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Sunday, November 15, 2015

Clint Mansell

She found a program whistling past her feet over the blue rocks and their sharp edges.  Like leashing her dog for a walk, she bent down and grabbed the music program of the sounds of painful strings followed with beautiful sounds.  The composer's songs always moved her, but with others she never seemed to physically move. Songs from all around her from a place of no where.  Maybe a light house from the constant lights from above and beyond, as stars and lights mixed together, the reflection in her eyes told stories of surprises and past disguises, as a movie played in her soul while feet felt cold and her head fell low.  Nobody else seemed to live on the planet of doom, dark and distraught, alone, her and her regret.  A couple that makes for long nights and random hair pulls.  Eye lids gone from a condition of missing parents somehow made it all make sense.  If a screaming women screamed she would not be heard.  A tree didn't even exist in this list of things to type on this keyboard for making this world become more bliss.

Shallow blue rocks covered by a pitch black sky, this white ruffled up program written and composed by Clint Mansell looked sad and dire, as it laid slumped in her small hands curved as a cup, eyes wide shut, with visions of elephant tusks and child hood animals of stuffed.  Unforgiving and forever forgiving, she hummed softly for a conversation with her inner self, relying on herself to keep sane in this blue dusk of rock and lights, lit from afar with violins of cry and self-esteem from Clint's music notes of lust and hate.  The orchestra played through the dead air, as the hollow world sang tunes of sadness through wooded caves and high up tree forts from others of sort.  Never seeing anybody before she always thought life was living before she showed, fell through the hole, and walked through the closet door.   A single tear fell from her eye, quickly wiped off as if someone was going to see it. The blue rocks felt the salt splash from her blue eyes, lids of gone and a soul of torn, beyond abandoned and lost too long. She might as well been dead.

So much to explore, but what for? As the music played she began to hold her knees, not knowing what way was forward, or back.  Side to side was from her eyes to follow, as her mind started to slip as her twitches told stories of Fantasia.  Unexplained and unedited, twisted and unreal.  She sat and twisted her toes, as Clint Mansell produced songs for lonely foes like her and her toes. Scrunching her eye brows, while now digging lines in the sand hoping to cross them later if the song ever picked up. Why does the dark sky and blue rocks make me feel light hearted and good, only to then draw a fear, that even to her is misunderstood.  She kept talking to herself now leaving the face expressions behind, lips now moved and more and more lines were drawn around her bent over spine, skinny and hurt, hungry and deserted.  She knew she never needed acceptance from others, explicitly pity from her emotions and actions.  The tear was for something else, for herself, for a self understanding that her happiness comes from pain, heartache and sadness.  These are the emotions that get twisted by the composer's sticks, as they swish through the cold air like fly fishing in the winter air.  The lines drawn were all wrong, the emotions were all torn, misplaced and fused with each song.  Composed with her life, Clint kept playing her next step, or soon to be.  She raised form her happy pity, bunched up in a ball and now standing tall.  Clint's music made her steps feel giant, as her closet planet felt more involved.

Involved in her, as other skeletons came out from side curtains and sliding doors.  Blue rocks and wooded caves now filled with skeletons from the same. Only looks for high up forts, as trees now sway widely from winds of massive torch.  Mansell moved his sticks as skeletons met, no words spoken, just hand shakes and nods, tears of happy and skin of warm, understanding is the most powerful conversation any forgotten one skeleton can have.  The light house began to move with each string, chasing each being from one end of the orchestra to the next, onstage the wood was sticky, as the red carpet became muddy from the tracks from the past.  Her once lonely world was now filled with lonely others, lost pasts now meet up with moving forward futures, tired eyes and steady fortunes.  She, the woman of lost, now found by many still forgotten, but understood and respected by the other blue rock humans who once walked alone under the black sky.

Monday, November 9, 2015

Unspoken Crusaders

New gym, different day.  New faces, same understanding.  Broken bodies, with bloody smiles. Hands of torn with eyes of focus.  Shoulders click as PVC pipes turn.  Coffee flows as the music gets turned the fuck up, creating our adrenaline to boost, rise and spike.  Spite, anger, hate, love, and happiness are some tools we will use to conquer the day.  Along with technique, we will use each other as fuel - misses next to makes equal makes from misses, as each miss makes each athlete want to make each life even more, not just for them, but the fallen lifter laying on the floor.  "Pick him up! Help her out!" One yells from across the gym.  We must keep going, or the gym will win! The doubters will be victors and the haters will rise once again!  Each athlete said nothing, just grabbed the bar and started lifting EVERYTHING! Gym rats unite! Tonight we fight!

Once lost, now found. Once turned off, now physically loud, mentally at peace, and one hundred percent found.  Hate runs through our blood, but now controlled with our new found community.  A raging storm over our heads, simply calmed from the fog that calmly lays around our beds.  Dreaming of better times and forgotten times, goals reached and more obstacles to climb.  As the final goal will never be reached, for this goal is far from the gym and applied only on the "outside".  Once confused, now understood.  Gym rat junkies ready for another fucken round.  A shot of C4 splashes into our coffee, as we Mary our blood and infect others with our passion.  An unspoken relationship of hard work and self pride, is the unspoken relationship of this bar and I.

CrossFit fan spins loud and hard in front of the sliding warehouse door, picking up chalk and flying it around each lifter, like ash from a fire, like a gladiator the night before.  Wrists get wrapped, shoes tied tight, each lifter with a certain number in sight, an hour in and still a fucken fight.  Bounty on weights, while knee wraps wrap tight.  Virus tights like battle armor, as shirtless athletes mentally stay in the fight, while everything else in life slips away and calmly lets go.  Quiet nights are haunted by nightmares from a long time ago, now acting as fuel as each athlete is up for the task, each entering closets of dark only to be met by skeletons from our pasts.  A simple song of understanding, acceptance, and well-being is what an athlete needs to become one strong human being.

You walk up to the PR bar, grab it, and then..........

Crusaders 2016

Sunday, November 1, 2015

A New Experience

First time I have written to no music.  First time I have written on a plane.  First time I have actually opened a window to write, usually clicking black keys in the darkest of the morning night. I guess what I am trying to say is there is a first for everything in life, this is why I pressure all my athletes and fans to compete, compete, and to compete some more.  Beginner or advanced, doesn't matter. Every meet is a different experience, every meet is a first.  New openers, new jumps, followed with new goals and the possibility to achieve new medals and better placements.  New Teams in new location.  New crowds cheering much louder than before, the next one might be dead silent, the next might be an elevated platform.  New adrenaline, more pressure, as you think to yourself, "I've done this before why am I so nervous and wanting to run for the door?" Reason being is you want it so damn bad, if you didn't your stomach wouldn't turn and your vomit wouldn't rise, your annoying yawn would go away and small little twitches and self chat mumbles would disappear like a dash of smokey magic. Wizam! But no... you want it so fucken bad it's even worse than the first.  Every meet gets so much more exciting and nerve racking that the feeling alone is worth months of training, blood, sweat and tears.  Sitting in the warm up room trying not to make eye contact with coaches, athletes nor peers. Focused and steady, your eyes stay down, ready and time-willing, your body is in full gear.  It's like a gambler sitting at the table, that's the true rush, poker comes next to such a feeling of intimacy and lust.  Just as a weightlifter getting ready for his or her opener, they are more alive before they even step on stage. Now it's time to react, nothing more.

New again after years of competing, this is why it's so important to keep competing, rising, and knocking off rankings.  Each new experience might camouflage itself in the world of Weightlifting, but it's the new feeling that you receive that makes Weightlifting so addicting. Not the weight but the anticipation, as I would chug monsters and yell, "Arnold" keeping my mind from thinking.  I would go to a different place when I trained that only brought in feelings, no thoughts, nothing.  This was always my secret in taking top spots.  I would let each meet take full control, moving with the rhythm of the meet like I was the meet director's soul.  Understanding each meet as an individual made me openly take in sights and sounds, allowing all feelings to bubble over and spill onto a platform surrounded by cheering crowds. I was not thinking about my lifting. I was not thinking at all. I was honestly just reacting to what had been happening all along.

"Why is he slamming bars and yelling Shankle on the stage?" They would whisper and ask, as I walked off stage more jacked than even before.  More alive than the meet before, and ready to lift bigger weight than ever before.  I sailed to the back room with yells and tears, so emotional and hyped all before my second attempt was even near. 5 out, no time for sitting, just pacing and breathing, feeling and never thinking.  I did what I had to do to keep fear away, that's my response to those that whisper from far away. When doubt and fear gets in the mind of a Weightlifter... missed lifts appear.  Faces of - "what if's" - and uncertainty cast upon your face. I would then need to pee and I would no longer pace. I would no longer yell, that's when you know it's bad, calm Jon North was a scared Jon North, leaving me with memories of bad.  

Emotions are not thought and they are extremely far from forced.  Emotions are driven from want and desire, long ago heartache and a chip on the shoulder. Emotion stem from the possibility of succeeding... believing in what you're doing and reacting on overwhelming feelings of self love, self happiness, and self worth. The hype to go out on stage is a life changing force, that forces your nervous body to lift weight that makes you feel sick, tired and down, only to stand up to spike all doubt to the ground.  Now calm palms chatter chalk crumbs from your hand, leaving the air cloudy and out of focused like an early morning flight in the AM.  This type of spark sets fire to others around you, a selfish thought now inspires others to clap chalk and slam bars, yell loud while shooting for the stars.  

Chasing dream in night time gyms, lonely and forgotten in the corner of the CrossFit Gym.  Classes move fast and high energy continues to dance, the lifter in the corner has to wait another two months until he or she gets another chance.  A weightlifter looks for feeling from a tired numb body in the deepest bottom of a chalk bowl, as if a kid looking for the magic plastic spoon in a cereal box, opened eyes and bushy tailed, sometimes, "Bingo!" sometimes nothing.  No feeling, only from your legs spiking pain up into your hips, achy and un-oiled your knees make sounds of "clicks".  Hands rough like a race horse's hooves, sharpening the ski and getting rid of the dead skin to new. Icy hot gets warm then cold like the last 5 meets you have competed in.  Asking a woman out on a date was better odds than this weightlifting thing.  Oh well, back to bloody chins and smelly shirts, gym bags that could tell a story of all sorts.  Knee wraps wrap tight and steady, taking you back to the meet when your emotions were brave, high and alive.  The knee wraps as your armor and the bar to survive.  Yep... in the corner of this gym, you are a weightlifter, one day alive, most other days disguised. Patiently waiting for the experience of your life. 

Your first meet or your last is a first.  Experience is knowledge, and knowledge is a choice. Take in your feelings and understand your past.  Embrace, react and most importantly, be you.  

#TeamDO 2016