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."

a project

This morning as the ghost of Moraline hovered over Denver, Western culture, and mingled with the lost souls of caleñas, I considered Sekota's maxim that we get what we want. When we are miserable and lost, we are getting what we want, because we are out of balance, not on any one path, because out of fear and a lack of force in action, we fail to choose, and so the time comes for the train, working at high speed, to choose among the tracks at the crossing, the train tears through the rails, deep into the dirt, careening into the granite face of the mountainside, exploding, all passengers horribly burned and dismembered. Each day begins and ends such.

When, due to a man's force of action, he can right his direction, his energies coalesce into a thing of great beauty and power. After my run this morning, as part of my program of 70 miles per week, as part of my program to break 1:17 on October 9th, I realized my energies should be focused on running the half marathon. Writing will only serve as a journal of my understanding of my passage from a slow runner to a faster runner. Writing will only serve running. Today I will run 6 1-mile repeats, with a 2 mile warm up and a 2 mile cool down. This morning I ran 3.6 miles at a 6:50 pace.

A good ninja

Ninjitsu is a mastery of 20 elements. The greatest master, as he controls fire, water, and earth, among his 20, will finally conquer nothingness, he will be a master of nothing.

Yesterday afternoon, at Jairo Ivan's advice, I ran along the road which follows the river, past the military base, crossing the river, ascending the mountain, running along the gravel roads which led me into the deeper foothills. It was brutal and warm, and just after a day of cycling I could feel my legs changing. I did not run today, because I will train will Miguel tonight, and the legs are exhausted after 1.5 hours of brutal trails, ascending and descending.

Today is Tuesday--Sunday night I spoke with more humans, one in particular was fascinating, a student from Cali with family in Buga. Many have a similar background, many with the same opinion of Cali--too fast, too expensive, too stressful. Buga seems to be a balance between many of the values that define cities. Miguel says there is a wind current which run above the city, creating a positive energy.

Before the run, I stopped by Claudia's to pick up the Moraline's map, and I also took his lock. His bike was a return to a long lost love. He left her used and damaged, but in a good way. I could tell she enjoyed her being ravaged, a women ravaged by a good man, but suddenly left. She lie there against a wall, rust in certain parts, her panniers blasted by the sun and weathered beyond her lost youth. I opened her bags and looked inside. "Why did you leave me? Why did you give me away? Argentina? Colombia? Without me? He didn't use a handle bar bag, and he changed my grease as if he didn't trust me." "But you have been unfaithful in the past. Your rear hub, remember, remember what you did to me in California?" "But the past is the past. It does not matter. It does not make me who I am now." "No, it is who you are now, who I am now. You know this. I can't run from my past, and you cannot run from your past and into my arms. There is too much weight for me to carry, and I need to go alone." "You have found another?" "No, two. One I have already crashed, another I ride now, but it isn't the same as you." "Do you miss me?" "I miss you terribly and my heart is broken. It bleeds every day. It bleeds over the words I speak and everything I touch. I cannot eat. I cannot sleep unless I am exhausted. I am broken and ruined." "I am broken and ruined." "I cannot bear this any longer; I must take my map and go. You need some prolink on your bottom bracket screw. What he did to you, I cannot bear to know."

And so I said goodbye to Claudia as she listened to a velvet piano melody. I tried calling Miguel. He was away. It was then that I ran. It was then that I Miguel appeared as ate Isaac's sandwich. I was exhausted, but Miguel had gone out of his way to meet me, and the man is quite busy, between ninjitsu, English teaching, chasing girls, being chased by girls, advertising and marketing for restaurants, and leading the planet to a rebirth of cleansing decency.

I showered quickly, and by the time I arrived at the couch by the balcony, Miguel was there with two girls. One was quite stunning, one of his ninjitsu students, the other was a sweet girl, plump and dark skinned, oozing womanhood. We drank hibiscus tea and chatted and Clint came by with beer he had hatched just that day. He need a photo for his website, and so I shot multiple takes in the sun, with Clint topping the beer off with foam every few minutes. The resulting photo was beautiful, but the beer tasted even better. Due to my poor Spanish, Miguel wrote the advertisement, something along the lines of "After two of these you will be knocked on your ass. 7.9% ABV.

The two girls left, and Miguel and I went off to the next place, an anime styled bar, where the two girls who had just left were now waiting for us. Miguel told me of his friend who he had introduced to a girl he had known. The girl and the guy worked at the bar, and I could not pick up on any story. Instead of dating the girl for a few weeks, he became more distant to his friends. He became incommunicado and started making excuses, until one day they had a baby and now she runs his life. But she was a looker, I can understand his downfall. I spoke to Miguel about the project, how men must defend their projects and make the project one's center and a woman on a peripheral interest. We both delighted in this shared belief, and I reminded him how Moraline had awakened these ideas in me, how I once knew all of this when I was in my early 20s, Miguel's age. It then occurred to me that the create of language and culture is derived from the tiny actions of a few men who start small and are willing to fight for their ideas, as Moraline had begun to do several years ago after the near premature stillbirth of his spirit.

Miguel's ability to magnetize women is extraordinary. He seemed to know every woman he passed, all of them glowing and giggling, old and young. Later, after meeting with Alberto, I realized that a warrior must fight, even though he does not want death. If he does not fight, his skills will diminish. When caught in a battle, he will be unprepared and die. But if he continues to fight, he will eventually die in battle. A man must lose himself from his project, but he still must experience women to understand humanity. But the more women he sees, the greater the risk he loses himself from his project. There must be risk. One cannot live in one's fallen shadows.

Miguel spoke of wanting a son very soon, but he also spoke of his quest to go to Japan and se the master. And begin his dojo academy in Buga. As we walked together in the streets, the women greeted him. He spoke of girls who made bad decisions, who were wired incorrectly and chose bad men and stupid short term sex. He spoke of his disappointment in girls he had though special. If the past is the past, where is the deterrent for bad behavior? Are there no consequences? Women continue to fall for game throughout the world.

I met Miguel's father, and he picked up Diana, an exotic 17-year old (old by Colombian standards), and then Isabel, her heart broken by a boy she had been with for over a year who had gone to university and had gotten himself mixed up with bad people and drugs. Isabel's hearth was so broken that it was painful to speak with her. Unlike the other Colombian girls, she would only speak back in short phrases. Unlike the other Colombian girls, she did not look into my eyes, stroke my body, and laugh. She was too heart broken. But when we went out to dance, she came alive, and as we sat on the curb next to one another and shared a cigarette, with with aguardiente, I saw signs of life. .

Knowing a revolution was at hand and needing sleep after the long run, I invited the three up for some tea and some more aguardiente and beer for myself. It was 1:30 but Clint and Isaac kept the place open late for some other people.

In the morning, Miguel and I took two buses to Razo, where Ernesto, an elderly spiritualist, performed a spiritual audit on Miguel and then looked into the soul of my journey and told me I was a good man with a good heart and that I would be safe on my journey. He told me I had a good and open heart and I would attract similar people on my journey. He told me I should be with a companion on my journey, but I would be safe. He asked me if I had ridden a horse in Colombia.

Before we met Ernesto, one of Ernesto's assistants greeted us in a room where two other were already praying. An old black man prayed and chanted in a wise monotone, and I sat in a chair with my palms open, he touched my head and neck and hands with crosses and poured holy water on my head and neck. All my thoughts and decisions centralized, and I realized what I had lost and what I had gained. Miguel knew everyone in the house, and the women glowed and smiled at him. He brought an enormous jar of an herbal perfume Ernesto had instructed him to prepare on his last meeting. Ernesto instructed Miguel how to use it, how to put it on the dojo, his home, his farm. He warned him of Diana, to be careful around her. Night shadows, demons, how long do you want to live, but I am immortal, what a question? Demons and night shadows and serpents, and if you do not believe in demons and night shadows and black ninja, then why these scratches from my fights with demons? They are real there are warriors, and if you do not feel the battle, you are among the unliving. The great ninja is not the greatest warrior, he is the man who does the most good in the world despite his powers. He has the greatest intentions, and he will change the world. He has fought every demon, and he is alive because he does not know life and death anymore, because the serpent has crawled from his through, it is 10 meter long, and he has severed its head with his sword. He is immortal.

-----------------------

Moraline might be right. It might not get better than Buga, but I remember Blagoevgrad, and how I thought it couldn't get better than Blagoevgrad, and yet I left it, I left it for the wrong reasons, I thought I need more money, I needed to finish a degree, I needed to become a billionare, I needed to change the world with all the money I would suddenly make trading. And while I learned more about modern finance by trading, my soul could not be fed by modern finance alone. Perhaps the philosophy had to wait and rest in the way it did. Perhaps my writing need to germinate. But did I really need to give myself to corporate America such a manner? Moraline is correct: I am working on someone else's project for my money. My values are not aligned.

After tonight's ninjitsu training with Miguel, I told him that Moraline and I speak a lot about projects, and I told him his project was an alignment of his values, and his source of money was aligned with his values. I practiced grappling, striking, blocking, choking, jumping, rolling, tumbling, walking on my fists, my fingers, standing on my head, flipping men. I learned how I would be destroyed in a battle. I told Miguel I must learn to run faster.

His students worship him and he commands great respect. One of his female students grabbed my water bottle, asked me why I only had a small amount of water remaining, and sucked the remaining water from my bottle, dry. Excellent game, darling. I apologized for not having more water.

As I said goodbye to Miguel tonight, I told him he was one of the greatest men I have met. People have come and gone in his life, but he has his own project and he needs the help of no one. Ernesto and his sensei guide him, but most importantly, he guides himself. He said goodbye very graciously, and he knew he had to leave me to sort these ideas, and to then move forward and see what is North.

Is Buga a perfect town? It depends on whether we are seeking cheap solitude, or seeking sights, experiences on the road alone, experiences with other humans, or experiences with situations strongly out of our comfort zones. Too much foreign, too much of the chase of spontaneity, too much of that, without reflection, without an account of experience, perhaps I cannot do that. Or perhaps is exactly the course one should pursue.

I related to Miguel how Chrome said I was a different person with E, how I agreed with Chrome, and how it made me think about who this Maximin guy is in the first place. I cannot chase women when there are night shadows chasing me, when I am afraid of turning around to see their menace, challenge them, fight them, and risk my desk in a battle with demons.