The Fighter, The Writer & The All-Through-the-Nighters

Day 8 – 10:10 AM (Central library)

The Fighter

Caught an early workout at the Maya-Plex Dojo with Samson this morning. He has got to be one of the baddest motherfuckers on the planet. At 6’ 3” and 245 pounds, and with bronze skin pulled tight over a densely sculpted physique, this guy looks like an animated version of his Biblical namesake. He even has the requisite straggly black hair dangling half-a-foot past his shoulders. Quite different from his Old Testament counterpart, however, is the extensive collection of intricate tribal tattoos around his body, every one of them solid black. And I’m sure there’s a story behind that large Chinese icon on his left calf, which appears to have been burned into his skin with some kind of branding iron.

Appearances aside, Samson is friendly and tactile, with an encyclopedic knowledge of the fighting arts. I understand that he’s a multi-degree black belt in a number of different styles, as well as a renowned boxing expert. He took me and five other townsfolk through a grueling martial arts-style workout. It was one of the most difficult I’ve ever had, yet he does at least two of these a day, and that’s in addition to his personal regimen, which is really superhuman. At one point, I attempted to hold the heavy bag still for him as he demonstrated proper technique on the roundhouse kick. Shit! He kicks so fucking hard it was like holding a sandbag in front of a bullet train. Thoomp! I swear, the tendons in my shoulders and elbows rattled as every crushing kick echoed through the dojo.

Of course, kicking like that is more than just brute strength, which Samson has plenty of. It’s all about physics, technique and execution. Within five minutes of him working with me, I saw (and heard) a radical improvement in my own velocity with the roundhouse…although I still felt like a little schoolgirl kicking that bag compared to him.

Super cool guy, though. After the workout, Samson and I hung in the back of the dojo near the heavy bags and talked a lot about martial arts and boxing. This guy is a veritable historian on the subject and has pored over a library’s worth of archived films and video footage in his day, studying all the masters. On that note, we eventually got into all the details of the classic Muhammed Ali-Joe Frazier trilogy of the 70’s, which prompted him to step over to a heavy bag and reference key rounds in each bout by mimicking how each fighter moved with frightening accuracy. Beginning with the 15th round knockdown in their first fight, he started that signature Joe Frazier bobbing and weaving, before firing off a lunging left hook to the heavy bag, very reminiscent of the one that actually knocked Ali down. Boom! The chains clanged as the bag swung from right to left like a giant pendulum.

From there, he moved right into his Ali impersonation, which was really dead-on. I mean, for as big and muscular as Samson is, he can “float like a butterfly and sting like a bee,” throwing jabs and crosses just like Ali. He even did those fast feet shuffles in between blows to the bag, as he provided expert analysis of how Ali moved, punched and even talked.

“Joe Fra-zha ain’t nothin’,” he said in that trademark Ali voice. ”I’m gonna whup him like I’m his daddy.” Then he fired off three quick jabs and a thumping right cross, as a sprawling network of veins jutted from his arms like shiny earthworms.

When I asked him to compare Ali with Mike Tyson, both in their prime, he crouched down, jerked his hands up to his face, peek-a-boo style like Iron Mike and started hammering the bag with thundering jabs, hooks and uppercuts, exactly like Tyson would have done it. And I do mean exactly, in terms of the raw power, blurry speed and signature form. Then, he suddenly stepped away from the swaying bag, looked at me with a bulldog stare, then said with that Tyson lisp in a slightly higher voice, “Man, I would’ve beat Ali’s ass inside of three rounds.” Hysterical!

But again, I have to reiterate. The fighting arts are an inseparable part of Zentaurian culture, just like baseball is an inseparable part of ours in America. And even though there is a brutal, violent aspect to a lot of what Samson lives and breathes everyday regarding his practice and teaching, there’s nothing in his nature or demeanor that would suggest any sense of disharmony or ill intent toward another living creature.

Case in point. We left the gym together and started walking over to The Prana Station for a post-workout smoothie. As he was mid-sentence in a story, he pointed to the ground as a reminder for me to step over a cluster of ants that had gathered around a decaying blueberry in the middle of the sidewalk. Of course, I would personally never intentionally harm an insect either. But the fact that he was even aware that those ants were there really impressed me. I was thinking, this might be the single greatest hand-to-hand combat fighter alive, and here he is directing me not to step on some ants. If only my own knucklehead culture could see the beauty in this kind of reverence for life…especially coming from a guy like this. A pencilneck treehugger, Samson is not…

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Day 8 – 4:01 PM (The Drexel)

The Writer

Had an interesting and inspiring revelation today.

After my workout and a shower this morning, I dropped into Central Library just to hang out, reference a few books and peck around at my laptop journal. The place is jawdropping gorgeous, with endless rows of rare books, rich, redwood tables, white marble floors and a quiet, clean energy about it. Just being in there makes you want to do something productive.

I noticed this guy Rhone, who I had met last week, tucked away at a small corner table, typing intensely on his Apple. He seemed to be completely oblivious to all around him, lost in whatever he was working on. When the Big Bell rang at Noon, he promptly stood up, gathered up his computer, note pads, books and pens, loaded up his satchel and headed toward the door. I caught his eye as he was on his way out and he smiled warmly and nodded.

I tinkered around for about an hour on my laptop, then started to stroll down a few isles, checking out the library’s diverse range of books. Then, I happened to saunter by the “R’s” and saw an entire row of different titles with the name “Rhone” on the spine in one capacity or another. Could it be?

I stepped forward and tilted my head so I could take a closer look at the actual titles. The Quantum Experience, Rumi: The Complete Translations, This Eternal Now, Columbus Uncovered, The Great Structures of Early Rome, Four Nights in Burma, Beethoven Revisited, Pirates: A New Perspective, 30 Days to Functional Spanish, 30 Days to Functional Italian, 30 Days to Functional Mandarin, and on and on it went. There must have been over 60 titles, each with its own distinctive look, feel, and design. I pulled one off the shelf and looked at the inner sleeve. Sure enough, there was a picture of our boy. Motherfucker couldn’t have been a day over 40 now.

Just then, a library assistant with blue-streaked hair and an emerald stud in her nose came strolling down the isle with an armful of books. After a quick hello, I held up that copy of Rhone’s book and quietly asked, “This is our boy who was just here, right?”

“Oh yeah,” the girl said, smiling. “He’s a regular.”

“Damn. Looks like he’s authored at least 60 titles, right?” I said, gesturing to the row of books.

“He’s written a lot more than that,” she said nonchalantly. “Those on that shelf are just the ones that haven’t been checked out.”

“No shit, huh? Impressive. Does he write here often?”

“He does his morning session here every day from 8 to 12. Been doing it like that for years.”

“And that’s his morning session, huh?”

“Oh yeah. I believe he writes in his study the rest of the time.”

Damn. The work ethic around here is astonishing. It seems to be etched into the culture, but not in a way that we might normally perceive it. It’s all so effortless here. It’s about finding what you love and doing it as a craft, as a profession, as a medium of serving others. None of this “nose to the grindstone,” workaholic mentality. It’s about the practice, the joy and, cliché as it sounds, the journey. I don’t imagine that any of Rhone’s books have been on any best-seller lists, based on the isolation of this culture on the world stage. But then again, I don’t think he gives a fuck. He just keeps on writing, everyday, like his very existence depends on it.

Plus, I’m pretty sure his hyper-productivity is a testament to the left-brain nature of his strict writing regimen. There seems to be a popular notion in our culture that writers (and other creative types) sit around all day sipping coffee until that bolt of inspiration hits. Then, once possessed by the muse, they slip into this magical state of outpouring where the words effortlessly hit their paper with the speed of a court reporter. If only…

Truth is, those “magical” times are rare…especially if you’re waiting for them to show up. Without exception, every single successful writer I’ve either talked to or read about had some kind of left-brain routine that ensured their ass would be in that chair, like it or not, for said amount of time. Once there, sure, you will usually find a groove, even if you didn’t feel like writing initially. But you have to get there, and the only way I’ve found to consistently do that is through real left-brain regimentation, good old-fashioned discipline and, occasionally, self-bribery.

I cracked open that copy of The Quantum Experience and read a few paragraphs. I found his writing to be engaging, lyrical, distinctive in tone and, in short, world class. Inspiring.

My God. The amount of time I have squandered in my life in comparison to these folks. Just as a writer, I think about the books unwritten on my journey. The multitude of ideas I’ve had through the years, sketched out in a journal somewhere. All of those largely fragmented manuscripts on my hard drive, destined to remain there, incomplete and unread, as my coffin is lowered into the earth. My God.

Am I being overly dramatic? Not really. I think every artist, author or musician has a natural optimism about their ability to ultimately birth their work into the world. We don’t want to believe it’s possible that our potential body of work could remain largely un-actualized. Well, let me tell you; it’s very fucking possible. Roots author Alex Haley checked out just weeks before completing an epic novel that represented more than a decade of his blood and sweat, not to mention several other major works unfinished. Architect Louis Khan left us with a host of extraordinary structures that will forever be imprisoned to a stack of blueprints. And Leonardo DaVinci was “called home" with an infamous number of projects dangling about in various stages of incompletion.

Now maybe it doesn’t matter once you die; maybe you don’t care about all that you didn’t finish. But until I do, I will care. It’s time to get to fucking work, people!

And the thing is, I know how to get things finished. I’ve practiced, studied, taught and (ironically) written about a multitude of peak performance/creativity ideas, including the concepts of discipline, focus and regimentation. I know this, but it was good to see it in action and be reminded that I’m falling short in the actual practice of it.

An inspiring wake-up call. I’ll look forward to a conversation with Rhone in the near future to find out more specifically how he does what he does.

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Day 8 – 4:57 AM (Guest Quarters)

The All-Through-the-Nighters

This evening, I hung out with the township’s “Purveyor’s of International Culture,” Shag and Rama. These two are a trip. They have their own show on PTV and it’s kind of like a hipper version of our Roper and Ebert. Shag is tall and thin with Malcolm X-style horn-rimmed glasses, short, spikey cornrows and skin as black as tar. Rama is Middle Eastern, with a crisply manicured mustache and goatee and his ever-present, Dick Tracy derby hat.

I sat with them in their viewing room and watched a digital remaster of some Danish art house film. This room was literally like a small movie theater, but with the largest, most dazzling plasma monitor I’ve ever seen and a surround sound system that pulled you into the picture. There were several rows of large red velvet recliners, each row elevated like a basic stadium layout. Every seat was primo.

Shag and Rama each took a couple of seats in the middle of the room and, as this was their second time to see this film, they had their laptops opened in front of them for notetaking. Apparently, they’re both in there all through the night, every night, archiving, reviewing and critiquing. A small group of interns would quietly enter and exit during the viewing, and I found a comfortable spot in the upper back level of the place. These two remained in absolute silence throughout the viewing, clicking away on their laptops intermittently.

After the show, soft track lighting came on and the room was suddenly abuzz with understudies preparing for their next viewing. Shag and Rama swiveled around in their chairs to face me, and then launched into an impromptu review of the film that was one of the most articulate, intelligent, detailed and entertaining I have ever heard.

What a couple of characters. Shag, the straight man, delivering his rapid-fire analysis in perfect English, as if he were reading from an article in The New Yorker. Rama, a pronounced Iranian accent, who was animated, loud, and hilarious, but equally bright. The pair of them, weaving together fast-moving commentary where they played off of each other like Laurel and Hardy. Why aren’t the cameras rolling right now? I thought. These two could kill over on American TV…bigger than life on mega-bright Hollywood billboards and cracking everyone up on The Tonight Show. Of course, as everybody else already knew around here, these two were always like this, able to one-take their way through mountains of critiques and spur-of-the-moment reviews. Imagine these motherfuckers at your next dinner party!

We hung out for a while longer, sipping tea and talking mainly about movies, art and music. The raw amount of data that these guys carried around in their heads was staggering. Through a natural and fluid course of conversation, they would reference obscure facts about the cinematographer on this foreign film, the bass player on that record, a recent Paris art exhibit of some young Russian painter, the 1979 Blue Note reissue of a rare Miles Davis album, word-for-word, first draft to final draft revisions on Quentin Tarrentino’s Pulp Fiction, and on and on it went. I even tried a little “stump the critics” with them, asking little known facts I knew about certain records or films. Invariably, one or the other either knew the answer or made a seriously educated guess. We had a blast.

Again, given that these guys lived in such apparent isolation from the rest of the world, it was astonishing at how dialed-in they were to western pop culture. They truly were master aficionados and ambassadors of the arts. If only all of our critics were a fraction as knowledgeable and well-studied in the craft.

There’s one other thing I have to say about this experience with Shag and Rama tonight. For all they know, for as big of personalities as they are, and for as much as they love to talk, they also love to listen…just like everyone else here in Zentauria. Whenever I said anything, I felt their eyes on me intently, like every word I said was important. And they were so aware of my words, even about accidentally stepping over my sentences. They would say, “Sorry, mate. Go on.” Even though I clearly didn’t know a fraction of what they did about a lot of these areas, they made me feel like what I had to say was important to them.

Considering their extreme skills as communicators, it’s ironic to me that hanging with them made me want to be a better listener, more than anything else.

© 2009 Bobby Rock

 

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