Any given Sunday...
This from the well-known writings of Wasi Shung Han-ja, sire of the Sword-is-Shield School - all of which are found in duplicate at donKay. For availability reasons (academie mail is a sign of its decadence) we were stuck with the Giorgas Lukuss’ German translation. The last five paragraphs of his four part manual provide an anecdote, found in the chapter "Each of us is fucked." 1888. Two years later, of course, a Han-ja led Japan would lose to host Uruguay in the World Cup finals.
For instance, one day I was walking with my friend when we came upon twelve foreign sailors divided between themselves for the practice of movement. This form was not unattractive, even on the cud-faced, cheese-legged men there engaged. Simple. Face to face, each team stood between the other and his goal. Thus, as each was compelled to move themselves through the other, a ball was placed on the field to show who did so better. My friend and I stood together and passed quiet comment on the practice’s governance.
In time a sailor engaged another in a play whose form was broken, and thus was broken the sailor’s leg. He lollied and gagged, he sought to place his pain up on his face as if others might feel it. My friend and I were embarrassed; we looked at each other and away. When the sailors calmed and took shame in the calamity, they looked around and saw my friend and I were watching them. With extreme ugliness of gesture, they invited me to play as the one-whose-body-is–ever-in-useful-service-of-the-goal’s-defense.
The sailors had made their space from a square. There number filled it at angles that demonstrated themselves. Within, as my friend and I had commented, was a domain that would yield every ball to me through the governance of a proper technique. I must say this technique was most favorable for me, for like the sword-is-shield school which I propound, the required method was one of active defense. All flourishing of my opponent was thus retarded. In practice of this practice, my thoughts had their thinking erased. Thus, even at the times of my most considerable disadvantages, in the ball’s deflection I found I had chosen the correct way to bring that deflection about. Needless to say, this went on unending. But it was just a practice, with a proper time. And since I governed it, I chose when to end it, and returned home with my friend to lay our heads on chests and sleep.
Days later a message came to my school from the sailors, asking for a competition at Chelzi piers. The large wooden surface required 11 of each team to render proper angles. My school spent the week in training under the eye of my friend, who devised a manner of knitting our movements forward, advancing through space. I can say that, in reference to our opponents, our school professed no lack. Yet on the day of the second competition, the sailors achieved their goal time and time again. Many factors accounted, and taught that what had been my perfect technique in the plaza was imperfect practice at Chelzi. Awareness could not save me, and the breath I was forced to draw was one already exhaled by their limey chests.
You must learn then, how each of us is fucked. One school gives us several techniques for manifold situations. But its size is not consistent with the world, whose field changes in dimension far beyond the structures a school provides. Thus a choice of school dictates also the manner of one’s death. So from now on, with 11’s I am playing defensive center mid, or perhaps an attacking wing.
For instance, one day I was walking with my friend when we came upon twelve foreign sailors divided between themselves for the practice of movement. This form was not unattractive, even on the cud-faced, cheese-legged men there engaged. Simple. Face to face, each team stood between the other and his goal. Thus, as each was compelled to move themselves through the other, a ball was placed on the field to show who did so better. My friend and I stood together and passed quiet comment on the practice’s governance.
In time a sailor engaged another in a play whose form was broken, and thus was broken the sailor’s leg. He lollied and gagged, he sought to place his pain up on his face as if others might feel it. My friend and I were embarrassed; we looked at each other and away. When the sailors calmed and took shame in the calamity, they looked around and saw my friend and I were watching them. With extreme ugliness of gesture, they invited me to play as the one-whose-body-is–ever-in-useful-service-of-the-goal’s-defense.
The sailors had made their space from a square. There number filled it at angles that demonstrated themselves. Within, as my friend and I had commented, was a domain that would yield every ball to me through the governance of a proper technique. I must say this technique was most favorable for me, for like the sword-is-shield school which I propound, the required method was one of active defense. All flourishing of my opponent was thus retarded. In practice of this practice, my thoughts had their thinking erased. Thus, even at the times of my most considerable disadvantages, in the ball’s deflection I found I had chosen the correct way to bring that deflection about. Needless to say, this went on unending. But it was just a practice, with a proper time. And since I governed it, I chose when to end it, and returned home with my friend to lay our heads on chests and sleep.
Days later a message came to my school from the sailors, asking for a competition at Chelzi piers. The large wooden surface required 11 of each team to render proper angles. My school spent the week in training under the eye of my friend, who devised a manner of knitting our movements forward, advancing through space. I can say that, in reference to our opponents, our school professed no lack. Yet on the day of the second competition, the sailors achieved their goal time and time again. Many factors accounted, and taught that what had been my perfect technique in the plaza was imperfect practice at Chelzi. Awareness could not save me, and the breath I was forced to draw was one already exhaled by their limey chests.
You must learn then, how each of us is fucked. One school gives us several techniques for manifold situations. But its size is not consistent with the world, whose field changes in dimension far beyond the structures a school provides. Thus a choice of school dictates also the manner of one’s death. So from now on, with 11’s I am playing defensive center mid, or perhaps an attacking wing.
posted by M.N.V.L. Local 1430 at 9:50 PM
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