The Art of Chessboxing

The "First" Date.

noreply@blogger.com (Wandering Pugilist) — Mon, 28 Nov 2022 02:17:00 +0000

There was this one time when Flora broke up with me. Well, kind of. It was more one of those "I'm pissed at you right now" kind of break ups. I couldn't remember exactly what I did. My insecurity at the time probably made me say something shitty or attempt to force her into being someone she wasn't. Either way, she felt trapped and the only way out was space from me. I spent days trying to devise ways on how to win her back.

People love Rio because it's a place where beaches are a short walk away. There people go to clear their minds and find resolution to their problems. My place was in the center of Rio de Janeiro at Livaria Cultura - a bookstore that was built inside of an old movie theatre. That was my spot. They had bean bags posted throughout the store for people to sit and read, and I always took naps there but the staff never said anything. It was probably the place that brought me the most peace in Rio, so logically I went there.

I browsed the store, looking for something romantic. Maybe a book of poetry. Maybe a photography catalog of love throughout the ages. I didn't know. Then I stumbled upon it: Princess Mononoke.

For those who have never dived into solid anime films, Princess Mononoke is Hayao Miyazaki's 7th film and essentially catalogs the battle between nature and technology. The film's protagonist is a prince who is seeking cure from a demon's curse that will eventually kill him. He stumbles upon a village in the middle of the forest that is led by a fierce woman named Lady Eboshi. Lady Eboshi takes care of lepers with grace and generosity, and treats everyone in the village with dignity. There is a strong loyalty for her in the community as they extract natural resources with the intention of progressing society.

On the opposite end is Princess Mononoke, a human named San who was raised by wolves. She leads the resistance of the forest and often charges against the village with battalions of wolves, boars and other forest creatures. Her mission is preservation of the forest and views the presence of the village as a threat to that mission. There the battle is set.

The prince, in the meanwhile, is in the middle of it all. He understands Lady Eboshi and falls in love with San. He actually saves his own life by telling San she is beautiful.

This was me and Flora's movie. I somehow managed to find the film with Portuguese subtitles and the first time I showed it to her was the first time I saw her absolutely enthralled by a film. It was also the first time I saw her get visibly angry in a discussion.

"The villagers are INVADING the forest. All they want is destruction," she told me.

"But the villagers don't view it that way. They view it that they are moving society forward," I said. "And look at the way Lady Eboshi treats the lepers. She's not 100% bad."

"But that's all fake! It's all in their own interest! Look at how they kill the animals!"

"And what about Princess Mononoke? Her and the animals kill too."

"They kill to maintain the peace!"

"No!" I shot back. "That is not peace. The only person in the film that wants peace is the prince. Because he wants them all to stop fighting."

That line caught her off guard and ended the discussion, though I don't think it completely change her mind.

All of this came back to me as I stood there in Livaria Cultura that day, seeing what I saw: a t-shirt with Princess Mononoke licking blood off her arm and a giant wolf behind her. They had it in white for men, yellow for women. I picked one up for each of us and a DVD of the movie itself.

That Saturday I went to the organic market where we first met and found her working as she does every Saturday. We started by exchanging pleasantries - how was each of us doing, how was so-and-so doing, etc. I then pulled her aside and handed her the DVD, neatly wrapped in plain brown butcher paper.

"This is a present for you," I said. "Open it when you have time."

She opened it right on the spot and her eyes widened. I then pulled out the shirt from behind my back and showed it to her. I swear I saw a little hop in her reaction, but she toned it down because I think she was still upset with me.

"I have the same shirt," I said. "Maybe one day if we go out together, we can wear it at the same time. It can be like a first date?"

She rolled her eyes playfully. "Okay, maybe."

Two days later she called me, asking if I wanted to go somewhere.

"Sure, but you know what my requirements are," I said to her.

"What?" she asked.

"Shirt."

"No."

"Then I guess we're not going out."

"FINE. Come here at 5"

I knocked the door at her apartment a few hours later. She wasn't wearing the shirt.

"What's going on?" I asked.

"I'm NOT wearing the shirt," she said again.

"Oh well, then I guess I'm going home." I turned around, motioning as if I was going down the stairs.

"FINE!" she shouted and marched into another room to change. Her twin sister Lilah was sitting on the couch witnessing the entire interaction.

"Flora hasn't been able to stop talking about wearing the same shirt with you for the past two days," Lilah said. "She's super excited."

"You shut up!" Flora yelled as she zoomed out and punched Lilah in the arm.

Lilah began laughing hysterically and the whole scene goes down as one of my favorite memories in life. After the scuffle, Flora turned and went, "There. You happy?"

I bowed by head slightly in approval and made a gesture with my hands for her to lead the way. She strutted past me and I shot a glance at Lilah who had a giant grin on her face.

At this time Flora was getting around town on a moped, further confirming that I had the coolest girlfriend in all of Rio de Janeiro. She handed me a helmet and I sat behind her, grasping the handlebars on the back of the seat. I decided upon a Lebanese restaurant in Botafogo, a place I stumbled across a few weeks earlier with friends. I can't remember much of the conversation, just that we both enjoyed it. We didn't touch upon why she was upset with me in the first place. It wasn't that I was avoiding it, just that she never brought it up. Instead, we talked about life, about dreams, about where and what we wanted to be when we grew older. It was actually very much "first date" conversation material.

As we were finishing our meal, I motioned down the waiter and asked if he would take a picture of the two of us. He gladly complied.

"Yeah, she's like really excited about the two of us wearing the same shirt, so she's been bugging me to get a picture of this all night," I said to him. "This whole shirt thing was her idea by the way."

He just nodded with a grin and took the picture. Surprisingly, Flora did not have any objection to my words. That was at least until he left.

"What the hell?!" she says, punching me in the arm more times than I could count. I sort of dashed away laughing, leaving her head shaking, wondering what the hell she was doing with me that night.

As we readied ourselves to leave, she asked if I wanted to drive the moped. I told her that that was probably not a good idea since I didn't have the first clue on how to do so. She told me that it was simple, and that I'd pick it up quickly cuz I'm smart. I didn't know if that was true, but I did know that it would have ruined the date if I didn't try, so I did.

It started out a bit rocky, but she was right, I got the hang of it. She even convinced me to get onto the freeway and the combination of speed and wind against my face was probably the closest physical embodiment I've felt to freedom. And I'll always remember as we rode through the downtown tunnel with amber lights flickering above us, she squeezed her arms tighter around my waist, and laid her head upon my back. In that moment, I thought to myself: "This is all I want out of life."

My scheme to win her back had worked, at least for the remainder of my time in Rio. Sometimes it hurts to know that even memories like this were not enough to keep us together, but at the same time, she is Princess Mononoke and I am the prince. The two of them do not end up together at the end of the film. Instead, they use the essence of each other to propel themselves further down their intended paths, perfectly fine with the way fate decided to write their stories.

Anger Management

noreply@blogger.com (Wandering Pugilist) — Fri, 17 Jun 2022 05:41:00 +0000

I have anger issues. This is something that has been apparent in me since childhood. It causes me to act like a maniac over the smallest things.

I ordered a couple of sandwiches from a local bakery the other day, and when the cashier was reading me back my order, I knew that he got the first sandwich right, but I didn't exactly recognize what he had said for the second. For some reason, I just assumed he got it right.

When I got home, I realized he indeed did NOT get it right. I was livid. I thought about my recourse. I thought about calling back and scolding the poor lad (who could not have been older than 19) for goofing up such a simple order. I imagined that they would offer me a free "replacement sandwich" to which I would have to get in my car, drive back to the store, have what would probably be an awkward encounter with someone I just yelled at over the phone, and then drive back home - pissed off that I had to take 20 minutes out of my day to be more pissed off. Just imagining all of this was making me more upset.

I then looked into the bag and thought, "Why don't I just eat the fucking sandwich that he made me?"

I did and it was delicious. Probably better than what I had originally ordered.

Thank You for Everything, Coach B.

noreply@blogger.com (Wandering Pugilist) — Tue, 16 Nov 2021 03:12:00 +0000

There are many reasons why a person decides to walk into a boxing gym. There are those that believe they are the next great champ. Others want to stop being bullied. Some are just looking for a place to be safe. But the one thing in common with everyone who trains at a boxing gym is that they are searching for a stronger version of themselves, and your coach is the one who helps you find it.

I started boxing when I was 20-years-old, which in boxing years is considerably late. At the time, I didn't know what I wanted in life and wouldn't have known how to get it if I did. I was lost and somewhat scared of the world, and this combination caused an overwhelming anxiety in my everyday life. One of the first times I remember that feeling calming away was when I watched boxing on television so I figured that there might be something there.

I started by calling up a few of the local gyms. Most of them would tell me about the location, the hours and the dues. All pretty straight forward and business-like. Then I called up Coach Bumblebee. The first thing he asked me was my last name.

"Wong? Oh, you Chinese?" he asked.

"Yeah..." I hesitated. Normally I'd say Taiwanese but I was nervous.

"Oh I got a bunch of kids that are Chinese!" Coach yelped. "And boy can they fight!"

"Really? You got Chinese fighters?"

"Yeah son. Boxing is for everyone. I got all kinds of people here."

I showed up at the Union Gospel Mission the very next day. Initially, I was bit confused. There were no signs indicating that any sort of boxing happened there, and not being from the neighborhood, I had to ask someone about it. I was then led to a black door with a square wood sign with "Bumblebee Boxing Club" engraved in yellow letters and words below reading: "This is a safe zone. All are welcome here."

To my novice eyes, the place didn't look like much when I stepped in. It was maybe 500-square feet of space and 95% of everything was held together by duct-tape. In the corner was a makeshift ring with garden hoses for ropes and a couple of creaky wood cabinets that held all the gear. But whatever the gym lacked in equipment was made up by Coach's presence. The moment I walked in he jumped up and said, "You the Chinese kid I talked to on the phone yesterday, ain't ya?"

Coach gave me a quick tour of the place, introduced me to a few of the fighters, and then broke down how training worked. He went through the workout list which consisted of push-ups, sit-ups, crunches, neckrolls, jumping jacks, lunges, a 5-mile run, ring circles, shadowboxing, heavy bag, double-end bag, speed bag, bob-and-weave rope, maize bag, jump rope, and finished off with jumping buckets. Coach told me I could do the run before I came to the gym if I wanted to, but as long as I was training there, roadwork had to be done five, if not six, days a week. Then he showed me the push-up poster.

Forgetting your hand-wraps would cost you 200. Sitting down 150. Answering in a non "yes" or "no" answer was another 200 and half of that for not having your shirt tucked in. But the one that probably cost you the most - so much that it wasn't even written on the list but sure as hell existed - is if your mother came in and told Coach that you talked back to her. That was something you most definitely wanted to avoid.

I partook in my share of pushups. At first, they were real infractions. I'd forget to ask permission before I went to the bathroom or forgot to call Coach when I missed a day at the gym, but after a while it felt a bit arbitrary. I remember during one sparring session Coach was threatening pushups if I dropped my hands so I intentionally pasted my hands against my chin for the rest of the round. I didn't even throw a punch so I knew there was no way in hell I dropped by hands, but Coach made me do the pushups anyways. I thought about speaking back, but thought better of it. I was a bit sour for the first twenty or so, but after that, I realized they were just pushups and got over it. That's when I learned that you listen to Coach, even if you think he's wrong, because in the big picture, Coach wasn't wrong. Everything that he did for us was in our benefit, regardless if we couldn't see it at the time. Like Coach might yell at you but he would never put you down. He was all about building up his fighters and he would never let you give up on yourself. "Champions in Life" was the motto.

In total, I trained there consistently for a little over two years, then I drifted in and out for another year or so after traveling abroad. I can't say that I was ever meant to be a serious contender, but the time I spent in the gym is probably the single best investment that I've ever made in my life. It's hard to fully describe the accumulated experience of training with Bumblebee, or as my teammate Robel simply puts it, "You had to be there". But it was one of the first things I did where I noticed tangible change in my character. There I learned how to wake up early, run when I didn't feel like it, and eat bananas and ice cubes for dinner to make weight. I learned about discipline and the beauty of sacrifice. Essentially, boxing introduced me to the concept of self-mastery - perhaps the single most important ideal one can strive for - and Coach was the one that showed me the path.

In 2008, I won a university scholarship to travel the world, and in my proposal I said that I would box in all the places I visited, which I did. I sparred with skills levels ranging from the complete novice to Olympic-level candidates, and for 3 months, I was the principle sparring partner to the #1 professional boxer in Peru where I held my own. The only reason I was able to pull any of that off was because of Coach B. I remember when I would train in different gyms, people would always ask me why I didn't sit down in between rounds. "Because then I'll have do pushups," I'd say to them.

That experience eventually led me to Rio de Janeiro where I volunteered with a non-profit boxing gym that used the sweet science to deter youth from joining drug factions in the favelas, and now, Brazil has more or less set the projection of my foreseeable future. Boxing was what lead me there.

Coach B passed away a few weeks ago and I'm still struggling to accept that he's no longer around. To be honest, I find it a bit strange to be feeling this way because I hadn't been keeping up with Coach in his final years, but I guess it was just comforting to know that there was always someone out there who had your back, because if Coach considered you one of his fighters, he had your back regardless. I look back on what Coach was trying to teach us and constantly question what he would think if he saw me in my lesser moments. Every time I speak back to my mom, for instance, I feel like I am letting Coach down. I guess that is one way that his words will live on with me forever.

These past two years have been difficult. I lost two good friends in 2019, my father a year later and now Coach B. I’m getting to that age where you start losing the people around you and the fear of being alone starts to creep in. I can’t even imagine what it is like for those who experience this kind of loss much earlier in life. But those were the exact sort of kids that showed up at Coach’s door because he provided a sense of presence. I remember how he used to buy a cake every month for the boxers that had their birthday because some of them never got one at home. One time, I met with a local photographer who had a project visiting all the boxing gyms in the area and he broke down what he found at each one.

"Gym are about different things. Most of the gyms are about running a business. Tacoma Boxing Club is about winning championships. Bumblebee is about serving the community."

You goddamn right he is.

Ever since my father passed away, I've been pressing up against a lot of fear. I fear making the wrong decisions in moving my life forward. I fear failing my father's legacy and squandering the opportunities he left through the sacrifices in his life. I fear not fulfilling my duty to his memory.

I try to imagine bringing this up to Coach. He might not understand the specifics, but he would most definitely understand the fear. Coach understood that everyone had the ability to overcome fear if they just dug deep enough within themselves, because if there's anything Coach believed in, it was in his fighters. He believed that if you were a Bumblebee, you could do anything, so he would tell me that no matter what it was, I could do it. That's what I think Coach would say to me now.

Then he would probably go make me do push-ups because I was doubting myself.

The 49th Day.

noreply@blogger.com (Wandering Pugilist) — Tue, 16 Feb 2021 07:56:00 +0000

In the Buddhist tradition, it is believed that those who have passed on continue to reside in this realm for 49 days, and those who remain can carry out good deeds on their behalf so that they may take them forth into the afterlife. Today marks the 49th day since my father passed away, so this is my final deed for him before he leaves this realm.

For those of you who know me, this has been an ongoing saga in the past 5 years of my life, which at the time, felt like it would never end. But time works in a funny way. Not knowing when something will end can make 5 years feel like forever when you’re in it, but when I look back on it now, all of it went by so fast. When I look back on it now, I wish I had more of it. If I was to be asked how much, I don’t think there is an amount that would be enough. It’s strange, but there were so many times where I absolutely could not stand my father when he was around, and now, seeing him again is one of the only things I wish I could have again.

It is a cliché to say that we take the time we have with others for granted, but that is exactly what happened with me and my father. Each step in which my father's cancer progressed, he always found a way to keep going. I just thought he would keep beating it. I remember one time a friend tepidly asked how my father was doing, as if afraid he had missed the announcement that my father passed away since I broke the news of his sickness so long ago. I picked up on the discomfort and said, "Yeah, he's still here. I dunno, motherfucker doesn't want to die yet.” We both shared a chuckle from that.

And if there was anything I could say about my dad now, it is that he was indeed, a tough motherfucker.

My father tested positive for COVID early in December, but it technically was not what got him in the end. He drew a negative result 5-days before he passed, and a good doctor friend of mine relayed to him how COVID was taking out people much younger and in much better health than he was, which again confirmed that he was, “a tough motherfucker.” That was one of the last times I heard my father laugh so boisterously.

In total, my father fought cancer for 11 years, and in doing so, he defied a lot of odds. His secondary oncologist would constantly refer to him as a "miracle man", which was music to the ears of his primary oncologist, who was the one primarily responsible for giving him 2 more years of decent life. My father's tumor first emerged when he was doing a routine checkup in Taiwan, where initially he came out with a clean bill of health until a friend recommended him to do a PET scan since it was significantly cheaper in Taiwan than it was in the US. My father is the type to always want the best of the best, so even though there were no apparent reasons for him to do so, he went for the PET scan anyways. The results revealed a tumor in the upper lobe of his right lung.

A surgical removal was performed immediately and my father was on observation for the next 5 years. Doctors would perform a scan every three months, then after a number of cleared scans, they would push it out to six, and after a series of six, they would declare a complete remission and let him go on with his life. Sure enough, on the last scan before the end of his fifth year, the tumor re-emerged. A subsequent surgery gave him another year of tumor-free scans, but when it reappeared once more, there were no more surgeries to be had. He then went on a series of clinical trials, and when he outgrew the clinical trials, he shifted to immunotherapy combined with a regime of low-dose chemotherapy treatments. I moved back home around 2015 when all surgical options were exhausted, haphazardly attempting to help out.

A lot of people look at my choice to move back home as if I did something noble, but in truth, it really wasn’t. I mean, I guess I could have done other things with the time I spent caring for my father, but it wasn't as if I had any clue what I was doing before that. It wasn't like I had an illustrious position at some major company or was a rising star in some field that I had to give up. I was an adult child with no real direction or marketable skills to offer the world. Looking back on it now, caring for my father was just as much for me as it was for him.

Up until that point, my father and I had a contemptuous relationship. I recently learned from my mother that when I first moved back, my father didn't really like me all that much. To be honest, I can't really blame him. I had just returned from Brazil, absolutely useless from a devastating heartbreak. I’ll spare the details, but the basic gist is that I invested too much of my identity into a relationship, which I later learned to be a recurring habit that kept me from finding direction in my life. Oblivious to the obsessive focus on my needs, I skirted all responsibility outside of myself. From my father's perspective, he had worked his entire life to overcome a childhood of poverty, and there I was, not caring or understanding any of it.

My father grew up in Taiwan, during the aftermath of the 1949 Chinese revolution and the shift of governmental rule from Japan to China. The economic consequences of that shift coupled with a few of my grandfather’s vices spun the family from relative wealth to dire poverty within a few years, all which occurred when my father was still in grade school. He would recall stories of public auctions of the family possession and having flashlights shined in his face at 3 in the morning because the authorities were looking for his father for writing bad checks. Those childhood scars carried on well into his adulthood and I am not sure that he ever truly healed from them. Throughout my father’s life, he would wake up from cold-sweat nightmares of reliving his childhood. That and going back to being a government employee.

This fear drove my father to spend the majority of his life focused on accumulating wealth. While in some ways this focus protected him, it also strained the relationship with his wife and children. To be fair to him though, my father has always described himself as a “half-assed family man”, and it isn’t as if securing material resources doesn’t fall under the job description of a father. Never once did I go hungry. Never once did I feel the threat of living on the street. He built an environment of safety for his children, and a place for them to cultivate their lives. That’s a lot more than what some fathers would do for their children, and my ability to view the world as I do now is mainly due to the fact that I did not have to endure the same hardships that he did.

My father spent his entire life wrestling with the demons of poverty and greed, and though he never really overcame them during the time he was alive, he did make sure they died with him. He did not allow this disease to infect his family, so in my eyes, he won. And I don't think I'll ever be able to repay that deed.

I wish I would have been able to see this earlier because my father and I used to get into heated arguments over his obsession with material wealth. My stance was that he prioritized it over the more important aspects of life. His stance was that I didn’t understand enough about how the world worked. We were both partly right, but the problem was that in our partial “rightness", we couldn’t hear anything that the other person was saying. Over time, the arguments between us did begin to dwindle, but it was more so because the chemical treatments made him just too physically tired to argue anymore rather than our relationship getting better. There was no feeling of victory in winning those arguments after that. Instead I was left with a kind of deafening sadness.

In the speech I gave at my father’s memorial, I said that he was “kind of an asshole”, which is true. I also said that he wanted me to say that, which is another truth. One time he told me that he wanted to be remembered at his funeral as “Steve Wong - The Asshole.” He emphasized this by spreading an imaginary banner with his hands of his self-proclaimed title, and giving a most satisfactory grin. He later specified the reference of a particular kind of asshole.

“Nick, there are two kinds of assholes in this world,” he began. "There are assholes, then there are goddamn assholes. I’m a goddamn asshole,” he proclaimed, pointing at himself with two thumbs-up gestures.

And generally, that was true. He’d curse someone out over the most minuscule thing, but if they were in any sort of real trouble, he'd bail them out immediately, no questions asked. He had a bad mouth, but a good heart, and his unabated instincts would reveal that true nature.

One example of that was when we were watching “The Green Book”, and in that scene where Dr. Shirley is denied use of the house bathroom and instead instructed to relieve himself in the outhouse barely holding itself together, my father innocently asked, “Why won’t they let him go into the bathroom?”

I sort of gave him this look that asked whether or not he’d been paying attention to the last hour of the movie.

“Oh...it’s because he’s black,” I said.

If I ever had any doubt on what indignation looked like on a person’s face, I no longer had any after that moment.

“That’s fucking BULLSHIT!” my father belched.

I swear he watched the rest of that movie hoping that rich white guy’s house would catch on fire at some point of the plot.

It was moments like this that simmered all the other noise down to the base character of my father. Knowing this allowed me to take his outbursts less personally, even finding humor in most of them. And I’d like to think that over time, the fewer arguments between us weren't only from his lack of energy, but that we were getting along better too.

This also allowed me to make a sincere effort in understanding and undertaking all that he had built throughout his life, something that I had avoided for many years as a young adult, and in doing what I thought to be what I wanted to do least, I became a person who could offer something tangible to the world. I now look at those last years with my father as some of the most cherished times of my life. He became one of my best friends.

We both changed the more time we spent with one another. As I became more responsible, my father became kinder, and I think it is because he worried less of what would happen to the family after he left. But what transformed my father the most when he became a grandfather. Seeing him with my niece and nephew was probably the only time where I saw it impossible for him to be angry. Something inside of him just wouldn’t allow it. Something in him just softened. It was maybe the only time he felt safe enough to be such a way, but I think that’s how he always wanted to be.

My father wasn't Buddhist, but he did understand Buddhism in this very innate and profound way. One of the only counsels he ever gave me about love was when I first came back from Brazil. He told me that I could not find love by chasing it. He told me that I had to be still, and let it come to me. He then made this gesture with his hand, very much like a mudra, in the center of of his chest, and something about that moment will never leave my memory.

The final gift I bought for my father was a calligraphy painting from a Zen temple I had lived in five weeks prior to his death. I hung it up next to a cross that I brought him from Brazil. He then pointed at the wall, moving his finger back and forth between the cross and the calligraphy.

"Those two are the same,” he said to me. "They both teach you to be a better person."

In Christopher Nolan’s “The Dark Knight”, Heath Ledger’s character says that, "In their last moments, people show you who they really are.” I never thought I would quote the Joker in a piece about my father’s death, but I haven’t found a truer statement to describe his last moments. On December 29th, 2020, I woke up at 5:45 in the morning at my father’s side. He was heaving for air. He could no longer speak at this point, but he could understand what I was saying. I asked if he was in pain and he shook his head "no". I asked if he wanted morphine, something that he had clamored for all day the day before, and he shook his head "no" once more. He wanted to face death clearly, as a man, because that is who he really was.

After reciting prayers for a good death, I asked him if he felt forgiven for his sins, as he had also confessed his earthly transgressions to me the night before. He shook his head "yes". And with that, I told him to go in peace, because he was forgiven.

Those were the last words I said to my father, and he passed away a couple minutes later, at 6:15 that morning.

In the final week of my father’s life, there was a day where he said to me, “You’re being nice to me now.” Those words sliced me to the core, but not because he intended them to hurt me. It was because he was simply making a statement about how he felt. I suddenly I asked myself how necessary it was to be upset with him all those times in which I was. Most of them were not, and if I was a bit wiser, I would say that none of them were. It hurt to know that I had given him so much grief in his life. It hurt to know that it was too late to correct those mistakes. It hurt to know that there was so little time left to show my remorse. But sometimes that is just how life teaches you. I look back on all the times where I spoke back, raised my voice, and cursed under my breath (and sometimes over it), with a very deep shame. And it is a shame that is difficult, if not impossible, to wash off once someone is gone. So if there is anything I would want to pass on, it is to make use of the time with those we have around us. Striving towards a reconciliation will give us clues to the meaning of life.

There is something about losing someone close to you that transforms the relationship with your surroundings. It’s sounds silly, but it is only now that I look at all those around me, all those whom I love so dearly, and realize that they too will one day die. This makes me cherish every breath that I have on this earth. Life is too precious to be wasted on hatred. And I also mean hatred for the things in which we believe to be wrong. It is just not worth viewing the world in that way.

This is the final gift in which my father left me - the courage to be kind to the world. And as my final deed to him on this day, I give my gratitude and a promise:

Thank you for showing me how to live my life, and I promise to carry forth your legacy in the way in which you intended.

I love you, Dad. Have a safe journey to the other side.

A farewell.

noreply@blogger.com (Wandering Pugilist) — Fri, 15 Jun 2018 06:05:00 +0000

I came to back to Brazil without telling anyone. Part of it was rational: I didn't want to lug presents back and forth for people in both countries. Part of me was ashamed: I had just gotten back from Brazil and I was going again? Why am I so privileged to do such a thing? But I realize now that most of it was because this was my farewell to the country and I wanted to keep it personal. Well, perhaps not a "farewell", but at least a farewell to the life that I once had here, the life I had been holding onto in all of my deepest dreams.

Not many people know this, but when I first left Brazil, I had left thinking I was coming back in two months, so I just left a bunch of stuff here. Two months turned into more than 3 years. But part of me also knew at that time that I was going to be gone for much longer than what I had thought, and me leaving my things here was going to force me to come back, no matter how scared or comfortable I had become in my life. When I came back, I didn't know what to expect. The logical part of me knew that the life I had no longer existed. The emotional part of me hoped that it would be. The truth is that both were there in some ways, and not in others.

When I first set into my apartment, the experience was surreal. It was like a time capsul. Nothing had really changed, except for the copious amounts of dust. Much of the city too had remained the same; in fact the same people worked at the places I used to frequent. When the same doorman greeted me at the front door, it was like seeing an old family member, happily wondering where I had been; it was the best welcome home one could hope for. But deeper down inside, many things changed.

Brazil is in a state of crisis; Rio de Janeiro in a crisis of its own. The World Cup and Olympic Games absolutely ruined the city, not for the events itself, but for the fact that the millions of dollars that was put into the city fell into the pockets of corrupt politicians. To put that into perspective, the past four governors of the city are currently in prison. What resulted was an alarming finincial crisis. I saw many more people sleeping on the streets, many more street vendors selling used nick-nacks on the corner. I would say that 95% of the people I know are doing worse than when I first met them. The only person that things said hadn't changed was my friend from Maré who said, "Well things have always been fucked up here so I don't really feel a difference." The experience absolutely tore my heart to pieces.

But their attitude about it. Their goddamn attitude. We could all learn from their attitude. If there's anything that I find so inspiring about the people, it is their faith. The faith in their country. The faith in themselves. The faith that things will be okay. This belief makes it so that there is no excuse to stop trying. That too nearly brought me to tears.

It is hard for me to let go of this piece of my life. Giving up my apartment was one of the hardest. One might think that it's just a place, but to me it's much more than that. It was here that I discovered everything about myself. All the answers I was seeking. All the questions that I did not know even existed. This city taught me everything about being a decent person. It taught me how to love. It taught me how to forgive. For this reason, it is hard to say goodbye.

But lettting go of it was also beautiful. I gave away most of my belongings, left bags full of clothing, books and other random items on the street corner for people to sell. In this way, the closing of this chapter of my life gave new beginnings to another. It was a complete cycle of death and rebirth.

Inside of my heart, I know that this is not the last time I set foot on this land. I know that God willing, I will move to this city one day, but will likely be different from when I was here before. Because despite all the changes I saw in the city, perhaps the most profound change I realized was in myself: I was no longer the person I was when I first lived here.

But it is still hard to let go. I once wrote that saying goodbye to some of these people might be the last time I'd ever see them. I wasn't trying to be dramatic, though it might have come off as such, but there were plenty of friends I didn't get to visit during this trip. Some had moved cities, moved countries, or passed over to the other side. With all the uncertanities in life, one never really knows what will happen. There are about four millions ways to fall off your path and only one way to stay on it. Let's just say I have a lot of work to do when I go back to Seattle.

But at least for now, all I have is an incredible sense of gratitude. So thank you Brazil. Thank you Rio de Janeiro. Thank you for saving my life. I will be back one day to return the favor.

A present.

noreply@blogger.com (Wandering Pugilist) — Sat, 03 Feb 2018 06:21:00 +0000

One time I went to my Jiu-Jitsu dojo wearing wooden Japanese sandals and this guy asked me about them, said he wanted a pair. The next time I went to São Paulo, I bought them for him and brought them back. He looked at me suspiciously and said "How much?", running his thumb against two fingers. I thought about it for a minute and ended up saying, "Ehhhh...you can just have them. Present from me."

"Really?!?!" he said, eyes lit up like holiday bulbs.

"Yeah," I said shrugging, but inside feeling ecstatic to have made the right choice to gift them.

"Woooooo!!!" he squealed. He then pursed his lips and began rubbing the sandals against the two sides of his face.

The next week he came to the dojo with his wife, introducing me as "the guy that gave him the sandals." His wife bowed slightly and thanked me, saying that he gets so happy when he sees them and periodically rubs them against his face.

That experience was definitely worth eight dollars.

The first conversation since.

noreply@blogger.com (Wandering Pugilist) — Sun, 11 Jun 2017 16:13:00 +0000

Flora and I broke up about two and a half years ago. From that point moving forward, the frequency of our conversations began to piddle out like a dripping water faucet that was slowly being repaired. After we broke up we spoke maybe for a few minutes every week. Then every month. Then it was three. Then half a year. Two weeks ago, we had our first real conversation in maybe nine months.

Usually when I would message Flora it would be a simple “Hi.” “How are you doing?” “I’m glad you’re doing well.” And I wouldn’t hear from her again. Sometimes the words were fewer. Sometimes it was a simple “hand-wave” emoji. Most times the messages went unanswered. This time I reached out to her because I was doing something that required me to pray for people who have passed away four years ago or more. When I asked if there was anyone that fit the criteria in her life, she offered the name of her grandmother. I thanked her and pretty much thought that would be the end of it, but this time she asked how I was doing, and when I replied and asked the same of her, she actually answered.

I stopped looking at Flora's Facebook long ago, partly because I realized that it wasn’t a good thing for me to do, but also because that girl doesn’t put shit on her Facebook. It’s one of the things I really like about her. One thing I did find however, was an album that her band finished on YouTube. It meant a lot to me when I found it, or more like, it meant a lot to me that it probably meant a lot to them. Flora and I were still together when the band first formed; I still remember the auditions her and her twin sister put on at the studio (they were the band's founders and the ones that got the final say). To see them come out with a 6-track EP showed me how far they’ve come, and how much time has passed since then. It made me smile. I never told her about my discovery.

Instead we talked about novelties. She finally got a chance to travel, spent some time in Europe, mainly France and the UK, and she was actually leaving for France again in two days. Somewhat to my surprise, this made me incredibly happy. She’s an adventurer, like me, and she deserved seeing the world more than just about anyone I know. I asked her how well her French was coming along. She replied with three messages that I couldn’t understand. She then wrote that she really wanted to become fluent in French, said the language spoke to her. I told her it did to me as well, though I wanted to learn it for the purposes of traveling to West Africa one day.

“For sure,” she said. “I want to go there too. The luxury of Europe isn’t that fitting for me.”

“I have a good friend in Togo,” I told her.

“Let’s meet up in West Africa!”

“Okay!”

The old me would have held onto that statement like it actually meant something. I would have read it as a hope, a chance that she still thought about me and wanted something more than an acquaintanceship over the Internet. But this time I felt pretty neutral in her words, like it was fine if it never came true, because most likely it wouldn’t. When I took a few minutes to respond, she said that I didn’t have to talk to her if I had other things to do. I told her I wanted to have a conversation with her, that it was rare to be able to talk with "Flora Star".

“Flora Star” was this inside joke we had when we were dating. Flora used to have this psychotic stalker that one time gifted her fifty 8x11 color prints of a picture of her that he found on Facebook. When she fanned out all the copies, I asked if I could keep one. She shrugged and said, “Sure I guess.” I took out a sharpie and asked her to sign it. She smirked. On it she wrote:

“To my new fan, Nicholas - Flora Star ;-)”

This is why I loved this girl.

Calling her “Flora Star” made her laugh. She then wrote, “Well maybe it doesn’t have to be that rare!” Another instance where the old me would have held on, but I didn’t this time. We then proceeded to get on about our lives, our plans, our hopes, our dreams. I told her I’ve been staying around helping my family and writing a lot. She told me the band broke up and that she’s starting a solo project. She then apologetically told me that she took three shirts from my apartment after we broke up and used them often. I’ll have to admit, that tidbit made my heart skip a bit faster. Then to my surprise, she went straight into a topic that I thought I would’ve brought up.

“Are you dating anyone?” she asked.

“Hmm…you’re very direct,” I answered.

“I don’t know any other way to be,” she said in return. “I’m a Sagittarius…the arrow always goes direct.”

“Yeah, I know,” I said smiling behind the screen. “No, I’m not dating anyone. Are you?” A good two minutes passed before she responded.

“I’m looking to find solitude,” she wrote. “Solitude and fullfilment. Does that make sense?”

“Yes,” I said. “It is the same thing that I’m doing.”

I don’t know what she was thinking from her side of the screen. I didn’t know why she asked. I didn’t know why she cared. At one point of the conversation, I told her that I was her friend, and that I’d always be her friend. She told me the same. But when I think about it now, Flora is not really my friend, at least not in my current definition of the word. She hasn’t really been around in the capacity of which I hold my friends accountable for. I mean, sure, people have their lives to live and I have plenty of very dear and close friends that I go years not speaking with, but I almost died when we broke up (literally from a staph infection), and she wouldn’t really give me the time of day when that was happening. Yes, I was being the desperate dependent annoying ex-boyfriend who couldn’t handle reality, but I was also in a lot of pain. She’s forgotten my birthday every year since just about the day we met, and has never asked on whim how me and my family are doing. In fact when I think about it more, I’ve initiated every conversation we’ve ever had since our breakup. Again, I’m not trying to make her out to be a bad person, because she’s actually not. She’s actually one of the kindest, most genuine people I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting. But she also has shitty communication skills. It’s kind of just the way she is, or more accurately, the time of life that she's currently in. It can also just be the way some PEOPLE are, and that's simply how it is. It should be enough to know that she cares about me in her heart, that she is always wanting the best for my life, even if she never says it to me in words. Sometimes it’s just hard to believe in that on faith alone.

For the first time in all of our interactions since our breakup, I was the one that ended the conversation first. It’s not that I wasn’t enjoying our dialogue, it’s more that I felt there was nothing left to say. Plus she was going in and out of the conversation - low battery life and moreso general distractions. Before I’d get annoyed with something like that, take it as some form of disrespect, but this time I just had love for it as a friend. It’s strange, but there were probably more things said in this conversation where I could have fallen back in love with her than anytime in the past, but I let them go this time, that in the end, they probably didn’t mean anything. It was here that I realized that this was the closure I was seeking with Flora. I had done it without even knowing it. Part of me felt healed, but another very real part of me was hurting.

What I've come to realize is that I gave it everything I had with Flora. I went in with reckless abandon because I still believe(d) in this ideal of Love that we have in the world. I pulled out all the stops. All the fears, all the doubts, I went past all of them, for her. I gave her my best. And it wasn't enough.

That has been the hardest thing I've had to understand. Yes, I am now a different person, a much more mature and capable person, and most of this was just timing. But to miss the mark, on something like this, is not an easy thing to accept. At the same time, I also know it is something that I need(ed) to do.

A day at the cafe.

noreply@blogger.com (Wandering Pugilist) — Mon, 09 Jan 2017 02:29:00 +0000

I was having coffee today with a good friend and in the middle of our conversation, a guy stumbles over to us and begins talking.

"Hey guys, I'm a Jarhead..." he starts. The rest of it sort of goes into this indecipherable ramble.

I get it immediately. He's a panhandler and my initial reaction is to put him aside, tell him that my friend and I were in the middle of a very important conversation (we were), and that it needed to be respected. Over the years, I've found the ability to do this, and to a bit of my own chagrin, have taken way too much liberty with it. But something in his eyes stopped me. Something about him made me look for a different way. His words are still making no sense at this point and could have gone on had I let it, so instead I interject:

"What can I do for you brother? What is it that you need?"

He sort of stops and has a tinge of surprise on his face.

"Some change," he said. "I could really use it."

I nod and dig into my pocket, pull out a dollar. My friend does the same. I place it into his palm and attempt to say something meaningful, but it's really just a bunch of crap. It made so little sense that I can't even recall (or don't want to recall) the words to write them out now. A barista from the counter comes over and begins to usher the guy out.

"C'mon man, you can't come in here. No panhandling." He starts to drag the man away. I catch the last part of what the guy says in protest.

"...I just want to be around them," he pleads.

Again, had it been a few years ago, that would have been the end of it. Problem solved. I go on about my day, go on about my conversation. Distraction handled. But something about it felt off. I wanted my life to be different. At first, I thought to say to the barista that he wasn't bothering us, but I understood his position too. It's his job to maintain the café, let the patrons enjoy their coffee. I try to think of the next best thing.

"I'll walk him out," I say. The barista nods and let's go of his arm.

I take the guy out and lean over to him.

"What is it you wanted to say to me?" I asked.

"Okay. I'm not gonna lie to you," he starts. "Because there's no point in lying. Telling one lie just means you gotta cover it up with another."

I give a small smirk and nod.

"I just need a beer right now," he says.

I look back into his eyes again and I'm immediately reminded of this word I learned in Brazil. If you ever visit an indigenous tribe in the Amazon (or at least the same ones I have), you will often hear people call you this word: "Txai". It means something more than "Brother" or "Sister". It means "I am another you. You are another me." This is something they used in the movie Avatar and the meaning is profound. Think about it. If we went about life looking at everyone as another version of us, we wouldn't think of the homeless as degenerate low-lifes who can't get their shit together. We wouldn't think that they're lazy, or 'just not trying hard enough', or that overcoming alcoholism is as easy as simply stopping. We might, instead, think that if just one part of our life was different, we'd be right where they are. Maybe if we were born in a different crib or had something done to us when we were children. Maybe something completely out of our control happened at a time when we were not protected. Sure, everyone does need to be accountable for their choices despite the circumstance, but it might also make the world look a bit different. Instead of castigating or criticizing, maybe we'd try understanding and giving compassion, because giving compassion to others is giving compassion to ourselves. Who knows.

We both sort of chuckle. I tell him I appreciate his honesty. I reach into my pocket and pull out a $5 bill. I think about all the things I've heard about giving money to panhandlers, drunks especially. It really only enables the problem and can very much make it worse. But there are other things to consider too. The temperature has been in the 30s these past few days in Seattle. It was pouring rain at the time. I figure maybe the liquor would keep him warm. I dunno. Maybe it was the wrong thing to do, but it was what I did.

He smiles and sort of pats me on the back. I try to say something else to him. I want to say something along the lines of, "You can always use it for something better," or "There's always another choice," but I can't get the words out. It's probably because I have no idea what it feels like to be this dude and it would be kind of asshole-pretentious of me to tell him what to do with his life. Instead all I can muster is pounding myself in the chest. He sort of looks at me quizzically. I pound once more.

"Oh, uh, hit myself?" he asks. "Right here?" He hits himself way harder than what made me comfortable.

I sort of cringe and shake my head, think about how much of an idiot I must have looked like. I don't even really know what I'm trying to say, so I just pound again.

"Oh! The heart!" he laughs. "You're alright man."

I stand there for a moment as he walks away. A dumb smile comes across my face. The funny thing is that people might read this story and think I did something for the guy, but in reality, he did way more for me.

A new beginning.

noreply@blogger.com (Wandering Pugilist) — Mon, 02 Jan 2017 04:40:00 +0000

I am no longer in love with Flora. You don't know how difficult it was for me to come to that conclusion, let alone post it on the Internet. For those of you familiar with my story, you might know the gravity this statement carries. And if you really know me, you're also probably someone who told me that I was absolutely fucking crazy to stay in it with her for this long, especially since we broke up over two years ago.

See, I am a romantic at heart, and I don't mean that in a positive way. I'm more like a romance fanatic. I love romantic movies. One of my favorite film series is "The Before Trilogy", I hate "Love Actually", but find "Crazy, Stupid, Love" to be one of the most underrated romance films (if not films in general) ever. But at some point I realized that these movies, the ideology they espouse, can be dangerous. They make us think that love is supposed to look a certain way, or that if your encounter with someone vaguely resembles something you've seen in one of these films, it is somehow ordained in the heavens that the two of you are meant to be with one another. It creates this lift in your heart, springs a hope that life can bring something worth living for, but it also begins this unending journey to an unattainable goal. There is nothing noble about unrequited Love. Nothing romantic. Nothing brave. In fact, it is quite stupid.

Flora and I broke up in November of 2014. From that date until now, I have more or less remained faithful to her. I may have lightly dated, but not where it mattered. I didn't sleep with anyone and I damn sure did not love anyone else. The whole time I thought I was doing something grand, something that would prove my worth for her love, something that would eventually pay back in the form of her coming back to me. Instead, nothing happened. I thought about it for a moment, about whether or not I should continue pining over someone that will likely never come back into my life, and suddenly I looked myself in the mirror and thought of a one-word question I should have thought of a long time ago: "Why?"

Since we've broken up, Flora has never called, texted or emailed. She never asks how my father is doing, she never asks how I am doing, and if I didn't send her a "hello" every so often, she wouldn't even know that I'm alive. I sent her a "hand-wave" for Christmas, and she never responded. She saw it, but never thought to write back. Now I just think, "Why would I give my heart to someone who doesn't want it?"

I want to make clear that I am not trying to frame Flora as a "bad" person. I want to make clear that I understand she has zero obligation in caring about me romantically, or even as a friend for that matter. It is her choice, her life, and to this day I still think of her as one of the best people that I've ever met. The only pain I feel is from the expectations I built up from staying faithful to a faded memory.

There was this one time where I asked someone about Love. I said to him:

"Love, is it a fight?

"No," he said to me. "Love is a flower. Never confuse the two."

I look at that statement now, and our love was indeed a flower, and for these past two years, it was me trying to take care of it alone. It was me giving it water, but there was no sunshine. Everyday I would wake up and try to breathe a nourishing warmth into its bloom, but of course, it didn't work. It withered and its roots eventually rotted. This entire process has been me excavating the remains. Love cannot survive with only one person caring for it. We cannot do this alone.

It took me a long time to find the courage to write this out, because at times I felt I might have been throwing away our story with too much nonchalance, too much pain, too much bitterness. But it's not that. I've carried my Love for Flora as a sacred talisman, and I've guarded it with my life. She meant the world to me. She was everything. People don't know this, but Flora actually asked me to marry her three times. The first time I said "No", because I said she should think more about how it would change her life. The second time she asked again - in front of her father and her step-mother - and I said the same thing, detailing a bit more about how her civil status would change and how that would affect her financially, i.e. taxes. The third time was when I was back in the US and she asked me over the phone. This time I didn't say "No" immediately.

"Ok. Why do you want to get married?" I asked.

"Nick. I wouldn't consider marriage for just one reason only. It's for your visa, so you can stay here, so we can be together, and well, because I love you," she told me.

"Are you sure?" I asked. "You understand this could make your life more difficult?"

"I understand and I'm sure."

"Okay then," I said with the biggest grin on my face that she couldn't see.

"Damn. That was the hardest marriage proposal in the history of the world!"

We laughed, but what ended up happening was that the exact things I had warned her about scared her off. In order to get married in Brazil, one needs to have a variety of documents including but not limited to: FBI criminal background check, certificate of civil status, contract from a lawyer, notary official to wed, etc., etc. Because much of this stuff took months to process, and I needed to start gathering documents pretty much when I returned because of the expiration date of my visa. I think that spooked her out of it. It felt like pressure to her, and she called it off. That hurt, in a very profound way. I thought Flora was the Love of my Life and I would have given anything in order to marry her. It would have meant everything to me. My greatest triumph.

But I also look back on that now, and who I was then was kind of scary. To give so much of yourself to someone who is not willing to give back is dangerous. What occurred to me so strongly, when I asked myself "Why?" in the mirror, were a series of questions: "Where is your self-respect? Your self-worth? Where is your self-love?" I realized that over these past two years, I managed to fill the hole in my heart with Love for myself, and now my heart has been returned to me. I am the owner of my heart. I Am The Owner of My Heart. I AM THE OWNER OF MY HEART.

My friend once told me that every boy has a woman in their life that turns them into a man. For my life, Flora is that person. She taught me how to love myself.

I used to define the quality of my New Years Eve on whether or not I kissed someone at midnight. That one New Years with Flora has so far been my favorite, but I think this one may have topped it. Because this time I found something that was way more valuable than a random kiss from a stranger, or maybe even from Flora herself. This year, I rediscovered my dignity.

The Lighthouse

noreply@blogger.com (Wandering Pugilist) — Mon, 02 May 2016 05:43:00 +0000

She wanted to take me somewhere special this time. It was a surprise. I sat at a corner bookstore in downtown Rio for a good 20 minutes before she appeared on the back of a motorcycle. Under normal circumstances, I might have been annoyed with the tardiness, but this was the girl of my dreams. I’d wait an eternity for her to show up. I pulled out from behind my back a single orange orchid, a gift a friend recommended that I put around her ear. She pulled her hair back and closed her eyes as I wrapped the stem around her right lobe. I could have lived in that moment forever.

She wanted to go to Paqueta, one of her favorite spots that she only shared with a few people. As we waited to cross the water, she told me about a time where she wandered in her curiosity and missed the last return ferry home. She found a couple to take her in that night. She traded live songs on the guitar for a one-night stay in their guesthouse. The way she recounted that memory, the look she had in her eyes, told me that she still believed in the goodness of people, that stories like this kept hope alive.

I tried to come up with an equally touching story in return, but the best I could do was ask her if she had ever seen snow. She hadn’t, but always wanted to. I told her that I’ve lived in cold climates my entire life, and that I knew it almost too well, but one day, if we ever found ourselves in a place that permitted, I’d pack together a snowball and throw it directly in her face. The way she reacted still comes to me in my dreams. That surprise, that smile, that gentle nudge against my abdomen – it is everything I miss about her.

We arrived later than anticipated. By then just about everything was closed. We flirted with the idea of going into the park after hours, but she thought about the guards on night patrol and how our intrusion would have made their job that much more difficult. Instead, we found an old lighthouse and climbed up its rickety ladder, aided by a flashlight from my cellphone. We sat up there, not really knowing what to do or say. Or at least I had no idea what to do or say. I ran through the list of conversations in my head, went through the likely responses and how I might weave that into a discussion about my feelings. I’m actually pretty good at that - predicting how people think - but with her, everything was different. I was perpetually surprised by just about everything she ever said or did. There was no strategy with this one. After about 10mins of silence, I finally blurted out the best thing I could come up with.

“I’m about to tell you something really intense,” I said. “But if you don’t want to hear it, I’ll understand.”

“You don’t have to be afraid to tell me anything,” she said, looking me straight in the eye. “I like intense things.”

“I think I’ve been waiting my whole life to meet you,” I spouted.

Right there, at that very moment, I was ready to devote my entire life to her. No questions, no second thoughts, just instinct. I then realized that I barely knew this person and was saying this the third time we had gone out together. But I meant every word, at that moment as I do today. I sat there waiting for her to pack her things up and leave.

She didn’t respond. She just sat there and nodded her head. She then rested her head on my shoulder and the relief was one of the best feelings I have felt in my life.

Night fell and it quickly grew colder atop the tower. I had foolishly worn a thin tank top, and she wrapped me up in an extra long-sleeve shirt she had brought along. After a few more minutes of staring out into the sea, I think she took pity on my constant shivering and suggested we catch the ferry home. I’ll never forget when we climbed back down the ladder. She didn’t want the flashlight. She said she wanted to know what it was like to go down into a path where she couldn’t see too far ahead. She said I could use the light if I wanted, but to wait until she was all the way at the bottom. I climbed down right behind her in the darkness, using only the feelings in my limbs, and the sounds of the one ahead to guide me.

We ordered a spinach and mushroom pizza when we got back into town, split it into four pieces and sat next to each other waiting for the last ferry home. We talked about our parents, and the shortcomings of their marriages. Her parents divorced when she was still young. Mine are still together, but I wouldn't exactly call them 'happy'. There was a tinge of fear in both of our voices. I don’t know if she thought this, but I thought about the futility of us even dating. More than likely, we’d end up a statistic of a failed couple, but there also comes a point where we need to believe there are relationships that exist outside of what we witness growing up.

We finished the rest of the pizza on the ferry. I made a quick jab at her appetite. She called me a hypocrite. Our shoulders pushed up against one another, her hand slipped into mine and she laid her head against my shoulder once again. I put my chin on the top of her head. We weren’t going to make it, but we were going to take a chance. That’s really the best you can do in the end - be brave enough to try.

I don’t know if I’ll ever get back with Flora. I don’t even know if I’ll see her again in this lifetime. The relationship we had is no longer part of my life. But I’ll always have the Lighthouse. That one is mine to keep.

A poem for Amparo

noreply@blogger.com (Wandering Pugilist) — Mon, 11 Apr 2016 03:02:00 +0000

When I lived in Nicaragua

I stayed with a man named Henry.

Henry took in anyone

and everyone.

One time there were

five of us

all sleeping on his

California King.

Me, Henry, his boyfriend,

and his best friend, Amparo

who brought her one-year old son,

sick from a fever.

One day I was talking
about the people who helped me
along the way.
At the end of it she sighed and said something
that stuck with me
forever:

"In every place it is the same;

there are few people

who are bad."

This is did not come from

a place of privilege

where seeing the world with an amber hue

comes easy.

This came from someone

poor and struggling

living in Nicaragua

as a woman.

Someone who left home

because her drunken husband

starting beating her

again.

Sometimes I am still

lucky enough
to hear her words

when I find myself

complaining.

An important midnight conversation

noreply@blogger.com (Wandering Pugilist) — Mon, 21 Mar 2016 04:47:00 +0000

One night when Flora and I were laying in bed, she caressed my back in a way that told me that all my childhood fears were liars, that everything in the world would be okay as long as I believed in us. I felt every morsel of my body melting. She then said something that has never left me.

"Do you feel that you love me?" she asked.

"Yes," I said.

"Do you feel that I love you?"

"Yes."

And she wasn't using the word "feel" to describe the way we felt for one another. She was referring to a "feeling", as in another presence in the room.

"I feel that you love me too. I also feel that I love you. I think this is important."

She then took a pause to recollect the moment and said with a stern adaptation:

"This is very important."

I agree. It was important.

It is important.

A sudden revelation

noreply@blogger.com (Wandering Pugilist) — Mon, 14 Mar 2016 03:16:00 +0000

I am not sure what direction in which this thought is headed, but I realize that I am in love with the way that Flora and I fell in love. I am enamored with the story, almost so much that is beyond any of the actual feelings that I may still have for her. It's almost as if it is not her that I am afraid of losing, but the memory of her. The way in which we met. It is our origin. I am terrified at the thought of losing that origin, because without knowing where we came from, we are nothing. We are sadly and utterly, lost.

One morning before dawn

noreply@blogger.com (Wandering Pugilist) — Mon, 07 Mar 2016 05:49:00 +0000

I woke up on my own at 4:45. No alarm. We must have slept through it. She was supposed to wake up a half-hour earlier to make it to the bus station. She was going to Ilhe Grande, bought the non-refundable one-way ticket the day before, and it was her first time going despite being a Brazilian native. She talked about it incessantly in the weeks previous, said that she wanted to dedicate the next year to traveling the world, and exploring her own country was the first step. I couldn't go on account of an interview being rescheduled, one of the few times I chose being responsible over being infatuated.

I nudged her upon realizing the time, and she instinctually yawned, then put her arms around me. Hugged me like I was home. If I was selfish, I would have left it at that. I would have gone back to sleep and had a day with her all to myself, but in my attempts to be a better person, I nudged her again.

"You need to get up," I whispered.

"What time is it?"

"4:45."

"WHAT?!?!?"

"We slept through the alarm."

She blinked the sleep out of her eyes and paused for a moment.

"Wait, how did you wake up?" she asked.

I sort of shrugged and gave half-conscious smile. I can honestly say it was one of the only times where she looked thoroughly impressed with me. She then sort of slumped her shoulders, saying it was too late. Again, if I was selfish, I would have taken that and convinced her to sleep a few more hours.

"No c'mon. How long does it take to get to the bus terminal?"

"Now? At this time? I dunno. 10mins?"

"And what time is your bus?"

"5:00."

"Ok. So then you'll still have 5 minutes to buy food for your trip."

We traded sly grins and I'd like to think that in that moment, she found out a bit more on what I was about. Truth be told, I found out a bit more on what I was about. I threw on my pants, and told her I'd join her in flagging down a cab. In a last remanent of doubt, she hesitated, cataloguing all the reasons why she wouldn't make it. In response, I placed my palm at the base of her chin, looked straight in her eyes and said:

"Look, you've been talking about this trip for weeks. Do you want to go?"

She nodded.

"Then take the chance and go. If you miss the bus, just come back. I'll be here."

She smiled and it warmed my entire body.

We dashed out into the dark and ran a good quarter-mile before finally locating an off-duty taxi sitting on the roadside, eating either breakfast or a late-night snack. At first he told us he was done for the night, but after explaining the situation, he was convinced to take the job. She threw her bag across the backseat and climbed in. I kissed her through the window and grabbed her hand like the world was in the midst of collapse.

"I love you." I said.

All I got in return was a glance, an acknowledgment that what I said was a true statement from the heart. And then, she vanished.

I went back to my apartment and stared out the window above my desk, half-way hoping she made her bus, half-way hoping she’d show up back at my door an hour later. I think that conflict lasted throughout the rest of our relationship, and I strangely feel it once again as I am writing this now.

An apology

noreply@blogger.com (Wandering Pugilist) — Tue, 01 Mar 2016 04:25:00 +0000

For those that I may have hurt, offended or ignored in this past year, I am sorry. I'm not sure how much that really means since the deeds have already been done, but know that they did not pass without considerate self-reflection, or without the appropriate suffering that came as a consequence. What I've come to realize is that I was, and still very much am, in love with someone who no longer loves me. I'm not sure if any of you know that place, but it can at times be an excruciating existence.

This is not an excuse; merely what I've come to determine over time. And though there are those who may think such a reason is justified, I could have shown better form.

For that, I apologize.

An interview with Nick Wong

noreply@blogger.com (Wandering Pugilist) — Mon, 22 Feb 2016 05:16:00 +0000

*I'm not really good or famous enough to be legitimately interviewed, and I would never actually interview myself, but IF I did, it would probably look something like this:

So, let's start at the beginning. How did you start writing?

Well, I don't even think it was a conscious decision, more that people kept telling me that I had potential at something and I always thought it a shame to waste potential. I have three real memories about people encouraging me to write. First was my English teacher during my senior year of high school, Ms. Hess, who made me promise her that I'd take a writing course in college. Then when I got into college, my second girlfriend sort of begrudgingly told me I had talent as a writer. She didn't even say it as encouragement, more like she was pissed that I was better than her at something. That's when I knew she meant it (laughs). On that note, the last person was my 10th grade teacher, Ms. Kinnear, who pulled me aside one day and told me that I just wasn't a very good writer. I don't really know why she did that; I never was really a "problem" student, never disrupted class or anything, but I used it as sort of a motivation. Not at first, of course, I was about 14 at the time? But later in life it taught me a lot, mostly that you shouldn't stop doing something you enjoy because one person tells you to stop, even if that person is a supposed authority figure. I always thought about dedicating my first book to either Ms. Hess or Ms. Kinnear I guess it depends on whether I want to be a grateful student or a vindictive asshole (laughs). I'll probably dedicate it to both of them.

Why write about boxing? What was the appeal?

Everything. I think it's a microcosm of our existence. The characters, the business, the loyalties, the betrayals, the cyclical story of fighters is the tragedy and triumph of life, basically. But mainly the oxymoron of it is what drew me in. People have all these opinions on a sport where athletes train themselves to render an opponent unconscious, but they never bothered to step into a boxing gym. It's so much more complex than that. I mean just hearing the stories about where these fighters come from, why they fight, what they have to overcome in order to show up and participate in such an excruciating sport is downright inspiring. I guess I really fell in love with the whole attitude that's in boxing, which is pretty much that you don't sit around making excuses and feel sorry for yourself - you work and train your ass off to get out of a tough spot. But it's not that you do it alone either. The boxing community is one of the most caring communities I've ever been part of. It sort of nurtures you to be independent, but also teaches you to ask for help when you need it. I guess I thought that was worth writing about.

Have you ever boxed yourself?

Oh yeah definitely. I actually started boxing completely separate from writing. Truthfully, I went in because I was stuck in this emotionally abusive co-dependent relationship, and I needed to break the cycle somehow. There was just something about the routine that I loved; the repetition, the discipline, the focus. I trained seriously for about 2 years, then traveled and boxed around Latin America, off and on, for about three years after that.

Did you ever think about fighting professionally?

I thought about it for maybe six months out of the two years I trained seriously, but then I saw how difficult it was. I mean I trained SERIOUSLY for those two years. I was in the gym maybe five, six days a week, woke up at 5AM every morning to run. Rain, snow, it didn't matter. And the diet. That's probably one of the hardest parts of the sport. Cutting weight. Oh god. I don't really want to get into that too much, but it's absolutely fucking insane what fighters do to make weight. I fought maybe 20lbs under my normal weight, but probably cut only maybe 6-7 pounds from my "in-shape" weight. It was still fucking hell. I swear I was possessed by a demon (laughs).

But after doing all these stories on fighters and somewhat doing the same myself, I drew the conclusion that nobody should ever become a professional fighter. If you're even remotely good at anything else, do that. But you know, the funny thing is that people say the same thing about writing and it wasn't until I started getting deeper into the craft that I understood what they were saying. I mean, the two are actually really similar. We're both in this really unstable and unpredictable industry, you will often be unpaid and unacknowledged for the good chunk of your efforts, and you spend an incredible amount of time alone. Only a really, really small portion of those involved make it, and a lot of times it has nothing to do with the objective skill in the craft. It's a really unfair business, both of them. My writer-friend Doug Merlino once told me as sort of advice, "Don't do it. It's a stupid job." I mean he said it somewhat in jest, obviously, because we still do it, but it certainly isn't a glamorous occupation as some people make it out to be. Fighters and writers, artists in general, are like these wildly stupid and brilliant creatures.

What sort of advice do you have for aspiring writers?

Don't do it. Didn't you hear what I just said?! (Laughs) But in all seriousness, I don't know. I'm still figuring it all out myself. I don't think there's a day that goes by where I don't think about quitting. I think about how much easier life would be if I had a "safe" job that paid well, like being a doctor or a lawyer. Then I realize how much of an asshole I'm being because those professions are insanely difficult, and I'd probably be worse off because I'd be failing at something I don't have a passion for. I think something that I've come to terms with is that any profession is going to have parts of it that suck, and no matter what you do, you're going to have to work hard and sacrifice to be any sort of good. The fruits just have to be worth it. It has to mean something to you, and at least in my opinion, that something has to touch a part of you that is completely outside the conventional measures of success. You can't do it for superficial means, otherwise your work comes off superficial. Don't get me wrong, I'm not one of those "follow your passion" types. I think that sort of thinking gets people into crippling debt and can severely handicap their life. Money is a necessary means to the greater end. I'd say people make the mistake of making money the goal, but other people make the mistake of thinking you don't need to learn about it in order to get there. It's all part of the job. I guess the most important piece of advice I'd give is know why you're doing your work, then make the necessary adjustments to make it happen. You'll find out how much you really believe in what you tell yourself by how much you sacrifice along the way.

So are you saying that writing isn't about passion?

Well, I mean it is, but if you want to take it as a serious pursuit, you have to learn how to balance between passion and practicality. Too much practicality makes you stale and uninteresting, but the whole, "Do what you love and forget everything else" is kind of the baseline ethos behind those self-development programs that make a living on scamming people. You gotta learn how to exist between the two worlds, which is why so few people actually become writers.

You don't think that everyone could be a writer?

Yes and no. Everyone has the right to write, they have to right to express themselves through the written words, absolutely. But is everyone a "writer"? No way. Probably one of the funniest and most annoying things that I hear from people is that they want to write a book about their life. First is that most people think that their story is interesting enough to go through the arduous process of being written, edited, published and distributed. That is a shit ton of work for a lot of different people. You really have to ask yourself why you're writing it in the first place and if you can't find that story anywhere else. Don't get me wrong, I think there are certainly stories that need to be written, but I think people also need to ask themselves these questions more often. Second is that people assume they can write. They don't bother learning about grammar, rhythm, sentence structure, or any of the mundane mechanical elements in writing because that stuff is boring and mind-numbing. It's not like you have to write grammatically perfect or anything, but it shows when someone knows it. Basically, I think people are more in love with the idea of being a writer than actually being a writer.

So then what kind of practical advice do you have for writers? Like about the actual writing process?

Be clear and be concise, every word should have a purpose to moving the story along. Don't use big words for the sake of using big words. At the end of the day, writing is just a service of translation so that the public can understand and form an opinion on a topic that you have been paid to investigate. That is really the purpose of a writer, to communicate and translate stories so we understand more about each other. This is what I've come up with from my experience at least, I mean I don't want to limit the definition of a writer because the job description can be so varied. There are those that write these obscure pieces, chalked full of ridiculously complex language and it's masterful. Genius. I just think there's fewer out there than the people that attempt to write that way.

Who are some...

Oh and deadlines! If you write for publications, do not miss your deadlines. I know that it may "feel" like a piece never ends and can always be edited, but being a professional is first and foremost. I had a friend who was an actor and I remember him telling me that actors with mediocre talent got further in their careers than those with abundant amounts of natural talent, simply because they were professional and easy to work with. I think the same holds true for writers.

I'm sorry, I cut you off...

I was just going to ask about your favorite writers.

Bukowski. Next question.

Really? That's it?

(Laughs) No, not really. I always just say it that way to be dramatic. But he is someone I admire as a writer. He pretty much managed to capture life in a simple way. No frills, no crazyass elaborate wordage, just straight forward telling it like it is. And he was honest. I mean he lived his life in this semi-destructive way - boozing, whoring, gambling - but that kept him humble, like he was never judgmental from this elitist, holier-than-thou sort of way; he was judgmental from being a whoring drunkard. That's not necessarily being a hypocrite, per se, more that if he said something critical, there was something to it because he had known life from the bottom and the top.

So then who are the other writers?

Well for boxing, Thomas Hauser, both his research ability and reporting style are standards I try to reach. But the best essay I've ever read on boxing was by Katherine Dunn, who is like this 70-year-old white woman from Portland. She's probably one of the last people you'd expect to write about boxing, but she does it masterfully. Then Octavia Butler. Jesus Christ. When I first saw a picture of her I thought, "This is what a writer looks like." And she was incredibly smart, like wickedly intelligent. The amount of knowledge required to tell her stories would take a lifetime to research, and she wrote a shit-ton of novels! She's really impressive. Really, really amazing.

Did you get to meet any of them?

Mostly through email. I have this very fortunate situation that I admire mid-level celebrities, so meeting them is actually a possibility. The problem is that I have this really horrible habit of pestering people, and I think they end up hating me (laughs). For example, another person I admire is Loic Wacquant, this French sociologist who wrote a book about his experience boxing in South Chicago. Being a sociology major at the time, I thought I had wanted to do what he did. I would literally pester him and he refused to meet me. I don't really blame him though. I was a mess. He read a draft I sent him and just completed trashed it. I responded by blaming the educational structure of American sociology, which is pretty much shitting on the field in which he makes his living. I didn't realize that til later (laughs). But I somehow managed to smooth things out and I eventually met him about 5 years later. We have a respectful relationship now, but meeting him also kind of told me that I didn't want to do what he does. And that's really okay.

Why didn't you want to do what he does?

Honestly, I'm not smart enough for it (laughs). The way he writes, speaks, thinks and looks at the world is way too complicated for me. I mean it's pretty brilliant when you're able to lay it all out and take in all that's he's saying, but there was no way I could do that; that's why my first draft to him sucked. I was trying to imitate him. But something he told me that really helped is that there are a number of valid ways to approach the same topic, and one isn't necessarily better than the other. It wasn't until I started really finding my voice that I really understood that. But once I did, things in general got easier.

How did you find your voice?

Just work. You imitate for a while. I still imitate a lot and I feel like my voice is still being discovered. But you have to at least know writing you like to read before you know how you like to write. It's really just about constant practice over time, and being okay with change. That's about it.

Are great writers born or made?

Hmmm...(pauses). I think everyone has the ability to be a strong and competent writer. You can do that by just drilling, drilling, drilling for hours on end, and that kind of writer will likely surpass one with in-born talent who is lazy and undisciplined. But somewhere along the time there is this extra something that separates the greats from everyone else. I mean some people were really born with a natural talent for something. But all that doesn't matter if you don't work hard. Talent without discipline is useless.

Do you feel that you were "called" to writing?

You know, I'm not really sure. I mean I constantly question whether or not this notion of a "calling" in life even exists. Dedicating your life around such a concept requires a lot of faith. Plus, you can really become self-absorbed in that line of thinking and that's a trap. But at the same time, part of me thinks so because I'm still writing after all this time, and every so often people take away something useful from something I wrote. But do I think I'm doing something grand that changes the world? No, absolutely not. If it does change anything, the change is done in these unnoticeable increments, and most of the time I write for the purposes of maintaining my own sanity. But I guess that's how anything gets changed, yeah? I think we fall in love with this romantic notion that the course of the world is constantly settled in some epic 2-hr storyline. What most people don't see is the tedious hours of training and working that these fictional hero figures go through in order to be anywhere near what it is they are portraying. So am I "called" to be a writer? I don't know. I guess I'm working to find out. But I really hope so, because I'm not very good at anything else I've tried (laughs).

Well, I think that's all the questions I have. Anything else you want to add?

No, not really. I think I've blown enough steam up people's asses (laughs). I guess if there was one thing I'd close with, it'd be for people to know that getting good at any profession is a struggle and all of them serve a practical function in life, but if there is an instinctual pull in your gut to do something, you should at least try. If you go in prepared, you'll be fine, and the regret of not trying is way worse than failing at it.

A few instances of jealousy

noreply@blogger.com (Wandering Pugilist) — Mon, 15 Feb 2016 04:32:00 +0000

One time we were laying in bed and we were talking about what we liked about each other, things that we noticed. When she tried to describe me, she got a bit tangled. I was Asian, but not like Asian Asian, cuz I was American too. But I wasn't really American either, at least not like the ones she's met in the past. After stumbling around her thoughts for a few seconds, she sort of blurted out, "I dunno, you're like kinda Latin!" The way she said "Latin" had this undertone of disgust, but not disgust as in disgusting, more like something she would have to worry about, that I knew how to move and women are always attracted to men who can move. It made me blush and feel confident at the same time. And I also liked that she was worried about my ability to attract the opposite sex, cuz too often it was the other way around.

There was this one time we were on the subway going to meet a couple of friends who lived a few hours away. I remember we struggled waking up from a nap, almost considered canceling and staying in. But we eventually dragged ourselves to the Metro, dazed and barely awake. I held her in the middle of the train, so closely, like she was composed of this infinite stardust that would scatter if I didn't hold on tightly enough. I knew at that moment that if she was the last woman I'd ever love, I would have won the game. And she held me the same way. Two seats opened up. There was a seat by the door, then a seat adjacent to another seat, which was occupied by this really attractive woman. I walked toward the seats and just KNEW to take the one by the door, no thought, just fluid reaction, like a martial art you practice for decades until it becomes second nature. When that woman left, she leaned in and said, "You made the right choice by not sitting next to that woman." I smiled.

We were at a bus stop waiting for the 387 and this cute young girl walked up and sat down next to us. She was wearing a black halter top, blue jeans and had her hair tied in two braided ponytails. As she sat, she sort of gave me a once over, up and down, then did it again. There must have been a certain look in her eyes because shortly after the girl left, she said to me, "All these women look at you, and not just cuz you look different, it's like in all possible ways, like even sexual!!! No...I don't like it, no." Then she sort of crossed her arms and was semi-upset with me, even though I hadn't done anything. For some strange reason, I felt more secure that she felt threatened. Not because I would use it against her, I just hoped that it would one day mean that much more to her when she realized that really, I only cared about her, no matter how anyone else looked at me.

The first time I came back to the United States, I went under an pretty intense study of chado tea making. I'd attend three-hour long classes learning how to make, serve and receive Japanese tea. I practiced it twice a day, once in the morning, once in the afternoon. For those three months, I took it pretty damn seriously and even "performed" at the Seattle Art Museum on one occasion. There were times where I'd even hang out with my instructors and classmates, who happened to be these two sweet Japanese grandmothers. Before the class ended, I took a picture with them and sent it to her. She laughed with approval. "Good! You should do even more! You know knitting? You spend your weekends knitting with them, all the time!" I laughed and asked if she was joking, more in a rhetorical way than anything else. She sort of wavered on a response and finally said, "I mean...kinda?"

I used to run for 6 miles along the beach, just about everyday. It would take me 45 mins or so, and at some point I always had to take off my shirt. She saw me from the window one time when I was walking back to my apartment. She said there was a woman who looked at me a certain way and that it was a good thing I didn't pay it any attention. She said that if she had a bow and arrow, she would have shot that woman in the head had she spoken to me, then did an air motion of drawing a bow and releasing the arrow, all the while having this creepy-ass smile on her face. I was both terrified and more in love at the same time.

The moment after

noreply@blogger.com (Wandering Pugilist) — Mon, 08 Feb 2016 05:43:00 +0000

I still remember the moment I found out. I was back on my old campus to do a presentation about my trip to Brazil and I got a message on Facebook while I was trying to sleep at the Odegaard library. The message was from a friend and it said, "I really don't think you should be dating her."

Me and him went back and forth about it for a while and I remember my chest sinking with each message that came in. I lost patience in piecing together the whole story. Part of me wanted to believe that I made a bad translation, maybe I read the whole thing wrong. Messages had a tendency to do that sort of thing. It's one of the few times you wish you were worse at something that you had been wanting to be good at for so long. So I called him, long distance, from the US to Brazil. He explained everything to me, and to my dismay, I understood it perfectly the first time.

I called another friend right after. I told him I was going to be so pissed later. Really I wanted to say "so heartbroken", but I didn't want to look weak. The one thing he told me that kind of helped was, "Don't let this make you lose faith in God."

But I'll tell you why I was pissed. I was pissed because I was bamboozled. I was pissed because you were a fraud. And the worst kind of fraud because you think you are not everything that you are. You are not all peace and happiness. You are not always helping the world. You hurt people. That's not to say you're the only one; people hurt other people all the time. I hurt people all the time. But I don't pretend that I don't. There's a part of me that's a fucking piece of shit, but I own it. I show it and see what happens. I don't hide. I am not a liar. You said that you never wanted to hurt me. But you didn't mean that. You don't say something like to someone that unless you mean it.

Then I went to give my presentation. One of the few things I'm proud about in my life is that I managed to knock that presentation out of the park. I spoke like nothing had happened. I carried myself as if my heart wasn't shattered into a million pieces half-an-hour earlier. It was possible to compose yourself in those kind of moments. I just don't enjoy it all that much.

I sat in my car and tried to figure out why. I scanned my memory for signs, maybe something I had overlooked. But nothing came up. Instead I remembered our last conversation. You said to me, "Let's stay together until we're old and ugly!!" You said that on the same day it happened. I have the text message to prove it.

I sat there for 10 minutes in complete silence. I didn't cry, though I had wanted to. I guess the feeling hadn't sunk in. I don't think I felt much during those minutes, or maybe it's just something I don't want to remember. I dunno. It's not a place that I like to revisit very often.

A writing exercise

noreply@blogger.com (Wandering Pugilist) — Mon, 01 Feb 2016 04:29:00 +0000

I've been attending a writing group on Sundays at the Hugo House and we're given prompts to create a piece of writing within the span of 20mins or so. Last week's prompt was to create a poem using the answers among a series of questions. Here are the 10 questions I chose to answer:

1) Name the flower you love the most.

2) Your favorite body part, either for what it does or what it looks like.

3) What is your greatest fear?

4) Word that comes to mind with the word "tablecloth".

5) Favorite time of day.

6) A public space where you are uncomfortable.

7) If you could be anywhere else in the world outside of Seattle, where would you be?

8) Soil or tree?

9) Three little pigs or three bears?

10) If you could have one superpower, what would it be?

*For one answer, we had to find a word that rhymed with our response, and use it in the refrain.

Here's what I wrote:

---

Let's say I could teleport anywhere
in an instant.
That would be really convenient
but I'd probably lose all virtues
of patience.
Like understanding the magic in a seed
peeking through
the soil
or all that went into
the blossom of a tulip.

The monsters in the concert
slip past the inattentive.

Most people hate the mornings
but I don't.
It's not because I feel great
upon waking.
It is because there is
a chance.
An opportunity
to write how life unfolds.
It is the holy hour
of strategy.

The monsters in the concert
slip past the inattentive.

There is no shame
in reaching out a hand.
"Estamos juntos"
as they say in
Brazil.
The three little pigs
only survived
shameful demise
because of their
neighbor.

What I have learned through heartbreak.

noreply@blogger.com (Wandering Pugilist) — Mon, 25 Jan 2016 02:12:00 +0000

It's been a little over a year since I returned from Brazil. To say that this past year has been rough would be an understatement. It damn near killed me.

I don't mean that as a figure of speech. I got hit with a staph infection in the first few days I got back, and what began as a small itchy red bump on the side of my stomach quickly grew into a huge blue-and-purple mound that left me hardly able to walk. After three emergency room visits, I found out I had caught MRSA, a strand of staph that can kill a person if left untreated. I was bed-ridden for about three weeks, hopped up on painkillers and antibiotics, and I guess you could say all the inactivity and time with myself drove me a bit crazy. I needed someone to talk to and the one person I wanted to talk to at the time was Flora. We were still kinda-sorta together then, but the problem was that she was never around; in fact, the only times she showed up were in ways that I totally did not need. I don't even know if she thought about me while all of this was going on.

We argued a lot. She'd mark a time to speak to me, then cancel it, or just not show up at all, pretty much what I had been experiencing in person towards the tail-end of my stay in Brazil. I loved the hell out of that girl, but she was also irritating the crap out of me. In the end, I couldn't take it and kept holding her to standards that she couldn't keep. One day it just proved to be too much for her and she said it was over. The feelings dried up. We broke up, like for real this time. I haven't talked to Flora in about half a year. It got to the point where all my interactions with her was like stabbing myself in the chest.

In her defense, what happened was that she started making concerted efforts into becoming a professional musician, which basically meant spending more time playing shows, busking on the subway and practicing in the studio. It also meant just sacrificing things out of her life. I guess I didn't make the cut.

I say this with no sense of exaggeration. My entire world fell apart when we broke up. It unraveled the complete state of shit that is my life. I really had no idea what I was doing. I had and still have no viable way of supporting myself, let alone a family, and it's here that I realize that I have never really taken anything seriously in my life. That's not coming from a place of feeling "sorry" for myself, but an acknowledgement of a side that people might not know about me.

I guess you could say that I didn't handle the situation well. I started sleeping. A LOT. Waking up was like a punishment. It was torture. It was a reminder that this show is still going on and I couldn't do anything about it. I just wanted the channel to be turned off. This is going to sound pathetic, but the only thing that I could muster energy for was to take showers. I took 3 or 4 of them a day. At one point my shower drain clogged and it would take a day for the water to drain out. I'd stand there in my own filth, snot and loose hair not giving a shit.

I lost passion for everything. I slowly watched everything I had built up until that point slip between my fingers, and I somehow convinced myself that I had never earned them in the first place. It was hard to eat. I stopped training. It went on like that for a couple of months. Then I got into this really stupid and horrible car accident that was completely my fault, where I'm pretty sure totaled the other car, and left mine in embarrassing damage. I pulled up my car into the body shop, yet again, to see the same people. It's like a yearly fucking ritual.

And I used to have these dreams. I used to wake up at 3 in the morning everyday, on the fucking dot, screaming, then going into a crying fit. I remember one time the sequence was that I went back to Brazil, just to pick something up and she was there, throwing away some garbage in the hallway. The moment we saw each other everything was forgotten, everything forgiven and we just held each other. I woke up from the dream and immediately started sobbing, mostly because it wasn't real and I wanted more than anything for it to be so.

I hit that point where I didn't know whether life was worth living anymore. I've never been the suicidal type, but I definitely stopped trying. I was just doing enough to get by on the least amount of pain possible. It's like you live in a blackness that never seems to end, but if there's anything I would pass onto to people, I would tell them that it does. If you really want it to, it does.

And in some strange way, dying teaches you how to live. It is in those places where it seems that life is no longer worth living that you find your purpose. You find the reason. Once you see the consequences of not taking control of your life, you are given the choice to live or to die, and you really have to find that place within yourself to save your own life. I don't know how, but I found it. I woke up one day and told myself: I'm not doing this anymore.

The first thing I did was go back to yoga for the sole reason that they had 6:30AM classes and I wanted to force myself out of bed as early as possible. My friend H'rina made me commit to morning pages and we'd Snapchat our three pages to each other every morning with consequences of making one line public to social media if we missed out on one day. I hope she knows how much those pages got me out of the dark places.

Then I got back to my writing. I somehow managed to retain my position with Vice through the sparse pieces I was writing during my depression. If you read anything I published between the dates of November 2014 to about February 2015, there's a reason why it sucked. Somehow though, I got my ass back to work, and at some point I found myself too busy to stay depressed.

If you're ever in a bad spot and use writing as a tool to get out, then writing about fighters is the best goddamn topic you could ever choose. I heard stories about fighters going through heinous shit about 10 times worse than anything I've ever faced, yet they still show up to the gym. I've heard stories about fighters rebuilding themselves, and trainers who constructed the spaces for them to do so, because more typically than not, they've been there before. And it gave me the opportunity to meet some of the most interesting characters in the business, guys like Ivan Salaverry, Eddie Bravo, and Phoenix Jones. For those of you not tapped into the fighting world, those names might not mean much, but for those of us that are, it's a pretty fucking cool. If I didn't have the pass of a journalist, I would have never gotten a chance to sit down with them one-on-one and have a conversation about how they figured out life. That alone has made this whole ordeal worth it.

I started seeking out interviews, hell, hunting might be the better way to put it, being an absolute pain in the ass for my interviewees because I would constantly pester and bombard them with emails and calls to secure a time to speak with them. I started transcribing interviews the moment I finished them and began writing outlines and pushing myself through those horrible first drafts that make you want to punch yourself in the face. I eventually got used to it all, and the only thing that went through my head was, "Fuck. Why haven't I been doing it like this from the beginning?"

I would have to say that after a decade of sorta writing, this is the first time that I'm taking it seriously, like canceling other obligations or turning down paid work in order to sit in front of a screen and pull my hair out panicking about deadlines. I have no fucking clue how writers do this, but I am learning in a very slow and painful way. What I think people don't really understand about me is that I don't write because I necessarily "like" writing. I write because that is the only thing I have left. I weighed out all the other options in my life, and at least at this juncture in time, writing is the only activity where I don't feel like shooting myself in the face. Writing, for me, is essentially to save my own life.

Discovering all of this has been great in some ways, but also incredibly lonely. It's the same thing I felt when I traveled on my own for two years. I had all these amazing experiences, but it got to the point where I just wanted to share them with someone. The novelty wore off, basically. Some people look at my life and want to be in the position I'm in. It's not that I'm not grateful for all the cool shit I get to do, but some part of me always envied the guy that married the love of his life and worked some mediocre job that he may or may not have loved. I know that's easy to say not living that life, and maybe I'd feel differently being on the other side, but goddamn, I still miss her. A lot of me is just a guy walking around with a broken heart, trying to keep himself distracted.

Overall though, I'm happier, or just more emotionally stable at least. I'm not completely healed, but I am healing. What I've learned in all of this is the following: Respect yourself. Don't go too much further than the other is willing to go. And don't EVER let anyone trample over your heart, even if they are doing it unknowingly. You have to love yourself more than that.

But the thing I've learned about most, is Flora. In doing all this writing, I've found that I've had little time for anything else, even people I care for deeply. I don't really have a choice. I remember one time we got into an argument over her canceling one of our dates and at some point of the conversation she said:

"You don't think I want to drop everything and just be with you? You don't think I want to do that more than anything? But I can't!"

She couldn't see the expression on my face, but it read something like, "Uhhhh...fuck no it does NOT seem like you want to do that at all."

I mean it's not that I really wanted her to do that, the words just didn't match up with her actions; but when after thinking about it a moment longer, I responded by asking, "You really want this music thing, don't you?"

"I have no other choice," she told me.

I guess I'm starting to understand what she meant. I replay a lot of the things she used to say, and I can finally hear what she was trying to tell me: I was getting in the way of her path, and in some ways, she was getting into the way of mine.

I think about Flora every day. Every morning when I wake up. No exception. It doesn't matter that I've stopped calling, texting, looking at pictures and old videos of us together. It doesn't matter how many times in my head I run through the moments where she wronged me. There is still this part of me that is very much in love with her, and I don't really understand why. A lot of people tell me to move on, that it is not healthy for me to keep thinking about her, in which I respond by asking them how to control the first thought that enters your head in the morning. I mean I get where they're coming from, and in many ways, I agree with them. But at the same time, they don't know. They weren't there. They didn't see the things that I saw, feel the ways that I felt, know the truths that I want more than anything to believe to be true.

What I've taken away from all of this, is that you can't "force" someone into a relationship. You cannot guilt them into staying with you out of notions of commitment or hold them to past promises on a present moment that is ever changing. Everything, all of this, is temporary, and when the time comes to say goodbye, you have to learn to let go with grace. It all reminds me of words I once heard in regards to how we should deal with loss. It went something like this:

"When someone leaves, we can be happy or we can be sad. You can choose to be sad, but it's better to be happy for that person, because we don't always know what it is that calls them away."

The Hitchhiker

noreply@blogger.com (Wandering Pugilist) — Mon, 18 Jan 2016 03:49:00 +0000

The first time I ever picked up a hitchhiker was when I returned from my first trip through Latin America. I had received so many rides, impromptu lodging and all sorts of help along the way, that I figured it was the appropriate time to give back. That is, after all, how this shit works, right?

I was driving from Capitol Hill, headed south to a destination I can't quite remember, and I saw a guy holding a cardboard sign with his right thumb sticking out. I pulled to the side of the off-ramp, and peered over to see his face to make sure he didn't look like someone that would rape and maim my body before I let him in. On very much the contrary, he had one of the kindest faces I'd ever seen. He couldn't have been more than 20.

"Where are you headed?" I asked.

"Portland," he said. "How far south are you going?"

"We'll see," I said. "Get in."

The first thing I told him was why I picked him up, which was basically because of his face. He told me that I wasn't the first person to tell him that. Turns out, he had been traveling for two years on a mission to visit all 50 states, and others like me had helped him based on the sole reason that he had a face that looked trustworthy. Oregon was to be his 49th state, Alaska being the last. His name was Joel, and he had made it thus far on a multitude of ground transport: foot, bike, automobile, but his favorite by far was hopping trains. My guess on his age wasn't too off either. He was 19 and just graduated high school not long ago. He was thinking about going into audio engineering at the college level; the trip was solidifying that decision.

I then went into my own story, about I had spend the last year traveling Latin America on an academic scholarship and all the amazing things that I had seen. I had never done anything as bold as him though. The only time I hitched a ride was in Honduras when I was coming back from the national park in Tegucigalpa.

"Oh man, I always wanted to travel abroad," he said. "No passport though."

"You'll get there soon enough," I told him.

We then commenced on a friendly exchange of stories. He told me a number of anecdotes, all pretty amazing in their own regard, but the one I remember most was this one:

"One time I stopped in this insurance office to stay out of the cold, and I started talking to the receptionist. I told her about my trip, the 50 state mission, and the places I had slept in order to get there. I was maybe a year in. She then told me to wait and went into the back room for ten minutes. When she came back, she took out a piece of paper, wrote some numbers down and said: 'This is your reservation number for the next 2 nights at the Best Western across the street.' I couldn't believe it. I told her there was no way I could accept it, but she told me it had already been paid for and that it shouldn't go to waste. I think I cried right there."

"Wow. That's amazing," I said.

"There are good people in this world," he said.

By this time we were passing Olympia. It was winter, but rays of light streaked through the gray like a river down a mountain, making arbitrary spotlights on the ground below. It was one of the most beautiful scenes I'd ever seen. Joel and I just sat there silently in witness to it, and I realized the reason I had picked up Joel in the first place.

"How far are you taking me?" he asked.

"Eh, I'll just take you the rest of the way," I shrugged.

It was dark by the time we got into Oregon. We pulled into the first diner and I treated him to a meal. He was vegetarian, so he only had some soup and a side salad. I had something along the same lines. Before we parted, I gave him all the money in my wallet, which was about 7 dollars. I apologized for the amount, but he treated it like he won the lottery. I gave him my email and told me to stay in touch, to contact me when he made it to state 50. And that was it. I never saw Joel again.

About 3 months later, I'm sitting at my computer and I get this email from an address I don't recognize. It's Joel. The email is long, but he told me all about his time since we last saw each other. He told me how grateful he was for the ride and that he'll never forget meeting me. I'll never forget the picture he attached with his message. It was a photo of him with two girls in Colombia. I recognized the background. It was Parque Tyrona on the north coast.

"Son of a bitch," I mumbled to myself, "he did it."

Snapshot

noreply@blogger.com (Wandering Pugilist) — Mon, 11 Jan 2016 04:27:00 +0000

We were having a late breakfast at her father's house in Volta Redonda, about two hours outside of Rio. I don't remember the plate exactly, something like rice with garbanzo beans and peas, something healthy. Her family was that type. I proceeded to do this thing that I used to do with Grace, which was to use my nose as a beak and peck some part of the body of another person. She sort of stared at me and asked, "What was that?" I replied by peaking her harder and in grander scale. She then put two pecks of her own on my shoulder before I stopped her.

"Oh, you can't do that," I said. "You can't peck."

"What? Says who?"

I sort of shrugged my shoulders to make time for the first thought that came into my mind. For whatever reason it was this:

"Says the law of men and women."

She looked at me for a moment, and I wondered if it was because she was wondering whether or not I was serious. But based on what she said next, it wasn't that. She was just trying to find the appropriate response.

"I'm gonna start a movement," she said. Then she started off in a protest chant. "E-qual rights! Every-one can peck!"

She then mimed taking of her bra and swinging it around in the air over her head while yelling "Wooooooooooo!"

See. This is why I loved (and still love) this girl.

Notes from my 100th trip (20th Anniversary work)

noreply@blogger.com (Wandering Pugilist) — Tue, 15 Dec 2015 03:21:00 +0000

I still feel like half a person without Flora. I'm wandering around looking for the person who hurt me.

There is such thing as one person being able to be your entire universe. It exists.

I don't have too many messages left. I hope you all have been listening.

I am sincerely going to miss this practice.

Flora was the most colorful person I knew.

I miss her so much that it hurts.

I've met many fine women, but none of them are Flora.

I don't know why I am fluent in Brazilian Portuguese.

The king needs to emerge from your spirit. The king knows no anger, no jealousy, no sadness. He is firm in his mission to work!

I'm an investigative journalist which therefore makes me hard to date. I will go back on both our lives.

I am here to say now that I regret every mean thing that I ever said to my mother.

There is value in understanding how systems work and the experience of those who are operating it. Take a flight, for instance.

You can always fight the death sentence.

The people who make Japanese Anime are geniuses.

Flora. If I never see you again, I need you to know that I Love You, I Love You, I Love You. I will always be here for whenever you need.

This is going to be my last note. I love you all.

Notes from my 99th trip (São Miguel)

noreply@blogger.com (Wandering Pugilist) — Fri, 11 Dec 2015 02:12:00 +0000

I don't have many more tears to shed. I left most of them here on the island last time.

I'm lucky that I still have both my parents with me.

It is an unfortunate truth that the world does not value art.

The instructions from the other side are simple. Treat others with Love, compassion and respect. Be grateful for everything and everyone that got you where you are today. And be a hard worker. THats about everything.

I miss you everyday, Flora.

Notes from my 98th trip (Concentration)

noreply@blogger.com (Wandering Pugilist) — Wed, 09 Dec 2015 08:11:00 +0000

This is going to sound completely insane, but these notes are from the other side. I go there to retrieve them.

We have everything backwards. We idolize and worship the young when we should do that for the old. They are the ones on the way out. They are closer to God.

Vice finally paid me. Those cheap bastards. I basically work for them for free.

I asked this girl her age and she said, "A lady never tells and a gentleman never asks," in such the perfect way that it made me ashamed of my comportment. I still found out though.

The most important thing I learned through this whole ordeal is to Love myself. And I couldn't have gotten here without my friends and family. I Love You, I Love You, I Love You. There is nothing I would not do for my friends and family.