paleo writing

White knuck­led Paleo Treats for the tree climb­ing cliff jump­ing vine swing­ing hir­sute and hor­ri­ble ancient Homo Pale­olithus and his beau­ti­ful, wis­er and bet­ter half, Fem-Pale­olithas.  Known for inces­sant­ly lift­ing tremen­dous weight, feared the world over for the wor­thy war cry spring­ing from the depths of dark and dan­ger­ous gyms where (gasp) free weights are thrown around, where box­es and stumps are jumped upon, where bags are smashed, pig iron flies, and the only humid­i­ty con­trol is the sweat float­ing in the air.  This is Paleo town.

How many times will you see those mon­sters growl­ing and bend­ing, rip­ping away with rugged fin­gers and grasp­ing hands at the heav­i­est piece of 1970’s weight room fur­ni­ture they can tear free from it’s moor­ings?  Men and women alike, ripped and hard, tat­ters of clothes, who cares about fash­ion when you can move?  When any­thing that needs to be lift­ed is at the mer­cy of your group, your clan, your tribe.  When unstop­pable is your life, when nev­er-end­ing is your quest, when twist­ed cables are your arms, when clear and bright far-see­ing lights are your eyes, then you begin to real­ize the true pow­er that has always been yours.

HEY!  YOU!  How long can you watch before you join in the ancient dance of work, pure and clean and hard and sim­ple.  Will you watch with wide eyes, scared at the danc­ing of the flames deep in the eyes of a being total­ly and com­plete­ly ded­i­cat­ed to per­for­mance through utter ded­i­ca­tion to an unpol­lut­ed goal; work in its most phys­i­cal sense.  Or will you join?

This is YOU call­ing, this is your human spir­it scream­ing to be let free, this is your bat­tered and prim­i­tive age worn soul, puls­ing back­wards through count­less eons, beg­ging and blus­ter­ing and beat­ing it’s hairy and heavy chest, yaw­ping with a fear­ful wild­ness to be let free, to let you see just how strong you can be, to see how much weight you can throw, to embrace total­ly the full poten­tial of pow­er you have.  We’re not talk­ing “open your­self up Lance,” we’re talk­ing heart-burst­ing pow­er, capa­ble at a moments notice of run­ning down any 4 legged crea­ture on the plan­et over unend­ing savan­nah miles, capa­ble of drop­ping onto an elk’s back from 20 feet up, drop­ping through the air and min­gling with grav­i­ty, land­ing with a heavy thud and rip­ping through the tough and pro­tect­ed neck skin with obsid­i­an-sharp rock to get at the bright red arte­r­i­al iron rich blood deep beneath, to feed direct­ly from the cir­cle of life, to get the hell away from all plas­tic and pro­cess­ing, to nev­er again set foot in a gro­cery store where eat­ing is too easy.

This is you call­ing, your old cave­man self, your old fire-burn­ing stone-smash­ing true love, the wild and pri­mal side that you feel on those ear­ly cold morn­ings when the sun has yet to rise and the sense of warmth is only with­in you.  This is your life.  When will you see with you own eyes the mean­ing of being ful­ly respon­si­ble for what you eat? Hunt it.  Kill it.  Eat it.  Don’t ever look in a mir­ror, you already know what you are.  More human than human.

Uncon­t­a­m­i­nat­ed with the trap­pings of a mod­ern gym, using only iron sticks and steel stones, rough ropes and thick logs and ancient heavy weights and crack­ling red-blue light­ing burn­ing bright in every heart.

Blend­ed with tech­nique honed over many moons of the same move­ment prac­ticed over and over.  The quick twist of the hands, the grace­ful and dead­ly curve of an throw­ing arm, the twist­ed and com­pressed and dead­ly accu­rate pow­er of a pan­ther’s leap, all coiled up in a thigh muscle.

The lithe move­ments of the strong and flex­i­ble, the cun­ning and wis­dom and expe­ri­ence rolled into that 3 pounds of grey fat­ty tis­sue a‑top a machine built to live self-reliant­ly.  This is you.  This is the gift you’ve been giv­en, this body, this mind.

How will you treat it?  Will you learn the best ways to use it, to move, to run, to jump, to lift?  Will you mem­o­rize your own­ers man­u­al, will you try new move­ments, will you jump that log, sail off that cliff to the far side tree, will you grasp and wind­mill and grab and keep grip­ping and grasp­ing until you come to a heart pound­ing stop?

Will you eat clean and pure, feed­ing this holy machine of yours the best ingre­di­ents you can find?  Will you shoot straight, tell the hard truth over the easy lie, will you run when you can walk, will you stand when you can sit, will you climb when could crawl?  What will you do?

You want pris­tine food, pure and unmin­gled with the every­day addi­tives, unde­filed by arti­fi­cial sweet­en­ers, immac­u­late in its Pale­osi­ty, vir­tu­ous in its total embrace­ment of whole food, noth­ing more, noth­ing less.  When you’re ready, you’ll find us.