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Sweet.

Back to training.

Last night I was assisting Sensei with a couple classes when he asked, facetiously, for a volunteer. Of course, I volunteer – since I was there to assist, it’s apparent that he’d be use me as Uke (the person who is providing an attack or energy for the other person, the Tori, to practice a technique upon) – and he went off on a small aside about the benefits of being Uke for the instructor, of how you learn more as Uke than anyone else, how Uke is actually teaching the person the other person, other such points related to the benefits of not just performing a technique, but being on the receiving end as well.

This segued into a short conversation about how I was volunteering my time, and how it’s beneficial for me to see, as a – hopefully – future instructor the evolution of classes over a single topic, as well as various on-the-fly modifications and variations have cropped up due to working with different individuals.

Hold on, did he say “hopefully”? Damn, I think he did. He hopes I do follow through to become an instructor of this art? Or was it that he knows I’m hoping to pass my instructor’s certification? Either way, frickin’ sweet. That’s pretty the extent of a compliment you’ll get out of Sensei. He probably doesn’t even remember saying it, as it was so incidental to the topic.

But I’ll remember.

Now I just have to keep training balls-out for the next few weeks.

Instructor’s certification testing ends in mid-Feb this month.

Halloween evening a few of us were training in the park – one of my traditional activities, although I usually work more on the meditation and visualization side of things. We were working with the bo, well after dark, when someone suddenly hefted a bo as if to throw it like a javelin. There was a furry little bunny rabbit that’d ventured out onto the grass about twenty feet away.

I chuckle.

“I think I’d probably get it.” He sets down the bo.

I push some ego buttons. “I don’t know, those little fuckers are pretty quick.”

He considers, perhaps testing himself, then heaves the stick forward, hitting right where the critter was nibbling grass before it scattered, scared as shit. When he retrieves his bo, there’s a chunk of fur on it.

“At least you know you could survive on wabbit stew if you needed to.”

“Yeah, but now I feel bad. Karma’s definitely going to bust me for that one.”

“Fuck. I goaded you into it. Now I feel bad too.”

“Yeah, it really is your fault. I’ll tell Karma when I see her.”

Thanks.

I’ve been dubbed “The Ninja” by more than a few girlfriends. I’ve never asked for the moniker, but I understand where it comes from. It’s because martial arts are central to my life, because I train intensely, because Ninjitsu/Ninjutsu still carries and aura of mystique, and it is, compared to other things, relatively rarely studied.

I imagine anyone who’s enthralled by some “sexy” activity or job, be it formula car racing, rock climbing, firefighting, or something else, will experience some involuntary reduction of name to nickname – all you have to do is check various blogs on the ‘net: you’ll see more than a few entries that start with “So last night I went out with The Cowboy / Climber / Ninja / Whatever….” There’s also the physical aspect – all the above also generally imply an association with some moderately good physique (mine is decent, but I’m certainly no model), but I believe the biggest pull is is that the concept of “ninja” is ensconced in supernatural mythos, and one of the few that is so intimately associated with life or death scenarios.

Of course, I study Taoist internal arts as well, but that doesn’t have near the same effect. I’ve never had the nickname “Lo Han” (thank god) or “Jet Li.”

I don’t typically get into conversation about the arts I study unless you ask me and seem genuinely interested. (Even then I can be hesitant – the question you ask are so much larger than you think, and I may not even be qualified to answer them yet.) However, the subject invariable comes up when she asks why you’re so frequently unavailable at the same day and time, week after week. After the disclosure, “The Ninja” usually pops up sometime early in the relationship, and she’s usually doesn’t even use it in my presence. I’ll typically hear, upon meeting one of her friends, “So you’re The Ninja.” And the cat being out of the bag and all, “The Ninja” spreads as a nickname amongst her friends, in my presence and out of. It’s always accompanied with a sly smile and youthful exuberance.

Being early in the relationship, everything is new and exciting: the sex is novel, the old old stories are new again, and you discover whole new worlds of passions and cute idiosyncrasies. “The Ninja” is just another one of the latter, for her.

But after the novelty fades, martial arts are still there. I never studied them to pique anyone’s curiosity, they’re a part of me, or at least have been since I was 16 or so. This is when being “The Ninja” loses it’s attractiveness. She’ll begin to realize that if I’m ever to reach the heights of mastery, or perhaps even just competence, it’ll take even more training than what I do now. The dedication she once admired from afar now translates into years filled with me arriving home late, exhausted and hungry, after training for hours directly after work. She’ll notice we don’t get to cuddle every morning, as I’ve got to get up and do my morning Taiji and Chi Gong. She’ll wonder why she’s not invited when I just “sit” in the park and meditate.

She’ll get annoyed that I always take the seat in a restaurant facing the doors and windows, and that I’ll shuffle the condiments, flower vases, and silverware to the inside of the table. When she asks for a glass of water at night, she’ll appreciate that I don’t turn on the light but she’ll be annoyed that it takes so long since I’ve take an extra lap around the apartment testing my night walking. She’ll wonder about my commitment to her when I’m forced to choose between going on a martial arts retreat in the woods going to her mother’s place for brunch. She’ll be doubting my commitment to the art when I back down from the loudmouth at the bar, because she doesn’t understand the Life-Giving Sword. She’ll find it childish and silly that half the time you walk on her right, where it’s more comfortable for her, and half the time on the left, when you tell her it’s so you’re on the street-side of the sidewalk.

Suddenly dating The Ninja doesn’t seem so neat anymore. There’s all these … things … I do, and they don’t seem to make that much sense, or seem overly paranoid or without purpose, and, all in all, are organized in order to minimize the chance that I’ll actually have to get into a physical confrontation. You know, so I won’t have to “use” my martial arts, or at least in the sense most people conceive of martial arts being used.

I don’t mind the nickname – I actually find it kind of ironic, as some city-slicker kid studying martial arts part-time is about as far from true Ninjutsu as you can get – so I have no issue with it. And there’s a ton of benefits she’ll realize from as a result of her training – among other things, I’ll usually know exactly where she’s misplaced her keys or purse, I keep in pretty good shape, I have a reasonably good handle on reading her non-verbal communication, she knows she can trust my word and my discipline to act on it, I don’t lose my head when we fight, she feels safer around town, and a good sense of awareness and certain breathing exercises translate directly into better … other activities.

But she never has any idea what she’s getting into.

Just like me, when I started training in martial arts fourteen years ago.

It’s late Thursday night, after 11, and I’ve just driven a half-hour South after training for three hours. I haven’t had a bite to eat in since lunch so I stop by my local pub for a beer, food, and a chance to scribble down some notes from class. As I finish, a girl bounces up the the bar beside me to grab another round of drinks.

“Paris! Hey, how’ve you been? I haven’t seen you quite a while!”

We do the obligatory small-talk catch-up and invites me over to her table where she and her friend are sitting. There’s an extremely drunk and annoying guy hitting on her friend – we’ll call her Reeses for the shirt she’s wearing – and he’s pressing into her space and just generally giving people the jibblies.

Paris whispers in my ear, “She choked him out earlier. With a rear-naked choke, he was completely out. In the bar.”

“Wow, it looks like it kinda’ turned him on, ‘cause he’s coming back for more.”

I think no more of Annoying Guy, as he appears relatively harmless and apparently Reeses take care of herself. Paris and I resume our conversation. When Reeses excuses herself to powder her nose, Annoying Guy locks on to a new target: Paris. Now, keep in mind that Paris is married to a Navy SEAL (inactive). She’s obviously not interested, but Annoying Guy is so spun he doesn’t realize it. We spend fifteen minutes playing “give Annoy Guy hints as to what Paris’ name is because he can’t remember it.” Shares her name with a famous dilettante? Is a major city in France? Starts with “Pa”? What does he come up with? “Pasquale.” (I give him points for coming up with the last name of a French tennis player.)

Regardless, he’s edging in on her, she’s exuding “back off” body language, and even goes as far as say “come any closer and I’ll punch you in the face” while cocking her fist back. He’s still not dangerous, but he’s definitely a little creepy. I say at my end of the table, within arms reach, but I don’t think he’ll do anything. He’s just drunk and horny.

I see Reeses returning from the bathroom – both she and Paris are a little tipsy at this point, but not too bad – and I point at Annoying Guy, make the universal “he’s cut off” hand gesture, and cross my arms like they’re in a rear naked choke. I’m trying to indicate that she should do something like tell him she’ll choke him out again if he doesn’t bail. Of course if Annoying Guy steps too far, I’ll act, but I don’t think it’ll be necessary. This is totally resolvable with a few words from the girls, I don’t need to swing my dick around and act like a big man.

Reeses walks up behind me and slides her arms around me in a loose rear naked choke. I tap her arm, and point Annoying Guy again. “No, not me, him.”

I feel her clutch her arms in tighter.

I tap her again, “No, not me, him. I’m friends with Paris.”

Tighter.

I tap her again. “I get it, you proved your point.”

Tighter.

I know at this point I’ve got about two second before I lose consciousness. I also know that I don’t know who this girl is, even if she’s friends with my friend, and I don’t know what her objective is. Even if she’s playing around, I don’t know if she’s sober enough to hold me if I let put me to sleep – what if I collapse and bash my head on the ground?

It happens really fast. One elbow to her sternum, shift right, rotate into her to give myself a gap, suck, tuck, and duck, rotating around and down, she’s still hanging on trying to get the choke back – no games here – and she hits the ground hard on her back. I’ve got my right knee on her stomach, my left elbow pinning her brachial on the ground and the edge of my left hand digging into her neck. My right hand half-way to a throat strike when something else triggers: nothing more is necessary. She’s not looking toward me, but she has confusion in her eyes. She more shocked and scared than violent.

I freeze. The bouncers are pull me off without a a struggle and drag her out. She’s kicked out; I can sit and finish my beer.

Paris doesn’t know what happened, no-one really does, so I give the girl time to cool down outside before I see if she’s open to a little chat. As soon as I get the news that she’s outside and feels bad about the whole thing, I approach (cautiously) and we have our chat. Short story is that she was joking around, she didn’t feel me tap, and she tends to take things too far when she’s been drinking. I let her know I’m not pissed at her, but since I don’t know her from Joe, so I’m not very going to let myself be choked out. (And I notice she’s already got a decent bruise developing on her arm.)

I smooth things over with the bouncers, and catch a third-party interpretation of events from a friend of mine who happened to see the whole thing.

Lessons? There’s a ton, both mistakes and of correct action, but I’m not going to list them all. I will list some, though:

• My art works. Even from a well-applied rear naked choke that’s already under the chin.
• It happens incredibly fast.
• I didn’t have to think about what I was doing, I was thinking about what was appropriate. The physical actions came without thought, the mind was what reigned me in at the proper time. My friend said he saw the moment when I was in motion to strike her on the ground, then something clicked, and I didn’t follow it. My life was no longer in danger. I just kept her pinned.
• She disclosed she trains under Chuck Liddell – so my assumption that I don’t know her background or intent is both correct and valuable.
• She’s choked out upward of ten different guys (not friends, but people she’s just met) in bars over the years, and including the ones that fought back, no one’s ever gotten out before. Why did I get out? Probably not because I’m better than the rest, but because when the switch is flipped, there’s no half-assing it. The other guys probably didn’t want to make a scene, or thought it wouldn’t be acceptable to fight a girl. Fuck that, I don’t need to know she’s an MMA fighter to engage – just the chance that she may be, and that my life may be in danger – is enough. Surprise and violence of action.
• It was ego that got me into trouble in the first place – she was cute, so I thought (or hoped) that her arms coming around me from behind constitued a hug, not a choke, even though I knew she’d choked someout out earlier. Mistake.

So, who’s taken a chick to down and to the ground in a bar?

I have. Never thought I’d say that.

Oh, I almost forgot the best line of the evening, said to me by a guy that saw it all go down: “Dude, you’ve got to stop wearing that Tag body spray.”

In the martial arts world, we have meditations on all sorts of things, but some of the more common mediations, or at least well known, are on elements: generally either the five rings (earth, water, fire, wind, void) or the five elements (earth, metal, water, wood, fire) of Chinese cosmology. Some people get pretty ting-ting about “meditating on water” or they go the other way and see no spiritual nor practical application. William Saletan gives a pretty good example of how these meditation can be seen as frameworks for understanding the modern world.

On a side note, which is only tangentially related on the Taoist front, is a link that summarizes a lot of my thought on the direction I’m heading. So far, I’ve sold the stereo, given away or sold books and tons of CDs, some furniture, and more. I’m looking forward to the sale of the house and moving into something that will most likely be pretty shabby.

I cannot lose what I do not have. For I have already given it up, else I never had it in the first place.

I’m about 100 hours and 9 day deep in a 12 day workweek. My boss is on vacation, my boss’s boss is gone, and I’ve got three “Priority 1” clients. The sales engineers have all incredibly disappeared. I don’t even know if I have the time to solve the outstanding issues for even one of the clients. I don’t have the tools I need nor the time to configure them if I did. I’m reverse engineering kernel-level behavior on a proprietary black box. I’ve had no direction, no disclosure of policies, no knowledge of timelines and business plans and product lines. No indications of power imbalances, policy spins, or expectation management. I have no idea what’s been promised, aside what from comes out of the clients’ mouths – which, in the business world, is naturally suspect. I rise, go to work, return home, eat, and sleep. I haven’t even had the time to train. Things are not going well.

I noticed the low-grade frustration building on Sunday, but I kept turning the world upside down: this is on opportunity to stand and lead. Push through, quietly succeed. But I could feel the frustration boiling to halfway through today – I haven’t been meditating; I haven’t been keeping myself under control. I haven’t been breathing. I know I have to get of work before someone trips one of my wires; before I counter this imbalance; before I let myself get out of control. I left promptly after my daily status report hit the Exchange server at 7pm.

I speed south down I-15, industrial music coursing through my veins, driving too fast, too loose, too dangerous, walking a fine line in order to fan the flames, anticipating the workout to come. How far until I push too far? When do I move from dangerous to self-destruction? How do I tell the difference?

I needed to harness this. I arrived at the park fanning the flames, embracing the adrenaline and anger, reflecting on fire, desperate to take the distress to a lesson. Fire is brilliant and contagious, actively seeking out things to consume, even to it’s own peril – as opposed to water, which quietly acquiesces to it’s environment, taking whatever shape is available. I wanted to explode, to nurture this feeling, to kindle the blaze; I wanted to exhaust the fire, to use it, to not let it exhaust me. This, I decided, would be my lesson.

I bowed to my teacher for the day – the simple presence of the park – and leapt right our of seiza into … something. I don’t know what it was – not a particular dance or scheme, not some pre-arranged sequence of movements, but this attitude, this mindset. Something of a cross between a tiger and a tengu, for those that know me. Dances came and went, in evolutions and permutations, schemes and modifications and variations. I found myself quite loud and snarling, spit flying, full of guttural emanations, striking harder than I’ve ever imagined. This was not “do what I have to do to survive” mode, it was far beyond. My survival was not in question – the nature of the enemies demise, however, was the only thing that could be unanticipated. I shudder to think what would have happened if someone had challenged me during this time. I was not right in the head.

I was unadulterated rage.

In my mind I was destroying enemies without hesitation in ways that were … mean. There’s no other way to put it. I was vicious, violent, unnecessarily cruel. And I was looking forward to it – and it was coming without effort or arrangement – a natural progression, if you will. This was not “let’s see if my art works,” this was a visceral understanding that it does, and that I wanted to inflict monumental pain; I wanted to destroy the soul, not just the body. I was sadistic. And I wanted that. I wanted the next guy to attack; I wanted to ignite more fuel, I was compelled to destroy. I’d recognize of piece of a dance or a scheme, here or there, but it wasn’t pre-meditated – my body was manifesting some form of interpretation of my mind – and the mind was bloody murder, nothing else. In retrospect, the ferocity astounded me.

I don’t know how long I went, but it was dark when I finally sat back in seiza. The lesson began to form: Turn it off, turn it off. Meditate on water. Then back up, rage, back down. Turn it on, turn it off Up, rage, down. Control. You are in control. Up, rage, down. Instant on, instant off. Is there any left? Any ember of fuel? That pit of heat in my belly? Yes – back up – consume, destroy – exhaust this fire, use it! – back down. Control, take it back down.

It wasn’t until I finally exorcised those demons that I realized my body was shaking — no, more of a violent pulsing – something far beyond physical exhaustion. This wasn’t my just muscular chemicals – I’m quite familiar with that – this was like my soul vibrating. It was electrified, pushed toward action and powered by something far beyond animal instinct. This was rage defined by intent, powered by … well, something else. That revelation is for me, and I couldn’t be audacious enough to try to put it into words. I can say, however … I scared myself a bit tonight. A lot, to be truthful. There’s a dormant dark side of myself that’s more capable and more vicious – and most importantly, more ravenous – than I would have guessed.

I have a long way to go.

But It was one of the best lessons to date. At least now I’m familiar with the territory. And I’ve got some experience with letting the tiger out, and of caging it again.

Letting it out? Easy. Reigning it in?

That’s part of what scares me.