From one man to another, the cause of action differs – One, roused to motion by vision, one riled to action by insecurity. Science and art colliding —a muscular structure, form and function entangled, or as it is often…. estranged. Beneath the sinew—bones of intent, and from this we see either wisdom sought or perversion gained.
And so I love Bodybuilding.
Science and Art
Hammers not wielded for nothing, man acts with purpose. The hammer of science, we wield to cure — and often the destruction of one thing is the rebirth of another. A parasite now dead, a host now healed, diseases progress, and so do we seek to impede their spread and crush their hold.
Science, as often we see it in our modern day, is used to cure. But may it also be wielded to construct. Not merely to heal, but to progress.
One smears paints on a canvas in a manner no different than a beast soiling the ground with its excrement, then calls this “art.” The “tortured soul” (how trite this is), never seeking an out, but rather he now revels in this. Much is told by one’s choice of art — lucid and uplifting or Bacchanalia sleeping with the scatological. A difference there is, between the two. A difference there is, between the love of either.
Just as with this notion that the artist has to defy societal expectations, so too does the bodybuilder seek extremes so as to defy such social limitation. Health and vigor no longer the aim, a monstrosity born. A soul coming out of its skin to show itself, just as like a painter exposing himself through his work. What is, could be otherwise, and what is not, otherwise, for a reason is. Always the choice revealing. The hammer wielded in such one way and by another wielded in such a way apart, by this the artist reflected upon. Finality’s naked end segregates the sound from the diseased.
Science explores and then defines the world around us, and that world within us. Art explores and then defines a perception. How this understanding’s applied to the body then defines the artist.
Form and Function
Such is the state of the blind—action that not only precedes thought but rather, at times, acting totally apart from it. Ten stories high a building—each floor, as it stands, bearing relation to that which stands above it, and that which holds habitat below. A foundation in place whose spine all that is built must obey.
To what end a man seeks his build, we also see his understanding — A body constructed only for vanity, or that which as also performs and exceeds?? A cripple, at moments, it seems some endeavor to become. A body that has no object of health in mind, no semblance of unity in its join. Flesh piled upon previous layers of flesh, barely to move, only to stand.
Two bodies of equal size and equal states of leanness — By this, do we call them equals? Look deeper, beneath the superficial. One achieved his given state by use of drugs alone, another by means of diet, cardiovascular training, and drugs. Now tell me, is a separation of terms and conditions present? The lack of bodyfat cannot, in itself, sing the praise of “healthy.” One so lean with a heart so weak is still to be foul with corruption. Such is the relation of means and ends.
One form, and another, may appear to be similar, but the paths that led the pursuit to its conclusion determines the function.
I love, and I abhor. A physical state of supremacy, through which he, who inherits this façade, excels against Nature’s storm — that I love. Physical abominations whose facades superficially convey health but whose bitter inner-workings accommodate disease — that I detest. Ornaments that adorn a foundationally sound structure bless the edifice with grace; Ornaments—bricks of flesh—held without mortar, are soon to sing destruction.
“Never can I pursue in quiet / that which holds my soul in thrall / never rest at peace contented / and I storm without cease.” -Karl Marx
Striations running with veins, instead of lacerations streaming with blood. Rage, that drives the pursuit to progress, just as hunger drove the desire to hunt. Genuflected at the alter of suicide, to stare down the ego’s ember. Is this wick so short that the candle can’t be relit.
The “reckless burden of existence”, at times so overwhelming, one thrust of the knife to end it, or a new thrust, to extirpate bitter perception. Pierce now with the latter.
Apart from numerous activities by which one must rely on others—by expectation, by trust—Bodybuilding asks for only the unwavering devotion of one. Nothing is expected of you beyond that which you expect of yourself—and, nothing will you expect of others as you’re the only participant in this act. No one can betray you here and to no one can you kiss with the lips of Judas.
Not only future gratification—a goal whose resolution comes with Time’s passing—but enthrallment now. Irrespective of present physical composition, the voracious hunger for validation is met instantaneously, the rush of endorphins displacing torment’s venom. What was once a constant destructive fixation can now flourish into a repetitive act of progression. By the clock’s arm, another round dealt, no longer to imbibe torment’s intoxicating disquiet but now to make stronger the body and stronger still, the spirit.
A song so beautiful that even the most base among us can’t refuse. A ceremony of like souls. And, by this, do we seek companionship. One does not love those who they despise and those who they may despise betray images of his conjure. “Art—music, paintings, poetry and prose, as by this an artist portrays himself—his vision. Adored by those that see this vision the same, loathed by he who sees otherwise.
This song, imagine, so serene and graceful that every melody simultaneously washes away any cluster of scars just as it also conveys every hope that you have ever imagined. Those failing to arrest this grace, you abhor, as almost by this act do they despise beauty itself.
A haphazard cluster of muscles, sewn to the façade, barely able to move. Such is today’s “Bodybuilding”. Such is that which I detest. Form, now the infidel wife betraying Function, so that foreign sperm can spawn their bastard progeny. And to this some aspire. No different than shit smeared on canvas. Not apart from a lover’s serenade sung by a throat gargling razors. And to this some aspire.
From the depths, a choir sings the mellifluous, or the banshees sound the mock.
Libertine in Lust
By ancestries binds does the wretch seek his “roots.” Not by that which lies in his control, but by that which holds beyond, does he find his “pride.” Such are the roots of a racist. Individuality—pride and shame—tossed to the toil of past. And these roots are not that of hatred (hatred and the intolerance of a soul’s ancestral garment), as often times “racism” is defined. No, racism is the inability to define oneself and others outside of their lineage.
One cannot rightfully “pride” themselves in that which lies outside their control. Wherever you choose to plant yourself is where your roots truly lie.
Rituals are hand-me-down garments with holes. Fortifying oneself via the process of critical thinking, or Life’s boots collecting muck after blindly marching through the mire — a difference there is indeed. In this process of physical progression, one can either hold steadfast to antiquated notions, or one can change tracks when the greater path greets the train. One clings irrespective of the truth, one lets go in pursuit of the new.
So afraid are some of thinking, of being alone, that they beseech themselves never to question whatever “group” or philosophy they now join. And this rings true also in Bodybuilding. The lonely are no longer alone when they follow a given system of thought, however wrong, however illogical. And by that they are forever bound—the group “identity.” Not to question, never to think, but only to accept— much like ancestral garment that adorns the beast that, never to reason, stands now fettered.
“Bodybuilding is our religion”—take this at face value, for that it is. As such, this pursuit can be guided by the mind, the individual, to the extent they choose to think—or it can be guided by blind conformity or by bitter rebellion. A whore, whose filthy body any man can touch, providing that he pays a price, is no different than one whose only motivation is to merely please or defy another. They hold nothing pristine. “One has to be freaky in order to defy society’s limitations”—no different than saying “I offer sex for money to spite my parents.”
Logic’s spine, binding form to function with the hammer of science guided by the rational mind, From various options, a path is chosen, and by this the bond of individuality and progression such is the synthesis of science and art;. So far apart is this vision from the actuality, that now do I realize that it’s a potential, and ideal, not an actual – existant in this world, that I love. And as Bodybuilding is very much the individual pursuit, thus do I realize that the beast that bears this burden lies outside my concern.