A Short Essay on Karate
Around the fortieth punch, you lose count. It's dark, that's the problem. My karate professor decided class would be run this week like they used to teach karate in Japan when it was outlawed; in the night, in silence. The air is filled only with soft counting in Japanese, meaningless to so many American students, and sharp breaths with every jab of fists, the stomping of feet as they come forward. This is silence, or at least what passes for it in karate.
Near what I believed was punch fifty, the emergency lights kicked on, a modern convenience that everyone pretended to ignore but was secretly grateful for. We throw our fists forward in half-light. As I kept punching, numbers lost meaning. I wondered, "Is this two hundred? I'd say it's two hundred, but really I lost count awhile ago." I started to notice odd things, like how the stationary bicycles in the old gym were chained up, and I almost laughed, thinking about how ridiculous someone would look stealing one. Also, my feet hurt.
Somewhere around the halfway point (oh god, please say it's the halfway point), I am broken. My thoughts are not on the series of punches we're doing here, but the first class, where the professor talked about punching.
"As soon as your fist is extended, the punch is over."
He seems sad about this, nostalgic about an expired relationship with an attack.
"The fist is still there, but the energy is gone."
It was like he broke up with the punch because its interest was with whatever it had made contact with.
When I missed the turnaround, I was recalled to our purpose there, something that we did not know. Like any sustained activity, though (including staying up while your roommate works on philosophy), I suddenly had a second wind. My fists sharply flew up and outward, and each breath was strong and forceful; oh, I felt amazing. Less than thirty punches later, it was gone, like the next morning when the coffee wears off. I was stumbling through each move, my hands lazily lifting and extending until they have all but quit. It is the curse of nearly any repeated activity that eventually, you're going to lose interest. Like my professor's failed relationship with his punch, I suddenly had the remains of this activity.
"I feel like..." I said to the exercise, in my bored, delerious mind. "It's not working out anymore. I mean, really, it's been...fun and all, but I can't keep doing this. My elbow is popping, you see. I feel like we're just going through the motions."
And the exercise was silent, but my professor finally said that it was the last go-round. The next ten punches, he slowed down, and I cursed the bastard in my head. When we turned around and sped through the last ten, my body was unable to keep up, and I wished for the leisurely pace we were just keeping. And then, the thousand punches in the dark were done.
Our professor sat us down, and like a coach after a great game (Who am I kidding? I don't do sports) he told us he was very happy with practice tonight. We all sat and smiled and nodded, and secretly I thought he was insane, but after I left, I think I realized what he was trying to impart on me. I decided that life wasn't monotony, and he was wrong, and in fact he is just a maniac.
Near what I believed was punch fifty, the emergency lights kicked on, a modern convenience that everyone pretended to ignore but was secretly grateful for. We throw our fists forward in half-light. As I kept punching, numbers lost meaning. I wondered, "Is this two hundred? I'd say it's two hundred, but really I lost count awhile ago." I started to notice odd things, like how the stationary bicycles in the old gym were chained up, and I almost laughed, thinking about how ridiculous someone would look stealing one. Also, my feet hurt.
Somewhere around the halfway point (oh god, please say it's the halfway point), I am broken. My thoughts are not on the series of punches we're doing here, but the first class, where the professor talked about punching.
"As soon as your fist is extended, the punch is over."
He seems sad about this, nostalgic about an expired relationship with an attack.
"The fist is still there, but the energy is gone."
It was like he broke up with the punch because its interest was with whatever it had made contact with.
When I missed the turnaround, I was recalled to our purpose there, something that we did not know. Like any sustained activity, though (including staying up while your roommate works on philosophy), I suddenly had a second wind. My fists sharply flew up and outward, and each breath was strong and forceful; oh, I felt amazing. Less than thirty punches later, it was gone, like the next morning when the coffee wears off. I was stumbling through each move, my hands lazily lifting and extending until they have all but quit. It is the curse of nearly any repeated activity that eventually, you're going to lose interest. Like my professor's failed relationship with his punch, I suddenly had the remains of this activity.
"I feel like..." I said to the exercise, in my bored, delerious mind. "It's not working out anymore. I mean, really, it's been...fun and all, but I can't keep doing this. My elbow is popping, you see. I feel like we're just going through the motions."
And the exercise was silent, but my professor finally said that it was the last go-round. The next ten punches, he slowed down, and I cursed the bastard in my head. When we turned around and sped through the last ten, my body was unable to keep up, and I wished for the leisurely pace we were just keeping. And then, the thousand punches in the dark were done.
Our professor sat us down, and like a coach after a great game (Who am I kidding? I don't do sports) he told us he was very happy with practice tonight. We all sat and smiled and nodded, and secretly I thought he was insane, but after I left, I think I realized what he was trying to impart on me. I decided that life wasn't monotony, and he was wrong, and in fact he is just a maniac.