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Blind Man

A new sun is born tomorrow, and so it continues, until no tomorrows remain. Perhaps there are but two distinct forms which can be seen among mankind, the one immersed in continual birth, and the other immersed in continual death. We recognize but one birth and one death in the traditional sense; but try to convince anyone that your eyes have not witnessed many births and deaths within one person over the course of their so called natural life. A fool believes a person is confined to but one birth and death; he ignores our myriad psychic, emotional, and spiritual lives and deaths. Humanity relies on the soft, prophetic mantra of sameness in the same way it relies on bread for sustenance, humanity derives immense comfort from sameness. The same could be posited concerning our approach to physical development. I see a tragic sameness polluting the genre where limitless possibility could and most certainly should dwell.

Ours is a lazy and corrupt catechism. We need to recognize our duality concerning our passions and abilities. I, like most people I’d imagine, appreciate the notion that one man can achieve what another has achieved previously, allowing the mental indulgence of achievement through commonality of design. And in that notion, we may be compelled to abandon the abstract and drill down to a cheap, easily employed recipe of elementary steps and potions applied to our own ends. Then, in moments we’d least expect to find them, pangs of emptiness arise from the dual side, we long to believe in the magic of it all. This is why the man is celebrated ahead of his methods, where is the magic in holding high a written recipe – it feels like a rip-off. We need a champion to provide ballast against what many see as a monotonous daily siege. Blind to the fact that we are willing subscribers to the monotony; we are the architects of our own penitentiaries. We should not fool ourselves for one moment that the champions in our midst are not equal part laborer and sorcerer.

The rudderless are awash in recipes, in all facets of their daily lives, recipes pretend to light the way. Such a dimly lit path must be torturous in its emptiness. They have abandoned the art of the thing, they are devoid of originality and enthusiasm, their campaign is doomed to tiny successes strung precariously along lonely streets – no faces in the windows. And, observed in the light of day, theirs is a very small game; a game which is built upon inequitable comparisons to lay people. Slaves to nothing more than their own vanity and pride; content to play act Achilles, stalking the 10,000 square foot purple neon theatre of the frail and faulty.

In my own pantheon, I acted as an animal in nature, completely absent pretense. Animals make no wrong moves. They are. They behave as though each of them is nature in its entirety, and in doing so they are completely in concert with all living things effortlessly. No philosophy or recipe for physical development aids me as much as that simple refrain. Structure does not have to be restrictive. We needn’t abandon our primal instincts in favor of some proven, albeit limited, recipe or scheme. Let the movements inform your symphony; let the symphony communicate your rage; let neither your rage nor the symphony restrict your artistry. Enter into physical development not bound by the notion of building atop a particular construct. Rather, come into the temple with an open mind and heart, but be ready for the total war that waits. Let today’s symphony be aptly titled: Limitless pain; limitless potential. No one is watching us 99% of the time. You have to love yourself in order to be honest with yourself. Embracing a process of continual birth and death allows for an atmosphere of ongoing renaissance in spirit, emotion, and development of every kind.

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