Daily workout log

For Sunday:

60 x 2 crunches, 15 lb. weight

45 minutes on the elliptical machine

Went to the park yesterday. Felt completely along. Somewhere, I feel like the Swan's life is glowing and golden right now. Mine is empty.

Desire and worth

I am locked inside an irrational skull. I suppose we all are. You know why I think Karl Marx has always held such an appeal to intellectuals, in spite of the manifest failure of his ideas? Because everything in life is essentially a market; people with a surplus of some resource trade it to receive some resource that they normally lack access to.

For anybody other than a hard-core Ayn Rand groupie, this seems deeply unjust. Surely the fruits of this life ought to be divvied up by some more humane, compassionate scheme than simple supply and demand? Faith offers one alternative, claiming that in the fullness of time, all great rewards shall flow to the righteous. But faith is dead to most intellectuals. Indeed, I consider myself a firm Christian, and even in the darkest nights of my soul, I cannot really accept atheism. But even I am forced to admit that my faith is largely just a philosophical position with no feeling of force behind it.

Marxism provides intellectuals with a pseudo-rational basis for the comforts of religion. Like the Gospels or the Koran or the Book of Mormon, it proclaims an end to the tyranny of the market. But if the 20th century taught us anything, it taught us that the market is the cold, Scrooge-like master of us all.

Forgive my meandering, but I do have a point to make here. The market, unfortunately, mixes uneasily with human happiness, because the logic of the market teaches us that scarcity affects value. In human relationships, we are all mostly interchangeable commodities. The dull fact is that very few of us have any deep things of value to offer. We are mostly not good looking or charismatic or entertaining or immensely talented or wealthy. Most of us are stuck in the dull, gray mass that accumulates in the center of the bell curve. We are boring. We are the background noise in the universe of the mighty and the gifted.

But do YOU feel like a commodity? Do YOU feel like an insignificant piece of grain inside a towering silo? Do you see yourself as an interchangeable worker bee in a hive, where somebody else is the queen? I know we all feel that way to some extent in modern society, but do you feel that in the deepest part of your soul?

No, you don’t, and neither do I. You feel yourself to be utterly unique, as beautiful and rare as a diamond. Oh, perhaps the mirror forces you to admit that the particular vessel of flesh you are wrapped in is not particularly special, or even repulsive. But the only mind, the only soul you are truly able to see is your own.

And that makes you feel special. That is why you feel in some sense that the world really does revolve around you. You feel it, I feel it, everybody who has ever lived feels it. You feel that the dreams you have are bigger and more real than other people’s. The love you have for others is deeper and more authentic than anybody else’s. You think deeper, you feel more, your soul is more shining and beautiful than anybody else in the world. You feel that in some essential fashion, everybody around you lives a life much more shallow and limited than your own. Because all you can see is the skin, it seems natural to think that this is the limit of the person. You are the only one with a colorful, churning, rich interior life. Everybody else is surface, hollow on the inside.

We’re supposed to see this as a deep flaw: “Narcissism,” we call it. But in reality, it is the only natural way we have of thinking. Seeing ourselves in any other way requires us to make a mental effort, and it always feels unreal. Buddhist enlightenment or Christian compassion are things you have to work at and they will never become second nature. No matter how much effort you put into it, no matter how much you meditate or how much you pray, it will never be like riding a bicycle. The people we call “narcissists” are in reality just the folks who feel no compulsion to camoflage their own self-image for public consumption. They embrace and flaunt the feelings that the rest of us try to deny.

Here, then, is the problem: Life is a market economy, and in a market economy, the special and beautiful is supposed to command a high price. Each of us, individually, feels he or she is a thing of great value, and thus we feel intuitively that in giving of ourselves, we should receive great value in return. I am a scarce, precious resource. Am I not justified in putting a very dear price on that?

But the steely reality, again, is that objectively, none of us are very special. We are worker bees in a hive, ants in a colony. In the pages of history, we are statistics; the lives and deaths of millions of us are a notation in a dusty ledger. We’re the fuel and feedstock for the ambitions of that God-kissed golden race: The swift and the strong, the clever and the comely, the kings and generals and all the Swan-like princesses.

And for that, we are condemned to want what we cannot have. You cannot desire something which you know nothing of. If you felt yourself to be nothing but a worker bee — if you really believed that — you would never wish for more. Example: You don’t have the desires and lusts of a cat, or a dog, or a fish, because those things are alien to you: You are not and never will be a cat or a dog or a fish.

But you KNOW what it is to feel special. You feel that in your bones. You feel that you are a special treasure. The wide chasm between the way you feel in your head and the way the world sees you and treats you is, I think, the root of much of our anxiety. You feel valuable and special, but the world treats you as cheap and common. I am no Buddhist, but I believe Buddhism has hit upon a deep truth when it declares that the essence of life is suffering, and the path to enlightenment is to eliminate desire.

I think intellectuals are more acutely aware of this dilemma than most people. They spend so much time in their heads that they are more intensely aware than most people of the gulf between their mental self-image and the image seen by the rest of the world. And because they’re so damn smart, they have a greater capacity to analyze the problem than the average person, for whom this dilemma is probably just a bewildering, unfathomable fact of life.

Ordinary people are still able to find comfort in faith, but we intellectuals are supposedly beyond all that hooey. We want facts, we want rationality, and for many intellectuals, Marxism (and more generally, socialism) provides the healing balm that God no longer can. Although I doubt most intellectuals think of it in these terms, I think they’re attracted to the idea of a world that awards bookish thinkers a value more commensurate with their own self-image, or that at least denies those rewards to others in the name of justice.

A few days gone...

Haven't posted in a few days. Been too tired and depressed. I may post something later tonight if I can work up the energy.

Here's my workout log for today:

30 x 4 pushups

60 x 2 crunches, 10 lb. weight

10 x 2 arm curls, 25 lbs.

7 x 2 arm curls, 30 lbs.

3 x 2 arm curls, 35 lbs.

45 minutes on the elliptical machine.

I've been playing around on plentyoffish.com. I've had modest luck with it in the past. None so far now. None of the attractive women ever reply to messages. The only women who express interest in me are just not my cup of tea. Sigh. It just sucks for everybody. And so many good women my age have kids...God. Why, God, why? Are my wishes so impossible to fulfill? Am I that much of an outlier?

a

No point to it sometimes, it seems. No point at all.

Holding my heart securely inside

I had to drop off my dog at the Dove's house for the weekend. Seeing her always makes me feel incredibly guilty. I wish I could make myself love her the way she loves me, because she deserves so much to be happy. If I could make my own happiness, I would have my passions directed towards the Dove, not the Swan. 

Of course, I could say, well, I'm going to be selfless and put aside my own concerns for the happiness of another. But no. See, I've already been through a marriage. I know what marriage is like. *IF* I ever get married again, I intend to spend the rest of my productive life on this planet putting my family — my wife and hopefully my kids — first, in ever conceivable way. Now, if I am going to take that step — and I would very much like to take that step, because I think it is the only true path to human happiness — I am *DAMN* sure going to be selfish about the person I choose to do it with.

In many ways, I believe my first marriage failed because I wasn't selfish enough — at least at the beginning. You can't be selfish in a marriage if you want it to work, but I see no ethical problem with being as choosy as possible when picking the person to be by your side during the long decades of work and disappointment that characterize even the best marriages. Given the stakes involved, I am quite convinced of the prudence of absolute selfishness on this point.

I intend for my choice of marriage partner to be the last completely and utterly selfish decision I make in my life. After that, I will subsume myself completely to caring for and protecting my family. So if it's my last shot, I will NOT be settling for anything less than the best I could reasonably hope for.

But you know what? I am inclined to blame the Swan for this whole sorry state of affairs. You see, after my divorce, I was a completely broken man. Even as the other things in my life began to improve, I still felt utterly defeated.

Had the Dove come into my life then, she would have been everything I could have hoped for and more. I would spend the rest of my life loving her and treating her like a queen.

But instead, you know who DID come into my life then? The Swan. Again, of course — she'd already torn me up years before, and I'd spent many, many long years trying to heal that wound. And now, instead of the Dove, the Swan was the one who came tearing back into my life — convincing me that I was somebody she genuinely cared for and indeed, loved.

Doing that — giving me that taste, once again, then stealing it away — was the most horrible thing she has ever done. Because it hurt me. Here's how:

First of all, there was the obvious emotional toll of losing her AGAIN. That was very severe, of course. But secondly, somewhere in that mysterious fog that conceals the innerworkings of my mind, she fucking flipped a switch or changed a gear or — something...

The result was that she completely reset my irrational expectations. I had worked hard and long to resolve myself to never having another girl like her — and then she came along and fucked it all up. And now my restless damn soul is once again, desperately hungry for another taste of her — or something very close, at least. Meaning I am stuck once again apparently wanting something I can never, ever have...

Fuck, Swan. I mean, Jesus. I hope the man that ends up with you really fucking appreciates you. I mean he ought to litter the ground in front of your feet with rose petals everywhere you go. Because otherwise, it makes a total mockery of all the suffering I've endured on your behalf.

Are you worth it? I am utterly convinced you are — at least my bastard heart is convinced. Please know that — and please, if you don't take me, don't trade your gifts away for anything less than what I would have given you. I would walk a thousand miles for you; please don't give your heart to any man who wouldn't walk at least two thousand.

Shit. I can't take this. I can't take it, just can't take it. Something will eventually have to give. I am very, very strong, and I've made a commitment here to hold out for a very long time. But eventually, the thing that is going to give will be me and my worthless excuse for a life...

At the casino

Well I'm at the casino. God, I love beautiful women. I wish I knew what you had to do to get one. I'm kind of drowning in female beauty here...all these hot chicks dressed in nightclub outfits.

Sigh. At the same time, it reminds me: I am destined to die alone. I am the loneliest person in the goddamn world. I go out in crowds and I shrink from interacting with people because I am so intimidated, both by the men and the women.

But especially the women, the beautiful, beautiful women. How did a woman like the Swan ever notice I was even alive?

It's not all bad. I won $200 playing slots. I just went up, fed in a $5 bill, pressed a button, and boom: $200 richer. I immediately cashed out and walked away.

Yeah, nice, but I need that kind of luck in real life, not in a casino. I need it with women; I need it with my job. Sigh...maybe tomorrow...

Or maybe never.

Workout log I suppose...

Well, for Friday, the stats were:

60 x 2 crunches, 10 lb weight

30 x 2 pushups

10 x 2 arm curls, 25 lbs.

7 x 2 arm curls, 30 lbs.

4 x 2 arm curls, 35 lbs.

44 minutes on the elliptical machine

It's been a hellish week at work, but luckily the weekend should be good. Going to Miami for the first time, with my Dad. Gonna visit the Hard Rock Casino. It should be fun.

Maybe I'll be able to write more, too...

I'll try to get in workout time while I'm there; we'll see how that works out.

Faith and responsibility...

I like C.S. Lewis and all, but I have to admit, on the subject of suffering, he really could be a bit of an ass. I came across this Lewis quote today:

The security we crave would teach us to rest our hearts in this world and pose an obstacle to our return to God ... Our Father refreshes us on the journey with some pleasant inns, but will not encourage us to mistake them for home.

This reminds me of John Kenneth Galbraith's observation that "the conspicuously wealthy always turn up urging the character-building values of the privation of the poor." You know, fuck off, C.S. Lewis. Seriously, go eat a bag of dicks. I know some Christians are called to a life of suffering, but I burn with an inner conviction that I am not one of those so called. I really can't apologize for the fact that I am made of weak stuff, and if God loves me, He will understand that.

My understanding is that God is not supposed to saddle us with a burden we cannot carry, and if He wants us to perform beyond our capability, He must stand willing to lend a hand. I do not shrink from hardship: "Batter my heart, three-person'd God," as John Donne wrote. But he ended the sonnet thusly:

Take me to you, imprison me, for I,
Except you enthrall me, never shall be free,
Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me.

They call our relationship with God a covenant, right? A covenant involves two parties, and imposes obligations on both. I am angry and hurt enough that I've got the damn nerve to ask you, God: Are you holding up your end of the bargain?