Reflection

Writing a blog has started to wreck my writing.  I've always been prone to bloviation, both in speaking and writing, prone to chasing stray thoughts down rabbit holes and other moments of ill discipline.

When talking to friends or writing a blog these things don't seem to matter very much. Your friends generally don't care as long as the conversation is good, and on a blog... well, the only metric of success or failure is readership.  Of course, I have no readership here, though I can't entirely blame my undisciplined writing. Its simply a matter of getting out there and letting people know where I am.

Yeah.

About that.  I am prone to bouts of reticence that would make a granite faced New Englander say 'damn, that dude's gotta relax!'.   There is a good chance that if I found a massive gold vein under my back yard I'd die poor because I wouldn't want to make a big deal out of the find.  I'm not entirely joking.

Its sad, because I keep losing heart at the utter lack of readership I have, while knowing exactly what I need to do. Hell, just the other day I actually had eyes on the blog from AVfM, when I let them know I had stripped down, damn near line for line, the libertarian panel video.  Meanwhile, I felt like I was exploiting them by posting a link in the comment section, damn dirty exploiter that I am.

See what I mean about chasing down rabbit thoughts?

What I was talking about was my undisciplined writing, my tendency to stray from my topic and to make truly epic length posts.  I can do better, much better.

I will do better.

Both as a writer and as a self promoter.

Wimmins!

I have been conducting another experiment using online dating sites to fill my spare moments between random bouts of inactivity.

On one site, I am essentially being fairly normal, casual if you will. I mean, I'm not writing long winded self descriptions that no woman but the most desperate of wildebeests would actually be reading, but my profile is generally breezy, faux-witty and inoffensive, and my messages are fairly standard 'hey you' messages. Sort of open to whomever, etc..

On the second site, however, I am nakedly aggressively manly, not quite to the point of utter cliche, but damn close.  I essentially strip away all the pretty lies and admit clearly that I want a young, thin, attractive woman with a pleasant personality and that I could give two figs about her personal philosophy of whatever.  Also, arrogant and 'assuming the sale', if you will.

I am testing a couple of different theories here. In pure academic science I'm doing it all wrong, but last I checked no one was cutting me a grant check to do it by the book, so I'm perfectly happy to accept shoddy science to accrue anecdotal evidence.

Now, the nice guy profile has been running about a week longer than the aggressive profile.  I made a far go at doing 'spam approaches', meeting the general standard of actually using the system to its full potential.  I've got a coffee date with a single mom a decade younger than I am, but not much else going on.  As an interesting aside, nakedly admiring an unusual attribute (her lack of height) seems to have given me a strong open, but in Game terms I haven't been able to keep a dominant frame in the text. I think that's the lingo they'd use, anyway.  Essentially the usual advice seems to be keep it short and abrupt, lots of mystery and never let the girl get you to change your mind to suit her.  

But this is the nice guy profile, so I can accept waiting a week longer, losing my day of choice and other minor concessions in the name of diplomatically accepting that she has a kid... and also the super brief replies got me... equally brief replies. A monosyllabic conversation might lead to sex in person, but by texting??? Not gonna happen.

In contrast, the very first hour I had the aggressive profile up I got a response back that was positive. Nothing's come of it, but that's cool.  I got another response the second day that is really amusing, as I hadn't even sent the woman a message, but merely selected a 'meh' in response to her picture when suggested by the site. Apparently that 'meh' was enough to trigger her defensive crouch.  Again, Game would suggest I've already won by simply getting her to respond, but a: I'm already familiar with luring girls in with aggro posts from way back when the internet was young and wild and free, and b: she was, as I noted, a 'meh'. Its the creepy hollow eyes, man.... belch.

So far, naked aggression is ahead on hits, but gentleman is ahead on forward progress, but with a distinct time advantage.

Of course I clearly haven't resolved my dilemma from earlier: Do I want to search for love and get burned hard again, or do I want meaningless sex?

Honestly, most of the time I'm convinced that looking for women simply isn't worth the effort.  Its all bullshit, lies and worse.  On the other hand I am compelled by biological imperatives to impale a womb with my mighty spear on a regular basis, and fighting that urge in the long run is far more distracting than the hunt. Further, I have goals unmet that require a woman in my life.

Of course, I'd rather just slap a pile of cash on the table, draw up the contract or what have you, and be done with the mess.  Because, well, I'm a guy.

But since I'm on the topic, let me strip away all the bullshit and explain what I am seeing.

I am seeing some truly hideous specimens of humanity, in vast droves.  I'm also seeing a lot of older, burned out women and human freak shows.  I did see one woman who's profile had me convinced she was the Cracked.com article writer who couldn't beat men off with a stick no matter how terrible the profile...

I have seen a tattood, pierced and gauged woman openly state she'd hit a man in the face if she didn't like something he said.  Fighting the urge to message her back and state that she was welcome to try because I'd hit back was... hard. Very, very hard.

I mean: In the pictures she is cute, bangably cute, my type cute. But the pictures don't show the freakshow tattoos and the mangled ears, etc.  Instinct is powerful stuff.  Also, while it is possible that she'd respond, and I could work from there, its just as likely she'd report me to have me banned, despite her provocation. I suppose I could report her and see what happens, just for the lulz.

I find there is one advantage to the nakedly aggressive profile I haven't covered. See: when I stumble upon a reasonably cute and approachable girl, skimming her profile to find a hook to message her with, I generally can't help but notice the herd mentality and the sheer horrible drivel that women post about themselves, the inane and vapid pop-culture politics and all that. As a 'gentleman' what possible angle could I use but to nakedly lie?  To obfuscate and pretend that I honestly care about their ill formed, ill educated ideas about the world, or that their terribly judgmental 'tolerance' is anything but tolerant.

The Nakedly Aggressive Me, the me stripped of civilized lies, of politeness, can view those childish posts as a challenge. I've already boldly stated I didn't care, which frees me to confront, to mock and to tease.  

Of course, my standards are holding me back.  Tattooed girls are easy, girls with lots of piercings are easy. The more rabidly political girls tend to brag about their bisexuality... which means they are easy. Fat, old and fat and old chicks are easy.  Its a brutal, ugly market.

That remarkably gem-like sylph of a russian immigrant, with clean skin, a slender body and feminine disposition and style?  She's had to field a message from every guy in four states.  What the hell is she even doing posting on a dating site?  She probably has to hire bodyguards to cut down the street approaches of intimidated, but panting men?

Hell, I don't even go for blondes usually and I sent the damn thing, for all the good it did me.  I just need to remember that the key here is to shotgun out my approaches.  The science is only improved by raw numbers, right?

Looking for Facts in all the wrong places

Not terribly long ago, I was reminded of something... a goal I once had as a very young man in fact. There are places in the country, in the world, where there are more women than men, and those places are, as expected, gold mines for dating.

I forgot this, decades ago, as my lifestyle put me, more or less automatically, into sausage land, with the commensurate difficulties it placed on my dating prospects.  I have ever been a glutton for punishment, I suppose.

As a newly single man, I realized I had no idea what my local scene was truly like.

I found out two sad facts.

The first is that my worst adult dry spell was when I lived less than an hour from one of the top ten cities in the nation for single women (oops!!! This demographic data might have been good to know when I... wasn't going there to get laid!!!!), and that the town I have called home, on and off, for the last ten years is among the ten worst. 

Sigh.

Actually, I think its in the top five. 

This may explain why I seem to lack suitable targets for my attentions so much of the time. 

On the other hand, I suppose it should make me feel rather proud of the quickness with which I scored when I first moved here, and the subsequent...ah... party lifestyle I managed to live before the relationship turned to shit. 

In short, the evidence suggests that my previous experiences in Sausage Land have well prepared me for the arduous task of scoring in a town where there are six men to every five women.  Luckily, it seems this is also among the gayest of cities... possibly caused by a shortage of bankable girls. I note here that the Northwest seems to be a mecca for fat pasty girls with bad peircings and tattoos, possibly because the lack of sunshine means they don't need as many excuses to layer themselves in tents year round...

However: I have been contemplating a move to warmer, sunnier climes anyway, as my notoriously foul moods and general reclusiveness are only aggravated by constantly shitty weather.  So, if I cannot pull myself out of the permanent nose dive of my life, once the ground has well and truly smacked me around a few times to prove that gravity is a Boss, I will undoubtedly bid fare-thee-well to this god forsaken place, and seek me a land of lonely, and bikini clad beauties, desperate for a manly man to sooth their... shit, what's the female version of sausage fest?... well, you get my drift.

There are upsides to being destroyed. 

Of course, my foray into research also turned up a fact I and been deliberately ignoring.  I've chosen to indulge in my general hobo-nature and let my hair grow rather wild, along with cultivating a manly beard, or at least part of a manly beard, letting manly scruff take the rest.  I was imagining that my utter lack of metrosexuality was working in my favor, perhaps offsetting my indisputable laziness regarding my gym habits.

In short: I was, of course, lying to myself. The beard and scruff, if maintained properly, seems to be working just fine. Its the useless, shapeless mass of unruly hair (blessed be the gods of genetics, who saw fit to pass over me when they visited the scourge of Male Pattern Baldness upon the heads of the unworthy.  Let it be said that I know well, and powerfully, that I have not the skull to support a sexy bald head, looking rather more like an unhealthy cross between a vulture and a cancer patient in his last earthly days, no matter how much muscle the neck beneath boasts...), that is proving...well... unruly.

There is, to be blunt, a fine point between dashing, devil may care, rugged manliness and slovenliness, and I have well and truly crossed the line into the latter, at least with regards to my hair. 

Given that I have at least some appreciation for classic stylings, this will simply not do.  I am not quite ready to do the whole dress-suit, spit-shine shoes routine, though I suppose it would behoove me to attempt it, but looking like a bum is starting to turn me into a fucking bum, and that ain't sexy unless you're looking the Rock Candy Mountains... 

So, in turn, that means upon the morrow I shall attend to my glorious locks.  I may return to my slovenly, manly hobo ways once I have restored the temple of my body, so that I resemble more the savage beast-man, the viking of olde, rather than some chump to cheap to shell out for hair care. So too shall I ditch the rumpled t-shirts, no matter how comfortable and, well, EASY they are. 

I would say too that upon the morrow I will attend me to the gym, but facing the fact, in this I will undoubtedly fail, beset as I am by the devils of procrastination and general laziness. 

And while my maudlin tale of self loathing may seem pointlessly indulgent, I suggest instead that you point to those nonexistent readers, whose lack allows me such frivolities without shame.  Who among you exists that can cast a stone in judgement or derision? None, say I, and riding my ass backwards through the marketplace, I point and laugh without shame or dignity*

*I have no idea what the fuck I just said there. None.  

Probity Redux

In the Law they express two concepts, though in Latin to keep the rubes like me out, that can be summed up in 'The Guilty Act' and 'The Guilty Mind'.  In traditional formulations, both have to be present for a criminal act to have been committed.

Example: You shove your friend and he stumbles into traffic, is hit by a car, and dies horribly. 

The Guilty Act is that you killed your friend. There is no real debate, in this case, that you did so.

The Guilty Mind is your intent. If you wanted your friend to die horribly, it is murder. If you were just playing around and accidentally killed him it is not.  Of course, since we like putting people in jail, we came up with Negligent Homicide, and everyone except you and your dead friend, is happy. 

Make sense so far? 

When you are forced to denounce yourself for some trivial sin you are admitting to guilt, the Guilty Mind, you did not possess.  Let us review it in the sense of our story from the last post:

The young man's Act was to post a joke .Gif of President Obama kicking a door. His Mind was 'Midterm's suck, even the president agrees'.  Not really a thought crime, yes?  Surely, President Obama, a former professor (who taught no classes?) would not actually agree with that sentiment, but that is neither here nor there. 

However, despite any racial animus to his act, he was forced to apologize for committing a racist act, taking on the mantle of a Guilty Mind, making his .Gif, post facto (another legal concept, in Latin), a Crime of Racism. 

Why harp on this? 

Well, first to assuage my own mind that, in his shoes I would never have allowed myself to be tarred with the crime I hadn't actually committed.  My history shows quite the opposite: I'm quite skilled at evading guilt for crimes I DID commit, sadly, so I can't see pleading to a greater charge as an option I'd take. 

I've got too many skeletons to go around getting in trouble for shit I didn't actually do, in other words. 

Second I want you, any of you, to have that thought in your minds if you even find yourself in his shoes... without my own 'armor of sin' protecting you.  He may have bought himself a few moments of peace, even the ability to remain in school, officially... but he is now forever more 'That Racist Bastard' to all the people who believe in thought crimes.  I doubt he has honestly preserved his academic career in any meaningful sense.  Pleading guilty to "Lesser" charges may seem the right choice, but it means you'll never be free of the guilt in the public eye.  It is a devil's bargain, and we all know how those turn out. 

In this I disagree with many in the Men's Rights movement, from Price at the Spearhead to the guys at a Voice for Men. They sympathize with men who chose not to sacrifice years of their life for honor and dignity, who plead to lesser charges in return for clemency.  I have no sympathy for cowards and spineless men.  Pity, certainly, but not sympathy.  

And let me explain why: Every man who takes the cowards path makes it harder for the rest of us.  I used to jump out of planes, static line jumps. It was never your mistake that would hurt you, would kill you, but the mistake of the man in front of you.  His weak exit, his moment of fear at the open door and the empty sky, meant his static line was low on the door and would catch you by the arm (if you were lucky) or the neck (if you were not).  His failure was your pain, and your failure was the pain of the man behind you. 

It is the same here. Every single man who pleads to sexual assault to avoid a rape conviction instead of fighting a false accusation merely makes it that much easier for the next man to be charged. Every man who admits to racism in thought and deed when there was none, makes it harder for the next man to stand on his dignity. Every.Single.Man who refuses to fight domestic violence charges when it was his wife throwing the punches, as loudly and aggressively as possible, just so the legal problems will go away makes the next man so charged his fault. 

There is a reason more vigorous societies hated cowards.  The coward always buys his life at the cost of the men around him. Always.  He has blood on his hands. The blood of better men, worthier men, and the blood of women who pay the price for his failures.

We have forgotten that, in our race towards eternal childhood.  We have forgotten that as we try to turn men into women. Bravery is not a feminine virtue, though we laud those women who possess it, so we reject it as too macho.  We fear if we celebrate bravery we encourage men to prove theirs through violence. 

And since we have forgotten the price of Cowardice, it is not enough to merely mention it, to mock it... I must explain. 

Defend your honor as if it were your life.

No.

Defend your honor as if it were more important to you than life, for it is. 

revisiting January's Goals

Well, that was a colossal failure.

On the casting front I was unable to finish the mold for my first casting, despite having everything ready to go because it was too cold to pour the plaster (it would freeze before setting). Because, Global Warming, bitches.  Bah. Now that the weather has turned, I'll try to pour tomorrow, or maybe tonight if I feel particularly butch.

On the reading front, zero forward progress. I can't recall cracking a book the entire month of January, much less one that was moderately demanding of my intellect, or at least tolerance for outmoded editorial standards...

On the gym front: one freaking day, one trip. To be excessively generous to myself, I appear to have pinched a nerve and/or torn a muscle in my left arm in december, as I found even extraordinarily mundane and lazy activities such as sitting in a chair or... fucking sleeping!!!... would occasionally render me monentarily insensate with pain. Obviously using my arm to move heavy weight around right now is a dicey proposition.  On the other hand... running.  Bah.  I knew it would be hard when I made the objective, so prior excuses are the known knowns, and thus... well...

On the bitches* aspect: One true approach, a week late, and the gentle and misleading shoot down. Again, no where near my goal. Recall that this is outcome independent, as I'm not in a hurry to get my dick wet with some random skank.  If that was the case I'm sure I could free up enough cash to pay for it, and we all pay for it somehow. 

On the socializing front... mixed bag. I already had one social activity that I wasn't counting per week, and that doubled. In theory that means I'm meeting half my goal, and reliably. Likewise, I've been a bit more social in my online gaming, despite technical limits, than I usual am. However, my oldest and dearest friends (You fucking assholes... you know who you are), deliberately moved to free up my friday nights for more productive socializing... so now I stay home friday nights with the internet for company. 

On the other hand, my dog is still alive and now expects to be walked. Now he will ONLY poop or pee in the house or on a leash.  I guess that is progress.  On the other hand, even without a particular provocation, I nearly decided that death was preferable to paying attention to him earlier today, so obviously my rope is frayed**

*It goes without saying that I use this term facetiously and with some affection for the weaker sex. However, I obviously must say it because Internet. 

** Yes, I'm sure some random asshole will attempt to report me to the Powers that Be for future animal abuse, because Internet.  While I will admit freely to a certain phlegmatic and practical view towards animals and pets, contra most 'pet people', I have never harmed, nor tolerated the needless harm of a pet in my life.  By dog standards I am a fucking saint compared to you.  Also, go rent a sense of humor, you aspie tardlinger. 

Second Draft

All that follows is the second draft of a 'short story', though it is obviously merely a preview of a longer work, posted for your amusement.  I assert no rights nor privileges except to appeal to the honor of those who would repeat it to do so fairly and without deceit. 

Pain.

On a balmy Tuesday morning, Jonah woke in pain. Agony was the better word for it. He was sweating and cramping, certain he was dying, twisting his threadbare sheets around him as he writhed on the battered and stained mattress he'd salvaged from the side of the road last spring.

At last he forced himself up, forced himself to cross the tiny apartment to the bathroom, ignoring the morning ritual fight between his neighbors as he staggered to the bathroom, praying to the porcelain god as his stomach heaved fruitlessly.

He couldn't help noticing that his shaking hands were covered in blood tinted sweat, that the drops falling from his forehead onto the stained ceramic were a rich red.

“Am I gonna die?” He moaned to himself as a spasm, far worse than any of the others, gripped him. The sound of his moan barely drowned the shouts and yells through the thin walls. Soon would come the meaty sounds of flesh hitting flesh, the screams of terror and pain, then the sobbing and heartfelt apologies, of makeup sex.

Then he forgot about the daily drama as something deep within him tried to force its way out. He retched and cried bloody tears, gripping the toilet for all it was worth as he heaved and heaved, his mouth stretching painfully wide, his neck bulging as it seemed all his internal organs climbed from him. At last there was a gush, a torrent. At last his efforts were no longer in vain. The feeling of relief was so great that he barely minded that the vomit was dull red and stank of hot copper and rust. Before he could think about it another heave gripped him, the hot blood still pouring from him, though this time something else came with it. His eyes clenched shut in pain, his body arcing over the bowl, lifted up by the furious strain he was under, he couldn't see what nightmare wrenched itself from him, could only wonder at the heavy impact of something solid striking the bowl as he, at last, blacked out.

The neighbors were still at the shouting, was his first thought. He looked up at the cracked and peeling paint, stained with old leaks from the apartment above and thought how wonderful it felt to be alive just then.

He was cold and clammy, his body ached, his throat burned, but it was old pain, healing pain. He had passed through the shadow of the valley of death and come out the other side.

He forced his face into a weakly triumphant grin, taunting the specter of Death, and levered himself slowly to his feet. The sight of the blood painted bathroom brought back the fear, something was deeply wrong with him, but it was the object sticking proudly out of the toilet bowl that arrested his attention the most.

It was a sword. He had vomited up a sword. It wasn't terribly long, as swords go, the wickedly sharp blade shaped almost like the leaf of an iris, ending in a round disk graven with little figures, the handle appeared to be bone, wrapped in some exotic leather. The mirror bright finish of the metal seemed warmer and softer than that of steel. This was something ancient, old when the world of men was young. Even through the film of blood and bodily fluid that coated it he knew it was powerful, comfortable. His.

Though the world had changed in ways he could not explain, there were certain practical matters that needed to be attended to. For one, he was covered in drying, bloody sweat.

As he showered the neighbors yells turned angry.

The hot water felt great while it lasted. Too soon it turned to ice and he bit back the usual snarl of outrage, reaching blindly for a towel that wasn't there.

“You're skinnier than the last one.” a rough, feminine voice remarked. “You planning to leave it in the toilet?”

The world may have changed in ways he could not explain, but some things were constant. A strange woman in your bathroom as you showered was still cause for some shock. There was nowhere to go and nothing to cover himself with, so after a moment of entirely natural panic he simply gave up. She had his towel, using it like the old rag it resembled to polish a sword of her own. At least he thought it was a sword, in truth it seemed like it couldn't decide if it was a sword or an ax, though it looked vaguely Egyptian.

She wasn't much to look at, with long matted hair that half obscured a young face that was nevertheless etched deep with lines of pain and anger. He thought she might be very short, but it was hard to tell as she was perched on his sink like a bird, her filthy, bare feet gripping the edge with ragged nails.

“Who are you?!” He demanded, “And give me back my towel!”

She cocked her head at him before throwing him the threadbare scrap.

The neighbors anger had turned to violence.

For once he was beyond caring. For once he didn't wince in sympathy as the first blow was struck, as screams of anger turned to screams of pain.

“You can call me Alecto.” She answered him. “Your sister.”

“My sister isn't a filthy little ragamuffin, and she'd rather die than be caught perched on the sink, much less in another man's bathroom.” He retorted as he wrapped the towel around his hips. There was nothing for it but to stalk past her with as much dignity as he could muster. He had just made it out the door when he felt the cold touch of metal against his neck, the dull inside curve of her blade wrapping around so the sharp back hook touched his adam's apple.

“I would not harm you, but you should not abandon your sword.” she hissed from behind him.

“You want it? You take it.” He replied coldly. Though he couldn't see her, from the way the blade jumped, from the sound she made, he thought he had somehow shocked her. Free of the hook he continued into the small apartment, looking for something reasonably clean to wear.

The woman, Alecto, followed him out after a moment, giving him no privacy to dress. She started to say something but had to pause as a particularly loud and violent exchange passed through the wall. She frowned at the interruption, glancing sharply at the wall itself, as if it had offended her.

“I thought you would have questions. Better I found you then the Varangian.” she said when there was enough quiet to be heard.

Jonah sighed heavily, holding up two fingers.

“Lady, I care about two things.” He ticked them off as he spoke, “First, that I'm not about to keel over dead of some exotic disease, and second that I'm not late for work.” he paused to let another violent exchange pass through the room. “I don't care for swords, and I don't care for crazy homeless people. If you need food, I suggest you try the soup kitchen. Now, I'm going to call Father Michael and let him know that I'm going to be late, and when I'm done I hope you'll be gone.”

She broke into a twisted grin.

“You work at a church? Funny, you don't seem the... charitable sort.” She mocked, then shot another angry look at the wall.

“Well, we all got our character flaws.” He muttered, but with all the noise he doubted she heard him.

The hitting had turned to sobbing, like clockwork.

If anything this seemed to irritate his unwanted guest more than the violence had. As he picked up the phone she stalked from his apartment, leaving him at peace at last.

“Father Michael? Its me, Jonah. I said 'Jonah'.”

“I'm sorry... I heard you the first time. I don't recall any Jonah...” The young priest on the other end replied.

Jonah winced as his neighbor screamed, as a meaty thump of something hard hitting flesh sounded. Damnit, they were back to fighting...

“I'm your handyman.” He reminded the priest. “I'm running a bit late...” something was wrong with the hitting and the screaming next door. It didn't sound right, but then they'd never gone back to fighting after the sobbing started...

“Oh... I... well, I'm sorry.” The priest sounded upset. “I seem to have forgotten all about you. How embarassing. Yes, the handyman, now I remember. You said you'd be late? Well...” Father Michael gave a nervous laugh, covering for his lapse, “I suppose the church won't be falling down in the next few hours.”

As Jonah hung up on the strangely awkward conversation Alecto walked back in his front door, still holding her sword, now dripping fresh blood.

The neighbors were, at last, silent.

“What did you do?!” He wanted to shout, but it came out as a strangled whisper.

“They were a stone in my shoe.” She replied easily. “They offended me, so I cast them out.” She smiled beatifically. “Will you listen to me now... boy?”

Some rational part of his brain screamed that he should be terrified of her, that rational part reached slowly for the kitchen knife on the counter. The primitive lizard brain was, for once, unconcerned. She noticed what he was doing and smirked.

“Should have brought the sword with you, don't you think? Why don't you go grab it.” She pointed to the bathroom door with the bloody blade in her hand and a smirk on her face. “Oh... and welcome to the Eumenides.”

That old, comfortable, familiar rage stirred in him. He had no real love for his neighbors, how could someone love such horrible people after all? But she had simply murdered them!

Alecto's eyes went wide as he leapt over the counter that separated them, less at his sudden athletics and more because of the gleaming blade that was suddenly in his hand, so different than the dull kitchen knife he'd been holding.

“How...” She managed before their ancient blades met, before her own bloodlust rose to meet his. The apartment was silent but for the shuffling of their bare feet against the wore and tired carpet, the dull ringing of bronze against bronze, the grunts of effort and pain as they traded lethal blows in silence. She was faster, but her sword was heavy and slow, demanding harsh chops and sweeping slices, while his reach was fast darting jabs of the wicked point of his own.

It ended as fast as it began, the harsh bend in her sword hung up on the gentle swell of his, catching for a just a moment, long enough for him to grab the blade from her, cutting his hand on its razored edge, and fling it aside. He pinned her back to the wall, the point of his sword hovering mere inches from her eye as she slumped in defeat. He wanted her death so bad he could taste it like bile in his throat, so bad his hand shook at the effort it took to hold back.

“I'm not like you...” He growled, desperate for it to be true, “I'm not a killer.” He forced himself to step back, to let her go. She wiped her face with the back of her hand, looking towards the open door, the one that led to the hall, already filling with onlookers and gawkers, with the first responders coming to check on the dead bodies. No one looked in, no one saw the man and woman fighting their urgent, desperate duel.

“What are you then? One of them? They won't have you, can barely see you, remember you.” She laughed bitterly, mocking him, “Go on. Go tell them you've caught me if you want. Maybe if you try really, really hard they might even listen to you... for a minute or two.”

Jonah looked at the growing crowd, not ten feet away, and realized it was true.

The world had changed in ways he could not explain, and he realized nothing would ever be the same.  

On Leadership

Yesterday I posted a longish bit where I exhorted the audience to become their own leaders and heroes instead of giving up on the entire institution.   I have a few issues with that post, not because I don't believe in it, but because I am all too familiar with people on the internet who seem to enjoy willfully misunderstanding anything not explained, as if to a child.

Rather than turn a long post into a longer post I thought I'd break off my sidebar discussions on various elements into separate posts spread out over a few days.

So lets talk about leading people.

First of all, what Leadership is not: It is not telling people what to do. Sure, a leader might order people around, but saying that is 'leadership' is rather like saying using high beams is driving.  Its something done under very specific circumstances that can easily be misused.

So when I tell you to be a leader, I'm not telling you to go around bossing people.

Likewise, Leadership is not Management.  This is something deeply and erroneously conflated in the modern corporate culture. Not that management doesn't have its role, its place, but its not leadership. People rarely look back fondly on that time their manager totally managed them at work, but scratch a vet and chances are he'll have a story or two about the time he got his ass chewed, and deserved it.

I suppose a remarkably banal way to express the difference is that a Manager makes sure you've checked the box on form ID-10-T, while a Leader makes you the sort of person who checks the box without being told.

I think that captures the essence in about the worst possible, yet still accurate, way.

Of course, in the military its easy. The military is explicitly a hierarchal system, as many male focused groups tend to be.  The leaders are appointed, usually with seniority, over the followers, and in many cases given specific training on how to lead. This training is reinforced by the use of creeds that summarize the leadership philosophy of their rank and role, such as the NCO creed and the Officer's Creed, which are memorized and recited during training.   Thats not to say every leader in the military is good at it, that wasn't my point. The point is that being a leader is easy if you have a clear code and followers appointed for you.

How does this translate to you, Joe on the Street, looking to make a difference in the world?

Well, start with the code.  What we are missing isn't really 'leaders'. We've got plenty of them, its just that they all suck, right?  Why do they suck? Because they are self appointed, smug assholes who use borrowed power to get their way. They have no moral center, no creed but power itself.  They are selfish, and if you read the other post you know that selfishness is antithetical to civilization.

And yes, I will probably have to do a post regarding selfishness and self-interest on another day.

In your personal life there are probably very few people you can simply boss around without looking like an utter tool, so begin a leader is a bit more challenging. That's ok, though: leaders should be able to rise to challenges.

I don't want to make this a simple listicle, and there are plenty of decent works out there that cover the finer points, so I'll try to keep this portion brief. Like I said at the top, this is a sidebar to explicate my terms.

To be a leader you have to be worth following, to be someone you, and others, can respect.  Emulating great men of history is a decent starting point, being solicitous of others, having a moral code and actually sticking to it... these are all good starts.

Know your people. Not your 'followers', but the people you interact with, up and down your hierarchal chain and outside of it.  Be an active participant in your life, and be reliable and helpful.

While I'm far from satisfied with this post I'm going to call it with a piece of advice that runs contra to the advice we hear so often.  If you are not naturally a leader, then don't be yourself. Be the man you want to be, not the one you are comfortable being.

It really is that simple.

Hierarchy, Leadership and Civilization

Ultimately, Civilization is the opposite of Anarchy, which is a modern and popular euphemism for savagery. Civilization requires a certain fundamental order, it requires rules, it demands  selflessness. 

What does that mean, exactly? 

When we are very young we are all a savages, as bloodthirsty and evil as anyone could imagine.  We think of the very young as innocent because they are helpless and harmless, but this is a comforting delusion.  Your infant doesn't care that you have to go to work in three hours, he is hungry NOW dammit!    

It doesn't really get better as they get older. Just observe how fundamentally sociopathic small children can seem when you remove their cherubic faces from the equation. Sure, that video is pretty funny, but only because you are told at the beginning and end what is going on. Stripped of that context.... well, I don't want to belabor the point. 

Humans don't naturally become civilized. Its a process, formally known as enculturation, but most of us know it simply as 'raising kids'. You teach them to share, to consider other people's feelings, to act appropriately. You civilize them, giving them simple, clear rules to follow.  And when you don't do it right you get Ted Bundy, you get a monster.  

When you have rules you have hierarchy. You have leaders and followers, you make demands based on roles.  Selfish men do not rush into burning buildings to save other men's children, but every civilization has firefighters.  Selfish men do not walk the mean streets at night to pacify them, yet we have police.  

And when Order breaks down, when Selfishness becomes the rule rather than the exception, men in those positions seek safety and comfort, the 'Anything it takes to get home to my family' siege mentality prevalent in our police today. It draws men to the 'blue gang' who want the power and prestige, the social cache and legal immunities, perverting the system from within, which we are starting to see increasingly every day.  

Aurini has an excellent examination of the current state of affairs rewarding Leadership today; regarding, essentially, the fallen state of Civilization.  If it has a major flaw, it is that it offers no real solutions.  We need to rust and respect our leaders, yet our leaders are not worthy of our trust... a true statement yet useless. 

Maybe its because I watched Space Battleship Yamato the other day, but I find that, in what appears to be a hopeless situation, that I find myself increasingly appreciating the value of a single lamp in the dark.  

The solution is obvious, even simple. 

Become the Leader, the man worth trusting and respecting.  If there are no Heroes worth emulating in pop culture, become the Hero worth emulating in your own life. Step up to the demand and ignore what the debased pop-culture says about you. Find your subordinates, the people who will follow your lead, and if you are lucky you may inspire the leaders you need. 

Not that this is an easy solution.  The good things rarely are.  

I found a metaphor for the state of our world that I rather liked the other day, that all civilizations pass through a single swing of a pendulum, at one end their foundation, the other their destruction. The Golden Age of such a civilization is the center, the nadir, beyond which it only gets worse until the end.  

I know we passed that point long ago.  I can think of few struggles more meaningful that putting myself in the path of that inexorable swing, of grabbing hold, digging my heels into the dirt and pushing back as hard as I can, for as long as I can.  When Thor wrestled the old woman in the keep of Utgard-Loki and lost, it doesn't merely show the futility of wrestling Old Age itself, but the value in trying.  The Giants are impressed, even scared of how well the Gods do in their impossible tasks. The struggle itself has meaning, has value. This is especially true when the cause is just. 

Civilization is better than savagery. Selflessness is better than self indulgence. Order is better than Anarchy. 

Good is better than Evil. 

My hope for the future has been that eventually the barbarians that will tear down our Rome will eventually discover civilization and rebuild, better than before, but that is just a hope. Plenty of barbarians never bootstrap themselves up, never learn. They destroy and feed, and look for the next host, forever parasites.  Civilization is Hard, and for the individual it can often seem unrewarding, at least in the short term. No one likes to be told No, after all. 

No. In order for that hope to become true, someone will have to remain who wants civilization more, who has the strength and will to bring it. Someone has to be the Light in the Dark.  Why not me? 

Why not you? 

The Hobby Post Follow up

Still without pictures, because I am, ultimately, a lazy fuck.

So, as anyone who has worked with wood could probably tell you, chosing Poplar for my first die was a mistake, one I will have to live with. Once.

However, I was thinking I wouldn't be casting before the first, due to money issues... namely the cost of trying to secure enough copper and tin (and maybe a cheap scale) to make my bronze, never mind the plaster for the molds.

However, the nice people who sold me the furnace (and I really must include a link in one of these posts... possibly the one with pictures) sent me an assload of 'green sand', which is a nice dun color, for making a sand mold. THey also sent some tools and a little box for making some sort of creepy indian head or a green plastic army man into a mold.

Well, the box is all nice and stuff, but its muy muy small, and I happen to have a lot of aluminum lying around in the form of cans. Who said I had to do my first cast in Bronze?  The point is to get practice, and it just so happens that bronze and aluminum casting are kissing cousins.

No, you silly things, I haven't gone and done it yet.  This is all about progress, process and lessons being learned, not 'look at me shiny'.

I got a very narrow plank of basswood the other day, roughly the same length as the sword should be, and the thickness I wanted for the blade. No, I didn't make a new sword die. I made a much smaller 'seven rivet' dagger die. Took me about an hour or so, again with just the chisels and hammer and the crappy, but muy muy sharp hand saw that you totally haven't seen the picture of yet.  Unfortunately, its supposed to be somewhat pear shaped, but the fat bottom of the pear fell off when the wood split along the grain from chiseling. I may need better knives so I don't try that again.  Anyway, I did wind up with a reasonably well balanced 'five finger' dagger shape in the process, so I said fuck it and sanded it down  and carved three future rivet holes for the handle.

Then I spent about two hours building a new mold box out of scrap wood from the garage. It was not my intent to stick to just hand tool for for this job, but the circular saw I own is an antique and utterly incapable of cutting more than four inches into a board without binding up.  Oddly, the cheap hand saw cut through 3/4" pine at a rate of about an inch and a half a second, when it didn't bow from the force of my muy muy manly works.  On the other hand, I had some seriously irregular rectangular pieces of wood.

Right away I made a mistake: the bottom portion of my mold box was floored, as if I was casting in plaster maybe... I dunno. I guess the process is to mold on top and flip over.  

The second mistake was actually a limitation imposed by my hasty and cheap tool set. The irregular box seams meant that 'fully packed' sand actually wasn't fully packed, it was just drive through the gaps between the top and bottom halves of the box.  Also: The halves were rather thicker than I think they needed to be, though without pouring in a thinner mold I have no way of verifying that.

Anyway: Four hours later I had a mold I couldn't pour into, and when separated to remove the die, crumbled in a way that was perfectly poised between being savable... and being not. So I tried to save it, failed and realized... I'ma have to make a new box. Luckily, I know a guy who knows a guy who has a seriously enviable workshop.  That failing, I'll drive an hour or so... nah, you don't need to know that part.

Anyway: With squared edges, proper lengths and a smarter design, I should have a proper 'sand mold' made by the end of the weekend. I may even have my second project (the third is the dagger...oddly enough) ready to go, and with some luck I may still wind up with my bronze instead of aluminum.

I would hang my head in shame for the sorry state of my first box, but honestly, I'm working with scraps, cheap hand tools bought for another purpose, and using my kitchen cutting board for a work bench.  For my next attempt I may take a fallen tree and a piece of knapped flint to carve out the boards before the water gets to it, so fuck your judgement of my woodcraft, asshole!

Also: From my first attempt I'd say that while the literature suggests that the sand mold will survive outside of its wooden form, my experiment suggests otherwise.  Again: I expect that as I move forward I will work more with plaster than sand, but right now I'll use what I've got and learn from it.

I'd like to report that the basswood was a much better choice than the poplar, but given the vastly simplified design of my dagger die (based on additional research into the field) over the sword's, I can't actually claim its the wood as much as the different thickness.  The basswood seems to be just as prone, more prone, to fracturing along grain lines as the poplar.   I can see possibly making a future die out of clay, as an experiment in construction rather than reduction. This goes well with what I've observed with the tangs of bronze swords, where they have a raised lip around the edge that seems ridiculously difficult to do in wood, but trivially easy to do in clay.  Likewise, I saw a Kopesh that I noted would be nearly impossible to do in wood (well, for me, anyways) that looked, again, trivially easy to model in clay, in part to the shape, and in part to the general design.

And yes: I will have the pictures up before I cast the mold. Prepare to be underwhelmed by their lack of interesting action.

Dem Gurlz

So I removed a post because I had a stronger post on the same theme I wanted to put up while it is still relevant, but I haven't actually written that new post yet... le sigh.

Rather than let this blog lie fallow and unsown while I gird my fingers for battle with the keyboard I thought I'd instead take a little time to, well, gloat I guess.

I've commented before that I'm something of a recluse, which is fundamentally true. There are stretches of several days where I don't leave my house except for my daily coffee run and walking the dog, neither of which really count.

That's not to say I can't be sociable and charming when the situation demands, merely that I naturally avoid such situations, to my detriment.

This last month I've been taking some classes at the local community college, one of which is Creative Writing. Not because I need it, per se, but because for me English Classes have always been easy credits, easy 'A's.  Frankly, I'm bored to tears with the teacher and the class for the most part, and subsequently I have taken to turning the classroom into my own personal domain, effectively teaching half the class.  I wish I was exaggerating, but I'm not, really.

That is neither here nor there, however, other than establishing 'scene'.

Its a small class, roughly a dozen people or so.  Of the women in the class we have three categories: The bored housewife who's kids have grown so they're back to school, the young and pretty college co-eds and the proto-feminists. Luckily, there is only one of the last, unluckily she seems to have a familiar history with the teacher and never gets called on her obscene fiction. Obscene in that every man is a kidnapping rapist/murderer, and every woman is a ball breaking karate expert who will teach him what for!   You know? One good story like that is enough. Every story like that is actually somewhat demeaning to men.

This is relevant.

Last week I put up a post where I said I'd force myself to make a minimum number of approaches a week to women. Not going to happen, much like the other goals I set, for reasons not entirely in my control, but...

The next day I made a snarky joke in response to something the teacher said. It was very mildly racy. As I left class I noticed one of the three co-ed girls give me a flash of interest. I wish I could remember exactly what she did, but I noticed it.  I decided I would force myself to approach her on Monday, even though I wasn't terribly interested in her.

For those of you paying attention, Monday was a Holiday. Oops.  She wasn't there yesterday either.

Curiously, however, after I called out the proto-feminist on her rather obsessive man-beating, I noticed another of the co-ed girls was actively engaging me. Rather than leap on that I merely noted it in the back of my head for later. When class broke, one of the 'old women' in class walked with me towards my math class, talking to me about some throw away story intro I had put forth.

Now: in the honest appraisal of things I am, at best, modestly handsome.  I am not stylish or fashionable, but I am tall. I am not terribly fit, but neither am I a frail waif or a fat slob.  I look rather what I am: an average man of somewhat modest age and accomplishments.  My most distinguishing feature is not actually indicative of anything about me, but merely an accident of genetics.

There is a taller, younger, fitter man in the class. There is a burlier man in the class. There are young and stylish (in the new, somewhat insouciant fashion) men in the class.

Yet, for whatever it is worth, I've got a third the girls actively looking at me like I'm god's gift to creative writing, and even the proto-feminist hasn't really challenged me when I called her out... though to be honest she hasn't set forth to break anyone's balls personally... no doubt she'd rather blog about it (burn? Yes, I burned myself. Ouch).

So on Friday I will have to decide between conventionally pretty but obviously a future fatty co-ed, if she returns, or the skinny freckly co-ed, make my approach and watch my ego burn and die. It could be fun.

For the curious: Third co-ed is more to my taste, and convention, in that she makes an effort to be pretty, to dress up.  I've gotten nothing from her, and I've seen her with what I assume is her boyfriend, so I won't waste my time.   Luckily for me, I seem to have aged out of the oneitis and infatuation stages, so the fact that I fancy her isn't distracting me from the girls who have expressed interest.

Every once in a while I wonder what might have happened if I'd taken advantage of that girl that was crushing on me when I was 13, instead of rebuffing her. I bet she went from gawky and awkward to hot in the next five years.  Ah well.

A little bit of Hobby on the Side...

Try to read the title with a bit of Mambo #5, if you can. 

If not, well, I never claimed to be a genius. Not on this blog, anyway. 

One of the few goals of the month of January that I am actually on track to fulfill is the bronze casting one. Well, that and not murdering my dog for shitting in the house. That one's still a go too. Anyway, I feel I should tell you all about what's going on while I wait for my molasses-pepper glazed chicken to cook. 

I have zero experience in casting. I'm not unfamiliar with metal work, but we're talking stuff like sheet metal, a bit of arc welding, riveting and stuff like that. Casting is not something I've done. Nor am I working with any experts in the field, so to speak. I'm something of an autodidact, I most teach myself what I want to know. At least I prefer to start by experimenting, then doing research, then, and only then, if all else fails, do I seek lessons, knowing exactly what my limits are before I go in. 

My primary interest is not merely casting for its own sake, nor chasing the almighty dollar... though both are good enough reasons for me.  No, I'm actually attempting to recreate bronze age weapons and armor, with an emphasis on Greek Antiquities. I'll probably skip the Bronze Panoply.  

Once I'm comfortable with my skills in bronze age armory, I plan to move quickly into iron and steel, blacksmithing essentially. 

Mind you, I'm not simply talking about a bit of notional modern interpretation. I'll learn on a modern propane furnace, and I'm using common steel tools to do the work, but eventually I plan to step back and get primitive. Clay and brick kiln, simpler, historically accurate tools... that sort of thing. When it comes to the Iron and Steel, I expect not simply to make modern steels into useful implements, but to actually cast and forge what I need from raw iron, turning out my own steel. Hell, I may even attempt the classic Japanese forging techniques.  After all, they can make a Katana cut a TANK in HALF!!!

Or, whatever.

So, that's where I'm going. 

Here's where I'm at.

To learn to cast bronze, you first start learning some basic woodworking.  This was a bit of a shock to me, mind you. I'm happy enough lashing logs together to make raft or a cabin or some shit, but whittling and carving have never exactly been my strong suits... and not for a lack of trying when I was younger. 

See, you can't just make a mold to pour your hot metal into, you have to have something shaped like what you're casting to make the mold out of. 

Now, I could go total, old school, primative on y'all and just carve a crude mold out of a chunk of soapstone, and skip the die, but that's trying a little two hard.

So, for the last month I've been carving a chunk of poplar into a rough approximation of the sword I intend to cast.  It has been a frustrating and difficult time, and I'm not done yet.

But, for the first time in nearly two weeks I feel like I've made real progress. 

Mind you, this is entirely by hand. No power tools.

For two weeks I've cut and rasped and chiseled away at this board and only just barely got something close to what I wanted. I bought a plane, and wept when I barely did what I wanted it to do. 

No, I didn't weep. That's poetic license. 

But, way back when I started this trip I bought a chisel, and a set of smaller carving chisels. And today I went to town on the part that's been holding me up the most.  It went shockingly well, astoundingly well. So good, in fact, that all my previous doubts as to my ability to make my own die, even just a simple one like this, have more or less evaporated. I am a new man.

Oh.. my sword is going to be ass, I expect that. I'm probably going to have balancing issues, and once I've cast it the real work actually starts, but for now I'm looking at having a chunk of poplar that I could legitimately shank you with, which is more than I had the other day. 

No.

I could shank you with it, but now it actually looks like a sword die, rather than a really awkward vampire stake or super short fence picket. 

Anyway: As a bit of tie in with previous posts, I'd like to comment that this is the sort of hobby, the sort of side activity I, and others, should be taking up instead of Television or Video Games, the sort of thing we used to do as a people that we've mostly forgotten.  

Not that I'm prepared to give up my games. If you see some laggy, stutter-stop motion guy running around in Warframe, say "hey!". It might be me. 

Fake Update: Check this space for pictures of the work in progress, once I've gotten time to get them up. 

Resolutions

As I noted earlier, I am not fond of the emphasis on New Years Resolutions, so I won't be making any. Still, it would be rather foolish to put off any self improvement projects simply because it is January, and history has shown that I, along with most other people, do better at following through on projects when I (and we) tell people we will be doing them.

Thus, for the rest of the month I am resolved to the following.

Daily posts on this blog.
Finish either Hobbes or Locke
Gym four days a week, with running on the three off days.
Increase my socializing*
Walk the damn dog twice a day instead of killing him for peeing in the house.
Casting.**

For socializing, it is hard to put a hard objective to the task as written. Essentially, I am something of a hermit. I leave my house for necessary food, work or school and not much else. This is simply not acceptable behavior.

Thus, at least once a week, in addition to my already minimal social calendar, I will go out for several hours on at least one purely social excursion, and attempt to meet (and learn names) of at least two new people each such trip.

Seems a bit autistic, but its not really, I simply have to eliminate the easy outs to force myself to actually be a human being and not some sort of primitive cave troll content to watch numbers scroll by on a screen, or what have you.

Further, as I am single again, I will also resolve to make at least two approaches of attractive women each week. Low numbers, but baby steps.  This is, of course, in addition to my other activities. I will, naturally, report in on the first of February with a revised list and results of my original resolutions.

Regarding Casting: I have, for years, been fascinated with metalworking, and I do have some meager skills at such tasks. Nothing professional, but I can get by as a hobbyist.  In a week and a half, however, I will have my first smelting furnace and crucible, so I need to have my die ready to be molded and other critical components (metal, etc...) ready to go.  I refuse to collect equipment that sees no real use, so I will, in fact, be blazing away with glowing hot metal before the end of the month. Perhaps I'll have a couple of pics or vids to show you when it is all said and done.

All out of Fucks and the Empirical Man

Sometime around September of this last year I realized that I had well and truly run out of Fucks to give.  The first and primary consequence of this realization was that I stopped worrying about what my boss thought of me, or the consequences of not being a shit-sucking weasel every day.

Not that I stopped being generally professional. I showed up at work on time, early really, did my job with full conscientiousness, and was generally a model employee... and I felt better about myself and less stressed because I no longer gave a fuck if the boss liked me.

Contrary to what I've heard about Confidence and Boldness, this did nothing to improve my work life. I was fired a few weeks later for a possibly unrelated incident involving the fruits of feminism... saying one of the many, many forbidden words of the modern workplace. Literally. I said one word that got me fired, and that word was "Porn".

I, however, gave no fucks, because the job sucked and I quickly moved into a new job that paid the same money but gave me more hours and had no real annoying office politics. I still gave no fucks, I was, after all, completely out.  Sadly, that job didn't last because I confused two different managers with the same name and the one that was in charge of me decided I had to go.

Again, no fucks were given.

This is neither here nor there.  In twenty years of keeping my opinions to myself and being a good, model, loyal employee, I had somehow sold away a very important and real part of my self identity, my soul. I had given away my fierce and burning urge to be myself.  I am not easily a slave, but habit is a dangerous thing.

In the wake of that... call it a debacle... I decided that I had, at last, run out of patience for the tread mill, for the sacrificing of my own sense of self worth, my own pride in myself for the gratification of increasingly idiotic, but lucky or connected, bosses, for liars and knaves and power drunk sociopaths... I was done.

Because I no longer had the fucks to give.  I had reached the point where the erosion of my pride had meant there was no social condemnation powerful enough to shame me into wanting or needing work to value myself. I had reached a sort of equilibrium, too much pride to go on, not enough to be forced back into it.

I have a very good memory for the defining moments of my life, the things that shaped me into who I am.  Thus I can tell you, objectively, that the promise of the man I was at age 6 was not the man I grew to be at age 18, and despite a general lack of effort since then, I've slowly but surely been finding my way back to that long lost promise.

I went from being an aggressive, determined and confident child to a sort of doormat, relentlessly 'civilized' to the point where I actually slouched consciously to avoid towering rudely over others, where I never stood up for myself, or others, because I had been taught, ruthlessly, that if anyone did anything worth getting into trouble over it, I would catch the worst of it even if, or because, I was in the right.

This is neither here nor there except as a framework for what I say next.  While I occasionally wished I was a different man, a better man, I wasn't terribly unhappy, and even in my halcyon youth I was rather hermit like in nature, solitary... so I can't blame the errors of my parentage for the one thing that pained me most.

However, not giving a fuck has led me to an interesting experiment.  The manosphere, the pick up artists, generally talk about alpha behaviors, even faking it until you make it and other such things. Its always sounded rather interesting, but ultimately academic and somewhat... difficult to verify.

Until now.

Note that I'm not terribly concerned at the moment with seduction and picking up chicks.  My luck there has managed to be tolerable for my circumstances despite my rather deliberate nebbishness, the false neurotic camouflage I have so long adopted to avoid giving offense.

Shedding that requires conscious thought.  Forcing myself to stand upright requires thought and effort. Not tucking my too-long legs under my chair only requires vigilance, as I have always sat 'alpha posture', legs out and spread, when I was given space... but I find I still unconsciously minimize myself in even a modest crowd.

After a week or so I have to say I don't feel any more Alpha, or however you want to phrase it. No more confident, no more self assured. I still have that empty well where my Fucks used to reside.

On the other hand, I do notice that I care less about those many minor offenses, real or potential that used to nag at me.  A rather minor case in point: Today I wore sunglasses inside.

There is no law, and damn few rules about sunglasses indoors, but it is something that is simply not done.

No one said a word to me, which is not unusual in and of itself and I didn't feel particularly rebellious doing it. Its sunglasses, man... its not like I was swinging my dick out and about or anything.

However, having made the conscious decision, with full malice aforethought, to challenge this unspoken rule of etiquette, I realized that I literally had no worries, not even the pale ghosts of the worries I still had after I ran out of Fucks, that used to plague me about every minor action or inaction. So what if someone thought I was rude, or that I was doing something wrong? So what if it wasn't the one thing I had deliberately chosen to do but some other niggling point of etiquette that I just didn't 'get'?

As it was deliberate, as I expected some condemnation, spoken or not, nothing else that might have worried me really applied.

In a sense, my sunglasses had set me free, if only temporarily and from the most minor, if constant, of stresses in my life.

In a sense, I was doing something I had never really done in the last twenty years or so: I was being absolutely true to myself rather than forcing myself to conform, and poorly, to someone else's standards.

Freedom as a pair of sunglasses.

Who knew?




While it is still early in my empirical test of the 'fake it till you make it' school of manospherian alphadom, I can say that I've had an early positive result.  I'm reluctant to read too much into it, after all I am deeply in the grip of a sort of apathy that seems to approach the levels of a psychotic break. It might not be the sunglasses, the rule breaking, per se but the fact that they merely demonstrated that not actually having a fuck to give means not being stressed by the little shit.

But if, in a few weeks, I feel I've made progress on maintaining my "alpha physical frame", and I haven't found a compelling reason to stop, I will progress my crude experiment to the next level. I have been cataloging the moments of my adult life that I have been more happy with myself in one way or another and will work hard on recreating those times as an organized whole.  Some I will start immediately, as they require investments of time to pay off, others will require more... thought.

For now, the glasses are tentatively chalked up to a positive result of... shall we call it the 'do what thou wilt' principle?  I think we shall.

I note that simply being lazy is not the same as doing as thou wilt.  Breaking the social norms of public comportment as a deliberate act is not the same as going grocery shopping in your pyjamas, as seems to be the current fashion.  That is a passive display of generalized apathy and contra to both my intention and my nature. It is a fault to be overcome for its own sake, not a statement of 'being true to oneself'.

But this post has hit the rambling stages, so I bid you adieu.

And I'm still all out of Fucks.