The moon stares at me again. Our correspondence is of a peculiar nature. Usually when people awake, they are greeted by the sun, shining in its infancy. Early Morning Hobbyists choose to engage in salutations and farewells primarily with our orbiting, tide controlling blanche sphere. Its 5:27, the chow chows return to their beds, watching their owner prepare for his ritual. Bags packed, Gi in tow and a front door slowly closes and locks. Equilibrium returns to the still household; the chaos is elsewhere.
Windows down on an empty highway, almost deserted. Just a few stragglers transitioning into their next placement, their next destination. As the noxious morning gusts negotiate across my open windows I wonder if neighboring vehicles too are engaging in something unnecessary, something that does not need to be done, but it is done none the less. The parking lot is already filled with crusaders, the ceremony is almost upon us, the thrashing is about to begin.
It’s always calm before the storm. The Jiu Jitsu Club is emanating reggae music as small hordes of grown adults are stretching in a variety of poses. Bounces from the left knee to the right, toe touching, bridging, preparing. Its 6:05, the ritual has commenced. Metallica usurps the reggae music oscillating through the tepid concrete walls of the garage. The onset of surging electric guitar and heavy drums forms an unspoken command to its inhabitants. Everyone finds someone. The nervousness and anxiety beckon leading up to the initial engagement. Hands are slapped and the 5-minute match starts.
Many thoughts flood through my skull during a match at first. What dangers lie ahead? How Do I remain calm? What am I doing later at work? FOCUS! Now is not the time for lucid dreaming and thought. It’s not the time to worry about bodily injury from the potentiality of compromised positions. This is the time to put my body to the test, to endure. This is also a time to test my mind. What is it really capable of? Can I remain calm under intense pressure, or the cataclysmic arm lock my opponent is conjuring? Can I remain calm enough to escape, to evade or even to prevail? These are thoughts that quiet the anxiety, the angst. These thoughts enable my mind to succumb to the idea of defeat, of destruction, of demise. The acceptance of the potentiality of loss, but not to seek it. The match is over. The buzzer ends the match with her squawking, but it’s also a reminder, that another challenger will approach in under a minute. Another chance to get challenged, or to challenge others.
Several rounds have succumbed to time. The futility of my physical limits has arrived. Choked, pinned and pressed into the epilayers of the earth I lay supine on the mat. The buzzer sounds once more. Its 6:50. My labored breaths form a rhythm of madness, and my heartbeat is the base drum. I summon the energy from Hades to turn to my stomach and there it is, the golden fields of my salvation, the garage fan, the Elysium. Towering at 3 feet in height its oscillating wings call to me, invite me. The barrier between our embrace is my overwhelming fatigue, 33 feet and gravity. The buzzer is warning me to get out of the way, the hordes have not finished their pilgrimage, the ritual still persists. No time to stand, my wet kimono is weighing me down and my tattered belt has found a new home 6 feet in front of me. I crawl.
Thoughts can’t enter the skull currently, fatigue denies it. Quadruped and defeated I focus on gross movements one limb at a time. The light red of dawn is emanating amongst the morning mist of the south side of the garage, where the fan is still singing her tranquil song, waiting for my embrace. The matches commence and like a mouse I continue to scurry between paired adversaries, continuing their crusade, continuing their thrashing. The stampede has graced me with passage, and I arrive in paradise, the mechanical blades welcome me with cool air and resurrection. I sit on the edge of the mat, others slowly join me for reasons of their own, reasons really unknown. Its 7:00, the Sun is starting to beam, and Thrasher has concluded. Reggae music replaces the heavy metal symphony and mellowness begins to engulf the establishment. Between brief pleasantries I manage to evade, I close my eyes and drift off. My breathing is likening to the tides of the ocean and my eyes are denying the beautiful morning her glory. In this process I seek to calm myself, gather my thoughts, savor the moment, and muster the strength to stand and to start my day.
Its 7:15. Conversations, hugs and general banter are rich in the air. Plans for the weekend are announced and the occasional class selfie is taken. A heaping pile of sweaty, enduring human beings with grins that money can’t buy. Its these sacred things that illicit meaning. Painful, difficult things that don’t really have a return label. There isn’t time for phone calls or Facebook during Thrasher. Its raw and sophisticated at the same time. The luxury isn’t at the forefront, it’s the latter effect, bought with formidable human interaction and suffering. Submissions and dominant positions, leading to a better outlook on life, if one is looking for it. 6 am Thrasher doesn’t send emails or flyers. It doesn’t offer promise or delusions of grandeur. There are mere anecdotes floating around and souls seeking something more can accept the invitation if they so choose. Good luck in your early morning endeavors and a pleasant passage during the crawl. Thank you.
What I’ve been reading:
Poetry and Comic Books (Batman)
What I’ve been Watching:
Speeches, The Mandalorian, The Last of Us
What I’ve been listening to:
Castles Made of Sand
Mandolin Rain
Under Mi Sensi