White walls, silver trimming. This super store has everything. White shelves, bright lights, this super store is electrifying. Cream tiles under your feet reflect images from frozen food doors opening and shutting, shopping carts in motion turning and wheeling, as the constant flickering from the almost dead light bulbs above brings me a slight panic and uneasy feeling. Why am I here shopping alone this late at night? Why does the old man of a manager keep talking over the speaker phone about great prices, half offs, and coupons for deli combos and party accessories?
Bathroom walls light grey with a rough finish. One mirror looking back at your flush face in a bathroom much too big for such little space needed. The toilet sits alone like a sail boat out to sea, empty and small, navigation is a must to find the door back to what is considered reality. Long hallway with bare skin, nothing but white paint and a much too low water fountain guide me back to the store, one with a name I have still never heard before. Road trips can lead you to cracks of life you never knew existed, and the crazy part is once I leave this place it will continue existing, like nothing ever happened, like I never got lost and needed to use the restroom.
Sneakers squeak from a newly mopped floor from the janitor the night before. Adventures on every isle, as the carts turn and people smile. No talk, just a shoppers denial, as we buy more junk, plastic straws and buy one, get one frees... quiet calm music from high above the heavens keep us at ease. I am surprised the store lets you leave at all, as the clerks watch with moving eyes, peaking and keeping an eye on when we decide to awkwardly say, "goodbye" followed by a fake smile, half wave, and an awkward sigh. I wonder if a piece of them leaves with me, as they watch me exit, or maybe they like it... beats me. In circles we shop, rats in a maze, deals make us buy as there are no windows to see the outside. The night sky darker than the eye in the sky, following you around the store as if it has never seen a human being before tonight. The dark from the two front skinny doors make the ice coolers by the red lottery ticket machines glow like snow, as if they were a portal to another super store, all connected like a damn worm hole. The longer you shop, the further you go, the brighter the lights, the less you know. Brain washed by pictures of farms with cows, chickens on hills, and smiling kids drinking Koolaid while mom sleeps well overdosed on Nyquil.
"Do you want your receipt?" No thanks. "Okay, have a great night!"
The gym shook mid clean pull, a sudden un-hook from your hookgrip as the gym itself un-hooked from the earth below. Shankle posters and Dimas art fell from the walls like a whiteboard getting wiped down after a workout has been complete, only for a new plan of attack to be drawn upon next. Medals and trophies on shelves once stacked high now fall low and broken on mats of black that no longer line up perfectly as if horses were actually going to use them anyway. A gym of strength now uprooted from a tornado of power, for a million powerlifters couldn't stop this horror of confusion. The gym starts to spin faster than an Eleiko bar, turning and swooshing and making your one focal point now blurry and off setting. Visions of giant coffee drops fly wildly around your line of sight....or a lack of. No time to try to drink them with your tongue opened and out like you did as a kid when it rained, only time to hold on to the squat rack behind you that your coach would always tell you to move due to the scare of missing the weight behind and hurting yourself from alack of room for a saved lift and a missed disaster. I think it's safe to say that this situation at hand is much worse than a bar rolling back onto your heels... wouldn't you say? Your whole world literally begins to move upward and beyond, higher than your vertical jump and higher than your bar on a perfectly timed and locked out jerk. High and proud, this time not so proud but confused and misled, for this situation was not on today's program. Weightlifting belts turned to safety belts and athletes of all kinds were locking themselves tightly on the pull up rig that now acted as a cockpit. Here we fucken go! Hold on tight! You yelled louder than the roar from your PR. You thought nothing was louder and deeper than a PR yell, but boy you were wrong... this yell was deeper than deep and louder than loud, as you were now moving to Mars faster than all hell!
The landing was violent by smooth, just like your feet on the catch, completely in control and stern with your decision. Your coach would usually yell great words of excitement on such a great catch, but on this landing, "Shit!", seems to be the only words out of his vast vocabulary. Skinny but strong arms stretch out from underneath the gym now acting as a space ship, arms like weightlifters misleading and hidden from public. The public eye would never know how strong you are, for your arms hang like theirs, not knowing your arms lift big fucken things high in the air. Their arms lift grocery bags and pins, working a desk job 'til their eyes pop out from their head. You live free in a warehouse of bars, open garage doors and weightlifting scars. Coffee tastes so much better when sweat meets caffeine, caffeine running through a body of free is the true secrete of being the best you can be. Your weightlifting shoes now act as space shoes meeting red rock. Virus tights and singlets act as suits in space, for now you are on Mars in a gym that now has an address above the stars. The air is somehow breathable, cool, crisp and foggy. Forget everything you know about science, people can't breath on Mars this is a fact, but nothing has ever been said about gym rats. Gym rats breath just fine, walk just fine and talk just fine. Gym rat weightlifters can adapt to anything with time. Red rock mater and sand storms are nothing to you, lifting on a slanted platform with legs of broke is normal to you. Haven't felt your legs in years! This makes for great training when legs cry painful tears! No pain can make a weightlifter hit numbers all day, insane training causes for a lack of feeling and a mind of numb, just like on Mars where the atmosphere is dire and grim. You all explore the red sea of rock, like you did when entering a gym for the first time. Eyes open and hands out, feeling the heat like Maximus going home. Taking in the sights and smells. Heads low as if stocking your prey, moving calmly like staking out a house. You accept this new world like your step dad on your mom's wedding day, unsure but ready for the task. Just as you accept the dark that weightlifting brings, knowing all too well that good things come after the darkest of times. Gym rats now huddle and talk about plans, as if we were making a flier and advertisements on expanding the gym and getting new members. A meeting on Mars, a meeting from afar, makes for a meeting that will bring light, water and food for gym rats to feed upon.
You trained, and hard. The cool windy air was filled with sand that struck your skin like the bar in your throat. Shins bleed from dragging bars as ankles hurt from unstable rocks below. Even with laying the horse mats out, lifting on slops of black, make for many missed lifts in front. No excuses, they trained, with coffee as your only liquid, and chalk as your only food. Eating chalk wasn't so bad, let's face it... the amount of chalk that gets on your body always ends up finding a home inside your stomach. Weightlifters never wash their hands, and face it... you don't either. A few PR lifts later and some Shankle yells followed, echoed through the valleys on red, sandy air and darkness beyond. The weightlifters and their gym on Mars noticed that the more weight they lifted, the more water began to snake through the rock like protein powder slowly falling down unshaken ice water. Green grass started to break through the rocks like a weightlifter's mental block finally being broke, that's the worst when your mind plays tricks on you. But without tricks there are no tries, for clowns of despair leave for more attempts and tries. Sometimes making it hard makes for harder training, in return making for bigger gains to come. "All in good time," a coach once said to me as he reached for his glasses and rocket book of programs. The weightlifters and you rubbed your gym rat tails in a stew of pride, for luck was finally on your side.
A single gym of athletes hitting heavy singles, made for a world to live in that was completely their own. You don't need society and they don't need you. Create your own, on Mars or at your home. Find a gym and walk on Mars, grab a bar and reach for the stars.
Rusted blood built up around my neck like dead calluses on a hand of labor and let downs, gripped tight with a heavy hook, pulling on dreams that seem too far to ever come true. Each heave, and roar pulls the heavy rustic over-sized chain closer, elbows drive back, back holds strong, eyes steady ahead, and feet dig through, all while your body begins to doubt the long adventure ahead, and your mind whispers of white flags and other options. Pain desperately tries to despair you from your goals, as more fish oil tuns in your stomach, leaving you with a taste of old gym bag mixed with knee wraps from yesterday's training. "Maybe another goal is more feasible" - Rest whispers with a crack in her voice and eyes drooped like a Disney character - low and always forgiving. The bar you hold is high but so low, cold metal pulling you down as hope moves you forward. Bloody hands wash up for dinner, as Phantom of the Opera sings loudly in your ears, while others hear the quiet night play a song of silverware meeting the plate and cups sitting softly on the table. Cold nights that turn lonely, make you feel like the only one, like wearing the wrong outfit to the first day of school -therefore being shunned. A weightlifter set a part from the "rest" - An alien who is desperately misunderstood and hated by those who don't understand. Freak, bastard, fucken outcast. There is a place for us, it's called the gym.
Your scars turn purple as the breath of your air surrounds your thoughts, cold nights can make your midnight smoke turn into a circus of emotions while you sit front row, sometimes good, sometimes a performance that's followed by a head down shower. Does my sweat really build up underneath my shower? Is there really a "sweat bank"? Why the fuck I am doing this? River of red around my neck strangles me on nights of thought as I look back a decade later on my career. Past friends, coaches, teams, meets, medals and memories now dirt, dust, old coffee and cigarette butts. My writing stopped, medals hang in dust, only to move once again from open doors and a gust from an open window, as they cling and clang in a cry of acceptance, once appreciated and now unheard. Old forgotten videos lay on bed side with palms of ever loving lust. Hold my hand they whisper, with an old cracking voice of despair. A decade later and somehow.....I am still here.
Morning has now come, welcomed by a refill and a long stare out a canvas now almost filled. Normal society marches on as they do, one foot in front of the next, going to their jobs of work, once told to them by people who work, that once went to school who taught them how to work, so they work. The dark of the night slipped away like the last ten years of my life. Full circle....1,000 coffee cups down, stained cigarette hands and palms of rough. Ten years ago when I entered the Dark Orchestra I was lost, and now I am found. Found through weightlifting that gave me an identity nothing else could. Found through a bar that only tried to pull me down. The crazy thing is, is that if you lift the bar high you can achieve greatness. Lift the bar over and over, faster and higher, stronger each day, and opportunity will meet you at 6 am at Starbucks aka The Green Jungle. What door to walk through? I say walk through them all, doesn't mean you have to carry on down that one particular road. A journey only well sought upon is a journey worth taking. Have I ventured down paths of regret, never. Have a ventured down paths too long, yes. Know when to turn, find the crossroad and back trail if needed. Not all opportunity will lead to the promise land, sometimes a promise is only met with burnt grass and a rotten grapefruit tree. At time when all doors don't seem to lead, create your own as windy roads full of bricks and weeds can be the ones that lead to achieving many things, some on the list and some newly discovered. I write to you today, ten years later with more understanding than before, at the same time none at all. The times have changed but the coffee tastes the same. The barbell has been lifted with much weight, but there is always more to lift, more weight to move, walk with, and live with. A decade later and I finally come back to the place that I feel the most at home. A decade later and my neck still bleeds rivers of blood......cut by tyranny, and sustained by desire.
A note to you, TeamDO. I write these programs for you. Nothing makes me more proud than seeing you take my image, my vision, and turn it into your masterpiece. I write programs as if I am sculpting ice, wood, or better yet......a Weightlifter. A weightlifter with dreams, the same dreams I once had. Success, medals, teams.....VICTORY. Triumph over hardship, followed with pain over pleasure. Pleasurable pain is what I call this Team, TeamDO, the dark is you, with you, and lives inside you. There is no such thing as dark, dark is without light, but why is it in the dark I feel the sun on my face and the breeze on my hands. The past is a funny thing, close but far, love and pain, motivation filled with reluctant doubt mixed with mind numbing conversations between your skeleton and you, I, us. Your skeletons might be dark, locked away and hidden, but I promise you, walking into that closet and listening to the Orchestras they play, white fingertips filled with salty eyes, bones full of hollow, and strings that cry.....listen to them play, bad or good, and I promise you......IT WILL BE THE BEST PROGRAM EVER WRITTEN. Salute. #TeamDO #Thedarkorchestra
It’s where it all started. Full circle. 5 years
later the Orchestra stands, bent but never broken. Side ways, but strong.
Old, but perfect. My old friend. True & brutally honest. Dust
on my hand, as my calused palms drag upon the faded red cloth chairs. Row
after row, higher and higher the 5 story auditorium rises, until the dark
slowly starts to cast a blanket over the last few seats. Seats where we
have sat in so often, as our skeletons play sad songs from the broken strings
from our past. Perfect harmony, perfect motion, and perfect sadness.
Dark, empty, but ever so bold. Too bold and honest for most, for
most don't enter, only those who truly want, and can accept their past can make
peace from this Orchestra. My feet stick from the salt water on the
ground, as broken strings lay next to broken promises, promises that held
dreams oh so tight, only now to lay out like an old rug that runs up the once
lit up isle. I am back, and it feels ever so good. The bright light
from the outside world creeps underneath the exit door, as boards and nails do
their best to block the sun. Black walls, filled with a black stage.
Broken chairs & fallen wallpaper sob like so many who enter this closet.
Passed the coats, passed the boxes, there lies a door, a door that leads
to a place I found back in 2010. I’m glad you can join me once again.
Join me as our journey continues. The next chapter may begin.
But first, let’s go back before we move forward.
2010, I needed a place like this. A place
where I could face my demons like a man. I place that shed no shame, but
bathed me in guilt. A place that would introduce me face to face with the
skeletons that kept me up all those past nights. The boogie man under my
bed, as smoke and coke chased me around the nighttime life I called hell.
A world of frightful tales, amongst the worst of devils. Regrets
from my childhood haunt me; decisions I have made lay me awake, as what if’s
wrestle me to the point of depression. What I have created today takes me high,
where I stand now is a dream world, one of beauty and honesty, but entering the
Dark Orchestra is a must, for it keeps me grounded. 2010, I was going
through a very hard time, one without saying you can relate to. Slamming
bars, chugging coffee, and yelling on the platform wasn't enough. I
needed something to yell at me, something to slam me down and give me a rude
awakening to the person I had become, and the person I was. I needed the
truth, one not sheltered by caffeine and weights, but real, horribly real that
could help me grow to the man I always saw myself becoming. 2010, I sat
down in the back room of Cal Strength, & began to write. It was weird…I
started to write about this thing called…well…The Dark Orchestra. Where
it came from…I will never know to this day. But boy, I am glad it came to
me. Without it…. who knows who or where I would be today. This is
my 5 year reunion of my blog, today I write again after a year to give thanks
to something that connected me to you, you the reader, & hopefully through
my writing helped you along the way as well.
I continue to slowly drag my hand over the stage
and music stands raised up high like a skinny robot, as my walking feet creek the
hardwood floor. A projector plays old videos from being a little boy all
the way to my early days at Cal Strength, slamming bars at Sac State, flying to
the American Open under Hassle Free, long chats with Ben Claridad, and long
training sessions with Coach Jackie Mah. Scraping change for monster
energy drinks to split with my wife, all with happy smiles on our face. Not a
care in the world besides training. No cares, for all my skeletons at this
point in my life were locked away and forgotten in my long lost closet door.
Now sitting on the stage, feet dangling down as if I was a kid in a tree,
now reminiscing about moving across country and throwing weight at squat racks
at MDUSA. Epic YouTube videos cast a small smile over my face. I
shake my head sometimes to see if it was all just a dream, but no…I was truly a
part of so much good. I was truly a part of so much greatness.
Gold medals and bomb outs, missed teams and made
teams, friends, enemies, brothers, and sisters. The scratchy projector
screen above the stage continues to play a timeline of my life, as if it was
waiting for me this long year I have been MIA. What happened? How did I
become the man I am today? I walk the stage and throughout the maze of isles
and seats with more confidence than ever before. I have come along way
with my wife by my side, staying off by the exit door as so many memories catch
me by surprise. We have accomplished so much; we have failed so much. I have
changed, but this Orchestra hasn't. Still hungry, but at the same time,
satisfied with my hard work. Hard work…something that sounds so simple,
something that rolls off the tongue…something that is so hard…something that
still must be performed.
A young, ambitious kid lifting weights for the love
of the sport, and the world the sport lives within. Community…something I
finally found back then. Acceptance, pride, attention, something that
felt as warm as the sun on my face. I walk amongst this stage as my
skeletons start to come out from the dark, cellos, violins, bass, saxophone,
& pianos start to come together like life has a way of doing. I sit.
I listen. Half my body covered in dark, half in dust, as sad music from
my far & recent past keep me humbled and in check. An odd
understanding comes forth, giving me pain, while turning it into strength.
Sad songs at first, morph into songs of truth and fortune, breath and
lungs, dreams of better places and untouched grounds, as fog circles my feet,
and dark captures my head. My white eyes stay up toward my songs that
play, as my chin points low, as thoughts interact with the music. The
best part about the skeletons is they have a way of relating. You see…after
a few songs your skin melts from understanding, admitting, seeing, and finally
accepting. Your white bones become strong and loud, your white eyes turn
to black, as your nails fall like leaves. Your clothes become nothing to
you, so pure, so honest just this once, just this minute, your true feelings
are the only thing that consumes you. You my reader, you my fellow
friend, who sit next to me tonight, you are now turned into a skeleton.
We are now skeletons. Nothing but bones that can be seen right
through. Nothing to hide, nothing to fear. Skeletons of the dark
are nothing more than our own mirror.
I can truly say that I am more of a man that I was
last year. More mature, wiser, and more understanding on how this society
works and turns. More keen to human behavior. Not as trusting, but
more trusting in some situations. Still growing, still trying to
understand, still playing my violin as a skeleton…no matter how much success I
create, the Dark Orchestra keeps me straight. How far I have come…oh but
how far I have to go. Blogs of sad, blogs of crazy, blogs of tears mixed
with hate and love…this blog is more me than me, as my fingers bleed for truth
and honesty, honesty within myself and others. My father not too long ago
found the Dark Orchestra; I know so many skeletons reading this now have as
well. Finding is key, but ever growing is a must. As my good friend
and coach Les tells me… “This is only the beginning".
Skeletons of the dark that sit with me tonight, let
us take pride in ourselves, our families and friends, and never forget that our
past is what has made us who we are today, and today is a great day to
fight.
Skeletons 2015
PS: Hey Shankle, better step up your writing game……I'm back. #blogwars
Four gentlemen. Four scholars. Four men captivated by the bar, sailing the gym with empty guts filled with swirling waves of energy drinks. Their caffeinated adventure and their midnight chatter sways them along the distant and never ending ocean made up of sugar, and birds that circle their ship of chairs and coaches tied together by the strings from each men's shoes. Knots that pull tight just like the grip they use to hold their shaker cups, keep the boat attached, while the men roll deeper into dreams and goals they didn't even know where there. Hands move with their mouths, while body language follows the rhythm of the conversation. Laughter rings out throughout the empty sea as one of the men ask for another shot of energy. "Hell yea!" Matt says to Ryan, as powder starts to pour like sand from a shoe. Powder that dances as it enters the cup.... a cup that will soon be shaken. Pink powder that is legal, how this is possible makes the men burst with laughter even louder than before. A drug that allows the men to feel comfortable around each other, like a beer at a business meeting, or coffee on a first date. An ice breaker, a conversation starter, a counselor of some sort, constantly begging for more truth, more discussion, more of you. Body building magazines that lay scattered on the wet deck, only to be glanced upon and then thrown to the side, leaving the magazine empty and unfulfilled.
When lost at sea the only thing to do is chug powder, crack monsters, and feel the smooth face of miss brown eyes against the palm of your hand. The yellow birds occasionally swoop down to catch a better view of the on board barrels that reek of motivation and wide eyed emotion. The gusts of wind from the splashing whales and rolling kilo plates made miss brown eyes' hair find peace above her head, blocking out the sight of the birds as if a slide show was being played above all for men's heads. A slide show of blue ski for miles, and clouds that made shapes of Dimas on a unicorn jumping over caffeinated waterfalls. It became quiet for a moment as all four scholars of their respected career choices drew from their rich and inviting drinks. A smack of the lips and a shake from the head was only the start of the after drink ritual. The classic look of the cup from a stretched out arm like something was wrong, meant that everything in the world was right. Chatter laid still in peace, as the sound of the boat slapping the water gave each man a moment of tranquility. Chunks of energy powder found its way on the back of each mans throat and behind the gums that always seemed to bleed when brushed. A fast chew as their eyes pinned wide, but the sight could not make out what laid in front of them from the pure concentration of the task at hand. Rocks exploded as the supplements taste and high powered electricity punched them in the face, followed this time around - by a fast and violent sip to wash the left overs down deep into the belly of the beast.
Another topic popped up like the silence was never there. The silence grabbed its doctor bag and medical kit and flew away. He was glad to leave, for he was an owl, and owls had no business being out in the middle of a ocean made up of sugar and yellow birds. The silent owl was always known for being realistic, and this situation was far from anything that lingered on making a bit of sense. To the four men reality couldn't be more real. The spray of the ocean tasted like sugar, and the circling birds drew a certain shade that they could feel upon their skin. How could this not be reality? A reality they could taste with every sip of their mixed multi-colored contraptions they were drinking, like a pirate to his alcohol. The front room boat stayed swaying as the lobby squeezed the shoe string boat closer and closer to the tiny door that was becoming bigger and bigger. A door that became land, and land that lead to the land called gym.
Jokes and ball breaking would be soon rudely interrupted by a heavy reality. Ideas were the reflections that the men saw when they pierced through the depth of the water, as the boat swayed closer and closer to the growing door. Looking back at them was the what if's and the how comes. Whales that rolled in circles with giant smiles upon their faces. Fish that spoke English sang songs from the 90's, and the outer banks of the ocean came to a stop, as if the water and sea life had no where else to go. All roads led to one destination. All the whales were swimming to one location, and the birds were flying to help guide the four men home. Soon the men realized their ocean journey was over, and the front door leading out from the gym lobby and into the gym was 10 feet high and partially cracked open. Chalk dust fell like snow from the cracked door, as the music bumped through the dead end ocean walls meeting their feet and carrying up through their bodies. The energy drinks were gone, empty, now living inside them. The door flew open as the owl of silence made its way to the front of the boat, grabbing the rope with his wing and tying the boat to the long wooded post that the yellow birds momentarily made their new resting spot. "Let's go boys......it's time to train." - Silent owl.
The definition of the Attitude Nation Catapult performed beautifully by Ruben Aleksanyan in the video below.
Pointers to look out for.
1.) Bar never touches his body intel the contact in his hips (yes he is a hip cleaner)
2.) knees almost fully locked out - shoulders over - bar around mid thigh. (superman pull)
3.) This athlete has performed the early arm bend to a T. ) most likely because he is a hip cleaner)
4.) the finish (aka) Arched Angel, is one of the best in the game. Hips through - shoulders back - on toes - elbows back - BAR is right under his belly button
5.) WATCH THE BAR as the athlete starts to go under, goes under, and at the initial catch……..
THE BAR DOES NOTHING
Learn how to move around the bar, not move the bar.
