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Wednesday, November 27, 2013

Cab Driver

His coffee cup was half full and stained from such an ongoing use of consumption there was really no time for cleaning. A way of thinking I can relate to.  I leaned over his right shoulder from the back seat and whispered that I didn't have time for percentages.  His response was a puff from his half lit cigarette  and a drink from his luke warm coffee.  It would never have crossed his mind that the coffee cup was half empty, I know this from the simple smile that came across this unusual cab driver's face after taking a 3 in the morning sip of his best friend.  5 minutes into the cab ride and still no talking, even though we were having a great conversation while staring out into the dark night.  The smoke from his cigarette never bothered me, because it smelled just like the steam from my tea.  His elbow pointed out the window in an upward direction from all four windows being broken.  It looked as if we were sliding down the top of a house key, and into a laser tag arena from the outside lights shooting through the cab's windshield.

Another seminar to coach, another customer to drive.  Another late night training, another late night driving.  No music, which made the ride a little awkward at first, but after the silence crept in the outside world was blaring with sounds, sounds that made the cab driver bang on the steering wheel while occasionally grabbing his Babe Ruth bobble head so it wouldn't slide around the dash board.  He drove with such rhythm, such speed, but at the same time with such relaxation.  No worry in the world, just a cab drive with coffee and a midnight smoke.  A gold chain around his hairy neck that had a picture of an old lady in black and white.  A folded up book on how to draw, and a flashing clock that wasn't even set.  Time to him did not exist, what's the point?  What's the big deal with time anyway?  This is what he said to me without saying anything at all, only a very smooth drag from his smoke, and another smile after drinking miss brown eyes from his yellow finger nails and calloused hands. Happy, nothing more, nothing less.  Two people in the back seat as if we knew each other for years.  Or better yet... like we were never there.  Still no talking, besides a slight cough that led to another, then a long chug from the life juice that keeps him company on these late nights of driving.  Driving his life, driving us, driving coffee to his soul, only to drive to get more.  The whole world is asleep besides him.  Driving throughout the night passing through every green light you could imagine.  He waves to the local police as he drives by, while keeping his eyes straight forward, the cold wind outside blows out his cigarette, does he notice, of course not, he ain't got time to notice, he only has time to max out.  At this point, the smoke is completely out, but he still puffs away with his eyes on the road, focused, getting work done, training hard in his own way.  A part of the Attitude Nation and he doesn't even know it.

This cab driver reminded me why I ain't got time for percentages, because he doesn't.  There ain't no percentages for feeding your family.  There ain't no percentages for doing your job, being happy, riding the rhythm of the night with Babe Ruth.  There ain't no percentages for the hard workers, the late night smokers, the Miss Brown Eye's lovers, the cab drivers.  Weightlifting is like the real world, it's always max out time.  Windows broken like my back, coffee mug stained like my chalky hands, driving with speed and precision like a weightlifter does with the bar.  Rhythm of the night like rhythm in the gym.  There is no difference between this cab driver and me, from him to you, you to me.  No time to set the clock, we don't need to be reminded when and what to do because we are there before the clock could ever do its job.  We don't live because we are told to, we live because its what we want to do.  Freedom is what this man has that many don't.  Freedom is why we roll down the windows at night.  Freedom is why he drives with so much rhythm.  The cab driver has reminded me why I drink coffee, why I drive with the AC up and windows down, because we are free.

The cab driver dropped us off while still not speaking, only a popped trunk like Tyson Hips, and a bag grab and drop like the hit and catch drill.  We missed each other's eye contact, and then that was that.  He drove off into the night with smoke swirling out from his broken windows.  Off to max out in life, to be rewarded with family and happiness.  His cab was beat to bloody hell, his finger nails were yellow, his bobble head didn't stay in one place, and his coffee cup was a mess......... He ain't got time for percentages.

Max Out 2016

Saturday, November 23, 2013

Poker & Things

I love writing about pain.  I find the beauty in it all too moving.  Like losing in a poker game......the loss makes us more alive and open to the thought of winning.  More motivated to succeed, and more passionate about our direction in life. I guess I am addicted more to the struggle, than I am the victory.  How the victor became victorious is more intriguing to me than the view from the top.  For the clouds may look eye gazing and white, but the dark made us appreciate the sight. 

Cigarette smoke swiftly clouds the clay chips like fog on the wet road. You know.....the early morning buzz we get while others snooze in a comfort of average.  They sleep in a bed where the bar lays low. The strong don't just survive....we prosper.   Breathtaking the black road is while yellow stripes pass and flicker.  White lightening rods on the side make my two front windows lower.  I find that my writing usually starts on the way to my destination of writing....rather than the writing itself.  My thoughts play like a movie, as my athletes train in pain, their knees black and purple from the constant thud of hitting rock bottom.  Redirection to stand up fast.  Ballet with a bar we are, but once off the platform when the dance ends, we become crippled and full of rust.  Tired and slow of breath. Their new journey takes me back to the start of mine.  Almost as I am starting all over from my first meet to now.  The path is different, but so the same.

I pull up to the Barnes and Nobel as if I was smart. Accepted I truly am, as I blend in perfectly with the other brown coats and grey haired suits.  Only if they knew who I really was, what then?  Would they accept me like they do now?  In this club of knowledge while sound whispers throughout.  I write what I was thinking about on the drive over.  What plays in my head I literally put to paper.  I see it play out in my head, the dark thoughts mixed with caffeine, everything coming together in a blend of weightlifting.  I always say that the song that I listen to writes the blog, but as I keep writing I am finding out that all my surroundings play a big part.  This is why waking up early is a must.  More life to take in.  More smells to breath in.  All while people watching in Barnes and Nobel.....all while building a better sense of what the fuck is going on. 

Chips clack and slide as the felt of green is so smooth and at ease.  The sound of poker like the sound of weightlifting adds in addiction of its own.  For every thud of a chip or knock of a check, falls a red slab of beef or heels that cut sharp and fast.  All sounds that have feeling that move from the famous flip to peak of the cards, to the callused chalked hands meeting the cold bar.  Edge of our seat we sit, leather or medal, cards or bars, fingers stay crossed while hard work hopefully pays off.  Small injuries pop up like pimples on a teenage kid.  I sometimes just laugh at the site of this over dramatic issue.  Tape that shit up and shut up.  Get back on the bar and lift.  If you can't hack it then pack it.  Extreme I am.....yes.  Being extreme has worked well for me, I like to practice what I preach, and preach what I practiced.  It's a hard nosed sport that gets less credit and respect than anything out there.'s fucken hard, it hurts, so what.  Just like the great Dave Spitz use to tell me right before I approached a lift, "If it feels heavy it's's supposed to be's weightlifting".   Bam baby.  Love that line.  I love it because it's so damn true.  We need to stop fighting the weight and just lift the weight.  It's like my grandfather used to tell my mom as a kid, "You spend more time getting out of work, than when you do the actual work itself"  - Poppy.

Poker to weightlifting, felt to wood and pain to victor.  A morning drive to a book store to write.  A hidden black sheep takes cover amongst white.  The dark journey to bright, while painful knees and injuries try to act like they have some say in our goals. You reading this are probably getting ready to battle and fight!  For weightlifting practice is near, and even though this blog seems to merge in all different a weightlifter it makes perfect fucken sense.  Salute. 

The Dark Orchestra 2016

Friday, November 22, 2013

Midnight Train

Tuesdays Podcast called Breakthrough made me think of this blog I wrote earlier this year.  I felt it was necessary to re-post, just for the single importance of finding an individual who is at the crossroads.....who needs to get on the midnight train ASAP....and fucken go.

His thoughts rambled in his head with the swaying of the train.  Side to side as the train slid his duffel bag across the floor with every turn, as his forehead stayed stuck to the window looking out. The window was now warm against his head from the small ten minute naps he would take before being woken from his new found reality.  A reality that went against everything he has been working for over the years. A stable and successful career, wife and kids, a dog and a hobby, all that would make him come alive again like his first year in college. None of what his teachers told him when he graduated from college ever came true, just empty dreams and a piece of paper that says "your ready for the world young man".  He was, he truly was ready, but the world didn't seem ready for him.  His parents pushed old fashioned, as his friends pushed a more outgoing night life than he had wished for.  A girl wearing a bright red coat across the isle, seemed to be writing with the night light on above her head.  What was she writing about, he thought to himself, as he turned back to the midnight adventure that could end anywhere, or start somewhere.  A midnight train ride after an 11 hour flight across the world made his eyes heavy, and his thoughts blurry.  How he ended up flipping burgers for Wendy's he didn't know, or couldn't get to in his head.  His hand washed over his face as if he was getting out of the shower in the early morning while truly realizing that a big day awaited him.  He felt empty and broke, lonely and lost, confused and weak.  Hunched over in his hard but fuzzy seat that had now turned into his own apartment from boredom and lack of people traveling to a place called I don't know.  50 bucks, a pack of cigarettes, and a duffel bag of clothes to his name as the train whistled down the tracks guiding him to what he had been looking for for so many years now......him.

He guessed she was 23 years old, getting a better look at the side of her face from him leaning forward while staring out from the corner of his eye.  He thought he was safe from sight as his long hair waterfalled over his eyes. Her face was bright and glowing, maybe from the reading light above her head, but most likely from her bright red lip stick that matched her coat. She reminded him of the girl he always had a crush on, but never gained the courage to introduce himself to, as he sat on a train in Europe introducing himself to the world.....odd how life works.  Odd how courage only shows itself when your never expect it.  Her eyes flickered to the side catching his, as he threw his back against his seat while ducking his chin downward for shelter and comfort, all while still keeping an eye on hers.  Her eyes moved back to her book that laid over her crossed legs.  He was caught red handed, and felt so much like a moron that he felt like moving seats away from hers.  She was the most beautiful girl in the world, and he was the jobless stalker that had no plans nor goals.  Right before he grabbed his army style bag with more pockets than he would ever need, she broke a small smile and soon after started biting her right index fingers nail that of course was painted bright red.  She never glanced over this time, but a body language that made his heart race for the first time in a while.  His eyes stared forward as if a weight just lifted from his back.  His breathing relaxed, and his hands began to stop twitching from bad thoughts.  He soon closed his eyes, and fell asleep. 

Small chatter swept the train car, as a smell of coffee and buttered bread made its way to his little apartment bench he called home.  His forehead hurt from resting it against the window of the train.  He missed the sunset which was fine with him, he knew a few good hours of sleep was much needed.  The sun blasted through the window making all the lint and dust in front of his face appear clearly.  His squinted eyes moved around with his hands feeling his pockets, bag, and passport, yep, everything was intact and still with him.  There was one thing he wish he could look for and then touch, the girl.  He almost forgot.  Before looking over he wiped his eyes and pulled down his wrinkled sweatshirt before the rude realization that she was gone.   His hand turned white from him leaning against the seat looking up and down the isles.  In an odd way he felt good.  He felt they knew each other perfectly, and understood each other better than any.  He thought how amazing it was just to have that moment that rang friction between them both.  She would from that point on never leave his thoughts. 

"Hello.....Sir, are you awake?"  The train conductor asked as she leaned over like she was a volleyball player preparing herself for a serve. She had to be at least 6' 2", red hair, and with teeth as long as his travels so far.  "Yes, I'm awake," he said snapping out of a day dream of relaxation.  Something he was not used to feeling.  "We are at our final stop Sir, you must exit the train now".  She said with a smile, that ended with more of a hurry up kind of head nod.  His head fell back against the seat with such a careless motion.  "OK," he said quietly.  A street made of rocks met his feet, as the sun hugged his entire body.  No where to go, no job to get to, no burgers to flip, no judgmental friend and parents looking down upon him.  Just a cobbled street with people who had no idea where he came from, or who he is.  His degree no longer mattered, and his athletic ability meant nothing in this big world of compass chasing and soul searching.  He must have been in a small farming town.  The air was cold, but the sky was bright blue.  Green grass filled the hills that supported houses and farm animals. Children were playing tag with a bouncy ball, throwing it at each other to tag one another, he thought this was an odd game, as he hiked his bag up higher around his shoulder beginning to walk forward with nothing but possibility and land that layed in front of him.  He walked, thinking of the girl in the red coat, how tall the train conductor was, and how beautiful the landscape was he was walking in.  He didn't take the time to ask where he was, because frankly he didn't care.  This was the whole point of his journey, to get away from maps, roads, and time.  No more nine to five, no more opinions from others.  No more gambling on a life that was blocking happiness.  A full day of freedom stood in front of him.

The night closed in as he found himself settling down on a bench outside of an old shut down steel mill that looked as if the only life around the area was mold, plants and the occasional deer that would wind itself inside and out of the fallen posts and cracked open walls that once lived and gave a living to so many.  His bag as a pillow, and his clear mind as a nighttime song, cool air from the river below, as ringing bells from the fishing boats helped him close his eyes.  Some would call this being homeless, but he called it freedom. This is something that he wanted to do.  A necessary path in finding himself.  What would the next day bring, he asked himself out loud.  Who will I meet and what opportunity will I find?  How much better will I know myself tomorrow, he asked the bug crawling near his arm that rested under his bag he layed his head on.  He knees to his stomach, and his heart as open for the world to see.  He fell asleep with freedom by his side.

Freedom 2016

Thursday, November 14, 2013

UK / Ireland Tour!

Skeletons abroad!  Brew the coffee.  Download the house music.  Go to Rite Aid and get you some Donny Shankle style ACE bandages.  Chalk your hands while mean mugging that f'n bar!  For the the Attitude Nation will soon be on its UK/Ireland tour!  We will raise hell and break bars, only to conquer the weight with a mighty catapult heave!  check locations and dates at  

A New Adventure 2016

Monday, November 11, 2013

The Elephant Man

Chunks of puke blasted the inside of the little white airplane bags that once laid flat and steady under the red spread out chairs facing the stage.  Puke after puke... the bags filled with disgust as the rounded back lifter drew a scream of pain into the tunnel of bright lights that looked down upon him... showing the texture of his red skin and his squinted eyes.  Lay at rest young lad... for your dreams must suffer into the pain you hurdle, the scream of embarrassment shuns your pride as weakness floods the building that spins around you.  Kids cry, as parents cover their small tearful eyes.  Help! One man screamed from the back, while pushing over the table he once sat at handing out fliers for his small business.  He ran fast to the stage to try to save such an ugly piece of shit animal.  The lifter so torn and helpless... so wrong in every way.  A crime that must be stopped, that gets the worst of punishment... publicly hung for all to see.  Publicly stained by fruit being thrown, splashing upon his face like green slime on the bottom of the little white airplane bag.  Laughter collapses the room like the boiling chuckle of a witch's rant. Outcast this animal!... Outcast this puke of a human!  A rounded back monster has entered the sport they scream, under the seat they hide while eyes of blood leak from the lifter's struggle... a struggle only an animal could understand.  Knees hit like a car crash as sirens yelp.  90 degrees and half way up, legs fold like the jacket of a retired golfer.  Hung up and dry, only seeing the light if someone asks.  The golfer says, "Yes, of course!" as he rushes upstairs to show off his achievement to someone who actually gives a fuck.  A give a fuck is all this old man needs to better his day... even month that just maybe might leak into a year.  It all matters how many times he gets to show his green jacket off.  How many people care to ask, for interest lacks as he overflows with constant excitement.  Caring is a universal drug that will never be topped.  One this world needs more of, as I sit and write this I ponder how much more care I can put out to others, outside of my world and into others.

Carry this bar man! A coach yells from the left corner of the hunch back's shoulder.  The freak that peaks open one eye to see where he is at in the lift... for feeling of his art is now replaced with guilt on what others might say... in this example we must conquer defeat in standing with overcome.  Rising to the challenge while others whisper hate, for beauty lies within the beholder of the weight... on the bar and within.  Smile with blood young lad.  Let your yellow teeth dagger the ones who rage at your craft.  Let your knees buckle and your back round to prove to yourself the non-approval of others doesn't affect you. The one thing that is required from you...  a made lift, to make your life what you have pictured in your day dreams as night sets in, making your dreams clear. So clear that sound is removed from your ears while your thoughts pinch your skin. Reality is there... even though others don't see as clear. 

The forums start to type words of hate, as the judges cringe in horror.  "This weightlifter on stage has the worst technique," they whisper from back to front, as the athlete's elbows drop from the heavy clean taking him to his toes.  Heels off the platform as his hips rotate to the side like a plane spinning to its death.  His spine bent like the people in the audience hurled over as more green puke comes spooling out from their dirty mouths.  He No one knew. The place was in shock, as the computer monitors that looked like the chalk board in the Harvard hallways froze.  Lights lowered and dimmed as the middle light grew heat like the sun... casting a spotlight on the athlete who dared to stand with such ugly form, that even Betty left the room and took on the elephant man as a date. A pen fell... literally a pen, not a metaphor.  When the pin dropped a small drip of sweat dropped from the lifter's forehead.  Splash!  The drop was long and the decent was even longer.  The pen rolled like the weight on the outside of his bar.  Spinning fast like his mind. Collars were tight, as his collar bone was in pain.  The resting of the bar gave his chest time to breathe, as his throat felt suffocated from the cold bar piercing his skin.  Lips open like a gold fish as air entered like Thanksgiving dinner... and left just as fast once full.  Knees locked like a door at night, while kids asleep a gun should be in close sight.  Protect your house young man... protect your dignity and make this fucken lift!....This his father said in his mind.  His father knew nothing of weightlifting, but he did know about winning... and more about losing.  A man that knows more about losing than winning is the man you want in your corner.  For mistakes he has made will never be forgotten in the arms of others.  Let his cuts be your sail, as his blood flickers into the wind, guiding your dreams like a knife through skin.  Blunt.  In your face, and times advice you don't want to hear makes you stronger... especially in a jerk to the moon. 

His long legs shaky while his eyes wide open.  A ghost might as well passed the lifter on stage, as he motionlessly stands with a look of haze, for what they don't see is the concentration of rage.  The thought of dropping this weight on the faces who puke, killing all who doubt him, killing all who bared to look.  A dip with his hips as the bar bent with his motion.  A fast motion that kept the middle of the bar straight, while the ends like eagle wings, dipping low only to fly.  The oscillation of the bar turned metal into feathers.  The lifter's face turned long and yellow, as a beak grew and eyes of black stained his face.  The flap from the wings of the bird created a rustle of wind that pushed violently into the audience of puke.  A hurricane of sort, turning vomit into rain, as thousands flocked out from the competition room.  The computer monitors sparked, as the judges dodged the gusty winds as lights fell from the celling.  Chaos was created for those who watched, not the one who lifted. 

The eagle was born before those who saw disgust, from a person who just wanted to stand.  THEN THE BIRD DROPPED LOW, ONLY TO FLY SO HIGH!  I used all caps to assure all the readers who watched from the side, that he made this jerk... so we can all give the middle finger to the made up audience watching from the front.  Letting lightening and thunder blast through the fucken roof! This ain't a depressing blog, this is the truth! This is not bodybuilding, we decide a win or lose.  No such thing as a bad make, only a solid bright gold medal up for the take.  The lifter made the lift while the judges pushed white, as papers and blinds flew from all sides. For the people left in the room still watching, taking cover was the only option. Three whites he made the lift.  The room at this point was empty from the wind it carried.  Only a few people saw his testimony to the bar, as the weight stayed steady and high, breathless but alive.  He then let out a roar for all to hear, a roar that translated to this................

Give me my fucken gold. 

A beautiful made lift 2016

Friday, November 8, 2013

Bo Bo

Inspired by my childhood growing up on a horse farm.
In loving memory of my childhood horse, Bo Bo.  You will never be forgotten. 

Teeth yellow from smoke, as gums draw blood from a lack of brushing. Saliva stretches from jaw to jaw like cob webs banding together from tackle box to old saddles in a dust filled horse barn.  Spit flies from an athlete's mouth like hay particles shattering into a cloud of haze, as the watchman heaves bails by one knee into puzzle pieces... hand by hand, gloves to orange twine.  Stack after stack he works like art... as the horses watch with hunger.  Hunger from the weightlifter's eyes fill with blood veins that cast upon the white glossy outlook of bright lights glaring back in a mist of hands that clap like whips to the back of a horse. The indoor arena the horse circles, makes the crack of the whip extra loud, as the echo of the athlete's yell has now turned into a scream for all to hear.  One persons head drops from the back of the room from understanding, as shade can comfort such emotions... good and bad. The loud nay from the horse moves through the barn like a base jumper passes mountains and trees, as the horse turns gracefully, each front knee raises high and mighty, confident and powerful, loud and in your face......the barn becomes alive with cheer, as the horse performs its masterful craft. 

Dust kicks up as hooves trot violently... a spray that only a slalom skier could duplicate from a cut through crisp morning air, on a glass sheet of reflection like eyes they stare.  Gripping the handle not to fall, the skier leans like a knife cutting through the wake like a weightlifter creating a massive earthquake.  Crack! The place goes wild, the horse nods his head as his perfectly combed mane swings like hands that raise in victory.  Sweat that tells a story makes the athlete's journey more humbling, as the sweat makes the black horse glossy like a ghost in the old barn of dust and webs.  The smell of the barn like gas at the station, manure and the leather saddles makes the barn rich in smells.  Eyes water from the weightlifter's eyes from the pride that bottles his throat, an achievement of life makes a tear splash against the wood, as the fruit of his labor tastes salty and good.  Eyes water from the smell of the barn, as both sides of the breezeway open and long.  Wind passes through like young horses live and die only to give birth to new.  Old wheel barrels tell stories of hard work and purpose... as the weightlifter's ripped shoes stand perched on a podium of high... overlooking the mountain he just climbed.  The soul of the barn speaks to you when you open each stall.  The horse nods with understanding and excitement... for it's time to roam the outdoor pastures with other friends to run with... open world with open wind, away from the barn the horses live.  The weightlifter pops champagne celebrating being a champion in a sport where so many die.  Open path to more success the gold medal speaks into the ear of the beholder... as this gold medal brings a reluctant sigh to the athlete's state of peace.  The horse runs fast for training it's not, his technique is all over and wild for this can't be taught.  Freedom and happiness is something that lies within.  This barn and this gym are the same, for both have stories and souls from the decades they have withheld and always will withhold.  This is a story about a barn and a gym, a weightlifter and a horse... both athletes, both freaks to some... both with much to overcome. 

The horse takes a deep breath as the weightlifter breaths out.  The horse's knees wrapped for the cold, as the weightlifter's calves stay wrapped from pain.  Both will sleep will blankets tonight, as rain makes a beating sound from the roof they sleep under.  Both tired from a day of activity, both dreaming about the next, for a new day will soon arrive as the sun rises high.  The barn will smell like leather and the gym will creak with water leaks.  Both the horse and the weightlifter are athletes... both are at peace. 

BO BO 2016 

Thursday, November 7, 2013

The Slingshot

A Fun Drill

New Training Video on our YouTube Channel "What The F*#@!"  

Weightlifting 2016

Tuesday, November 5, 2013

Bloody Smiles

Inspired to re post this blog by Games Athlete Chris Clyde.  Thank you Chris for talking freely about the impact this blog had on you.  At times blogs can be buried and forgotten....only to re surface by the skeletons of the Orchestra of Dark.  I salute you,  I salute the meaning of this blog,  I salute every skeleton who reads the song-full words from the caffeine stained violin keys. I salute the emotions we all share together to better ourselves in the sport of weightlifting and in life.  Salute. 

Our smiles, bloody from the bar hitting our chin, with shaded faces from the dead tree that hangs over our platform, and black eyes that seem to stay hidden from the hood that lays over our beat up thoughts.  We like to think we have cast them out, only to find that we are the ones who have been out casted.  A double edge sword makes my hand bleed from emotion and too much coffee.  Word choices I wish I could take back, but an overall point that I hope killed the 500 pound elephant.  Keep walking hooded man, stay invisible, get to the gym without being seen.  Train with rhythm, train with pride, train in the dark only to make the light feel warm on your skin.  Drink your coffee while the rush of life rushes down to your toes.  I understand you, you understand me, they understand mediocracy. They understand what they have been told to understand. We understand what our minds tell us to understand.  You know who they are, they come in all different shapes and sizes, they are whoever you see them as, they are different for everyone. They will never understand what we do and why we do it.  We live by a different set of rules, three white light rules, a program of rules that keeps us steady, strong, and balanced.  Speak loud to the ones who listen.  Be strong for the ones who fight with you, understand you, want to understand you, believe in the goal, the task at hand.  Change lives, while at the same time fully commiting to yourself.  I heard your speech at the end.  My chipped tooth and bloody mouth smiled with reassurance that at times this life does not offer.  Only we can make the world around us.  The world we are making is loving, strong, and powerful.

Keep walking, keep training, keep an eye open for the ones who want to join our shaded world.  Our jungle of iron, our beds of dreams, and our hearts full of anger and happiness.  I love this sport more than anything, but this sport is not what brings us together, it's the lifestyle we have created, not joined, but created.  The iron life, the bloody mouth way of teaching, living, learning, and achieving.  A bloody mouth means we have bitten the dust, hit the floor, hit the wall, but got the fuck up to smile about it.  White teeth shine through the blood only because we brush our teeth a lot, "why?", they ask, well actually they don't ask why because we don't exist to them.  Our teeth are white because we take care of ourselves.  We not only train hard, but brush hard.  We don't only brush hard but we eat breakfast hard.  We do everything hard, and because of this addiction, we even take the hard way to get to our goals.  We like hard, even if easy seems easier.  A hard life means tougher skin.  Your hard life means that I have something to learn from you, and vice versus.

We are not training, our skeletons are training.  Our deepest darkest cuts that slash across our chests, bleed through our shirts while we gasp for more air.  More is what we want, more pr's, more training, more life, more motivation, more family, more kids, more of everything.  If there is one thing that weightlifting has taught me, it's that the pain is good, pain is the best coach anyone could ever ask for.  Give me pain over pleasure, and my pleasure will be greater than any pleasure ever experienced. I see you under that hood, to me you are clear as day, even though to them you are a freak, a non existing outcast of a human life. Why are all our gyms tucked away from the population?  Why are our gyms off a small deserted road? We are shunned, not welcomed.  We train in the darkest of the gyms.  But here is what they don't understand, they are welcome any time.  We take the high road.  Our gyms are brighter than any Gold's Gym.  Our gyms are warmer than any 24 Hour Fitness.  Our dirt is gold, our bloody smiles are wide, or scarred hearts beat the hardest.  Our skeletons have become our friends, a bond of acceptance and understanding.  A brotherhood of freaks who live in the dark, let's keep training.

Freedom 2016

Monday, November 4, 2013


Freezing fucking cold, as her whiter than a ghost hands beg for the warmth of a cracking fire.  Snow flakes slowly fall amongst her open palms, like a plane landing safely on its runway. Fingers laid back like the snow on the ground, open but tense, solid but breakable.  Her muscles ache with pain... pain like water to a burn... pain like the wind to a paper cut... pain like the below freezing morning wind on her bare naked body. She sits on the edge of a carousel dragging her feet, open toed, across the surface of the snow like a fishing line, gliding against the glassy untouched water.  Fucking cold.  The icy snow puncturing her feet draws spots of red, like an artist drawing a face of sadness.  Tears to feet like tears to eyes, the red spots draw blood for protection, as the cold tries its best to keep the blood dry and away.  The white snow stains her skin to white, as her insides bleed blood to sight.  A battle raged on a woman's feet, on this early morning sunrise carousel. Her ideas and dreams become more alive than ever, blurry but focused... as the breath taking cold elevate her emotions to a new height never experienced before now. 

She is butt naked, and by this point her butt is most likely stuck against the medal seat of circles. As her naked body spins faster and faster, the wind stabs her from skin to spine, speeding her heart up with eyes of wide.  She is alive and she feels cold but steady, relaxed but tense; she spins with her feet on the ground and her arms reached high.  Her head leans back as her hair becomes like rain, falling around her sight as the sun comes piercing in.  Heavy and light, fast and slow, her emotions turn and flow, like water from a fall as the sun through the clouds never move.  Her vision is straight up, as her body is slowly dying.  She has been out in the morning breeze for much too long... even waterfalls freeze when the weather draws too long.

At this point, her naked body feels nothing, as the air that passes moves around her breasts like a face under a mask.  Hidden and untouched, the unrecognizable cold is replaced with warmth from the fire within.  Every spin makes her skin strong and tough, as her goals draw closer and closer... with a simple stretch and a reach she could touch them.  The cold had lost, as she has won, her feet now red and colored from the blood that has drawn victory amongst the daggers and fears melting from the sun.  The beautiful woman that spins naked on the snow... she has become numb to the powerful force that she had always been afraid of.

Mother nature is a powerful queen, yet this woman's body is an undiscovered phenom. Within it lies a great magical power she had not, nor possibly would have ever understood nor experienced.  What can this cold weather do to a body that sleeps and walks under a blanket of pain?  Will this pain she feels from the cold daggers of wind take away her pain by adding more pain? Yes, she is dying... but by dying she is living.  The more she sustains the closer to death she walks... hours have went by and her heart has almost stopped.  Facing death without feeling its wrath, her body like ice as her breath breaths success.  Eyes open as she stops the carousel with her feet, like an anchor she stomps her feet deep.  Bam! On a dime she stands tall and proud, naked and loud, near death... but more alive than ever before.  She smiles at mother nature with her teeth whiter than snow.  Her hair falls amongst her face with water dripping to her toes. She cannot feel a thing besides her dreams.  She walks away with steam and passion... strength and emotion... a body of numb with goals to overcome.

Freezing Fucking Cold 2016