...treachery will always beat youth and vigor.
I fucking love that saying. As I leave my 30's, this has entered my mind more frequently. Probably because I now feel the challenge isn't between my opponent and myself, but rather my age and my opponent's youthfulness. Quite often I pride my self on beating the run times, pushup counts, cardio-what-the-fuck-ever of those half my age. Gleefully snorting by badassery, which really isn't all that impressive. It's really just for my own self-esteem mostly.
There is some merit to be rewarded to the older individual, when challenged by a younger, less weathered body and mind. My dad for example is an old school traditional martial artist. Training since the 1970's, that's 40+ years! The constant repetition of the same mental activity: kill the other mother fucker before he kills you...and kill him quickly, brutally and efficiently (scare off and terrify his friends). I am 100% convinced there is no doubt in his mind, he would not hesitate for a nano-second to stab a dude in the trachea with one of his really awesome homemade wooden pens, if said dude crossed my dad in a life threatening way. I've seen my dad kick a side view mirror off a car once. I've seen him slice all four of the sidewalls(tires) of another car... All moments of exact execution of his intention. A rather large individual of African heritage once beat down a chick in a restaurant we were at in Las Vegas. My dad smoothly stood up and moved toward the douche nozzle. The casino security intercepted the potentially lethal situation before my dad had his chance. He simply stopped, and turned 180 degrees. While walking back to our table I could see the him putting away an aggressive looking folding-fighting knife. He was serious. Interestingly, his demeanor didn't really change as he sat down to continue eating whatever-the-hell he was eating. As if nothing happened. To him it was just another step on the road.
Last night, I was able to experience a tiny bit of this. Perhaps one day, I'll be just as efficient as my dad in such endeavors. My nightly ritual: brush my teeth, piss, disrobe completely, and run from my master bath toward my bed at full steam, so that I can get maximum airtime as I leap into my soft, squishy bed. I land, wrap up like a mummy in my bedsheets and close my eyes. Not more than five minutes into my dreams of armbars, stripclubs and Taliban hunting, I hear what sounded like a hammer hitting my front door. I'm happy to report, instead of shitting myself, I simply opened my eyes and laid still. I was listening for movement. I wanted to know if there was an actual threat incoming or not. Since I wasn't nervous or excited, I was able to quietly listen, no heavy breathing or heartbeat interfered with my aural scanning. I couldn't hear shit, my damn door was closed. For tactical reasons, I figure someone would have to open the door which would alert me, plus it offers concealment from vision. I felt safe enough to sit up, and continue staring into the darkness. I did not want to look out my window with a streetlamp on. This would fuck up my night vision. I stood up and took a step to my door. Put my ear to it and listened. Nothing. Fuck. Should I get my gun? Fuck, it's all the way over there. Dammit, I put my gun on the defensive side of the bed, opposite side of the door so that I could roll off onto the safe side, get my gun and use the bed as concealment from the door. Hmmm what to do.... Fuck it, next to my head is a eight foot long African hunting spear, with an eight inch long sharp as hell, leaf shaped blade on one end. The other end is a two foot long, half inch diameter spike. It will FUCK YOU UP. I grab that bitch and open my door.
So now, I'm thinking. I'm butt ass naked with an eight foot long spear about to pounce on some fucktard, whom is either one, going to shit himself to death when he sees me. Or two, try to kill me with fire, because I'm the baddest mother fucker he's ever seen: a stark naked, smiling white guy, with an African weapon of war, poised for battle like a Greek warrior. I'm secretly hoping for number two. Although I do not have a helmet nor a shield, I will HAPPILY don that gear upon the next intrusion into my domicile. Fuck yeah!
I take a nice step forward, positioning the long ass spear in my skinny hallway in such a way as to use it effectively. Which in this case means, it is pointed nearly straight fucking down and all I'll be stabbing will be the anterior tibialis muscle of the shin. Not very sexy. I peek out and see nothing. Fuck. I step out into my Spartan living room, and then all of a sudden I see the fucking most awesome thing ever. There is a night light near the floor right behind my ankles, shining the most amazing huge, silhouette of a my naked ass, with a spear, upon my white living room wall. It looks FUCKING COOL! Forget the intruder, check that shit out! I narcissistically stare at that for a minute (or three) then realize I have work to do.
At this point I'm actually bored, I have my spear, I have no intruder, and no signs of anything. It was probably the wind or some animal. The thing I need to say is, much like my dad, I was in a fully stoic mindset. I knew for a fact, the bladed point would be piercing the neck of some crackhead if they had entered my domain aggressively. Not a single bit of emotional context, or worry. As they taught us in Nuclear/Biological/Chemical Warfare school: let the training take over. As I swept through my house with my African lance, the training had fully taken control of my mind and movements. No hesitation, nor care in the world to be had. A completely clear conscience, before, during and most importantly AFTER all of this.
I remember once being scared as a little boy about crickets, mummies under my bed, witches over my bed (still one of the reasons why I still feel more comfortable sleeping face down), and ghosts. Now, I WISH there were mummies, I'll fuck them up.
Jiu jitsu, work etc.. I believe may occasionally benefit greatly from this sort of stoic, steeled, and cold intention. Don't give a fuck at all about inconsequential outcomes, or during extreme cases where one may die (so long as it's YOU whom will live). Execute like a robot. Fail? Reprogram. Test. Fight. Repeat. This sort of reprogram, test, fight, repeat cycle as one ages gets VERY GOOD, VERY FAST, and VERY EFFICIENT...
Look forward to your advancing age, and smile knowing you'll FUCK THEM UP!
Mark
p.s. I put my spear back in it's place. I then went back to sleep as before; as I always do...with maximum distance and speed, for maximum airtime.
I fucking love that saying. As I leave my 30's, this has entered my mind more frequently. Probably because I now feel the challenge isn't between my opponent and myself, but rather my age and my opponent's youthfulness. Quite often I pride my self on beating the run times, pushup counts, cardio-what-the-fuck-ever of those half my age. Gleefully snorting by badassery, which really isn't all that impressive. It's really just for my own self-esteem mostly.
There is some merit to be rewarded to the older individual, when challenged by a younger, less weathered body and mind. My dad for example is an old school traditional martial artist. Training since the 1970's, that's 40+ years! The constant repetition of the same mental activity: kill the other mother fucker before he kills you...and kill him quickly, brutally and efficiently (scare off and terrify his friends). I am 100% convinced there is no doubt in his mind, he would not hesitate for a nano-second to stab a dude in the trachea with one of his really awesome homemade wooden pens, if said dude crossed my dad in a life threatening way. I've seen my dad kick a side view mirror off a car once. I've seen him slice all four of the sidewalls(tires) of another car... All moments of exact execution of his intention. A rather large individual of African heritage once beat down a chick in a restaurant we were at in Las Vegas. My dad smoothly stood up and moved toward the douche nozzle. The casino security intercepted the potentially lethal situation before my dad had his chance. He simply stopped, and turned 180 degrees. While walking back to our table I could see the him putting away an aggressive looking folding-fighting knife. He was serious. Interestingly, his demeanor didn't really change as he sat down to continue eating whatever-the-hell he was eating. As if nothing happened. To him it was just another step on the road.
Last night, I was able to experience a tiny bit of this. Perhaps one day, I'll be just as efficient as my dad in such endeavors. My nightly ritual: brush my teeth, piss, disrobe completely, and run from my master bath toward my bed at full steam, so that I can get maximum airtime as I leap into my soft, squishy bed. I land, wrap up like a mummy in my bedsheets and close my eyes. Not more than five minutes into my dreams of armbars, stripclubs and Taliban hunting, I hear what sounded like a hammer hitting my front door. I'm happy to report, instead of shitting myself, I simply opened my eyes and laid still. I was listening for movement. I wanted to know if there was an actual threat incoming or not. Since I wasn't nervous or excited, I was able to quietly listen, no heavy breathing or heartbeat interfered with my aural scanning. I couldn't hear shit, my damn door was closed. For tactical reasons, I figure someone would have to open the door which would alert me, plus it offers concealment from vision. I felt safe enough to sit up, and continue staring into the darkness. I did not want to look out my window with a streetlamp on. This would fuck up my night vision. I stood up and took a step to my door. Put my ear to it and listened. Nothing. Fuck. Should I get my gun? Fuck, it's all the way over there. Dammit, I put my gun on the defensive side of the bed, opposite side of the door so that I could roll off onto the safe side, get my gun and use the bed as concealment from the door. Hmmm what to do.... Fuck it, next to my head is a eight foot long African hunting spear, with an eight inch long sharp as hell, leaf shaped blade on one end. The other end is a two foot long, half inch diameter spike. It will FUCK YOU UP. I grab that bitch and open my door.
So now, I'm thinking. I'm butt ass naked with an eight foot long spear about to pounce on some fucktard, whom is either one, going to shit himself to death when he sees me. Or two, try to kill me with fire, because I'm the baddest mother fucker he's ever seen: a stark naked, smiling white guy, with an African weapon of war, poised for battle like a Greek warrior. I'm secretly hoping for number two. Although I do not have a helmet nor a shield, I will HAPPILY don that gear upon the next intrusion into my domicile. Fuck yeah!
I take a nice step forward, positioning the long ass spear in my skinny hallway in such a way as to use it effectively. Which in this case means, it is pointed nearly straight fucking down and all I'll be stabbing will be the anterior tibialis muscle of the shin. Not very sexy. I peek out and see nothing. Fuck. I step out into my Spartan living room, and then all of a sudden I see the fucking most awesome thing ever. There is a night light near the floor right behind my ankles, shining the most amazing huge, silhouette of a my naked ass, with a spear, upon my white living room wall. It looks FUCKING COOL! Forget the intruder, check that shit out! I narcissistically stare at that for a minute (or three) then realize I have work to do.
At this point I'm actually bored, I have my spear, I have no intruder, and no signs of anything. It was probably the wind or some animal. The thing I need to say is, much like my dad, I was in a fully stoic mindset. I knew for a fact, the bladed point would be piercing the neck of some crackhead if they had entered my domain aggressively. Not a single bit of emotional context, or worry. As they taught us in Nuclear/Biological/Chemical Warfare school: let the training take over. As I swept through my house with my African lance, the training had fully taken control of my mind and movements. No hesitation, nor care in the world to be had. A completely clear conscience, before, during and most importantly AFTER all of this.
I remember once being scared as a little boy about crickets, mummies under my bed, witches over my bed (still one of the reasons why I still feel more comfortable sleeping face down), and ghosts. Now, I WISH there were mummies, I'll fuck them up.
Jiu jitsu, work etc.. I believe may occasionally benefit greatly from this sort of stoic, steeled, and cold intention. Don't give a fuck at all about inconsequential outcomes, or during extreme cases where one may die (so long as it's YOU whom will live). Execute like a robot. Fail? Reprogram. Test. Fight. Repeat. This sort of reprogram, test, fight, repeat cycle as one ages gets VERY GOOD, VERY FAST, and VERY EFFICIENT...
Look forward to your advancing age, and smile knowing you'll FUCK THEM UP!
Mark
p.s. I put my spear back in it's place. I then went back to sleep as before; as I always do...with maximum distance and speed, for maximum airtime.
That is fucking awesome.
ReplyDeleteI just found your blog because of Georgette's blog; it's glorious and wonderful. Thanks!
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