Judo Dream

I had a dream that I Judoed someone last night. For those of you who don’t know, I have been taking a variety of martial arts classes, one of which is Judo. Judo is a Japanese martial art with its roots in Jiu-Jitsu which consists primarily of throws that utilize an opponent's strength, size, and momentum against them. Picture yourself flying through the air, thrown by a person smaller than yourself. Someone I care about was the victim of an attempted purse snatching. Attempted because she fought back and pulled the man right off his bike. But it made me angry, a seething anger that I know I have no control of. A largely foreign emotion, one that comes so rarely but with such fervor that it frightens me. It’s safe to say, violence has been on my mind.

At any rate, in this dream, I was drunk. But maybe I wasn’t drunk, maybe thinking that just makes it easier for me to absolve myself of blame. Whatever. So I’m drunk and I’m walking through an unknown city at night with an old leather messenger bag of indeterminate origin slung over my shoulder. It’s dark and the streets mostly desolate. This is sobering. Somewhat. The neighborhood is not particularly welcoming and as eerie as it is that the streets are empty, it’s preferable to meeting their occupants. Naturally, I turn a corner and see three such street denizens. They are sitting against a building, drinking and chatting. They notice me and, by their change in posture, it's clear the discussion has changed to me. I notice without “noticing” that one of them separates himself from the group. He is tall and skinny, with a clear and obvious desperation to him. He’s actually the sort my roommate would probably be attracted to. He calls for me and I wheel around to face him. He approaches casually with his hands in his jacket pockets. As he nears me he reaches out to me with one hand while keeping the other stashed away with a hidden menace. He demands I give him a dollar. For whatever reason, I choose this to be the time that I out and out refuse a solicitation. Typically, I’ll explain that I don’t have any cash or somesuch, essentially turning out my pockets. Not this time. Maybe his disposition rubbed me wrong. Maybe it was because of what I had hidden away in the bag. I don’t know. I tell him flatly, “no.” He steps towards me, reaching with his hand and pulling the other out of his jacket. Before he can do so, I step forward and taking his proffered arm, execute a classic Judo technique known as an Uchi Mata.

Now bare in mind that Judo is a sport. It is practiced on mats and scored for points. Throwing someone on concrete is not about to go over well with their muscular and skeletal systems.

The man lay in a pile on the pavement, emitting a soft gurgling sound. This point in the dream intrigues/bothers me most. I was torn between regret and relief in the aftermath of the encounter. I wanted to check on the man, make sure he was not too badly injured, or call an ambulance. Another part of me thought it best that I depart the scene immediately and be grateful for surviving the encounter. I don’t know why I felt so conflicted. I mean, this is the sort of scenario that I train for. But there was no preparation for the emotions and questions that bubble up afterwards. Should there be? Is this an issue for most people? Would the other people in my school have just dusted off their hands, patted themselves on back, and delivered a witty one-liner over their shoulder as they left? Can I not enjoy the suffering of my aggressor? Who the fuck am I? Jesus Christ? Wtf? I cannot recall anything further.

Last Moments: Shark Victim

Then I couldn’t feel it’s teeth anymore. I could still see —oh, I could see everything. But at that late stage, why would I look? What must have only been seconds, or even a single, solitary second, seemed to go on forever. Not the forever that a convict feels awaiting sentencing or dog pining for its master's return. Forever in that I was not constricted by time, in that I felt no compulsion to rush. Perhaps a first in my life. So I looked away. I watched the sun setting over the ocean. I had seen a thousand sunsets and none had made near such an impression. The sun was perfect circle of orange gold. And though I could feel nothing, I looked at it and knew warmth. It lit the waters with rose and violet and deep purples that I had forever attributed to sunlight passing through pollution. God, talk about cynical. And the water! It stood so calm for what I would have expected. One assumes there would be a great swirling of the waters and a massive, terrible wake foreboding your doom. But no, aside from my own terrified splashing, there had been nothing else to disturb the scene. And now, with that at an end, a peaceful equilibrium had been restored. I would meet my end without fanfare, but it gave me a new perspective. The ocean no longer reacted to my presence. It no longer resisted me. I was welcomed in a way that no man alive has ever been. I looked back at the entirety of my life —I had the time, you understand, and I did so with a new clarity. I remembered moments I had long since thought forgotten and regrets that memory would never allow me to forget. I'd always longed to be part of something greater than myself and now I was. I looked back upon my life and at no point had I ever felt so accepted, so at peace, or so fulfilled.

I looked back. The water was black with my blood. Black? Some trick of the eyes perhaps. And as the shark disappeared with no small portion of me, I reached out my hand to touch it. To thank it somehow for this final gift. It’s skin was not what I had expected, but what is at this point? It felt coarse, like a sandpaper made out of tiny triangular teeth. For a moment, as if measurement of time can be relevant, I feared that I had failed. But as the water around me continued to blacken and my body’s component parts seem to drift away from each other, I realized I had already given the sum total of my thanks. It had relieved me of all the worst in me, leaving me only with true joy. With that, I died.

Favorite Movie

For a long time, Repo Man has been my favorite movie. I never really thought about why. I watched it, it struck a chord somehow, and I nominated it for my favorite movie. It unseated Wild at Heart and that was that. But you know why I found Repo Man so relatable and why I accepted it so easily? Because at some point, I guess stopped asking questions. Just like Emilio Estevez’s character. Every insane twist that the film takes, he simply accepts. Upon walking in on his best friend sleeping with his girl, he simply collects his pants and leaves. When he finds himself stealing a car for $20, beyond an initial adrenaline rush, he simply takes it in stride. Not only do aliens exist, but there’s one in the trunk of 1964 Chevy Malibu. Not a problem for Otto. He lives a life completely devoid of expectation and thereby devoid of surprise, regret, or judgement of any kind. He is a post-modern hero who risks nothing. Even his own life is valueless as the next day holds no promise of things to come.

And I went from Wild at Heart, a film about a dangerous, passionate, and misunderstood love, to a film that feels nothing. Not even for itself. To top it off, I chose that film without even giving it a moment’s thought. I blindly accepted a film that that blindly accepts everything. What does that say about me?

I think for some time now, I’ve tried to live a life without expectation. And I think at times, it’s worked out really well for me. Anything good that happens is a stroke of luck or proof of some divine intervention while all the bad can be chalked up to misfortune or some abstract sense of karma that I must have offended. I deserve whatever I get and there’s no sense in questioning or dwelling upon it. Life continues. My heart keeps beating simply because it hasn’t stopped.

It went on too long and I became just an observer in my own life. Too disinterested to really even risk hoping for more. I think now I am in a better frame of mind. Better, at least, in the sense that it is more suited for the path ahead of me. I accept responsibility my own fate.

None of this is to say that Repo Man is not a fantastic film. In fact, I highly recommend it. But if your life, or rather your attitude towards life, bears any resemblance to Otto’s it may be wise to reassess.

My new favorite movie is My Own Private Idaho. I’ll let you know how that works out for me when I can look back on it from the perspective of a new fave.

Michael Jackson

I walked into a deli yesterday with a friend of mine. We'd discussing how everyone is playing Michael Jackson wherever you go. Upon entering, we noticed that the woman behind the counter was playing Dangerous all the way through. Picking up on our conversation, she started talking to us. Talking at us, rather. We had our backs to her as I explained that I am over aloe vera juice (this is true) and it was a minute or so before we made our beverage decisions, turned about, and realized that she had been addressing us. She proceeded to explain that the flowers, a bouquet of red roses placed in easy visibility on a shelf, were for Michael. She then pointed out a home-made sympathy card she’d created in his memory. The sort that features a heavily pixelated MJ and could easily have come out of Print Shop Deluxe. But these we just set pieces for her masterpiece. A true tale of hope and miracle. When her son was still young, he had some sort of terrible respiratory disease. Such that he was hospitalized with a dangerously questionable outlook. As the sun set on his young life, his tearful mother begged what she could do to make him more comfortable, to ease the fear and discomfort that he was undoubtedly feeling. He asked that should he die, can he “go” with Michael Jackson’s name. In the face of death and in the face of years and years unlived, he wanted only to be rechristened Michael Jackson. Tears in her eyes, she explained to her ailing son, Alberto, that he would keep his father’s surname, but that day she, grateful that there was something —anything that she could do for her son, she paid $400 to legally change his first name to Michael. Michael is 40 years old now.

I was strangely moved. Perhaps not so strangely. The entirety of this past weekend, I have been on the brink of tears that never seem to come. Whatever. Not all of it is entirely related to MJ, but growing up, he was a big part of my childhood. My mom and I listened almost exclusively to Michael Jackson and few of his Motown cohorts. I actually thought that The Wiz was the original and The Wizard of Oz a pale copy. And for whatever reason, my early life is a period of that I can only recall in the briefest of spurts and instances. But Michael Jackson’s music was and is something that is always rooted in my best memories of that time. It serves as an anchor for me, as if to keep me from completely detaching from my own childhood. And I will always be grateful for that. In spite of everything that tarnishes his legacy and in spite of my own callousness, his music will continue to improve my disposition, to remind me of my mother’s love, and force me to throw my hands up and dance.