This is the first entry, and very subject to being revised. The essence of this idea is by no means or method, given up to, nor submitted or subject to sale too or by any other person, corporation, government, business or any thing other then myself.

Simply put, it is mine and you must ask my permission to make money off of it.

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The Mind

The Sword has but one purpose. To be blunt and insensitive, it is to make Killing easier. To give one the advantage to achieve one’s goals. The ideas of honor, faith, spirit and purity have been used to justify the wielding of this tool. However, the study of the sword and its history of development leads simply into one conclusion. It is a tool to kill. The reason does not matter in this simple context. It is from this idea that I train in the use of this tool.

The methodology of my training is to capture the essence of this deadliness. To call into clear view and understanding, that life is what is to be respected. It does not matter if that life is yours or something else’s. It does not matter if the other is something or some one you do not like nor respect. Their life, their ability to experience, must be above all, respected and encouraged to continue. The training is a means to the end of restraining violence. Achieved by training in its physical application. Another way to put it is Empathy through Understanding. A deep understanding of pain (both physical and emotional) may only be gained by being subjected to that pain. It is not a question of being the victim nor the victimizer. It is a question of one willingness to be neither.

The physical conditioning is used to help impart the finality of thought necessary to achieve and pull back from the willingness to kill. It is my goal to enable the student to be aware of every moment, every movement and decision the student may make. I wish to train deliberation, forethought and action. I do not wish to encourage martial artistry, more over I wish to encourage martial ability. The warriors mentality. An awareness and willingness to make every action a decision. Too temper the instinct and give with absolute dedication, to one’s owns very being, to the spirit of the thing with out losing ones sense of presence of awareness.

From the study of killing, I have learned that life must be preserved in all its forms. I willing accept the seemingly hypocrisy of being an omnivore, as we have evolved to be apart of the system we term life. The preservation of life means that indeed the few must sacrifice for the many. This does not mean the many equal theological ideologues, pogroms, theocracies, or such ilk. It is the preservation and conservation of species.

The first lesson and paradoxically, the most important lesson is threat avoidance. Be aware that the context of avoidance is not being used in the common or lay term. To be aware of the threat, my bias has lead me to train in the means of that physical threat. To know how the body moves, and inherent reflexes that is contained with in the body, and how best to capitalize on this fact. It is thus that the physical training shall commence.

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I have the wish that honesty and expressed bias be prevalent throughout the expression of these ideas. As such, the core concepts of methodology are derived from: Musashi Miyamoto’s book of Five Rings; The idea that awareness of self leads to the awareness of others; The idea that honor is the only thing one can give to ones self; and the need to be able to trust ones self and accept the paradoxes that empirical fact and belief rise.

Fuck me. I know I stirred the pot. Of my own free will. Gladly I stirred the pot. Still working at the new job. 13 hour days on average. Fuck. DSOH, did it again. Loved it. Over 30 days with out a paycheck, and no worries. Fancy that. Not thinking about money and life gets along just that much smoother.

March has always been a write off for me, way to much shit on the go. April is a little better, then again, I do not think I have the ability to slow down. It has been over 8 years since I was last bored.

Anyways enough rambling. I have written a new little poem. Something to tide you over until the next essay.

Elsewhere

Freedom of the moment, startling and composed, Softly ranging upon the false realm of men. It is as if to say, be elsewhere. Be nowhere but be.

Ignored and invisible they move, Guided in their way by your desires. They move for the shear thought of it, For the desire of it, for the need of it.

In the moment of the movement they slip away. Back into the Earth, back to freedom of the moment. The moment of being, of purpose known, of traveling. Being in the elsewhere, mirrored by men they move.

For the simplicity of the it. Ranging in the elsewhere while you sleep. Guided by those birds in gilded nests, Freedom of the moment, startling and composed.

The Below tale is true. Only the names have been changed to protect to identities of the innocent. Actually, in an effort to avoid libel laws I am not saying whose actions I am chortling over.

Once there was this young man trying to make a wage. An honest living. Knowing that he would have no option but to take a serious hit in wages, it would give him an opportunity to make a much petter wage further down the line. Starting at $80 dollars a day for ten hours worth of driving was at best paltry. It did however balance out in the damages he did cause whilst learning the finer points of his trade. Indeed learning how to think where one’s trailer over sixty back from ones posterior is, can be described as impacting. Especially when said trailer hits another. Said trailer loses a door. Or mayhap on the off chance, almost flip on to its side. The tail of the One Hundred and Eighty Six point turn is another story.

For nine months the youngster talked with other drivers. Learned as much as he could. Networked his ass off. This lead to a interview at the second company his driving career would hold. The work was easier, much better pay. Better equipment. More then adequate maintenance of trucks. Yes folks, our young professional driver landed a job that would allow him to do what he did best. Work with out supervision. Sharpen his navigation skills. Heighten his backing skills. For sooth and sweet it was perfect.

As the Norns would have it, his fate was something other. Shunting and lots of it. A myopic manager who would openly decry other drivers and managers. Admit to screwing other employees he had out of pay and delaying said pay. Dispatchers who did not feel the need to respect basic worker rights. Supervisors bluntly disregarding those rights. Being threatened with losing his job. Yes folks very quickly out hero, our protagonist, the star, the main character knew he would have no other option then prepare his cannonades. To make sure every little thing was in order and detail when the time came for him to move on. However, it was a better place to work at then his first employer.

For seven years, he toiled. For seven years he learned. Networked. Always keeping his eyes open and upon the horizon. For seven years he tried to help others make better of their work situation. Calmly and quietly encouraging his fellow employees to stand for their rights. Reading the labour acts, manipulating the situation to maintain his rights, indeed accepting false accusations to see the means to his ends. Our hero at this point is a patient man. He knew that his next job would be a step up. It would be where he wanted and when. He knew he would have to do his time. He knew that ever so slightly he would have to build his manager up by bowing down. He would have to first anger his dispatcher then accept their bribes to get the job done.

During these years his skills grew and matured. During these seven years he developed a finer read on his manager. Kept his ears open and pieced the puzzle together. The wage was good and the work was easy. However, the job had ceased to challenge him. All those years of talking, of helping out other drivers where no one else would. All those years of developing relations with customers culminated one glorious day from a previous dispatcher, who willing worked with the main character, gave hint of another job opportunity. For a week or so, the hero waited. Then the decision was made. The application would be sent.

As it happened, the hero’s antagonist, The Manager took a vacation. For the next two weeks interviews were held, test were taken, paperwork submitted, and hero smiled. His Dispatcher was becoming worse then usual. By his actions and lack of response, the hero gently massaged The Dispatcher into becoming even more of odious neophyte tyrannical hack. It would be a delicate balance, and the endurance required would be great. Unbeknownst to all, the quite rap of sword on shield was issued. Battle had been committed to, as the pieces the hero had planted years ago were ready to be used. One crucial piece of knowledge the hero need. Did he get the job? Yes, he got the job and now the final dance at his current employer was to start.

The Manager was known to be a vain man. A man who has a childish need to be on top. The Manager was vindictive, crass, obtuse and most importantly of all, he was self assured of his superiority to all. The hero on the other hand, while having some of these qualities himself, knew that to gain his pound of flesh, a threat would have to be established. The Manager was at this point fighting to protect his job, the hero on the other hand crafted a letter of resignation. The quill would be his weapon. The letter foretold of spite, of hate, of distrust, lack of respect, the breaking of laws, tellings of myopic views, but of all the letter was nearly completely too easy to make disappear. It could be changed, falsified, made to vanish and be replaced with a much nicer version. The temptation was on purpose. An electronic copy was sent and a physical copy delivered.

The trap the hero set was simple, as three copies of the letter were made. Three letters were time stamped. Two copies remained. The Manager does not know this. The hero wanted to be released from his obligations and still be paid, as his right guaranteed by law. The allegations made in the letter however would need to be investigated. Employment would have to be maintained. If the hero remained The Manager would look exceedingly incompetent and be worse the ware to maintain his job. A cats paw to be simple. Keep him and look bad, pay him off and falsify his letters and be safe. The trap while simple, was layered. Verifiable copies were made of the letter, the warning shot across the bow was sent. The saber was rattled and the flag was shown. Distain openly coloured the hero’s word towards The Manager. Contempt lit his eyes, and yet the hero only showed it to The Manager. The darts and barbs placed, the next part was easy. The Dispatcher, already wishing to be rid of the troublesome hero, was looking for ways to punish him. The favorite tactic was to cut hours.

In the land where the hero works, once notice of termination was given, full pay was guaranteed unless the employee refused to work. It does not matter wether the employee works or not, the wage must be fulfilled as if they worked. The Dispatcher not knowing this little fact, cut the hours of the hero by nearly two thirds the first day. The hero, simply clocked out and successfully managed not to laugh in triumph. Ignorance was his sword against The Manager and the Dispatcher had that in spades. Just a little push was all it took, and the dispatcher ran with it. “Punish me if you would, and all you sow I shall reap.”

The next day, the hero is pulled into a meeting. The Manager sites actions of the hero, and cites the reasons given in the notice of resignation as a means to terminate the employ of the hero and save face. The hero will receive his Danegeld, and leave never to raise the allegations that would make The Manger look bad. Unfortunately The Manager does not know that danegeld is a sure way to bring the Danes back a viking. The Manager does not know that two other copies of the letter remain. The cannonade has yet to sound, the battle has yet to start. A pound of flesh is nice, but two are better. The Manager has three days make good the payment of the wage, or the hero will contact those who can and will make those uncomfortable inquiries. Like Asklad, the hero kept his ears open. Gathered the information he needed. His interests will be maintained, and in honor of those who The Manager wronged, a mighty blow shall be landed.

The lassitude of the staff of The Manager almost certainly guarantees the final and total release of the cannonade. This hero considers The Manager to be working with frost giants. As a Tyr’s Man, the hero accepted false positions so as to strike with inviolate ability and guile at the heart of the beast. That chapter remains yet as unknown. If he wishes to take the opportunity and harden the fuck up, so be it. If he tries to screw with me so be it. I painted him into a box so to speak, and that box is mine to shake about. So Mr. The Manager, do you know what the wrath of Norseman feels like? I am just getting started.

Okay so here it is, I wear a Kilt. And no, if I do not know you you MAY NOT EXPOSE ME. A kilt is not A Skirt nor a dress and it is certainly not a blouse. Nor is it an invitation so exploit me and my private parts. So let us begin with the first bit (pardon the pun), to help out the uninitiated. A skirt is piece of matériel this is a tube that extends down from the waist in the direction of the feet. It may be any length. A dress does the same thing with extra holes for the head and arms. It is a tube, it is attached permanently. The Seam does not split. Now these tubes as blasé as the description may infer is simply not true. Fetching, awe inspiring, lust creating, simplicity and elegance created in one tube. However a tube does not a kilt make.

The second bit (and yes there are three, pardon the pun again you sick bastards) is that a kilt is very much like a sarong, or mayhap a towel wrapped around ones waist. Indeed, save for the pleating (traditionally done for special times) a kilt is a long rectangular piece of fabric wrapped around ones waist and bound there through various means. Typically it coverage is from the waist to around the knee. So yes, a man in a towel (if mostly dry) is normal, and a man in a sarong is weird, and a man in a kilt is sexy. So please explain why my dear fellow members of humanity with that extra bit of chromosome, with that extra fat in pleasing shapes, and a cock that is in fact bigger then mine, please explain to me why I have to be fondled. Why I must accept being groped. Why I must accept being exposed when I am not socially/legally/morally/feministicaly allowed to do the same to satisfy a hyped up curiosity to see if you are wearing underwear or not.

For those who do indeed know me, to avoid seemingly hypocrisy, I willing allow myself to be groped/fondeld/exsposed because I trust you. Being something of a nudist (or naturalist… You know that white piece on top of chicken shit? Its shit too, so screw your family friendly label), so seeing another genitals does not do anything for me unless it is in context. Yes, I know touching my ass cheeks/penis/scrotum excites certain members, and yes I tease them, it is however a matter between my self and the other. Most strangers who ask are allowed to cop a feel, including members of my own seven chromosome persuasion. However, what the fuck in the the gods green playground gives you the right to lift my kilt and walk off like I am nothing other then a piece of meat that failed your inspection?

Am I to feel blessed that you ‘honored’ me with your attention? That what I wear is me only asking for “The Queens Check?” from a perfect stranger? Am I to accept your actions with out questions, just because you feel you can simply do it based on my attire? That you can indeed take from me my own dignity? That you can justifiably rape me?

That woke you up, Eh? Sure, every one has reasons on why they do things. Of course they make the choice. As such by the gods or ideals you hold dear, you are responsible for them. When I put my kilt on it is for these reasons. In order of importance!

1: Comfort. The range of unrestricted movement is wondrous! 2: A dislike of underwear and yes I use a lot of toilet paper. Nudist remember? 3: To Peacock, I like attempting to look good, thus why I save parts of my face.

So the next time, show some respect for your fellow human. Acknowledge that Under the clothing, Under thine flesh, Under thou social mind, another human is is dealing with the randomness of existence. You want to see if I am regimental? Ask me. You want to fondle my bits of sexual reproduction? Ask me. Respect me and those I hold dear. Respect me and any and all of those I trust. If I was a woman, wearing a short skirt, would you feel the need to see if I was wearing underwear? What difference does gender make? What gives us the right to take what is not ours? What gives us the right to rape? Other then mustard of course.

An alternative date site? Really? It is not enough to pose in a club but now to pose on furum a lonely hearts? I thought the site for science geeks was bad, but this? WHAT THE FUCK!? We have been defeating Darwin just fine with out you.

http://www.gothscene.com/

WAIT…

…yup, still not a part of the “scene”

Pissed off at my lack of editing ability, thus, this pic of almost how my poem should look.

Science, the only competition my partners can enjoy too! This song was featured on a Nova doc called Magnetic Storm. It in a round about way discusses reversal of the magnetic field lines of the Earth.

I am a trucker. A Professional driver. A Gear jamming, double clutching, white line running, diesel snorting, road ripping, rock chucking, load running, torque grinding trucker. I share the story’s blood of Big Joe, The Rubber Duck, and Phantom 309. I can sample the exhaust of any engine and tell you what it is burning. From the sweet of LNG, the dusty and dry of low sulfur of diesel, the tang of gasoline carburetor, or injected, with the hint of sugar sweet from the catalytic converter. I can tell, I have learned, I has used.

I hail to the supposed temple of torque. The esoteric timing of the quarter I read. The schools of burning and detonation I heed. The down shift and the retarder I control. I am a driver. With a truly visceral need, I crave the stimulus Acceleration. The sounds, the sights, the smell. I drive. It satisfies my curiosity of what is over the mountain. It sates my lust of exploration. The need to be a viking , I think is misunderstood. Lost in the context of history and the musing of philosophers alike, the very human need to explore is perhaps, stamped a little darker in my genes then most.

I state a little embarrassedly when asked about my job, “I am a professional driver. A Semi Operator. A Trucker.” More then I would wish, most people look at me blankly when I say I am a pro driver. It is for naught, that until I pander to the mass media reporting of common frame references, that the other has an inkling of what I do. However, that little ire as manifest as it is, pales in comparison when the peers of mine espouse their admiration. Those that drive wonder at my ability to handle congestion, those that do not wonder at my freedom of movement. The possibilities of exploration is perhaps the most questioned ability my profession is supposed to have.

That freedom is a small freedom really. As the pressures of the mighty and false dollar press upon my bosses, so it does to me. No longer do I have the freedom of action to drive blissfully to my destination. I must respond to my two-way radio. I start my day with fifteen minutes of paperwork. I must navigate my way as efficiently as I can through my pick-ups and drops, on an utter void of information. GPS tracks my truck, a log of my hours the government overseers demand, a dispatcher hounding me to be faster, a customer grousing on why I could not get there sooner, blah blah blah…

…But the hint of freedom drives my heel. I am an in city driver. That means that that my average driving time is not more then fifteen minutes. My dispatcher is not hired bases on city navigation, or knowledge or trucking experience, but on the ability to do paper work. I have had for the past seven years, the task to educate my dispatchers on their actual responsibilities, my duties and our rights. In the past seven years, I have done this ten times. I am however by nature a patient man. I have hint of freedom every-time I hold the throttle down. Every time I crank the wheel and navigate forty five thousand kilograms of truck and trailer safely though the city. Being able to grab three gears by the time a little import sports car grabs one, and out accelerating them. I have that ability and practiced skill.

That little hint of freedom, the knowledge that for the duration I am inviolate. When I am given my directions, the course has been set. To have me turn back is more then a waste. Too flinch will cost the company a penance of the almighty dollar. That is the freedom. I get to choose my route. I must pay attention to the conditions. It is my call to change route. “A decision now, wether is it good or bad is better then a decision later and a lost opportunity, rather then a missed opportunity”. It is that freedom of action that most do not know they want.

Hopefully soon I will be able to sate my desire to be a viking. Like the crews of the old long ships under the owner I sale. I row diligently and constantly. I take from the owner a small piece of his gains, and willing so I do. No desire I have to lead, but give me the tools and I will explore past my means. My love is to see, to gather a tale. The Legend of Wiegand I am building day by day. It is the tale of a man driven by a sense of the undone. A feeling that enough has yet to be completed, done…

The knowledge that no challenge will surmount me.

I am a trucker. I am a man who is driven to explore by some unfathomable means. The exploration perchance of knowledge or position, I care naught. I am professional. A man who has chosen to forgo the ease of companionship and seek the challenge of the unknown. To feel and act upon the very visceral need move. To explore the world in a greater means then to dissect the pittance of favorable memes. To spur acceptance commonality. I am a viking, on a journey, and I revel in that.

For the love of all that one could hold dear and from the considered opinion of a heterosexual male, you are beautiful and thank you for sharing. It was truly an honor. The above title is a link.