My Impossible Labors

Now, having conquered my lessers, feeling spent and drained, may I discuss how I really feel, calm and content and ambitious.

What defines me, but this fiery spirit!—like a demon sent from Hell, unconquerable, untamable. Let us discuss, then, the impossible labors of my life.

For, indeed, I am like Hercules!—the giant of Greek mythology. He, son of Zeus, too was schizophrenic, who murdered his own family, women and children, in one act of Devilish madness.

What a terrible case…

And in him, do I see myself—who, when the Argonauts landed upon the island of single, fertile women, lounging and bedding casually and carelessly, looked upon them fierce and suggested they get a move on. How I look at our modern society the same way!

One casual fling after another, and woman opens her legs at the slightest glance, and a man is turned off immediately from the pursuit, insulted, defiant, rebellious. Like the bull, enraged!—who searches for a real challenge, and finds it not.

And he, Hercules, strangled a pair of serpents as an infant. I have been writing for only ten days!—and I am a newborn in this world of philosophy, yet have I dispatched with the two greats who came before me.

And to all of you would-be-philosophers, until you have wrestled with and conquered the spirits of Plato and Nietzsche, Homer and—perhaps—Shakespeare, I shall pay you no mind, unless you wish to take my ideas and sharpen your craft, pay me fealty as King of this land.

I have given you the answers!—now, drink of my life and prosper.

One day, perhaps—if I am fortunate—shall I marry. Oh, and how shall I introduce myself to her father, as a would-be schizophrenic son-in-law? What a curse upon the family!

This, then, is the first of my impossible tasks.

For, when I lost my mind—and this is no metaphor or analogy—I spent a month in the psychiatric ward, truly and completely deranged. I thought, legitimately, that Arnold Schwarznegger was my “spiritual” father—they played one of his movies on the TV—and I got confused, about who I was, and my parents came to visit, and I told the staff I did not know who they were.

“They say they are your parents.” “Ah…”—could it be?—”…I suppose so.”

How awkward, to mention a man living—but worse still, to hide from the truth.

But, shall I tell them—her family—I am a son of Zeus?

My next impossible task is my technical project—the Bitcoin bridge, forget the details, for now. It is the soul of Jupiter, fatherly, Heavenly, and wrathful! Look upon this lustful spirit and shudder.

From these lofty heights upon which I repose, shall I cast thunder and lightning down into the world, open the eyes of society to the bright flash and fire of my prowess.

What is the point of such Divine heritage, if I do not share?

The next of my labors—my clothing line. Here, too, shall I gloss over the details—for the heart of it is in creative spirit, and I work for the sake of art itself, nothing else.

Nor, shall I pay any service, but upon a purchase—nor shall I charge any customer but a token fee for the sake of capitalism, greatest of Dutch inventions.

What is next?—but of course, my philosophy. What—after these two?

Yes, but the thinking man cannot make progress in this world without projects that draw his mind elsewhere, for it is in disparate fields that he connects the dots, draws harmonious unity and pleasing patterns.

What does this mean, besides?—perhaps, to publish a book, as my friends suggest, or merely to continue in this tradition of humble writing, heartfelt, unedited, unfiltered, and sincere. What, shall I charge for my work?—but, I have not such hubris.

Nothing of mine can be worth so much.

The next is a subset of philosophy, more targeted and focused. And did Hercules have several tasks that blurred together?—and who can blame the Greeks for their laziness.

Who wants to read about twelve separate tasks? How rote.

I shall like to convince the world of the merit of design—art used as a weapon, as a bulwark for the principles and values of its creator.

It is not about making the world accessible or intuitive, or usable, but about fierce, ferocious courage—for art scales, and war does not, and the artist is as mighty as the soldier, who can change a mind and heart in his favor.

The sixth is also a subset of philosophy, leaning towards politics, and it is a selfish, vain, endeavor. But, I should like to make conservatism palatable to the modern San Franciscan.

Oh!—that I could think and vote a certain way. Let us forget whether I am right or wrong, but suppose I am as atrocious in my views as a man can be—and perhaps, may I still convince you I am not loathsome company.

Let us clear the air of this great misunderstanding.

The seventh, and final one—for I cannot sustain twelve—is to master my physical body. This, in sport, looks like an understanding of the art of Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu.

Oh!—journey long before me, but I enjoy it nonetheless, never exerting more than half of my strength, a quarter of my mind. Just, to be a good training partner, is my only objective—that they may welcome me onto the mat next time, my path to continue, not to end premature.

There are others, perhaps, and I shall clear these for the sake of people important in my life, and nothing I do is worthwhile except for humanity. Not merely in the abstract, but concretely, for it is a lie to love a people and despise the person.

How can you explain?—just revile them, play me not for a fool, and I shall accept you, anyhow. What, do you think I care, who has before him such impossible endeavors, and who just a short year ago, lost himself in the depths of his illness?

Let go and forgive, one step towards healing this damaged soul of mine.