Heavy Topics

Well it appears I rather overestimated my stamina.

I set out three days ago to begin a daily publishing regimen, and the effort immediately fell flat.
I am writing this now completely sober.
I hadn't realized until right this instant how much I rely on alcohol to limber my fingers and loosen my tongue.
I am not dependent on it, per se, but a glass of wine certainly serves as a reassuring prop. I feel contempt for people who can only exercise or run with music. This past St. Patrick's Day Road Race a healthy percentage of the runners were pumping along with iPod earbuds in place, oblivious to their surroundings. I appreciate the advantage the right music can give you, increasing, as it does, heart rate and thus blood flow. Still, one of the appeals of racing is the crowd. One wishes -- at least this one wishes -- to interact with one's fellow racers on a tangible, primal level. One wants to hear their ragged breath, see the sweat glistening on their shoulders and foreheads. One wished to be aware of the event as it happens. Music detracts from this. I have an advantage, as a trail runner. Music is discouraged and occasionally forbidden on the trail runs. The terrain is so treacherous and the tracks so narrow that any distractions are hazardous for oneself and others. As such, I am well used to trotting along with only the sounds of the forest and of my own blood pounding in my ears.
Anyway, I express disdain for those who use music as a crutch while running, and yet stumble myself at writing when the security blanket of booze is taken away. the ol' focusing on the mote in mine neighbor's eye and ignoring the beam in mine own chesnut.

Nevertheless, wine-less, I proceed.

I have a curious view of human weakness. I recognize, as a humanist, that it is a necessary part of existence, but that it must be fought with diligence and ferocity -- the fight is of course another part of human existence. And, in a less abstract, more pragmatic way, I feel human weakness -- and I mean intellectual, physical, and emotional, must be overcome in order for us to move ahead as a species.
Still, a significant part of me rejoices at stupidity or obesity, because it means I am smarter and stronger by comparison. I realize this is near-sighted and selfish to the point of insanity, but it is quantifiably true.

Now, sequing rather roughly, I have no real problem with most fat people. I was fat for most of my life. I still have weight issues. I appreciate more than most just how hard it is to get into shape and stay that way. And the more full-figured look is appropriate for some people. My employer is overweight -- has been, if high school yearbook photos are to be trusted, for his whole adult life. But he carries it well. His body type accomodates the poundage gracefully and his personality matches his physicality.
Women, in my opinion, look good fuller figures. I, as an active individual, am most attracted in a joint sexual/emotional way to women who are fit, toned, and tight as steel cables. But I find the Rubenesque ladies appealing in a general way. The female form is designed to be soft and curvy.
But! I despise fat people who should not be fat, who are overweight in an awkward, unbalanced way. And I especially hate people who are fat and don't care. I'm not sure why this should be. If a person is happy, or at least unconcerned, with who they are, why should that bother me? I feel it is two-fold. Recalling the above musings, I am angered that human being would not want to better him- or herself, for the good of humanity. But, deeper and more insidious than that, I am angered that a person could be happy being overweight when I spend so much of my time and energy struggling to be sleek and sexy. I am in decent physical condition, in terms of pure capability. I have known individuals with bulging gym-toned muscles unable to finish a day of manual labor or complete a short hike. Likewise I have known people of average, even chubby or seemingly frail physiques to possess hidden depths of physical strength. And, apart from being physically capable, my body is not unpleasant to look upon. But I still worry over it. I stand in front of the mirror every day scrutinizing my body, thinking about how it could be improved upon. I am careful with my diet. I hit the gym as often as I can.
Now, don't fret about my sanity. I don't have an eating disorder. I do not obsess about my body. I am aware of it, though, as we all are of our bodies. It upsets me to think that some people can be at home with slovenly, pudgy bodies. I feel like I might be wasting my time exercising.


Not a terrible day, all things considered.
I ate a tasty breakfast, visited the health club, and made my way to work, where I assembled the patio. I did much of the heavy lifting m'self, as is my wont, and then performed the busy work with erstwhile restaurant manager Ed. He and I agreed the patio set-up gets worse every year. We feel as though we're trapped in some weird existentialist play. Two characters, a tedious task, actions with amount to nothing in pursuit of ill-defined goals, as subject to the whim of a capricious off-stage presence. My afternoon from one until three seemed to have been written by Samuel Beckett.


Afterwards I rode my bike to Open Square and engaged in some Restorative Yoga, or, as I call it, "Napping in awkward positions with props."

Now I'm watching vintage X-Files, digesting steak and salad, and plodding away on this blog.

I believe I'll call it a night for now, though. As Estragon would say, there's nothing to be done.

So first of all, a message to my audience:

Suck a bag of dicks.


I humbly appeal to your humanity and ask that you comment just to let me know who you are, and not only are there no comments, there are clearly more viewers of these posts.
This means that people read the request and gleefully ignored it.
I suppose that the viewer tally on my blogger page might be a glitch on the site, and no one is reading this, and I'm railing against the ether.


Anyway . . . I plan to update every day.

Starting today.

I was going to skip it, as I feel tired. And not the "I-had-a-good-day-and-am-worn-out" tired. Just the lethargic, unproductive, drunken tired I usually experience.

But here I am.

Also difficult: there is but one subject on my mind. More or less constantly. Every day.
And she might be one of the silent followers of this journal.

So I sit here sipping wine by candlelight, watching Louis C.K. stand-up with half-lidded eyes, waiting for my deviant porn to load so I can go into my bedroom and masturbate,

I do appreciate how enticing my skin appears in the flickering glow of the candle. I wish someone were here to share the ambiance with me.
I have never made love in total darkness. I actually prefer it rather bright. But the amber radiance of candlelight is undeniably romantic.

Ouch

I have begun attempting to correct my running stride. When walking I tend to plod about rather duck-footed. This no doubt detracts from my posture while galloping. I am also in the habit of clomping down heel-toe. Such movement results in shin-splints and negligible development of my gastrocneimus, tibalis anterior, and soleus (the calf muscles, or so an anatomy-savvy aquaintance would have me believe.)
And thus, during two consecutive nights of running I have worked on longer, lighter strides, landing, as the Tarahumara advocate, on the balls of my feet.
I must admit I feel the potential power such a shift in ergonomics promises. Still, my legs feel as though they've been punctured by blunt knives. I stumbled and nearly fell whilst mounting my front steps -- no foolin'. And I cursed myself on the choice of second-story unit as I ascended the fifteen stairs to my apartment.
I anticipate spending the next few days hobbling about like Tiny Tim (the Dickens character, not the tip-toeing through the tulips ukulele virtuoso, if there was any ambiguity.)

Also, OUCH because I was under the impression that no one visits this any more. I return from my five-month hiatus with some deeply emotional introspection, assuming that it would go unnoticed. Much to my chagrin the post has garnered fifteen views! That's a lot for me. And all in one day! Is there some vast audience of which I was unaware? Or is one person just re-reading this? You know who you are. Call me later.
Anyway, how about a heads-up, people?
Who's out there?

It's not your fault

Tonight I exhausted myself with a lengthy, wild, sweat-soaked work-out. My limbs are now sore and heavy, my eyelids droop. (The tequila I've imbibed does not help stir me out of lethargy.)
I began with a feverish run -- a short distance, only three and a half miles, at a minor incline.
I've read novels in which characters remedy their angst or sorrow through exercise. They bury their emotional pain beneath pain more physical. I've never been able to do that, myself. So much of my ability to exert myself physically lies in my psychological state that I've always been more or less hamstrung by emotional distress.
Not tonight, though.
As I ran, the raucous music blaring insistently in my ears, I focused on the center of my emotional distress; I focused on her. I did not work through the problem, trying to reach some zen-like acceptance of my fate or see my way to a solution. Instead, I ran into my distress. I let it surround me, infuse me, body and soul. I am reminded now, looking back, of a comic book. In it, Superman, needing to heal, to recharge, to increase his powers, flies straight through the sun itself. It is a ludicrous plot conceit, even for comic books, but an apt comparison, nonetheless.
I devoted my every feeling, every breath to thoughts of her -- her smile, her eyes, her scent. Her body, tight yet supple. The graceful lines of her clavicle and the flawless swoop of her lower back. I thought about resting a hand there as I drew her close, pressing myself against her.

 The music rang, Awolnation's Not Your Fault.
"And baby when I'm yellin' at you, it's not your fault, it's not your fault."
I cranked the speed to eight miles an hour.
"'Cause baby I am crazy for you; it's not your fault, it's not your fault."
To nine miles an hour.
"And maybe I'm a little confused, it's not your fault, it's not your fault."
Ten.
"But baby that's some wonderful news. It's not your fault, it's not your fault.
And oh, it's not that you should care; I just wanted you to know."

Even in the delirious heat of the sprint I smiled. She can hardly be held accountable for being perfect, can she?