Muscle Beach

Gone are the mountains. Here am I now confronted by seas; of people, of oceans, of cars and buildings. I'm in Los Angeles.

This is a new experience, yet not wholly unfamiliar.

The ocean is the western border. From its vast emptiness in the offing to the shore and beyond toward the east, there is an exponential build up. As one were to run in from the sea to the city, you would be challenged first by the throngs of people on the beach, then the homes and hotels that stand shoulder to shoulder, all held back by an invisible border. Then there are the roads and highways. The Pacific Coast Highway, #1, and more after. Beyond and further comes the urban sprawl and then the commercial buildings and in some places instead of all the aforementioned, you'll find the industrial sites of shipping and oil.

Oh, L.A., you are dirty, and you are mixed up, but you're not altogether a lost cause. For let us not forget the the reason your soil has become burdened with millions of people and their assorted handiwork.

L.A. Sits between low lying mountains and the coast. It is an oasis, a place of temperate weather and easily navigable terrain between the daunting yet open ocean, and a craggy desert lying beyond and back east. L.A. is a port, a hub and because of the confluence of these factors, it has life.

There are people who are truly alive in this city. It is not a city full of walking dead or anthropomorphic robots, no! Instead, I have found a vibrant group of people on the Santa Monica beach, soaking up sunshine and displaying tremendous dedication to bettering their bodies and talents. It seems that there is here a capital that one would not and does not find in every other place in the world. Here, there is a currency of beauty, and it is bought with time and perspiration, but also with joy and fervency. This is not the toil of the industrialized gym and weight room I have seen before.

And there is more than that, people here that carry beauty in talent—those that have taken their passion and brought it to public forums. Street performers dance, sing, and play. Crowds gather and disperse. There is a regular rhythm to the days. There is a pulse. The city is alive.

I drove down to L.A. after spending a week in Yosemite sans job. During that time I did little, thought much, and waited patiently. I spent my nights in a cave just outside one of the villages, my days sleeping inside to hide from oppressive heat. I did get to spend some time with my friends, and I particularly enjoyed baking pizza and hanging out with Cheyne and Jess. I'll miss you guys.

The next leg of my journey was a drive down the eastern side of the Sierra range. I do enjoy that area very much. It holds immense beauty. The type of beauty that is aesthetic but slightly threatening (I hope you know what I mean).

My coworker, Kathy, had injured her shoulder and needed someone to help her drive, so I had a [driver's] seat in her car. She's from New York, but her parents live in Huntington Beach, a city in Orange County, at the southern edge of L.A. County. Her parent's home was filled up with visiting family, a product of unfortunate timing in my case.

I had sold my bike in Yosemite, and I decided I needed another bike in order to get around the city.

Then I had the idea of getting out and seeing the city from the saddle of my bike. So, the day after I arrived, I bought a bike and set off to ride the coast of L.A.

I didn't know how far the distance nor how long it would take, but I intended to spend 2 to 3 days on the journey. I set out on Thursday, August 17^th.

The coast (from Sunset Beach, north to Will Rogers Beach) is a mere 60 mile stretch of land, however I took 2 days to complete the journey, riding at a leisurely pace and making frequent stops for photo ops and dining and sight seeing, as well, on the second day I doubled back over some of the ground I had covered in order to make it back to Santa Monica Beach. Ah, Santa Monica Beach, the original home of “Muscle Beach”, that place of energy and vigor that rests peacefully between the chaos of Santa Monica Pier and corrupt Venice Beach.

I checked out Rockreation, an indoor climbing gym (nothing as great as any of the gyms in Phoenix, alas), and I saw a couple movies. I spent three nights in Santa Monica. I slept “on the streets”; beside derelict buildings, in a cemetery, and in bushes. The trick is to go to bed late enough that no one witnesses you bedding down, and all normal business hours are over. Then I wake up at 5:30, about 15 minutes before sunrise and vacate wherever I have been sleeping. Again, the trick is to pick a place with traditional business hours, sleep in-between them, and lastly, to make sure you're as far removed from sight as possible, keeping in mind that darkness is your best friend (which is part of the reason for leaving before dawn). Basic fieldcraft also dictates you vary your location and ingress/egress as well as maintaining noise and light discipline.
Because I have a little bit of money left, this was all a game and quite fun for me, but true homelessness is no joke and the lack of security and the social stigma can weigh quite heavily and I don't envy anyone who winds up in the same circumstances unwillingly.

Life can be harsh and it's easy for me to see where I'll end up if the bottom drops out and I can't find a job. Partly this is why I practice these techniques; so that I will have survival skills.

I wax romantic on Santa Monica Beach because I have strong feelings for that place.

There you can find an outdoor gym the likes of which I've seen nowhere else. And indeed, I've heard it said that you can find some of the apparatus nowhere else in the world, save New York, but that only being a shadow of the Platonic Form that is “Muscle Beach”.

Let me take you there.

The sun is lighting up the flaxen sand like a nuclear bomb. It's warm in the sun and cool in the shade and there's always a sea breeze to damp the heat. The warm sand insulates your feet and there before you are looming grey steel scaffolds, about 30 feet tall that dangle chains with swings or steel rings on their ends.

There a structure 35 feet tall bears flying gymnastic rings. And people are using them!

Indeed, this is a place of activity, not the impotent dream of an urban planner.

Men and women, boys and girls are playing and toiling on the apparatus. Some are performing feats of strength or skill that evidence their commitment to this place and demonstrate that this is a discipline, not a mere exercise routine. Others are obviously neophytes getting their first taste.

There are parallel bars, uneven bars, ropes (for rope climbing), still rings and pull-up bars. In the evenings, the people come and there are slacklines set up between the steel pillars. One night I was there and 3 slacklines were set up to intersect at a floating point, that is to say, a typical slackline is anchored to an immovable point on either end, but this setup only had 3 fixed anchors, in a roughly splayed array and they met and were anchored to a ring in the center. When tensioned, this formed a floating point and allowed 3 people (or more!) to walk the lines simultaneously and meet in the middle, floating above the sand. It was really fun, and kind of mind blowing.

Then there are “the rings”—the crown jewel of Muscle Beach. These are found only here and an older substandard version can be found somewhere in New York.

Five large 'n' shaped hoops are 30 feet tall and a beam runs down the middle from which hang 10 chains with steel rings on their ends. The chains are spaced about 6 feet apart and are suspended from the sand 8 to 10 feet from the ground (the ground slopes away toward the water). The simple means of movement is to swing from ring to ring similar to monkey bars, but the beauty lies in how one can create arcs and spin on the free swiveling rings to create a balletic movement that is graceful and strong and something a little short of fully controlled by gravity.

There is also a square sward that is primarily used by yogis performing acro-yoga, juggling, and fire spinning (more accurately, the LED powered substitute to fire spinning). That is the practice of spinning a baton with both ends on fire, or two meter-long lengths of chain that hold a sort of torch at the ends and are spun in rhythmic, somewhat mystifying arcs.  Real fire is rarely used in state parks or heavily policed areas such as this beach, so the substitute is an LED powered globe of light that typically changes colors, instead of a torch.

Sometimes there is live music, and during the summer there is a DJ on Sundays.

This place is really vibrant. Muscle Beach is between a pedestrian path and a bicycle path, and right next to Santa Monica Pier (which is like a small county fair with a roller coaster, Ferris wheel, and other games). It can be pretty busy, and the constant passage of people from the paths to the beach beyond means there's a steady stream of gawkers and photographers and just plain curious folk that are trying things out, asking questions, and applauding the occasional performance of a tour de force.

It is this place that is calling me.

I want to move to Santa Monica. I want to be part of this scene for a little while, until the curtain is called and it's time for me to move on. But will I move on? Could I stay here?

I've told everyone I've talked to about this place, and about the woman I met there that has captivated my thoughts. I'm confused but for now I want to win her heart. I've only had a short conversation with her but unlike my experience with many women, it has left me wanting more. You'll think me a pessimist if you're a pessimist, and a realist—at best—if you're an optimist, but I have to at least find out if she's as good as she seems or if (as I am wont to suspect) she is not all that.

I'm looking for work here. I need money, I don't have enough for the rope access certification, and I need money to live. I recently heard about Search Engine Optimization (SEO) and I want to learn more about it, and indeed, it sounds like it could meet my needs better than rope access work (you can work remotely and by contract and it's something you can run as an owner-operated business)

I hope you enjoy reading about my life and I hope you've felt like part of my experience along the way.

The Manifesto Revisited

I feel like I'm not reaching my potential. I feel like my absolute potential is beginning to dwindle. This should be a manifesto but instead it reads as a eulogy of my unseen abilitiy.

I want to be strong, I want to be respected. I think that people should know the mettle that's inside me—realize that I'm not the average loser that they thought I was. I'm not average. I feel different, maybe I feel I'm the exception to average; to mundane. I want to change my beliefs about untested talents into records of achievements. I want people to say of me “he has it.” I want to be on the cutting edge. That's the only place it's still happening. There's more to be done in this world and I'm not doing any of it.

I don't know how to go about it, but I know I'm not doing it now. It's time to step up, to take the yoke, to take the burden and hold the mantel of accomplishment and travel into the undone, the not-yet reality of new feats.

I blend in because I don't do anything to stand out. I'm scared to try, scared to fail. I think I'm strong but I time and again prove myself wrong. I try things I think I should be able to do, and I fail. Perhaps I'm kidding myself, perhaps we all are. By definition, the majority of us are average in our persuits and accomplishments. Why should I be different?
I think that by thinking I should be better, different, that that is the start and a key, but have I started that line of thought too late? Have I decided to become something unacheiveable? Akin to saying I want to be a teenage prodigy at the too old age of 26? Clearly impossible. So what is possible? What is possibility? Surely not just the statement of potential, without regard to likelihood or attainability. What's my possibility? What can I become from where I stand now?

Here's what I want: climb V10 and harder, climb 5.14 trad, sport, whatever. Run ultramarathons. Date/marry/live with/whatever the most beautiful woman with the best personality I've ever met.

I want to set standards, raise bars, and be unlimited.

Feeling the Pulse of Reality 8/21/2012

I wrote that on May 16^th. It’s freeform, stream of thought and probably only took 10 minutes or less to write. I regularly write similar manifestos as they relate to issues I’m dealing with in my life. They serve as a means of cathartic release and to organize sometimes scrambled thoughts.

Instead of posting this, I decided to write The Manifesto—a more palatable, less authentic and more humble version of my secret thoughts.

However, as I continue to grow, I continue to seek the sincerity that attracts me to others. Through that process, I realize I must also become more sincere and remove more of my barriers between my honest thoughts and their outward expression through my words and actions.

The woman I met at “Muscle Beach” (mentioned in the post above) is as far as I can perceive, the embodiment of one of the goals of my life—read that with all the import that I mean.

My pessimistic side expects failure in the endeavor, but as I have said, there is a part of me that is ever hopeful (could I be a closet optimist, or is this something different?), and I want to stay here to see this part of my story played out and concluded with finality. I know I’m still young when I’m conducting my life and actions according to the song of my heart, but if I am young then let me act as such, and amen.

Let’s face it, I’m preaching to the choir: anyone who reads my blog is already interested in me and what I’m doing, and that’s really regardless of what content I put into the blog itself. That notwithstanding, I feel like I owe you, the reader, something more than the perfunctory updates that a blog like this might be expected to carry.
In that way I hope you will grow with me and share in the story of my life as I see it.

I am first and foremost aware that every story can be told by many different characters—each with their own perspectives. In my story, I am the protagonist. In your story, my story might be a subplot, a plot twist, or completely tangential.

I strive to find the balance between playing over dramatic, and under reporting the drama I do find in my life. I also trust you to apply your own critical thinking and reading skills to discern the truth from the dramatic flair or the understated treatment. 

Taking a Stand, Making a Change

This summer in Yosemite is coming to a an end more quickly than I had expected.

Indeed, I have quit my job and am looking toward tomorrow to see what the horizon of my future will bring.

At the moment, it looks like cities and beaches are to be my new home, but I shall see.

I quit my job because a moment arose in time where I could quit and also take a stand at the same time. I had feelings of disquiet and restlessness, but I had determined to stay until the end of my obligation, which was sometime in mid-September.

However, I felt that my obligation changed when my co-worker was fired unjustly and without dignity.

He was fired after returning late from climbing The Nose route of El Capitan, an accomplishment worthy of a lifetime goal.

To quickly summarize the situation, he was let go, said my ex-manager, because he had [twice] broken the rules and not notified the management of his absence. Each of his absences, however, was insignificant to the function of everyday activities and one time the phone lines were down, and the other time he had another person call in for him, because he didn't have cell phone reception.

Regardless of the merits of the decision, when my co-worker was fired, the manager was not present. To me, that was egregious and very disrespectful and an indicator of that manager's sense of duty toward any one of the employees. And so that was the final straw that kindled my ire to the point of resignation.

It is all a minor thing. This was just a summer job, and it won't affect my co-worker that he was fired, but all the same, I couldn't stand by and be witness to such an undignified injustice without doing anything. To voice my protest would have been impotent and inconsequential and his firing would have been overlooked and my protest ignored. However, I believe I made the strongest protest by quitting immediately after he was fired. It was obviously not in my own best interest (superficially), but that's part of the power of the gesture. Indeed, my ex-manager noted that everything would have been fine if I had not quit right after he was fired, but now they are in a bind because they are short on people. Additionally, in consequence one other co-worker has decided to quit as well, and several others are seriously considering quitting within the week.

Again, it was all a rather minor incident, but it's also empowering and it has given me a new sense of possibility. I'm “on the precipice” as you [I] might say.

I do not regret the decision at all.

I'm very happy to cross off “Quit a job based on principle” from my bucket list.

Currently, I've moved out of White Wolf, and I am now down in the valley, awaiting a ride.

I've been invited to Los Angeles to check it out, and I'm thinking I will take the offer up. I still need to make a little more money for the certification I wish to earn, so I would work and live for as long as I care to, if I like it there. If I don't like it, I will streamline my possessions a little more, and then hit the road.

All in all, I like the turn my life is taking.