#Addicted

When I started lifting two years ago I couldn’t do shit.  I sucked at everything possible.  Couldn’t squat without a box for support. Could barely do pushups without the use of knees. Weighted PVC pipe for overhead movements.  Barely catching my breath during simple runs. Everything.

But now it’s reached a point where I’m able to strategize and play within the movements, making all the difference.

It’s now my favorite thing to do.  I’m sad when I wake up and there’s no lifting to be done.  It’s a fucking addiction and getting high never felt this good.

 

Words

“I can believe that things are true and I can believe things that aren’t true and I can believe things where nobody knows if they’re true or not. I can believe in Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny and Marilyn Monroe and the Beatles and Elvis and Mister Ed. Listen – I believe that people are perfectible, that knowledge is infinite, that the world is run by secret banking cartels and is visited by aliens on a regular basis, nice ones that look like wrinkledy lemurs and bad ones who mutilate cattle and want our water and our women. I believe that the future sucks and I believe that future rocks and I believe that one day White Buffalo Woman is going to come back and kick everyone’s ass. I believe that all men are just overgrown boys with deep problems communicating and that the decline in good sex in America is coincident with the decline in drive-in movie theaters from state to state. I believe that all politicians are unprincipled crooks and I still believe that they are better than the alternative. I believe that California is going to sink into the sea when the big one comes, while Florida is going to dissolve into madness and alligators and toxic waste. I believe that antibacterial soap is destroying our resistance to dirt and disease so that one day we’ll all be wiped out by the common cold like the Martians in War of the Worlds. I believe that the greatest poets of the last century were Edith Sitwell and Don Marquis, that jade is dried dragon sperm, and that thousands of years ago in a former life I was a one-armed Siberian shaman. I believe that mankind’s destiny lies in the stars. I believe that candy really did taste better when I was a kid, that it’s aerodynamically impossible for a bumblebee to fly, that light is a wave and a particle, that there’s a cat in a box somewhere who’s alive and dead at the same time (although if they don’t ever open the box to feed it it’ll eventually just be two different kinds of dead), and that there are stars in the universe billions of years older than the universe itself. I believe in a personal god who cares about me and worries and oversees everything I do. I believe in an impersonal god who set the universe in motion and went off to hang with her girlfriends and doesn’t even know that I’m alive. I believe in an empty and godless universe of casual chaos, background noise, and sheer blind luck. I believe that anyone who says that sex is overrated just hasn’t done it properly. I believe that anyone claims to know what’s going on will lie about the little things too. I believe in absolute honesty and sensible social lies. I believe in a woman’s right to choose, a baby’s right to live, that while all human life is sacred there’s nothing wrong with the death penalty if you can trust the legal system implicitly, and that no one but a moron would ever trust the legal system. I believe life is a game, that life is a cruel joke, and that life is what happens when you’re alive and that you might as well lie back and enjoy it.”

– Neil Gaiman, American Gods

Ayahuasca

I just experienced the most amazing customer service ever.

I ordered a tent and it never arrived.  I clicked a button that said, “chat.” A few seconds later I was talking to a representative.  In less than 5 minutes I was done speaking with them and a new tent was en route.  And they never once bothered to see if what I claimed was true or not.

That’s fucking customer service.

 

Egyptians

Last night I played my final softball game ending the season on a high note. When we started practicing I was fearful that my abilities would not improve enough in time for the games.  Gratefully they did and I was able to enjoy the games without worrying too much about my inexperience.

It also helps to be put in right field. That was a blessing.

Made contact with the ball most times I was at plate.  Brought in a few RBI’s. I’m happy with my performance all things considered.

Mostly though it was just fun hanging out with friends.  I didn’t sign up so I could play baseball.  I signed up to get out of the house and out of my comfort zone, and in that regard it was a great success.

One Month

Burning Man is one month away and the excitement is beginning to take hold. I just purchased my tent, sleeping bag, etc. and the reality is setting in.

I believe I am going in with the right mindset but who knows what will happen when I get there.  It has dawned on me that I’m treating this like a psychadelic trip (which it may very well lead into).

When you’re about to embark on a visionary journey the mindset you bring with you is as important or perhaps more so than the specific chemical. Set and Setting if you know the lingo.

Usually when the trip is over you come away with a greater understanding of self or perhaps more confidence.  But sometimes you are left thinking about things you’d rather ignore yet ultimately need to be resolved.

I expect Burning Man to behave similarly.

Power

Real power doesn’t come from the material world.

Look at Bruce Lee, he’s arguably more powerful today than he was when he was alive.  In matter of influence, he still reigns king.

That’s power.

The money in your bank ain’t worth shit.

Chester from Linkin Park now commands a mighty army.  His death brought back fans who had long forgotten him. Now that we know how his story ended we can finally see it for the first time.

His words have new meaning.

And power.

 

Get Over It

My biggest fear since early childhood has been public singing.  I’ve been so terrified of it that I wouldn’t even allow myself to sing in my room even if I knew no one else could possibly hear me.  I wouldn’t sing in the car.  I just never did it, and if I did it was a mumbled mess.

I feel things deeply.  Way more than I let on.  And if you’re gonna be a good singer you need to show everyone what’s inside.

I remember being 13 or 14 and thinking to myself, “I wonder if what I’m supposed to be is a singer and that’s why it scares me so much?”  I noticed the irony of it and thought it worth noting.  Now I’m twice that age and counting and I’m beginning to see that I was not too far off.

I didn’t know that music would carry me this far.  I’m not a popular musician by any aspect but I’ve had success with it, however limited.  I never tried to be anything when I played music.  When you are socializing you have to play the part.  The part people expect.  The part they accept.

In music you’re totally free to express yourself exactly as you feel.  When I played I got into, like really into it.  Sure it scared me to do it publicly, but as I’ve grown and embarrassed myself endlessly it’s becoming no matter at all.

But now it’s time to figure out this singing mess.  I’ve been singing in the car for the last 2 years or so.  Pretty much for as long as I’ve been doing crossfit.  I’m not sure why I started but I probably just stopped giving a fuck.

My singing is getting better but it still sucks.  But I am reminded of Kurt Cobain.  His voice works because it’s his own shit.  He’s expressing himself in his own unique way.  And it fucking works.  So I’ve got to find my voice.

I’ve got a few songs written on guitar, but they’re all instrumental. I’ve got to figure out how to write these lyrics.  To be honest, I haven’t given it more than a moment’s thought.  But Chester’s death today made me realize it’s probably fucking time.

Suicide

So Chester from Linkin Park just killed himself today.  Apparently it was Chris Cornell’s birthday, which was a good friend of his.  He killed himself two months ago.

A fear that I’ve long held in the back of my mind is this: what’s the fucking point of struggling to “be somebody” or “get there” only to find out nothing has changed and you’re still carrying your misery with you everywhere you go.  These guys “made it” by most people’s definitions of success and yet it wasn’t enough.

And yet, these guys helped countless young lives battle through their own depression.  Just seems so unfair to me that their words of pain can help soothe others yet do nothing to mend their own souls.

Rest peacefully brothers.