And then at the end of the run I am exhausted

These are excellent ideas. I have noticed how much I enjoy watching the sport. A battle with fists is pure. Wrestling is pure. Martial arts. Mountain climbing. I can only imagine these things. The distance running is often too much for me, especially when surpassing the ten mile mark on a 16 mile run. I think of my limits, whether 10 is enough, why I can't just get away with 10 and not 16. Every run I rationalize. Last night after the sitting at the female office job, after the working on the billionaire's project, I somehow ran 8.4 in the dark and in the cold when no one else was there. I told myself I would run 11 miles, but at the end of the third lap my heart grew weary, a cumulative effect of lack of sleep, drinking, and desk sitting, and the 'stress' of putting together a new set of purchase accounting proforma financial statements for the billionaire's project several times a day. He is a man who has his project, and accountants account for his work. I am a scribe. I am scribe in a world of female CFOs and investment bankers. I have my own cube with my own garbage can. I print out photographs of shores of France and Oregon and my screen saver has the distant hills of the coffee covered Andes. I drink whiskey at night and speak to girls stoned. When my body is feeling physically well, women come to me magnetically. It is either easy and fun or I just want to go home. They can sense when I am on. We can interpret this "I should not have gone out last night" contention infinitely. We can erase the existence of the concept of regret and shame, we can say a man transcends these concepts in his greatness and his overcoming, and that only in weakness does he say such things. "No, you got what you wanted as you entered these bars weak and broken, physically and mentally weary and broken. You got exactly what you wanted. You destroyed your chance of racing in the morning and you did not race. This led you to not be distracted on a Saturday morning and to think. It led you to commit yourself to 15 miles. It led you to sit and think alone for the rest of a Saturday and not chase running girls. It allowed you not to win this morning, to hold the chinese-made piece of shit medal or trophy in your hand. It allowed you to buy that ticket to _____, where finally, in 2012, you will go and never return to the country, even for family cancer, even for the bitching and moaning of others."

When I am torn and exhausted and withered and without a hope of a project (as was the foul aura emitted last night), I have no energy, no magnetism, and I hopelessly chase after these worthless creatures. On Wednesday they wouldn't leave me alone as I ate Mexican food by myself at a bar. A girl came up to me with a cell phone and told me I resembled a professional poker player, no here's a better photo. She was a beautiful woman. The waitresses stalked me. They sensed I had a project worth destroying, and the prospect of my destruction was just too damn tantalizing for them to miss. They would risk or welcome pregnancy and heartbreak for the chance to ruin me. I wanted to be left alone. And in my lonely brokenness on a Friday night, just two days later, a night where I just wanted to sleep, I hit the streets with Chrome, exhausted, stoned, incapable of getting drunk. I had nothing to offer and the women sensed it.

In the end these creatures--this 'gender' (how humorous we use this innocuous word to distinguish them)--do not deserve me. In the end we 'get' nothing, there is nothing to 'have.' This is the great funny trick and joke of the matter. A man can't make himself into anything. He doesn't get what he wants because there is nothing to 'get.' You can't own or hold a 'personality,' an accomplishment, some creation. Nothing is there. The moan that the fat french man in WWII with his ontology was some speed-fueled sitter's paradise of transcendence. The fat and short man wrote the book and then said: "ha, look at that, no man can beat me at this game. Even the youthful and strong will obey this escapist ontology."

I have 15 miles to run. A man gets exactly what he wants because his goal is exhaustion and a destruction of all discursive thought in favor of a chemical feeling, a creation from the destruction of the body through distance running. A man gets exactly what he wants in that he will get nothing every time. A derrida play on words, that the secret is that there is no secret. No a man gets gets gets. A man gets, a woman just masticates the getting of the nothing of the having. A man doesn't even want to go into the ring with a woman. She follows him for a biological reason. He is trying to get what he wants, she is trying to insert herself in the middle, trying to tell him that she is either a) what he wants, b) part of what he wants, c) one of the many things he wants, d) part of the process of getting the thing he wants, e) a necessary condition in his enjoyment of the getting of the thing that he wants, d) a necessary condition for the enjoyment and understanding of the having of the thing that he wants.

Yes a man who spars in the ring all day does not have these thoughts. He gets what he wants, in that he has abandoned the pursuit of the getting. He is nothing. This is the overcoming, it is the overcoming of the getting and the having, the reflection on the joke of the 'existence' of the 'past.' This is what the short and fat and chain smoking frenchman figured out. It was a perfect realization for a worthless speed-popping sitter. Greatness is a terrible disappointment, he says, and the women love it--women cling to this ontology of destruction and pessimism. Sartre shows women why it is OK to kill greatness.

A woman may well be the only parasite who has learned a man's language and re-written his language under its own moral code. A brilliant aikido move of morality. Nietzsche focused on the master-slave distinction in morality. He looked at Christianity and Jesus and realized the brilliance of it all--it empowered the slaves, the suffering of the downtrodden. But man, if he had observed what the women were to do 70 or so years later--perhaps they were in the process of doing it--he would have realized that female codified morality is even a greater accomplishment than that of Christianity. Perhaps they stole the entire playbook from Christianity. Is this possible???

What is fascinating is how I am untroubled by the poor 'quality' of my 'writing.' It is akin to saying i am untroubled by the poor quality of my actions, as 'writing' is simply the accounting for the meaning of experience, and if a man's actions are worthless, his writing will be worthless, if his actions are worthless, he will have no insight into anything, especially the worthlessness of his actions. But a great man, if there ever is a great man, is always pushing himself at that last mile, he always hates himself, he is always pushing himself into that new abyss, he is always pushing himself into that new sphere of inconsolable loneliness and solitude, not because he 'wants' to be 'alone,' but because no one can come with him in his journey, no one. He wants to share with the world his experience, his battles, his creations, but it cannot, by its very nature, ever be shared. A great man's life is wretched and he will never find happiness as there is no getting or having. A great man gets nothing. A man, muted and transformed by a woman and her codes and tricks and ploys and disguises--a woman's favorite holiday is Halloween--will get what he wants. She will have slowed the speed of his spirit to the the point it no longer moves. It is at that point she whispers to him: You can have it.


On Thu, Oct 27, 2011 at 4:12 PM, Moraline the boxer wrote:
> this man came to these ideas through rigorous testing. putting a lone
> man into a boxing ring with another man is the best testing ground.
> putting him through all the training for a fight he sees things,
> elements of his character that express themselves. you can hide these
> things in the world of men and particularly in the world of women. but
> in the ring, at the moment of contact with the glove, you cannot hide
> your failings.
>
> mike tyson is a good example of this. he had a defect of character
> that was never corrected and eventually he was exposed. he was exposed
> in the ring. of course he and his apologists will blame his biting off
> Holyfield's ear on a reversion to street life or thugism or according
> to Tyson it was his response to Holyfield's repeated head butts to his
> forehead.
>
> the simple fact was Tyson was trying to escape the ring. he wanted
> out. all Tyson's prior opponents with the exception of Buster Douglas
> (who knocked him out) had laid down to Tyson, been totally
> intimidated. Holyfield stood up to him and Tyson was exposed. His ear
> biting was just an excuse to escape the ring, an excuse to escape the
> confrontation with the failing of his character. as d'amato would say,
> it was what Tyson intended to do all along.
>
> Boxing rather than philosophy or literature is a pure project. you
> cannot escape your failings. you are pushed to a place where the
> consequences are blood and tears and pain and maybe death.
>
> i dont give a fuck about any project that doesnt attempt to get to a
> similar place. any project that does not go as far as boxing can be
> weasled out of. every fucking philosopher or writer is a crybaby and
> maker of excuses: that is what his writing is. he uses writing to
> dodge an element of his character rather than confront it. he doesnt
> like the man he sees but doesnt have the nerve and guts and
> committment to the training that woudl change his character,
> strengthen its weak points.
>
> the purity of boxing is that it forces a man to see his weakness, and
> then asks him to train to overcome it. then finally you test yourself
> against another man in a ring. yes, it is not war or a street fight.
> it is a very controlled test with a referee and judges and a trainer
> who protects you and is there to assist you.
>
> cus d'amato was the greatest trainer who ever lived. nearly up there
> with him is percy cerutty who trained distance runners. however,
> boxing is a purer test of a man than distance running.still, in any
> sort of physical test where there are physical consequences, a man can
> learn of his character. if he intended all along to weasle his way out
> and find a way to secretly quit, then he will do so. if he intended
> all along to overcome, to never lose whatever the costs may be, then
> he will do so.
>
> the results of a man tested are determined long before the test. he
> does not learn in the ring how to undo something he could not undo
> during his training.


On Thu, Oct 27, 2011 at 1:53 PM Saint Maximin, a man among women, wrote:
Terrible quote. He meant to say the outcome is as good as the project. He
doesnt account for the genesis if the project.

On Oct 27, 2011 10:22 AM, Moraline of the lake and forest wrote:
"No matter what anyone says, no matter the excuse or explanation, whatever a person does in the end is what he intended to do all along."

Moraline's morning gift: rashaan roland kirk (commentary below)

"oh volunteered slavery, you don't know how it is to be free, you got
a spend all day in bed with me....." Shackles in the back
ground.......

Holy fucksake, this is up there with Danny Richmond with Mingus: "Why
are they so sick and ridiculous--Govenor Faubus fascist nazi
supreme!!!!!!!!"

Got a real Mingus big band feel to it--Jesus, as if it could be a
track on the same fucking album. Beatles---they break into Hey
Jude!!!!!!!!!!! Jesus, they are playing Hey Jude!!!!!!

Hard to listen to muu-sick anymore after being reminded of how good this shit is.

Plato, slices

Allison and Sasha were their names. Sasha was a Russian, Allison a redhead beaut--tall and thin and lithe, and she bought me a slice at 1 a.m. and then did what I normally do (she wandered off) and Sasha and I followed. The three of us spoke in Spanish the first part of the night (then in Russian-Bulgarian). This is because these girls go to South and Central America and live there--how dangerous, really, are these countries, when these girls go their in dresses and shorts and sandals? Hostels, their homes for their visits, are speed dating for fucking, and I don't blame them for the venue choice, because the feedback is immediate, the setting is quiet practical, and fucking is visceral--it gets way past that wobbly speaking movement which gets nobody nowhere.

My ears are ringing. God damn it my ears are ringing. I smoked a cigarette last night. Minor Threat serenaded these women. I say I can't write but now reading your work I realize why: what would I write about? How I can go to a bar, eat tacos, grab two girls, and wander and drink? That sounds like the soul-less march of Miami coke fiends. I'm not a coke fiend. I'll never be a coke fiend, unless it's with that yeh-yo flake you talk about. Maybe with that yeh-yo yellow flake golden ritual snort you speak about there Donnie.

Man, I trained with the guys that night too, but I chase these damn girls. Moraline saves the world, and I drive my Subaru each day to the deskjob and spend the fake currency on the booze that fuels the gatekeepers who let me in each night

God damn there captain your writing gets so many thinking about so many things. I mean my degeneracy is interesting, it can be good for a laugh or a read, but what the hell does it feel like to know your work is perennial? What a swagger it must give to a man. And you are with good people too, your family. Your trust them. They know you are progressing mankind singlehandedly in your basement. And I've been to that basement and can attest that it gives you no unfair advantage. Man, I should have gone home after the shot and the beers and the tacos, but I saw the redhead and her face melted the whole fucking place down, and I did what Chrome always did, I sat down and spoke as if I was continuing a long lost oral tradition.

I'm back now--that was my great and cleansing bowel movement of 7:42 a.m. Denver time. I do most of my work there, it's where I have a copy of the same damn books reading the same damn passages that get me nowhere, still on to fucking ontology when you've created a new way of accounting for the meaning of experience. What you've done here is injected this anthropology into the anemic discipline of the Frenchies and Krauts. Yeah, and you're taking on this culture like Miguel attacks the serpent, you know, the one from the bible. You are doing the work of so many men and so few men at the same time--so few men, because so few men really have affected world history--man, just think of Plato, just think if he had chosen to go to Park Tavern and go for late night slices instead of getting his work done? Man, think if he had to drive to work now. But she'll feel good when that long dress comes off. I don't think Plato ever felt that.

Moraline's "Corrida at Malaga"

I remember the ear as if it were my own, sliced by battle. I do not remember the lost years, but, but the living years. How you chased girls in Croatia, how you ran with bulls and then brought to Spain a true fan of the great battle and sport. Yes, your tail of sailing off a cliff in the desert of Spain, landing on thistles, concussion, broken ribs, covered in blood, slowly and painfully truing a wheel, a farmer giving you bandages, and sleeping in a room with a head injury alone for a week. How many meaningless years go by before we realize just a few memories are all that matter, but not a few memories but the journey that led to them, the courage to toss comfort into the bull fight and not only kill this soft comfort but to get it to fight back, to pierce it multiple times, to get it to bleed, to slice off comfort's ear, and to kill it with a clean sword, walk away, then journey to the next fight.

Climbing and friendship

Chrome had to teach me again what I had known when I was much younger, age 11. I was popular with 'women' then, and they wanted more from me than I could give. I was radical in my preteens only to be conservative in my teens--I had Robert Frost's advice backwards, or did I? I focused on my work later on, then found a good woman--but she and I suffocated--I in my failed chase of capital, and her as I dragged her through the wreck I became. Chrome helped me get through junior high again, and now with Moraline, high school.

Today it occurred to me that friendship and climbing are closely connected. The Lion had told me it would be easy from Ibague onwards. But today's climbing was brutal. All I wanted was a bus, or to be pulled by a bus as I had seen a boy up a mountain one day on his BMX. But I realized the Lion was trying to tell me I could do it, I could make it, that, while there was climbing, it wasn't a climb like Ibague, it would be something different, but no less transformative.

Rain hadn't yet been demoralizing on this journey, but rather a light, refreshign respite in the heat and short lived. "I am already from the mountains," I tell myself. "So there should be no surprises I cannot handle." But the rain today lasted a long time and was heavier and soon I was chilled.

It is not surprising that beauty can kill a man--we see this as men chase women. But more beautiful than a woman, is a mountain, its soft and sharp folds and peaks, its dense, moist interior where rivers rush hidden by lush vegetation, compel a man to climb and suffer and risk his life for the brief glimpse of the vantage point of its peaks before he sails down in the prize that is his parachute of effort.

And so it was that I found myself climbing nearly the whole day, the whole damn, day, when I had generously given myself until 3, I found myself finished at 5, a full day at the office. But my spirit was not dissipated or destroyed.

No, it would have been had I fallen short. I was despondent for most of the day, and each time I imagined a climb would, could not occur, it would occur, and they would raise the elevation each time. But the beauty I experienced, should it not kill me, is engrained in my soul like a tattoo drawn under great sobriety.

What had the King led me to? He led me to Juan, who, on a remote mountainous pass, was there as I ran out of gas, despondent, with 20 miles (out of 62) to go. I ordered his mother's cheese that she makes with the cows that graze on the mountain sides. I ordered a Pony, a malt coca cola. There, in his mother's small home off the road, I ate the fresh creamy cheese. Juan brought out his flute, a Bolivian flute, and began to play. He said in Spanish: "I'm sort of a hippie, you see, my tattoo on my shoulder is of the ancient ruins you will see in San Agustin--a hallucinogenic mushroom as well, and then the moon. Do you know there are other doors of perception, you know the ancient race that we know nearly nothing about in San Agustin had access to these doors of perception, they had access to the cosmos, to other dimensions, they used gold for their art and not for commerce. I like to smoke pot, you know. Maybe you could send me some Jack Daniels when you get back to the States."

His flute was an ancient and indigenous sound, as was his ethnicity. I was at great peace talking with Juan, soaking wet and previously despondent in my bitter climb that was supposed to have been "totalmente plano e directo." But I knew why the Lion had sent me here. I know why Ernesto told me I had an open heart and I would attract others of the same kind.

The rain and the climbing did not end when I left Juan. But I made it by 5 before the sun went down. I found a nice hotel in Garzon, hit the market, then a local food joint for a 4.000 dinner, all inclusive, and then the fattest cheese arrepa I have every seen for 1.000. Now I'm in bed drinking aguardiente, unable to move. I have a tougher climb tomorrow to San Agustin, but now I am prepared, because I have opened my heart to the mountain.

Juan's mother's cheese and his flute gave me strength that I had lost. I will see this lost and ancient culture tomorrow, what is left of it. No one knows anything about its music, its language, or how they lived. But Juan told me they had a connection to the cosmos, and this connection is now lost. Perhaps it is through climbing that I shall find this.