Did a sort of prep workout for the real one on Saturday. Worked hard but not brutally -- didn't want to fry my CNS. I meant to take the splits, to pace myself on Sat, but, um, I didn't. Just have to be steady. Rest is the enemy. Eighteen minutes of work -- easy. I've had orgasms that lasted longer than that.
I have no desire to compete, or to be noticed. What do I want? Well, I want respect from the people who are important to me. Strangers don't really matter -- what they say amounts to flattery -- random opinions that may have a benevolent motive but have no real weight. To be honest, if obvious, I would like the respect of my father. He of course has no idea about what I do. If he's been told, via say my brothers, that I do BJJ, he'd just think it was some gay thing I'm into. See? Disrespect. He thinks I'm gay. I just remembered this a few days ago ... when I was in school I played the bassoon. The hardest Western instrument. If I had it to do again, I would have chosen the flute -- no reeds, easy to carry, and more prestigious than the recorder.
One of the things I used for my bassoon was cold cream, to grease the corks. My father saw that I had cold cream, and thought I was gay ... you know, like, maybe a secret drag queen? I don't know. I just remember the ... weight ... of his disapproval and unspoken accusation. I had a little pirate chest from Knotts Berry Farm, and I put some junk jewelry in it, to, you know, look like treasure. My father saw that and supposed I was gay. That drag queen thing again. And I listened to Classical music, and I didn't care for sports, and I didn't date. You know, evidence that I was gay. Later, as a father, I helped him coach his baseball team of nine year olds, and I hugged one of the boys. So that made me gay too.
I am deeply conflicted, but I do suppose I have to say it. Fuck him.
So this is the man that I'd like, in my fantasies, to get respect from. He knows that I'm "some sort of genius." He seemed resentful of that, and somehow competitive. He sees that I'm not aging at a standard rate, but somehow, even so, my diet is weird. He brags about his health, seemingly forgetful of his divers reticulitis and hernias and gangrenous gall bladder, etc. A life not notable for radiant health, yet it is I who am open to ridicule? How confusing.
Sort of an aside, but it has been on my mind. I have never slandered my ex-wife. I have made it a point to find honest good things to say about her, to my son, and to any with whom I have conversed. Whereas, my poor father is incapable of containing his bile, re the ex-lovers in his life. This trait strikes me as evidence of a low character. He has not understood that his adulteries, discovered, create powerful anger. He is in his mind the victim, of evil and unforgiving women. Even my poor mother, who as far as I know has not been viciously slandered by him, is still, in his words, a nag and a scold. He slanders my eldest brother's very young wife, as a sort of internet whore ... they met via a sort of, um, mail order bride thing. I hope my brother is happy; I would find it surprising if she were ... married to my brother, who is rather too like his father. Who also slanders my other brother's wife ... who is a decent woman, and has been very good for my brother, although she is a bit limited and frustrating to try to converse with. No matter. She's good for him, and that's what's important. Point? My father doesn't like women? Now what would that make him?
Not meant to be a rant about all that, though. Meant to indicate the irrationality of the relationship, father and son. I am utterly assured that my son respects me. No longer the hero worship of the very young ... now matured, informed, and benevolent. He knows I am flawed, but he knows the virtue to which I strive. He knows that I will never manipulate, never seduce, never give insincere flattery. He knows that I will find a positive truth to say, and that I will take pleasure in saying it. What I like in myself, my son likes in me. How pleasing.
The curse that my father blessed his sons with, in his hours-long lectures in the living room, we three seated on the couch, hearing his soul crushing musings about his unhappiness and his failures, and his predictions, promises, curses, that we would be the same, failures and bad parents ... well I broke that curse, yet I am cursed by it. Every paradox contains within it a false premise. Would that I could identify this one.
So, we will see what I do, re this XF Opens thing. I'll do pretty well on this third one, but real strength, and running speed, will undo me. If I fluke into the Games, I will not make a great showing, but I will do my best. On the other hand, I have the bit in my mouth, and next year I really do expect to make it ... if the field remains as I hope, and the really elite old guys are busy with their trophy wives and their investment brokers.
I currently associate with positive and supportive people, who encourage me to excel. That's nice, but I have a lifetime habit of viewing both praise and criticism as something like graffiti. I don't need to question motives, or judgment, in either case ... but I simply cannot afford to allow my self-image to depend on anyone else's opinion. If I had ever done that, in my vulnerable youth, I and perhaps some other people would not currently be alive. So there's that.
I'd rather write angry and sarcastic political things. I use it to vent, and it's harmless. Sometimes though I have to vent at a deeper level ... maybe there will eventually be a change. Maybe I'll be rescued. Perhaps God will take pity on my wretchedness, my unforgiveness and my inability to forgive. I would appreciate a real and present blessing.
So, um, thank you God, in advance.