ever since i was reminded of my physical “tic,” that tightening up that i can lapse into, i’ve made it a project to change that. to undo it. i asked myself how do you train to relax? and realized, through the doing, that i had the question wrong. after all, i had already trained–unwittingly–to tighten up when either i prepared for physical exertion, or my mind involved itself in matters martial. so it was more how to untrain that habit. or how to “see” it; how to become conscious of when this other training kicked in, and to rewire and replace with other behavior and mental messaging.

it sounds complicated when i put it into words, of course, but it’s a simple process that we undertake to change a habit and i’m sure you are familiar with it.

i had the ‘self check’ part right. the tightening had become unconscious, and so i had to more or less set a mental recurring alarm to note my upper body, to trip a circuit when i made myself rigid, and to relax. to breathe. that’s what it came down to. i was stopping breathing. and so in checking myself over a course of days, i realized that i was doing it when exerting at home, as well. a bad habit. stretch to reach something? pick something up to move it? push hard on something? you have to remember to always be letting breath move through your body. it’s an understandable though destructive habit, to hold your breath when you exert. it checks your power, it slows you down, it sets you up to be exploded (your balance as well as your blood vessels or muscles) and thrown off balance by a blow or a big shift in the terrain/your body/the situation.

so i made that effort, i dipped into that energy that i find very accessible when training in TKD; that will-mustard that spreads thick and pungent. it’s a powerful current from the mind, it’s invoked when you really really care about your discipline (of whatever nature) and really mean it down to your bones to change something you are doing, a habit, a way of being. this intention…this current, is stronger than usual. more effective from being so charged with meaning for you…i guess that’s one way of saying it, maybe not the best. but that’s one of those things i love about training in TKD. the Can Do, the Will Do, the ability to align your mental energy and focus with your physical self. the competition against your weaker or lazier self, or the housing of a battle between entropy and evolution within your own frame.

wow, it all sounds very grandiose. you’ll have to forgive me, i’m sort of a drama queen. but please also know that i mean it all very sincerely.

so, i practiced at home just by living, as well as kicking and punching practice. i loosened up my upper body. as often, when i really really mean it with something (like when i quit smoking cigarettes cold turkey the first time i walked into the dojang) the hardest part really is just the decision to commit fully. and once i do, bam. it’s like an iron door shutting. sort of how like yesterday i put away my grinder and coffee pot. i don’t drink coffee now. at least for now. so no need for that. moving forward. it was like this with the loosening up decision. it affected me deeply to realize what i was doing with my body. and it was important for me to progress past that unconscious reflexive action and state of being.

and it was immediately gratifying. looser and with wind moving through me, i kick higher. easier. faster. i practice some muy thai knee moves (these are part of my loosening up routine, less stress on my legs because you don’t extend in this case, only lift knee high) and am so happy to see how much faster i can move my knees and legs (stating the super obvious here) when i am not clamping down on my diaphragm.

and in loosening up, not just in practice, but in all i was doing, i experienced a different internal state. and somehow, in doing so, i realized that this tension was (of course) some kind of apprehension clinging to the inside of my ribs, hanging curled tight from my clavicles. some unforgiving energy i was holding toward myself…some fear of some sort…of something ahead. some insecurity, maybe partially an anxiety about training and how fast i was moving, or what it meant to practice violence, or just the challenge of pitting myself against my less willing parts.

ugh. i really hate putting some things into words. while it is a service to demystify some well-entrenched verbal hackery surrounding some matters, to simplify; in other areas you can only wave crude symbols around and you feel it does a disservice to the magic of what you attempt to describe. this is one of those times.

but as often happens in pursuits that involve your heart (so far i’ve found this so with acting as well as martial art), you realize that the small technique you strive to master physically really is but a symbol for the ethereal matters of your soul. and so on letting go of a tension that binds your lungs tight and your shoulders as if steel, you exhale into tears, and into relief. you realize you have been carrying around something…something you don’t need to. it slows you down. it makes you heavy. maybe you don’t do it all at once, maybe you only begin to do it. but it is a beginning that feels like a loosening, an unraveling of some thing that binds a part of you. and you don’t do it with a profuse streaming out of chipped edge and mushy bottomed words. you don’t do it with therapy sessions. you simply realize this tightness is interfering with the progress you want to make in your art. and you decide it must go, then.

and you practice. and practice. and practice.

sabum complimented my motions today, and it made me feel very good. i knew then that my little project was working, and not just in my imagination. myself and someone else were practicing kicking techniques togother; we were doing Ahp Chagi (Front Kick), Tdwim Yah Chagi (Jumping Front Kick), Chirugi (Punch). you do these in sequence so it’s one, two, three.  kick, step, jump, kick in the air, land, punch from the hip. (there’s something about these motions–and this is why it is an art–that just sort of clicks when you hit them the way they are designed, and they become physically joyful to execute…that’s the sweet spot you practice toward in a move.)

sabum watched me and shouted happily, “Now you have it! You are much lighter. Before, heavy.”

i smiled widely and bowed, thanked him as he turned away to move to the front of the room.

and in all of this, i realize too that i just have to lean back. i want to bring myself up to speed in a few days. after a hiatus of over a decade. that’s ridiculous. if i push myself too hard i’ll keep pulling muscles (which i may do anyway, but wow, my right hamstring is rebelling!), and well, i’ll be crouched into a cramp, as i try to rush forward. so i let go of that. i am where i should be. i am practicing. i am lucky enough to have my health be in good shape. and as sabum—and my own internal signals—let me know today, i am making progress.

and you can take those inner ideas and decisions, and spread them around, too. to the rest of what you do and how you are. i mean, that’s the idea, really. it’s all one.

“It is not just with his throat that the lark sings, but with his whole body.”

—Soseki

currently reading famed japanese author soseki (1867-1916, natsume kinnosuke). kusa makura is the name of the book, literally translated as “the grass pillow,” a phrase traditionally colloquially understood in japan as a journey. [the title of the english-language translation of the novel is the three cornered world].

soseki grew up in the Meiji era, where Western styles of thought and art threatened to subsume the country in a wave of adulation for the new and foreign styles. soseki concerned himself with critiquing and aiming to destroy the schools of thought that bound the other writers of the time, despite how many followers of his own he gained. because he concerned himself with this deconstruction, soseki is perceived to have held himself somewhat superior to much of society. this constant critique set him apart from his one other known contemporary (mori ogai) who also bucked the growing trend to copy the West or join the popular schools at the time and was on his own. one of the factors in soseki’s life that lent to this edge was his background not in one of these Japanese schools so taken with the literature and thinkers out of the West, but in the Chinese classics.

soseki died at 49 of an ulcerated stomach.

in kusa makura, the author undertakes a journey through the countryside to explore poetry, or rather, his role and function as a writer, or poet, or one who endeavors to elevate beauty, or to communicate the latent beauty in all things.

After thirty years of life in this world of ours, I have had more than enough of the suffering, anger, belligerence and sadness which are ever present; and I find it very trying to be subjected to repeated doses of stimulants designed to evoke these emotions when I go to the theatre or read a novel. I want a poem which abandons the commonplace, and lifts me, at least for a short time, above the dust and grime of the everyday world; not one which rouses my passions to an even greater pitch than usual.

he believes that when artists/poets do this, we stand apart from the situation to do so. and that anytime we experience our surroundings as an individual rather than this detached character/observer, we forget the beauty that exists there. i think my own experience is a bit more nuanced, and less dichotomized than this sentence conveys, but have no fear. soseki often writes a passionate paragraph and then demonstrates his inclination to do exactly the opposite. so there is much being said, and the wielding of such ambiguities or contradictions is a masterful and not accidental movement.

it really is funny, what he does in his writing. i find myself nodding, then stilled with sensual appreciation at his painterly descriptions, then suddenly laughing at the points he makes through metaphor. and not just metaphor, but metaphor with metaphor, all exploded by a narrator who continually finds the humor in his own hypocrisy.

by “hypocrisy,” i think i am using a broad sense of the word…as in to mean hypocrisy as well as a position of ambivalence or duality; this inherent doubling that occurs from a perch he tries continually to occupy, or at least regain. statements made about ego (as in the identity of I, of self, separated from this experience that nature is), about artists, about drama, lives, others….i’ve only begun, only in chapter 4, now. i’m sure it draws this all together even more.

though i don’t necessarily expect a pat conclusion. what i love about reading literature from china and japan and india is how that need is less demonstrated, that ugly clunky self-conscious need to provide artificial closure or insight or to milk out some acidic moral at the end of it all. i am not saying that eastern thinkers have no point to make. far from it. but there is more speaking through doing. learning through moving through the story, not so much having that meaning delivered in a chunk somewhere in the third act. and nicely tied off, too boot.

oh, but in these writings—such gentle and magical ways in which points are often offered. just my word choice ought tip you off. made vs offered. nobody is going to jackhammer your shoulderblades so that you exit with a three-dimensional stamp of understanding™ etched into your skin. there is beauty to be felt, meaning to be had, and moreover an experience that is there just for reading. or looking. it’s that understanding of the moment, of the Now, of that essence of human experience that always draws me in.

soseki entrances you with prose so visually rich you could lift a screenplay out of it with one hand. you find yourself in moon-drenched night scenes, heart palpitating to the mysteries he begins weaving in. woman or fox in the brush? human shadow or tricks of the eyes? then he’ll shift into a self-conscious, wryly humorous and self-obsessed narration about artists and reality that makes you think you’ve stumbled onto some strange blend of dosteovsky, patrick white (author of the vivisector, another book about the artist’s condition, and one also soaked in visually rich prose), and a japanese poet. i’m having a blast with it so far. i wondered right away from reading comments about the author if i would simply be moving at a measured pace through many pages of rich visual description, and i was ready for that. that experience bereft of a plot line. i didn’t expect the humor, the valuable insights about art and self, nor the gradually strengthening narrative.

his use of metaphor through nature’s happenings, buttressed by plainspeak regarding his thoughts is a very delicious and unexpected method. when i said “metaphor within metaphors” that’s really what i meant. perhaps it would be more accurate to say “metaphors on metaphors” or “metaphor along metaphor.” the idea of this style challenges spatial analogies, i guess. it’s like a book in two languages, where spanish is always on one side of the book, and the facing page is in english. soseki is speaking in visual metaphor side by side with prose….which sometimes uses metaphor of its own! so you are swirled, enraptured, held on all sides by a tale and at the same time a sensual experience of the tale.

the introduction to the book did not even seem to catch this jazzy motion of his, although i’m sure it was simply something they chose to leave out, as not every nuance of an author’s style can or should be divulged in the intro. but it seems a brilliant thing to be doing, and one that a reader perhaps should be warned (english very much needs a positive verb for ‘warn’ed) about before reading the book.

as i wrote earlier, we are told that soseki believed it the role of an artist to provide beauty, to unearth and display that latent and always present beauty in every experience. in this philosophy, he felt it was beneath an artist to be concerned with much of the mundane.

but then again there is his wonderful ambiguity. because at the same time, he places himself in little poems (through his telling of stories or the settings, such as a poet wandering up a rainy mountainside etc) that could be beautiful and transcendant, but then in exploring this function of artist who stands apart, he destroys the image and calls out how ridiculous and human his immediate experience is. this made me laugh. it was not written as a joke…but what he was saying by what he was doing was brilliant, and the final end result gave me joy.

i only included one paragraph, above, from this book. it cannot stand as representative of the reading experience. here are two more. even so, they are but crumbs plucked from the tablecloth, and i’d scatter more, but this is a meal best tasted from the first, and enjoyed at your own pace. to appreciate the many flavors, the many layers, the subtleties, the poetry of the whole.

The flowers whirl away
In the wind like snow.
The thing that falls away
Is myself.

Hana sasou
Arashi no niwa no
Yuki narade
Furi yuki mono wa
Waga mi narikeri

—THE PRIME MINISTER KINTSUNE

i am doing the spring cleaning thing, finally. i wondered when it would manifest. we are into july. but it had to be a moment that chose itself. one thing led to another.

it’s really amazing when you can sit back and stop trying to tie ends together and bring certain realities to bear…trying to arrange things against their own movement into the shape you think best, and instead become watchful and flexible so that you can move yourself to best enjoy or appreciate what things life is doing and bringing your way. what treasures reveal themselves, then. ones you’d not have thought to look for. and many seemingly magical coincidences.

i finally got behind all my furniture in the living room. cleared the junk away behind everything. threw some things out, rerouted some wires. i’ll need to do this to the kitchen soon. i did a halfway job–which looked pretty good–but then dishes crowded in on everything. i really need to get rid of/give away most of my dishes. there is no reason for them anymore. i need only one small set. an extra two for visitors, which i can keep put away. for myself a glass, a cup, a plate, a bowl, a fork, a spoon, a knife and chopsticks. that should do it. there is no reason my sink and counter should get piled up with enough dishes to feed a blogging convention.

master lee is a great sabum, a great teacher i can tell right away. not only does word of mouth move around him like a wide ring of fresh energy, extolling his kindness and ability, but it is plain to see.

luna's first day at the dojang

luna has not yet really been able to enjoy her class. the first time she came with me to all belts practice, but it was above her ability and she felt a bit shy and didn’t really know what to do but  she’ll engage and have a great time when she attends the children-specific class, which would’ve happened already but she caught the nasty cough her sister has and they are both quarantined for now.

but it sure is great to see her in her dobok. not only is she the most adorable white belt ever, but it’s always been important to me to have my girls (my girls especially, tho i’d like to see all my kids in tkd) train since rainsong was little (tho my attempst there failed). her mother wasn’t interested in that idea, but instead put rain into bible camp and horse riding courses. i tried my best, when i could, to introduce rainsong to the idea and to practicing. but you know how those busted relationships can go…some people will specifically strike anything from your kids’ life that you want or that reminds them of you, so deep is their loathing for the other parent of their child. this is still one of those cases.

rainsong and me, 1996ish

when you think about it, it’s impressive that some people can maintain active hate for decades. it’s like a worship of you, in a way. you remain that important to them…even if negatively. hmm. yeah. not for me. that life is not for me. i honor nobody with that kind of self-immolation.

soon luna will make friends in the dojang and she will (i hope?) love it. master lee already asked a few people (girls) on that first day to help luna get her dobok on when she first was fitted, and they whisked her away to later come back with dear luna in her outfit. she looked like a doll!

then, since lunita didn’t really know what you do in a dojang, she told the girls she was going to cover her eyes and they should run and hide. that sort of broke my heart. not that luna was sad, or confused, or anything bad happened. it didn’t. they agreed, and luna covered her eyes, but i actually brought luna to me before she had a chance to start a game, so i could keep her  close.

even the sweet moments watching your child can break your heart into a billion pieces for reasons you don’t even know. your children can seem so sweet, and so naive; so helpless and to survive, dependent on the good graces of the cruel, cruel world. watching them meet the world can surprise you, can rend you with pain you normally never feel for yourself, so inured you are to the way things are. even watching someone else tell her to not lean on the mirrors is not easy, in a tiny, private way. but only for a moment. it will all be good for her, which is of course why she is there. i can be very sensitive to my hypersensitive luna’s feelings, i know. which is why it will be best to give her to the children’s class and master lee, and back off of that part.

master lee brought good reminders to help her feel the dojang was ‘her place’ and to simply support her and tell her she did a good job. which i did. soon, she will meet all the younger kids there, and enjoy the special attention that master lee gives them.

i am still mightily sore, but in different ways than after the first day. and without so much pain. most excitingly, i did better on pacing myself. which is important if i want to make it through the entire class. if i don’t watch out for my pacing, i’ll launch every punch, strike, and kick with full kihap and full intensity, full speed and full extension. this will end up with me heaving for air.  master lee tells me that for the first month, i should keep my energy at about 6, instead of 10 because while my body remembers how to practice, i need to recondition and bring it back to training shape. he has to remind me a few times, but its sticking. i finished last class without stopping, tho many times i was close and really had to push through. he had us doing these wall to wall running, kicking, bowling, shotputting, basketball motion type drills which were exhausting. he told me he developed those specifically for when he was training the olympic tkd team.

on friday, master lee made sure to come around at the start of new exercises and show me the form, which i appreciated. i want to learn the movement from him. most people practicing that i’ve seen up close (lower ranks especially) often implement varying degrees of sloppiness, and i need to see a crisp original so i can copy it exactly. even if not sloppy, not everyone has the ability to render a martial arts movement beautiful. some bodies and brains just don’t seem to get there; they don’t feel that groove to lock into, or won’t snap tightly at the right moment, or maybe they just get there later, i don’t know. but i pay special attention to those who perform these moves a certain way. obviously, master lee is one of those. my body wants to do these moves without any loss of signal, without any degradation of art. of those who practice forms/poomsae sort of loosely or halfheartedly, i don’t think they are bad practitioners. but i guess i don’t understand why they are not getting everything out of it you could. gliding and then jamming and locking it out…extending, floating and BAM…. it’s a conscience-laden, gorgeous dance that has a center, a core that ties it all together. it’s not just a collection of moves that are arranged in a linear sequence like a checkbox list. if i sound judgmental, it’s not in a mean way. just in a way where i evaluate a context around me and decide where i need to be within that.

it made me feel very good that this focus of mine was noticed by a few people already (black belt instructors among them), people who made it a point to tell me. this lets me know i’m not living in a dream of my own imagining, but am demonstrating with my body what is taking place within, and that this performance mirrors my own perceptions. to me, taekwondo really is an art and it really must be perfected for the whole essence to work, i feel. not that you have to get stuff perfect right away, or soon. but my art will require me to get there at some point, to aim for that. martial arts (tkd) to me is like an invaluable personal close special friend that speaks to me on a very true level. because of that i feel i understand what its creators were/are getting at, i’ve grokked that since i first began training. that’s why my love for it is so deep. it does what religion tries to. it guides you along a path that allows you to access a higher self, a pure self that demonstrates focus, strength, balance, energy, and love into your life, into your body, helps you become a vessel of as much. but you have to work it like it is an art, not just a hobby and not just something you do for aerobics.

right now i’m trying my best to catch up on the forms, and the commands and responses. master lee’s dojang has a whole new set of protocol. what you say when you enter, what you say when you leave. what you shout in response to his drills. i feel all bumbly and unschooled! keeping my responses quiet as i listen to how others do it. hey, i’d love to come in all knowledgeable, but we all learn, and we all progress if we want to. its good for the humility bone. and again, i just can’t stand people who don’t know how to be humble on the mat about what they have yet to master. there’s something beautiful about a person’s humility as they learn something important to them. they only shine brighter once they learn and learn well.

—i stop here to muse suddenly on the fact that some people who know me only from online interactions might think i am not humble or that i cannot be, or am the opposite of humble (often my ego is a monster, it is true). i’ve heard as much. then again, as i try to remind them, you don’t know me from only reading me online. none of us know each other if that is the depth of our relationship and i stand by that. but despite the validity of that opinion, and however we are perceived, the truth is that we are many things and could become any of those things we choose. to whatever degree we want. we must find those things and pursuits and ways that help us become the self we feel is truest.

on protocol in the new dojang, i’ve got my sheet of paper and i’m finding pronunciation on youtube, and i’m listening hard in class, and asking when i’m stumped on something. i studied stuff about General Choi and some Korean history when i used to train, but i’m pretty sure in this school and our style of tkd, General Choi is de-emphasized, and i think it is because of the split in style and origins. i have to read more on it. but i also have to do my work for pay, for rent. so dividing time wisely is key. but soon i will get a couple books from the library out so i can expand my understanding of this art and its history. which reminds me, i’ve also taken up more reading lately.

it would be easy to dive fully into training and let many other things fall away. i have to find a balance there, too. for now i am going to three classes a week, and trying to see how that fits into my schedule. maybe later i will go more. when the body stops being sore at three times a week! mixing it up is good. so was the slushy margarita i got at the bar and grill down the street from the dojang on friday, after class. i have a feeling i’ll be back there, too.

this morning i read the intro to mein kampf, and most of a book of japanese poetry.

other things have happened that are worthy of discussing. but i’ve written here long enough.

I was writing recently on how much I love the Legend of Zelda games. I’ve played them since the 2D days, tho I really didn’t truly fall full in love until I got my N64 (secondhand) and fired up Ocarina of Time. I fell into that little world and didn’t come up for air for a while! And while Majora’s Mask threw me for a loop with the three-day time circuit, once I came to understand that one, my admiration for Nintendo’s genius only deepened. Just the fact that almost every game they dare to break the mold (and receive their share of criticism for it) is admirable in a world where so many find a formula for success and dare not muss one element from place after that.

The Zelda games are amazingly thought out, the artwork is rich and inviting, the use of symbols and themes complex and satisfying, the depth of the games astounding, and most of all they are a lot of fun.

What is most important to me with games like this—and today I mean games that I let my daughters play, or teach them to play—are the themes that the game communicates. I am very big on reading the themes and symbols and messaging that movies, games, and other media sends our way as listeners and participants. Because in that, there is a massive amount of power that is wielded on young minds.

I remember, now, arguing (a friendly discussion) with one woman I am friends with about the film Finding Nemo. She thought it was fantastic, while I cared not at all for the role of the female fish, given the entire cast and story. (However, I love the art, and do enjoy the story in other ways.) We both have children (she has two boys, while my two current youngest ones are girls) so we both have interest in what messaging they soak up. I will admit that I think much more about it, and perhaps “too much” to some. But I can’t really help that. Not only does my personal experience lead me to think it is very important, very very important, but my training in media, film, and the narratives communicated by cinema (even subtly), makes finding these elements in media instinctive at this point. No real effort required anymore.

In Finding Nemo, I felt the female fish was made silly, forgetful, ditzy and secondary to the assertive, take-charge (tho foolish) male (lead) fish. The male fish barks at her constantly and demeans her with his tone. I’ll make an important point: Depending on what age group you are talking about, the focus will shift as will the importance of how you frame messages. Us older people understand Albert Brooks’ very Jewishy kvetching humor (and I love him) but to a child, what is shown? What is taught? What message is contained only in that box, in that frame, in that two hours, without the benefit of addendum, backstory, or larger context? Us older folk (and this was my friend’s argument in favor of the film) realize in the end that the male fish is a clinging, fearful, arrogant, buffoon, and that the female—though stricken with amnesiac tendencies—was wiser all the while. That’s a good message for young women and adolescent girls to be given (as well as males). Especially given that they will face the domineering and dismissive tone that the male fish exudes during Finding Nemo. But with younger children, that ability to contextualize is less likely to exist, and instead, another message is transmitted by hours of realtime experience wherein the female component of the story is seen to be annoying, spoken to as if stupid, ignored, and forgetful.

Why do I love Zelda games? Many reasons. I must mention first the lush art environment and deeply engaging gaming dynamics. Further, the scoring is amazing. Unique, filled with interesting instruments (many I’d guess are from Japan, where Nintendo is based), and variations on themes adapted for smaller subgames, and the many different temples and locations within the game. The music made such an impression on me, I own and sometimes play the soundtrack for Majora’s Mask, though I cannot read the disc or the liner notes! I could write an entire blog post just on the scoring, and another just on the art.

In those senses, the 64 bit and up games are masterpieces. But equally (and sometimes more) rewarding is the messaging in many cases. I could write for a long time on how I love a game that for once does not pose the East as the Source of All Things Evil. The Eurocentric model of geographic morality is ubiquitous, from the Tolkien trilogy to just about any other fable that splashes on our screens or stacks up on our bookracks. Even so, the Japanese company is selling very much to a market that obviously prefers that blonde still equals Hero. Yet, while it relies on typical “light” vs “dark” for overall Good vs. Evil terminology and storytelling (e.g., “the hero wielded the golden power against the dark forces of Evil” etc), the game will break with that and have powerful, Good, dark-skinned (female) faeries, or otherwise upset such stereotypes.

To touch on that cultural note again, I enjoy how while the game is not “Asian” per se, many voices/dialects/exclamations as well as musical strains/instruments and even facial design in some cases (Grandmother, Orca, and others) carry the flavor of the land in which they were created. And I like that. There is a terrible lot of negative messaging in the US regarding any peoples and nations in the EAST. And it is so splintered and woven into so many pieces of media and literature that it is possible to inherit an entire weave of derision that you never planned on adopting. And I will not have that happen to my children whenever possible. These games may never utter a word about real-world Japanese or Chinese (and so on), but the influence of Asia is tangible, and positive.

Again, thinking of my girls, I enjoy that the game doesn’t use blood or gore, but dramatic orchestra stings and vivid, acrobatic swordplay with flashes of light and smoke when you strike down your opponents. Also, when you are engaged in meléé with opponents and knock them to the ground, you cannot strike again until they get up and turn to face you, in almost all cases.

I deeply appreciate the nuanced typing; like many villains to be found in the Asian realms of literature and cinema, the “bad guys” in Zelda are less polar characters than the villains in most Western storytelling. Some (like the troublesome Wind God, as well as Valoo the dragon to name two off the top of my head from Wind Waker) are not necessarily “evil” beings, but frustrated, or complex characters who may be good at some other time, or can become good at another part in the story. Even the very wicked Ganendorf, when confronted in The Forsaken Fortress, has a respectful talk with the still-weaker Link, and rather than smite him outright, flings him off to learn more and grow stronger so that a fair match will one day be possible. I find these depictions of humanity rewarding and important for my children to absorb. Far more useful than a world of Deciders who can divide people into Good Guys and Baddies.

In the Princess of Zelda line of games, wisdom is valued in Elders, and so is struggle to learn craft and gain that wisdom. There are many mentors and guides who are older than Link and more learned, and often his tasks involve training, or study, or journeys though which he can evolve and learn and grow stronger. I certainly don’t think playing video games is a substitute for pursuits of craft or knowledge in the world! But at least that messaging is there.

These elements (and many more) are not background. They only appear to be background. Meanwhile, they are instructing and instilling values and messages all the while. Especially in a young mind. That is my concern. Not just as a parent, and not just as a player, but as a person involved in video game creation, as well. (I am the Creative Director for a new gamecrafting studio based in Vancouver).

I wanted to take my time to write here about all the positive feelings I have about Zelda, because my real intent today is to speak about one role in Wind Waker that I feel violates my ideas of what is positive to show my daughters. However, if I only focused on that complaint, this post would feel lopsided, and be hugely unfair to the games.

Now that I’ve written about the many elements of the games I find superior, let me slow down and focus on the role of Medli, young Rito bird-girl who later discovers her greater role as Earth Sage. I suppose the reason I’m writing about it is because of how egregiously the role stands out.

Granted, the hero is a boy in the first place. I actually push back on this when reading the legend at the beginning of Wind Waker aloud to Luna, my four year old. It is so filled with male-affirming nobility and I don’t for a second feel the writers are intentionally slighting women…but all you need to be and feel slighted and thus develop a lower image of yourself as a person is to NOT see yourself represented over—and over and over again. That gap/absence/silence sends a strong message all by itself. Dora the Explorer (with her squeaky, shrieky voice) is not enough for me to present to my daughter. I want Luna (and Paloma), too, to imagine herself as a hero wielding a mighty blade, striking at the heart of Evil in a legendary quest!

So when the text reads something like “On a certain island, it became customary to garb boys in green when they came of age,” I will edit it as I read aloud, and change it to “It became customary to garb children in green…” And so on. I will take elements like that in stride, and yes, I can’t do it forever. One day Luna will realize I had been editing the telling of these stories, but at that point, I’m fine with it.

The Medli character is harder to take in stride.

She actually reminds me of the girl character in the first novel I wrote, a fantasy novel that was springing off of the characters in my first book. (I had a falling out with the publishing house, and even though fate immediately handed me a new contact at William Morris waiting for me to finish the novel and that wanted first dibs on representing me, I got caught up in life and never gave the manuscript another edit. Probably in part because I ended up feeling it really needed an entire rewrite and I haven’t had the time.)

This was when my thinking about women and men and the roles we are prescribed by the larger society was at a more fundamental place than it is today. In one of the passes my editor made through that book, she spoke to me about how the girl was a passive character, in place to facilitate the doings of the boy hero, and with her good feelings and value dependent on him. This was the first feedback I had received of that kind, and believe it or not, it was eye-opening to me. I saw immediately what she meant. I was…shocked is a strong word. But not by much! I was very taken aback. I had no desire to write such a flimsy character and send such messages to young women (or own children one day) and yet, there it was. I found my editor’s words extremely helpful, and an important step in the path I continue to walk on living a life and making a world wherein women and girls are restored their rightful power and respect. In fact, that revelation was one of the reasons I decided to shelve the book. But that story was written before a number of learnings made themselves evident to my mind. Some writers are, perhaps, not as fortunate.

Medli, the Rito girl in Wind Waker may as well be a video game version of my never-to-see daylight female companion character. You really can’t even dream up a better example of a passive, dependent, female character than Medli. She is so perfectly demonstrative of the type, that perhaps it is good she exists, if for no other reason than to be used as a teaching tool!

Let’s take a look at how Medli presents in Wind Waker:

a) When you meet Medli (as Link) she needs your help to fly to a ledge she cannot reach on her own, and so you throw her into the air, which boosts her.

b) Later you help her discover her powers as Earth Sage. But as mighty as this role is, she cannot do it without you. She cannot even play the melody on her harp that cracks open the entrance without Link first “conducting” her with his wand.

c) In fact, Medli cannot even cross from one room to another unless you carry her over the threshold. If you forget to bring her, she stays behind, but not before exclaiming in a soft, surprised, distressed voice “Oh!”

d) The only time you can move her on her own is by using the Command Melody, which Link plays with his wand. This allows him, in a trance-like state, to control her body. The only other characters in the game Link uses this power on are stone statues.

e) The one room you cannot take Medli into is the final showdown fight in the Temple. It is “far too dangerous for her.” After you are done with the intense battle, she can step up as Earth Sage.

f) When Medli gives Link important  hints as to how to best enlist her help to solve puzzles, she does so with an apologetic tone, begging forgiveness for assuming so much as to even suggest those things to Link!

g) You either summon Medli to move with you by running up close with Link and “calling” her (Link shouts “Come on!” and she follows), or you simply pick her up and carry her around. Which is what you do most of the time, as when she is following you, she can get stuck, or lost.

It may be tempting, even to assume meaning into her name: Medli. It sounds and looks like “meddle,” no? But here, I’d warn against reading too much into names. The names in Zelda games are often unfamiliar, and I’m guessing that may be due to the cross-cultural production of them.

So, you need Medli to fulfill this part of the game, but she soon becomes a hindrance to you. You end up resenting her character’s presence at times. Who wouldn’t? She cannot act for herself, she is one more thing for Link to worry about, carry around, and rescue from Floor Masters, when they grab her. She feels like a drag, a weight on your action. Obviously, this is a terrible role for a girl to emulate, or see presented. And it echoes current negative typing for women in just about the worst ways possible.

If Medli is to be the Earth Sage, why not use that part of the game to demonstrate her powers or aptitudes in All Things Earthly? Why not have Link be the one who is by her side, who aids her, who is happy to help as she ascends to her proper position? The thing is, it is just as possible to create these roles as any other.

Obviously, we can easily find signs aside from Medli that this is not the perfect game to show young girls what they are capable of—even if only in fantasy worlds—such as the most fundamental of narrative elements. After all, this began as a story about a Princess being rescued! And even in Wind Waker, the crux of the game revolves around Link rescuing or protecting various girls and women—from his younger sister, to Medli, and more. (Though to be fair, the leader of the pirate crew in Wind Waker is a firm, fierce woman not a fifth the size of her largest crewmembers. So again, the nuances exist.)

Further (and perhaps game makers might offer this as a sloppy justification for such pro-male/light-on-female-hero narratives), I doubt the target audience for these games is young girls! Then again, perhaps part of the reason girls typically do not play video games as much as boys is not due to biological wiring, or even so much to social conditioning. Perhaps it is simply for reasons such as I outline here. It’s no fun to play games where you don’t get to be the good guy. And nothing is more disappointing than seeing games or media that insist a girl’s biggest concern should be her prettiness, or other such decorative and non-heroic, non-behavioral attributes. Let the little girls draw swords, I say.

Ultimately, Wind Waker, and all the Zelda games, are breathtaking. And in many ways, they push against type—at least the typing enlisted in the USA. Medli’s character so stands out simply because she falls short—to my way of seeing things—of the very high level of art infused into so much of the Legend of Zelda games.

saw a doctor finally about the stomach thing and he put me on some retrinaline or whatever, designed to cut down on the amount of stomach acid that is produced, and hope that stops the burning font that’s been spilling for six years now but i wonder. i often feel as if i am ready to burn, am burning, need air, room, to burn hotter, brighter, fiercer, cut loose from the restraints all the world and my own body place on me…i sort of thought the condition was tied to my emotional/mental self but despite my poetic imaginations of psychic immolation, i’m excited to think these pills may help. i’m so sick of dealing with these symptoms, been dealing with this since 2003 in brooklyn when i was commuting 20 hours a week, three trains each day to westchester and got so stressed my stomach began eating my own body alive. i wondered tho if it was the espresso. i was never sure. either way, its been a long time i’ve been living with it…acid threads in the saliva…constant wash of stomach acid ended up weakening a tooth of mine until one day i bit down on some damn nutty bread and it broke right in half, weakened another crown til it broke and also made a filling fall out…it was a scary time i was like what is going ON??  felt like i was jeff goldbloom in The Fly til i figured it out. after all, i used to hit on a mylanta bottle like mekhi phifer in Clockers hit the yoo hoo. if you are kicking up that much stomach acid, its floating around your mouth nearly all the time which is sort of exciting to think about. does it give me superpowered bites? i know it does. one of my teeth is sharp like a dagger. laced with acid, even. and i have pretty strong jaws. i think i like to freak myself out with thoughts like this. i mean that in a good way of course.

when i came to the booth this morning i saw dude
didn’t like the way he was walking so i kept him in my view
he was headed to the booth
i cut wide, so that i could come up behind him without him knowing it
just in case he had any bad intentions in mind
i figured i could fall on him like batman
well, not like batman, more like felix cuz i’m one lithe cat so light on my feet you’ll never hear me coming
a fluid five foot six, suited in a black and gilded silver mix and i step on shadows softly like i’m melding music with my midnight mind, a single harmony woven nine notes at a time
so i walked up and stopped about ten feet behind him
just letting him do his thing at the booth
looked kosher
finally he turned around
feeling my energy coiling up and down
and saw me standing there
i smiled but i don’t know if that did anything to smooth the moment over
he felt he had to mutter and grumble at me
but the mutter don’t matter, i wasn’t there to please him

i was there for my Shot in the Dark and just to keep an eye on the coffeegirl
even if she never knows it
you can count on me to be felix the espresso chugging guardian angel of la noche

been doing some remembering, reflecting. it goes hand in hand with flipping through photo albums, scanning old family movies, inputting old tapes of college days, or milestone birthdays. and i’ve been looking through a stack of tapes that haven’t seen light of day for over a decade. this few minutes is from 1998, when i lived on the 29th floor in the Financial District, or more accurately, the Seaport district of Lower Manhattan. it was pretty close to the World Trade Center, and in fact, i often used the sight of those towers to navigate my way around the area. they were reference points you knew would remain consistent.

this embedded clip below is me and three friends on the set of our friend/classmate’s film. it’s frank’s film, the cat who unlocks the door and talks to that receding woman in what reminds me of a sort of bergmanesque shot. him all superforeground. he was a real smart and talented guy and i’m sure he’s doing music videos or commercials or indies or more by now.

all in all, this was an amazing year, and the great thing about film and video is that when you push play, you’re right back there.

finally, this clip should really be at the theater. but i’m too busy to give it the full treatment. just trying to input these videos here and there, before bed, between jobs, when i get a minute. but you can expect to see more clips from these days soon.

mostly i’m amazed it’s over a decade ago.

life is always fitting together. even when you are not contemplating it, it is reaching around to your roots and reabsorbing the whole. connecting itself and unearthing itself and burying you if you are moving too fast or too slow as compared to yourself and all the paths you use to walk forward and find yourself in the entire hot blizzard, you, you are a unique snowflake swallowed by a steaming mound of compost and at war even at peace, and as we grow and reach up, parts of us fall down and decay and separating the two is a line as easy to find as the one that splits night and day. organisms and viruses and bacteria constantly clamoring to drown you, to eat you alive, to burn you down. and then there’s you, warring right back. burning right back, cellular membrane transporting right back, leukocytes swarming to the attack, a double helix unzipping replication and lipid sorting triple stack. we are at peace even while we war. peace is winning. and peace is losing, too. and there are always rebels within the empire’s galleys, rowing the great ship forward while they make little flourishes with the oars with all the heart and hope in the world that together they can bring her that much closer to a new shore. even sailors on leave were born to fight. and we’re fine with killing, just gotta be the right ones. nobody’s gonna argue for peace except cyanide, and the breakdown of the chain, system shutting down cell by cell and very quickly, all is still. until. the bigger body turns toward you to get its fill. tongue of mold and bacteria and virus, lick your lifelong wound, absorb you back into the womb. there is no world free of murder and war and if for no other reason that given the entire equation, most human beings desire a properly confirmed, blessed, and ritualized kill—not peace. just like the germs in our belly and our guts. they war night and day, sprawled on the muddy slippery banks of our biology under the heat of a heartbeat, flowing gently down the acid stream, living only for their miniscule dream and dedicated to killing the right ones.

at this point i can’t seem to tell if my left upper thigh is numb from bruising or ice. it was a beautiful ride, a beautiful dawn, and it all ended on the concrete. i had warning. two slight slips of the chain and i thought that’s odd. i wonder if this is that problem i took the bike in for coming back or if it is and i’m not sure i got much further than that when the chain locked up and i flew over the handlebars to pivot into the concrete with the bike magically both under and on top of me.

i’m always impressed by the way violence stupifies the mind. it’s one of those experiences that can always feel new, no matter how many times it happens. although there is getting used to going through the process, of course. but that first splash of pain and realignment of the horizontal plane, wow. it can shake your understanding away in a second flat. those moments after the wreck that you see yourself doing things in slow motion kind of style unattached to the forward movement of your mind mechanism. just everything happening on its own. you, in some faraway seat watching it all go down. your view becomes a movie screen, your eyes become a windshield. when i had my head on collision in the Subaru in 1995, it was my moaning that really surprised me. it sounded like someone else moaning. it took me a few moments to realize it was me. and letting myself down off of the ceiling by unsnapping my seatbelt was an automatic thing, too. but this was nothing like that of course. this bike spill. except in the sense of how you feel very confused for a moment and in there is a small brushstroke of sadness…as if someone left you out of discussions for a moment. what the hell happened, what just happened to my world? why is my body sending all these signals. whats wrong with my body? where is it? is everything safe? am i still in the same arrangement i’m used to being in? and it seemed i was because i could move okay and as i stood up off the ground, i looked first at my lens, my camera lens. i’m glad i had my cheapo wide angle adapter on. it took the brunt. but of course the interlocking mount is the thing to worry about next. ugh. legs felt like someone hit them with hammers. same thing. metal bars of the bike and i had been moving pretty fast. i felt stupid and slow and wondered if anyone was looking out their window as i moved around in the dim light checking out my bike. damn wheel was mashed against the brake. wouldnt turn. what was wrong? unlocked wheel and then it slid into place. bike seemed okay.

i got back on, rode home. that saying about getting back on the horse after you fall came to mind. i laughed to myself. no notable bravery here. just no other way to get back home.

beginning to wonder about the spirit of my bike. what was its life like before its previous owner sold it to the shop? this is incident two marked with intensity and such violent energy. …and, at the same time my bike brings me a greater number of moments filled with beauty and deep satisfaction. hey, it’s not my bike, i guess! asi es la vida.

mostly.

i knew that taking the lighter back to the store owner would result in nothing. the man was nasty, mean, suspicious. perhaps there was cultural gaps happnin, he was from india, i think. but…nah. i’ve known plenty of nice indian store owners. i think he may have just been a sour person. he always is negative feeling and distrustful. i can see how being a storeowner like a seven eleven owner could push you in this direction. and i didnt’ want to go. i was saying to myself just throw it out. just throw it away who cares. but i felt all cheated when i got home with my candles and nag champa and lighter and was ready to tweak moods and it was EMPTY so i said let me just take it back and i knew he would shake his head with that stubborn look in his eyes. i had to do it anyway. i even asked myself why. but my self only answered do it.

“you did no buy that  here” he said, before i even had a chance to explain myself, but i handed it to him and turned away. that’s okay, i didn’t expect you to give me a new one. but i did buy it here from you only ten minutes ago. that’s how i got it and that’s the truth and i walked out and unlocked my bike and got on my bike and fastened my helmet in the sun and drove away.

the ride was long. i got lost in my thoughts. no. that’s not true. i was not lost. it was soothing. the sun, the wind, the music in my ears. i was moving at my own pace. sometimes my legs burned, but i am getting stronger lately and it is at least something i can push through now. sometimes i leaned down and geared down (or is it up?) and built up momentum. but mostly i sat up on that sporty, flared seat and felt the springs buoy me, and the wind move past me, watched the sky come at me. i felt happy. strong. free. i love my bike and i love my knobby tires.

i was almost home. i pulled in front of the gas station the one with the wide open sidewalk situation, i am always careful there. people pull in and out rather recklessly or widely or often or something, you have to look out. and i was pulling past one car and i see this high, black, shiny blazer type vehicle fly toward me through the parking lot area and suddenly come to a stop all smooth only feet from me and looming over me, like the guy is doing it on purpose and i look up at his crewcut and his black glasses and mobile fone and new blazer and think to myself what a jerk and just because i look at him sidelong as i’m moving past him, he starts moving around and talking smack inside his big truck. i put up my middlefinger behind my back and ride away.

i’m at the next corner and suddenly his vehicle veers around the corner, all weighted down on one wheel with momentum. He arcs in front of me and off the road onto the curb, at an angle. He is pulled over.

He looks at me to make sure I see it’s him. Or maybe to see what I’m doing.

Well, hell. I get it. I know the way this works.

I hop off my bike and put the kickstand down and walk toward the black truck. I even still have my backpack on. It’s black, too. Like my bike and my helmet. In fact, dude and I are both all in black.

Him, leaning back far enough to see that I’m headed his way. Peering back through the tinted window on his truck.

I’m fifteen feet from his blazer and getting closer—not thinking as I said, it’s my instinct to fly into the face of the storm—and suddenly he peels out and backs up back onto the road. Electric gears lower his tinted window and he looks through his sunglasses at me. He is in an agitated state, his well-clipped head bobbing around in the dim interior. I see now that he is running on a temper that clearly blew up at the gas station and has been burning since.

“I’m a cop!” he yells at me, as if holding up a cross. “So what are ya gonna do? B—”

—”I don’t care if you’re a cop!” I yell back.

—”beat me up?”

We end at the same time almost. He is shouting across the space in the seat between us. He is a couple feet higher than my eye level. I am still on my feet, halfway between my bike and where his truck was before he peeled back out onto the road.

He goes on. ”I gave you the right of way! I stopped!  Wh—”

At this point his words became mush to my ears. I try to cut through, when this happens. I don’t need to be doing this. I’m on my way home.

I interrupt him. ”So what do you want?”

He pauses and then bursts forward with his same adolescent haste.

“I want you to say…it’s cool, we’re cool!” he screams.

Maybe I could have given him what he wanted. Maybe anything would happen now, could happen with reflection. But there is no time on these floors for deep pondering and nuance. Nobody even knows what’s about to happen from moment to moment. There is Now and a short pause between Now and Too late.  Or…maybe it doesn’t matter and it’s who I am and I’d do it again a thousand times and ten. It felt right.

“Too bad!” I shout back. “Don’t do that shit to bikers!”

He explodes inside his truck. He grabs the stickshift and squeals his tires. His blazer jerks around and then forward as he shouts “Fuck you you fucking priiiiiiiiiiick!!!”

I am oddly reminded of the Wicked Witch of the West, melting.

I get back onto my bike and push the button and then wait until the light changes and then I drive on. My heart is pounding pretty good.

He drives up the same road. Ahead of me. I slow my pace a lot before it is time to turn off, knowing its best he doesnt see where I turn. He probably did. But didn’t see where I turned again.

Probably would have been smarter to make friends with local cops. But catering to punks and bullies is simply not in me.