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‘How Do You Do It?’
Crackpot Phone Booth: Nero the Pict Wants to Know
“How do you do it, you and Sean? Where does that discipline come from to train and now this privation with your weight loss? I’ve gone through some periods in life when I was disciplined with training. But as I’ve gotten older and the more hours I work, the harder it is to motivate myself for training. Cutie said the other day, “What’s the matter with you? You could have trained today but you didn’t?”
Okay, Bro, as evidenced by my Buddha Boxing video from this summer, I’ve lost much training discipline by way of transferring my sense of self-discipline to my writing. Since 2015 I have deprioritized physical fitness for writing.
So, lets go back to how I used to discipline myself when I worked 50 hours and trained 20 hours per week. I was not strictly disciplined. I was getting drunk twice a week, banging two to five women depending on the year—these would be my prime fighting years from 1998-2006. Then, when I got into management my time for training evaporated for four years and things changed as I gained 10 pounds a year and only sparred, until 2010, when I started working part time, writing full time and training five days per week again.
My strongest drive in my prime was defiance against the system of economic life I was enslaved to. I worked my ass off, hold every freight clearance record in the grocery business, including sorting 22 pallets of mixed freight by myself in 5 hours, stocking 915 pieces of dairy in 14 hours and stocking 17-pallets of grocery freight [about 4,000 pieces] in 14 hours. I did this injured. I would limp out of work hardly able to carry my gear to the park, and then as soon as Chuck and I crossed sticks I was bouncing around in Nirvana for 2 or 3 hours.
Rebelling against the orthodoxy of the God of Things and being a savage heathen heretic for 1 hour for every three in which I slaved away meaninglessly for the greed and comfort of others kept me sane. Bedding lonely wenches levelled off the rest of my psychopathy. This has all largely been replaced by my writing in therapeutic terms.
Now, in my present state of lurching decrepitude, I achieve discipline based on the same hatred for civilization, for Modernity, for economic society, by focusing my heretical mania against the effigy of Modernity that is my pudgy, broken body, by punishing myself for being weak, by tormenting this rotten carcass for being a symbol of slavery and the product of the slave feed I have eaten most of my life, for eating the grains and sweets that are the eucharist of the economic engine that almost everyone we know worships.
I am literally trying to torture myself, to keep myself in maximum pain, hunger, discomfort and privation without killing this failing vessel for my anti-social art.
The guy that put me on this dietary regimen is trying to live to age 90 and avoid cancer. I’m trying to keep my brain going until 60 when my heart will hopefully explode while I’m plowing some plump young slave girl or shanking the guts out of some Dindustani paramilitaries.
Hope that helps, Oh King.
Being a Bad Man in a Worse World
Fighting Smart: Boxing, Agonistics & Survival
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