20091021

Practicing Plain Text

We eat bananas.

No, we don't just eat bananas, we Eat Bananas. En masse foodstuffs travel traceur-fast through our kitchen-space--lucky to keep a tub of yogurt twelve hours after it was bought in the first place! Goodbye pears, apples, granola, and cheese; you have no chance with hungry monkeys such as these. Dairy? We really should own a farm, for the milk spilling uninturrupted into our muzzles--(Do monkeys have muzzles?)--and so much sausage comes and goes that dinner is sausage--don't laugh! It's true:

Him: I'm still so hungry tonight...
Me: It's because you didn't have sausage yet, did you?

Rumpled packages from sweet-and-spicy tea, onion skins, cheese dust, and frozen berry drippings all spot the countertops during neccessary food-frenzies. [Monkee House living comes complete with empty jars, tubs, and milk jugs galore!] Oh the yougurt--the yogurt!--it's something we just can't store. Four-five-or-more hungry bodies to feed--feuling catleaps and wallpasses, dips, pushes, lifts, and swings. Jumping, juggling, running, fighting--that's play-fighting, 'cause we're peacable, even being raw--and whatever else catches fancy that may prove acceptably challenging to take on--Rraaahhh! Bring us beefy-beef-beef soup and broccoli; carrots and avacados and eggs and honey...

We're so hungry we feast on our fears--and have, and will, for the rest of our years.

We feed for late nights and busy days, building boxes and community, discovering new ways--of living together and working for fun, supporting each other training alone together as one. Who ever thought a home could be grown of adults who are children with a serious need to play, so much that it permeates each moment, each day? Each flop onto furniture when too tired to want to move--but only because the opposite of that was, just earlier, so true. And tomorrow it will be just as true all again, so we'll buy more bananas, because it's not going to end.

20091015

Exsistence of the Humanest















This isn't the first time I've not tried to stop myself from ranting, carried away in the righteous cadence of my thoughts. It is not for me to declare annoyance with that which is different--beyond my understanding--as I've ignorance just as that which irks me so.

But, I'm so not better than anyone else. Not elite, superior, nor besting any of my race.
--This isn't a race!

Parkour is to be trained to help others, not to lord our fitness and abilities over them. Comments about sheeple, "the weaker", our fellows as prey...This mindset does not advance our spirits, but sets us morally backwards. Imagine, being dismissed for a different way of life, for following practices that you'd never chosen, but had shoved into your mind and physical existence through endless medias of misinformation. Shame to utter survival of the fittest as if only we know the truth, when it just isn't true any more. Rather, I'd see leading by the fittest, protection by the fittest. Yes, I would that every person in a protect and serve position was an active athlete. That I could be sure if I were running, I would be caught. But because this isn't true, I don't give up on them, muttering, "Oh, they're behind on their bodies and would just never survive, (if it really came down to it, in this distant supposition in my brain.)" A cop-out on society if ever there was one. What good training the 'strong' to be stronger and leave the 'weak' to waste away when what makes us humane is the vast diversity in which we come? What good is knowing ourselves while refusing to acknowledge all types? If the 'fittest' were the only to 'survive', I'd be well and truly dead as an infant, suffocated by my own treacherous lungs. Instead, because some brains were mightier than brawn, I had a chance, to pit myself against an upbringing of fast-food and seated entertainment, the temptations of inhibiting substances, the arrogances of those who seemed to appear without struggle to succeed in everything physical. Yes, hard work is done by all those mighty bodies, I discredit none for their perseverance, willpower, and self motivation, but if I believed that only the self-motivated are meant to succeed, I'd be forgetting myself years ago and do no justice to so many I meet today. When creating ourselves as strong, capable bodies comes so naturally, it is difficult to imagine not being this way. Easy to dismiss bad habits as laziness, or unwillingness, to change. But what people who 'aren't there yet' need isn't disgust from anyone else, but full support in the immensely difficult journey it may be to change. Is it so crazy to think that, sometimes, people don't know where or how to start? Ignorance is no crime, is not a disease, is not exclusive but inclusive to everyone, somehow. This is about choices, knowing that they're there, how to make them, and how to find the strength to follow through.

I want humans to be active, fit, and playful. I proceed as if that day of survival-of-the-most-prepared/adaptable/knowledgeable/fit will come within my lifetime, but I also acknowledge what is going on right now. Guess what? Every tenth of those obesity statistics is derived from some individual--a thinking, feeling, human. I should hope compassion is beyond no-one.

Parkour is a word. We are people. And practicing our movement alone doesn't make us better if we're unwilling to apply it to the most difficult task; helping others--really helping, not telling nor preaching to them--to find themselves as we have, as striving, vibrant bodies and minds. Supporting mankind as a whole is not beyond traceurs; nothing is.

/rant

-MonkEE

20090404

Middle Ground














Between traveling to San Antonio in March for a week of training, returning home wrecked and happy to have gone, re-spraining my ankle, sitting around while it fixes itself, and wondering what to write about outside my personal journal, I've found very little to say here.

Jumping logs on the beach yesterday felt wonderful--though the distance was short, and the duration shorter. Before, while step-slipping down the path to the rocks, I'd chosen the steeps to be hiked with all-fours on return. Trudging up through the sand and stones, hauling backpack and determination, I took the most difficult pieces of the trail quadrupedally--not so much in distance when looked back at, but enough to forget myself in each grabbing hand step, and every push of my forefoot and toes. And today I remember that I'm to go slow, build back proper, take my time. In my excitement to be healed I imagine all the challenges to attack, some so close to home. I prepare for my return, stretch, rotate, test and prod, and try to be steady and strong.

Time from movement--usually healing--brings me deep into quiet self-reflection. As the spring wears on-- such a chilly spring, though the flowers seem not to notice or care--I've started daydreaming of commercial fishing again. Southeast Alaska, salmon for the win, twenty hour days and rocking on wave nights...The sting of jellies from five a.m. to whenever I'm cleaner, waking to the roar of the diesel engine, groggy and cold, slipping into my sweats while still in my bunk, layering, groaning, boottops folded down until the very last moments before I don my raingear. I'll scratch at my head and yawn all morning, wishing for a shower and warm rooms, and breathing deep like I can take the air back with me.












I'm not a cook, but'll make a pre-breakfast pot of oatmeal, brew coffee and stretch myself warmer, hit the head, and set the gear, and wait until it's bright enough to see the jumpers splashing. We'll find the fish, close around them, and I'll haul gear at regular intervals all day, jellyfish water burning all exposed skin, blown around by the wind whipping net. Working quickly and methodically, I'll wonder daily why the hell I'm here. Between sets I'll write in notebooks, or juggle kelp balls, or stare out into the living crystal water, thinking about that time with that person that I'll go home to and enjoy. I'll be alone and working until the sun sets, with the crew, yes, but so in my head; if I go out to fish again, it isn't for the money, but to try myself internally, forcefully, and in full.

I want to go back to remember why I'm me, to face again the challenge of alone among men, to miss my home and friends, and the life I've so carefully built for myself. I can't know what I have until I step far away, peering back to see, discovering newness within, adapting training to 48ft., getting minimal sleep, and having dozens of quiet projects to complete. It's like running away to be myself, enjoying the vastness of the north but-not-that-north, preparing the entire time to return--better, stronger, and reassured of the life I pursue. If I choose to go again, it's to change myself, refine and redefine, like I'm spell-checking me, reviewing punctuations, switching terms, tossing paragraphs, and simplifying content completely...

I life my life with the intent to write it down; that doesn't mean I will, but if I do, I'd better have things to say. --Beyond lamenting this middle ground of not quite somewhere; I want more than this always place of in-between, where I'm almost comfortable enough, but missing something. I take my story seriously, building the plotline carefully, observing flaws to remove, the ones to tweak, loving the lucky phrase placements that come unexpectedly, and wondering--always--what's to happen next. I'm like an obsessive saga, conscious of myself--enough that I want to test--thoroughly--the reality of my epic authenticity, and give myself real reasons to exist so vividly.

20090126

To be useful.

I work at a small spa in the basement of an old apartment building complex, located in the party district of Capitol Hill in Seattle. It's a clean little place, a safe and warm where for women to relax, nap, stretch sore and tired muscles, or read, drinking water with limes. It's a place to wash the day's woes, be not bothered by their outside thoughts, and the chilly world just meters away. My job is to guard the door, keep things tidy and stocked, cut the aforementioned limes, and ensure customer satisfaction.

I don't train very much at work. It's a place for me to rest as well, sit for a few hours, blog or read up on forums, sew, imagine, or do nothing at all. Push-ups happen in slow times, or quiet quadrupedie and precision walking. I practice being slow, here, but the idea of 'go' never leaves.

A customer dropped her keys when she left tonight, had to come back in to ask me how to access beneath the stairs, to a nice dark pit of dropped, forgotten, and gotten-rid-of things. I know this because it was the most exciting part of my night so far to grab my flashlight (that I always carry in my backpack,) throw the "Back in 5 min" sign on the door, and climb over the rail to wiggle through a three foot long space to get under the stairs. The whole process was short--forty seconds maybe?--from me next to her and her sister to back with her keys. They hadn't asked me to do it, but of course I had to; something about their recent visit to the spa, the floral scents coming from them, and the slippers seemed not to mix with either of them actually climbing through the asked-for access hole onto a bunch of trash. (And indeed I came out with enough dirt on my pants to make me grin.) So interesting; for them, it was a moment of panic, with discussion of how to get the extra keys from thirty minutes south, and who might come and get them to do so. For me it was a pleasant break in the quiet monotonous night. A new task with just a small bit of useful movement--and it wasn't the deed that makes me happy, but the instant willingness--eagerness even--in myself to do it. And why is it blogworthy? --Because I'm still at work, sitting peacefully again and hoping someone else might drop their keys sometime, so that I might go retrieve them, smoother, and faster, and with less effort than before.

20090114

Maison des Singes

It has happened; there is a house full of traceuruesses in Seattle, and I'm lucky enough to be stationed within it. And I really do feel fortunate--I know how many people are out there, the only ones in their area, having to teach themselves and train on their own, and I am truly blessed to have such a strong and supportive community. And have faith, all you loners! Parkour is spreading far and fast, and geographically you may be single, but really, it's a worldwide community.

Some things to coming soon to the house: bars! and lots of them, training with my roommates, and motivation all the time, all around me. I don't really know how to describe how good it shall be for me to live with such motivated and active people, especially having just come from a home that I love, but offered only too much inactivity and the piling of beer cans; (boys, I love you, I do not love Magic Cards.) I once lived with only other jugglers, and we juggled every day for a few hours, together, or separate, had weekly "Juggle Jams" at home, and there was no shortage of good times. This new house will be like that for parkour, (not to mention they shall all juggle too [some already do] mwahahaha!) And we have cement stairs out front and a little wall out back and yard and a shed and soon a dog and board meetings and weekly group training days and fencing and boxing and down time and visitors and soooo much food is going to go through there--*inhale*--I'm stoked.

Other happy news, the PNWPA classes are in full swing, with Rafe putting in mad hours at the gym. I especially have fun with the kids' class; there's nothing like hearing, "This is so awesome!" repeated for an hour every Friday to keep one's spirits high. It's great to see how they improve every week, and to be subject to their unending excitement. I can't wait until we have toddler classes! Cute little humonkeys for the win.

In training:

Thursday was add-on conditioning time, crazy super-man push-ups, and the always reminder of needing to build core strength.

Friday had kids, obstacle course, and lots of, "Hey Mom! Watch me!"

Saturday was more add-0n conditioning, first and second class, a full gym for the second class, and--guess what?--reminder of needing to do hanging leg raises (for core strength.)
photo by Cody Allison



Sunday was grey and wet--big surprise. Freeway park ate my hand skin--even bigger surprise. (Riiight.)
Tyson had us doing cat hang drills for warm up; we ended up spending the whole training session (and hour or so, I think...) on those two walls. Drill one: ten times (the ones you counted as good) standing cat jump, up, lower down other side to cat before dismount. Drill two: Five times standing cat jump, up, lower into hang other side, back up, and lower down to original side -or- once up, lower down as slowly as possible. Drill three: Five times jump to cat, up to right forearm, down to hang, up to left forearm, down to hang, then both and up--or maybe down...

I was on an alternate course, as my scrambling up the wall wasn't working without some rail-assist, and by the time I got to the third drill, my forearms were failing. It's weird; sometimes I don't feel that pain of muscles being done working, they'll just stop working, kind of numb, and certainly useless. I don't consider having even one repetition for the last drill, maybe a half, but it was a good day--I appreciate how basic it was, just two walls, just cat-work, but I found it all so difficult. After the first thirty minutes it was hard to want to subject my hands to the park again, (we found minor relief in dipping raw palms into cold puddles on the ground.) And I think, at the end, my hands were a big reason why everything just stopped working. No confidence in grip, and of course, pain. I work to push through pain in so much of my training, and am always improving, but at some point the hands wont do, they'll just bleed for a while, then weep later on. But secretly I like it. Not for the first day, or even the first two, but definitely after the stinging-when-I-touch-anything stops, it feels good. Like I've done something. I can't imagine using gloves, or training inside all the time. I know some prefer the indoors, and they're good for introductions, but I can't call it parkour unless enough time training happens outside; it's just not real, otherwise. Freeway park is a very real place, and I was very really sore the next day, and am now really done.



I wish you all safety, respect, and community--
Be well.