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. Weightlifting........it'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 ok.....it's supposed to be heavy.....it'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 directions......to a weightlifter it makes perfect fucken sense. Salute.
The Dark Orchestra 2016