Walk the Line

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The veins begin to grow on my neck, blood pumping through every tube at high speed. My skin burns and your eyes widen. Everything comes to a slow crawl, there is nothing left inside but the fire of the animal. Go for the kill, it says. DO IT!

I twitch, no one sees. So close. GO! GO GO GO! But, I rest, time speeds up to normal. And there is her long, horse-like face, sans makeup, sans any redeeming quality. A person again, nothing more than a person. And her words.

Cunt, the human says as she turns away. Whorecunt.

My boss, out of nowhere, for no other reason to wave her non-existent dick in front of the new blood, insulted me. Told me I was awful for camera and that I should be doing lighting instead. With her new, nubile, inexperienced assistant at her side, she told me to “Get out of the way. Woymn are here!”

Could I have said something? Of course. I was within my right to. I could of lit the fire under her feet and let the whole place burn with my words. It could of cost me my job, this train of money into my account and work with this company, but it would of been justice on a woman who has made everyone’s life out here beyond difficult on top of our normal duties.

But I withheld. I eyed the boss of bosses talking to the moneylenders, trying to keep the chaos in check. I eyed the other camera head talking shop with one of the producers. I had no back up. I had no exit strategy. My fire would be put out quickly, the arsonist blamed and strung up, and wounds treated and pampered (more than she’s been already). The net benefit would be a second of personal satisfaction and six weeks of punishment, at best. Home and poor again, back to square one, at worst.

Status and respect do not go hand in hand. To those not in the tyrannical cross hairs of a mentally ill feminist, her title comes with all the respect I give to the others who’ve earned it. The others have recognized my hard work, my skills and my loyalty, and given the respect I deserve. She dismisses it all, because I have a penis, a penis that gets in the way of her political and mentally deformed ambitions that we all must suffer through.

Could I have said something? Only if I wanted to be like her and sabotage the job for personal gain.

I held my place, shut my mouth and walked away. Saving my words for another day. A day when the system is not at her back. A day when the line can be crossed, happily and with purpose.

If I Had A Heart (The Itch)

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This will never end
‘Cause I want more
More, give me more
Give me more
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You feel that itch. It can start on the skin, or just under, and it spreads. Arms, legs, hands, feet, fingers, nails; all up and all down until its consumed you. You’ve got to do something. You can’t just sit there, you’ve got to get up. Clean something, make something, do push ups, eat, drink, fuck. Something! The itch is overwhelming. Sitting at home, at your desk, listening to your girlfriend drone on and on with her friends at a “party”. God-fucking-dammit, you’ve got to disappear. Nothing feels right until you’re out in the real air, on a mission, to do ANYTHING, but what you were just doing.

I used to think there was something wrong with me. I would get bored easily of something, move on to something else of interest, get bored of that, move, move, move. I must be sick in the head, I must be lazy or unmotivated. I got told that this or that is out of place, that I must keep up with everyone else (“keep up” being used as a term for “same”), I can be so much more.

What is “more”? What is this goal I’m supposed to attain? The grand endgame of the life of a decently fit, white, western male…

This?

Or this?

Been there, done that.

None of that interests me.

You know why people get bored, sad and depressed when they get these things? Because they think life is over. Those who drilled themselves into deep, underground bunkers of forced lifestyles, no matter their clique, end up suffering under their own self-doubt and hatred. They hate their mortgage, their family, their legally bound fuck buddy they knocked up. They become mental cripples, complaining of the life they built for themselves, if only they did more before succumbing to weakness.

The itch is not a mental illness. Its not ADHD, ADD, bipolar disorder, anxiety, psychosis or white privilege. The itch is your natural male urge to go out and be. To build empires and to burn villages (or at least fuck some dude’s girlfriend). Its that ever-present, ever burning, ever enjoyable instinct that brought us from the death traps our evolutionary ancestors ran from and spread us across the planet to every corner, killing, eating and creating as we went.

Its not easy today, with the world so easy for us first-world folk. We live in the cultural empire of McDonalds, Starbucks and the ever-present wagging finger. I’ve climbed the stones of Death Valley, nearly been shot by idiots, seen the sunrise from the top of a mountain, sat with my feet dangling over some of the most dangerous rapids. Sometimes you need money, sometimes you just need to get off your ass. Either way, do it. Tell the voices in your head, or in your home, to fuck off while you go fulfill one of the oldest and most important urges in human history.

Make a name for yourself in your circle, or even better, try to make yourself a name in your town. Do something incredible, or infamous. Be part of a story. Be the reason for a story. Take the time to be remembered when you pass, or just be another faded name on your future kin’s family tree.

A Much Needed Rest

Its been almost two months since my last post. I just couldn’t think of anything to say, which in some cases is a good thing. Sometimes, you just need to break from things for a while, step back and readjust. See things from farther out.

Aside from side jobs here and there, the hiatus has been great. The career path is slowing being built, one brick at a time, making other things easier to deal with.  Like the fact I crossed my six month deadline from The Before and while my strength is up, the fat is still there. I didn’t hold to any workout for long. What got me stronger was working movies. Lifting heavy cases everyday, 5 days a week and eating fresh food during lunch had me looking better. It was afterwards. It was staying at home and not doing much, and the beer drinking, that got me back up to my starting weight six months ago. Things happen.

Speaking of, I am getting more work calls than ever. My name is finally spreading around and reputation increasing. The hours and the shit someone has to go through to finally get a bit higher than before can be depressing, but you just have to stay strong. Stay with it. Take every hit and get back up. If you’re going to quit, realize that means its over. You tried, you failed, you can’t go back. Not the way you’re thinking now. That was my problem when I first started years ago and when I returned in 2011. I wasn’t prepared. I wasn’t thinking ahead. There were so many things on my mind I felt totally overwhelmed and defeated. Now, after struggling, and a much needed rest, the world isn’t so heavy. My mind isn’t so fogged up with a million things that don’t matter. Focus and drive are in. Good things await.

Lose Yourself

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You can hang on to dreams. You can bring up the past, the future or the what ifs of times gone wrong. You can sign up to an ideology, pray and protest for a better world that your lizard mind knows won’t happen. You can cry and wait and wait and wait for the saving grace of charity or just freeze yourself in place until the world goes dark.

Or you can move and make it happen.

I’m still living with my parents. I used to be on my own. I was on my own for a long time. No government help, no money sent through desperate phone calls to ma and pa. I held my own. Then my world was torn apart. My pride was destroyed. My ego broken. The very deep darkness exploded and coated my every action. I had debt and I added to it constantly with binge drinking, fast food and impulse buying. Layer upon layer of security and self-medication. Still, now and again, I slip into that dark world. Angry, lost and happy to break the bank for a night’s worth of numbness.

But that won’t get me where I want to be.

I use my skills. I can talk and attract women. Does it always go right? No. It never will. Sometimes I forget that. I hate when I miss things I think I deserve. A girl that caught my fancy who’s got a boyfriend. A “good job” when I just get more work piled on. Its what makes people snap.

99% of the time no one gets what they want.

Yet, at the darkest times, the flicker of light is there. The dream you can reach. It won’t be easy, it won’t be pretty, but the struggle will take you there. I recently bought myself a camera that shoots HD video. I haven’t owned camera nor shot my own stuff since 2007. I’ve been floating for years, now landing on solid ground, ready to put myself back out there, be creative and show my work to the world.

There is no happy, magic ending to your desires, whatever they may be. Once you get them, you will have to keep moving, fighting, being. But this is our way of living beyond what we’re told to be. I am still living with my parents, a kind, caring cage of the soul, and it can depress even the best excitement. It is only a step among many, and soon, those steps will take me out the door and back on my own, as I am meant to be.

Amused Mastery and Queen Street Corner

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There’s a mess of men waiting down Queen Street. Saturday fight night celebrations. Bartenders scrambling between pitchers and dispensers and the screams of young ladies in the mode. The young waitresses snaking through fat bellies and high heels, drinks and food held high between the drunks and the tokers. The old men slapping each other’s backs and the young ones giving fist bumps or handshakes too complicated for their clothing.

I find the last stool left and hop up to the bar. The man behind the bar offer’s me a pint of Blue, drink of choice during cheap pint nights. I nod and look up to the screen. The Prelims are over. Two beat ugly chicks stand in the middle of the Octogon. Glad I missed that. To my left, a group of four of Niagara Falls finest common women chat up a storm with a giant plate of cheese drowned nachos before them, already half eaten. None of them particularly attractive, but cute enough, except for the obligatory fat friend with a string of melted marble hanging from the corner of her lips. Reminds me of bad porno.

The night could swing that way. Talking to what’s available, getting in to trouble with some psycho cunt like the last one I picked up from here. I could drink too much, lose sense, and go for what I can instead of what I want. Nodding to long, bitchy stories, hoping for a little pussy after taking their verbal beating. I could be the man at the end of the bar with the dog faced woman swinging her hands in anger at some slight long forgotten by the man hoping to sleep with her. I could be the stumbling man and the manjaw with spiked hair “female” slipping hands between legs in a booth, shot glasses scattered on the table. I could be the hipster puking in the bathroom, drink still in hand, alone holding his leaking pride.

I watch the fights instead. I drink a pint, I eat and I yell at the TV. Watching tough men with no killer instinct “fight”. The old man next to me agrees. We talk and laugh. We pick winners and end up right.

A tiny, strong-faced chick with a tad too much makeup, but an excellent body walks up directly between my senior friend and myself. High on the crowd or already drunk, she tries a smile at me. The old man, born years beyond the taint of modern femininity, offers up his food to the lucky lady. Her friend, a nerdy type, shy as a nun, grabs some as well. He offers his seat up. Another time, another way of manners.

Roy Nelson knocks out Chieck Kongo. Sonnen gets his ass beat. I order my last beer, the tiny chick basically laying in to me, drunk as fuck. No talking, just looks. She leeches off the old man while getting her attention from me. I slide out of my stool, making sure she feels my departure and go outside. I sit at the newly bought plastic patio chairs. The entertainment is about to begin.

It begins with a shouting match. A small group of guys close, but visibly on two sides. On the edges are the females of the pack, chatting fast, growing to screaming. In response, the rivals start to scream, barking like little dogs on the wrong side of a fence. The crowd grows. The bouncer shows up. I sip at my Blue, laughing. Someone swings, the women screech and yell in fear. Shocked faces from the others on the patio as the street fills up. The most exciting moment of their week is happening. The safety of their world is smashed for a few seconds as a war seems to descend on the corner. I smile at the nearest woman, “I love UFC nights.”

I go back inside to finish my last pint. “You’re back?” the bartender asks, since I paid my bill a while ago.

“I never left. I stay for the entertainment.” He laughs.

I sit again and beside me is the two girls from before. The whole of the old man’s food order before them. The tiny one is shitfaced, head on her arms, arms on the bar. The nerdy one is keeping her eye contact isolated. No one should look at her, her darting eyes say. I play with the change I have left in my hand. Enough for another drink for the ladies beside me, enough for a drink for me as well. I finish my beer and slide the glass to the edge and place the money beside it. Life is good. Life is getting much better. My gut tells me to pay it forward to the deserving and that would be the hard workers in front of me, not the parasites beside me.

I hop off the stool once again and tip my hat to the nerdy chick who quickly looks away. I smile, amused by everyone around me. This is how it works, I realize. This is how you should feel. Not neurotic. Not insecure. Not scared. Not fearful. Not worried about what you said or what you did to scare off a girl. Not caring that a fight is a foot away from you. Not caring about anything but your own relaxation and joy.

The common way to decribe this is feeling like a king. I’m no king. Kings are authority. I feel like an outlaw. As I’m breaking the rules of the world. Maybe I am, maybe I’m not, it doesn’t matter. What matters is the smile on my face, the spring in my step and the steel blue looks I give to the ones I deem worthy of my time.

Don’t Stop

My sleep had been off almost for a week. One day that lasted too long, and I just couldn’t get back into the groove. Napping days turning into sleepless nights. Frustration set in. Its still off, but I’ve had enough.

Don’t be surprised when your rest kills the rest of your spirit. It bites into your day and what you can accomplish, even if you’re unemployed. There are 960 minutes in a 16 hour day, if you sleep for 8 hours. That’s 960 minutes to get your ass in gear. To work out, to look for work, to clean, to read, to do anything, but sit there and say “There’s nothing to do.” There is always something to do that improves your body and mind.

The biggest killer of motivation is inaction. When you slow, you falter. When you falter, you fall. I’ve worked a full 24 hours, slept for 4 and then gotten back up for another 12. I’ve come home sore and collapsed to get up and do it again. I’ve burned my body to the core before and I did it because there was something coming after. Always after.

When you’re stuck in a rut where you can’t go out, work, or whatever. Remember its just a bump. Its not a roadblock that ends the road your on. Any roadblock is a barrier YOU have put up for yourself. When you say “I can’t,” its no one else’s fault but your own. Climb, dig, tear that motherfucker down brick by brick if you have to. You can trip, get scraped up and cringe through pain, you can rest for minute, but don’t ever, ever stop going towards what you want.

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Gan Eagla

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What’s the point?

Wake up. Get up. Bathe. Brush. Eat. Ignition. Drive. Work. Lunch. Work. Ingition. Drive. Open door. Sit. Watch. Eat. Sleep. Repeat.

What’s the point?

What’s the point of taking up weights? What’s the point of going out for a drink and a night of pretty women rejecting you? What’s the point of socializing? What’s the point of suffering? Why do any of it?

There are plenty of people who get along just fine doing the minimum. They glide across life like a dog on ice, going and going and going until they hit the end, and that’s it. Its over. They’ve made it to the end with little effort and smile their stupid canine smile, content.

Why bother pushing yourself? Why bother trying? What’s the point? No tales will be written of you. No songs. History will forget you as it does every name that doesn’t change the world or try to conquer it through evil. You’ll never be Achilles or Leonidas or Perseus or Spartacus or Vercingetorix. Even the great heroes of the war that ushered in the atomic age, Richard Winters or John Basilone, fall in comparison to the names of the famous, the socially smart or the politically correct. Without an army, a party, a massacre or a sex tape, you are nothing but wind to history’s mountians.

What’s the point?

The point is you. The point is the effort. The point is your cause. Being the best without laurels or fame or throngs of screaming harpies and parasitic men leeching your aura, trying to taste your life through presence.

The great names of history became history to due to circumstance more than anything. Right place, right time, right choice. Not too long ago, a poor man with the right words and a strong will could usurp an empire. Men with vision could have entire islands or countries named after them. Wars fought in their name. Monuments of valor. Now, men trod along, living like kings, but feeling like slaves. Greatness comes at the behest of a dollar or the backing of a shadow government. Now, if you are not their man, you are no man, if you hold to what the world believes a man is.

What’s the point?

The point is reclaiming. The point is adventure. The point is glory and honor and pounding your chest on top of the world even if no one hears you. The point is to touch God through your blood, sweat and tears. Loosing the fat of life and leaving only the harden muscle of living.

The point is being without fear. Now, and forever.