Good Luck Amigo

I suppose saying that it has been a long strange trip would be a colossal understatement. Over these many years we have seen, heard and participated in more noteworthy events than I can recall. Despite the fact that of those events not all have provided fond memories, they all had one important element in common, they all contributed to what we are, and who we are today. The lessons of the past carry us ever onward towards the relentless pursuit of our best, who we wish to become. 

That is the ways that it is. We do and we fail. We do it again and we fail again. We look at it differently the third time and something changes. Perhaps something so small it can’t be measured, but there is a change, an atom’s worth, an attitudinal shift, a spark. That flash in our head, from our heart or of our soul, is the stimulus holding the power to change everything. So we mash up what we know with what we have and where we are and we try it all over again, this time with that spark, that flash of cosmic possibility as the guiding light. I am convinced, after a lifetime’s worth of failures and disappointments, that success and victory will be mine, and yours, one day - as long as we continue to keep our poor heads above water and move in the direction of our dreams. 

That my dear friend is how we learn. And how we learn is how we grow. There is no limit on our growth other than the one imposed upon us by the passage of time, a fact that I often refer to when I feel like playing the procrastination game. One day we will no longer be able to put it off till another day. Making time, this day, this minute, the most important ones of our lives. 

Tough decisions, incredibly difficult choices, impossible situations, Catch-22 paradoxes await us at every turn. Our jobs, the responsibility of our nature as human beings is to be ready for them, because they will never end. We prep for these monumental challenges the same way we prepare for a game: through practice. Mindful practice. We strengthen our bodies, improve our weakness’, clear our visions, open our hearts and free our spirits. And then we intrepidly go out and face the demons. This is the path of the hero. We fight that good fight. The hero must have a worthy adversary, otherwise he is doomed to stay in the purgatory of mediocrity forever, and worse, live a life of fear, doubt and dread. 

Rise up. Step up. Get up. Forget the past and forgive yourself - there is nothing you have done that hasn’t been done before by thousands of people just like yourself. But many of them, the great majority, never see that as part of the process, and they give up and allow shame and humiliation to run the show, instead of seeing the truth in the situation that the past doesn’t matter nearly as much as the present. And once the present is opened it becomes the gift of the future. YOUR future. 

That starts now. Your future starts today. Let go of the pain of the past - that hurt exists only in your mind. Forgive yourself as you forgive others who may have contributed to it, myself included. Start a practice today that includes work in the the three vital areas: Mind, body and spirit. Pragmatically that translates into reading, breathing and presence. We learn, we walk and we become ever more and more aware (of the positive changes taking place as a result). Once can also listen, run and pray just as easy in the fulfillment of this universal quest. There are a thousand combinations. We like to say to just add your personality and character, like water. 

Fear not my brother it will be OK. Find some flow, relax into calm. Like surfing, you have to find a state of relaxed focus to make it sizzle. Build your confidence through consistent, dedicated practice. Remember the words of Dan Millman, ‘There Are No Ordinary Moments.’

My favorite motivational quote these days I heard on a podcast while I was driving through Montana. 'Merge your awareness with reality.’ Stay present, hone your awareness, pay solid attention and then make sure that focus matches the reality of your circumstance. With enough gratitude and forgiveness you cannot miss!

Please know that I am forever on your side. If there is anything I can do to assist or help with as you open this new and exciting chapter of your biography, please call. I think you have my number. 

And say hello to Debbie, CJL, Joey, Dianne and Darren for me. 

Good luck amigo,

KML

British Invasion

The GOPs latest slime-ball scare tactic, a week before the mid-terms, the myth of six million murderous wanna-be asylum seekers marching through Mexico from Central America, has been termed an invasion by the state sponsored propaganda fear-mongers at Faux News. Seems there has also been an infiltration of ‘unknown’ Middle Easterners to the group as well. All toting AR15s, homemade pipe bombs and chanting lock her up. 

I would laugh if this wasn’t so stupid. This fraud of a president, and his spineless minions in the House and Senate play the republican base like a string fiddle. They promote hatred, violence, racism and nationalism (me first) and then deny any responsibility when soft-brained, weak-minded shepple in red hats actually go off their opioids and kill innocent people. It is a disgusting demonstration of fascism normally reserved for third world dictators, yet making a unsightly comeback led by maniacs calling themselves ‘the trump base.’ 

Once again please excuse as I chortle about the immigrant’s ‘invasion’. My emotional response turns quickly from the cynical to the serious when I consider what is behind this wholly political posturing. The fact that there are millions of Americans actually buying this bull, supporting the violence, discriminating, hating, and choosing to follow the outright bigotry and corruption of the invertebrates outright lying to them, astounds me. I have heard this question asked rhetorically a thousand times in the last year: “How dumb do they think we are?’ 

Plenty dumb is the painful answer. And that is a key strategic point in their unscrupulous campaign to keep their incredibly profitable power the color of blood. They know that if the scarlet circle is to continue, that sphere in linear fashion: Big Corporate $$$ > Lobbyists > Corrupt Politicians > Laws > Tax Breaks, Gifts, Policy > Big Corporate $$$, thet must do anything to keep in power. Anything. So the circle is unbroken as the rich are returned their investment a billion fold. Answers the question as to why so many things are so effed-up doesn’t it? 

The simple fact that the people most negatively affected by this are the poor, what is left of the middle-class, the disabled and disenfranchised, students, seniors and people with pre-existing conditions comprise a large part of the trump base. This gets lost in the mix of hate and ignorance they see as entitlement. Maybe it is worth paying $4 for a gallon of gas when you get to shoot up a synagogue, or a fair and balanced deal to spend 48 years in the big house for sending IEDs to the political opponents of your fearless leader. It should not be lost on us that if these had been perps of color we would not be talking about their court appearance, but their memory. Law enforcement shoots anyone other than whites on the spot dead. Whites get a trial. Do some research. 

I started out today to write about music. About writing music. Adding poetry to a melody. A few of the traits I was going to compare to indoor cycling (remember back in January that was the thematic goal)  were these:

Danceability

Tempo

Energy

Acousticness

Liveliness

Speechiness

Instrumentalness

Valence (Mood)

Just hearing the ugliness spewing from the talking heads at Faux News last night, their cheap and pathetic attempts to cover the atrocities inspired by the hate speech of their chief instigator, their inane use of the word ‘invasion’ by a group of people innocently only wanting to provide better lives for themselves and their persecuted families, about made me sick. This is who we are, who we have become?

We will find out one week from today. 

I hope that we can muster an invasion of our own. The invasion of the Blue Army to the polls. These vicious, soulless bastards must be voted out. THAT is what will make America great. In the age of information, ignorance is a choice. 

The only successful invasion of America in history was in 1964 by British rockers. 

We made love and music not hate and war, about as black and white as it gets. Or should I say as red and blue as it gets? 

Short Answer is No

No is the answer.

Junior is sharing with me his latest adventure into the magic of the music world. We are into our floor routine, four-way planks and stretching, when he plays a creative card announcing he has discovered a cool four-chord progression on the guitar. 

Outstanding is my abbreviated reply as I try to relax my quivering core. Is there a minor in there somewhere? 

His response tells me that there is, along with a ‘how did you know’ exhale. Well, I begin, knowing that if we are to wring maximum value from our brief morning allotment of workout time we must focus on this - and not that. Hundreds if not thousands of pop songs were built with the architectural framework known in the trade as a three-chord progression, typically in the I - IV - V format, so a natural variation is to add a minor or a seventh for variety or spice. Is it an A-minor? 

Again the exhale guffawed yes.

Perhaps tired of me already knowing the answers to his recent discoveries, he modulates with another question as we segue into leg lifts, and being a gifted mathematician, he tries to frame the question with more binary possibility than philosophical certainty. He asks, ‘As I was playing around with those chords I was wondering if we (humanity) will ever run out of music.’ 

I quickly tell him the story of a road trip I once took with a very gifted musician. We were in my 1948 Chevy half-ton heading South on 101 about midway between San Francisco and LA. We were cruising along trying to nail the two part harmony of John Denver’s cool but corny 'Sunshine on My Shoulders’, and I JUST COULD NOT GET IT RIGHT. The last note  (in Am7) simply wasn’t within reach of my very limited vocal range or acumen. Rudy and I took a break to stretch our legs on the beach at Pismo and looking skyward I asked him the same question that Junior had just asked me. His answer was surprisingly quick: 

No.

Never? Never. Not no how and not no way? Not no how and not no way. 

Because it is all a variation on a theme. And following universal cosmic reality, subject to change, and if one changes a part of the whole, one has changed the whole. Take a note - like the one you couldn't hit - any note or any chord and augment it, diminish it, move it to another key or time signature, add the poetic song in your heart and practice it until your fingers bleed. You will find that you cannot ever play it the same way twice. When the last rendition is perfect, it was vastly different from its original, even if the melody and mood remain the same. That is why no two baseball games are ever the same, or, as Zen tells us, we can never step into the same river twice. A song played perfect is not the same as the same song played imperfect. One might even say that the possibilities and variants are infinite. 

All we can do, in music, in health and fitness, in sports, or as in the amalgam of science, technology, engineering and mathematics, is to seek improvement, discipline ourselves to relentless practice and play the music our souls suggest. Music is life. Sing your song. Practice the presentation. Explore. Share it with others. Love the process. Up your vibration. 

And never worry about running the tank to empty. You won’t as long as you keep moving in that direction. The only variable is of quality and the short answer is no. 

Yes?

Both Personal and Business

I have had enough practice. We have been through this before, and should by now, know the drill well enough to react appropriately. The appropriateness having only a few options. When dealt a bad hand, a degree of disappointment or some flat-out nasty circumstance, we can:

1) Accept.

2) Reject.

3) Seek revenge. 

Hundreds, maybe thousands, of movies have manipulated the latter into dramatic plot twists usually offering copious cinematic amounts of satisfaction for both protagonist and viewer. Regardless of justice restored, face saved or honor returned, they all ring like muted brass bells from the spiritual standpoint. It has been pointed out that an eye for an eye usually leaves the village myopic, or as we used to say of an umpire’s horrible call, ‘yo blue, if you had another eye you’d be a cyclops.’ We have a criminal justice system that is designed, and usually successfully, to deal with issues of this variety. 

We can reject the reality of the circumstance and deny all responsibility. This, more often than not, sends us immediately and directly into victimhood. Without even the small cash reward for passing Go. I keep hearing people complain with an emphatic, ‘I can’t believe this is happening here,’ when addressing the political, or ‘I can’t believe this is happening to me,’ when flabbergasted by something more personal. This stinks of political and social privilege as well as personal irresponsibility and arrogance. One of the most altruistic slogans of all time is the pithy, shit happens. Because it does, keeps on doing and can happen in the plural or singular. To us, to you and to me. Shit showing up uninvited and most of the time unwelcome. Leading us directly to the only legitimate response to the reality of the recurring happening of shit. 

Acceptance. 

I am not saying you have to like it, but you will get over, past and above any shit show if you simply, perhaps paradoxically so, accept the reality that it is here. A few recent examples.

Yesterday, after my soul barring admission of the importance of distractions, and my personal weakness, college football, with one team in particular, it suddenly became as apparent as a wide-out coming open, that in claiming this distraction as crucial to my sanity, I was placing a LOT of pressure on said team to be responsible for my happiness. They win and I smile. Yesterday they played uninspired, unmotivated, unbalanced and afraid. And lost. I should be a mess. 

But winners, leaders, champions and heroes learn the lessons from their defeats, lick their wounds and live to fight another day. We don’t wallow in self pity. We don’t blame others for our lack of focus and execution. We don’t spin errors into excuses. We accept that we got whupped, analyze how, correct the flaws and move forward, onwards and upwards. We accept.

Over the course of the last 70 hours America has been rattled to its democratic core. Pipe bombs to prominent Democrats and AR-15s in holy temples of worship. We are less than ten days from the most important mid-term elections in the history of our country. The talking heads on both sides blame each other for the carnage, continuing to point fingers and fan flames. Oddly, it now is apparent that a lot of this vitriol cum violence is blow-back from the eight years we enjoyed under the graceful leadership of the first African-America president. THEY WANT REVENGE and reject any mention of unity, peace, balance or truth. 

Unacceptable folks. We are being bated by fear. I am disappointed that our leadership is so thoroughly corrupt, middle-men in the war between the have’s and those of us on the flip side of that coin. Until campaign finance, the lobby’s, and big money in politics is removed, we will see this shit-show on an endless loop of prime-time mass market media. This I accept.

And pledge my sincere efforts to bring it to a quick halt on November 6th. Please help me restore balance to America by voting blue.

With regrets to Michael Corleone, it is both business and personal. It’s not revenge, it’s the right thing to do.

And Perhaps Escape

It is raining hard. There is a 2’ x 4’ skylight directly above my bed so I listen to the wind preening small branches from the fir, madrona and cedar trees that surround my cabin. The cabin was built in 1905, a chip shot from the water which is currently in blender mode. It is the first real storm of the year. 

Sometime a few years back I discovered the warm and fuzziness of the heated fitted sheet. It warms the bed from the bottom up and when paired with my dual layered comforter, there is a victorious peace I find as I enjoy nature’s symphony. It is 0200 and I am reading. As I flip the pages, telling the WWII saga of two prisoners, an English woman and an Ozzie cowboy, searching for one another some ten years after the war, it feels doubly poignant as the electricity could end at any moment, as it usually does when the winds achieve their current speed. When two hundred year old trees come down they take whatever wiring remains strung beneath them. Should that happen it would quickly become cold and dark. All this creates a oddly gratifying moment. It increases my appreciation of Neville Shute, Australia, technology, history and the present moment. This could all end with the crash that follows the crack. 

In an earlier chapter I built a cabin around two of those aforementioned trees. This thirty year labor of love, formally called the ‘Cabin in the Woods’, but more informally known as ‘My Art Project’, suffered from the ravages of bad design and bad craftsmanship. The trees would rock in the wind, literally moving the cabin on its make shift foundation and enlarging the crevice which, like a boot, served as a rain deterrent. The project failed, mostly from my shoddy construction techniques, but the memories of a hundred magical days, and a thousand joyous nights remain. 

I remember laying in bed, upstairs, on stormy winter nights, heat sufficiently rising from the fire below, and rocking gently with the musical sway of my fir trees. Over the years we endured several severe storms, with power out and fire roaring, that a loud crack, onomatopoeia if there ever was, of a huge tree followed by its thunderous crash landing. One clipped the side of the roof, but I never took a direct hit. Because as I wanted to believe, there was an ‘understanding’ between us that since I built around instead of felling and building over a death-scar, that reciprocally, they would try their Ent-like best to fall, when brother wind decided to blow big, anywhere but overhead. 

I am thinking about all this as I take sporadic breaks from the story, close my eyes and try to sleep. But the storm is a metaphor. These are scary times, innocent people are falling like cedar saplings in a Nor’easter. The evil wind blowing is rhetoric from the leader of the hate-fueled tribe that allows only one type of tree to grow in the forest. All others are treated as invasive, unwanted and dangerous species. They must be felled, cut into rounds, split and stacked. To continue the metaphoric angle, Bid Wood then hires splitters, maulers, axe wielding laborers at minimum wage to supply the demand and maintain a profit margin large enough to satisfy both shareholders and corporate executives. The wood is then sold back to the people upon whose land it grew to maturity at a huge profit for Big Wood. 

I sigh, saddened once again by the runaway capitalism of a divided country. The chasm between the have’s and have-nots grows alarmingly. 

It is 0300. The wind and rain join in tempestuous harmony above me. I re-open my book seeking solace and perhaps escape. 

My Personal Distraction

I take my distractions seriously these days. Once upon a time, maybe laying on a beach, on a road trip, working the ranch or playing in the band, I would drift into a state of bliss and be perfectly content with whatever light that moment was offering. I never stopped to consider that it could end, or that the only element necessary for its sustainability and flow was my direct contribution to it as a direct result of my consciousness and recognition of its powerful presence. The three words that summarize this are the ones I repeat often, here, there and everywhere: Be Here Now. 

The dark side suddenly appears as distraction. For the simple reason that one cannot stay in the light when shadows envelope us with fear, anger, lust, apathy, dread or desire. This is human, we are hard-wired to think about these things. A very tiny percentage of us are strong enough to see the illusions and transcend them. This is the battle. To see, recognize, accept and then act with our best spiritual intentions towards resolution. Sometimes this happens in a day. Sometimes after the completion of climbing 12 steps, sometimes in that nanosecond of eternity called enlightenment. More often that not however, we will settle for something between the poles, something comfortable and accessible. Something to stop the pain. The proverbial bird in the hand. 

How important would a process be that offered continual improvement through consistent practice? I trust that your answer matches mine. HUGE. 

We can all benefit from focused training, whether in the form of mediation, counting breaths, swimming, yoga, cycling, prayer, or regular walks in the forest. This is what the we call stopping the runaway freight train. Relaxing into your presence. Just sit. Or just count. Or just swim. Do not be distracted when that little impish shadow voice tries to convince you that there is other shit that needs to be done, stat! Just breathe. Or just spin. Or just speak softly in gratitude to that greater power that holds one hand behind ear to better listen to the sincerity in your heart. 

That is practice. That is one dynamic way to cope with the ever increasing phychic stress that seems to be bombarding us with alarming regularity. 

And that distraction? Pick a good one. Allow yourself a temporary break from the grind and put all your passion into that while you take that important time out. Cooking, cleaning, motorcycle maintenance, reading, playing your guitar, calling your sister in Florida or watching college football all qualify, as do a thousand more. I am all for wholesome entertainment as primary distraction. This time of year I get to practice, manage my personal stress, enjoy and participate in the sometimes joyous/sometimes painful growth process of others as I watch ‘my’ team, the University of Washington Huskies play football over the course of the fall season. 

Regardless of outcome, tomorrow it will be back to work. I accept that. It is a deal we made long ago, and I can’t give up now. So please forgive me as this afternoon I again indulge in my distraction. I am quite sure that the problems of the planet will still be waiting for answers upon the morrow. 

Thank you. Go Dawgs.

Deadly Distraction

From CNN

I am putting together a string of radically pithy memes to stoke the fire. We are less than two weeks from the mid-term elections. THIS IS IMPORTANT. Today’s radically pithy meme, RPM, from this point onward, is: tRUMP tweets (to Dems) at 0300 to pay more attention to the distractions. Hmmmmmm.

Briefly, it is my contention that the only people not overtly enthusiastic about the mids are those that think everything is peachy-keno as is. Deeper, that would appear to include white nationalists, misogynists of all colors, Caucasian and Aryan racists, fascists, felons and the fearful. At the very top of that list sits Wall Street, the mega corporations, and the ultra-rich, aka, the 1%, who also mostly happen to be of pale complexion and conservative ideology. They like it just the way it is thank you very much. Meaning, of course, no rules, no taxes, with judges, reps, senators and a violent fear-mongering despot leading the state controlled media. The latter of which is continually isolated as the enemy of the people. We all know that the true enemy of the people is their own ignorance. 

It is one of the oldest political adages, if you tell the same lies often enough, a percentage of the populace will actually buy them as truth. Or if not the truth at least something utilitarian, something they can use, like hate, or fear, or distraction. 

It is distraction that got me today. The caravan thing as distraction to the bombing thing. It is so politically appalling, so morally bereft of humanity and so completely transparent, that you will please forgive me if I have to run to the outhouse to puke. 

IT IS MEANT TO KEEP DEMOCRATS FROM VOTING. Because there are hordes of asylum seekers coming to rape your children and detonate pipe bombs at every voting both from California to New York. Be fearful liberals. Be afraid Latinos. Be intimidated about losing your health care gay community. 

This is a 11th hour push by the vile republican strategists to keep you (I will assume your favorite political color is blue) and the 40% of those like you who are ambivalent, apolitical or apathetic, from exercising the most important of our rights as  citizens. The right to vote. To have your (collective) voice heard.

They have already gerrymandered the political map to resemble a jig-saw puzzle, purged millions of voters from the records, passed laws further restricting access to polls, intimidated, threatened, blocked, bullied and bruised another million ALL IN THE DEMOGRAPHIC THAT WOULD VOTE AGAINST THEM. It is nothing short of America being held hostage by a cabal of rich white guys. And, if that wasn’t sick enough, they want your Social Security and Medicare too. 

That is the distraction. Look away from the truth, they say, here is a bright shiny object to hypnotize you into a very false sense of security and here are a few vociferous talking heads to echo the propaganda. 

We need to rally the troops and win this battle. We need to vote. We must speak with a dignified and clear united democratic voice to install the necessary balance to our political lives. Mueller is not going to march trump out of the White House handcuffed into protective custody. The counter is control of the House and Senate. And that takes votes, with the ONE opportunity right around the corner, IN ELEVEN DAYS. 

DO NOT BE DISTRACTED. KEEP YOUR EYES ON THE PRIZE. NO MATTER WHO - VOTE BLUE. 

Get a Rope?

They have provided enough rope. There remains a few trees capable of supporting the weight. It should be glaringly obvious that they are desperate in keeping what power, stolen in the first place, that they cling to like the Confederate flag. 

Yesterday, and continuing into today, as if gerrymandering, voter suppression, outright blatant lies, orchestrated distractions, abuse of power and conflicts of interest weren’t enough, they are now sending pipe bombs to Democratic recipients. PIPE BOMBS intended to kill former presidents and high profile politicians. And if they can’t kill them, at least maim them sufficiently to keep them from any counterpoint to the agenda of supremacist propaganda with which this wanna-be fascist administration forces upon a democratic republic and its shell-shocked citizenry. This is how far they will go. They will lie, steal, cheat, lie some more, bully, intimidate, assassinate, lie and cover up, gaslight, blame someone, distract, lie again, leak propaganda to their state-controlled TV network, incite violence, lie about it, and then lie about the lying once they get caught lying. 

Please let me repeat: PIPE BOMBS. 

This is what we have created. We allowed this to happen, on our watch and right under our very noses. We got complacent. We, almost 40% of us, were so overly confident that there was no way a radical punk loser like the current scourge, who just yesterday called himself a nationalist, could ever be elected in a fair contest, that we stayed home and watched reruns of Survivor or Game of Thrones on big screen TVs instead of voting. It’ll never happen, we all said, going about the business of preparing for the first female POTUS immediately after the first black one. 

Evidently this was too much social change as the resulting exploding heads confirmed. The backlash expected was underestimated to the degree that would challenge even Vegas oddsmakers in a David and Goliath rematch. Misogynists and racists came out of not only the woodwork, but the masonry, trim and even the plumbing and electrical. And by golly, these ignorant and vile deplorables wanted blood. They were then instructed by their demigod to avenge eight years of prosperity and peace by whatever means were available to them. This meant the guns that mysteriously had not been rounded up, motor vehicles, pitchforks, cellphones, poisons and pills. 

And now bombs. This is terrorism. This is domestic. It is on our soil as we prepare for the most important single election since the founding fathers created their legendary declaration over two centuries ago. 

YOU have a responsibility here to restore sanity. You have the power to call for the removal of an organized international crime syndicate that cares about nothing other than enriching itself at our expense. We are being fleeced to a level not even Jason could imagine. And now they are mailing incendiary explosive devices to those who disagree with their criminal tactics and immoral agendas. 

Normally I would end this diatribe with the punch-line answer to the question, ‘what do we do?’ with the somewhat catchy reply of ‘get a rope’. But here and now, it is crucial that we move away from humor and towards the literal. 

Get to vote. 

Meaning Of Life

We are into the floor routine. Core work staring with a two minute front active plank. We rotate to each arm for side planks and finish with a back set of leg lifts, knee pull ups, bicycles, flutters, scissors, repeated lifts and end with flow into boat. All told we are into our morning routine about 8 minutes and ready for second phase, the compound dumbbell set. But before we do…

…I check in with my training partner who also happens to be my 15 year-old nephew. It is ritual that I ask him what has caught his attention between our every-other-day sessions. Mostly this encompass'  his classes in our highly acclaimed high school, but not always. Anyone paying attention knows that 15 year-old boys have way more going on than simply the scholastic. But Junior is a scholar, a smart kid and a good student. I jokingly admitted one day that he has, even before entering high school, earned  more A’s than I did in my entire (and on-going) formal education. 

But today I feel like exploring. So we talk a little more about the French Revolution, America’s part in it, the will of the people and the power of the proletariat. I casually mention that it is interesting that he is, they are, studying an uprising of French peasants while, a class earlier he was, they were, learning the language commoners used to communicate the need, necessity and meaning of their bold decision to rebel. Tres interessant, no?

One topic has led to another and I am connecting the dots that separate the French storming of the Bastille with a few of the current events that we watch today on the evening news. Are there similarities? I ask. Perhaps in the area of freedom of the press? 

Alternating 30lb biceps curls with breaths and short responses, we get to a place that asks for one or the other. Food for thought, grist for the mill, I say, but let’s focus on this. This is too important to allow any distraction. The meaning of 'that' is 'this' I say, demonstrating a perfect (or as close as I can get to it) overhead press. 

The gears are turning, data is processing, concepts are forming and steam starts to rise from our working muscles and activated endorphins. We flow into the routine hoisting the bells as if they were biscuits. I see that he is here, fully present in this activity, using his body, breathing smoothly while executing the demanding protocol. And I have it…

…The meaning of life. Is this. THIS is it. I blurt it out with equal parts - half eureka and half epiphany. He looks at me with one eye closed, head tilted slightly to express doubt. This? Yes. 

The meaning of life is awareness, a self-realization that whatever you, we, are doing that that activity is the most important thing in the cosmos. The meaning is this. If something else was most important, if any other activity provided this essential meaning, we would be doing that instead of this…therefore THIS is the literal meaning of life. It is screaming at us: DO THIS. 

I continue trying to find a closing aria worthy of this operatic endeavor, and after several beats and several lateral flys, I sing, it is then our responsibility to do whatever satisfies the conditions of this cosmic certainty, to give our best efforts, pay our highest respects and pledge our most devout sacrifice to this noble cause as we are able. 

Like the French did, he says. 

Oui. comme les français.

Man's Inhumanity to Man

SO much violence. What Hollywood used to call essential for any good blockbusting plot was the sad fact of man’s inhumanity to man. We are that. 

After watching the purposefully slow and painful black and white rendition of the Nevile Shute classic ‘On the Beach’ last week, it’s depiction of a world ended, civilization destroyed, by nuclear war, people opting for mass suicide instead of guaranteed agony and suffering, I wondered if any of the other Shute novels offered any glimpse of hope for man. Since I am a fan of his succinct style and purposeful prose, a little research gave me the option of over forty choices. After a quick analysis of plot summaries, I selected ‘A Town Like Alice’, and ordered it from the local library. 

Sunday in the PowerBarn we watched the fourth episode in the fabulous Taylor Sheridan series, Sicario: Day of the Soldado. That epic drama was preceded by Wind River, Hell or High Water and the first Sicario. For the sake of a shallow translation, a sicario is a hitman, in this usage a Mexican drug cartel assassin. Soldado is a seriously bloody skirmish or, if you choose, outright guerrilla warfare where there are few, if any rules of engagement. You get the idea. There will be blood. And while I found the ending a hair too over the top indicative of a fifth episode, Benecio del Toro’s delivery and performance is breathtakingly brilliant. 

Afterwards I get back to the Alice drama where, towards the end of WWII, a group of English women have been ‘taken’ by the Japanese and forced to march, along with their children, 500 miles in malaria infested Malaysia at gunpoint. The descriptions by Shute of this ordeal, where half the POW’s die along the route is nothing short of harrowing. So much so that while reading in bed I had to close the book along with my eyes and convince myself that this was during a time of war and we have learned the lessons of our inhumanity, moved along the evolution path and pledged to never repeat those heinous crimes. 

And I wake to the headlines telling of the president of the United Sates issuing a rallying cry for what can only be labeled as more inhumanity to man. More violence.

This is who we are. It is who we have always been and with great probability, who we will continue to be. I find this fact appalling. It hurts me at such a cellular level and cuts do deeply into my soul to acknowledge that such a large percentage (30%?) of American citizens have no problem with the levels of hatred, discrimination and the propagation of suffering violently subjected upon it’s citizens. America: WTF?

I implore you to play the last card left to us as a functioning democracy, please my dear friends, vote against this escalating violence, examples and lessons of which are found from Singapore to Soledad, Malaysia to Mexico and Australia to Arlington. 

Vote Blue. Let's talk about our future. 

I Like Mondays

We have a new mantra, one that keeps popping up with alarming regularity. I would like to claim that I coined it but in truth all I did was steal it. 

TGIM.

Righty-O, Thank Goodness It’s Monday. 

Most folks, through gas lighting or social conditioning, usually call Friday the TG day, but I have always considered the start to be the best part of any road. The fist few dramatic steps in the direction of the dream. Or simply the goal du jour. Remember that we suggested a short while back that one doesn’t need to do anything other than develop good habits. And what, I ask you, could be a better habit than starting the week off on a good note? 

The first step in the direction of your goal is the crucial one. Without it we stay stuck in the sometimes overwhelming muck of life’s wicked humor. We get bogged down by the largess and the scope. There is always too much to do, with not enough time, or an adequate amount of inspiration or resources available. 

1) Know your goal. What is it that will define you long after your departure? A work of art, your capolovoro? I mentioned to Junior this morning as we lifted (we were on the subject of music) that when Van Morrison wrote and recorded Gloria in 1964, he was 18. THAT opened an eye. I also mentioned to him that another teen I work with, when I asked him what he wanted to do upon reaching adult status, answered that he wanted to be a rocket scientist. Very Cool, I replied, what are you doing at home tonight? Watching TV. Oh, then you really don’t want to be a rocket scientist then. I do. OK, know this, when someone really wants something they work towards it with passion. I do. Rocket scientist build rockets at home instead of watching TV. Oh. 

2) Take the first step. This is an easy one. AND KEEP GOING. Relentlessly, no matter what, move towards your goal despite the myriad roadblocks that the cosmic trickster will attempt to distract you with. It is all a test. We get these to ensure that we are ready for the next, bigger, harder, more dramatic and more important one. That is the way that we grow, adapt and succeed. It becomes the song of the strong. 

It is a wild ride. Every day. This morning, we launched a new concept to the Monday group. I call this one RPS, Rate of Perceived Success. The goal being to tune into your body and it’s creation of energy, as measured by power production at or around the 80% (of max) level. Today we did that on the fives, four minutes alternating between sitting and standing (at the grove zone ratio of resistance and cadence) and then a one minute push of up tempo-power. For sixty minutes. Upon completion of this testy little number, a legit tchotchkes of a drill, I asked for the results as measured by the uber subjective RPS. 

I know that mine was off-the-charts high.

But then again I like Mondays.

One Size Fits All

The United States is on a steep learning curve. Because truth, factuality, and our very public sphere are under attack, our democracy (and republic) is in danger. The attack is devastatingly effective, partly because we have never experienced anything like this and thus are largely unprepared. Our task now is to save our public sphere. The way to do this was demonstrated by how the Chileans got out of the far more extreme Pinochet regime and reinstated democracy: All sides opposed to authoritarianism and committed to democracy worked together. That means they started actually talking, and listening, to one another. In the United States, this would mean that all groups that claim to be committed to continuing our democratic republic, from supporters of Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez to Never Trump Republicans, would need to join forces. We will likely soon find out if the nation is up to the task.

The entire (important) article is here on Slate.

Let It Flow

Of the many manipulations I used to employ as a coach in order to better our team's odds of success, the one that always proved to be magically effective was this: 

Just go play. 

We spend a ridiculous amount of time in practice working on the details necessary for success. Hard work will always pay a dividend regardless of your chosen sport. Or business, or relationship or passion. Hiding just beneath the outer layer of sincere effort lies the dedication to detail that empowers the skills that uncover yet another layer, the one of confidence. 

All the practice, every session, drill after drill, the total sphere of a wholesome quest is the easy part. The bumps, bruises, sprains, bad breaks and twists of fate create the testing ground absolutely necessary for the level of improvements required to compete at this level. Whatever and whatever that level is. It is YOUR place in THIS time. The biggest play in the biggest game is THIS one. 

To complete the onion skin analogue and closing the two-part example, is the game-day yang to the practice time yin. The adage that you cannot have one without the other is particularly appropriate in this metaphorical juxtaposition. Because when - and only when - one has done EVERYTHING right in practice, all one can do is to then JUST GO PLAY. Forget the ritual, lose the structure (forgive me), unleash the rabid dog and let the bird fly free. Have the trust in your training and coaching, take the field with confidence and swagger, and commit to your team goal as an individual capable of leadership, courage and grace under fire. These traits, what we call the Athletic Character Quotient, have the potential to inspire and motivate. Put the number one on your bike or back. Then prove it. 

Whether you compete in an individual sport or as part of a team, the ability to let it go and let it flow is often the defining trait that proves who pretends and who contends. Please ask yourself exactly which type of athlete you are. And then:

Work hard in practice, learn all you can, commit to your continual improvement, assist others, inspire by demonstration, walk the walk, do the tertiary things that champions do, dream the highest dream. And then - come game day, race day, or simply whenever necessary - Just go and play.

Let it go and let it flow. 

Perfection

What memory is calling a first ever, last night I DNF’d my workout. DID NOT FINISH. Feeling lousy pretty much all day, dizziness, chronic fatigue, lethargy, chest pain, the usual cast of symptomatic suspects, I tried to rally in the saddle of a 2x20 set. Not having a morning class or workout usually allows a greater wattage number for the evening session, so I started with a robust value and a positive attitude, cranking the tunes and setting the fan on high. Halfway through the first set I had to gear down and hope that a speedier cadence would keep the hope of success alive. Even the Giro d’Italia video mixed with some nasty blues from Joe Bonamassa, Ray Lamontagne and Lucinda Williams wasn’t enough to keep my heart from what felt like failure and legs from feeling like overcooked vermicelli. I took the obligatory five minute break and re-started the second set with a renewed fervor despite the obvious non-recovery heart-rate metric. Made it through almost twelve minutes of agony at less than ten miles per, when the best intelligent response was overwhelmingly agreed to by the inner management committee. The action was curtailing the workout in order to live to fight another day. 

And so I dejectedly hopped off my bike, drained the last of the electrolyte mix, turned off the fan and lowered the stereo volume. Still my heart pumped like that of a hummingbird. 

Last night was the usual mixture of evening news (please vote the scum out), Husky football highlights (there were a few), and two episodes of Season Four of my all-time fave TV series, 24 (Jack and three choppers full of Marines rescue The SecDef and his daughter - Jack’s lover - Audrey). I am reading Neville Shute’s second most popular novel, A Town Like Alice, in bed as I try to control my breathing towards a more relaxed state in order to sleep. A tactic that usually provides an acceptable degree of recovery.

But not this time. I was up at 0600 to prep for our morning weight session, still feeling like an elephant was tap dancing on my chest and now my neck, shoulders and head are throbbing in sync. God I feel horrible. A weak and weary shadow of my former self. 

A thought enters and I consider it. Yesterday when we discussed the adaptation principle as applied to exercise physiology, and the corresponding phenomena that this sometimes plays out in our ever increasing ability to be comfortable with being uncomfortable, our familiarity with the suffering necessary to achieve any type of sports success, could it be that I am getting used to this because I train so frequently with its physical counterpart? I simply accept the chronic symptoms as now normal? 

That is exactly what I am doing right now at this very moment. I feel like I have six hundred tons of mucous in my head, my ears are echoing a sixty-cycle hum and my thumbs are both numb. Then there is the heart issue, it being at the bottom of all this, or at the top of the list, if you want to try to put a positive glass half full spin on it. 

Regardless, we had a good workout. I tried to engage Junior in conversation as we lifted, stretched and planked on the difference between excellence and perfection. 

This will never be perfect. But it can be excellent. Of course the Zen in me wants to counter that seeing this imperfection as perfect is an excellent point of view. 

Perfectly true I muse. Excellent. You may be a shadow of a once powerful light, but you are still on the beach. 

Plenty Dumb

Dunning-Kruger Effect video

How does one deal with an overt level of deception so blatantly obvious that even the simplest, most banal question causes a shrug of shoulders or rolling of eyes? The question, one I have been seeing with more and more frequency, is:

‘HOW DUMB DO THEY THINK WE ARE?’

In today’s world of corruption, greed, hypocrisy and alternate realities, the answer is easy:

Very. 

A better question might be, at what point will their, the republicans (sic) led by their slime and sick allegiance to money, lose the portion of their base that keeps them in office and out of prison? 

Seriously, what percentage of red voters, gaslight by generations before them in claiming a birthright determined by the hue of their hide, their hatred and anger over missing the boat of enlightenment, their fear of losing what remaining privilege they cry for in church and their culture of ignorance, will finally see that the scam is on them? 

The metric not lost on conservative strategists is 30%. They know that they don’t need a majority of the population to agree with their neo-fascist ideologies and ‘tax reforms’, nor their policies of hatred for minorities, gays, students, seniors or anyone other than rich, white party donors. They can continue their pillaging of American democracy as long as they can keep that 30% dimmed-down and angry enough to believe absolute shit such as this from yesterday:

We don’t want to get in the way of a 100 billion dollar arms deal. It is now apparent that this sets the bar as the price for which a journalist can be tortured, dismembered and beheaded. Must be a red-letter day for defense contractors and evangelicals. 

As if that isn’t enough to open a blood-shoot eye, maybe this one will sway voting sentiment in the hearts of one or two dyed-in-the-wool libtard haters:

Seems that as a result of ‘tax reform’, a gift to the super rich supporters of the party that, as illustrated above, puts profit over people, all at the expense of the proletariat 99% of America, the deficit has now reached all-time highs. Partially resulting from another totally unnecessary donation to the military-industrial complex and our interests overseas, aka geopolitical power. The kicker being that yesterday McConnell did the unthinkable in announcing that due to the out of control and skyrocketing deficit that social security, medicare and medicare must be cut. Even though they are not related. And even though they are an ‘entitlement’ that the workers of this formerly great country have paid into since the last ‘good war’. 

That 30%, the red ‘middle class’ is now facing an interesting decision. They have been emboldened by hatred and fear, seeing the global violence of their leadership spun-off as a financially necessary and ensuring national security. At what point do they, as McConnell floated yesterday, actually buy into their own suffering and poverty and willingly agree to donate their money and then their health by a major contribution to the 1%? 

How dumb do they think we are?

Plenty dumb. 

A Call To Action

Today write something worth reading - and do something worth writing. 

That snazzy little zinger started my day. As any self-respecting Marine will gladly tell you, we get more  done by noon than most people get done the entire day. And while in all honesty I cannot claim membership, present or past, in the semper fidelis brotherhood, I have been inspired by their work ethic many times. 

At sunrise we, nephew and I, waltzed through our Wednesday weight session, he does this before school and I before my spin class. He then sets sail for the educational and I for continual physical fitness improvement. He, as student, sits and listens and I as teacher, sit and spin. 

It will be noon in another 15 minutes. 

I would like to make an attempt to consolidate my thoughts on the importance of November 6th. The mid-tern elections are mere 18 days away, the magnitude of which is a 20 on the Richter Scale of political activity. To mix a metaphor, the question of a blue wave, even if a tsunami, needs to be accompanied by an earthquake of similar color and hue. I will try to answer my ‘ifs’ with one closing call to action. 

Robert Mueller has enough goods ready to go, and the reason he is waiting until after the Mids is to get a house with Democratic majority (because the current house won’t act). If you back Trump.....

If you think that it is OK to be racist, a white supremacist, a member of the KKK, and truly believe that being white grants you additional privilege…..

If you don’t mind the current administrations vulgar, belittling and sexist attitudes towards women…..

If you do not have a problem with robbing the poor to give to the rich via tax breaks…..

If you have no issue with the assault on the free press…..

If you think the military industrial complex is more important than democracy itself…..

If you tolerate polluted water and air…..

If you think that climate change is a hoax…..

If you believe that your hard-earned social security should be donated to the national trust…..

If you will never have the need for Medicare…..

If you can sleep with the unprecedented levels of corruption and deception currently on display…..

If you like kids in cages…..

If you are OK with adultery, murder, theft, falsehoods and lies unlimited…..

If you don’t know what gas lighting means…..

If you actually believe HALF of what Fox News says…..

If you think that Steven Miller is a nice boy…..

If you chant ‘no collusion’ and ‘lock her up’ along with Sean Hannity…..

If you haven’t a problem with gerrymandering and voter suppression….

Then you are a minority. The majority of American people are sick and tired of this shit. The problem is that the scum-bag, slime-ball republican strategists are planning on you, the left, the democrats, the snowflakes, the young, those of color, gays and the complacent, to say home. They proved this to be an effective strategy in 2000 and again in 2016.

It is sick. And it must not be allowed to happen this time around. The answer is so simple I can hardly contain my propensity to overly dramatic rhetorical verbosity. 

My closing call to action is this: VOTE.

Do I need to suggest a color? 

It's OK

I suppose it was 1972 or so. I was reading, required by my tribe, everything that Carlos Casteneda had written up to that time. There was another incidental connection between author and reader as Mr. Casteneda was teaching anthropology at UCLA at the time, where my Mom toiled from 9-5 as the textbook coordinator. She shared many of the eccentric stories that flowed from his classes like smoke from a desert campfire. To say that he was legendary would undermine the impact of both his students and that of an entire generation. An entire generation looking for answers. 

Perhaps the takeaway from his work that impacted me most, and there were many, was his central character, Don Juan Mateus’ teacher/student relationship with the young seeker Carlitos. I remember thinking how I would love to have someone in my life of whom I could ask the important questions, the BIG questions. Specifically, I tried to put several of the ‘tests and practices’ advised by Don Juan into play. Everything changed as a result. I began to see things differently, think of alternate possibilities rather than the obvious and mundane, and consider the power, magic and art inherent in every living thing. Interestingly his teachings were not solely conducted in the light of day but often at night, sometimes all night and occasionally well into the realm of the dreamscape. 

And that is where I witnessed first-hand some of the real magic that the Yaqui way of knowledge offered. Dreams. 

Taking the assignment to heart in order to test for myself as an experiment of one, I began to log my dreams fist thing upon waking every morning. I kept a log at bedside to capture, to the best of my recollections, my dreams. For the sake of honesty, I was twenty-one at the time so many of the dreams were of the erotic variety, some of which I am sure would make Freud blush. I wish that journal had withstood the passage of time, but somewhere along this long and strange trip it was lost, stolen or incinerated. Maybe it was used to start a life-saving fire on a frozen mountaintop. 

The dreams have been returning. I seem to be in a vivid, colorful and interesting cycle of deep REMs. Last night was another that I will share with you. 

I am sitting with a small group of artisans. We are watching what appears to be an impromptu, improvisational stage play. It is interactive and I feel somewhat intimidated and unprepared. At one point the main actor, a young man with gold hair and an angelic face, looks directly at me for a response. But I don’t know what is appropriate. The dialogue is so scattered and happenstance that I have lost the thread, theme and flow. People are now looking at me waiting for my line, or response. I have nothing verbally to offer so I stand and resume my painting on a huge canvass spread in front of me. It is a series of horizontal lines, a hippie flag suggesting peace, love and happiness. I am adding an outline in saffron and silver. I then remember that it should be multi-media so I take a small manila envelope from my vest pocket and randomly place the round puka-shell like chips on top of the drying pigment. Everyone is watching as I try to add some body language to the mime. The reaction is non-plussed and I get up to walk away. I am thinking that I somehow failed. I feel sorrowful and small. I wonder what the message was supposed to be and what I was supposed to do, other than my meager attempt at artistic improv. I am walking away on a dusty road with tepees scattered on either side. There are people walking dressed in animal skins adorned with jewels, feathers and stones. They all seem happy and enjoying the moment. They acknowledge my presence and I nod and bow in return. It’s OK I think, it’s OK.

Perhaps I will renew my dream journal, maybe even call it something like Dreams Plus 46. Surely all the events, conversations, locations, sounds, insights, fears, victories, songs, books, movies, rides, loves, efforts, failures and fantasies that have all washed under the bridge of my tenure will have a profound effect on my dreams. They have to. 

Might even re-read, fiction or not. 

The trick is in what one emphasizes. We either make ourselves miserable, or we make ourselves happy. The amount of work is the same. CC.

We Have To Try

Dealing with fallout. Maybe I am getting better at it, or maybe just getting used to it. Seems like, either way, there is never a paucity of opportunity to test one’s ability to deal with fear, failure, loss, anger, oppression, lies, corruption and of course, the perpetrator, or perpetrator's modus operandi of cover up, spin or denial. It can be devastatingly comical. 

There was a clever headline in our local newspaper the great Seattle Times this morning, re-capping the UW’s heart-wrenching loss in overtime to the dreaded Ducks from Oregon on Saturday, calling it Monday Mourning. With this reporter the three part dis-harmony started on Saturday night with an over-taxed liver and anger management, Sunday’s reconciliation and rational justification and finally today’s requisite hindsight 20/20 second guessing, observational quality control and managerial recommendations. All over one college football game. Here is my default philosophy, a strategy perfected on rainy fall day in 1989 at Husky Stadium (as a lousy UCLA team incredibly beat a Husky team that was just a year away from a National Championship):

I AM IN THIS FOR THE LONG HAUL. I AM A STUDENT OF THIS GAME, YOUR GAME, NOT MERELY A FAN, I WILL NOT FAIL TO SUPPORT YOUR EFFORTS AND COURAGE. I, AS YOU, MAY BLEED PHYSICALLY AND EMOTIONALLY FROM THE HARDSHIP OF THIS GAME, AND LIFE IN GENERAL, BUT MY BLOOD WILL FLOW PURPLE AND GOLD. FOREVER. 

The small amount of comfort thusly provided allows the next game to be played, as we pick up the pieces and learn the myriad lessons of battle. The war rages on, we will live to fight another day, now armed with the ammunition of wisdom and experience resulting from our loss. We lick our wounds and prep for the next skirmish with a never say die attitude. As with players and so with fans. 

We lost the game as well as two players to medical retirement, forced to abandon the game they love because of its potential for injury. They remain on scholarship and will hopefully get their degrees and go on to live peaceful and productive lives. They were built for life. 

Dealing with the fallout. It is more than just a game. It is about learning, about growth and about finding the courage to be inspired by the actions and words of others. Minus the risk, the controlled and structured mayhem, the drama, and profiles in courage, we would lose another opportunity to pass such important lessons to our sons and daughters. And our communities, our state representatives, our national leaders and the world at large. 

We bounce back. We get off the canvass and we persevere. We don’t HAVE to win.

But we have to try. 

Worse Luck

Awash in a sea of despair, my eyes red with frustration from what could have been, I try to cheer up and find a way to carry on. There are things that need to be done, not emergency life or death things, but the kind of chores that somehow and sometimes are just what the doctor has prescribed. Cleaning, sweeping the floor, vacuuming the hallways, washing the sheets, fixing the left rear-view mirror on the Honda that I broke when the bike fell over as I jacked it up to remove the rear wheel. Shit like that. Utilitarian and therapeutic. One can Zen out in present moment focus of motion, movement, cause and effect and of course lose the pain of playing the 'what if' game, at least temporarily.

Eventually however, one ends to come to an understanding with one’s self as to the root cause of this distress - and then take structured steps towards a remedy. Assuming of course that a solution is the best course of action for all parties. I have seen many times when the solution is either too hard, too expensive, too slow to arrive or not clearly defined. When this happens the fear that takes command is the fear of change, where one actually chooses to keep the more painful circumstance because it is understood and safe, whereas moving towards an altogether different scenario requires courage, sobriety, truth, effort, sacrifice, forgiveness and hope. 

Worse is when feelings of being overwhelmed and powerless take charge. A more powerful one-two punch to the jaw of doing what must be done isn’t found in a Vegas boxing ring - it is right inside our heads. There is too much to do and I cannot do it all, laments the stricken flyweight, failing to realize that the solution is to do just ONE THING AT A TIME. 

With full focus.

With forgiveness of the past.

Respect for the present.

And gratitude for the possibilities of the future. 

One thing. Sweep the kitchen floor. Wash the car. Clean your room. Prepare a highly nutritious meal. Walk to the park. Finish that book. Learn a new song of the guitar. Call your sister. Go take pictures at the beach. 

You don’t have to do them all at once. So fortunate because you can’t even if you wanted to. DO ONE THING. Do it well. Move to another. 

You lost a game? Figure out why and take the steps necessary to improve the odds in your next game. Hang in there and be patient. Work hard. Stay positive. As Cormac McCarthy famously said: “You never know what worse luck your bad luck has saved you from.”