Skip to main content

Happy New Year

So its the new year. Im happy, believe it or not. Not because of the nascent, gutless nonsense that seems to pervade the air around this time, definitely not that. To me at least, there was always a sense of shallowness to the New Year's declarations people uttered, as if the previous 365 days didnt offer ample time to pursue the hollow goals they had just paid lip-service to. "This is the year I'll lose 50 pounds!", the suburban, coddled wife or ex-athlete father shouts passionately to all within earshot. They stampede to the local gym vigorously, lobbing and propelling money into the greedy hands of eager owners. They throw themselves  into their new fitness routines thoroughly, pursuing and consuming all pertinent information with a studiousness that borders on academic. They are dedicated and devout, inspirational and insightful. For about a month. Then inevitably, motivation begins to wane and desire begins to trickle out the bottom of their spirits. "Im too tired at the end of the day", one may whine, "Im sore all the time. This just aint worth it.", another vomits. While this was always good news for me when I lifted weights in my hometown gym, I couldnt help but feel a type of malaise strike me as I beheld once virile, lively faces become drained of life and luster. Eyes cast downward, in singles and groups, they'd shuffle towards the doors, absconding until the bug bit them again next year. Not that they were missed much. With the onset of their absence, the gym was once again the dining hall of the demented, the battlefield of the barbarians, rusty iron glistening dully, familiarity soon overtaking our microcosmic atmosphere. The owners weren't exactly spasming with panic either. Many of the misguided idiots paid for a full year, which would go unoccupied and unused. While their flabby, weak bodies would continue to deteriorate, their money would be growing handsomely according to established dividends, watered astutely by the salivating maws of the GM's. Disgusting really, but a fact of life. If youre going to make a resolution, stick to it, well, resolutely, and see it through with a fervent stubborness that borders on masochism. Anything less is insulting, to yourself and those around you. Especially if youre hogging my squat rack. Asshole.

Im often asked what my goals are. To that question I usually respond with a vague nod to a general interest of mine. To bench more, do more handstand pushups, or make more money. However, as I grow older, physically anyway, I feel the need to define my path in life more precisely. As the designer of my future, I need to disregard the shotgun Ive carried for far too long in favor of a scalpel. Rather then blasting my way through the uncertain abyss of my mid to late twenties, chaotically and haphazardly, I must slice, cut and eschew the raw clay of my vision with surgical exactitude. I know who I am, what I desire and where I long to be. However, Im also self-aware enough to acknowledge my strengths and weaknesses in a realistic manner. I know the location and depths of my talents, now I just need to direction in which to point them, a worthwhile mission for which to deploy them. Until then, I will do as I always have done. I will continue to write unceasingly, read voraciously, and train my body animalistically. The 3 have always been my core, my edge against the all-consuming void constantly threatening to envelop us all. Even if I am treading dark waters as I enter the new year, I know I will be fine.

The beauty of the human experience is that we are all so uncompromisingly diverse. I am a writer by nature, a poet by design. I can weave a tapestry of literary magnificence with little more than a pen and paper. However, despite all of this talent, I cant draw a fucking stick figure. The fluency with which I produce letters and words that easily amalgamate into sentences and elongated paragraphs betrays me when I attempt to draw. Penmanship is art right? Letters are lines in the same sense that the rough sketch of a character is a series of lines, correct? Wrong you arrogant prick, fatally wrong. For artistic flourishes in all manner of colors across a variety of canvasses and mediums, you must seek my cousin. For fluidity of graceful, rhythmic motion, you must search for another cousin still. Another is gifted with preternatural medicinal abilities, the raw, inborn potential she possessed at birth moulded to perfection by study augmented with schooling, practice and experience. For all of my athletic competence, one of my kin in the South is built sturdily and imposingly, wielding a baseball bat as competently and furiously as John Henry once brandished his hammer. A whirlpool of eclectic competence in varied disciplines, and this is only in my family. Imagine the gifts the people of the world possess, the skills they can harness if they'd exercise a modicum of willpower to keep to their resolutions.

We all should be investing in ourselves first and foremost, paying homage to the greatness inherent in our souls, rather than neglecting our true passions in the quest for money. As a child I was exuberant and filled to the brim with nearly uncontainable hope. As I grew, however, the truth made itself apparent to me rather bluntly. Those in power dont need critical thinking, intelligent, physically fit people. They instead require somnambulent automatons who crave artifical stimulation. Material gain over familial love and ties, pornography and masturbation over powerfully bonding sex, and sugary, placating frankenfoods stuffed with empty calories rather than a thick, juicy cut of steak empowered by natural fats and beneficial cholestrol. Fuck all of that. Make this the year that you unshackle yourself from the tyranny of mediocrity. Pursue your passions, the things that make your heart sing. Lift weights, perform calisthenics and gymnastics, and sprint like the cheetah on the Savannah lusting after its prey. Go meet a fucking girl. Show the world who you are. Memento Mori.


Comments

Popular posts from this blog

4 Reasons Why I'll Be A Vagabond In 2 Years

4 Reasons Why I'll Be A Vagabond In 2 Years

As my parole date looms and I prepare to muster out of the service that's cradled me the entirety of my adult life, I face the future with an uneasy trepidation coupled with my characteristic combative nature.
I've heard every excuse, tempting me with bonuses and transparent promises regarding where I could live next, to tales of woe and agonizing regret, detailing the life of a miscreant that fleed from the Navy, expecting to flourish in the free world, no longer bound by the constraints of military life.
Eager and cherry, they're invariably met with a crippling reality, sprinting head first into a shallow pool of filthy water barely concealing jagged, dangerous rocks and craters.
I'll take my chances as I retake the reins of my life, though, even this far out, I know that my path will hardly be traditional, and will probably offend some traditionally and civically minded elders.
I plan to drift, languid but controlle…

The Desert

The Desert



Dry air in a normally humid climate is not conducive to a strong immune system. The shock is sudden and violent on an unseen level, I'm sure.

I never thought I'd suffer from stifling congestion and repetitious fits of coughing while stationed in Hawaii, but I was proven wrong recently.

As I pen this, my throat, though healed and no longer reacting in an incendiary manner when forced to swallow, is as arid and barren as the Mojave.

My chest is harboring a veritable barricade of mucus, and each pill I pop, in hues of rose red, ocean blue and grass green, chip away at bricks of the stubborn, phlegmatic stowaways.

My nose is on the brink of suicide, and breathing in coats each gust of air with a Welcome Aboard package of sandpaper and gravel.

In short, I'm fucked.

Yesterday I spent half the evening limping around wincing, my side cramped by an invisible knife, present and piercing, jostling with each aching step.

Save for a few meandering sets and reps performed to…

Nights At The Apollo

Nights At The Apollo




"Sit down, my boy.", he'd say relaxed, contentment and happiness spilling over in his tone like rain from a windowsill.

I'd settle in to a leather chair and watch as the sun disappeared behind a lavender horizon, winking at me brightly in various lively hues before absconding for the evening.

I'd observe him like a student before his master as he'd carefully select a CD from his well worn plastic attache case. It was a veritable armory of ageless music; Swing, Blues, both American Southern and Chicano, Jazz and Big Band.

My Grandfather played rhythm guitar in a band during his youth, wielding a Gibson ES335, its body ponderous and cherry red as a pin-up girl's lipstick.

He'd perform deftly, his fingers moving with the smooth choreography of a true professional. Eventually, the twin realities of career necessity and a burgeoning family brought an end to his strutting onstage, but he never relinquished his musicality.

That night, n…