the art of thuggery

Can aesthetic beauty be communicated through an act of barbarism? Is there artistry in the timing of a face intercepting a punch meant to bludgeon? Boxing is a dying sport, a spectacle that satiated the blood lust of the masses for centuries. Can I find solace in the discomfort and challenge it promises? That, my friends, is completely up to me.

I am at a crossroads, yet again: Boxing or MMA? When I began my journey into the fight game, a little over year ago, I asked the same question. I decided on boxing because it's got a smaller range of skills to learn, which is beneficial at my advanced age, but then I began training MMA. I'm more decisive then a potential GOP candidate. And then I discovered alcohol... Fast forward to now and I'm slowly weening myself off the bottle and contemplating the finer points of punching peoples faces in. It's not easy being an ultra violent pacifist, but someone's gotta do it.

I hear boxing calling to me: "Come here Loren, become a practitioner of the sweet science. You've got WMDs where most only have guns, a black hole for a heart, and the business savvy of a Don King. You were built for this." Cus De Mato, legendary trainer of Mike Tyson, once said: "A boy comes to me with a spark of interest. I feed the spark and it becomes a flame. I feed the flame and it becomes a fire. I feed the fire and it becomes a roaring blaze." I'm on my way to becoming a fucking blazing inferno at the moment (thanks in no small part to Santa Olivia by Jacqueline Carey, The Wire season 4 wow this TV show continues work me over, The Fighter and my cousin's unending enthusiasm about the sport).

I am a thug, a butcher, an incandescent intellect. Why am I doing this? Because I need to do something. Life is boring in the relative safety of normalcy. The human condition is pleasure and pain. Sex and Violence. I can no longer function within the former parameters that I have set out for myself. Punch on mother fuckers.

why am I punishing myself like this?

I just finished boxing. Anyone who can box, knows that this is a lie. I just finished being put through a meat grinder. Anything that resembled boxing on my part along the way was purely coincidental. Unbelievably grueling. Being a noob sux.

You've got a canister. In it is a devastating combination of your Will and Attention. These are limited resources. Directing all of your mental, not to mention physical ("not to mention" an extremely peculiar phrase), energy toward one task is incredibly taxing. I'm a pretty extreme guy, but it doesn't matter how well intentioned you are, sometimes you use up everything in your little can secret stuff. I'm swimming in an ocean of my own blood, sweat and vomit. These are the elements that take over when you're running on empty. It's as bad as it sounds.

Uber Sapiens don't distance themselves from the utter despair of painful practice. While punching the heavy bag for multiple sets of 6 minutes and doing other unsightly drills, I found myself wishing away the time. I was daydreaming of pokemon and pretending my left arm wasn't on fire. It helped a little. What if I seized the moment, in spite of the tiredness, what if I focused on perfect technique, focused on what I was doing instead of hoping and praying to gods that I don't believe in that it would all be mercifully over as soon as possible? Well, then I'd be amazing. So many wasted moments, so much to learn grasshopper.

there's nothing like getting punched in the face

I'm overrun with pet projects. "Specialization is for insects" that's what Heinlein says. I don't see myself letting up on this self imposed heavy work load of eclectic hobbies any time soon. I can't bring myself to apply a laser like focus to any one thing. It's a dilettante's life for me.

One draw back of a life dedicated to broad competency rather than singular mastery is that sometimes your skills get juxtaposed with someone who is a master (at least in comparison to yourself) and consequently you are severely schooled, flunk and get sent to detention. And your mum starts crying when she finds out.

I was doing a bit of ye olde sparring a few weeks back... I fancy myself a burly man. A throw back to the days when men were men and women were subjugated. Oh man, those were the days. (important note: I have developed an alleged sense of humour that is a little zany, a lot deadpan and sometimes inexcusably offensive, sorry ladies). I'm the strong silent type, the kind of guy that only communicates in inaudible grunts and enjoys chopping wood even though it hurts the environment, maybe for that reason... So, I was boxing against some dude who knows how to box and I was just a heavy sparring virgin. Did he go gentle 'cause it was my first time? Hell no. I got epically owned.

I usually look better than this. Getting punched in the face has a habit of upsetting the delicate balance of one's generally well placed features. Notice the broad swelling of the nose, the day after's double black eyes. My poor poor beautiful face.

A couple of weeks and one glute injury later, and I've slowly been working my way back into fight training. I had to admit to myself due to the undeniable arse whooping that I took previously, that I've quickly developed a phobia for getting in "the pocket" (close enough proximity so that you can hit and get hit) and mixing it up with my opponents even in lighter versions of sparring. And I'm not scared of anything except, air bourne diseases, 3 legged cats, oompa loompas and my receding hairline. Like practically nothing. And clowns. Oh and now the pocket. Pathetic really. Accepting that you've got a problem is the first step to recovery I suppose.

The temptation is to knuckle down now, train up and seek for the bitter sweet taste of revenge. Except that the guy that destroyed me is my teammate, I'm a teddy bear, don't believe in revenge and I've got a lot of other things on me agenda anyway. Looks like I'll have to get used to looking like I just ran into a brick wall for the foreseeable future. If that's the type of sacrifice it takes to be somewhat pretty decent but not remotely near the best at something, then so be it.

Fuckin' scary as hell

zen and the art of being a man

When I make the effort to emerge from my apathetic shell it feels like I'm always trying to get to the next destination as fast as possible. Here, wherever here is, is never quite good enough. The grass is always greener, if you're into that type of thing, over the rainbow and straight on till morning. This is a most dissatisfying way to eek out an existence.

A man of great extremes, when I commit myself to something I do so doggedly. There's blood, sweat, tooth gnashing, a syphilitic scimitar weilding elf and a generous helping of machoistic posturing. How else are you supposed to get things done?

Zen and it's proponents propose another way, a middle way if you will. I'm no expert, so forgive me if I begin to spin my own interpretation. As far as effort goes, finding just the right touch is an art. Pushing hard doesn't always work. I see myself in a deft gentle negotiation with the universe, an intricate dance where we both take turns at the lead. That would be the ideal, but ideals are made to be broken.

I'm thinking this while at my first official boxing training session. You know that aching burning feeling you get in your loins when something is really hard and your lungs are about to explode? OK, you probably don't know, it's not normal. Well, I'm trying to escape the pain by philosophizing. Amidst my brushes with enlightenment comes the thought "just get through this, it'll be over soon." Why am I wishing my life away? Sure it hurts, life is suffering, be in the moment. There's nothing new under the sun. It (and by it I mean how to be) is not new, it works so why not try it? I want to experience my own life.

I'm done. My sweat line is down to my toes. I've left a tiny puddle at each station of the circuit, marking my new territory much to the chagrin of the cleaning staff. Now it's OK to think about stuff. What if I tried and failed instead of forgoing the trying and failing anyway? This could work if I do it the right way. I retire from league, I've always been a one man wolf pack type guy. Boxing's cool and it's just me against the world in the ring. This is my day now: I work, I train, I cool off at the beach, I come home and write. At the beach the ocean is daunting and powerful and f*cking scary. The waves crash against me and I don't move. I'm here.