My feet are tight in my black and white shoes. The shoestrings are woven through the holes of my high top shoes, the sensation in my toes is gone. The only feeling there is, is one of anticipation, of anxiety, of calm excitement. Soon the staccato of my bag work will turn into a tattoo into someone's head. I take a deep breath and walk into the ring...
I've been focusing on boxing lately. Partially due to the infrequency of muay thai fights, partially due to my hands being my weakness. Good fighters, good strategists, focus on their weaknesses as much if not more so than their strengths.
I like Mike Tyson. He is a man and yet he is spectacle, he encompasses both. I suppose that is what part of being the spectacle is, that contradiction. One is a star, and yet human. Living above and beyond the normal human life (reputedly) and yet being all too human. For me Tyson is real because of his errors, his blatantly tragic life. I think what is poignant about him is that he showed the monstrosity of what being human is. He lived a life of obvious error, obvious because he was on stage, constantly viewed by the panoptican of the ever filming spectacle (a certain nod to "reality tv" should be made here). I actually don't think that he has done worse or better than any of us out here in "tv land" but because he is on tv, his position is different. His being a star makes his errors more acute. Sadly Tyson is not the only man to do to violence against his lovers, loved ones, and or playmates, he is just the one who has been caught on camera.
On a completely unrelated note I hope to be writing regularly again here. Once a week being my goal. More comments from readers is always an encouragement to write on the regular.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
The principles of Nietzsche
I haven't been writing, well not on the blog. I've continued my writing elsewhere, letters, short stories, an article for mymuaythai. I've also been busy with training again. On Saturday I'll be fighting my first amateur boxing fight. I look forward to the bout. It will be good experience and I feel I'll perform well. Afterwards I plan on taking a short break from the world of pugilism and muay thai, perhaps a week. I hope to finish up some of my writing projects, and maybe start something up on here. In the mean time here is a link to my write up about my latest fight (along with a video).
And for your enjoyment I've posted a good Gossip video. Perhaps my favorite part of this song is the reference to my favorite author. I was recently told by a friend (this is something that I've heard countless times) that Nietzsche is a favored philosopher amongst prisoners. Why is that?
Heavy Cross
And for your enjoyment I've posted a good Gossip video. Perhaps my favorite part of this song is the reference to my favorite author. I was recently told by a friend (this is something that I've heard countless times) that Nietzsche is a favored philosopher amongst prisoners. Why is that?
Heavy Cross
Sunday, September 20, 2009
Training Journal 3- I run so far away
I run a lot. Nearly every day. A slow week will have me go out onto the pavement 4 times. Most weeks I'm passing by the landscape wearing my jogging shoes at least 6 times. My runs are usually between 3 to 5 miles. It takes me about 40 minutes. I never really ran before I started to do muay thai. Never really thought about it that much. Now though, I like it. I like the steady tap, tap of my shoes on the pavement. The rhythmic beat of my heart, and the slow breathes I take in. I count my breaths to maintain my breathing. In for one second and out for two. I like the feeling of solitude and the day dreaming.
When I run I think about my fight. I try to imagine it in as much detail as possible. I picture the way my opponent acts and my reactions. I envision the crowd, the sound of Mike and or Coke's voice, telling me what to do. I see myself getting hit, and in turn hitting. The imagery helps move me along even when I'm tired.
I don't spend my entire time thinking about the fight. I spend a fair amount of time organizing my thoughts and my goals. I think about how long I have to accomplish something and what little step I will make that day to make progress towards my goal.
I think about girls, I think about stories, I think about the landscape, and I don't think of anything at all.
When I run I think about my fight. I try to imagine it in as much detail as possible. I picture the way my opponent acts and my reactions. I envision the crowd, the sound of Mike and or Coke's voice, telling me what to do. I see myself getting hit, and in turn hitting. The imagery helps move me along even when I'm tired.
I don't spend my entire time thinking about the fight. I spend a fair amount of time organizing my thoughts and my goals. I think about how long I have to accomplish something and what little step I will make that day to make progress towards my goal.
I think about girls, I think about stories, I think about the landscape, and I don't think of anything at all.
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
Training Journal 2 "Foxy Boxing"
I arrived at the gym at 7pm. Coke was running on the treadmill and the boxing class was underway. I warmed up with the jump rope. I threw it side to side, taking a hop in between, I twirled the jump rope in one rand then crossed my body. I bounced back and forth, and then lifted my knees up high. Skipping rope can be a bit dull and by "playing with the rope" as Robert says I not only become a little more interested in what I'm doing but improve my work out. Most boxing drills, skipping rope, the double end bag, and the speed ball, to name a few, are all about timing. What good is a great punch if it won't land where and more importantly when it should?
I box sparred 1o rounds tonight and stayed in the ring for a continuous 14. That's a lot for those of you who don't box. Granted the rounds were only two minutes but by round number 5 my body was becoming fatigued. I saw things coming but moved with the slow motion button on. It was as if a fuzzy fog settled on my body's reactions. Fighting through fatigue is important for the fight though.
Not only was the fatigue difficult but the training. Constantly being corrected can be difficult on the self esteem. Training not only builds your body but also your self confidence, your sense of who you are. If you give up and quit during training, well you might as well throw the towel in for the fight. Understanding your tribulations and overcoming them is what makes you strong. "A lesson from life's military school - whatever doesn't kill you make's you stronger," said the fighter's philosopher, Friedrich Nietzsche.
I box sparred mainly with a young, slightly heavier mexican man named Juan. Juan has fought a few amateur boxing bouts and has sharp hands. He got a bit tired in the third round, but was able to recover later (he got breaks, I didn't). Box sparring with him helped me to learn to use my footwork better, and to move my head. I dislike getting brained... after all I do love my intellect.
Tomorrow more training. My new girlfriend's name is Muay Thai. She's from thailand. Isn't that exotic?
I box sparred 1o rounds tonight and stayed in the ring for a continuous 14. That's a lot for those of you who don't box. Granted the rounds were only two minutes but by round number 5 my body was becoming fatigued. I saw things coming but moved with the slow motion button on. It was as if a fuzzy fog settled on my body's reactions. Fighting through fatigue is important for the fight though.
Not only was the fatigue difficult but the training. Constantly being corrected can be difficult on the self esteem. Training not only builds your body but also your self confidence, your sense of who you are. If you give up and quit during training, well you might as well throw the towel in for the fight. Understanding your tribulations and overcoming them is what makes you strong. "A lesson from life's military school - whatever doesn't kill you make's you stronger," said the fighter's philosopher, Friedrich Nietzsche.
I box sparred mainly with a young, slightly heavier mexican man named Juan. Juan has fought a few amateur boxing bouts and has sharp hands. He got a bit tired in the third round, but was able to recover later (he got breaks, I didn't). Box sparring with him helped me to learn to use my footwork better, and to move my head. I dislike getting brained... after all I do love my intellect.
Tomorrow more training. My new girlfriend's name is Muay Thai. She's from thailand. Isn't that exotic?
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
Training Journal
I've decided to keep a public training journal, not because I'm not writing about my training in my personal journal (I am) but as another writing exercise. This blog is mainly about me engaging in different writing exercises, sometimes I get feedback, most of the time I don't.
My fight against John Kusaba will be on October 10th in Santa Clara. I've actually trained to fight against him before earlier in the year. Unfortunately I had a sparring accident that split open my nose thus disabling me from the fight. I did, however, get to see Kusaba recently fight against Team USA's Kevin Arcero at the Fight Night at the Fox. Arcero with his diversity of weapons beat out the aggressive Kusaba.
So one of the changes I've been starting to make is in my diet. Mike, my head trainer, wants me to become stronger thus more protein in my diet. In addition he wants me to cut out white bread, white rice, and to eat 6 small meals a day. Eating smaller amounts boosts your metabolism. I'm on my third day of the new diet and I'm always, always hungry.
Along with the diet I'm going to start to do some weight training. On Thursday morning I did a strength and conditioning class. We warmed up then did fifteen dumb bell snatches (I used 30 lbs) with both arms then ran a quarter of a mile. We did five sets. I then did the boxing class.
Every day I'm doing pull ups to increase my upper body strength and additional push ups. In Thailand I don't think I did one pull up, nor that many push ups. I loathe pull ups and push ups but if you want to win you've gotta do the shit you hate.
Today my training consisted of fifteen minutes of jump rope. One of the side benefits of working on my boxing has been improved skipping skills which breaks up the monotony of jumping rope. I can now cross the rope, double under, and do a variety of footwork drills. I then shadow boxed. After shadow boxing I did some light padless sparring with Andrew. Padless sparring is good for timing and placement although one has to be careful not to bang up one's shins and or arms.
Coke held pads for me for 4 rounds. He told me to take my time within the clinch and to be more relaxed with my kicks. He got especially pissed at me when I accidentally kneed him in the balls. "Matt! I tell you to take your time," he screamed at me his voice high and cracking.
After the padwork I did five rounds on the bag and then kneed the bag. I finished with calisthenics.
My fight against John Kusaba will be on October 10th in Santa Clara. I've actually trained to fight against him before earlier in the year. Unfortunately I had a sparring accident that split open my nose thus disabling me from the fight. I did, however, get to see Kusaba recently fight against Team USA's Kevin Arcero at the Fight Night at the Fox. Arcero with his diversity of weapons beat out the aggressive Kusaba.
So one of the changes I've been starting to make is in my diet. Mike, my head trainer, wants me to become stronger thus more protein in my diet. In addition he wants me to cut out white bread, white rice, and to eat 6 small meals a day. Eating smaller amounts boosts your metabolism. I'm on my third day of the new diet and I'm always, always hungry.
Along with the diet I'm going to start to do some weight training. On Thursday morning I did a strength and conditioning class. We warmed up then did fifteen dumb bell snatches (I used 30 lbs) with both arms then ran a quarter of a mile. We did five sets. I then did the boxing class.
Every day I'm doing pull ups to increase my upper body strength and additional push ups. In Thailand I don't think I did one pull up, nor that many push ups. I loathe pull ups and push ups but if you want to win you've gotta do the shit you hate.
Today my training consisted of fifteen minutes of jump rope. One of the side benefits of working on my boxing has been improved skipping skills which breaks up the monotony of jumping rope. I can now cross the rope, double under, and do a variety of footwork drills. I then shadow boxed. After shadow boxing I did some light padless sparring with Andrew. Padless sparring is good for timing and placement although one has to be careful not to bang up one's shins and or arms.
Coke held pads for me for 4 rounds. He told me to take my time within the clinch and to be more relaxed with my kicks. He got especially pissed at me when I accidentally kneed him in the balls. "Matt! I tell you to take your time," he screamed at me his voice high and cracking.
After the padwork I did five rounds on the bag and then kneed the bag. I finished with calisthenics.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Interludes
The hand hovered over the candle. The flame warmed my hand. I could see the wax slowly melt. I wondered if my fingers could get any closer to the flame. I touched the flame with my forefinger. It didn't burn... at first. When it finally started to hurt, the heat really setting in, I pulled back on my seduction. My finger felt warm.
The Confusion
"Who are you, I mean really, who the fuck are you," she said.
"What are you talking about, we've been together forever, how do you not know who I am," he replied. He attempted to keep his tone even but there was a strain.
"How could you forget, today was important," she replied. Her voice dipped and soared with emotion.
"I didn't forget, didn't you get my present," he said.
"Present, what present. As if things could make up for your lack of presence."
The Wharf
The seals slid on the floating rafts. They barked. They slipped off. Their bodies were wet with the water. The drops of water rolled off their oil skinny. The rafts tilted as the seals moved around.
The Song
Her voice hit a high note. It was the same octave as her conversational voice. When she sang her voice was richer, as if she was drawing on a hidden well of treasure. She looked into the crowd, searching for eye contact. The song went on. She moved about the small stage the center of my attention.
The Warm Breeze
His skin tingled. He could feel the blood slowly trickle out. It ran a stream down on to his hands. He moved his fingers, slowly, the only way he could. He looked up. The sky was dark purple, the sun was setting, or was it rising. The orange rays of the sun shot through the sky.
Don't walk away
The street was empty. A small soda can rolled down the edge of the sidewalk pushed by its own momentum, seemingly autonomous. It got caught on a gutter drain. It stuck between the drain and the sidewalk. It was only after months of rain that the first sign of rust showed on its aluminum.
The Face in the Glass
He'd always wondered what it would feel like to murder. The desire struck him at odd times, on the toilet, during coitus, riding the subway, on his commute. Never at a specific individual but always the desire to kill, to render obsolete. He stared at the man across from him and reached out for his neck.
Age of Consent
I hated it when I couldn't get the car to start. I always worried that it wouldn't start after I had brought my date somewhere. I spent so much time worry about being inconvenient to my date that I never got around to asking that many girls out. I should have though. I should have brought the damn car to a mechanic, or fucking learned some mechanical skills myself.
The Confusion
"Who are you, I mean really, who the fuck are you," she said.
"What are you talking about, we've been together forever, how do you not know who I am," he replied. He attempted to keep his tone even but there was a strain.
"How could you forget, today was important," she replied. Her voice dipped and soared with emotion.
"I didn't forget, didn't you get my present," he said.
"Present, what present. As if things could make up for your lack of presence."
The Wharf
The seals slid on the floating rafts. They barked. They slipped off. Their bodies were wet with the water. The drops of water rolled off their oil skinny. The rafts tilted as the seals moved around.
The Song
Her voice hit a high note. It was the same octave as her conversational voice. When she sang her voice was richer, as if she was drawing on a hidden well of treasure. She looked into the crowd, searching for eye contact. The song went on. She moved about the small stage the center of my attention.
The Warm Breeze
His skin tingled. He could feel the blood slowly trickle out. It ran a stream down on to his hands. He moved his fingers, slowly, the only way he could. He looked up. The sky was dark purple, the sun was setting, or was it rising. The orange rays of the sun shot through the sky.
Don't walk away
The street was empty. A small soda can rolled down the edge of the sidewalk pushed by its own momentum, seemingly autonomous. It got caught on a gutter drain. It stuck between the drain and the sidewalk. It was only after months of rain that the first sign of rust showed on its aluminum.
The Face in the Glass
He'd always wondered what it would feel like to murder. The desire struck him at odd times, on the toilet, during coitus, riding the subway, on his commute. Never at a specific individual but always the desire to kill, to render obsolete. He stared at the man across from him and reached out for his neck.
Age of Consent
I hated it when I couldn't get the car to start. I always worried that it wouldn't start after I had brought my date somewhere. I spent so much time worry about being inconvenient to my date that I never got around to asking that many girls out. I should have though. I should have brought the damn car to a mechanic, or fucking learned some mechanical skills myself.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
The reporter
I wanted to drink myself to death. I wanted to let my liver fail while in an alcoholic stupor. I wanted my kidneys to fail while processing the shit beer, bourbon, and wine coolers I abused them with. The latter I was not only flagellating my liver with but my sense of self. I was after all a man's man, an ex athlete and a sportswriter for a major magazine.
Of course the magazine had been going down like the titanic for some time. Who reads these days? No one. Luckily my writing was quippy enough to garnish a point and click spot on the home page, usually under the swimsuit model's groin. A lucky spot all the other hacks at the rag would say.
I'd relocated to Vegas. The city of sin. Now the city of economic recession. The city that was every other city but more. The lights still burned on the strip but powered by what? The staff of all the hotels, casinos, and resorts were all being chopped up like garlic at Gilroy's annual festival. Somehow though the show still went on. The spectacle still turned itself over and over even if its structure was more fragile, and more masqueraded.
I'd been moved out to Vegas to cover all the major shows. The magazine didn't want to have to fly to pay better writers to Vegas. They settled on me because I was; single, willing to relocate, and a mediocre writer able to churn out the dribel they wanted. If there's anything I'm good at its dribbling. So much so that when I sleep I sometimes drool. Mainly when I sleep on my left side and am under the influence of the drink.
I got a small apartment for five hundred dollars on the north side of the strip. Far enough away from the strip proper to be slummy, south enough of old Vegas to be well, slummy. The good thing was that it wasn't far from the bus stop where I could take an air conditioned bus to whatever air conditioned house of cards I wanted. The air conditioning was important as my, well lets face it slummy apartment, wasn't air conditioned. The blazing desert heat parched my tongue forcing me to drink more, and drinking more made me even more dehydrated, the poor, poor, plight of the alcoholic. I'm sure you've heard it before. Who hasn't read that repetitive fuck Bukowski, the boring Miller, the overstated Hemingway?
My first assignment was at the Palms. It was a new casino off the strip, a late bloomer. It vibed sexy, young, modern, and ridiculously stupid. I did a piece on an MMA show there. Young cornfed fucktards fought each other for thousands of dollars as orange skinned retards from southern california cheered on. It was an exercise in not asking for the wrath of God.
After the show I went upstairs. Having a media pass does have its advantages, mainly in the access to the clubs, thus to the plastic tits in the background of these shows. I'd been looking for some silicone when I saw her standing on the balcony. She dressed really classy. Pearl beads strung around her swan like with matching earrings. She looked like Jackie O but who the fuck looks like that these days. Who the fuck remembers who Jackie O was!? I stood by the railing and said a few things, I can't really remember what. If I could remember those sort of things, you know the first things you say when you meet someone maybe I'd be a better writer but I can't. Fuck it.
Later I would find out her name, Holly, Ms. Golightly.
Of course the magazine had been going down like the titanic for some time. Who reads these days? No one. Luckily my writing was quippy enough to garnish a point and click spot on the home page, usually under the swimsuit model's groin. A lucky spot all the other hacks at the rag would say.
I'd relocated to Vegas. The city of sin. Now the city of economic recession. The city that was every other city but more. The lights still burned on the strip but powered by what? The staff of all the hotels, casinos, and resorts were all being chopped up like garlic at Gilroy's annual festival. Somehow though the show still went on. The spectacle still turned itself over and over even if its structure was more fragile, and more masqueraded.
I'd been moved out to Vegas to cover all the major shows. The magazine didn't want to have to fly to pay better writers to Vegas. They settled on me because I was; single, willing to relocate, and a mediocre writer able to churn out the dribel they wanted. If there's anything I'm good at its dribbling. So much so that when I sleep I sometimes drool. Mainly when I sleep on my left side and am under the influence of the drink.
I got a small apartment for five hundred dollars on the north side of the strip. Far enough away from the strip proper to be slummy, south enough of old Vegas to be well, slummy. The good thing was that it wasn't far from the bus stop where I could take an air conditioned bus to whatever air conditioned house of cards I wanted. The air conditioning was important as my, well lets face it slummy apartment, wasn't air conditioned. The blazing desert heat parched my tongue forcing me to drink more, and drinking more made me even more dehydrated, the poor, poor, plight of the alcoholic. I'm sure you've heard it before. Who hasn't read that repetitive fuck Bukowski, the boring Miller, the overstated Hemingway?
My first assignment was at the Palms. It was a new casino off the strip, a late bloomer. It vibed sexy, young, modern, and ridiculously stupid. I did a piece on an MMA show there. Young cornfed fucktards fought each other for thousands of dollars as orange skinned retards from southern california cheered on. It was an exercise in not asking for the wrath of God.
After the show I went upstairs. Having a media pass does have its advantages, mainly in the access to the clubs, thus to the plastic tits in the background of these shows. I'd been looking for some silicone when I saw her standing on the balcony. She dressed really classy. Pearl beads strung around her swan like with matching earrings. She looked like Jackie O but who the fuck looks like that these days. Who the fuck remembers who Jackie O was!? I stood by the railing and said a few things, I can't really remember what. If I could remember those sort of things, you know the first things you say when you meet someone maybe I'd be a better writer but I can't. Fuck it.
Later I would find out her name, Holly, Ms. Golightly.
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