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.


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 min

Outrunning The Reaper

Outrunning The Reaper The concept of aging intimidates me.  I wont say it scares me, because I feel that I've done the very best I can at retarding, delaying, and combatting it.  My training, which in the past prioritized hypertrophy and strength, misapplied in a hilariously misinformed fashion, has altered severely.  When I first got to Hawaii in 2017, I experimented with the idea of adopting EMOM (Every Minute On the Minute) training, a methodology I'd learned from studying Crossfit.  At that point I was doing 5 sets of Freestanding Handstand Pushups a day, with each set's repetitions decreasing incrimentally, following the Recon Ron Pullup Program.  It's available for free online, and a simple Google Image search will allow one to locate the entire workout.  I would sometimes do it twice a day, and before I stopped it, I was doing around 77 Handstand Pushups a session.  Back then I fancied myself a badass for completing such a "large" amount of volume in 1

Candlelight

Candlelight I've often been asked why I haven't written a novel yet, or even a short story on its own, let alone a collection of them.  While I've written enough poetry to fill several reams of factory fresh printer paper, and my prose on this very site could be collected, condensed, and categorized into an efficient little e-book, I simply cant find the motivation to write something that lengthy.  Stephen King once said in an interview that the secret to his prolific literary output was to, simply, write.  He sits at his desk every morning, puts his hands on his keyboard, and let's his fingers dance and twirl until 2000 words are peering back at him from the soft glow of his monitor.  I certainly admire such ardent consistency, and do actually apply it in my private writing, namely my journaling. But when books to be sold for mass consumption and profit are called into question, I suffer the inevitable bout of writer's block that eventually plagues us all so stubbo