Thursday, May 14, 2009


I used the word exigent last night, probably for the first time in my life. We only know it from the phrase "exigent circumstances." Isn't it interesting how we know meaning just by context? Like Shakespeare's prinny, of a fancy, foppish, slightly suspect fellow. Words with only one occurrence are called nonce words. Shakespeare just made it up, prinny, but context and sound tells us what it means. That's what Poto and Cabengo did -- made up words, sometimes thirty for the same thing, and knew what they meant. Odd how definitions can be so plastic. (See what I did there? Man I'm good. These pages are full of stuff like that, and I'm sure no one picks up on it. What a waste. I paint in miniature, on a grand scale. I'm brilliant.) What an amazing and facile thing it is, the brain, and the spirit that animates it.

I looked up exigent. It means exactly what you'd expect. Compelling immediate action; requiring great bodily, mental or spiritual strength. From the Latin exigere, "to demand". What a perfect word, for what we do. Not the immediate part, although the demand is immediate. The strength part. Especially mental strength. Because it's not about doing more than you can do. With electrically-induced convulsions, you can break chains. But it would be the electricity that provided what it takes. Performance enhancing.

We're all-natural. The natural man may not understand the spirit, but he'd better have his mind under control. It's about doing what you can do. Excellence. Excelling. From the Latin, excellere, "to rise above." It conveys a sense of flying. Excelsior. Rising like a rising star, serene and far.

I'm serious about putting together some workout songs. Alas, I am woefully ignorant about contemporary music. Not brilliant at all. (But I'm brilliant.) I hear some very good stuff, but wouldn't know whose it is. Someone who reads this blog emailed me some suggestions, and I'm plugging them into Youtube to see what they are. I've always had a thing for strong female vocals. I like strong angry women when they're right, standing up for themselves.

For this purpose, a hard driving beat, not sweet -- angry. There's a recent song that's just what I mean. Can't think of it. No, not I Am Woman. Sheesh. What, I'm gay or something? In your dreams, Prinny. Sheesh. I am all man. Didn't you see my photo, in My Photo Album? Could someone with lats like that be anything less than all man? Suspect in no way whatsoever. QED.

Fighter, by Christina Aquilera, is almost perfect -- perfect after 3:08. I'd heard it -- didn't know who sang it; took me a while to find it. Sort a disturbing images, eh? -- but it finishes with exactly the tone I'm looking for. You Oughta Know. Morissette. Took me forever to find that one. Nasty, but very close. I Will Survive. Yeah, it's hopelessly dated, and we've heard it forever. But it makes me smile. There's one where a chick wrecks a dude's pickup or muscle car or something. Just can't catch hold of it.

Ran tonight. Up now to 8 intervals, 0.2 miles at 11.8 mph each. Walk in between, 0.1 mile at 3.3 mph ... last three, 0.15 at 3.0. Next week, 9 at 11.9, then 10 at 12.0. Machines go up to 14 mph. So after 12.0 I'll knock it back to five at 12.2, and add one interval and 0.2 mph up to 13 mph, then repeat the pattern so it ends at 10 at 14 mph. Around 12 weeks from now. Should be around my 50th birthday. I was thinking to run an ultramarathon for 50, maybe 50 miles, maybe 100. But I haven't trained for it. Maybe this will be training. Intensity is more productive, even aerobically, than long slow distance. Hm. Eight hours of running? Hm.

I can do that.

Spring hangs heavy on my limbs. Well, on one limb in particular. I have to do something with this energy. This music isn't helping, if you get my meaning. All these marginally clad women. I hope you appreciate how lucky you are, having your beautiful woman who loves you. You make me sick. Or if you don't have a woman, it hardly matters, being so desiccated and passionless the way you are. Nobody could possibly comprehend how difficult it is to be Jack H. So brilliant and unappreciated. So beautiful and ignored. So virile and alone. No wonder I'm obnoxious. You couldn't even stand up straight, being me.

Yeah. Here. The fellow who sent me a list of songs? There was some mention of Buddhism, and I said, "I'm not about Buddhism. I'm about Zen."

Keep on loving, P. It may very well be your gift.

This is where I would tie it together, with prinny and exigent, and flying, and strong women and running an ultramarathon for my midcentury birthday. And pendulous Spring. But it's obvious, isn't it?

We must be fierce.


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