Peaceful

9:27AM—and do I arrive fresh from the gym!—nor, have I washed my hands, for this piece shall be one of gentleness, and the previous time did I go to the gym, it was a mix of violence and gentle spirit, and before that, violence alone—but never shall I care for such delicacies!

And the spirit of this one shall be loftiness!—in spirit, and in soul, but that is no place to start, so let us begin from the beginning, for there is no place more appropriate.

And after I wrote the last one!—did I send it to a friend, whom I admire, and this was the third I sent, and he had not yet responded, but this time he did, at 5AM, and I asked him not what he was doing up, for I too was up, and such details and immaterial between friends, and he had asked me the following question.

But, do you use “Claude to write,” paraphrasing, and this he asked—and I answered that I did not, too close was it “to my heart,” and I used Claude only for code “I care not” for, and then he asked whether I used “em-dashes” a lot—and I understood. Oh, profound meme!—but in my writing, I use em-dashes, and in code, do I use semicolons, and I should never mix the two, because one must keep things separate in this world, lest everything mix together and create indeterminate mess.

And code is indeed poetic!—and when I love the language, should I write most of it myself, but not all of it, for it is not equal to English in my heart.

So!—then, I went to sleep, and woke up, and another friend did text, and he had read a previous post about my parents, and he sent a quote from Marcus Aurelius, great Roman spirit!—and I read and felt it profound in my chest!—so, let this, too, be a theme for this work.

And I left for the gym!—but first, did I do my ab exercises at home, light workout, just the exercises from Brazilian Jiu Jitsu, that I do on my own, that I may not embarrass myself when we do them in class.

And I went to the gym!—and I rowed on the rowing machine, my favorite source of cardio, for it is the “hips-locking” in deadlift, and the “back-engaged” in an upper-back row, and it is fluid and graceful, as in the sport I love.

Then, I did chest!—for this requires no explanation, but on the way there, did I see a particular girl!—and I had spoken to her once, then twice, and I asked her out, and she offered her Instagram, but I told her I had one not, and she offered her number, and I told her I had not my phone, and so I gave her my number.

And she texted a raincheck!—and an apology, and a thank-you, and I saw her the next week, for we have similar schedules, and we arranged another date, for I liked her adorable ab exercises, and we spoke the next time, and she canceled, because she liked the guy she was seeing.

Oh!—and not a problem, for that is the finest of reasons, and I let her alone, but today, did she look not-so-happy, and that, too, is not my problem, for once denied, do I lose interest.

So!—I worked on my chest, and then on my upper-back, for I heard once that the back is the “frame” of the body, from a name I cannot recall, and I waited before the benches, and they were taken, and I wondered what to do—but first one woman, then another, came to me and said she was almost done, so I waited.

Then I did the back!—but only lightly, and I skipped the “shoulders” in the over-head press, for those appear to me my arms, and I am confused, while I work that one out!—and this world is indeed, a confusing place, and for instance, the “panther” is any large black cat, species-agnostic, and I wonder, why should the color matter so?

And do the Black Panthers must call themselves so, because is it not implied in the name?—but it is not my cause, nor my problem, either, so I let it go, just another one of life’s inexplicable mysteries.

So!—I returned home in poetic fever, and here were some of my thoughts, and let us work through them, and they took place while I worked out, but I remember not which one came when, so I discuss them separate.

Firstly!—that I spoke to my mother yesterday, and she had given me a copy of Marcus Aurelius’ Meditations, how fitting they should come up again, although they were written in Koine Greek, the same language did God use to write the Bible, and I write similar meditations, but I call them journaling—and I call myself a “journaler” and journalist is taken—and I write in English, for this is the Bible of my life.

And did he conquer the Roman spirit!—but should I conquer my own, and that is enough, and in my legacy, should I not wish to be called writer or thinker, or philosopher or designer, or engineer, but merely “journaler”, a category I invented because I found not one in which I fit—and like a hero of mine in Michael Faraday, shall I refuse laurels and decorations, nor shall I sell my work, but live for spirit and purity of thought!—and he refused knighthood intent on going to the grave “plain old” Mr. Faraday.

So!—there is the first piece of wisdom, and I spoke to my mother, and I told her I like Trump, and I wondered why—and she reacted not, watching me open-eyed and unblinking, and I told her I like him as a counterpoint to Christ, an anti-thesis, perhaps—and he is indeed an artist, but I may reject the rest.

For is his currency “pussy”?—but it is Divine Cause, yet not the one do I live for, and I should search higher for profound meaning, and find it in spirit and soul—or so I do flatter myself, in any case.

So, then!—onto the topic of my father, and when I was young, did he give me three books, and I shall remember them for the rest of my life, and I shall start with this my favorite, and it is called “Elements of Style,” and it has two authors, so I remember not a name.

But how delicious!—and I devoured it once, then twice—and it is my favorite book on the planet, because my father gave it me, and he gave me the rest of my life!—and my American heritage, it came from his guts of steel, and the power in education and wisdom and integrity, did I not learn it from him, and to use it all only to denounce him!—but God should frown upon me.

And the next!—was The “C Programming Language” by, once again, two names that I cannot recall, and it was delicious, too, and I read it once and loved it.

And the next!—was the “Fountainhead” by Ayn Rand, and if I said earlier that women cannot read nor write, then I take it back, for this one could read and write—and how high is the artist supreme!

And later, much later, in life, did I read Atlas Shrugged and in it, did she introduce John Galt, the only well-rounded man in “literature”, besides Ulysses, in the words of the immortal James Joyce, and I imagine he may have appreciated Galt, too.

So!—the noble writer in this woman, and she who made Harry Potter for adults, for what is there in the world of Harry Potter, and in I do I see all the houses combined, and there is surely no place for me in that Universe of hers.

Nor, is there place in the Universe of Ayn Rand, in I, who cares not for money, nor making it, but for selling the ideas of others—and the work of others, who came before me, for such is one path to loftiness.

Now!—on the topic of books, I did spend a month in the psychiatric ward, where they treated me for schizophrenia, and there was a fellow there, and he was homeless and a drug-addict, perhaps methamphetamine, and he was my roommate!—and once, did I catch him reading a book in the dark, and I suggested he turn “on the lights,” and he agreed.

He was a reasonably handsome fellow, and seemed decent, besides the fact that he was missing several teeth—and he told me he was happy I was his roommate, for it appeared I had a “lot going on” in my mind, and he found me interesting and organized, and I told him I liked him, too—and perhaps should I visit Austin, Texas again, should I search for him on sixth street, but this seems an impossible venture, so I shall leave him here in my thoughts, instead.

But this is as I reflected!—and I may perhaps continue to do so, and gradually find myself a more whole and complete man, and if Marcus Aurelius began the tradition, should I continue it, merely in the introspective German tradition, as did Bach—and with a touch of stormy spirit, as did Goethe, and with American humility as did Benjamin Franklin, and with a touch of Love, as did Christ.

What a mixture!—and what a mixture, indeed, but I write to quell the turbulent waters of my inner heart, and for a moment, this one, are they at least calm, and I rest upon them peaceful.