how do they bruise me? let me count

Kung fu last night. Good class, but it made marks on me in more ways than one.

This morning I have John's fingerprints in brown and yellow on my wrist. And I have a bruise on my lower back, just above the waist, where I landed on the floor.

None of this happened, mind you, during the class itself. This happened after Sit said, "Okay, we're done, you guys practice," and went upstairs.

So John and I had been horsing around. He teaches akido when not in Sit's class, and he shows me little things, tricks and tips. He's quick, soft, patient, and knows how to gradually increase his force as my technique improves. He's in his late forties, a bit taller than me, medium built. Not a large man. Nevertheless, he is a man, and a good deal stronger than I am.

It's strange for me, working with these guys, learning the theory of fighting, while in practice realizing just how much stronger men are than women. Sit and Matt frequently remark on how strong I am, for a woman, but I can't bench more than 70 pounds. My strength is in good structure and confidence, but almost every class I strain something because I'm trying to use too much muscle against those guys. Sit says, "If you don't believe it, it won't work," but I am desperately aware of how much I still have to learn.

Anyway, we had been practicing these arm-locks, foot-traps, pull and pin and control, which I would be absolutely foolish to use on a full-grown man. Nevertheless, I learn the technique, because the principles are the same in all the applications. We were all horsing around near the end of class, improvising, throwing in extra punches and mixing things up.

I don't know if John wanted to test me, or what. I don't exactly remember what happened, but I suddenly found myself being thrown toward the wall, with his hand in the middle of my back like he wanted to pin me. He didn't shove me hard, so I decided (decided? that may be giving myself too much credit--I reacted) that I didn't want to go against that wall--this wasn't in the program. So I somehow slipped sideways and down, out from under his arm, twisted and punched at his solar plexus. Just touched--didn't hit, but of course he countered and after that my memory gets a little murky. Somehow I ended up on the floor. Not surprising--he's quite good at sweeping. Hence the bruise on my back. I curled and landed without getting hurt, rolled up and tackled his leg, tried to push him over.

Up until this point it was pretty much fun and games. Then he crouched over me and pinned my shoulders to the floor and I kind of panicked. Friend or no, there is just something really scary about having a man kneel over you and hold you down, and I'll say right now, I've been fortunate enough to never find myself in that position before.

On the other hand, I used to wrestle with my dad, and I curled up and over somehow, kicked at him, rolled over my shoulder or spun or something--I don't remember what happened. He stopped, though. I have the feeling he let me up. I simply don't remember. Maybe he saw I was getting too wild, maybe he was just done playing. I came to my senses in a crouch, and he was kneeling next to me--I was panting. I don't know if I was scared or mad or just hyped. I still don't. I kind of slumped over with a gasp of exhaustion. My vision had tunneled. My hair had fallen down because my barrette broke when I rolled back over my head. John picked it up and then picked me up. "Good twisting," he said. I have no idea what he was talking about. I don't remember what I did. It's weird; I've written about battle-fog a few times, but that may have been the first time I felt it.

I thought I looked and acted cool, but then we went upstairs and Mary looked at me and her eyes kind of widened and she said, "Wow, you look really. . ."

"Flushed?" I said, and my voice sounded kind of strangled.

"No, like you were really getting a workout." I think that's what she said. I'm pretty sure it's not what she started to say.

I still feel vaguely like I was assaulted, but I'm not sure that's necessarily a bad thing. We don't do any real sparring in that class, and all of our grappling is in slow-motion, so nobody gets hurt. If I ever want to be able to use this stuff for self-defense, I need to practice it in real-time, and get over my fear of getting hit.

By the time I got home I was so drained I could barely get ready for bed, but this morning I feel quite good, so I suspect it was adrenaline-drain. I'm more than a little alarmed that I would have such a violent reaction to a little horseplay in class. I've never been beaten or assaulted nor even in a fight since I was a child, so it wasn't a reaction to any post-traumatic memories.

Being able to hold one's own in a fight is greatly dependent upon one's ability to stay calm and think clearly. I don't like that I can't remember what I did.

brain buzz

Last night was my first "master class" in Sit's basement. It was just me and Matt, since everybody else was occupied.

Oh God, was it good. We didn't really do anything I hadn't done before--one semi-new move that was actually a variation on a theme. Lots of elbows. Lots of target practice with the hand-bags. Lots of application practice and lightning-quick instruction. Constant correction and repetition. Got to work with Matt a bit, too, which I haven't often. He said, "It's nice to work with somebody who doesn't outweigh me by forty pounds," as Tony and Mike do (amen to that). He also recommended I read about stoic philosophy.

My head was so packed full and buzzing I couldn't sleep last night. I did sleep, but it was in that shallow, always-dreaming state where it feels like you're still awake. I was dreaming about what we'd done, I think, rehearsing it. This morning it seems much clearer. I can see myself potentially making improvement by leaps and bounds. It just all makes so much sense. Sit is a good teacher, but he also teaches the way I like to learn, and both of them were so encouraging--telling me when I did it right, fixing it when I did it wrong. My feet are all wrong. My shoulders are still not consistently down, but I know what to work for now. My aim is all over the place. I have a total lack of focus and am very sloppy. Precision, focus and relaxation are my goals for my third year of kung fu.

I love this stuff. I loooove it.

glad tidings

I am officially approved to start attending kung-fu classes on Wednesdays. Sit actually looked quite pleased when I asked him about it. I also did some rather impressive defensive escapes on Sunday. I am still trying to keep my shoulders consistently rounded and relaxed. My balance is much better, and I almost have that wing-block built into muscle memory. It's weird, since I've started working at it and paying attention, I'm remembering just how much I love kung fu.

I have three stories ready for submission, now. I polished up Bridgeport and reworked Insomnia this weekend. Insomnia was particularly difficult, because I had never had any sense of how effective that story was. I felt it was disjointed and surreal and too long. It is surreal, but in a good way; it's an impressionist painting of a story. It seems like unrelated parts at first, but viewed as a whole it makes sense. I fixed the confusion issue with Seth/Ladron being the same person, and by referring to Seth by his first name throughout, created more intimacy with the character. I also elaborated on the science, the neuro-tapping procedure and the radiation therapy. Fortunately for me, Dr. Flenning likes the sound of his own voice.

So I have three stories in good shape for submission, now. It feels very strange. I shall fix up "Donor," next, and go to work on Trace. My main fear with Trace is that the stories I have in mind are too big, too epic, and I won't be able to force them into a short story. Must practice economy. Always less. Always less.

Happily, I have to work only Monday and Tuesday this week; the office closes early on Wednesday. I'll have a solid four and a half days off. Bliss.

Van Helsing meets Scully & Mulder in the Old West

just a taste....


The werewolf roared, raising on its haunches, semi-human claws scrabbling at its side, and Trace let swing with the staff of firewood in both hands, a solid clout across the thing’s head. Its howl ended in a yelp and the beast fell like a toppled tree.

“Sum. . . sumbitch,” Boz gasped, half-winded by the crush. He sat up, and Trace took him under the arms and pulled him from under the thing. The beast rolled away limp, its muzzle open and lolling in the gravel. It was breathing fast, with a raspy, growling sound. “Bastard’s snoring,” Boz said in amazement.

“Yeah,” Trace said, and laughed. “You okay?”

“Just a scratch, here.” Boz’s shirt sleeve was dark with blood where the thing had clawed him.

“Better sear that with whiskey,” Trace said.

“Inside and out,” Boz agreed. He went to fetch the bottle from the saddlepack while Trace wound rope around the werewolf’s ankles. Boz helped him with the hog-tying, and they both had a drink, in celebration.

“That ought to make the witch happy,” Trace said.

this is what happens

when I don't take care of myself. I haven't been eating well, I haven't been exercising or taking my vitamins. I had terrible cramps yesterday. (Thanks for sharing, Holly.)

Yesterday, since I was home and largely immobile, I picked up Margaret Atwood's The Blind Assassin, a book that I pounced upon when it came out, then let sit in my bookcase, unread, for three years.

Margaret's a great writer. She packs her sentences so full of imagery, and her metaphors are dead-on. I generally prefer her short work to her novels, but I guess this book was a stiff dose of what I needed. It was a relief to be reading again. I guess I haven't totally lost the ability, after all. It seems more likely that I have simply been bored with what I was trying to make myself read. Still, it's a very lit'ry novel (take that, PNH) and I find myself skimming at times, wanting to get on with the story, already.

Also yesterday, I wrote a 4400 word crit on a 10 thousand word story. I was both general and specific, critical and constructive. Joy wrote me back a nice, polite thank you note. I can't imagine that she loved and agreed with every line of my crit, but I know it's nice to have someone lavish that much attention on your work. She's got a decent concept, I think: a cyberpunk, post-apocalyptic Little Red Riding Hood.

I keep getting crits on Galatea, too. I think I'm up to ten, now, which is respectable, considering how long that story is. So far, I have been told:

• Master Tan's broken English is great, very authentic/is stereotypical and inconsistent
  
• The conflict between Justin and Quinn is great, well done/there is no discernible conflict in the story
  
• The development of Quinn's character is moving and believable/she's a horrible, unsympathetic person
  
• She's a rip-off of Supergirl/Dark Angel/Kill Bill/Le Femme Nikita
  
• It's a strong, character-driven story/nobody's motivations make any sense.

I had to check to make sure I wasn't reading the Buffy message boards by mistake. The only thing they all agree on is that the writing is great. (Aside, I always worry about people who say that they don't understand the characters' motivations--I imagine such people as social cripples, unable to form stable relationships because they can't read other people. They certainly have no business writing fiction. The guy who complained the loudest is, according to his bio, a writer of computer programming manuals.) I sometimes get the feeling that these people get in there and try to tear down my characters or punctuation(?!?) because they're jealous of my style, which is certainly very strong. More often, I can tell that a critter has missed something (they often will admit that they're new and don't know what they're doing), and my instinct is to help, to instruct, but I can't exactly tell somebody they've missed something in my story without sounding defensive. At least five of my critters have raved about the story and want to know if there's more. Most of them are also catching on to the fact that this is a piece out of a larger story, but so far everyone seems to agree that it is complete, whether they like the ending or not. It is a difficult ending; essentially, Quinn gains self-confidence and inner strength by realizing she is good at killing people--and she likes it. No moral ambiguity there.

But I sha'n't worry myself about whether people like Quinn or not. Love her or hate her, but you can't ignore her.

resident of the week

As some of you may already know, I've taken a second, weekend job at the rental office of my apartment building. It's been a while since I've been in customer service, and I like to think I've acquired a certain Zenlike detachment from the rest of humanity. Armed with that, I am endlessly amused at the tragedy that is human intelligence.

I think I'm going to start cataloguing the more interesting encounters here.

This week, we have two stories, because I suspect I'll be hearing more about this second guy.

Helpless Resident of the Week: Called to inform us that there was a dead mouse in the middle of her kitchen, and wanted me to sent the maintenance man to remove it. Now, our maintenance guy is on-call for emergencies on Sundays, but I doubted he would be ready, willing, or able to rouse himself for a dead mouse. I implied that Pat was tied up with emergency air conditioner fixings and suggested that she scoop up the corpse with a dustpan or piece of cardboard and throw it in the trash. She wasn't happy about it.

Creepy Resident of the Week:
There's a guy; we'll call him Barry. He's a very low-grade con artist who's been living scot-free in our complex for about two months now. He claims to be a psychic. He claims to be a lot of things. So far he has:

• Swindled a free apartment out of the leasing manager by promising free advertising for the complex;
  
• Told each of the women in the office (other than me) something "shocking" and "private" about themselves which he supposedly divined via his psychic ability;
  
• Charged at least two of my new co-workers $100 for a "private reading" session during which he "hypnotized" them and "took them back to a past life."
  
• Has failed to follow up on the ad thing (big surprise) and then got defensive and bullying when the manager tried to call him on it.
  
• Has solicited my weekend co-worker, Crystal (the name tells you everything you need to know about her--she's a sweet girl but as brittle as spun sugar) about being in a "limosine commercial," and tried to get her to go out with him, despite the 20-year age difference and the fact that he has no money, no car, no job, and is generally pretty creepy.
  

Now, all of these things except the last happened before I came to work there. This weekend, Barry came in on Sunday afternoon and tried to engage Crystal in conversation about the limo commercial. He pretended to make a couple of phone calls, making loud plans about filming said commercial, asking Crystal what size dress she wore, talking about cameras and locations, etc. Crystal and I both knew he was talking to dead air. The first time he tried to dial, he accidentally dialed into the office main line and it rang the intercom at my desk. Oops, dialed the wrong number, he said. Then he said, "Well, I'm off to detail a Ferrari," and left.

I am just dying for him to tell me some shocking and private thing about myself. I bet Crystal five bucks he wouldn't even come near me. That type never does.

If he comes in and starts tying up the phones and making himself a nuisance like that again, I'm going to throw him out. I've done it a couple of times before, at the title company. Been awhile.

giving blood

Today I attempted to give blood for the first time in my life. I have tried to participate in the blood drive at work for the past few years, but always I have been ill, or on vacation, or otherwise preoccupied. This year I was sick, too, but the sinus infection cleared up over a week ago, so I went ahead and did it.

There were about about eight nurses in the trailer (they didn't stand still very long so it was hard to count). All but one of them were bustling around very efficiently, cheery and competent. One of them (the sole white woman there, incidentally) was slow-moving and frowning in concentration. Naturally, she was my nurse.

Now, I have very fair skin and very visible veins. I don't know if they vanished under the iodine or what. You wouldn't think that a tube that big would go in with so little effort. I've heard that it takes less than a pound of pressure to cut skin. Obviously the needle was very sharp. It was kind of freaky watching my skin mound up over it. Didn't hurt. Felt weird, but didn't hurt.

What hurt was when she started digging around trying to find the vein. I guess it was rolling away from her. I know she knicked it, because blue started spreading under my skin almost immediately. She poked around some more, and I gritted my teeth and watched my fingers turn blue and cold. The tube filled with blood. The blue lake under my skin continued to spread and swell up. She pressed on the lump of subcutaneous blood with her fingers. I said, "Ow," which was demonstrating remarkable restraint on my part. She said, "I think we better just stop."

Fine. Whatever. I was disappointed. The bag was barely stained red. She clamped off the hose, capped the needle, and gathered up the tubing. She put an ice pack on my arm and wrapped it around with a neon-green elastic bandage. Then she cleaned up the drops of my blood she had spilled on the chair and the floor. That bothered me, seeing that she had spilled my blood, but not in a sickened way. I felt possessive of it. I was offended that she had lost some of it, especially since she hadn't drawn enough for somebody else to use.

And foolish me, I let her stick me in the right arm. So now I have a massive purple/blue/brown lump on the inside of my elbow, which hurts when I bend my arm. Typing and mousing are going to be most uncomfortable for the rest of the day.

One positive note on the experience: my blood pressure was 102/60. Pulse 60. Heh heh.