Gah
Wrote a screed-length, overly involved, rambling & probably quite boring post about this weekend's Toshiaki Nishioka vs Rafael Marquez fight, touching on matters mimetic, the insularity of the American media, how Nishioka looks like a character from a Japanese Animé, the sad erosion of time on one's physical prowess, & also about living with reduced expectations & amending one's views in light of the stark searchlight of reality etc etc, & (as you can probably tell from that last clause) also contained a lot of crap relating to my own emotional & mental state of late, but thankfully the computer ate it. I even wrote a bit about the actual fight itself, which'd make a change in one of my incredibly rare fight "reports".
Which is probably for the best. I hate it when people extrapolate some fanciful link between boxing & their own personal issues, yet it's almost impossible to write about it in any other context. If a boxing match is a text (go clock the scoring of the average closely contested fight if you don't believe me), then anyone can of course read anything into it, but the disappointments, the fear, the pain & the body chemicals that it ramps up are so overwhelming that we start to search for a way to express that, to do justice to the magnitude of the thing if you like, & then we end up searching desperately for something in one's own experience to compare it with or to get closer to.
Just seems a bit cheap, is all. Two fucking boys could've died, been fucked up for life, & I try to use that to make a dodgy analogy out of my own personal life?
Thank you then, Demon of the Interwebs, for eating my post. I pray that it's not been preserved anywhere on any kind of Wayback machine or Livejournal cache.
To lighten the mood, here is something with more emotional truth than anything I could ever write: a picture of Toshiaki Nishioka's hair.
Nishioka-san is the kiddy on the left, obviously. Actually, now I think about it, there was a reasonably entertaining bit about Nishioka's footwork & how though he isn't amongst the elite of the elite in boxing his footwork makes me come great spurting jets of Gyppo jism. Pah. Should've probably edited the rest of the bollocks out & kept that bit in, ah well...
Which is probably for the best. I hate it when people extrapolate some fanciful link between boxing & their own personal issues, yet it's almost impossible to write about it in any other context. If a boxing match is a text (go clock the scoring of the average closely contested fight if you don't believe me), then anyone can of course read anything into it, but the disappointments, the fear, the pain & the body chemicals that it ramps up are so overwhelming that we start to search for a way to express that, to do justice to the magnitude of the thing if you like, & then we end up searching desperately for something in one's own experience to compare it with or to get closer to.
Just seems a bit cheap, is all. Two fucking boys could've died, been fucked up for life, & I try to use that to make a dodgy analogy out of my own personal life?
Thank you then, Demon of the Interwebs, for eating my post. I pray that it's not been preserved anywhere on any kind of Wayback machine or Livejournal cache.
To lighten the mood, here is something with more emotional truth than anything I could ever write: a picture of Toshiaki Nishioka's hair.
Nishioka-san is the kiddy on the left, obviously. Actually, now I think about it, there was a reasonably entertaining bit about Nishioka's footwork & how though he isn't amongst the elite of the elite in boxing his footwork makes me come great spurting jets of Gyppo jism. Pah. Should've probably edited the rest of the bollocks out & kept that bit in, ah well...