The Chronicles of Yogether
The Berlin Wall fell and with it my hair. On the contrary, the muscles began to grow in synergy with the weight packs of bulky tools with mechanics similar to that of the combat chassis that animated the ruthless terminator sent by a post apocalyptic 2029 in which insider trading, in the manner of Gordon Gekko, was decidedly extinct. In perfect coherence with the myth of Wall Street, the background noise of existence, poorly muffled by the oriental "air" artificially pumped into the soles of Western shoes, was that of cash rolling sleeplessly in banknote counters; while the smell, which impregnated both the suit of the "working class hero" and the designer suit of the man who "never had to ask", that of fried food from the assembly kitchens of fast food restaurants.
A little "jump" was enough for that fragrance to become "teen spirit" while we "warriors of the night from sunset" and "wild boys at dawn". But even though it “dies hard”, anyone who turned around was lost, because everything was spinning as fast as car engines, as low and dedicated to performance as they did not care about safety and emissions.
It was while driving one of them that, wearing my Top Gun Aviators and contemptuous of the highway code to respect precise timing of amino acid and creatine intake, I went, on a "strange day", to the Fitness Club where I was training. I had recently hung the broad shoulders of my “paper” cover jacket on a hanger and slipped on a smaller size tank top when I first saw it. Hoodie, at the waist, and black leggings, white flip flops and tank tops, stood in front of the delts machine rolling up a mat. The love at first sight had the glow of the strobe lights under which, "between bottles and vip. rooms", we would dance to the "morning glory" and the reflectors of the tunnels through which we would have escaped from the great metropolis just for a few days of "blue lagoon" , because in a hurry we would be back to building our tower of concrete and crystal, as high as possible. It had to be mine. It would have been mine! I was instantly convinced that winning her would represent a milestone in the hottest race, the one for "fame". We didn't talk much during my alpha approach. But it was enough to tell that she was different. Not that diversity that makes a person unique, that makes you appreciate the cliché that in the end you fall in love with defects more than strengths. She was as pretty as she was perfectly aligned with that context but she seemed to have been catapulted there from a parallel universe. I realized too late that, although she was of this world, she had crossed time.
The subsequent meetings were pleasant and more verbose but things did not proceed as I had planned. Difficult to accept when you aspire to always triumph, when failure is a luxury not granted to your "self esteem" with a vip disposition. So I gave myself one last chance, although it meant getting out of my comfort zone to risk entering, like Sally's Harry, in her friend zone and I accompanied her, "for her eyes only", to a lesson in Yoga. I did not openly show my pride towards that strange discipline, relegated to the less popular bands of the course timetables, although, with a hundred kilos bench press benchmark and three times as much leg press as well as a fair boxing confidence, I was convinced that it would have been a mere formality. Today #yourworkoutismywarmup would be posted, then I felt simply invincible and my only technical interest was to understand why he suggested that I bring a sweatshirt to wear at the end of the activity, when instead it would have been logical to take it off after having warmed up the muscles properly before “Strike a pose” #likeasexsymbol #likearockstar. I only remember four other things from that day:
She gave me a French kiss for a "fleeting moment" and left the next day.
My body suffered like never before in training. Not even on quadriceps and calves Thursdays.
The sweatshirt showed its logic in the substance of a deep embrace in the instant preceding sleep.
I jumped back in time for the first time.
When you first jump back in time you are not really aware of it. There are no static white lights on a black background that suddenly accelerate dragging you into a tunnel at the end of which you find yourself in a cave shouting "yabba-dabba-doo" in the company of the original versions of Fred and Barney, or talking about tempera with Leonardo Da Vinci intent on frescoing Santa Maria delle Grazie. It is something that happens from within. It is as if a "fifth element" tuned to a radio signal from the genesis of the universe were activated in your cells. With hindsight it is a perception destined to grow and change, but at first you only notice the singular opening for which you cannot find a mathematical explanation as you would trivially do in terms of maximum strength and endurance. In hindsight you also realize that your analytical skills at the time were probably altered by too many Back to the Future visions to theorizing an extravagant journey back through the years as a justification for that mysterious connection. with ancestral roots. At that moment the only concreteness was therefore Yoga intended as a mere tool to repeat itself again and again in the search for the singular pleasure, more in form than in intensity, that that process generated. A contradictory tool whose functioning escaped me: I felt physically frustrated and mentally awkward, yet as soon as I wore that sweatshirt I was already thinking about the next session.
With constant practice that perception became spiritual awareness, the true solution to all my questions whose first interpretations I still smile today, without shame. An awareness that is much easier to prove than to explain. In any case, it is enough to know that normally it does not require any mystical leavening, no distortion of image or social life; only healthy
I realized too late that she had crossed time… and it took longer to realize she was coming from the near future after being in the distant past. That future is the "black mirror" of today! It is the present in which "la grande bellezza" of spirituality takes on the tones of a "shining nightmare". It's like wearing George Nada's black glasses not to find out that many humans are actually skeletal E.T. decided to condition society, but to realize that with our own hands we have triggered, with drills and fake news, the countdown to self-destruction #thedayafter and that it has the incessant sound of the siren of Lieutenant Ripley's spaceship. But there are no alien "dunes" to colonize as there is no "life on mars" other than that of Ziggy Stardust. There is only one feverish planet, not yet “of the apes", to be healed in a$ap! She knew it, she had already seen it! She, with unexpected energy, had been able to generate peace where there was "chaos". And to do so she had agreed to leave her room and what she believed essential in it, to open up, through a new and better version of herself, to all the life's possibilities.
perseverance like a "karate kid". Nothing on the surface had therefore changed, even the muscles, thanks to the integration with the calisthenics, had kept their sweaty "pumping" albeit without "iron", as well as becoming more flexible and harmonious. I might add that the confidentiality with my body was back to being that of when I was pedaling on a Saltafoss and kicking a Tango. I could discuss what is the style of practice par excellence and the contrast between physical and holistic approaches, of how for some the former is not Yoga and vice versa.
The real point, however, is that when you realize that your spirit lives in full communion
with the planet you inhabit #motherearth, you want that planet to be immediately as prosperous as possible "in mind and body" for you and for all those you share it with! Leave the animal proteins for the vegetable proteins, the plastic bottles for the returnable glass, the pods for the mocha, the dispenser for the water bottle, the blades for the electric razor, the bubble bath for the soap, the industrial for the artisanal, diesel for electric, motorcycles for bicycles, outboard for sailing, quoting flights, enjoying the beauty of the local area, shopping on tap, getting used to compostable garbage, measuring the opening of the taps, put ozone in the washing machine, exploit alternative forms of energy, convert waste into reuse, promote sustainability with common sense as well as science, transfigure material possession into experientiality, arrogance into kindness, ban hatred and online violence with bits of acceptance and altruism, respecting every living being regardless not only of race, social class, gender and sexual orientation but also of species, were not fashions to follow, stereotypes to conform to, self-imposed radical choices. It was my body and my intellect, on closer inspection even before being projected towards the spirit, that requested it in unison, exactly as if it had been thirsty for water. A thirst accompanied by a sense of lack of appetite for everything that previously satiated me: the roar of the flaming “Gran Turismo”, with which to be pleased with one's status, began to recall the black smoke of the refineries. The hot water of a long shower lost its restorative effect, mixing with the cold violence of the rocky fracking. A thick steak evoked the claustrophobia of intensive farming, supermarket shelves overflowing with colorful bottles, tearful "ocean eyes".
"A blood diamond was no longer forever" as opposed to the comments of the countless keyboard lions in which, no longer sarcastic, I would come across, snooping like a "Mr. Robot ”in the profiles of others.
"A revolution will save us", said an author "without a logo", leaving out the instructions for use as if it were the red jumpsuit of a greatest american hero. What if it were a “.love” revolution? If, "running in circles", it moved, in the shadow of the "limelight", from us towards us without having hypothetical strong powers in the crosshairs? What if it were viral but without contagion? Sweet and salty? Madonna and Kylie? Incisive and symbolic like the skilful succession of folds on a sheet that defined the unicorn origami of the alleged replicant Dekard? Material and ethereal like the practice that leads to awareness, like the awareness that changes the perspective, like the perspective that changes the approach to things? Yes, because if only the transitivity of these elements, transcending globalization, crossed every form of border, we could on the one hand "slow down by synchronizing the anxious flow of our existence to the natural calm of the breath" #inhalexhale, on the other hand give, as in fund we have already done with the "upload" of all our data, new virtual life to the obsolete slogan and eligible meme: "Make Love, Not War". Without forcing, with abandonment and patience, with trust and resilience we would have the faculty to give ourselves that last chance out of the comfort zone, and, "one Lego brick after another", "make a better place" today we erect ephemeral.
I was born analog and I liv€ digital. After that lesson I never saw her again, not even in a photo tagged in the hidden meanders of a social network. We never really loved each other. It was love at first sight as there are so many for every storm, but deep down it is as if we were still there together, suspended in time, in the name of that strange discipline and this is how I like to call this curious bond of ours ... ... Yogether ... ... & "imagine" that two becomes four, four becomes sixteen, sixteen becomes two hundred and fifty-six and so on in an infinite exponential progression ... because united with Yoga and united in Yoga it would not be "utopia" to go back to: " to be used to dreaming, to be used to looking beyond the stars ”… #om #shanti
I was born analog and had golden curly hair as a child. Just like a cherub. But the world I was growing up in was not angelic. Although lulled by the love of my parents, the same ones who then educated me in righteousness and respect for others, I soon began to absorb all the firepower of the 80s. The American Dream and the Reaganian Star Wars not only penetrated the walls of the house through the TG1 of the 8pm, it was literally imbued with the atmosphere, even more than with smog. In addition to the Arcade cabinet in the neighborhood grocery store and the CRT TV in the living room, both of which were not very “wearable”, we didn't have anything digital. We played outdoors, surrounded by greenery, without the need for masks. We had a lot of fun, with little. Saltafoss and Tango, chalks and stones, trees like soccer goals but the gaze was already unconsciously turned to the white Ferrari of Sonny & Rico and the red one of Magnum, the green biceps of David Banner and the bionic legs of Steve Austin, the ringed fist of PE Baracus and KITT's artificial intelligence, Fujiko Mine's plentiful neckline and Daisy Duke's micro shorts.