Monday, 18 April 2016

Back Into HellBoy

'Damn, dude.'
'I know.'
'I want you to look like that again.'
'Me too.'
'I want you to be able to do what you used to be able to do.'
'Me too.'
'I'd...I'd forgotten how hot you looked.'
'Ha. Me too.'

There's a story about the creation of a studio album. That studio album is Bat Out Of Hell II: Back Into Hell.
Writer Jim Steinman, when they embarked on the album together, told singer Meatloaf, 'Welcome back to Hell, man.' It wasn't a statement of genuine camaraderie so much as a reminder that the original Bat Out of Hell album had been absolute agony to get right. Between the arrangements, the endless tweaking, the insane range it called on him to use, the endless discussions and debates and arguments, it was not a pleasant road to a really remarkable result.
Arguably of course, Bat Out Of Hell II is a much lesser achievement in almost every respect, but that's not, of course, anywhere near the point.

The lines above were the first half of a conversation d and I had tonight, refering to this photograph.
 

This photograph was me four years ago this week. I was still actively Disappearing the first time roung then, though I had had what I called a 'carbover' that morning. I hadn't begun the collapse of the will that has led me back to where I am now. Which is here:

'Alright,' I said, 'well if I'm really going to get back there, you know what that takes, right?'
'Yep.'
'It takes a year.'
'Yep.'
'It takes a year of me being entirely mad and a bit mean.'
'Yep. I remember.'
'A year of up in the morning before anybody's wise, walking. A year of taking time away from us to bike for an hour, every night. A year of taking even more time away from us to blog every night.'
'I know.'
'A year of me saying no to some things, some meals that we enjoy sharing. A year of me not being in the moment of desserts.'
'I have no problem with that, honey. I never did. The thing is, you have to remember how to say no.'
Touche. She's not wrong, of course. I'm staggeringly out of practice at saying no, even with my stuttering, ever-backward push to where I am. But no must be said, or there's every chance I'll be dead ahead of time. Feeling the call of mortality, rather than simple ugliness, is something of a persuading factor. Not that I am, especially, feeling that call. But I know that in some sense I'm getting away with some shit right now that I shouldn't - and probably in the long run, can't - get away with. My body doesn't like functioning at this weight, and so it doesn't function anything like so well at this weight. So it's time I gave the damn thing a break.

For those who haven't read every word ever written in the Disappearing Man chronicles, here's the deal:

  • No fizzy liquids.
  • No alcohol.
  • No sweets.
  • No desserts, cakes or anything that could be justifiably be said to take the place of desserts - including healthy alternatives like yoghurt.
  • Calorie control.
  • Carb light.
  • Protein and vegetation heavy. Oh, lucky me. Fucking Awful Salad Season's just around the corner.
  • One act of exercise, minimum, every day. Walking while there's light. Biking when there isn't. Gym and swimming to be introduced down the line, followed by more bizarre and excessive alternatives as and when my body can cope with them.
  • Goddamned motherfucking sonofabitch fricking-frackin' patience. This is not a sprint, this is a goddamned marathon. An endurance event, lasting a year, and then some.  
  • 2lb to be lost, per week, as per medical safety recommendations. 
  • Weigh-ins on Tuesday, post-bathroom.
  • No days off from diet control.
I've re-started this thing so many times now, it's just not even funny any more to say 'I've restarted this thing again!' But here we are, once more with feeling, on the night before a Tuesday weigh-in, in search of relative hotness(!). Let's go wild and crazy and entirely insane once more before we hit 45.

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