Chat

A pulled muscle is a torn muscle. I knew that, but I looked it up again to make sure. I must have done some real damage, because it's been five days now, and it still twinges. Spasmed pretty bad for three days. Same thing happened when I first started bjj -- had to take four separate weeks off during the first two months. Four different back muscles. Usually these things are done after five days. Now I'm irritated and impatient. But I'm being sensible. Very hard.

Usually I "warm up" just to lubricate the joints, work out the creaks and stiffness. I think now I'm going to have to stretch not just legs and lower back, but upper too. Not sure how to do that, but it's the cost of age. I was going to start muay thai on Friday -- they have that class, and mma. I've never been hit as an adult. Don't want to hit anyone. But it's the most effective striking form, and we can't limit ourselves, eh? I've got some of the equipment now, shin guards and those mma gloves. I used to be very fast. And I was flexible. Now I'm just long. But I don't have to be good -- just good enough. And I realized something of the limits of holding the guard, when someone can hit you. Doesn't seem like such a good idea, outside of a sport-with-rules situation. Gotta mix it up.

I was looking forward to some extra time for bjj last week and this. Instead I just went ahead and collected some injuries. There's some worry in my knee now, my old knee problem from 30 years ago. It's made a big pop every morning since I was a teenager. Now it's a little bothersome again. But it's a bother only because it's a knee, if you get my meaning. It's really not anything serious. I'd ordered some hyaluronic acid for a family member. I'll take some myself for a while. Anyway, when I find out who's responsible for all this injury, man will I give him or her a piece of my mind.

Iran? That revolutionary government shut down the counter revolution by controlling the internet. They control the web, and collected the names of the tweeters and bloggers and IMers and chatters -- just a handful of actual leaders, hey, let's all meet at Righteous Martyr Mall -- and now there is no more vitality in the youth movement. Obama, meantime, was ever so cautious and statesmanlike and evenhanded, until afterwards. As for the ousting of the Honduran communist president, Obama, like his fellow-traveller opposite or same number in Venezuela, is very clear in his denunciation. The elected government must prevail, for every country that has a leftist or islamsist agenda, a nuclear weapons program and/or an anti-Jew policy.

Chavez the Toad of Venezuela has mobilized his army. When the Honduran army took over, as is their wont, they arrested the Cuban ambassador, and beat up the Venezuelan ambassador and left him alone on the road. That just struck me as funny. Some people need to be beaten up and left by the side of the road. But Chavez is right. It is an act of war to take over an embassy, and Chavez would be right. Odd, how monsters have such moral clarity. It's because they are unapologetic about pursuing their own legitimate and illegitimate interests. There is much to be learned from scorpions and venomous tree frogs.

It's the rule of three again, with celebrity deaths. Carradine, Jackson, Farrah, and Billy Mays. Yep, that's how it works. Maybe Carradine is too long ago now, or maybe Mays is not enough of a celeb. But they're dropping like flies, three flies. The rule of three usually allows four of five deaths. So someone else is doomed. Castro, hopefully, or some arab.

If you know any hot women who are smart and patient and encouraging, who like sex, and loyal, who like self-involved lanky blonds who are brilliant underachievers, let me know, eh? I'm a pretty decent guy once you get to know me. It really does take a while, a few years, for me to relax, but I'm sure I can do it. And she should have money, and maybe be a lawyer.

There was something else on my mind, but I can't think of it. I have decided to get over my lost boys. There has to be a difference between love and pain. There's a part of me that has thought that letting go is a sort of disloyalty. When I say it out loud, it's obviously wrong. But that's why we have these little conversations. So we can learn something about being human.

I will roll tomorrow whether or not it's sensible. I've forgotten the steps of an armbar from the guard. This disturbs me. Why do I do bjj? Not because it will get me anything. There is no future in it for me. I've just given it some thought. Usually I don't have to think -- I just know. I do it for my ego. I know that's why, or partly, because of how much I hate to lose. Not all pride is bad. There would be no excellence without pride.

There are several projects that I have not started. It's disgusting. I'm thinking this chronic discouragement has been tied to festering grief. What's the name of that device that gets the heart going again? Let me know if you think of it. Because all vertebrates need a heartbeat to live.


J

Being Brave

If my ego is engaged, so what? I say it's about a skill, but part of not being beaten -- and not a small part -- is ego. Rolled with a different brown belt today, far more skilled than me, and he caught me in a choke about 10 seconds in. I had him show it to me, but I forgot to ask about the escape. Point is, I did not like that. Then he caught my back, and we stayed there for the whole round. I could not remember a back escape, or engage one. I did remember to give him all my weight. No apologies. I have to change that about myself. It is a competition. I do forget. I do not bring it. That's the skill I need to develop.

I'm afraid of running out of energy. I'm afraid of being thought a bully, using size and strength rather than skill. I'm afraid of being beaten even after I've gone as hard as I can. I'm afraid of losing. Not the kind of afraid that is an active emotion. Avoidance. Like a phobia. It's a character flaw.

Afterwards, thinking about it, I am in contact with aggression -- not anger, just the willingness to go hard. Yeah, afterwards, when it can't happen. Obviously that's the attitude to bring BEFORE, not after. It's hard to respect that in myself. Impossible. It's contemptible, if I felt contempt. It's disrespectable.

I don't want to make it a rule, but the rule should be, warm up with white belts, then roll with the higher belts. My excuse is that I'm taking a few weeks to get back into it. It's a very good excuse. Believable, plausible. Even true. True, except for the emotion behind it.

It's not enough to gratify my ego by dominating smaller guys, or weaker, or less skilled. It's not enough to protect my ego by avoiding people who can beat me. It's not enough to engage my ego only when it's safe, after the challenge is passed. I don't have to actually be brave. I just need to act that way.

Yes, I guess it does have to be a rule. But who will keep me honest?


J

Permission

I tweaked my shoulder this morning rolling with a vicious brown belt. That same one, with the pointy knees. I'm still reluctant, but I did notch it up for him. Finally got him in a sort of reverse triangle that wasn't going anywhere, but I held it and squeezed anyway. I was trying to remember an arm attack when we ran out of time. He was not pleased. I think he brings his ego to it in a way that may not be entirely admirable.

Then, after I'd rolled with four or five other guys all in a row and was gasping and panting and sweating myself into a puddle, a white belt stepped up. My size and build, pretty much. Thirty years younger, or close to it. And he just attacked. Oh my. So I notched it up for him too. I don't know that I've ever done that before, with a white belt -- but as I said to him after, sort of with an apology, "If you bring it, you'll get it back." Not a warning by any means. I like it, sort of. Just an explanation.

With virtually everyone I roll with, I'm focusing on improving my skill. It is not about beating someone. With me, it's about not getting beaten, and in the meantime, learning something. Virtually, of course, means almost. One of the skills I lack has to do with going full blast. What if I run out of energy? Then I'd lose. So what. And there's the obvious fact that if I'm going full blast, it will be very taxing for the other guy as well. See how that works? If you do, remind me later about it, because I forget.

When someone comes on strong, it's permission to return it. In social settings, it's wise not to match foolish conduct. As I've said, I learned through very painful lessons that I cannot out-scum scum. I mean, I could kill them, but we're talking reality, and the lines that I won't cross don't even exist, for them. On the mat, with those whose judgment informs them that they should try to used strength with me, well, I'm surprising that way.

So I've been rolling again for two weeks now, and I'm feeling more like a p belt. Very strange, these symbols. Now I feel entitled to it, and I'm a little cocky. Kidding, but I'm strangely comfortable -- strangely, because I have not gotten it all back, by any means, and last year, when I was better, I was certainly not a p belt. See? But there comes a point when you have to stop apologizing and just get on with it.

Starting again, there was the coward in the back of my mind, afraid of the bigger higher belts. A lot of it is that I just didn't know anyone, or their skill. Now I'm still concerned about having to work really hard. That's a sort of coward too. But it's a better fear than that other one. Lazy is better than weak. Because attitudes can change.

So I've got a tweaked shoulder, and I'll have to wait a few days to see if it's damage or just some discomfort. As we say, be sensible. It's hard to do, sometimes. On the other hand, it's a really good excuse to be a coward. But if you go back, as you ought, and look at the ever-expanding p-factor list, you will notice that "I'm injured" does not appear there. If you're injured, be sensible.

I'm very low-energy right now. Almost wrecked myself with those intervals last Th. Been hobbling around like a wino. Still sore today, in the soleus, muscle beneath the calf. I'll be finding my level over the next few weeks, between bjj and cf. I love bjj, so that would be my preference. But cf is just more productive. And I saw myself naked in a full-length mirror the other day. Caught me by surprise, and I just had to admire the sight. I did not throw bodybuilder poses, but my goodness. I'm one of the less-gay men around nowadays, but I just had to stare. It's okay, because it was me. It was startling, is all. Mm mmm. I've always thought of myself as just a long lean guy. I'm gorgeous. So, point is, I guess I do have to keep the cf. Deprive the world of beauty like this? God would be angry.


J

Substitutes

I took it easy this week, re cf. The fella I train with is out of town, and that's enough of an excuse. But he's invited virtually everyone to train with him, and there are a random and sporadic few who come by, on a not very predictable basis, so I came by a couple of times to put them through a workout. Here's why I mention it. I had to pull out one of my old personalities.

Generally nowadays I fade back into the shadows. I might kibitz, make my little jokes, add a bit of information, but I'm content to play second banana, which is a sort of starfish. It's not my place. I don't have a place. I'm not the host. They're not my guests. Not even my friends. Just people who are around. That's an odd thing that struck me today. We're civil, we're friendly, even, because it's the right thing to do. But to say nothing at all would be more desirable.

When I say "we", of course I mean myself. I don't suppose most people are like this. I wasn't always like this myself.

But I digress. Having to play host, I had to change personas. The guy in charge. Well I used to be that for a living. But I did it in my own place. I was always prepared. Even when I worked as a substitute teacher, I had my own lessons and supplies -- you could never count on anyone else. So I planned the workouts, and rigged the equipment, and put on the necessary personality, rusty though it is, and gave the ladies a pretty good workout.

But I noticed how reluctant I was to be in that role. There's a lot of information I could have given them. I'm an inspirational guy, you know, when I think it's appropriate. I was just reluctant to give up my anonymity. I'm out of practice being public.

Isn't it interesting, how people are? It occurs to me that I broke down some years ago. It seems there are degrees of giving up. I feel guilty about it, because I have gifts that are wasted, and that's shameful. But it is a choice. Addiction is a choice -- not all addiction is about substances or objective behaviors. I just don't know how to change the fact that I don't want to change.

I ran intervals tonight, 10 laps, quarter miles, at a 5-minute mile pace, with a half lap walk in between. On a treadmill at the Y. Someone I know there asked my why I was doing it. I said intervals are one of the most productive exercises, and it's important to do more than just one thing. But there's another kind of why. Why do it at all? There are several kinds of excellence that I care about. I care about physical excellence, and intellectual excellence, and an excellence of public conduct -- the things anyone is likely to find out about.

I don't know why I care about these things. The physical stuff isn't about appearance -- I don't wear tight cloths and so on. Having a celerity of intellect is just what I'm used to, but it doesn't do me any good at all in the world. Acting decently is just a matter of avoiding the consequences of a bad conscience. I guess it's pride. A gift, or several, that I have not scorned or wasted. And of course I need to exercise, need to learn, need to feel honorable. It balances out and holds off the chaos.

As I've said, I've started bjj again. New group of guys. Different ethos. Not anywhere near as much drilling, which I think is an error, and not quite the same emphasis on safety. A brown belt did a wrist lock on me. Didn't know that was legal. It is there, apparently. No worries, it's just different. Same guy who puts on the knee on belly move really hard. I don't mind. Eventually I'm going to take it as permission to go very hard with him. I need that. I just need to get the idea that he deserves it. This is a good thing. But a tiny little white belt was trying to open my guard by digging his elbows into me. It's something they teach. Pain technique. Bad idea. Very bad idea. It's never worked on me, and just makes me use strength. That's okay too -- I need to be comfortable with that. And I watched the muay thai class. Very interesting. That's about aggression too. And they do mma -- very interesting indeed. I think I'm going to buy the equipment. I'm not as fast as I used to be, but I still have a long reach.

You see? How we leave one life and enter another? One group of people passes out of your life, forever, and that void is filled by other people, or it remains empty, but, well, I hardly know what my point is. You know that what you have is going to end. Your children grow up. If your lucky, they do. Your circumstances change. Your illusions shatter. You become wise, or bitter, or something else. It's my major theme. How fragile life is. But maybe I'm wrong. God has fools, after all, so that not everyone needs to be his fool.

You know what all this is? It is a reflection on friendship. People are the only thing that matters. That's why betrayal hurts so much. In case you think I got it wrong, I'll just remind you, unnecessarily, that God is a person. So am I.


J

Association

I find that not being the beginner makes a difference. I'm new, but I'm old, if you get my meaning. So while I make a big phony show about being so humble, I get a chance to say what I know -- which is limited, but it has the virtue of clarity.

I rolled with some white and some blue belts this morning. First, it's sort of surprising that I do handle the blue belts. I wasn't all that great technically, before, aside from my odd body composition, and I'm way out of practice, but there was no challenge, aside from the heat and the tired. In the back of my mind I was wondering if W promotes people too soon. Of course, it would all be much sooner than R does, or did. There's probably benefit in this -- really earning it. Point is, I'm getting the idea that no one doubts that I really am a p belt. There's that tiny voice of insecurity that even the very very most gifted and brilliant people might sometimes have, after all. And introspection is yet another one of my countless endearing qualities.

Not everyone is a teacher. It's a rare thing, apparently. Because it's not enough to know, and not enough to show. The steps have to be understood and pointed out and rehearsed and supervised. While I was rolling, even with blue belts, I had to stop and tell them, as if for the first time, to keep their elbows in. "Don't be the Chickenman," I said. "Be the T-Rex." Elbows in, not elbows out. "Chickenman gets his wings broken." This is very basic, and they seemed not to know it. Some didn't respond, as if they thought I was wrong. Ah well, some of them I will take advantage of, if I get the sense that they do not respond to gentler forms of correction. This, I think, is fair.

The way I learn these things is by association. It's the greatest part of memory. A certain choke? -- I think, starting a lawnmower, or, tearing a phone book. That's how I get it. Others have different learning styles, but we don't know what it is, so we have to hit them all. That's what an experienced teacher does. You don't have to tell them that's what you're doing, but you need to do it.

I used bjj largely as a way of coping with my son's situation. What that means is that now I need a new reason. It isn't enough, that I enjoy it. It's too much time and energy to justify by the mere fact that I like it. The cost, in terms of ache, is much higher than cf, so the benefit has to be greater too. Is it? I don't know. You simply do not and cannot understand the cost of it. 49 is certainly not old, but it's simply nuts, being 49 and doing what I do, or am planning to do. Really it is. It's not like weightlifting or running or whatever. Even if you're older than me, you won't really get it, since you're not doing it, to feel it. If you're younger, I promise, you don't get it. You don't. In terms of skill set, and self-image, and a pursuit of excellence, I like it. But it's not practical. I suppose I will continue, barring catastrophe. But I like unanswerable reasons. I don't want to be nuts.

Starting at a new place is fine. I find that my old teacher-persona works perfectly. Not in a need to instruct, but as a sort of professional demeanor. Calm, friendly, humorous but sincere -- I had it down really well, and it's still available. And frankly, although I'm still a tad apologetic about it, the new belt helps. I am used to authority, although I don't exercise it at all anymore. I see the belt as a sort of suit and tie. It's the uniform we wear when we're acting like grownups.

I'm aware that I have no authority, other than personal, there. I'm the new guy. I don't have a problem with hierarchy. I really do check my ego at the door. Makes it hard for people to get into the building, but the alternative is far uglier. What, you thought I've been kidding, about my beauty and my genius? Fool. But in a place where someone is allowed to choke you into unconsciousness, it is prudent to leave emotion out of it.

I am, life has taught me, clueless, sometimes, alas. I step on toes without realizing it. So I'm trying to keep it low-key. Of course, that's what I have tried before, and generated some antipathy nevertheless, on several notable occasions, none of which I have discussed in these pages, save one. I have to trust though that anyone with an issue will bring it to my attention before it becomes a matter of capital punishment. That gets bothersome. I'm almost out of lives.


J

Phase 2

I just got my supplements organized again. It's been a year. When I stopped rolling I just didn't need them. The demand on my body had been extraordinary, so I had to take precautions. The relatively few minutes I do cf each week does not approximate the demand. But I've started bjj again. So I have to get organized.

Getting the purple belt is what did it, got me rolling again. It really truly would be embarrassing to me, to be a sucky purple belt. It is embarrassing. I have forgotten quite a bit. Recoverable though. It isn't vanity, it's pride. We have to be what we appear to be. I will not be a poser. I know I've made a joke of it, but I really do look pretty good, for lanky and middle aged, and I don't feel that I function as well as I look. I should be stronger. This bothers me. It's odd, because the guys I have rolled with say I'm strong, but when it comes to exercise movements, I don't think much of myself. It has to do with the focus of bjj. My whole body is involved, especially the core, and as I've said, jokingly -- but all my jokes are true -- I'm all abs.

So I joined up with an academy tonight. Much larger, in terms of space and students. Good selection of belts -- I was the only p belt, but there were probably 4 brown belts, 8 blue belts, some white. Only one guy, brown belt, was deadly. Just focused and serious and out to get me. He did. And W, the black belt who runs the place. He got me. But he wasn't out for blood, the way the brown belt was. When we switched partners, I told him, the brown belt, "This isn't over!" I just gotta be me.

I'm surprised at how normal I think I managed to appear. Charming, I believe. Friendly, conversational -- but I did after all spend some time on the stage in my college days. Of course, what I think was charming may have come off as that Jim Carey scene in Dumb and Dumber, where he lights his farts and whatnot in a fantasy about being the debonair life of the party. I'm charming the way Mickaeel Jackson is charming when he's in bed with young boys. Don't you just love my analogies? I have a gift.

W is not what I expected. All I know is that he has a reputation. I don't know what that reputation is, though. The publicity shots are pretty standard, aggressive, but he's quite approachable. I mean, I rolled with him.

Well. My persona in such venues is to be non-threatening. I know, it's fighting. But not really. I'm there to be challenged, but it's complicated. I like teaching, so with the lower belts I'll point out an error right then. Nobody does that. I don't even know if it's appropriate. But I do it. Because there is a mild side to me, and Uncle Jack is a role I do well. I do need to connect with the aggression, though. That was a problem where I used to roll. I couldn't often notch it up.

But I'm talking about this for a reason. There should be an obvious question. A comparison. Old place, new place. Well, that would just be details. The interesting thing is what I can't say. It has to do with loyalty, my idea of it. Old feelings don't become invalid because they are no longer operative, if you understand my usage of the word operative. They're still there, the bonds. They weren't false when they were made. The commitment of friendship is not nullified because various incidental circumstances have changed. It isn't only love that does not fail. Friendship, too, must last, or it wasn't friendship.

With R and K, the matter is clouded. I was asked once if I would go back there, roll there again. I side-stepped the issue by saying the chance would never come. I was banned, you see. But would I? It's complex. I'm pretty angry about it, I find. But I'm a forgiving guy. But who has the integrity to apologize -- by which I mean, clear the air. They were surely wrong, in their misunderstandings, and in their subsequent handling of the thing. And not all of my pride is entirely mature.

But the answer is, no, I wouldn't go back. I'd like to see the people I cared about, and I'd like to roll with them. But now I have a new place. Even without it though I wouldn't go back. I think I'm wrong, technically, here. I just don't see how the air could ever be cleared. Yeah: I see it as a betrayal, and I have a real problem with betrayal. I just wouldn't be able to trust them, their motives, their good will. They had a collection of rationalizations, you see. That means they'd been collecting them, ahead of time. It seems two-faced. Anyway, in terms of bjj, this new place seems to offer more of what I could benefit from, regarding gaining skill.

And the fact of the matter is that one group of guys is awfully like another group of similar guys. You know what I mean. Bjj requires courteous conduct. Guys who can't handle that don't generally last. It is true that an academy takes on the character of the guy who runs it. That's because he hires the instructors, whose style would be like his own. It's also because the people who train there are attracted to that particular energy. That's why they stay.

W is very much like R. Even physically. It was a little eerie. And he's calm and quietish. Humble is the word that's thrown around, and it seems appropriate. Well? I'm not actually as humble as I appear to be. No, I'm not humble here, but I'm talking about reality. Part of my down-playing myself is that I like hidden strength. Show it when it's needed, only. Part of it is that I don't want to draw unnecessary aggression against myself. I'd rather be underestimated. Part of it is that lower expectations are easier to deal with -- and I'm a little lazy, sometimes. But what I do not want to be around is some loudmouth brawler who's all about his ego. So, as I say, there's a lot of selecting going on, in these places.

No regrets. I may never see any of the old guys again. I know how to walk away, if not actually let go. This is phase two, perhaps. It's good to mix things up. I knew my training wasn't being optimized before. Here's a new stimulus. I still have the old limits, of inflexibility and over-caution and too much gentleness. And this troublesome and not very bright brain. You know which brain I'm talking about. Not my genius brain. Duh. My bjj brain. Just average. Like you. How I pity you.

Don't know how much I'll be able to train. Not as much as before, certainly. Even this hour and a half has summoned up the old stiffness. Hence, the supplements. They make a small difference. But I think I'll be tightening up my diet. You've noticed how I say it: take care of the nutrition first, then eat what you want. But you can't eat what you want if you have specific goals. It's not a weight thing with me, it's a performance thing, and that has to do with ache and recovery. So I can't eat what I want. I have been known to devour a whole box of granola bars, and they're practically candy. Well, I do need the calories. But it's not about calories with me, it's about inflammation. And the popcorn isn't really a lot of calories, but it's instant blood sugar, and null nutrients. So down on the grains.

But my major scheme is to increase the omega 3. I'll have to look at the ratios. I don't get much omega 6s, the vegetable oils that are the substrate of inflammatory hormones. You get 30 times more 6s than 3s. No wonder your a mess. I'm thinking of getting 3 times more 3s than 6s. Just made it up. I don't have any idea what the ratio is now, but I'm just imagining it's one to one. Threes thin the blood, but I coagulate very nicely, thank you. Anyway, the hope is that it will control the ache. We shall see. I'll have to start measuring these things.

Didn't mean to go on so much. Any questions?


J

P-belt Factor

A bjj black belt that I've rolled with a few times over this past Year of My Indolence decided that I should be a purple belt, and yesterday made it so. It came, as it were, out of the blue. I suck much worse now than I did a year ago. But the vestiges are there, and I could get it back in a few weeks of intensive mat time. It had never occurred to me, this possibility. Bjj has not been at the forefront of my mind, for all that I miss it and actually yearn for chances to roll. That I haven't been rolling made the idea of promotion absolutely unthinkable -- not that promotion was anything I've lusted after. Just never occurred to me, that anyone would seriously think I should actually be a purple belt.

When I was a white belt, after about a year and a half, it became clear to me that I was ready for promotion. This, from me -- not really one to push himself forward. But despite a certain silliness I play at here, I do have a sensible idea of my abilities. The awareness came as a comfort on the mat, a familiarity with the basic movements. I could think, whereas before I could not think. It took another five months for me to be promoted -- R is/was slow about these things -- but I was fine with that. When there were promotions, I always expected it to be me. Because I was obviously ready. Took five months more though.

Well. First, don't argue. We are in the hands of those who have power or authority over us. In the martial traditions, this is indicated by belts. Sometimes a guy with a higher belt is not so skilled -- well, these things happen. We remain courteous. It doesn't happen often. There is in the back of my mind the idea that now I'm one of those guys -- not as skilled as his belt suggests. But it's not my call, is it. Last time it was five months too late. This time it is, I think, a bit early. But it's not my call. And it would be profoundly disrespectful to turn it down. We do not insult those who act sincerely toward us. We say thank you, and mean it, and feel moved.

And I may very well be wrong, for all that I think I can judge my skill level. Wrong, because there is a shift in attitude. I used to be worried about rolling with higher belts. Oh, they're so much better than me. Now I don't really even think about it. They have more skill? Fine. Beat me. But maybe I'll beat you. A different attitude, more open, more mature. It's a higher-belt attitude. I like that. So I suppose I am, wrong. Interesting. Which brings me to the point.

What is the p-belt factor? A joke, of course. But I do take these things seriously. I feel that I have to be worthy of my blessings. That's a high standard to live up to, for any of us, because we are greatly blessed. Here, specifically, when this promotion happened, I immediately became aware of a great need to get better at bjj, get serious. Because I don't want to feel ashamed. I play, as I say, but I am not a poser. It's never about appearance. It's always about performance. This is important to me. It's part of being honest. P-belt factor doesn't exist, but if it did, it would be a demand for excellence.

Last night I washed my new belt, to get the stiffness out of it. Then I went to the store and bought purple dye. I still have my old white belt, you see. My first belt. When I was promoted to blue belt, I dyed that old belt blue. Last night I took it and dyed it purple. You see the pattern. If I last that long, I'm taking it with me to black. Although I make no representation that I'll get there. I'm serious, about it not being a matter of belts at all -- I like the sport, and I like the skill.

One of my quirks is that I don't feel comfortable teaching something unless I've mastered it. Part of teaching involves not giving the student too much information. So the level of mastery is relative -- I need to be the master of everything the student can learn, not of everything that exists on the subject. That's why, eventually, as a blue belt, I was comfortable teaching the new white belts. I didn't teach them anything wrong, and what I told them was right, and had a clarity of expression that isn't so very common. I was a very good teacher. It's all rusty now though.

You see? We have to meet our responsibilities. I'd tell you more, only you're not ready for it.

Oh, Magoo, you've done it again.


J

Valentine

Yeah, so I rolled a bit tonight. What a workout. Really shows how soft I am on myself, with my other workouts. Cuz when you roll you can't just rest when you want to. With a workout, even timed, you can. And I wasn't rolling with weaklings. And I am, as we all agreed, rusty. So it's mostly strength, with me. Not my favorite game, but one does what one must to survive.

One of the fellas I rolled with, C, hadn't been aware of the circumstances of my departure from where I used to roll. When he was told I'd been "disinvited," he was bothered. Well, he is a gentleman. I said something along the lines that my personality hadn't been appreciated, and dismissed it as old news. No need to rehash the ugly, the stupid details. I do have some emotion about it -- I suppose I always will, diminishing into my dotage, when even as I forget my own name all such petty memories will come flooding back like torrential river ice. Some emotion, I say, since there was no opportunity for closure.

I'm not however about spreading poison. R and K are, as these things are counted, good guys. I can leave it alone. Publicly, at least. Privately, as here, I may be a bit more open. But I've said my piece -- I'd have liked things to have been handled in a more straightforward manner. Other than that, it's their business, and they can conduct it as they see fit.

On the way home I got to thinking though. C had supposed I'd just left, to train somewhere else or something. Fair enough. It's sort of true. But I was thinking. I wouldn't have done that. I wouldn't have just quit, just disappeared. I would have made my goodbyes. I did, sort of, but it wasn't meant to be permanent. And I would have stopped by once in a very great while, to say hello. Because that's the courteous thing to do. Because I cared about these people, after my silent way. Some of them I loved.

Well, behind all the foolishness that I play at, I do have a fair measure of pride. More than a fair share. And it is displeasing to me that it should be thought that I'd just quit, after three solid -- I might say faithful -- years, without having the common decency of making a meaningful farewell. A petty thing, and nothing I would ever bring up in a casual conversation. But there you go then -- I am allowed to be petty, here.

This coming Monday, it will be exactly four years since I started bjj. Feb 16. Just realized that. Exactly twenty two months after I started, I got my blue belt. Dec 16. Then I rolled as a blue belt for exactly 15 months. I stopped rolling where I'd trained after exactly three years -- end of March -- I don't count the two weeks and the month I took off, once for injuries, once as a planned rest. Almost two months with my son, then an injury, and it's been nine months off.

I'm like that. Tracking dates. My BA after all is history. And even when I'm not consciously aware of it, anniversaries have a way of making themselves felt. I had some tragedies once upon a time, at the end of February. I had a boy once who came to me and departed on the same day, three years apart, at the end of February. Why rehearse such chronologies? Because without order, there is chaos. It's why ritual and tradition is important. Why courtesy and formalities are important.

Ah well. We cannot control the future by organizing the past. I truly have no idea what lies ahead. I like predictability, but I know it's an illusion. Statistics is not a science of details -- individuals don't matter when only averages count. I wish I could consider life an adventure. I think of it as a duty. We find pleasure where we may.

And that's what bjj means to me. The end.


J

some times

This, bumped up from Jan 22 07:

-----

Felt sort of tired, Saturday. Rolled seven times in six days, and not lightly. Kind of creaky when I get started, but I loosen up pretty fast. Of course I ossify instantly when behind touches mat. I'm saying this cuz I don't feel like thinking. It doesn't take any thought at all, to talk about myself. And, frankly, it is my favorite subject. Boundlessly fascinating, as you will agree.

Twice on Friday, and once of Saturday. It really is too much. I might be doing even more though, now that I've finally gone to a morning class. I have reservations about doing new things. I joke about it, but it's not really funny. Kind of pathetic, really. But in the miraculous mosaic that is I, such minor distortions serve as subtle accents of my overall beauty.

Speaking of which -- my beauty, which I really haven't been mentioning anywhere near often enough -- I was considering my fabulous abs? It's really getting out of hand. Off the hook. How is it possible? I don't do crunches. I've never done a crunch in my life, except as part of some class warm up. And I've got muscles that nobody even knows the name of. Gorgeous. Just stunning. Really. I've got that third cut, below the navel. Maybe it's the fourth, if you count the one above, on the ribs. And there are odd little muscles off to the side -- between the obliques, of which I have an absolutely hypnotic array. It's like I'm the human epitome of some Art Deco Adonis, all striations and angled plains. Breath-taking. And then on my belly, below the abs, there are these other muscles. What do they even hook up to? What do they do? I don't know. Nobody does. Physiologists haven't even named them. I am unique. I'm like a piece of art, a masterpiece -- some sort of divine device crafted by God to show humanity what it might have been. Carved from ice and alabaster. I must be what Adam looked like. Well, I'm sure his features were softer, but the fist-like quality of my face has it's own allure. I'm sure his skintone was more middle-brown. That's beautiful too. Nietzsche said, "The belly is the reason man does not mistake himself for a god." Well? Where does that leave me? Sometimes as I'm walking I'll put my palm flat across my abdomen just to feel the rolling -- sinuous beneath my hand like rows of estivating snakes. Sometimes I'll rub my fingers over the cords of sinew lying beneath the leather of my belly, like a master guitarist strumming out a passionate gypsy tune that wails longingly as a lost soul and stirs you with a yearning to live forever.

Sometimes my hands grow heavy and stiff, and drag on the ground behind me, bending my back curved as old mountains. Sometimes I stare through a haze of pain out of a face like a stone mask. Sometimes darkness leaks from my lungs and puddles at my feet and rises like surf into a sinking vessel, and words cannot contain the cold I would feel, if I could feel. Sometimes I fall into the hollowness that displaces my organs and the receding cavern of my skull expands away in every direction so fast that even vacuum hasn't time to fill it.

Sometimes God is so far away he can hardly see me, and I can't see him at all.

I know there are miracles. I know that somewhere in the boundless universe there is a flawless mosaic of unspeakable beauty. I know that somewhere there is a balm that will soothe every ache, and a hand that will wipe away every tear, and that the wretchedness that suffuses some man's heart need not last forever. Somewhere weariness will end in fulfillment, and darkness will represent a time of peace and satisfaction. Someday I will settle into ease and happiness, the way a mountain slides into the sea.

-----

I wonder sometimes if anyone gets it. Not specifically, but the specifics don't matter. If they get the meaning. I've come right out and said it, some number of times, in different ways. The problem is that anyone who gets it, understands that saying they get it is pointless. And that just leaves everyone else and their verbal incomprehension. A sort of double bind, then. Grief is answered only by silence. But it's the silence of companionship. B got it once -- showed that he got it. No, I haven't forgotten.

So I've rolled three times, now, in, what, 9 months? Is it less important to me now? I used it to deal with the absence of my son. Now he is returned from the wars. I used it to have a social connection. That particular connection is severed. And of course I did it because I really did love it. I remember saying that if there were a way, I'd do it for a living. Statements like that are self-revealing, and I said it to someone who never did get the self I was revealing. I do regret trusting, opening up, even a little -- it turns out too often to be a betrayal of myself -- I should have protected myself better. It would surprise me, if I didn't know better by now, how little loyalty I ever buy for myself with my own loyalty. It doesn't seem right. But it's more complicated than that. Everyone thinks they're the wronged party. How do we discern? Formulas don't work where there's free will.

And I was lying about my abs. I mean, I'm practically 50. Who could be that beautiful? It's ridiculous, is all.

Get it?


J

schm

All I need is an hour and a half, and I'm fine. Is that too much to ask? I don't see how it could be, given that this is a sport, a rigorous sport and we'd expect the people who engage in it to actually engage in it. So, today, I'm satisfied. I didn't know that I needed an hour and a half. Never thought to put a number on it. But that's it.

Rolled with brown belt R for an hour. Really satisfying. There is a part of me that wants to be in tough places -- don't actually want to lose, but I'd like to fight my way out of a hard place. How else will I learn? And R is one of the nicest guys I've ever met. Really generous with his time, gracious in victory and in defeat. He has a consistent character. I remember once we were rolling, and someone was joking around about him, with moderate insults -- guy stuff. And something was said, don't even remember what, so that I had to pipe up, all bundled up from underneath R. "Hey," I said, "I have never seen ego out of R. He is one of the very few people that I have a real respect for." Sort of revealing, and way too friendly to come from me. More schmoozy than anything I'd ever think to say. But I didn't think. I had to say it, because it was true. So we rolled hard tonight, for an hour.

And earlier I rolled with D, a tough strong white belt. For a half hour or so. He wastes a lot of energy in superfluous motion, but he has a lot of energy, so there you go. I finally figured out that I have to make rules for myself, with him. No closed guard. No holding the back. These are my comfort places. My next rule, at least some of the time, is going to be no playing from my back -- my real comfort zone. It's how I used to fight with my older brothers, in the '60s. I must be built that way. But it's not about making it easy. I'm not there to win.

I can't roll hard with the little guys. Not with most of them anyway. There's J, who should be a purple belt -- he makes me work. Natural athlete, and just fast. And N, who's just at the place where he's going to get me. Really coming together. Better technique than me, but I am what I am, and I use it when I need it. When he finds his aggression he'll get me. But not if I find mine first.

So I am content. It's like I figured something out. I won't always get what I need, or at least want, but it's a goal, and that's the foundation of success. My energy is changing. It's my hope that some of my weirdness has run its course. It's like with rolling. When I started, I really sucked, in terms of learning and moving. Then I figured out that the part of my brain that was in charge of complex motor learning was retarded, after 28 years of doing nothing. When I figured that out, I knew it was just a matter of time, and my brain would develop into a sort of normality. So I felt no need for impatience or frustration. I'm good like that. I can handle the inevitable.

Well? Same thing now, I figure. For whatever reason I've been shut down and immobilized, there was a reason. It's far more complex than I understand, but I don't have to understand. I'm along for the ride, and maybe heading for another direction. We'll see. Part of it is reflected in this blog. I'm not planning on closing it down. I expect, and frankly hope, that I will be writing less, here. It is not a productive use of my energies, speaking from a personal level.

My several steady readers, and those who occasionally drop by, will not be desolated by my change of interests, if it turns out that way. Hardly anyone has been with me from the beginning, so will have nothing to complain about until all the archives have been explored. If anyone has been through the entire magnum opus, well, first, thank you for your interest. I have striven to be worthy of your attention. I have brought my integrity and whatever talent I possess to these efforts, and I hope that I have brought amusement and something to think about, if briefly. And, as I say, I'm not done here. I just hope to be busy with other things. No one would begrudge me that.

I hope that I've shown something of the love I hold in my heart. I know that I've exposed some of the pain. It's more than I have dared to do, with the people in my life. Maybe that will change too. But not yet. Softly. Softly. It is, after all, safe to care about safe things. I'm safe, for you. You're safe for me. This isn't enough, but it's part of enough. And thank you for that, then, too.

Did you read it? My thing on Hitchens and Christmas? Did you see how it ended? "I never ever say it. But I will say it, this once. Merry Christmas. Easter is more powerful, but we shouldn't neglect beginnings. So, then, happy, happy, happy Christmas. May your light shine always, with an eightfold brightness. May it push back the darkness that no candlelight can pierce." That's why I will continue with this blog. Because sometimes, once in a while, something beautiful shows up, as a gift from God to me and to you. It's no small thing, to be a blessing, however small. The blessing to me is that I can share it with you. As I say, I am content.


J

Cheap

I was just going to ignore it, but what’s my blog for, if not to vent? I did embarrass myself today, with a petty bit of badinage between myself and another fella. I’m just out of practice with that high school stuff, and my judgment is off. No need for the details. Really puerile. I don’t feel bad about my silly random outbursts -- that’s just meaningless foolishness, especially when I’m running on days and days of just three hours of sleep nightly. But when I engage with someone, I’d like it to be meaningful.

As I say, I wouldn't soil these solemn pages with such trivialities, except that I've managed to find an insight, that makes this worthwhile. I noticed a pattern in myself. When I think someone has crossed a line, I immediately get nasty. I go for the throat, as it were. Not necessarily as someone else would see it, although I’d expect so. As I see it. There are things that are off limits. He wouldn't even be aware of how he crossed the line. His rudeness would have been generic. It's immaterial. That's the risk of being self-absorbed. When someone does transgress such a limit, under such adolescent circumstances, I sort of throw out the rules. I still have a semblance of self-control, but the cascade of inappropriate retorts pours through my mind, and it’s a little ugly.

Everyone has their go-to defense/attacks. I’m so smart. I’m so successful. I get a lot of women. My penis is so big, and yours is small. It’s all so predictable. Tiresome. As soon as I said "inches" I knew what might come -- I just didn't quite believe it would. For my part, I like my insults to be true. I don’t know how large someone’s penis is. I don’t see the relevance. One of the ways I embarrassed myself was to play into it, though. I wish I’d just kept my mouth shut. But I was in my high school place. What a nightmare. That’s what I mean when I say I’m out of practice. If I’d taken a moment, I would have been an adult. But I do have an ego. It knocks 95 points off my IQ, and I become technically retarded.

Ah well. Somebody there reads this blog. I've been hearing the term p-hole thrown about. A lot. God. I hope the idiots got the context right. I expect not. I don't advertise this little effort, because I don't want to have to provide exegesis. I am an artist, idiots. Work with me. But somebody does read it. So let me exploit the opportunity in a way that my reserve would generally forbid, in person. I apparently offended the dude by calling him a pussy. I didn't call him a pussy. If I had, I'd have looked at him and said, You are a pussy. I'm sure I must have used the term, probably about a group he was standing in. All loitering, not rolling. They come to gossip, apparently. He took it personally? That's on him. I was being a fool. Only fools take fools seriously. Haven't we been through this? Was it the "If we don't, what're you going to do about it?" "I guess I'll have to start calling people out -- unless they're pussies"? Again, that would be on him.

No, I do not think he's a pussy. I think he has courage. He's a smaller guy who has resolved not to let the world push him around. That's honorable, and I respect that in him. I do think he's shamefully rude, and extraordinarily vulgar, and immature, and both arrogant and insecure. He's the only one of the lot who has a real reason not to roll with me, though. I'd like to roll with him, but the size difference is just ridiculous -- not weight -- he rolls with heavier guys than me -- but length. I'd like to roll with him because I'd learn a lot from it. He'd beat me, and I expect I'd beat him too. That's fine. No ego from me about that. But he has a good excuse, and there's no shame on him for it. Maturity level, a problem. Courage, admirable. Not a pussy. A bitch. Got that? Report it to him correctly. You didn't get it right for K. Asshole.

The good news is that I rolled with a fella three times, and he choked me out twice. Yes, that’s good. I’m not being retarded. It’s good because I’m trying something new, that’s not working, and he’s passing my guard and choking me, but I’m trying something new. That’s good. I do have an ego, as already discussed, but my rolling ego is totally adult, and when it wakes up I just get competitive. That’s good. I’m very pleased. My ego may make me not try that chancy move, at least not every time, but my character will make sure I do it as much as I dare. So I can still respect myself.

With rolling, there shouldn’t be any hurt feelings. Some guys roll with emotion. One in particular, I’m thinking of. Can you guess who? He’ll outgrow it. You win, you lose. Part of the game. But with conversation, it shouldn’t be about competing. There are still rules, though. There are things you don’t do, don’t say. As with rolling, it shouldn’t be about emotion. When it gets to that place, well, a line has been crossed. I think of it as cheating. If I were to roll with a dirty fighter, I might get really mean. Same deal with talking. But it makes me feel cheap.

I roll more than I talk nowadays, so I’m better at it. There's an insight in there somewhere. Wish I could see it. Maybe I'm still retarded.


J

Bondage

I return to the power of my grip, and how hard it is for me to let go of what I’ve taken hold of ... taken captive.

I have nothing but respect for my black belt. He is a remarkably modest man, and displays a consistently humble character. If I were a younger man, he would be an example and a mentor. Any young man would be a fool, who doesn’t take him as a powerful example of how a man should conduct himself. I don’t think much of his business sense, but that’s not a character issue.

Business, as I see it, is about a quality product at a reasonable price. Profit comes from marketing. People gotta hear about it. So another fella and myself are doing a little something to get the word out. It is a sort of altruism, but it’s a kind of friendship too. We would be a blessing.

Three fellas got new belts tonight. One blue and two purples. One of them had a purple belt from another school, but out of respect he didn't wear it with us. Good man. Must have been hard -- he's never struck me as wanting to hide his light under a basket. Another still has a serious injury, but it's getting better apace and he's doing light training. That's good too. I'm surprised at how pleased I am when there's an advancement. But symbols matter.

I was thinking maybe I could train with my son at my school in the mornings -- in pure BJJ -- and afternoons wherever he needs for a fuller spectrum of skills. That gets around the lack of black belt supervision, since our black belt does the morning class, MWF. I don’t mind shifting around my schedule. We’ll see. The concern would be the lack of serious competition, since there are only a handful of fellas who do the mornings, and there's only one regular who dominates. That's what I've meant by bad business. It isn't his morning classes that support the school. Ah well, it's not my problem. And maybe working on pure technique for a while would be a good thing for my son. Maybe our competitiveness would be addressed elsewhere, in the afternoons.

As for the rest of what my son is interested in, that means that I too am likely to be picking up some MMA skills. I really have no desire to hit anyone, or to be hit. Or kicked, for crying in the soup. You know, hard, by big strong aggressive men -- the sort of guy who’s interested enough in MMA to learn it. That’s not really me. I don’t feel the need to be dangerous. That’s what guns are for.

There’s a fella, early 30s, who’s planning on competing MMA. So I heard tonight. Interesting. Seems he’s setting about getting some striking skills, muay thai, whatever else he thinks he’ll need. Giving it a few years. Just recently took gold at a bjj competition. I suppose he’s pretty much like me. When I set some training goal, I turn into a machine. It’s all charted out, and I actually follow it. And this fella plays his hand close to his vest. Me too. You wouldn’t know that about me from this blabby blog of mine -- but this is the only place I’m blabby. You’d never know I cared about any of these guys, from the way I act. Affection is something to be ashamed of. Shame is something to keep secret. Grip.

Tonight I did something I very rarely do. I offered unsolicited personal advice. A young father is getting divorced. I haven’t pried into the details. But he has two beautiful little children, and so it’s a shame. I blurted out that he should buy his spouse some flowers. Change the dynamic. Maybe. At the very least, maybe some flowers might keep his clothes from being cut up with scissors. Isn’t it funny -- if we always treated them the way we did when we were courting them, there’d never be divorces. That's why we're the man. We have to do what's right.

I noticed I was actually stuttering tonight. Words come so haltingly. A glass of wine would help. I don't drink, and never will. It's not a virtue anymore. Now it's a bondage of its own.

I've been profoundly depressed all night. All week. Haven't been able to sleep, at all. A few hours, total, for several nights. I fall asleep, deeply tired, then pop awake and stay awake most of the night. The sun is up now. It comes and it goes, by the month, this depression. I'm so tired. No pattern that I can find, and no precipitating cause. In bed I find, as I try to sleep, that all my muscles are tense. I hold my breath. Something's wrong, again. I knew a woman once who was afraid of going mad. I smiled at the thought. I'm not afraid. I just didn't think it was possible.

As for us, you and me, when your love for me flickers and dies, and you have turned your eyes toward some other light, know that I will always love you.

It's hard to be this way. I am not an example for young men to follow. But it's the only way I know to be, and I wouldn't change it. I've had the chance to do the easy, wrong, weak and cowardly thing, and I did not take it. My anger has never changed into regret.


J

Touching Bases

But that's not really what I meant to say. Sometimes I have to go with an image. Speaking as the artist, I'm disappointed. Not that it isn't evocative. It's just that it's nothing new. Sometimes the voice is the story -- in any case I've said as much with it as I expect I can. That's what I mean. Disappointing. If it had been the first such effort, I'd be pleased. But that was months ago. If he does not grow, he withers.

What I meant to say is that I'm feeling much much better. I feel like I've taken a month off from rolling. The ache is gone, and the knees are good. I think I'll be fasting once a week from now on. Not a calorie thing. Just a chance for the body to handle the inflammation that's associated with the ache. Maybe it's a cause and effect thing. I don't know. Haven't seen any data on it. Of course we don't draw general conclusions from isolated instances. But I'm not writing a dissertation on the subject, so I'm allowed to generalize. (Did I ever tell you I wrote someone's masters dissertation for them? I've decided that this means I have a masters in sociology. Took me eight hours, start to finish. I'm brilliant.)

I was talking with a really heavy fella today, and suggested that he try a short fast. No, I didn't bring it up. He did. I'm not Mr Answerman. Anymore. My reasoning was that it might help him get a handle on his appetites. You recall what I mean. I am the master, it is the servant. I ride this horse, it doesn't ride me. For him it wouldn't be about the 2400 calories that he'd burn without replacement. It would be about shrinking the stomach, and dealing with the cravings. Guilt is earned just the same way self-esteem is -- by our conduct. I think a single day fast is too brief for the starvation reflex to kick in, where calories are hoarded because the body expects a famine. But even if that's the case, the psych benefits of an actual fast, rather than a stupid diet, could offset that negative.

So from feeling like the mummy of Amon Ra last week, I'm feeling good. I'm gonna take Thursday off too, and do another little fast. Roll Friday, off Saturday, compete Sunday. Came in at 179 today, which is goal weight. So things are moving along splendidly. Expect I'll weigh in on Saturday. It's a fairly long drive to do that, but I'd rather not have any pressure at all on that account, Sunday. What do you think? Sounds fine?

I was told that one can compete in both divisions, thirties, and also twenties. Masters and Adults. Cool. I wondered if I could also compete in the forties division. That way I'll get at least three matches. I don't know that I have any business expecting to win. But I'm there for the experience. I've become quite overbearing since I won those two gold medals at that world championship a while back. Maybe you heard about it? I'm all over the internet. People drop by just to see me. So I tell myself. Why else? It's the only thing that makes sense. But no gi is a different game, and these are younger guys. The fellows I competed with were all old. My age, but old. I'm a phenomenon. How many times do I have to repeat that, before you get it? It's getting tiresome. You make me sound immodest. I'm very modest. Both overbearing and modest. I am vast. I contain multitudes.

So what do you think? Sounds groovy? Don't think I haven't noticed how I have to carry the conversation. A little feedback would be nice. I do have good listening skills, you know. I'm a trained communicator. You never tell me anything. It's a little unfair. But if I can serve to brighten your humdrum day, that's fine. I'm a giver. Brilliant, overbearing, modest and a giver.

Insecure? Why would you say that? People like to try to hurt me, but I didn't expect it from you. I think maybe we'd better give this relationship a little breathing room. Maybe you'll appreciate how special I really am, if you didn't always have me around to meet your every need. Yeah. A little space. For things to cool down. Like your temper. How'd you like that? Not so much, eh? Well then, choose your words carefully. I'm not made of stone. I just look that way.

Oh. Young D got my back tonight, and locked in a nasty rear naked choke. Hooks and all. Arched back. No gi. Nasty. Excuses? I don't make excuse. He did what he did, and that's that. It was only ego that kept me from tapping. Good ego, not stupid ego. You can get it, but you have to take it. I'm not going to just give it. Three or four more seconds and he would have done it. But I figured he'd tire, and he did. I don't mind at all. He never wants to roll with me. Maybe now he will. I'll start from turtle with him. Challenge my game. Give him an incentive. This is just between you and me, but he has a fragile ego. Likes lots of reassurance. Likes to roll with the new guys if you get my meaning. I don't challenge that. Wouldn't do any good. Just creates bad feeling. Model behaviour, don't preach it. After you win respect, it only takes a word, and you get heard. If hearing is possible. So I don't mind young D making me work. Maybe something will grow, other than ego.

How about you? Anything on your mind? I'm here for you, dude. Haven't you noticed? I'm amazing. And a phenomenon.



J

My Saturday Evening

I would have gotten back to you sooner, but I was pretty tired, and busy Sunday. Which was, by the way, April Fools Day, and I didn't want you to disbelieve anything I might write. As if I'd do such a thing. That's just crazy. Anyway. My BJJ competition was Saturday, my particular division scheduled for 7:30 p.m. I got there at 1:30, to give moral support to a young fella I train with. I'm not all that demonstrative, so I don't know how much support I conveyed. But for me, the mere gesture is enough. On the drive there I found myself in the same mindset I used to have when I was driving out to all those bootcamps and whatnot. Gotta get there. Can’t let him down. He didn’t even expect me. But we define ourselves by our expectations confirmed by our actions. I’m the man who has to do his duty.

Hung around and watched the competitors for a while after my guy finished. I’ve decided that sports-watching is a skill, that I don’t have. I’m really not all that interested in watching, even given my interest in the sport itself. I’ll watch gymnastics once in a very great while, but that’s more of an exhibition than a sport -- it’s a programmed performance. Like dancing. As for direct competitions, aside from prodigious individual feats and displays of technique, it’s only interesting when you care who wins.

It’s a forty minute drive, but I drove home. Just a way to kill time. Something to do. Being busy, to keep the mind calm. Yes, I was anxious. Not worried, just an overly active mind. I’m sure my meaning is clear. Spent an hour and a half at home. Dried my gi. The washer didn’t spin for some reason the night before, and so the jacket was sopping when I put it in the drier in the morning. Still damp when I left. I could have found a laundromat down in C, but any excuse to get home, eh? A way to soothe my mind.

And what to eat? Well, with me, nothing. My smoothy, all day. I knew a wrestler who said he’d get the trots before competing. I monitored myself for that sort of thing. Anyone who’s bothered to read this far into my boring survey of the day will be acquainted with my ideas about digestion and its intimate connection with emotions. As I’ve said, the gut uses more neurotransmitters than the brain. Water isn’t absorbed until it gets to the colon -- last three feet. Makes sense, since if it was absorbed sooner on the way, solid waste would be reeeeaaaallly solid. Tee hee. Point being, any disturbance in the system, as of nerves, and water may not be absorbed at all. Hence, the trots. I’m pleased to find that I seem not to be subject to that inconvenience. Perhaps I lack imagination? That’s what my imaginary friend says. Tee hee.

Got back to the venue at 6:30. All set. A couple of fella came to cheer me on. That was thoughtful of them. I never expect that sort of thing. I’m used to being alone. Not nervous at all. Some agitation, and it took me a while to find the word for it. Antsy. Looking to get started.

And I was trying to find a mental attitude to approach the whole affair with. I think it would be useful to develop an aggressive and ferocious persona. I just don’t know if I want to do it. In ritual magic there’s the idea of the magical personality. No, I don’t do ritual magic. It’s just the manipulation of mental and emotional energy by way of deliberately constructed and imbued symbols. True, entities may sometimes involve themselves, and that is the general conceit. But that would be very rare, and unnecessary from the point of view of the entities. Unless they’re just bored. Candles and swords and pentagrams and incantations. Nonsense in themselves. But that’s how the mind functions, and the idea of an artificially constructed attitude, that one dons only for specific and solemn occasions, is intriguing and useful.

The application is wide. Warriors -- berserkers and bloodlust have been very real phenomena in ages past. Priests -- those who approached the Lord with an attitude of insufficient reverence were struck down dead. Holiness is a practice of emotion as much as of action. Cultivate a mindset of difference, then. Whatever the vocabulary -- self-talk, auto-suggestion or -hypnosis, game face, ritual, focusing -- there is a necessary function that excellence acknowledges and mediocrity ignores.

I, alas, tend to settle on the guise of hey I’m a nice guy, and we’re just here to compete, not to fight. True, that is nice, but it doesn’t really embody the entire philosophy of competition. No, it isn’t victory at any cost. That’s just stupid. But we have not trained so hard, punished ourselves so long, denied ourselves so much ease and comfort and driven ourselves instead to exhaustion, that we might walk away from the prize, for all that it may be only a wreath of laurel, that fades. For all that we wish to please our own self-esteem, the high opinion of men does have some lure -- let’s be honest. Ambition is a good thing.

Upshot is, I won my division -- oldguy bluebelt light-heavyweight. And I won the open division too. Double gold. Sounds impressive, right? Won all six matches. Two by submission, three on points (me: lots; them: zero), and one by advantage. Four of the matches were work. Two were a walk. But I played my game pretty well. No regrets. No one over age fifty. Some of them looked over fifty, though. Some gray, some balding, some fat. That’s a little embarrassing. But they were my peers. I’m just in really good shape.

Here’s the problem. I’m getting ambitious. I’m looking at the World Championship in August, and I’m saying to myself, I’d like to do that! It’s just crazy. I’d be facing guys 30 years younger than me. That matters. Someone my height and weight, and faster and stronger and in better shape, and without all the aches and baggage. You know -- younger. You know what? I think I’m going to do it.

I’ve been training steadily for two years, for no real reason. No goal. Just something to do. A way to connect with my son. A way to expend emotional energy physically. An excuse to be around people. But no focus. I’m okay with that. But I know how I am. Once I set a goal, I work really hard toward it. So I don’t know that I will set this goal -- not the goal to win, that’s just crazy, but to do, literally, my best. That’s an awfully high standard, you know, my best. I’m not doing it now.

I’d have to start running again, and swimming. I’d have to gain eight or nine pounds of muscle. I’d have to get committed to real flexibility. I’d have to bring my brain into working on technique. I’d have to roll with much bigger and better and stronger guys, and with smaller faster guys. I’ve got five months to do it -- enough time to train for a marathon. It’s the week of my 48th birthday. A present to myself, then. Well, for my 50th I’m planning on running an ultra marathon -- 100 miles. It’ll take a year to train for that. So the next few years are all planned out. Or not.

I’d have to develop the mind of a warrior. I’d have to find my dark place, and take from it enough strength and resolve to do all this. I can do that. But I think I’ll need a better reason than just ambition. Excellence for its own sake is a fine thing, although perhaps not entirely practical. Practicality should have its own standard of excellence. And somewhere in there is the idea of expectations, confirmed by actions.

That's it then. My Saturday evening. Usually I spend them wracked with self-loathing, trying to scrub away my filthiness as I sob in the shower after having eaten a gallon of rocky road ice cream while masturbating to the very most perverted and degrading of images. Good times. That seems like a lot to give up, just for some cruddy wreath of laurels and the possible approbation of strangers and perhaps some raised self-esteem. Maybe I'll have to rethink this whole "excellence" thing. I'll get back to you on that.


Jack H,
Brazilian Jiu Jitsu Bi-Continental Champion,
Double Gold Medalist, 2007

The Courage Game

TR is another one of my heroes. By force of will he created out of the sickly body of a boy, a strong and vigorous and courageous man. How fine and admirable. How noble. He had been gifted with a brilliant intellect -- he read, and remembered, one to three books each night -- but his character was his own workmanship. I love him.

"It is not the critic who counts, not the man who points out how the strong man stumbled, or where the doer of deeds could have done better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena; whose face is marred by the dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs and comes short again and again; who knows the great enthusiasms, the great devotions and spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best, knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who, at worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly; so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who know neither victory or defeat."

Yes, he was a romantic. How beautiful, to have such a man for president. It is because there is a place for such men in the world that it is worth living in.

All men might have courage. But only those who have been tested actually do have it. In finding it, we become masters of our souls, and we come to understand that the only voice that matters is the one whose counsel has been tested by fire. As Andrew Jackson said, "One man with courage makes a majority."

You know that homily of Charles M. Province. It goes something like this: It is the soldier, not the reporter, who gave us freedom of the press. It is not the poet who gave us freedom of speech -- not the priest who gave freedom of religion -- not the lawyer who gave the right to a fair trial. It is the soldier, who salutes the flag, who serves under the flag, whose coffin is draped by the flag, who allows the protester to burn the flag.

The standard is high. Risk of life. Loss of your job, loss of your standing, loss of your freedom -- risking these takes courage. But we wouldn't have these things, were it not for those who stand in the narrow place and make it unpassable. The armor of the hero covers only his front, because the enemy will not see his back.

Roosevelt played a game with his children -- I'm forgetting what he called it ... I call it the courage game: pick a landmark in the distance, and go in a straight line until you reach it. No going around obstacles. Through, over, under -- but no around. That's what courage is. It turns walls into doors. Which must hurt. But sometimes a wall needs to have a door.

A metaphor, of course.

This is what it's like. Under extreme sustained stress, the human male is effectively castrated. Say, for example, under prisoner of war conditions, or threat of torture, testosterone levels fall to virtual zero, and remain there.

I'm not one to speak of courage, anymore. I will not be going into details, save to say that I have risked job and property and status and freedom, and life. It's quite an interesting story. But it's private. I have learned to armor my back.

Today I was thinking about how children get ruined. Something gets broken inside of them, and they are never really whole again. Maybe the break is small or unimportant. Maybe it's catastrophic. But gluing a cup together again is never a really satisfactory fix. Even at its best, where there are no leaks, the cracks show.

I'll be competing this Saturday, in one of my sport's three biggest competitions in the world. That's just nerves. No big deal. Nothing important at stake. But it's the first real competition I'll be involved in, and I'm a careful guy. So I'm fighting in my own age category. The oldest -- 46 and over. Some of the fellas seemed a little surprised that I should do this. They suppose I should fight younger, given my level of apparent fitness. There might have been a little bit of teasing, at my expense. But I'm fighting above my weight category -- I'm a middle weight rolling as a light heavy weight. Alas, that buys no love for The Jackhammer. Consider this, though: if I beat up on the youngsters, they'd call me The Abortionist. Not a mat name I crave.

My reasoning is that doing this competition is to sound the situation out. I've never even watched a competition, let along been in one. I expect these fighters to be tough and skilled. I'm only tough when I'm desperate. I'm not in phenomenal shape -- just lean and strong. I expect my young companions look at me and see more than is really there. I know that when I roll with strangers, it's always tough. So I'm testing the waters. In August there's another big competition. Depending on how I do this time, I might fight younger there.

I do want a challenge. I don't want to just dominate -- beat up on a bunch of flabby old men. As if flabby old men would consider fighting in a world-class competition. Hmm. Yes, it is true, I do want to dominate, but I want a challenge too. I expect I'll get one. Maybe I'm wrong though. Maybe I don't realize how crapulent and debauched my cohort is. My highschool didn't have a reunion -- if I'd gone and seen a Roman Senate full of bald and corpulent apoplectic dotards, I might have insisted on fighting younger guys. Am I wrong to judge my generation by my own standards? How decrepit am I supposed to be? But beer bellies are a choice. I can't be wrong in this. It is clear however that my youthful peers seem to think I don't fit neatly into the late-forties niche. We shall see.

But here's the secret behind everything I've been saying: I'm broken. I'm ruined. I'm out of courage, and my emotional testosterone is at zero. Doing jiu jitsu has been a way of shoring up my soul, maybe binding it together, maybe mending together the shards. This is a next step. It's no small thing for me to do. A medium-sized step. A movement away from being just a sloppy poet, back to being a warrior. A turning from the rout to face again the enemy, and in so doing reclaim a small piece of freedom for my soul.

A metaphor of course, but thought itself is just a sort of symbolism.

I was given a good body, and I have used it well. I was given intelligence, and I have used that well. But something has always been broken inside me, and I'm trying to heal it in the only way that I have faith might work. Let's call it the courage game. A making of doors where there have always been walls. Because it takes courage to escape from concentration camps. It takes courage to recognize that the torturer is ... well, nowadays it's me. And sometimes heroic things have to be done not because of the presence of testosterone, but because of its absence.

Act as if you have faith, and it will be given to you. Act as if you have courage, and you will have it. Believe that there are heroes, and become one. Maybe it's a way of loving yourself. Or should I be courageous, and say it honestly: Maybe it's a way of loving myself. There must be a way to do that. There must be a way to repair what has been ruined. There must be a way to heal the harm insanity has done. So I tell myself. I tell myself the world is worth living in.


J

Love

It’s not that I’m not what I appear to be. It’s that I’m more than I show.

I was talking with my son tonight, and I was saying that love is almost arbitrary. Anyone will do. Almost anyone. A good wife is a good wife. We hope we choose wisely, and we love her. If somebody else had caught our heart, we would love somebody else. There may be soulmates, but not all love needs to be that. It’s arbitrary.

If my son had been a daughter, born on a different date to a different mother, I would have loved her as I love him. This is not wrong. It is no slight to those we actually love. We expand the circle of our hearts and with its loop we draw to ourselves those who happen to enter in. Fate is just what happens.

So tonight I rolled with my son, at the place that he rolls. It’s the first time in over a year that I’ve missed one of my own classes. Felt very weird. I’m pleased to say that I believe I presented a normal impression. I’m pleased to say that I am able even to give thought about the impression I make. I assure you this is a newish phenomenon. Maybe I’m evolving. Soon I might even be human. That Darwin was a genius.

He’ll be off in two days, my boy. Away again to Sumer and Nineveh. Down into Babylon. Into the House of War. So I wanted to roll with him. See him interact with his peers. Give him a chance to see me playing another role. It was good.

And I wanted to roll with new people. I’ll be competing in a couple of weeks, and it’s part of the preparation. It always reminds me of how average I am. Everyone is much tougher than you’d expect. Even the beginners earn respect, in their striving. And you know what respect is. It’s a kind of love.

I got there early. Introduced myself to the bossman. “Howdy. I’m Jack. My son suggested I give you a visit. I’m not very good at this social stuff.” What, you think that’s a weird thing to say? Well, you think a lot of what I say is a joke. I hardly joke at all. I make the truth sound like a joke.

I once sat in a stairwell in a state of absolute dread and distress, waiting to have a conference with a professor. Nothing big, just to discuss some project. That was an eye-opener. How did I get so messed up? Why the anxiety? It was many years ago, and I knew it was tied up with the ancient past of my Babylonian childhood.

My point? It must have something to do with love, right? And something to do with my son? And the fellas I roll with?

Next fall my son should be out of the military. He’s planning on training where he trains. Do you see? What do you suppose I will do? Where to you suppose I will train? My son comes first. Everything else ties for last place. As it were. I love the guys I roll with. I really do. They don’t know it. That would be awkward. I do have some sense of that social stuff. But my son has been gone for five years, and I don’t know that I will ever again be able to trick some woman into loving me. I can expect no more sons. So the one who remains to me – I want to spend some time with him. Why do you think I started to roll in the first place? I was planning ahead.

I do not want to lose what I have. These guys are dear to me, for all that our interactions are generally superficial. That our acquaintance was arbitrary is irrelevant. It’s real to me now. And that some other group will crowd into my foolish heart will not fill the loss I expect, of those whom I know now. Love, as I say, is arbitrary. But so is life. Arbitrary things can be important.

My son asked me, “So, do you like this place more than where you go?” “That’s not the sort of question I answer.” “Why not?” “Loyalty is important to me. It’s like asking which of your kids you love most.” “Me.” “True.” And we laughed. But I’ve lost sons, and I’ve gained them. Not in that order. Now, because I am socially awkward, I expect next fall to lose that set of friends I roll with. Maybe not, but I’m the guy who sits in stairwells. That I might gain another set hardly seems a compensation. It must be, though. I love the sons I no longer have, and I love the son I have.

It’s not that I’m not what I appear to be. It’s that I’m more than I show. Who would know that I have a tender and a broken heart? Who would want to know? Why would I want anyone to know? The answer of course is that love unexpressed is pointless. Light should shine from a high place.

That’s all. I have no solution. I do not dare be a saint. It’s enough that I can walk up stairs. But somebody does love me. I had to manufacture him though, from scratch. It was a pleasure. And it wasn’t arbitrary at all. I had a plan.


J

So why

am I depressed? I've pretty much finished a project, doing one of the things that I do really well, and the next phase requires that I do things that I do very badly, or not at all. So I suppose I'll putter indefinitely, and then just fade away. Failure is its own kind of security.

More immediately, I didn't get enough exercise tonight. I rolled, but it didn't take enough out of me. I needed a lot more. Not enough big guys for me, and I really don't feel right about imposing myself on the lighter fellas. That's only part of it though. There were two higher belts there, and I just kept my mouth shut. That's very depressing. No thanks, I don't expect that I need advice. One purple belt, A -- I've never rolled with him. Only comes in the morning. This was my chance. Will I get another? Would I use it? It's Sunday all over again. I'm so sick of myself I can hardly stand it.

I'd like my son to roll with some of the fellas -- he's way out of practice. And I am, after all, a proud father, who wants his, uh, his, um, his friends to meet his son and roll with him. But I just can't see my way clear to paying a frankly too-high mat fee. I can roll with my boy at the Y -- there's a mat there. So that's a bit of an annoyance. Am I wrong? Probably. Matters of principle are almost always just matters of emotion. But in purely practical terms, price should match objective value, and the objective value here is not commensurate with price. Or is that just rationalizing?

There's more I could say on the matter, but I don't say everything that I think. Surprised?

And I'm lonely. I have no intimates. Not a complaint. It's on me. I'm ever so careful to keep it superficial. And I've learned to be fairly comfortable in the presence of others. Byproduct of all that rolling I do. I'm still guarded, but that falls within the parameters for normative social conduct. But there's no quality to it. And I am, for all my independence, increasingly aware of the meaninglessness of a hermit mentality. God has worshippers enough, that he doesn't need Adam in his solitude. There must be some payoff in all this, though, that makes it worthwhile. The value must be worth the price.

Okay, maybe I could use some advice. I could use something. That is, I suppose I could use it -- unless I had to ask for it, in which case I would just sit like a moron and keep my mouth shut. Like a beaten dog.


J

My Sunday Morning

I'd only slept a few hours Friturday, so it wasn't hard getting to sleep early Satunday night. Popped awake at 3 a.m. though, and brooded for a few hours. Set out about 10 a.m., down the long freeway to the sea. Got lost. How is that possible? I was so careful to write the directions down. I looked it up on the world wide web for mercy's sake. But the addresses were going in the wrong direction, so I turned around, and went in the wrong direction too. It seems that cities restart their block-numbering from zero. Who knew? Just another public information service that you'll find only here at the fabulous Forgotten Prophets™ Website and Travel Guide ("Meeting all your bigoted, philosophical and interurban needs since the-last-two-weeks-of 2005!")

But it only took me 15 minutes to notice and correct the confusion in someone's mind, and I was hardly late at all, by my reckoning.

Well, it was much bigger than what I'm used to. And there actually were a couple of fellas that I know. I don't like them, mind you. I won't roll with them. But at least I knew them. And amazingly, I was hardly stiff or sore at all. In fact I wasn't stiff or sore at all. I must be getting younger.

I know, you're panting and gasping with poorly-contained excitement. How did I do? Well, I only rolled with three people. A seven year old girl, a paraplegic, and yo mama. Zing! No, I kid. Really, I'm just kidding. It was yo grandmama. Zing!

The first fella was tough. Just strong. Shawn. Sean? I won on points, as I reckon it. Passed his guard a couple times. Got side-control a couple times. Took his back twice, maybe a sweep. But I was not in control. Tough. And I gassed out. Maybe 10 minutes. Very disappointing. And he could just as easily have gotten me. Lesson? Well, there are several. Don't roll with guys who are 20 years younger than me? No, that's not the lesson. Don't roll with guys who are 30 pounds heavier than me? No, that's not it. (But notice how I've made excuses without seeming to? Oh, I'm a sly one.) The lesson is, get stronger, and faster, and be more flexible and have more endurance. But that's obvious. Be more aggressive. But that's obvious too. Take more chances. Obvious. Don't rely so much on strength. Learn a few more finishing techniques from the back. Don't just give up good positions. Ob ob obvious.

The second fella was older -- not my age, but older. Some gray. Patrick. We just went at it slow. A sweep, a mount, the back, a choke and done. But not exactly, cuz he got my arm from the back and put up a very solid threat. Was I careless? Unmindful, rather -- I forgot something that I know. Lesson? One mistake can make you lose. Obvious.

The third guy was a young strong phenomenally fit MMA fighter. Jesse. He'll be fighting professionally at the Forum on the 17th. Ten-year wrestler. Striker. But only doing BJJ since October. No gi. So I swept him a couple of times, and he escaped a couple of times. He had the most ferocious bridge I have ever seen or heard about. There's explosive, and then there's explosive. He'd been rolling a lot, so he must have been tired.

The most important thing is that I won, twice on points and once on submission. That's all I care about. That's the lesson. Obvious.

I kid. If there was a lesson, it's that new things aren't really bad. Stress isn't really bad. But don't lessons have to be new? Don't you have to learn something, from a lesson? I really did know all that already. Is there anything I don't know? I guess there is no lesson. Just reinforcement. Excellence takes time, and we have to be patient with ourselves. Our expectations should be reasonable. We're allowed to fail, and sometimes even success is a disappointment.

Yes, I am disappointed. What did I expect? Nothing unreasonable, to be sure. I was disappointed that I just gassed out. I was disappointed that I was careless -- forget that "unmindful" crap. Most, I'm disappointed that I didn't go up to more fellas and ask to roll. Why did I drive 70 miles round trip, if not to roll? Did I go to be shy? Did I go to just do the same thing I always do? But I faked it pretty well. We can call that practice. It's a technique. I just need to practice it more. Hi, I'm Jack. You still playing? Then let's git it on! Oh, I mean that in a totally heterosexual way. Did I make you uncomfortable? Dude, I'm like totally into those chicks, with their hot, um, bosoms. Just like you, right?

I should do this every week. I really need to roll with that Shaeawn. But I don't want to drive.

Then I left and went to the Y and ran, and maintained my one-armed chinup. And I did some deep squats. Not heavy partials. Deep, with only 100 pounds. My reasoning is that it'll be good for my old cracking knees. My reasoning is that it will help with shoots and takedowns. As a runner I didn't need to be strong down so low. But this isn't running.

And there was a woman at the Y who had a six year old boy who just took the money out of her purse and played with it, and she laughed and talked and had no problem with that. Then he was having his picture taken for the i.d. and she didn't like his smile and manually adjusted his face trying to change his expression while she never ever stopped talking and complaining and scolding and complaining and nagging. And remembering my office as prophet, I parted the obdurate veils of time and looked ten years into the future, and what I saw would have broken my heart, were it not broken already. And I was right at the counter for some reason -- maybe I was chatting up the hot chick there, hoping later to have sexual intercourse with her. Maybe I was pleading and begging to be allowed in even though I stopped paying for membership last summer, and am notorious for stealing towels and peeing down the stairwells and in the drinking fountains. Maybe I was wearing my cloak of invisibility, looking for injustices to right. In any event I was there, and I spoke directly to the boy, instead of to the yammering woman, and I told him he had a very handsome smile. And I said his photo was a good one -- he looked serious and strong. And I wanted to give him a big hug, but that wouldn't have been appropriate. And I wanted to instruct this incompetent mother in what is important, like taking money out of a purse, and what is not important, like the type of smile her poor little son has for a photo. But that would have been inappropriate.

Then I came home. I don't actually know what I've been doing for the past four hours. But these sorts of details bore me. And I only talk about fascinating things, here at the fabulous Forgotten Prophets™ Website and Obsessive Attention to the Minutiae of My Unhealthy Self-Involvement.


J

Lockdown

I'm thinking of entering a big famous competition at the end of March. In fact I've pretty much decided. Feeling strong, my game is coming together, I'm relaxed. Bully for me. Problem is I always roll with the same guys. Not a good gauge of my true ability. So when there was some talk today about informal training on Sundays in T, that got me thinking that I should expose myself to it -- new people, new styles, new challenges. Of course I'd get my ass kicked. But that's not a bad thing.

It's a new place though. That makes me uncomfortable. And new people. That's a risk. And a long drive. Hassle. I wouldn't know anybody. Anxiety. I'd have to introduce myself, and pretend to be normal. Stress. Hi, I'm Jack. Glad to meet you. Put 'er there, pal. I'm normal. My, you have pretty eyes. Did you ever eat a spider? I have to nurture my SAD, you know. No, not Standard American Diet. No, not Seasonal Affective Disorder. Not Sexual Arousal Disorder. Sheesh. Not Singles Awareness Day. Not Substance Abuse Diagnosis. Not Smokers Against Discrimination. Not Systems Analysis & Design. Not Senility, Alzheimer's and Dementia. Social Anxiety Disorder. Couldn't you figure that out on your own? I literally had to spell it out for you. Pitiful. Never mind that I don't actually have it. I wish I had it. It would be an excuse. It wouldn't be my fault, all this maladjustment of mine. It would be a disease. Who could blame me for having a disease? That would be cruel.

I can just see myself, looking up the directions. Getting into my vehicle and driving on the freeway. Signs and offramps, into T. Streets and addresses. Doorways and rooms. But here's the thing. I used to make that trip every week. Every Sunday. To T. To a facility. SV. Lockdown facility, with a psych ward. The Puff Unit. We'd play cards in a grim gray room with plastic chairs and folding tables and a thin carpet over a cement floor -- I'd pretend to care when I lost, to make them laugh. Or another place, where we'd meet in the cafeteria and talk for a few hours and then I'd make the drive back through the desert and over the mountains -- a few more hours. Or another place, where we'd talk in a large multipurpose room lined with cells -- lockable and with door-windows, through which I caught an unwanted half-second glimpse of a boy masturbating. Well. It really couldn't be unexpected. Or helped. Nobody came to visit him.

It's just a name, T. Just a place. Big town. But I'm not thinking too deeply about it, because it could make me weep. Such is the power of memory. A sort of homeopathic network, where essences become more potent, the more attenuated the connection. And everything touches everything else, and everything rings with sympathetic vibrations, and the shatter point is always on the verge of breaking through.

My father used to leave notes for me. Clean up this fucking room or get out of my house. That sort of thing. I read them with no feeling whatsoever. But six years later someone left me a not-at-all-unpleasant note, and I almost collapsed with rage. One day I came to my father's house from school and found all of my things thrown out onto the front yard. No feeling whatsoever. I packed and left and didn't see him again until after I was married. Must have been about six years later. I guess a clean room was really important to him.

When I would find that I'd have to go to some new place, for J, my only concern was for him. I didn't mind the drive, or the stress or any of that. I didn't mind the security checks or the examination of ID. I'd wear my competent-adult mask and it fit perfectly.

Well. Thanks for listening. It helped. I think I'll go to T. And I'm sorry about saying you were pitiful. That was uncalled for.


J