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Postmortem Hate Training
Trying to Kill a Broken Down Piece of Junk
I now know the world was designed to erase me and sometime after this realization I lost the spark of hate for it that had formerly buoyed my defiance of the meat-puppets who inhabit it and hate me by instinct, as they should. Since then, all I have really cared about was writing and helping friends, family and young men. The writing and low burnt ember of my former hate along with a lifetime of injuries, has, since 2014, made waking from sleep a torture and ambling about the day an experiment in pain tolerance.
With my only ambition targeting the postmortem world, with no chance of feeding my ego through writing in my lifetime, I have become a ghost of sorts. Without competitive fighting I truly have no desire to live, no spark raging for another season of survival within. Recently a few of the young men I train expressed concern about my worsening physical condition in the context of sparring. I even fought a few stick and machete bouts this summer, 1-1-1 on stick and 1-1-2 on machete I think, definite far side of the mountain postings.
So, after Max coached me on fasting and Rick on keto eating, I have spent a month either not eating or eating zero sugar, 5% of previous carbs, 30% of previous calories, about the same amount of meat and an increase of fat of about 50%. I increased my physical activity by chopping wood, digging trenches, weeding, picking produce, foraging, moving boulders and railroad ties, building retaining walls, hauling flagstones and form stones by the pallet, hitting the bag, doing footwork drills and walking at elevation. In one month this has resulted in the loss of 1 inch on my waist and zero pounds. Rick had predicted me losing between 5-10 pounds per week if I did enough activity that I was at the point of passing out at least once a day.
Hate has returned, the hate I felt for my weak ass through childhood that pushed me to become a dangerous man. So, my goal now, is torture and injury, to push every activity past dehydration to the point where something gives. Today it was my aductor attachment in the left groin. I am committed to activity to failure every day at least once a day, preferably thrice. If a part starts making noise, seizing up and causing ballistic levels of pain, I’ll slow down or stop. I went 5 miles hiking today and found myself dehydrated so went 3 more, because this fat piece of shit deserves to suffer.
The reason I am writing this column or “tag” is to shame myself into staying the course until I either break down completely or finally get myself down to a weight where I can box with Oliver with a face guard headgear on without getting the discs in my neck ruptured. He’s got a fight on November 21. I want to be able to spar with him by October 21.
My age is 56
My waist is 37, where it was between 27-31 for 30 years, down from 38.
My weight is 228, where it was between 143-and 167 for 30 years.
My current injuries are, two slight hernias, a strained left aductor, a fractured left radial bone almost healed, and a sprained right ankle. I spend 6-8 months of any given year since age 48 with a sprained ankle, so it’s no big deal.
Starting tomorrow I will make a post each day for the previous day and any days between when last I posted, such as time on the train.
I have no reasonable expectation of success. This is a writing exercise, so that I can demonstrate the kind of activity I used to do to get into and stay in fight condition through most of my life. As a writing exercise this cannot fail!
The mental meditation I have used thus far, is on the Silver Shields, or Foot Companions of the Macedonian Kings Phillip and Alexander and their successors the Diodachi warlords. These old cruds had fought for Phillip as young men, marched 60 miles a day in the Syrian Desert for Alexander in their middle years, and fought for the Diodachi as old men—the most feared foot soldiers in the Hellenistic World. I think of those old cruds while I’m trying to equal my deceased self and fail at every step.
It’s better than waiting for the inevitable. So far the downside has been that I sleep so well that I once again dream, and have to face all the hate, misery, disappointment, failure, rejection and ostracism that was the fabric of an ill-spent life, over and over again as this rattle-trap body rests as if it has a chance of making it out of this shit show alive.
Over these past few days as I weaklinged around things too big and heavy for me to move without totally blowing out the two hernias [as such I’m calling these piddling feats “slow motion sorcery”] I keep thinking about the Silver Shields, that they are still alive in a few odd minds and moldering pages. In this pursuit, thinking about the Silver Shields helped, always remembering, that in the end, the Diodachi turned on them and killed them for their hubris.
If you are young and healthy, what I will be reporting on my activity should be well within your physical limitations, perhaps giving you an idea for a method that might fit your lifestyle.
Winter of a Fighting Life: A Kinetic Memoir
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