Lately, I’ve thought a lot about core values. I haven’t paid much attention to philosophy (because it should be called wishful thinking.) Wishing is for childhood. Adulthood abuses wishers. Tinkerbelle dies every time in reality. But as a child, you may have been allowed to indulge. Sorry nobody warned you it was temporary. Philosophy should be expressed and experienced in childhood. Reality beats Philosophy about the head and neck until it dies pitifully. Like from Syphillus. Or a bottle of poison.
Adults who insist on fantasy instead of reality raise my blood pressure. I don’t think I’ll have a heart attack, though. My picky diet is surprisingly good for my circulatory system. Also, the smell of bacon repulses me. My brother used to enjoy chasing me up a tree with the bacon from his breakfast. My knees, elbows, palms, chin, and shins show evidence of my experiences. I’ve left a lot of skin specimens on concrete, tree trunks, pavement, and grass. I blame activities involving wheels, blades, and helmets, poor decisions, and gravity.
When I fell during a run in basic training, my Drill Sgt. put his face inches from mine and yelled at me for bleeding on his hill. I was on the verge of tears, but his tirade led to my laughing in his face, followed by regretting it, then mopping up my blood with the edge of my t-shirt. When I was 27, I stopped taunting Gravity. I stopped because Gravity got tired of my playing too much and smacked me hard. It was one of those pains so shocking you analyze it while experiencing it out of awe. I don’t fuck with Gravity anymore.
Identifying my values versus what I remember by rote takes concentration. I’m determined to recognize what exactly I value more than my life. I’m aware I overestimate people habitually and am preparing to rectify this behavior. I’m strategizing for war. Triage is crucial at this point. I’m figuratively zeroing my weapons and eliminating the unnecessary to keep myself light and mobile. I despise violence. I used to live by a nonviolent philosophy. Unfortunately, it was beaten out of me. So I grew up and insist on truths instead. I don’t hit first. I hit back with everything I can muster.
Growing up with eight older siblings was violent. I can’t imagine having five older brothers and not knowing what it feels like to be punched in the face. Or shot at point blank range with pellets, bbs, and paintballs. Or carried around by your head (that was when I decided to fight back). The last time my brother, Guy, picked me up by my head, I broke his nose with the crown of my skull. I didn’t know it could have killed him until years later.
It also startled him and made him see me differently. I went from distracted and passive to overwhelmingly violent without warning. He didn’t know how much he was hurting me by his actions. He also didn’t realize the obvious reaction was to jump to prevent what felt like having my head pulled off. Don’t ever pick someone up by their head. It’s a horrible thing to do, and it might be the last thing you ever do. The only results I endured after breaking his nose was a life free of being lifted by my head. I’m off to read, then think some more.