Skip to main content

Archetypes and Acolytes

The balmy air warmed my already ruddy cheeks. Sweat streamed down my clenched face, glistening in the nocturnal illumination. My heart pleaded with me to grant it a moments rest. Just when its plodding became unbearable and I nearly gave in, however, my spirit would seethe. Weakness was the original sin, conpletely unforgivable. I could slack off and stray, even claim to forsake. But to abandon, that offered no hope of absolution, no hint of repentance. Defiantly, my arms pumped and my thighs seized, flexing powerfully and catapulting me forward. I sprinted through the roughest sands these picturesque beaches had to offer me. The homeless, the vagrants, hobos and hippies were blurred until they were mere afterthoughts, cheering me on as I fought through my pain the only way I knew. Stubbornly carrying on while trapped firmly in fatigue's filthy clutches, I collapsed in the tide. The beauty of Hawaii is that it truly is paradise, not unlike my beloved San Diego. I reflected as I lay motionless in the wake, bathing in the tropical waters. How often had I situated myself on a bench just outside the Amphibious base on Coronado Island, praying fervently that my ears may capture a stray scream of exhiliration from a passing BUD/S class. I never tried, if only to keep certain promises born of love, never attempted that hellish audition into the ranks of the warrior elite for fear of death. But, why live if you never gamble a bit on a deeply rooted, passion infused dream? My watch chriped to life, and with it the memories were roused from their temporary trance. Not one to flee, I got up and began shadowboxing.

Ive long been attracted to the dark side of life, inoculated from birth by black and grey. My earliest memories of my Father are of Metallica blasting as he lifted weights. I recall fondly and inspirationally studying him in the oddly angled mirrors at Gold's. Deposited in the children's daycare area, the reflection was askew just enough for me to track his movements. At the age of 4, a bodybuilder, weightlifter, fighter and Man, were all I ever wanted to be. Iron infected me from those days forward, instilling within me a deep love and veneration for all things related to fitness. As I grew older and more perceptive, yet unjaded and not yet inculcated by the severity of the world, I witnessed the power of raw masculinity. In the 2nd grade, we were let out early from class. My exuberance was amplified as I thought of returning home and spending the remainder of my day and evening playing video games. I expected my Mother to arrive as she always did, but my assumptions were quickly surprised and subdued by growling rumble of a Harley Davidson. My friend's fathers arrived in minivans with narrow, pronated shoulders, sagging arms, and protruding stomachs that brought to mind the beginning stages of pregnancy. When my Dad rolled up, everybody stopped. My pride could hardly be contained as he stepped off of his steel horse, shoulders vast and arms imposing. As we were readying ourselves to depart, I felt like a Prince being escorted by the King himself, the awe of the other boys and jealous, quiet shame of the pathetic "men" surrounding us palpable and amusing. I revisit these moments occasionally, and as I catch my reflection peering back at me, I can only hope Ive impressed that 7 year old. I love you Dad.

I recently discovered a Men's Fashion blog that, despite the effeminite connotations of its subject matter, manages to be both inspirational and relevant. The author splits all of Men's Fashion into a microcosm, neat, simple and efficient. You are either Rugged, Refined, or Rakish. According to these standards, I am Rugged. Timberland boots, worn, weathered Levi's 511's, a black t-shirt and a black hat. Field stripped, capable and imposing. Men that lean towards this style often rely on their physiques to carry them through, hence the relatively elementary bold colors and general monochromatic hue. The rule of thumb seems to be that it has to be comfortable enough to throw a punch in. Works for me. Refined is what all men desire to be. These Men wear suits, the Hugo Boss variety, not the Wal-Mart knock offs. As with the Rugged faction, the clothes, while essential, are worthless without the core. This time, rather than impressive muscularity, that base is affluence, steeped in wordliness and class. A wealthy man reeks of confidence and privilege, attuned to the moment because he knows he is in complete control. In the Brotherhood of the Wolf, we seek to become this archetype. One day soon, God willing. Rakish Men, which we all were admittedly, mostly in high school, garb themselves eccentrically, outlandishly and garishly. Many men would say they look like faggots, and the ironic part is that they wouldn't be wrong. Black eyeliner, velvet, loose, flowing, billowy dress shirts, and androgyny are the key here. Yet, like the social dynamics version of Lombard's Paradox, these men get laid reliably and absurdly. Any astute student of the Venusian Arts knows that flirting with effeminacy in terms of style can be like gas to an open flame in the hands of an experienced seducer. Do it right and youre a 16th century Venician gentleman wooing an amply endowed courtesan, Giacomo Casanova himself, reborn and ready. Overdo it and youre the overweight, awkward, stubble faced tranny eschewed and ostracized by all, even the denizens of San Francisco. Happy hunting.

For my birthday Im secluding myself in luxury down island, probably in Waikiki. Im going to spend exorbitantly, lounging in a bath before strolling down to any one of this island's fantastic restaurants for my evening meal. Ill enjoy a glass of tea while watching the sun sinkly deftly behind the Heavenly horizon, cradled gently by the fading line of a crystalline ocean. Ill write, Ill flirt, Ill court and Ill slay. For that one night Ill be an aristocrat, enjoying the spoils of my money's labor in the world's markets. After the moon rises and settles in for its shift, Ill retire to my room and read, write and play guitar. Ill reignite my fervor for the arts and carry it with me for another year. In the morning Ill awaken, pack and drive. The world awaits, and although business never rests and the wicked never relax, Ill smile and wink at the sky, for Id known perfection for a day.

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