Fasting Log: Day 4

– Bad dreams. Woke up at five in the morning and couldn’t get back to sleep. I kept hashing and re-hashing old failures, past humiliations, and mistakes. Got up, took a long hot shower, but even then, it was some time before I could drift back to sleep. After waking up for the second time, I felt mildly better.

– Gross, I know, but I was able to use the bathroom. Looked normal. Last time I fasted, my stool was bright orange for some reason. I reiterate: I know this is gross, but it’s something fasters pay close attention to, for good reason.

– For those wondering about my scheduled duel over a lady’s honor, I didn’t blog about it but the situation was resolved a few weekends ago. I attended the first-ever Atlanta Forum conference – a conference mostly attended by self-professed “Alternative Rightists” who associate with the “Daily Shoah” and “The Right Stuff” online communities. However, Matthew Heimbach also showed up, as did other leading young Southerners (Hunter Wallace, Michael Cushman, etc.). I was supposed to meet the offending party there for a duel of fists. After much pleading, the lady in question called me off as her champion, citing concern for the safety of those involved and suggesting the apologies she received through email were sufficient enough to satiate the offense.

– On that, we’ve become fond of each other after much correspondence. She is really pretty, and a Christian. The only problem is that she’s a Roman Catholic. She’s what those in the Alt. Right call a “trad catholic” and a sedevacantist (she dislikes the pope more than I do). I don’t want to be presumptuous here (forgive me, readers, for speculating), but how would a marriage between a hypothetical person like that and a hypothetical person like me possibly be manageable? Speaking for myself, I have too much respect for the spirit of the religion the hypothetical gal holds to – too much to try and argue her away from it. And argue her into what? Modern Presbyterianism?! God forbid! I’d be hell bound if I was successful. But again, speaking for myself, I can never submit to a corrupt human bureaucracy, claiming to be *the* official divine organization on Earth. No pair of green eyes, no matter how pretty, can make me do that. Maybe the safe thing for this hypothetical couple to do would be to guard their hearts and part ways before getting too emotionally tangled? My wisdom says that’s right, but…but… she reads Sir. Walter Scott!

– I’ll post the recap of day 5 tomorrow, but after that, I think I’ll only post a fasting log every five days. It’ll get repetitive otherwise. So, after day five, I’ll post another on day 10, then on day 15, and so on, for as long as I can make it.

Many thanks to those of you who are praying, following my progress, and encouraging me. Sometimes, in the early afternoon, when images of gourmet medium-rare cheeseburgers (topped with blue cheese crumbles, avocado, and bacon) start floating through my mind…I need all the prayer and encouragement I can get.

Stay healthy friends!

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Fasting Log: Day 3

– Woke up around 5 in the morning. Last time I fasted, I had trouble sleeping a full night and it seems that’s starting again. Fortunately, after a long, hot, shower, and a few gulps of water, I was able to fall back to sleep for another five hours. The more I sleep, the better my body will be able to utilize the fast – at least, that’s the theory. So I’m trying to get at least 12 hours a night.

– Nevertheless, I woke up in an incredible mood. I was almost giddy. I’ve been having vivid, memorable dreams. Good dreams where I’m surrounded by friends and I’m accomplishing great things. I suspect my dreams, in this case, are a reflection of the giddy spirits attained from fasting. I know from past experience, it wont stay this way. I’m in for rough emotional weather.

– In fact, many people report emotional turmoil while fasting. It’s said this is our body offering us a chance to parse through these old emotions, understand them, and try to resolve them by forgiving those involved, or … well, it’s unclear in the literature how we’re supposed to do this. For my part, I’ve found fasting makes it easier to realize what’s causing a negative emotion, to analyze it, and resolve it. Usually this is done by forgiving the person involved or having clear paths to resolution present themselves (eg: after the fast, I’m writing so-and-so a letter to explain this or that).

– It was Valentine’s Day, so I prayed for my future wife (whomever, wherever, and ifever, she is); also, I watched a sappy romantic comedy: “While You Were Sleeping” with Sandra Bullock. She was cute back then. What happened? Some Alt.Right guys might call it a “Beta-Cuck fest”…but I’m not so sure. Bullock’s character was lady-like, after all, as opposed to the feminist harpy being wooed in romances today. Also, I don’t recall any stereotypical faggotry – there were no homosexuals in the upper-class family. If all urbanites were like the family in that movie, they wouldn’t need crushing. (H/T to the Crush the Urbanite meme). Also, there was no pre-marital sex. Imagine a “rom/com” like that today!

– As is typical for me when fasting, my brain has gotten fuzzy and scattered. This happened almost from day 1. It’s difficult to focus, read, or write. Meditating is very difficult. Hopefully this will pass as, for now, it’s hard to even pray or read the Bible, which are two of the biggest things I need to be doing.

– I didn’t drink much water at all. I’ve been managing about a gallon of distilled water a day, but decided, owing to rumors in the fasting culture / literature, that I’d slow down my drinking and see if that speeds the detox process. While it was nice not to have to run to the restroom ever twenty minutes, I’m not sure it helped me any. By this time during my last fast, I already had what they call “faster’s mouth” – a perpetually slimy, bad taste in the mouth indicative of cleansing (especially for a cigar smoker). This hasn’t manifested itself yet this go-round, and I suspect it’s because I didn’t drink enough. I’ll go back to the whole gallon for day 4, but I’ll drink it slowly instead of large gulps. A gradual hydration might help my body assimilate and use the water better than a deluge, which gets passed out soon after it goes in.

– I’m going to have to cut back on the showers. My skin is getting too dry because of them and I don’t want to use any lotions. This may sound gross to some, but while fasting, I don’t use any products at all. No shampoo, deodorant, or even toothpaste. I do brush and floss, but using only water. If I need to run into town for something…(I know, I know: fasting experts are rolling their eyes at that but in my defense, there are scenic places I like to drive to and watch the sunset)…I’ll take a shower first. Keeping track of body odor (of whatever sort) is a good way to track the body’s detoxification. Plus, I don’t want to add anymore toxicity to the body; it’s got enough work to do as it is.

 

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Fasting Log: Day 2

– Detox symptoms came back this evening. I’m having mild headaches but they go away with a hot shower and after drinking water.

– Water…let’s talk about that. Last time I fasted, I distilled all my water. By about day six, I was getting overly nauseous, weak, and sick. Taking the advice of some (who suggested I might be low on “electrolytes”), I stopped drinking distilled water and began drinking the fresh mountain well water. The nausea seemed to lessen although, thinking back, I ended the fast soon afterwards so I’m not sure, after all, if it was the water or not. In fact, fasting gurus (and the literature), while somewhat ambiguous, lean towards suggesting that all the minerals and nutrients the body needs are already present and are accessed during the fast. Additionally, the diehard proponents of distillation have a point, county water is a petri dish of bubbling chemical concoctions. God knows what kind of fluoride, chlorine, or who knows what all, is in our water; I’m especially suspicious of the tap quality here. Weighing these things for what they’re worth, I’ve decided to try distilling all my water again this g0-round. I’ll try my best to tough it out if the detox symptoms get severe.

– On that, they say all sorts of ailments occur while fasting, as a result of the body cleansing itself of toxins. Headaches, nausea, vomiting, cramps, etc. Hopefully, given my history of cleanses and fasting, these symptoms wont be too severe.

– Another issue the fasting literature is unclear about is the taking of medicinal baths. I like to scrub myself down, really exfoliate the pores, then soak in mixtures. My favorite is the Epson salt and ginger bath; when you get out, your entire body has a pleasant warming glow. Very relaxing. I’m not sure if the salts seeping in through the skin are enough to disturb the fasting process. I hope not because medicinal baths are helpful psychological replacement of meal time.

– My tongue has turned white. If you look up water fasts on youtube, many of the people will document the color of their tongues over time. Supposedly, this means the body is starting to cleanse itself. When most of the toxins are gone (or when you begin eating normally again), the tongue changes back to its normal pink. Whatever someone may say about the theory, it’s a fact that when I start fasting, my tongue quickly turns white and when I’m done fasting, it changes back.

– Writing at night like this is a burden to me and interrupts my routine. I think, henceforth, I’ll post a new update the next day. So, for example, I’ll post my recap of day 3 on the morning of day 4. That’s when I’m up and have the most energy anyway.

If you’re following along, I could appreciate your prayers. This is no easy task. If you’re reading this years later, I hope you find encouragement in my daily chronicling. Maybe you’ll find something helpful for your own water fast?

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Fasting Log: Day 1

Bullet point style:

– Sunday, February 12, was the first day of my water fast. I hope to go at least thirty days, hopefully forty.

– I apologize to my readers for the long gap in my posting. It’s never good for an aspiring writer to say, but I’ve been too emotionally conflicted and uninspired to write anything of value (not saying I’ve *ever* written anything of value). Dead inside. Or am I?

– I’m approaching this fast differently than all my others. This time, I’m especially trying to focus on prayer and meditation. “Meditation” has always been a bad word for me. It smacks of eastern mysticism and hippy nonsense. Nevertheless, to help my fast, I’m reading “The Willpower Instinct” by Kelly McGonigal and have been convinced of the practical merits. The idea, in short, is to clear your mind as best you can. This exercised focus increases blood-flow to the frontal lobes of the brain, causing growth in the relevant areas that strengthen self-control. When your mind begins (inevitably) to wander, you force it back to the calm. In so-doing, you build up a resistance to impulse and capricious mental activity. Seems to be working.

– My fast was supposed to start Thursday, but I hadn’t adequately cleansed from nicotine; the withdrawal and detox symptoms were so bad, I decided to extend my starting date (yet again), to Sunday the 12th.

– Because of an extended period of pre-fast preparation, day 1 was almost painless, with only slight detox symptoms. I had a mild headache in the late evening. It was gone completely this morning when I woke up.

– The demonic is already starting, though. To my techno-pagan materialist readers, this will sound overly-fantastic, but I believe that when a Christian man fasts and prays and tries to cleanse himself spiritually – the devil comes a knocking. Last night, for example, when I came downstairs to use the bathroom, I was inexplicably struck with a feeling of panic, fear, and dread. I began looking around the house; all was dark. However, the motion sensor on the shed outside was lit up. Why? Was it a coyote? A stray dog or cat? A large bird? Or was it something else? The thing almost never comes on and we don’t have habitual strays wandering through the property. Maybe it was nothing; but why the inexplicable fear? I’ve got my Bible with me.

– I’ll re-cap today, my symptoms, anything noteworthy, etc. before I go to bed. So if you’re at all interested in the day-to-day struggles involved in water fasting, stay tuned.

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(15): Shotgun vs. the Crazy Man

noquiote

One of the only routine pleasures I have is driving to the waterfront and enjoying a cigar while looking around at the prettiest scenery in the south. I do it while listening to philosophy lectures or working through audio books.

Last week I was enjoying myself as I’ve described, when someone began yelling a few blocks away. It sounded like “Stalker! Stalker!” Or maybe it was “Smoker!”

I wondered if he was yelling at me? Maybe he was so inundated by pop-culture’s war against tobacco that he took it upon himself to publicly shame me for my antiquated vice? Others in the parking lot were looking around confused and uncomfortable. The old man, himself, was walking a small maltese, and ambled on his way without clarifying the nature of his angst. I chalked it up to one of those weird public encounters that can’t be explained.

I saw him again today, however, around 1230, so I’m making a public record here in case he acts against me in the future (be it by getting the law involved or trying to attack me or who knows what).

I’m working through a Graham Greene novel – “Monsignor Quixote”, about a Catholic priest and a Marxist ex-Mayor who befriend each other in post-civil war Spain. They get mixed up in local adventures while arguing with each other about their conflicting worldviews. It’s a great little novel – I’ll expound on it later.

Having finished my cigar, I pulled out and headed home. As I was leaving, I saw the man standing there, glaring at me. He began yelling something and making (ungentlemanly-like) gestures.

If someone has a problem with me I like to resolve it immediately, so I circled the block, came back around, and parked in front of him. I hopped out and walked over.

“Do you have something you want to say to me, sir?”

I wont recount the bizarre conversation word for word, but the gist of it is: he accused me of being a spy, working on behalf of his “sexually degenerate” neighbor, and that I was stalking him.

“Sir, I promise you…I promise you I’m just down here listening to my book and don’t know you from Adam…”

“You need to get your [redacted]ing mother-[redacted]ing lying self away from me right now! Jesus has a place in Hell for liars and stalkers and degenerates!”

I told him to calm down and promised that in the future I’d try to avoid the waterfront if I saw him there. I don’t think that endeared him to me in anyway.

The guy obviously has some sort of mental issue – a pathological paranoia maybe? I don’t know, but I don’t plan on changing my habits for his sake.

What do you all think I should do?

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(14) Anyone Seen Kyle?

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…he’s about *this* tall. Seen Kyle? Seen Kyle?

The NPI conference has become the most hip and controversial conference of the Alternative Right. It and the AMREN are about the only two big events we have. And this weekend’s NPI topped the charts for controversy, with numerous audience members throwing up a Nazi salute at the end of Richard Spencer’s emotionally charged speech. Of course, the news media are spiraling down on the footage.

Unfortunately, many Alternative Right outliers are suggesting this is all bad press: “Government plants!”they’re saying. “Idiots” others suggest. Then, there’s the ever faithful: “this doesn’t make us look good.”

I threw up a Roman salute once. A crowd of degenerate protestors were clucking around outside the American Renaissance conference and Heimbach and I went out to confront them. After about an hour, the park police separated us. As we were walking off with the jeers and taunts of the protesters following us, I turned around and tossed it up. Sieg Heil, bitches!

It infuriated them, of course. Someone snapped a picture of me doing it and I was the center of a brief maelstrom of controversy (not for the first or last time, I suspect). “You make us look bad”, was the most common objection.

I developed a sociological metaphor then that’s equally applicable to Richard Spencer’s “Heilergate”. I call it the Government School Lunchroom analogy:

My government school was about 90% negro and during lunch, we’d all be corralled into the lunchroom together. The negros were terribly loud and uncontrollable during this period and we white boys were at our most vulnerable. Of course, there’d be no teacher or authority figure in sight. A small group of us white boy outcasts would congregate over near the doors. We’d sit on the handicap ramp and hope the negros didn’t notice us. They did, though, of course. For sport, they’d throw loose change at us. Whites learned early to eat their own, so whomever was hit would be attacked and jeered at by the other whites. I put up with this for about a day before I simply broke the rules and left the cafeteria. The other white boys soon followed, and from then on, we’d have a peaceful time of it outside, under the awnings.

Imagine this scene, if you will: the “it makes us look bad” crowd are still trapped in that cafeteria, hoping to God no one lobs them upside the head with a nickle. “If we just stay calm, keep to acceptable talking points, and don’t raise our voice, we’ll slip by unnoticed.” Thinking this way is a government-school induced psychosis.

No. The correct emotion here isn’t fear and a desire to maintain respectability. The correct emotion is anger and a reassertion of personal values.

So, no. I’m not a national socialist. In fact, I really don’t like socialism of any sort. But I do love Hitler and the German National socialists because of their symbolism: when you piss off white boys, they don uniforms, high-step, and sieg heil! Make us angry enough and we’ll re-conquer Europe.

…and whatever my quibbles with National Socialism, I’d rather live in the Third Reich than modern America. At least there, I wouldn’t have to worry about mass degeneracy in the streets and the slaughter of unborn infants.

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(13) The Aristocrat Remembers…

aristocracy

The aristocrat is the living embodiment of a people’s identity. He maintains the dignity of his race throughout the rigors of daily life: he dresses nicely when he’d rather be a slob. He holds his tongue when he’s seething with curses. When everyone loses hope, he maintains a stalwart resilience. In short: he holds fast to the ancient traditions passed on to him.

Whether or not he’s really the best of the lot is irrelevant. He’s judged by his willingness to make himself, and consequently, all of reality, seem to be as his people believe it to be. The best aristocrats go beyond forms and functions and actually love the image they project. They’re not just playing a part, they *are* the part. They intuitively realize they’re projecting the spirit of their people and they love the spirit and the people.

As a side note, spiritual integrity is what really makes a race. Modernists have tried codifying this human phenomenon by emphasizing DNA, psychological affinities, language grouping, and all manner of cultural forces of cohesion – but they fall short because they all miss this mytho-poetic aspect of the group. Modernists don’t know anything about the spiritual. That’s why none of them understand poets or men of letters, unless the poets and men of letters are also modernists (in which case, they may be understood by other modernists but at the expense of their role as keepers-of-the-folk-mind).

The aristocrat, then, must listen and learn from the poet as Kings of old would listen and learn from prophets. If the aristocrat is, himself, a poet, so much the better, but he doesn’t have to be. He just needs to listen and learn from them.

Additionally, the aristocrat doesn’t even need to be rich or the owner of capital. While these things allow him to assume his proper authority in society, giving him the requisite voice to maintain the integrity of the people, he would still be an aristocrat without them. Side by side with those who used to offer him deference, he may not be distinguishable from them at all unless the observer takes a close, second look.

Lined up you might see five rugged and dirty men, but the aristocrat among them will have taken measures to present himself as well as possible, despite his means. He does it because he knows that through his demeanor and appearance he’s representing an entire people. The other men in line don’t have that sort of concern. He’ll be more well-spoken than the other men – because what he says has to be tempered by the grace of generations. He’ll be more well-read because he’s more concerned with all the people than the other men, who think mostly of themselves.

And when the others in line are blinded by oppressive times and forced to forget who they are, the aristocrat remembers.

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(12) Chivalry vs. The Mexican Mafia

chivalry(An anecdote from my time in the prison. As I’m no longer employed there, I thought I’d re-post it):

Some of you know I’ve taken a job as a prison guard. The rules say I’m not supposed to talk about my experiences but with apologies to my pagan state, I think I will anyway:

I’ve often told people I can spot white trash from a distance. I don’t know their history but I’m convinced they all share the same ancestry. They’re low class but not in the dignified way of many poor southerners. They slaughter the English language, engage in all sorts of depravity, and worst of all, they’re the whites most prone to race mixing. It’s odd, but the majority are scrawny and have blond hair and blue eyes. Their skin is tanned and their faces squint up like weasels. If all that sounds imaginary, tell yourselves it’s their bastardized accents that mark them. The shame of it is their women are usually gorgeous. So, with demoralizing certitude, I knew when I saw our new co-worker, she was probably infatuated with a negro.

Why think so? She’s of the class I’ve described above, in her late twenties, and still single. She’s never mentioned having children so I assume she’s either aborted them or…well, she did tell me her favorite television show was “Orange is the New Black” (a prison drama focusing on two lesbians). I never believe women when they tell me they’re lesbians. My bet, and I’m more certain of this as I watch her with our co-workers and the inmates, is that she’s infatuated with a negro, probably the whole lot of them.

I’ll leave that dark trail of thought and get on with the story.

She tries to deal with the inmates as if she were a negress. She tries to battle it out with them, will to will. She takes her cue from the black female prison guards (there are many and only they seem to gain rank). “Why yoooo disrespetin’ me?!”

But there was one day she called me and asked to be relieved on the yard. She looked a little sheepish and said she just couldn’t take it out there anymore and needed a break.

“What happened?” I asked.

Apparently, when they’re around white men, these girls find it easier to let go of their defense-mechanisms – I mean their anti-feminine machismo learned from the black race. They sometimes revert back to being white.

She lapsed into such a state and told me what happened. She had walked by a group of Mexican inmates and one of them had whistled at her. That struck me as an uncharacteristically lady-like thing for her to worry about, but there it was. She indicated the “tall one” who, maybe owing to his unusual size (most Mestizos are around five feet, he was probably six), had gained some level of respect among his fellows. I had no doubt he was showing off for them.

I walked onto the yard with all the voices of the Alt. Right in my head. They were cursing chivalry and calling me a “White Knight”. And even as I walked out there, I knew whatever I did wouldn’t be appreciated. Still, by God, a white woman had been insulted and, well, I’m no ordinary Alt. Righter.

I knew El Alto was associated with a Mexican drug gang and I also knew most prison guards give that group a wide berth. The last of us who tried disciplining them was shot at while pumping gas the next day. The police never caught the shooter.

On the inside, the Mexicans are smart enough not to openly cause problems but they do break the rules when no one is looking. The guards usually look the other way, especially over something as petty as a lustful whistle.

Not today, hombres…

I walked into the group, took El Alto’s arm, spun him around, and handcuffed him, right in front of his amigos. Then I marched him inside a dorm, kicked everyone out of a shower room (making a big commotion) and strip searched him… a long, slow process.

“Why choo doin’ dis mayun?” he kept asking.

“You like whistling at ladies, eh? That makes me suspicious. Makes me think you might have something on you. I’m going to find it.”

I drew it out as long as possible, speaking loudly, knowing my voice would echo around the bathroom tiles and into the dorm. His macho air was obliterated for all to see – a serious punishment among those degenerates.

I found multiple articles about El Chapo, the cartel leader getting publicity down in Mexico, as well as other cartel paraphernalia. But technically, he didn’t have anything against the rules; I wasn’t really expecting him to. It was the search that did the damage.

Long story short, I’ve warned my parents (both law enforcement) and I’ve taken measures for my own safety. As for my fellow officer, she’s warmed up to me but like all the blacks in that prison (employed or doing time) likely thinks white men are sniveling panzies, terrified of all the strong, virile black men. That sort of brainwashing is why her kind choose to race mix.

It seems like violence really is all savages understand. But her? She belongs to a people who, at least at one point, saw true Love and recognized it for what it was. Can the feminist be rescued by kind acts of chivalry?

…ought we even try?

That, dear readers, is up to each of you to decide. As for me, my heart decided and I acted accordingly, without much thought.

Now I’ll have to live with it.

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(10): Why Not Me?

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(**EDIT** I was riding out a caffeine high when I wrote this. Later, when thinking objectively about my writing, I realized there’s no way, even at my best, I could compete with the popular authors. God knows that’s evident to anyone who reads my material. Don’t judge me too harshly for what follows…)

I have a low opinion of myself as a writer and yet I’ve always tried to take St. Paul’s admonition – not to think more highly of ourselves than we ought – seriously. I mean, I’ve taken it to be an admonition to think of ourselves as objectively as possible, without pride or unwarranted humility. So despite my humility, I think can compete with many of the popular guys out there, at least pound for pound. Or, I ought to say, paragraph for paragraph.

I think I could keep up with Steven King, for example. His Dark Tower series was horrible. The more the narrative developed, the worse the writing became. He piqued with “Wizard and the Glass”, which was a book-long flashback constituting a stand-alone novel. The next best, in my view, was his “Wind Through the Keyhole”, which was another stand-alone departure from the series narrative and was written after the series was completed. The writing was so bad in the others, especially the final book, it was almost unreadable. Cormac McCarthy is another example. He’s lavished with praise and yet, I’ve just finished his popular novel “Blood Meridian” and couldn’t see what the fuss was about. Ten chapters in, I still didn’t care about the characters and his sentences were peppered with cliched similes.

Now I’m not arrogant. I think I can compete paragraph for paragraph, but I readily admit these guys are better authors than I am. The fact I suffered through the prose of “Dark Tower” is testimony enough of King’s ability to maintain readers’ interest.

Here’s an analogy: there are doubtless hundreds of young girls more pretty and talented than Taylor Swift, and yet Swift has the right combination of voice, charisma, and a loving personality that her fans respond to. Comparatively, I have no delusion I can match Steven King as an author. I don’t have an intuitive grasp of pacing, or how to structure a plot. And I don’t understand the average American. I’m too different. There’s an arsenal of tools the author needs that King has and I don’t.

One of my weaknesses, as I see it, is a lack of patience. Maybe it’s my financial situation, but I can’t squeeze out the passion that hours of creative output and tedious editing require. It’s too much work for too little gain. Cynicism is my kryptonite.

Nevertheless, I’ve promised you all – my readers, God, and whomever else – that after 100 posts and 100 read books, I’ll write a novel. I’ve been numbering my posts to keep track. With this, the 10th post, I’m 90 away from having to tackle my sizeable project. I’ve been steadily reading as well: Graham Greene, Cormac McCarthy, a few books on writing (“Robert Frost On Writing”, etc.), and so on.

I’m sure I’ll be able to string together a few hundred pages of narrative, but who will care? Maybe my struggles with existential meaninglessness fuel my cynicism? Who the Hell really cares what a conservative white guy daydreams about, anyway? Unless the narrative is packed with action sequences, zombies, vulgar sex and violence, and all sorts of trendy, social-justice-depravity, who will read it?

Furthermore, I’ve been rejected by modern society all of my life. Rejected from every group of peers as an outcast, as weird, as unattractive. I’m the epitome of “uncool”; how can I expect success with a novel?

Well, for all that, there’s a small part of me that thinks I can tickle the ears of the Evangelical community in America. Who speaks for them? Frank Peretti? Ted Dekker?

Why not me?

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(8) What Am I?

full-moon-clouds

My readers know how the full moon affects me. At least, you’ve all heard me write about it numerous times. I can feel it coming on before the moon even rises and the mania (because that’s what it feels like) lasts until the moon wanes. Whether you believe me, think I’m delusional, or think I might be on to something is neither here nor there. Whatever the case, I write odd things when the moon’s full, so, for this month’s episode, I ask the question, what am I?

That I don’t know the answer to this is the single problem of my entire life. There’s a gaping, widening, hole in the center of my being that affects everything. Just imagine: how to interact with others if you don’t know your place in society? Even in our supposedly classless, egalitarian utopia, social status looms over every encounter. It certainly wreaks havoc with romantic relationships. Family reunions are a nightmare – all the cousins have settled into life with varying degrees of success, while I, the man-with-the-gaping-hole-in-the-chest, is carried down the life-stream helpless and dashed on every rock.

Without a purpose or sense of self, there’s nothing but crass hedonism. One manufactured high to the next. Each attempt to wile away the meaningless hours becomes more and more difficult.

As a side note, I recall a preacher’s sermon once. He says there’ll be work in Heaven. I hope to God he’s right because a life of coasting from one meaningless pleasure to the next is insufferable. I couldn’t imagine doing it for eternity. Better to ask God if He might dump us in the mindless cesspit of Hell, where men lose their personhood and consciousness amid an endless, unrelated, stream of experiences.

Remember the old Soviet method of torture? They’d make their prisoners move rocks from one place to the other then back again, with no purpose. It wears a man down and breaks the soul. My soul, for example, has been worn to the point of apathy about all things but the next meaningless pleasure to wile away the next meaningless hour.

I guess that’s not totally true, though. There’s still enough of me left to put this issue into words and pray to God to fill the gaping void in my chest. If He can’t do it, who can? With apologies to the Nietzschians reading this, a man simply cannot fill that void on his own. And I gather the vast majority of men are casually ushered by life into their place without self-reflection.

Is it too much of a damned miracle for God to answer this one prayer? To tell me this one thing? What’s it to Him? It would cost Him nothing – a flick of His finger to send a lounging angel down tonight with a five minute dream. To me, it would change everything. Let God but give me that one firm place to stand and I’d move the world – or, at least, all foreseeable barriers – to grow up and into eternity.

If you’re reading this and you don’t suffer from the gaping hole of identitylessness, and think I’m weak or silly or made to be despised, I wont say a word to contradict you. Nor will I wish on you the same maddening self-consciousness.

…I’ll probably bum a smoke off of you, though.

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