Fook it!

The poststructuralists were right, language is indeed a prison.

As I'm writing a novel right now I feel contained within a seperate universe where only words and words and words exist. I'm strangled by words!
I'm just happy I'm not writing about kung fu. The nonverbal can not always be consolidated by the verbal, as is stated in the film above. I've been pondering how hard it would be to describe the kung fu moves in a true and thrilling way, I mean: how to make it fiction. And it must be thrilling. Why bother to do anything if it did not thrill and fascinate?

But some things can't be described until one experiences it. Like the perfect fook-sau, which I'm hunting as if it were the Holy Grail.

Strange. I haven't been training at all for a week and already I have obsessive thoughts about the fook-sau and I stare at peoples forearms like I have some sort of wierd kink. Forearms, forearms, fook-sau, tan-sau....
CRASH BOOM BANG!

How good for me then that I will train tonight! And how good for me that the perfect fook is just an armlength away (Dai Sifu is in the kitchen, he he...)
CRASH! BOOM! BANG!

I had a slight glitch in my chi-sao, every time I went from bong-sau to tan-sau, a glitch in forward pressure and voila! I create an abyss of unintention were the opponent can get through.

Would it happen if his chi-sao were soft and fluffy and playful? Feel-good fighting? Dancing? Well, it would be decieving, perhaps leading me to forget what it's all about: hitting the opponent. Intention creates forward-pressure. With the right intention we fill in the blank spots between one position and the next. CRASH BOOM BANG!

We cross the abyss.

My fascination with the fook-sau continiues. It seems like every time I train I discover something new about it. A good fook-sau is like the proverbial Flood, it cleans the slate. The Exterminating Angel.

I can't finish Kung Fu like I finish my novel. Cursed be the riddles of the flesh!
Why can't I just be satisfied with what I create, things of substance, that take on a life of their own. Training, though so physical, is at the same time so immaterial. Not at all like black ink on a white paper, that someone might be staring at 100 years from now. Even the darkest of bruises will turn pale after a few days...

I guess the dillemma could be easily solved with a videocamera.

I long for tonight when I will train 18-20.30. FINALLY less writing the god damn novel and more CRASH BOOM BANG!