The following is a message to my past self who is blackout drunk, half-covered in mud, singing Fortunate Son, stumbling around the perimeter of a military airfield, on his way back to the barracks:

This moment of despair is now absolved.

It's nearly five in the afternoon. My window is cracked open. The blinds are closed but up a quarter of the way, and the sun is streaming in. I am on my second Czech pilsner. The goal for the evening is to keep relaxed, since today was my first day at the new job site. Despite having adequate time over the past few days, my room got messy. But I feel a desire to keep it that way, as if I could comfortably nest in the half-clean/half-dirty laundry that is beginning to pile on my bed.

The next month (or perhaps longer) will be busy. I'll be working longer hours at the new Climate Pledge Arena, installing data (CAT6) and other limited voltage electrical systems. The pay for the site is shockingly lucrative—over twice the typical rate for role and with opportunities for overtime which I will begin taking advantage of tomorrow. This is precisely the windfall I was hoping for in order to pay down some minor debt and pad my savings. (And I want a Canon R5) But how to adapt?

This wage demands hard work. And hard work requires sacrifice. —what to sacrifice?

Tomorrow I will begin work at 5:00am (with the option to begin at 6:00) and I will work till 3:30pm. Five days a week, for ten hours per day. (Or possibly 4/10's on swing shift.) I still have every intention of continuing Jiu Jitsu. So that doesn't leave much time for leisure. I'm thinking of my uncle right now who is a successful fellow electrical worker who works austere hours. To my knowledge, he doesn't do much after work on weekday evenings; I hope I'm wrong. (I'm going to call him soon tp how he structures his time (re: coping)).

The project itself is interesting. It's a unique project. They lifted the giant roof of the old arena, dug out the arena down below to make it significantly larger, and then placed the roof back down; and then they made the building carbon neutral, and the hockey ice rink that is going in will be made from rain water collected from the roof. At the newcomer orientation safety briefing this morning, one of the superintendents relayed a point to us originally made by the CEO in charge of the operation: this is a place where people are going to make memories that will often last a lifetime—hockey games, concerts, and perhaps basketball games—, and we're laying the groundwork for those memories (literally, in the case of the guys who were pouring a massive slab of concrete last week). It gave me a big feeling, like I was one of the slaves guys working on the Roman Colosseum, minus the timeless design and sense of relative contemporary achievement.

There was also a big emphasis on safety. The superintendent made a big deal about making sure that everyone got home safe at the end of the day. He repeated the phrase, "perfection is acceptable," which bothered me, because he should have said perfection is the standard or zero injuries is the standard or zero injuries is the maximum. And then, when he got up to leave, he got up on two crutches. He then sat on a three-wheeled mobility scooter, in which he was seated precariously high for a man of his size (three feet up). He made a four point turn, and slowly wheeled out with a light buzzing sound as the next speaker made his way to the front, moving extra slowly in a failed attempt to not make it appear that the superintendent was slowing things down.

If I had to guess, it seems that the superintendent suffered an injury. Hopefully it wasn't on the job. Because that wouldn't make for believable writing.

Anyway, I'm here writing. And it has taken me about an hour to get this far (including running downstairs to get beer number three, a locally made hazy IPA, which isn't doing it for me). I could have spent this hour doing a other things. But writing is important. I need it to stay sane. And I will continue to write. 

Someone close to me (someone special) told me that I need to write more and structure my time so that I can have time to write. But I'm not sure what to write. Maybe I need to take up a project, like another short story or that long essay on Sophistication as a Virtue that I have been meaning to write for two years now

Actually, writing that last one on sophistication would be good. I need to put nails in that coffin and close it to seal that container and trap that thing idea that refuses to die. I think I'll do that. 

Now, how often and consistently can I write? How can I keep up that habit when I also intend to work crazy overtime, go to the gym, practice Jiu Jitsu, ride my motorcycle, and do photography?

....the ax is coming. Time is limited. Desires are many, but resources are few.

...

If it wasn't for vanity and shame, I'm not sure that I would keep my room clean or groom my hair. I'm not sure if this is typical human nature, or if this is a sign of poorly developed character. Let's say it's both.

..

What do I want?

And what am I willing to sacrifice to get it?

The second part of the question is fundamental. 

 It occured to me just now that I do not look like a writer. 

I hesitate to call myself a writer. Labels make me feel weird. (It's because of how special I think I am.) But I can say this: Whether or not I am a writer,  I do not look like a writer.

This revelation (which, as you will see shortly, is worthy of eye rolls and scoffing) occurred after I stepped out of the shower and was admiring both my biceps and my genius after discovering that I could mix sunscreen with lotion to apply it to my tattoos quite a bit easier; (a quick google search says not to do this, but I'm going to do it anyway.) I just came back from the gym, and my upper body is a little bit swollen, meaning my arms are at their best. I'm also down to 181, which makes things show up much better.

Af first glance, I look vain, especially when I wear a medium sized t-shirt. Shallow. —a bro, but one with decent taste, I like to think.

Upon closer inspection, I appear pretentious and mercurial, with hints of intelligence and depth.

A little closer and then my anxious neuroticism appears.

If you go deeper, you end up here. This is where the/m[y] my ideas are. I spend a lot of time here.

Maybe my appearance is why people don't take my ideas more seriously. I don't look like a guy with ideas. But I want to be a guy with relevant ideas that are taken into serious consideration—whether at work, in writing, or in conversation.

If I want to communicate my ideas with more people, I am going to have to cultivate my persona and my reputation. (Which does not include giving up squats and bicep curls.)

It is a brute (and cruel) fact of life that people do not (or perhaps cannot) spend the time to get to know my/your deeper, truer self (unless they are your closest friends and family, but even they are suspect). So, personas and reputations are important. They must be tended to. They are a bridge-builder and a key.

...

A ghost sits by a great and unscalable wall. The ground is barren. The sky is dark. Yet the wall is clearly pale and golden, a lusterless, dull yellow. The ghost appears to suspect that there are many gods and buddhas beyond the wall. And so he stands there.

I do not know what this means.

Thoughts on home: 

I am from the border.  

From a distance, the border appears to be a line. 

The border is an area. —rather, it is a world, one that draws its own lines. 

 I wrote the following in a journal using an extra fine black pen last year on May 14th, 2020:

I feel that much of my pain and disappointment has stemmed from my expectations. I wanted the world to give me a lot. I saw people with wealth, and I thought I deserved that wealth; when I saw that the path to wealth crossed decades and generations, I came to resent wealth and the wealthy, for many of the wealthy did not need to cross the violent and vast spanning river of trial-and-time-and-chance. 

I grew resentful, fearful, and hesitant as time passed—feeling as if I were trapped in a devious mechanism whose purpose was to drain my life and soul to sustain the livelihoods of those that stood on the shoulders of generations. I was a man living in the shadows of vampiric titans and unconscionable gods. My heart tells me this is so: the world is, in truth, such an awful a tragic place for any man who dares look up with open eyes.

Regardless, I sense the need-and-calling to step forward in whole-being—entering into the world, humbly, expecting neither blessings or curses, expecting neither pain nor pleasure; going forth, not as lamb to slaughter, nor as a compassionate-mindful-monk. 

—Rather I would go swiftly, attentively, with measured caution, and calculated force.

Ride onward, Hermes
Between Scylla and Charybdis
Forward!
Beyond good and evil. 

I'm at, or near, that place again. I'm tired. But sleep isn't the only thing I need. I need rest again. I put a lot on my plate again, as much as would fit and then I piled on more.

I'm sitting at my new desk. The lights are on, but this corner (not quite a nook) is a bit dark. It's not even 3pm, but feel it could be dusk. I'm going to do a quick inventory of everything that hurts: 

• Neck, both from the jiu jitsu classes I just started and from staring up at the ceiling all day.
• Upper back (same as previous)
• Right bicep, bruised from jiu jitsu.
• right middle finger, scraped and scratched from work 
• abs/stomach, sore from weighted crunches
• glutes/butt, sore from squatting and wrestling teenagers smaller than me jiu jitsu
• Right shin, sore from jiu jitsu
• feet, sore with one blister because of the socks I wore today. (I ran out, so I had to use a sub-optimal pair.)

I'm (desperately) trying to make the most of my time. And now I'm here again with a minor case of burnout. Fortunately, I'm not really burned out; I haven't lost anything. There's a part of me that wants to go to the gym right now. But I'm looking at him, and I don't think he's concerned about my overall well-being. He's looking at me, and he's happy that I'm both at my lowest weight in years and still retaining good muscle; but he only wants more—bigger biceps, a stronger chest, a few reps to keep the rear delts in good condition.

Not today. Today, I will do laundry. I may read. I must rest. I will have to make sure to rest well-before sleeping; that is exceedingly important today.

I want a beer. 

The old man says don't get a beer. Anything but beer he says. Wine? No wine. 

I'm not sure who he is or if I should listen to him. But the voice of my inner-accountant says beer is not in the budget. We definitely need to get together and set weekly budget goals. We are headed in the right direction, however. 

...

Today and yesterday I was feeling bitter about my wages. It hurts knowing that I was making more on unemployment. Right now, I believe I have the lowest paying job in Local 46. I mean, someone has to do it... 

I'm reminding myself that this is a part of the path I chose. It is a long path. I can change paths. But it doesn't make sense to at this point. There aren't any viable alternatives—not without first inventing a time machine.

...

When I got home and parked my car, I saw a chickadee just outside my door before I opened it. I waited there for a few seconds and watched him. He was weightless. He jumped around, almost instantly moving a few centimeters, like an electric spark albeit with a more predictable path. I'm not sure why this caught my attention. 

Is it possible this bird was teleporting?

May 1, 2021 A Mind Like Wax

(Written by hand originally. It took a few days to write this all down. Distractions abound.)

...

It is 4:00pm exactly. I meant to get coffee in Greenwood at Herkimer, but they weren't offering any indoor seating. So, I walked down the main road looking for another cafe along the way and found my way into a beer bottle shop with over a dozen beers on tap. 

I'm having a saison from Holy Mountain. Typically a saison is funky (due to bacterial fermentation that happens alongside the yeast—I think (correction: a saison typically features wild yeast.))This one tastes somewhere between Michelob Ultra and a middle-shelf, dry white wine.followed by a slightly hoppy, slightly bitter finish.

There's a vinyl record playing. It's bluesy, groovy, with heavy electric organ use. 

It's gray and misting. 

The passing cars sound like an intermittent river.

—Quick pivot: today was my first day at my new MMA/Jiu Jitsu Gym. I am currently sporting two bruises; and my right shin hurts because a +200lbs, former army combat medic's knee landed right on it. We warmed up with five minutes of jogging and practiced drills for 45 minutes. Then, for the last 5-10 minutes, we rolled. (Wrestling with each other, which is also known as grappling.)

I am better at grappling than the average person; but that is true because the average—the typical person, rather—has absolutely no experience. John, the former combat medic and I rolled for a few minutes. He won both times, but he was good about letting me fight at my skill level without immediately destroying me. He called it "rolling at half-speed" or something close to that. 

After John and I rolled two or three times, Coach suggested I roll with Spike. 

One of the things that I failed to mention is that of the dozen or so of us at the class, only John and I were adults. Coach was watching us along with his son who is my same age and a semi-pro MMA state champ. But otherwise, all of the other students were under the age of 15 or so. 

I am 6' 0''. 
185 lbs. 
Lean. Muscular. And broad shouldered. 

Spike is a teenage who recently got braces, doesn't have facial hair, and I think he may weigh as much as 120 lbs—maybe.

When we first squared up on the mat, he looked at me with large, calm, gray eyes. He was confident, eager, and curious. I didn't sense a trace of cockiness, which made it that much more humbling when he kicked my ass twice. 

I was still breathing heavily five minutes later as I was walking into the grocery store to pick up ingredients for a late brunch. 

I hope I can kick his ass someday. 

Earlier in the session, I had a moment of reflection and insight. Coach's sun, whose name I can't recall, stepped in to give advice to John and me. —There's something special about having a "master" teach you. A master teaches with their whole...
—not their words alone
—not with their body alone
—not the dogma
—not their emotions
—not their vibe nor their soul. 
A master teaches with their whole being. which is reflected in the student. The reflection—the image or the form—impresses upon the student. It transforms him, likening him to the teacher. 

An impressionable student becomes like the teacher, not the lesson.

I was only really there, learning for the first half, right up until my perception became a blank gray wall of static because I was tired and brain fried. But my last, most-productive moments died and brought me the memory of a philosophy lecture.

It's Spring quarter three years ago, and Hud Hudson, one of contemporary analytic philosophy's most notable metaphysicians (and theists), is giving a lecture. He is a middle aged man, wearing an Under Armor hoodie, cargo shorts,  and keen hiking sandals. His lectures sound like he is reading from a beautiful and lucidly written book. My initial impression is that his style is merely the product of careful repetition, rehearsal, and the memorization of key phrases that inevitably follows. However, he answers questions with the same cathedral-like elegance and detail—shining light where it matters most. 

The class he is teaching is called History of Philosophy: The Empiricists. I almost failed the class. I passed with a C, which may have been charitable on Hudson's part. The lecture was on a particular philosopher: Descartes, Locke, or Hume. (Though maybe it was an Ancient Greek philosophy who said the following:)

The mind is like a soft clay tablet (or perhaps like wax). The world makes impressions upon the clay-like mind through the senses—sight, hearing, touch, smell, and taste.

In more simple terms, the empiricists believe that all knowledge came from the senses. They left no room for inborn instinct or synthetic a-priori knowledge.)

I struggled with this class because partially because its lessons were to disagreeable to my own ideas and experience. I did find the ideas interesting and valuable, but only as mere abstractions. —until now.

Today, while the coach's champion fighter son teach, I felt an intuitive, subjective sense for what the empiricists meant when they said the mind was like impressionable clay. It was the first time that I felt what they meant when they said the mind was like a clay tablet. 

Subjectively, as the prize fighter was teaching me jiu jitsu by going through the various bodily motions, I felt the lessons sink in. Then, I did my best to repeat the fighter's movements. I felt him mark and his impression. Its form lingered as it sank in. This is different from my other experiences. I tend to overthink lessons, often relying too heavily on language and relating the lesson to as many other lessons as I could, looking for similarities across other domains. But for part of the lesson, my mind was like soft clay. 

However, that state did not last long. I returned to my typical method of learning, which is in a different direction than the empiricists:

The form sinks in, and it enters a garden (my mind); there it must learn to survive—be it through force, viciousness, cunning, or cooperation. The form is not a mere shape nor a sophisticated blue print. It arrives like a living animal, with a spirit, capable of independent existence.

A master's lesson is both metaphor and spirit. 

And the metaphor-and-spirits—they talk amongst each other. They organize themselves, perhaps like a mandala or perhaps like a social community, like a city. They are each capable of stepping forward to work when they are needed, (or they step forward, by their own compulsion, when they feel they are needed.)

...

Everything that can be talk about, exists. (There is no non-being.) The question is, how does it exist? 

(E.g. A hallucination is a real experience. The problem is that the hallucinator is liable to confuse non-material entities for physical entities.)

It's all real. The question is, how is it real, and how do we relate to it? —whatever it is.

...

To experience is to suffer—among other things.

...