact that there was now a dead body on board made that option all too cumbersome and more complicated. Tower officers from Hualien advised the plane to pursue landing in order to convey the dead passenger to Taiwanese paramedics waiting at the airport. A request was made to the military hospital right across the street from the airport to temporarily store Valerie’s body at their morgue until further notice and the request was approved. Meanwhile, that evening the hospital head contacted the Filipino embassy to turn over the responsibility of determining where Valerie’s body ought to go. While investigating the circumstances of Valerie’s death, it came to the attention of the Philippine Embassy that she was a Japanese citizen holding a Filipino passport. Valerie is the widow of a well-known Japanese painter who had died in a car accident just two days after her naturalization was approved. Just a week more, she was supposed to have surrendered her Filipino passport and was supposed to have received signed documents declaring that she had given up her Filipino citizenship and was taking a Japanese citizenship exclusively. Her husband’s untimely death made her anxious to flee the country and the final procedure was never done despite the fact that she had already taken her oath. After Yusuke Fukuzawa’s burial, she hastily booked a flight to Manila, made reservations in a hotel, packed a few of her clothes into a suitcase and left the following morning. The day she left, she locked up her apartment in Shibuya and surrendered the key to the caretaker. It was beginning to look as though no one was fully informed of her departure. Her phone indicated that her last few calls were for the travel agency, a few hotels in Manila and an orphanage in Tokyo where she had been making anonymous donations to. With that, the investigation came to a halt when the officer handling the case felt that he needed to confer with his superiors before making the necessary arrangements, whether Valerie’s body ought to be sent back to Japan or to the Philippines. When word got to the Japanese embassy, the head of the consulate expressed his deep sympathy but was apprehensive to receive the dead body of a dead artists’ spouse who had no family waiting for her in Tokyo. The Japanese press got a hold of a tip of this peculiar incident and the story was run on the evening news.