Section 1 of 4. Things I think I've learned.

Hands down, sword at rest position in left. Deep breath. Relax, turn slightly right.

Who knew relaxing could be so much work? It is, but it isn't. However hokey and cliche'd the old yin-yang philosophy may seem, it's stayed around because it made sense. There's a lot of ridiculous mysticism that surrounds the martial arts, but this isn't part of it. It isn't Magic. It isn't Truth. It's just the way things are, without a hint of pretentiousness. In wushu, you relax so that you can generate power. It actually helps you move faster, not slower. It may seem counterintuitive at first, not to put every last ounce of strength into a strike or a stance, but there's a point of negative returns; tense muscle fibers create resistance and friction; your sword point, fist, or kick reaches the target faster when you're not fighting yourself. It's not a floppy, weak-limbed motion either, though - ideally, you don't shake at the end from a sudden stop; you know where the move starts, and where it ends. It should slide right into place, a metered motion. I don't know all the details, but part of it is pure efficiency; removing wasted movement. If you tense, and anticipate, your body becomes committed to a particular course of motion. Worse yet, the tension suffusing your body makes your center of gravity rigid and actually roots you to the spot; it's no wonder that motion afterwards becomes less than natural. Tensing up also telegraphs your next move... I think it's one of those things that, in a sparring match, your opponent could probably sense.

Eyes sharp right, as the right hand rises palm up. Snap left, right hand returns, sword presents, but still at left.
Pause, but stay fluid
Right-slap-kick-clear-both-arms-left-foot-back-drop:-cat-stance

Eyes and timing. Two things that really stand out when you're doing wushu. If the eyes are the window to the soul, they're a window into your own fears as well... vulnerability, timidity, strength, or resolve. The first time someone told me that your eyes are as much a weapon as your hands or your blade, I had trouble taking the comment seriously. I think I'm beginning to understand, though. It's kind of like basic street-smarts; thugs and crooks are lazy like most human beings. They prefer easier targets. If you look like you're going to be more trouble than you're worth - if you look like you have an escape route, if you look like you can run fast, if you look like you're not preoccupied, if you don't look like you'd be a deer in the headlights when they try to jump you, they'll wait for a more hapless target. They've got time; they don't have jobs. There's no rush. They're like tells in poker; and when you're doing your forms, there's some of that essence there too. It alters the perception of everything else you do. If you do your forms with unfocused eyes, the judges (and your peers) can tell. If you look at the ceiling all the time, you look like you're always trying to remember what move comes next. Ditto if you gaze at the floor. If there's no ferocity in your gaze, it makes you look like you're moving even slower - like you're not putting any effort into the routine, or worse, like you're half asleep. All the same, you also try not to sneer or look constipated... that's not too attractive either. The ideal is an aggressive, combative gaze that's not too overwrought; the feeling is not so much a frenzied I'm going to kill you!! so much as a forbidding yet calm, I'm going to go straight through you, and then the guy behind you, and then the guy behind him.

The timing's also harder to grasp than I would have guessed. This was true when I started, 10 years ago, and it was still true last year. So many nuances, so many details. When you read the form in a book, you can't see the timing. This is one of the reasons why learning martial arts may always be a tradition of master and student; without someone to watch, to constantly evaluate your improving performance, it's hard to know exactly where to vary the timing. If you do everything at full blast, and at the same speed, tension inevitably builds due to the nonstop exertion and accumulation of fatigue. The pauses give you a moment to refocus, to catch your breath, and to shed the excess tension so that you can maintain a good average speed throughout the form, rather than starting out with power and ending with exhaustion. The balance of relaxation and explosive speed, or exhalation and rest, is one of the things that seems to make for good wushu. Always that balance. That includes treating your body right when you're not practicing... if your body needs nutrition, go out and eat some good food. Make sure you get your vitamins. Get enough sleep. Don't work out to the point of self-destruction; if you need to rest or heal, then take the time out and do it. A day off from practice may feel like a delay; two months out due to an injury is much worse. Macho posturing doesn't pay when your body's health is on the line.

Remember to breathe
*slam* *leap* *land*
clear block, palm strike. Transfer sword to right hand, and flower behind.
Eyes return forward, left hand readies... slow rise, back, and then forward

I'm no expert... three years doing this form, and there are details in the above I learned just last week.
Hm. All of that motion, and only now does the sword make its way to the right hand.

Fastest part of the set. Forward step. Thrust. *Snap*
Turn, coil, swing left, right, coil, left, right, step right, arm-clearing flower, horizontal, reassert center stance, vertical flower, stand up, thrust skyward. *Snap*

Kids have the advantage in this part of the set. Come to think of it, kids have the advantage in all aspects of the sport, except possibly maturity. They have energy to spare, so the niceties of the whip-and-relax balance of motion are sometimes lost on them. They don't feel fatigue the way we do. It's still one of the most visually impressive parts of the set, though - especially to people who don't know wushu. All they see is an explosion of movement. Once, at a demonstration, I went into this part of the set and someone in the front row made some kind of surprised squeaking noise. I nearly lost my concentration at that...

clear stance, transfer sword to rest position, running start, jump-front-kick
retrieve sword, jump-inside-crescent kick
land, sword behind, left arm blocks skyward
stance rises, sword readied along right arm
flower, jump, turn, land, aggressive circle slash left and right, chamber and coil behind right shoulder
straightsword cloud flourish, return forward, slowly clearing block
Thrust forward *Snap* Relax Thrust left, open posture *Snap*

1st section done. Don't forget to breathe.

Hmm. Needs work...

Birthday Solitude

It's really quite easy to be alone in law school, if you want. Particularly if you don't drink and spend lots of time trying to keep up with the reading.

My birthday's this weekend, and although I'm not generally a fan of solitude... for the first time in a long time, I think I'd like to spend this one alone. I need a moment in time to pretend that I'm the only person in the world... or at least, to have a day entirely to myself.

I can't name a single person here at law school. (As in, "single") Every last person I know here is either married, has a fiancee, or a significant other. It's a wonderful thing, of course - but the one thing that's inescapable is that it seems, in every conversation that lasts more than a few minutes, matters concerning said spouse/fiancee/significant inevitably arises in conversation, almost without exception. I'm glad people are happy, I really am. And if they're having problems, I've always been willing to lend an ear.

It grates a little bit, though. I don't think people really understand that. I can tell them, and they can nod their heads and tell me they empathize, but not a single person I know here at the law school has ever quite grasped it.

"Oh, it's good to see how happy you are :) "
internally, demon says: just another reminder of how single >you've< been, eh? heh heh heh

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear you're having problems... do you want to talk about it?"
internally, demon says: oh, listen to them whine... they're just going to tell you how awful and how much trouble it is to have a significant other, oh woe is them...

"You haven't dated in 3 months, and being alone sucks? Yeah, I hear ya..." internally, demon says: oh, f*cking cry me a river and drown in it, will you? 3 months is nothing, try *never*, *forever*. Try being told that you were never good enough for anyone. Can't take a year alone? Try ten. Try more.

But it's the natural topic of conversation. It's so close to everyone's lives. Friends share their joys, their hopes, their dreams, their fears, their disappointments, their triumphs, their confusion... they share these things with me *because* we're friends. If I were a stranger, I would not be privy to these thoughts and musings. If I were a stranger, my reaction wouldn't matter. It is only because I am a friend that there is a wish, or a need, or desire for them to share various aspects of their lives with me. Sometimes they want feedback. Sometimes, they just want someone to listen. But I count it as one of my personal bits of damage that every mention of this particular topic stings me a little bit. Almost every substantive conversation with a friend, therefore, leads to a little prod with the pitchfork. It's not the friend's fault - it's the demon who's doing the digging. (Think I'm oversensitive? Try reopening a wound regularly over the course of 10 years. No one with even half a heart left would have skin thick enough to be pricked so and not bleed.)

I don't want to tell them this. It would drive a wedge into our friendships. It would lead to awkward silences, hesitation, and interest-kill in conversations. If they knew that they were causing me discomfort just by *talking* about it, they would perhaps not talk to me at all. And then I would be truly alone, moreso than now. If my friends had to tiptoe around my feelings every time we talked, we certainly wouldn't talk as much - and my companionship would lose a lot of value, I'm certain of that.

The patience to deal with this is part of the price of friendship. It's a price I pay regularly, the wages and toll of the deeper bonds that reach farther than casual camaraderie. On net, we all come out ahead. It's just that lately... it's come to a head, and I find that, for just this one birthday perhaps, I find myself with this strange feeling...

That which I've never wanted, that which I've hated, that which, for every day in the last ten years or more I've wished away with all my might... is what I want for my birthday.

Just for a day, to be alone.

Small Wishes

I wish a cup of hot chocolate really could cure everything. I wish life were that simple.

I wish that I had more time now, to spend with the people I love most.

I wish that I could have saved myself the experience of grade school.

I wish that I could feel safe again, warm again. To know in my heart of hearts that everything will be all right at the end of the day.

I wish life could be so accomodating, that life could be less cruel, period - for everyone, especially those whose lives put our most horrible nightmares to shame.

But it seems, if you're standing around waiting for life to be nice to you, you're wasting your time. Oh, it happens, for some people - but I don't think you can demand it. Being deserving or undeserving seems to have nothing to do with it. You can take the credit or the blame for a lot of things, but windfall is windfall. You can bemoan bad luck or quietly appreciate good fortune. Maybe someone, somewhere, is listening. And maybe the Universe doesn't have ears.

I wish I could believe otherwise.

"And yer out!"

The Supreme Court recently upheld California's Three-Strikes Law. (3 strikes and you're out - on one's third conviction for a felony and certain classes of 'serious misdemeanors,' there is a mandatory sentence for 25 years to life.) This has gotten most of my law school, including many of the professors, into a (mild) uproar, evinced mostly by indignation, disgust, and a certain amount of good-natured and not-so-good-natured derision of the Supreme Court.

I can't help but think that the reaction is, in some ways, a knee-jerk response. That's not to say that the intuition is incorrect - I tend to agree; the three-strikes-law is a crude and blunt instrument unworthy of the sanction of law. What disturbs me is that here, at one of the nation's top-ten law schools, that the opinions I've heard scarcely scratch the surface of any sort of analysis, impassioned or dispassionate; they're reactionary. And we're the people who're supposed to be thinking about this stuff.

The Three-Strikes Law entered codification here in California shortly after the trial of Richard Allen Davis, a disgusting and entirely morally defunct, beastly predator who had kidnapped and murdered Polly Klaas, whose age hadn't even reached the double digits at the time. Davis not only failed to show any remorse; he smiled and grinned on camera and gave liberal doses of the double-deuce to the television cameras, in full defiance of the stature of the legal system and in unwholesome spite towards the rise of public outrage. Any sentence short of death was probably too good for this animal, and enough of the state apparently agreed, to the point that they voted in the Three-Strikes Law in the heat of righteous passion. If I recall correctly, many people were quoted as suggesting that torture, perhaps, should be made legal again. How frighteningly like the Roman Mob we remain, in our modern and information-driven age.

But with the Supreme Court's ruling, not more than a week ago, all I hear now is outrage, that the Supreme Court would even dare to uphold a statute that is so clearly unconstitutional. The poster children of the inherent injustice of the three-strikes law: Gary Ewing, ill with AIDS, who was sentenced 25 to life for stealing three golf clubs from a country club, petty theft; and Leandro Andrade, sentenced to 50 years for stealing four videotapes.

Outrageous. Grossly Disproportionate. Unconscionable and flagrant disregard for the 8th Amendment's ban against 'cruel and unusual punishment.' Yes, indeed, 25 to life is cruel and unusual punishment for stealing three golf clubs, and 50 years is entirely out of proportion to the value of four stolen videotapes (well, assuming that they're four relatively ordinary videotapes.) These were the cases brought before the Supreme Court; as such, their outcomes have shocked and violated our sense of fair play, and our faith in the sanctity of our Constitutional rights. It's barely short of the ancient practice of punishing theft by amputation of the thief's hands. This is the angle much of the media seems to take on it, anyway.

Yes, this is ridiculous. But before we start grabbing torches and kindling for the great Witch Roast, let's think for a moment about our relationship to our courts, and especially the Supreme Court.

The judicial system is often criticized for yielding verdicts so narrow as to hardly clarify or define the law in any substantive way. Judges are painted as being too timid and too gutless to make wider, more sweeping verdicts based on the 'common sense' of the ordinary citizen, creating a morass of tiny rules circumscribing only tight sets of ridiculously specific fact patterns. In response, scholarship and judicial opinion alike often cite the need for 'Legislative Deference,' reminding anyone who'll listen of the fact that the Legislature makes the law, and the courts only purport to interpret it much of the time; that if the country wants change, it is up to the Vote and up to the State; it is not the purpose of the courts to make our laws, only to generate the common law as necessary to patch the gaps that riddle the words of our codes and statutes.

"Courts work on a 'molecular' scale; vast sweeping declarations of law are not the ambit of the judicial system."

"It is better to let ten guilty men go free than to wrongly convict one innocent man."

Standard maxims in legal scholarship. We prefer to err on the side of caution. The Supreme Court makes what appears to be a sweeping decision, however, and all of a sudden, our criticism of the courts' conservative habits vanishes and we demand the opposite of them. "Topple the Three-Strikes-Law! It's Unconstitutional!" Sure it is, but it's not wholly inconsistent with past rulings the court has made about the sovereignty of the state's ability to define crime. Patterson v. New York and Mullaney v. Wilbur discuss instances where the Supreme Court gives deference to State statutes. The State, after all, has much of the power to decide what constitutes a crime in its jurisdiction and what does not. (Look at Nevada for a moment, if you need an example.) California had decided - no, in a sense, many of us had decided - that the commission of three felonies in any shape, form, or combination was itself a crime punishable by 25 years to life. We made this rule: "3 crimes = a 4th, separate crime." We were within our rights... subject to 'obvious constitutional limitations,' of course. That's what Patterson said, anyway. The Court seems to be saying that there are some mistakes it won't fix for us - namely, those which are our job to fix for ourselves; how dare we impose our views on a Three-Strikes Law upon another state in the nation?

The problem with the Three-Strikes Law is not so much that the Supreme Court was wrong in letting us have our 'way,' even if it was a way chosen in a moment of justifiable outrage. The problem is that situations like the two outlined in the recent decision reveal it for what it is - too blunt an instrument. It lacks surgical precision. You can't use a broadsword to excise cancers and expect not out to cut out innocent flesh. One of the motivations behind the Three-Strikes Law is the fifty-yard rule: to deter illicit behavior by proscribing a circle of 'possibly bad' behavior around it wide enough to keep people from even taking the risk. Looking at it from the Richard Allen Davis view, the Three-Strikes Law is a fifty-yard rule. Looking at it from the Ewing and Andrade view, it's a 50-mile law, inflicting more harm on society than good. (Note, however, that even a 50 mile rule was not enough to keep these dimwits from doing that they did. That's one reason why the law is ineffective in many situations, wide proscriptions notwithstanding.) This is the dividing line that the rule fails to capture; it is a bad law because it punishes in excess, and violates the intuition behind the legal maxims listed above.

There is something behind the Three-Strikes Law that probably has the bearing of a good rule; that repeat offenders are bad human beings who need to be rehabilitated or contained lest they continue to wrongfully and maliciously assail, wound, and victimize the innocent members of society. The Three-Strikes Law was passed in part because the punishments for many felonies simply weren't serious enough; an offender knew what he was in for, knew the price he'd pay, and was apparently okay with it. The same old punishment simply didn't have any bite on a hardened criminal.

Even as relatively law-abiding citizens, most of us are familiar with the concept on a lighter scale and do not object to it; too many speeding tickets, and your license gets revoked. The first ticket is just a slap on the wrist. A second ticket carries a sterner warning, both from the DMV and your insurance company. Keep it up, and the state shakes its head and tells you that you shouldn't be on the road. We don't generally complain about that. We find it fair. It makes sense that a 'repeat offender' may need to be corralled for the moment, that the threat of a more weighty, permanent punishment is necessary to keep people more in line; what else would deter a chronic speeder who has all the money he needs to pay for the speeding tickets? What right does a road maniac have to endanger the rest of us on the highways simply because he's rich enough to pay for the privilege? The idea of ramping up the penalty doesn't seem so unreasonable.

But in many instances of criminal law, this principle is not applied. In Smallwood v. State, the accused was an HIV-positive ex-convict who knew about his status, who knew that AIDS is deadly, and who had been told that it was imperative that, if he were ever to engage in sexual intercourse, that he use a condom lest he infect his partners. This son of a bitch promptly went out and raped three separate women. His evil ass was dragged into court and he was charged with three counts of 2nd degree murder. He was acquitted of all three; the court determined that, not only was he merely motivated by the desire to rape, and not the desire to murder, but that even considering that he knowlingly raped these women knowing that there were a chance that he'd infect them - the likelihood in each case was not enough to uphold a conviction.

In other words, the murder counts were dismissed because, individually and separately, the probability of infection and subsequent death by AIDS was not significant enough.

We argued this one in class; if the chance of infection were 50%, infection was as likely as not. We took it that this meant: a 50% chance would generally not be enough to prove knowledge of murderous consequences beyond a reasonable doubt. I was particularly upset; the fact that he'd done this three times in a row raised the overall probability of infecting at least one of his victims to 87.5%. If it were me, I'd have convicted this guy of one count of 2nd degree murder or attempted murder, and even that's rounding down from the expected number of infections, 1.5. But because the court viewed each crime as separate, and not reflective upon or relevant to each other, it decided that none of these three incidents would amount to a conviction. It is for reasons such as this that I think that crimes should not be viewed in clean, padded rooms wholly separate from one another; they are all a part of the same person, as surely as Mother Teresa's saintliness is greater than any one individual act of kindness she performed in her life.

The Three-Strikes Law is heavy-handed, not even-handed. But the result in Smallwood is no less vile to me.

But how are we ever to come up with a better rule, if all we are ruled by is passion? Passion and thought, in equal parts. Justice must be devoid of neither.

Only Human

You might notice a recurring note in a lot of my entries... "only human." I end up using that as an excuse for a lot of things I see in life... I don't use it as an excuse for myself, because it's a flaccid copout for taking responsibility for one's own actions, motivations, and character. I end up using it for most other things, though, because anyone with a sense of humility knows how hard it is to rise above one's less noble emotions or impulses and put one's foot down in the name of principle. Understanding how difficult it is to reject expedient or short-sighted temptations makes it easier to excuse others for stumbling from time to time.

But there's also a much simpler side to being "only human." Not all of life is so metaphysical. I'm limping back to my room on injured legs, and as I head for the elevator, I see a pink sign taped to the elevator door:

"
Please do not use until
             VOMIT
has been cleaned up.

- maintenance
"

(the sign is repeated verbatim; 'vomit' really was in allcaps.)

Egh. Sometimes, it's gross being organic. I limped up the stairs.

High Impact

Friendships can get stale, especially when you feel taken for granted. Friendship is reciprocal; you understand the other's quirks and faults, and forgive them because it's so nice to feel appreciated, or to serve as a confidante, or just to share your free time in good company.

Friendship isn't selfless, though... I have thoughts on altruism and selflessness, but I'd have to say that friendship, by definition, is not selfless. Love perhaps is, depending on the person. But while friendships may contain many a selfless moment, their foundation is one built upon reciprocation. This does not mean that my conception of friendship is that of a selfish or self-serving relationship. Far from it. Reciprocal does not mean quid pro quo, or tit for tat. I do not keep score.

But a friendship decays when you feel taken for granted, when the other doesn't show understanding, or when there's little no affirmation on the other side that your presence in the other's life has any particular value. I have a lot of patience that way. Friends are still human; they have weak moments, they act thoughtlessly, they lose patience; these aren't really faults. Almost everyone is like that from time to time, and a good friendship is a durable one. Small things are recognized for what they are; individual instances of annoyance don't break a friendship. If they do, it's not a real friendship. Real friendships are not petty; they take a lot of investment, a lot of effort, and generate a lot of payback; small stuff is a drop in the bucket compared to the weight of the history, and if you throw away a valued friendship for petty reasons, you leave yourself the poorer for it.

Build up enough of that, though, and any friendship gets tested. I'm going to intentionally be vague and not discuss examples from my personal life at this point in time.

I can, however, analogize it somewhat to a problem I have with wushu practice . Last night, I went to practice at Hearst Gym in Berkeley - where I had started learning wushu. I've gotten older, it seems - the hardwood floor at Hearst Gym is easily two or three times as hard as almost any floor I've practiced on for a long time. The passage of time has rendered most of my early memories of training pain rather misty and vague, and I sit here typing and wondering whether or not it had always been like this. My left foot is bruised, my right hip is slightly messed up, and I did *nothing* different from what I do when I practice elsewhere. Soreness is one thing, but bruises and jarred joints are another.

I used to practice at Hearst all the time... it's where I started learning wushu in the first place, and I practiced there time and again years in the past. But while I usually complain about the people, today I'm just complaining about the floor. It hurts. Talk about high impact - the floor is ridiculously hard! It's obscene. It's a *bad* place to be doing anything athletic. Basketball, volleyball, martial arts - you name it, this floor is *not* for it; the hardwood is lined with cement harder than granite. Fond memories aside, I can't continue to practice there. I'm almost a decade older than when I started, and the gym is not forgiving. Several times in the past year, I have practiced there only to come away the next day with aching knees and bruised heels, and sometimes pulls and strains in my back or hip, things that do not happen when I practice elsewhere. Each and every time. I'm too old to sustain this kind of damage from a regular practice.

I think it's time to stop practicing there. I've been voicing my doubts to some of my fellow martial artists, but I think this last night decides it for me. My friendship with Hearst Gym has gone stale. Perhaps I will drop by from time to time - there are some things that I like, such as the stretching bars, and forms practice is usually ok. But no more basics and no more jumping... I can't take the pounding, and that means I can't go to practice and try to grit my teeth through the whole thing over and over again.

Demon Spawn

You can try to define true love any way you want, but chances are, the words are going to fall short of the true definition. You could attempt to write a Hugoesque treatise on it and still not manage to quite capture it. You could try to craft a terse, Gumpian morsel made of economized wit and poignancy, but fail to do justice to the flood of emotions love entails. If love were easy to quantify, perhaps people wouldn't need to write about it so much, and yet here it is, being written and spoken and blogged about ad infinitum.

Or perhaps not. How many people try to define it, after all? A lot of people write about it just because it's a big part of their lives. They need to write about it. They want to write about it. It's not about waxing metaphysical, or demonstrating wisdom or experience. It's just... being human, I guess.

It has been an evasive subject for me as well - though I realize that a lot of my entries to date have at least tangentially been on the topic. I skirt around the edges most of the time, quite frankly, because I don't have that much to write about. I can't talk about it as directly as a lot of other people do. My understanding of it arrives only in the smallest of hints. Like an elusive deer, it lopes away from me with ease, betwixt trees in a dark forest full of danger and threat, leaving me naught but scarce tracks to follow. I have doubled back and again on the same trails, often without knowing, led astray by a quest far too wily for me and my loud, clumsy footsteps.

But it doesn't seem fair. I've learned so little, but why should that matter so much? Certainly knowledge and understanding are no prerequisites; attraction asks neither wit nor wisdom. Maybe it's entirely glandular. Maybe there's no intellectual aspect to it at all. Maybe the better analogy is not that of the hunter, but of the hunted, stumbling through the forest thinking I have some idea of what I'm looking for, only to be easily tailed by that blasted cupid, being shot through the heart from behind, his cruel, barbed arrows dripping the venom of spite and the poison of pain, snagging in flesh. Every time, I've had to rip those damned arrows out, leaving torn, jagged, unsightly wounds, gushing blood that feeds the forest floor.

But it's cupid's fault, for being a horrible, sadistic little imp. My image of cupid is that of a bat-winged brat slightly older than the cherub that typically portrays him. His mouth is frozen in a rictus grin, baring yellowed and jagged teeth in a smile remniscent of the schoolyard bully who pulls whiskers off kittens and pours salt on snails. His skin is sallow and stretched taut over wiry muscles and protruding bones, marked by the anomalous and distended belly of starvation and disease. Horrible, tangled scrags of greasy hair bristle from his armpits. He is so foul that flies, attracted to his stink, buzz their last and drop dead upon touching the aura of his malice. He's not an angel, or a Greek child-god... he's a demon. A reject outcast. The Furies' irritating kid brother, who stalks the unaware and shoots them in the back like the cowardly, honorless assassin that he is.

And yet... it's not like that. I have enough friends who are so happy in their relationships... I'd never wish them any less than that. I suppose we truly are in Plato's cave. For them, cupid's shadow plays against the wall and shows them something beautiful, makes them smile and sigh. His shadow is a nightmare for me. I have to change where I am... I have to get out of this part of the cave.

What? Me Bitter?

So technically, it's Valentine's Day now. Never one of my favorites.

I know it's not really meant to be an evil or spiteful holiday, but I hope you'll all excuse me for holding the bitter perspective on it. Besides, I know I'm not alone. Women have expectations, men have obligations, and single people have neither, which is quite possibly worse than bearing either of the two other onerous burdens.

But I will end the tirade there. I have no doubt that the region in which I live is brimming over with people who could wax vitriolic about a holiday that appears, like so many other holidays, to have been usurped by business interests that seek to make a dirty buck off of all of our human hopes and dreams. So if I rant, I'll be adding nothing useful or insightful to the mix - I would just be another voice in a crowd of bitter folk, who will be spending today locked in their rooms trying to pretend this day doesn't exist, or sitting head bowed in the kitchen stuffing down quarts of ice cream, with a CD of sappy music shoved into the player and set on repeat.

I'll be at the florist's instead. I'm hoping that a moment of nobility - or failing that, martyrdom - awaits me there. I will be spending the afternoon helping my old friend handle business, counting and arranging bouquets, and rather than lock myself in my room spewing vicious hatred at the outside world, I'll be doing what I can to make the holiday a good one for those who have something to look forward to. I can see some of them already...

Frantic guys rushing in with a fistful of loose dollar bills, lacking any clue whatsoever about what flowers they ought to buy. Hand-holding couples on their way back from lunch, basking in a special day of happiness. Long-time lovers who never needed Valentine's Day to remember how dear they are to one another, who nonetheless find that a ribbon-wrapped bundle of red and pink would be a perfect way to share another moment. Partners separated by distance, treasuring a rare day spent in precious company. Freshman girls looking to buy bags of rose petals for decorating their dorm floor. Nervous suitors trying to find a glamorous floral accompaniment to over-rehearsed declarations of affection.

I may not have anyone, but I have never been one to seek my own happiness at the expense of someone else's. I could hate them all for having what I don't, but I shan't. Some of them deserve this day... happiness is never to be taken for granted, but interestingly, it's something you can promulgate whether or not you have any of your own... if you've enough strength to try.

Roses bearing petals of regal red, velvety to the touch... lighter pink roses, with crisper, thinner petals that float for blocks when cast to the wind. Bittersweet white ones that whisper, "Maybe... and maybe not." A bunch with long stems, meticulously pruned of thorns, makes for a display of tempered elegance and luxury without risk or pain. Nestled in a brittle cloud of white Babies' Breath, it passes to a tall, thoughtful-looking student who's been looking forward to this day all month. A small bunch of carnations, pretty but humble, go to the next one in line, who's been seeking a way to deliver the tacit signal that means to say, "I love you but we're just friends." And another, who spends ten full minutes looking at the buckets and bins looking for the biggest, most beautiful rose at the stand; the only one that could do justice to an offering upon bent knee. The next purchases a huge bunch of three dozen red roses, all dressed up, right in front of his sweetheart; she grasps it and draws in a breath of love's fragrance even before her boyfriend has passed the money to the ever-busy florist. I duck past the ever-growing line to retrieve more sheaves of flowers and a spool of ribbon to begin work on another series of pre-made bouquets, arranged in anticipation of those who need something beautiful but don't have the time or knowledge to pick out something on their own. I smile at the customers, whether they are calm, anxious, or too distracted to notice, and assemble these bouquets with the degree of care I would use if I were putting one together for my own imagined significant other.

By the day's end, I'll be asking how it's possible for me to hate these people. I can only hope to be one of them, somehow and some day. Meanwhile, this is how I'll get by. Happily, I won't exactly be alone, either - I'm looking forward to seeing at least one other good friend at the flower stand. Between the friendship and the flowers, this will be a day to enjoy, and not just endure. (You know who you are... many heartfelt thanks go to you :) )

Happy Valentine's Day.

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.

Leavin' Stuff Behind

I've been practicing martial arts for about a decade now. Regarding wushu, specifically - about nine years. Depending on who you ask, that's either a lot of time, or not very much time - such is the state of the sport, where some of the best practictioners are tiny children who are barely in high school, let alone college, and where some of the world's best are mostly younger than me by at least a few years. Of the 'grand old masters' there appear to be few... very few.

I could, in a sense, leave it all behind.

That makes it sound like I'm quitting. That's not the case, exactly - but there are some things about my participation in it that will probably be very different from now on.

When I started, it was as part of a college club. It was a small club - as such is was like a family, albeit a horribly dysfunctional one. Everyone there, myself included, was odd, peculiar, and had a lot of growing up to do, but that by itself doesn't present anything unusual, given that most of the members were somewhere between the ages of 18 and 21. By and large, that's a pretty awkward bracket of time for a lot of people. Most children are immature and seem to revel in it. 'Mature' adults know when they're actually being mature, and when they're being immature just for the hell of it. But 18-21? It's that maturity 'growing pains' period where so many I've known strive to be hip and be more mature at the same time, when they're actually at their hormone-driven, selfishly-motivated worst. It would be hypocritical if not for the fact that they honestly just don't yet know better. Sure, these are sweeping generalizations... women mature faster than men, and the few women in that club at the time were more 'stable' than the boys. I've known 18-year olds clear-headed and responsible enough to pass for 25, and 28-year-olds who have the mentality of 6-year-old brats. (Ok, that was excessive... 12-year-old brats.)

I'll leave aside the details of most of the bad history, but let's just say that, mostly for the worse, the immature types have not changed, and they carry their foolish ambitions and macho posturing into the later years of their involvement to the detriment of the newer crowds. It was all okay (even though it was rather destructive) at the time, but now we're just all too bloody old to keep carrying on like that, and if this is why wushu in this country has stayed in the state it has, the sport is flat-out doomed; not in the sense that it's ever really going to cease to exist, but that it will never be free from all the petty infighting, selfish squabbling, and immoral scheming. Every generation seems to have had a preponderance of such creeps and dorks so busy slitting each other's throats that the sport is in need of constant transfusions of new blood, and despite the perennial interest, it has never really gone big. It's always on life-support.

For those of you have watched the Karate Kid (which is a movie I truly *don't* like very much), let's just say that the state of the art as i've experienced it is closer to the Cobra Kai dojos than to Mr. Miyagi's bonsai farm.

So why would I stay with such a thing? Doesn't it make me exactly the same kind of fool, to have subjected myself to this for the past nine years?

Well, I can honestly say that it's done a lot for me. Firstly, I'm in decent physical shape for someone who has so far spent most of his life wedged into cubicles and desks. Secondly, there was one or two in that group who had a heart. That was enough to keep me there... I'd have been gone entirely from this if not for those few. Thirdly, after I'd left that first group behind (to think that I stayed there for 6 of those 9 years. Extraordinary.) and helped form a new one at a different school, everything changed. It's been a much better group than the first had been, where most, if not all the participants, are very supportive. Even if they're not universally 'mature,' there's less posturing, more training, and a whole lot more in the way of sincerity and genuine contribution. Over the last four years, this group has given me a lot of hope. Part of me worried about whether or not they'd survive and stay true to their spirit, given the environment around them.

I think that they will - they've rekindled a lot of my faith in humanity. People aren't all just egocentric, hedonistic, witless jerks. There are a lot of them out there, but people can also be generous, selfless, and nurturing. I love this group dearly... but it's also a college club, and I couldn't stay forever. College clubs always stay about the same age, but individuals grow older, and every year, it comes time for some of them to leave. I haven't overstayed my welcome - but strictly speaking, I've probably overstayed my time. We miss each other a lot, and I'll visit and help from time to time, but let's just say that, if ever I was, I'm no longer one of the 'main characters' there.

Besides, with the rest of my life beckoning, especially my aimless career, I've had to move on, physically speaking. I'm now spending most of my time in a town too far removed from group #2 to see them often, so the separation has been an enforced one.

I'm actually back in the vicinity of group #1, which has changed in a lot of ways. For one thing, there are about six times as many people there as when I first walked through the door. Some of the same old pustulent parasites still reside there, like a persistent fungal infection, but they're thankfully a minority now. The newer faces - I don't know if I'll ever really get to know them all that well, because I spend a lot of time in classes and I need a lot more sleep than I used to. There's also the age problem - I'm getting older, and they're all between 18 and 21 - relating might be difficult.

But every martial artist gets older. If there's a natural tendency to live a quieter life apart from the throng, away from the kind of exuberance and energy that used to typify the self at a time when everything was new, when the drive to prove oneself was a desperate one, I'm closer to it now. I have plenty of other things to worry about; in a way I couldn't really bear to be too much a part of all the reckless energy anymore.

I've been in the gradual process of withdrawing from the sport, to spend more time with the art. I don't think I have any ambitions or pretensions associated with it now, if I had them in the past - but I'm actually pretty happy with where I am. It's a pursuit unto itself, which I get to share with a handful of real friends. It always comes back to that. I don't need the mob; I don't need *lots* of anything, as long as what I have is real.

Wish Fulfillment

A lonely almost-holiday. It's not New Year's Eve, or New Year's Day quite yet, but I've been alone most of the day in a quiet, empty house. It's a pretty big house.

Lonely time is ok given the circumstances, though - I've been getting over a slight cold since finals, and most of the last week has been spent largely in bed, just recuperating from the semester. Not that I'm being a baby about it, though - law school's a certain amount of work - school's always more or less work, depending on how much of yourself you care to put into it. As someone who's found most of his identity in school, it matters to me, and so I put in more than most people.

Not because I'm good at it, and not because I feel like I have anything left to prove... but because it's me, and that's what I do.

But that also makes me not terribly good at keeping in touch over the semester. I've now caught up with some of my friends, but I've still plenty of catching up left to do. Fortunately, it feels like I've got enough time to do it... another three weeks of vacation yet to be spent :)

Today's not the day for it, though. Most people are home for the holidays... a lot of my friends are either young enough such that they're spending their holiday at home with family, or have set out from the Bay Area for New Year's. I didn't have anyone to hang out with today. Time for another nap.

That led to a pleasant dream, which is a luxury for me. Most of my dreams are nightmares of one sort or another. On a good night, my dreams are just nonsensical or strange. This one lasted for hours - and I spent it in the company of friends. I don't quite remember what we all talked about, where we were, or even everyone who was there, but it was definitely a pleasant dream, full of good cheer, *probably* good food, and camaraderie of the kind that goes into great storybooks.

Happy New Year's to all of you out there who were with me today, whether you knew it or not. A dream like this is no random occurrence... it's years in the making, springing from the experiences of genuine love and strong bonds.

O Christmas Tree...

I passed the Great Hall on the way back to my room and beheld a 15-foot Christmas Tree bedecked with lights and handmade ornaments crafted by an adorable group of children who had been here at the I-House this afternoon. Such a beautiful sight :)

It was one of those moments where some unseen force - some spiritual manifestation of Life - takes you by the hand and leads your consciousness back to another time, bringing a wash of memories and happy associations to the domain of the present, leaving you with a Sense. A wonderful Presence, reminding you that you are breathing, feeling, and alive, very much in the here and now. A moment to enjoy.

At 15 feet tall, the Chistmas Tree made me feel like a small, joyful child again. It was the same feeling of holiday wonder at the age of 8, long-lost to time and revived by the sight of a tree more than fully twice my height in a warm and dimly lit room. The ceiling of the Great Hall is two stories high; no wonder it made me feel as though I were eight years of age again; the scale was just perfect. The room seemed cavernous, ceiling arching high over my head, air filled with the thick scent of crisp pine needles, the tree's height evoking memories of a towering Parent whose arm alone could I reach, hug, and in doing so, feel secure. I spent a good ten minutes just standing next to and gazing at the tree, its festive lights, its precious ornaments, and marvelling at how its appearance in a cozy room can effect such a change in mentality.

Cookies, Hot Chocolate, and conversation. Soft chairs, cushions, and sofas. A blip in time and space that declared: I am the Holiday Spirit, and while you are here, you are most graciously Mine to comfort.

And for a moment, I did not Worry.

It's not for everyone

It's been a while since last it rained like this. I love it :)

Yesterday, I was running home along the sidewalks of Berkeley, just south of the campus perimeter. I don't quite know when it kicked up the way it did, but it was a classic, if short-lived, rainstorm... the wind gusted almost spastically, causing the torrent to frequently careen one way and then the other, like a huge flock of small birds, all following some undesignated leader. It would have been impossible to actually see it, though, if not for the glow of the street lights reflecting off individual raindrops, making every last one stand out in crisp relief against the darkness.

Did I mention this was about one in the morning?

The only downside was getting wet. I was trudging home with a backpack full of papers, a cellphone in one arm, and a broadsword slung over the other. (Don't ask.) But I've always liked stormy weather, and though I was safe and warm within ten minutes or so, it wasn't all that bad, being rather soaked by the time I walked through the darkened doors of my present home.

Stormy weather suits me. My personality isn't all that sunshiny - I've always had a tendency to be somewhat maudlin. But it's not that the storm's gray and gloom are what fit me. The rain is cool and soothing... so much of life is spent running around and staying artificially busy, it's just nice to look into the sky and let something natural surround you... a reminder that, in a civilized environment where we attempt to exert control over every last detail, where traffic laws and zoning permits and city ordinances dictate where everything should find itself, that mother nature still listens to no one, choosing to offer you comfort, if only you'll recognize it as such. The rain is loud and energetic, the raindrops drowning out the sound of people and wildlife in the dark, a murmuring, rustling patter that creates a kind of white noise that's somehow unusually conducive to contemplation. It keeps me awake and attentive for those moments of introspection I once indulged in so often, and it ushers me off to sleep when my mind, weary from reading and analysis, succumbs to blessed unconsciousness. The wind is furious and majestic, beating against your body, making you aware of an incredible fullness of sensation; in normal, everyday life, it's sometime easy to become relatively unaware of the extent of your own body - rather like the fact that you don't feel the weight of the clothes you wear all day, or of the glasses perched on your nose. The wind reminds you where you are - all of you at once, as the gusting currents awaken sensation across your entire form. The thunder and lightning evoke old images of angry gods from literature and religion, bringing to mind those instances of righteous fury aroused by a slight or insult, or the larger-than-life feeling of triumph at the completion of a quest - depending on your mood, it can make you feel small and timid, or defiant and bold.

Rainstorms make me happy, which some people don't understand... but it's all right with me. It's like my take on being a cynic; being a cynic or misanthrope doesn't mean I've given up on the world, though that's what it might seem by outward appearances. Sometimes, it seems to me that many cynics haven't forsaken their world, or their fellows... some cynics are really idealists who hope for the best and prepare for the worst... and hate, more than anything else, to be proven right.

Visit Home

I just spent a week back at home from law school. A week's not a whole lot of time... so many things on the agenda, not the least of which was relaxation. I'm told that the difficult stretch is these next six weeks... the approach of finals heralds more than just the associated weight of books and stress involved with the finals themselves. There's a whole lot of other things that are supposed to go with it, most of which are ominous if only for the fact that I can't yet make out the sources of the impending threats.

So as in other things, the key is to relax without making so much of an effort in doing so to add to the stress. Wonderful paradox, that... I liken it to stretching in martial arts. You don't want to tense up your muscles, because that impedes a good stretch, and forcing tissues that aren't yet that flexible can lead to pulls and tears. Oddly, just as it starts to get uncomfortable, you need to breathe out, release as much of the tension in the straining muscles as you can, and then lean into it a little further. You can't go farther if you don't relax. Yet, with the shaking strain which accompanies a stretch near your current limit of flexibility, it's only natural to tense up, as somehow trying to stretch farther creates the strain in the first place.

So it goes until you get really flexible, anyway. I can't say I'm there yet. Hopefully I'll get there by finals.

I rested some and studied some. More than either, however, I caught up with my friends :) Friends from all over... mostly recent friends. I wasn't able to catch up with everyone, either. I had a whole week, and I wasn't able to give everyone enough time... a small guilt trip for keeping the visit so short, but that was drowned out by the flush of happiness that comes with realizing that you've got so many friends, you can spend a whole week home and yet have nearly all those meetings end sooner than anybody really wants. And that includes my family... I didn't quite get to see enough of them, either.

Cheers to all of you with whom I did manage to catch up in the past week. Love you guys :)

The Lovelorn

Some people have never experienced, and will never experience, love, either of the body or of the soul. Some people just aren't fortunate enough to have experienced romance. At least, I think they're the unfortunate ones. I happen to be one of them.

But of course, that requires that you equate love with romance...

Some of us experience different sorts. Most people are fortunate enough to at least experience familial love - that undying, unconditional love given by one's parents. It is at once precious because you know that they'll always love you, no matter what. And at the same time, too easily forgotten for the very fact that it *isn't* conditional. Even this kind of love cannot be taken for granted; some of the worst pain in the world must be felt by the people whose parents actually do not love them. It's not something that most of us like to face every day, but there are people out there who have no love for their parents and vice-versa. I can't imagine what that's like, nor do I want to.

There's true friendship - that's a kind of love also. I've never experienced romantic love, and I believe myself much the poorer for the lack of such experience - it really does leave one feeling quite hollow - but of friends, I have no shortage. This is not mere acquaintance-friendship, either - some of these people love me like a brother, as a role-model (how frightening is that?), as an equal - sometimes all at once. It's kind of odd, but some of the same people who see me as sort of a mentor, like me all the more for the fact that I treat them as absolute equals. That they can ask me for advice or pat me on the head, depending on the context. I guess that's wherein lies the symbiosis... there are some things in this life I'm really good at, and at least as many, if not more, at which I'm hopelessly inept. We help each other.

There's also the most wretched sort of love - the unrequited variety. This kind is no gift at all. It's pure, cosmic spite - it's life laughing at you. And it's nobody's fault - one of the problems about romantic love is that frequently, it's not returned. One has to understand - you won't end up feeling romantically inclined towards everyone who shows interest in you - by the same token, you can't necessarily demand the same from the people to whom you're attracted. Love's just like that.

I'm past believing I'm the most unattractive person in the world - to continue believing that would do a graceless, thankless repudiation of all the gifts with which I've been bestowed in this life. Without arrogance or egotism, I have to admit that I've been blessed with a few things that many people I've met have wished mightily that they themselves had. I also have to admit that they're just that - gifts. Luck of the draw. It would be absurd for me to take credit for something I had no part in acquiring or developing for myself. All this endless experience with unrequited love isn't anything more than simple bad luck. It almost seems like a karmic balance for the good luck I've had in other ways. Can't have it all.

But such absence is felt all too keenly. Most people have hollows in their lives. Some are touched with that blessed ignorance that forbids them any notice of it. Others are graced with the inner strength to live and deal with the things that they don't have. I, it seems, have neither. If either of those gifts were mine, perhaps I'd not be writing about it now.

But I look back on these past few months and realize that the three happiest moments I've recently had all involved hugs. One last week, one a month before that, and one a month before that. In each case, a warm, full-bodied hug of utter acceptance, appreciation, and sympathy - speaking of the thankfulness we each have for the very existence of the other, gratitude for favors done without request, attention and contact needed ever so badly, and a soundless release of tension and anguish - two shoulders to lean on for a moment in a world where we're all run ragged, with no respite offered from any corner save that offered by a few people who really understand.

Hugs can be profound. They're not all the same - but there are a few that say things to which no word can give voice. And although I can't say this for sure, I'd venture to guess that they can also say a few things that kisses never could.

Uneasy Truce

My demons and I have an interesting relationship. Well, perhaps not really... I figure that most people who have demons, have an interesting relationship with them.

They are my enemy; they feed off my soul, they thrive on my pain. When they believe that they have the upper hand, they push the advantage, striving to force me into the downward spiral that seems to be the lifegoal of any demon that plagues any other person.

But they are my tool; their rage becomes mine. And though it burns me from the inside out, I use the power, not as they see fit, but instead as I see fit; sometimes I work best when I'm angry. It's odd that, even as they try to push me down, I use their torment as fuel for my own fire. So what if it's the Dark Side of the Force? I'm shooting the lightning bolts at the right targets.

As a small but amusing example; I can't shoot pool worth a spit. One day, though, I happened to be shooting pool and I saw a bunch of people who really annoy me walk in. I continued playing - sinking shot after shot with serious authoritah. The people I was playing with noticed the tenfold increase in skill, and remarked that anger really does a lot for my game.

A more mundane, but significant example; it made me do well in school. Especially as an undergrad. I was actually able to concentrate on studies whilst pissed off - a neat trick, really - not everyone can do that. When I'm busy counting my curses, it's hard not to count this one as an odd sort of blessing.

It's negative energy, but if that's all you got, why waste it? I would rather channel the only strength I have instead of merely trying to dissipate it as waste heat.

On different levels, I know that there are other people who understand the same thing, but in different ways. Charles Schultz noted that sadness, not happiness, tends to create humor. Cartoon characters usually go through travails, the observation of which makes us laugh. Only occasionally do comics manage to make us smile through a sense of sympathy and not mockery. Dilbert is an odd example of both with simultaneity; Calvin and Hobbes also manages to do both, only it manages to do so separately.

Enjelani also manages to channel demons towards creative ends. She even manages to do so in a way that produces results that are literally beautiful. I only wish that it were possible for me to do something like that, but I'll settle for useful torment if the only alternative is self-destructive torment.

Let the little fiends nettle away, damn them. I'm sure that the fact that I can use them as well as they use me annoys the living piss out of them.

Geek Speak

Professions have jargon. Abbreviations and lingo seem necessary - we get too tied up in lengthy and technical phrases otherwise. It'd be impossible to get any work done if we spent all of our time enunciating the proper or plainspeak names for the concepts we spend so much of our time discussing.

Of course, that same lingo describes to the outside world what you do by association...

HTML, JSP, ASP, kernel, O/S, MB, priority queue, virtual machine, polymorphism, asynchronous transfer mechanism, Steiner Trees, NP-complete, Runtime analysis... you're clearly talking tech.

Tortfeasor, Res Ipsa Loquitur, Post Hoc, Ergo Propter Hoc, Malum In Se, Replevin, Adjudication, Mens Rea, Prima Facie, Quid Pro Quo, In Forma Pauperis, summary judgment, vicarious liability, then you're talking law.

GDP, MPC, I, X, M, externality, PPF, indifference curve, present discounted value, marginal cost, Ceteris Paribus, oligopolistic competition, competitive advantage, inelasticity, utility function... econ.

It distinguishes the profession. It's one of many traits. It leaves some onlookers in awe - it leaves others in disgust. It sets you apart in a good way - it's a campaign ribbon that speaks to the world and to your peers where you've been in a professional sense. It sets you apart in a bad way - only geeks talk like this. Sometimes, people ride the coattails of jargon, pretending erudition through mimicked command of outwardly mysterious and indecipherable terminology.

And sometimes it confuses you. Let's just say that JSP and ASP appear to mean different things in law school than they do in the CS department. And that 'pi' and 'delta' are functionally overloaded in law school for anyone who has a background in math or science. This confuses me frequently...

The internal division is harder to maintain than I might have once thought.

Edgy Perspective

Looking down the blade of a two-edged sword.

That's what it means to have a blessing, or a curse. Everyone has blessings of a sort, but every blessing, no matter what kind, seems to have some effect on your psyche. It definitely colors the way you look at the world. The way you see things. The joys you take, the needs you have... all these things make up who you are in a very real way, I think. Your wishes - the things you want, but don't or can't have - are as much a part of your constituency as anything you do indeed have. It's not always about the simple idea of greed, either... your dreams, your longings, the things you reach for but can't attain - those strivings, futile or not, move you through many days in your life. I suppose that, depending on who you are, you could disagree with me; that's all good. That's your life, perhaps - but I can only speak for what's been the case for me, and for a lot of people I've known and met, be they content with their lives or not.

One of the most well-known platitudes is this: "Ignorance is bliss." Even ignorant people have heard that one before... and the very saying seems to carry with it a certain absurdity. It shouldn't be true, but it is. By comparison, the search for knowledge is supposed to leave you fulfilled, but the learned are often accosted by another cliche: "The more I learn, the more I realize I don't know."

But put aside those generalizations for the moment. I'm willing to bet that if you took a more immediate, concrete, well-defined thread running through your life, you'll see it for the mixed blessing that it is... that for better or worse, it colors who you are and moves your thoughts every day. Sometimes it's only there for a few moments at a time, the light of consideration glinting off that particular tile in your mosaic depending on how the sun's shining that particular day. And sometimes, the spotlight of your consciousness comes to rest on that one tile at an annoying angle, reflecting a searing, piercing lance of brilliance straight into your dominant thoughts, making you wish you could just turn your head and look away.

Too abstract? Too ambiguously philosophical? Too inarticulately incoherent? If you think so, I don't blame you... I've just finished a long day of reading and I'm posting at past 1am. So I'll illustrate with but one example from my life... perhaps it'll make more sense with a specific example.

"Mean people suck." Not exactly profound... it's plastered on bumper stickers all over the place. But as a child, I was the runt in my classroom. Always the smallest, always the strangest. The least loved, and in so many ways. You know the little kid who always got picked on? Called names? Chosen last when the captains picked their teams in P.E.? That was me. A common enough story... it's amazing how many of us there are, considering that there's only supposed to be one in any classroom full of kids, but there you go. I was kind of an unlikeable person, though - thinking back on it, I know I wouldn't have liked myself much either, so it's not like I could have blamed them. Between them being kids, and me being me, it seemed the only outcome possible.

That was nothing compared to college, though. You'd think that this sort of thing got better with age, but as it turns out, all the stuff that I really resented as a kid - that was just part and parcel of the hell that is American Childhood. Particularly, it seems, if you happen to be Asian American, male, and shorter than a pygmy hedgehog. But in college, I learned about real malice, and genuine spite. I learned about people who weren't physical bullies so much as emotional ones - the wounded, inadequate-feeling souls who can only staunch the ichor dripping from their own wounds by opening up more gaping ones in the people around them. I had always been something of a cynic, but people like these finally gave that cynicism a target of merit.

So it left me a rather bitter person. I've met a few people who just can't fathom the meanness that I'm talking about. Some people have *never* had people be mean to them on quite the same level - they may read today's post, figure that I must be exaggerating everything, and dismiss this as the ramblings of just another bitter person. That's ok - I don't blame them. If they've never known what I'm talking about, so much the better - life can be lived without understanding it.

But it's not just about being bitter - just being bitter means being broken, like a pack mule. Like any good little defiant, raging misfit, I decided for myself that meanness of this kind was simply an evil thing, and that I'd move against it by living my life in a different way. I could tell that some people were just mean, because they were cursed with certain problems and that this is how they dealt with it. What was scary, though, was the fact that many of their problems weren't so far removed from mine, or the people I called my friends. So the way I ended up seeing it, is that it's all about how you deal with them.

I did put my foot down, at least where I was concerned. I did act on a determination not to be just another self-interested bastard. I learned to teach classes, I helped found a martial arts club, and I put in a conscious effort to be a helpful and thoughtful person in general. Especially in the beginning, it was just a charade. I didn't feel any of it in any genuine way - it was just me giving voice to my distaste for wantonly mean people. Not wanting to become one of them, I made an effort to act in the opposite way - not out of heart, but out of principle. It was just the way I saw things. Gradually, I let that become a greater part of being who I am - or at least, who I think I am. And now I can honestly say that it *feels* like a part of my heart now, and not just a set of motions I go through on ideological grounds.

But what's the difference, then? The difference remains in the perspective. Put me in a roomful of 'nice' people (especially when I'm in a good mood - and believe it or not, that happens. You probably wouldn't know it from my posts, though) and on the surface, we'll all seem the same. Put one mean person in there, though, and you can see the difference in perspective. Some people would just be annoyed by this person. Others would be hurt. I would be royally pissed off, gnashing and cursing and just begging that the cosmos would see fit to hand that person a painful and violent death. The difference is all in the history that mean people and I have had with each other. A history that, quite possibly, I have yet to fully come to terms with.

But it's not just an attitude. It's not just a holding, a feeling, or even a conviction. It's something upon which I act; not in the sense that I go around plotting the downfall of mean people, no. But rather, in the fact that I'm very, very conscious of the way that I act towards people and the things I've chosen to do with my life. It's never more than a few layers down in my thoughts. It's that coloration that's a part of what really makes the things that I do, unique to me. In a sense, it really does define in part who I am.

It's not quite a curse or a blessing. It's a curse in that it has made me a pretty fundamentally unhappy person, since these unpleasant musings are always running in the background, often keeping me from fully appreciating all the other good things I've got in my life. It's a blessing in that it makes me consciously avoid become a generally selfish person wholly heedless to the needs of others, as I've seen happen to more than a few other people, either through malicious intention or just a simple and very forgivable lack of awareness. I had a tendency to be very selfish when I was much younger; I might well have turned out much more badly if not for a mixed blessing like this.

Hopefully you'll have a more happy example than that for yourself. But take, for a moment, a sense or a feeling you've had all your life, about who you've been, and see how that's guided who you are and what you do. Why you understand certain viewpoints and perspectives unique to you which you believe no one else can really understand.

The truth is, it's more than likely that, for any given thread you pick, there *is* someone out there who'll see it the same way you do, who'll understand what you mean. The part that makes it feel lonely, is that sometimes it seems like the people who you most want to understand it are the ones who'll never quite get it. And it's only because they haven't been through what you have, whether it happens to be a blessing, a curse, or both. It's why they are who they are - and why, for better or worse, they will never be you.