Broken Friend

I noticed a small tear in my favorite broadsword. I guess it's time to retire it. Very sad.

Really, very sad - that sword has a lot of sentimental value to me, and it was a really good one, too. :(

It was light enough not to tire my arms. The point of balance was near to the grip, making a light sword feel like it weighed even less. And yet, the distribution of metal was just so, such that the far end of the blade wasn't too 'flippy' the way that wushu swords often are. It was reasonably static, the way you'd expect a much heavier blade to be. One complaint about wushu practice weapons is that they're so light that they're like tinfoil; you make noise just waving them around. Not this one; this one stayed quiet, but voiced a strong snap when your technique was proper. A perfect weapon to practice with; honest, balanced, and with a grip so perfect, it gave the weapon a very good sense of control. I didn't need to wrap the handle with tape or grip, file it down, or modify it in any way; the bare wood grip was quite sufficient. Three good qualities in a practice sword - you're generally lucky to even find one that has two of these at once.

Like most wushu practice blades, it was made of spring steel. (Literally, the same grade of steel that springs are made of. It's resilient, light, and can be plated with rust-proof chrome in order to eliminate the usual care that real swords require, but these same qualities make them relatively unsuitable for use as real weapons) When these blades wear out, they bend, warp or tear; they don't tend to actually break along the blade. If they do snap, it's always at the base of the blade where it joins the tang, because these swords are fairly cheap, usually stamped out of stock metal, not hand-ground or forged. These cost $25 to $35; they're not hundred-dollar wallhangers or even serviceable weapons in the traditional sense. So it's not like I'm losing a family heirloom or anything. These swords tend not to be made that well or with an eye to particular care. They're functional, cheap, and rather easy to replace.

But I've had it for seven years. That's a long time; they often don't last quite this long. More than that, it's the one I've had most of my years practicing; it's seen most of my days, I've learned almost all that I know of sword-work with it, and have carried it at almost all of my tournaments. And though the tear in the blade is not visually catastrophic, it certainly numbers its days. I would only be able to use it a few more times before the tear widens dangerously. Better to leave it on the wall and try to find a new one.

I know it must seem silly to get all sentimental about an old $25 practice blade, but one of my fellow martial artists understood completely. He likened it to the time that his favorite fighting stick finally snapped after years of use. He couldn't just toss it out with the garbage - it had seen him through as much of his training as my broadsword had seen me through mine. "I know exactly how you feel. It's a friend - you don't throw it away." That old fighting stick is taped together and hangs along his wall, beside his more serviceable weapons.

He's entirely right. It's a friend. They're not the Shards of Narsil or anything - no one's going to fix it for me, even if it was feasible to do so, but I can't bring myself to throw it away.

I've cobbled together a replacement, combining a spare sword blade with a halfway decent grip that fits it, and I'll need to find a few flags to tape to the handle, as is the general practice in wushu. The balance is decent, the handle needs some wrap - but it's rather heavy. It's also pretty flippy at the tip.

It's not the same at all, but I'll just have to get used to it.

Dude, use your head!

Dolphins aside, human beings are the creatures on this planet with the greatest capacity for intellectual thought. Just how much credit do we give ourselves for this? Probably a bit too much. After all, people do relentlessly stupid things all the time. It's part of the human condition. The blessings of intelligence and brilliance are no proof against folly; even such gifted people commit idiotic acts with frightening regularity. Such things are the stuff of casebooks; you know someone's case is in trouble when the Supreme Court quotes the Plaintiff's own psych evaluation: "Moron, low grade." (Galloway v. United States)

And yet, clearly extraordinary things are possible. How else to explain lightning calculations, idiot savants, Mozart, Einstein, Hawking or Hugo? Even without resorting to tales of the paranormal, the clod of gray matter that sits in the skull is capable of contributing to truly marvelous things.

But of the billions of minds on the planet, how many venture into territory such as that? It's been estimated that, on average, only about 10% of a person's brain ever really gets used. Maybe the human brain evolved to be so relatively huge so that some of it would be utilized, even if only by accident.

Of course, we don't all end up using the same 10%. Some of us are better at some things than others; it's no call to be elitist, really; we're all dullards in at least one way. We have to make allowances for each other. But how much is too much?

The question smells elitist; it's an admission of inequality in a world where we pretend to be equal. The same truth which can set you free, can also be used to oppress. Yet, it's certainly possible to set the bar too low; there are some instances where even a little thought wouldn't be too much to ask.

For instance, this question was posed on the California Driver's Exam: "Four cars arrive at a four-way stop, at the same time. Who has the right of way? A) The car driving North B) The car driving East C) the one on the right D) no one."

The answer was C). Clearly, the message here is not to think; the letter of the law is always right, no matter how inappropriate, absurd, or inapplicable in the given situation. I was incensed.

To paraphrase the words of one Supreme Court Justice (though out of context): it is difficult to imagine a system more likely to inspire cynicism and contempt.

Dry Tears

I cried, but didn't today. There's a political cartoon out there, with a happy little dog behind the terminal. The text: "On the Internet, nobody knows you're a dog."

On the Internet, you can hide behind emoticons. I smiled today when I wasn't smiling. I laughed without mirth, and felt false joy.

It wasn't dishonest or malicious, either; it was my better self typing away in the window, the one that displays compassion and empathy when my real self feels longing or pain. The ideal person, who has limitless strength, or seeming wisdom. The self that knows better. A much better person than the one who's actually behind the keyboard. The one who can always be there for a friend and never needs anything himself. The one who can't be hurt. Not anymore.

So tempting, to be able to hide behind the distance and the letters of the text. Over the internet, nobody knows when the rear of your throat tightens and prickles and aches like you've just swallowed a quart of vinegar. When your shoulders tense and move forward, and that spot in your sternum feels like it's going to implode. Or when the corners of your eyes pinch, either to hold back tears or to squeeze them out of your lids. Not unless you tell them.

Felt the shiver and the strain, the trembling and the tension, but no tears. And it's just as well.

It's much better to be happy, but this sensation is part of being human. I hope never to forget what this feels like.