Akting Out

“Why do you do it?” It’s a question I’m asked more than any other (the second being what brought me to Missouri from California). From the outsider’s perspective, it’s a fair question; it hurts like hell, and it seems infantile, two grown men (or women) trying to beat each other into submission. At the end, you’re left beaten, bloody, bruised…and loving it?

Yeah, maybe we are a little crazy.

I’ve studied martial arts for more than twenty-five years, and I’ve yet to articulate why we put ourselves through this. Last night, after getting my bell rung by a former semi-professional boxer, I think I may have found a way.

First of all, I’m not a fan of street fighting. Two (or more) people banging away on each other in an uncontrolled environment isn’t something I enjoy. It’s violence that serves no purpose and could’ve been avoided, had the parties involved been smart enough to think things through.
Sufficient training teaches you to avoid, and then diffuse these situations altogether.

So, why do those who can, fight?

1). You Never Stop Learning.
I love to learn. I love the learning process, I love the experience, and I love the accomplishment. You can study one style of martial art forever and never grasp everything there is to know. You can never stop improving; there is no limit to how far you can go.
I’m also fascinated by the education; Capoeira, which I’ve studied for about five years, was originally founded as a method for slaves to defend themselves against their captors. The theory of the style was that the foot, supposedly the hardest part of the body, needed to connect to the head, which was considered the weakest. As slaves were traditionally chained, learning to use their feet in self- defense was mandatory. To prevent their captors from learning what they were up to,ey were up to, they disguised the style as a dance. No joke.
I find Capoeira not only compliments Tae Kwon Do nicely, but it’s great for cardio and rhythm training.
You never quit learning.

2). Discipline
In its original form, a lot of martial arts were meant to take life. Some styles were developed specifically for killing.  Krav Maga is a great example of this; it was taught to soldiers who had to kill their enemies quickly and silently, usually in close quarters.
A lifelong practitioner’s knowledge of human anatomy can rival that of a surgeon’s. As martial artists, we’re trained to do everything in our power to avoid a confrontation (I’m admittedly weak on this point), but if we’re forced into something, we cannot give into anger. Doing so means we will either cripple or kill our opponent.
I think the best aspect of the martial arts is not the power it endows, but the discipline it ingrains. Anybody can fight. Not everyone can walk away.
I confess; when fighting, I’ve done real damage to my opponents. Sometimes, it was to put them down, sometimes, I did it just because it was what the crowd wanted. I wasn’t justified in any case, and I should’ve paid more attention when I was training.

3). Unification
Imagine for a moment what would happen if you were able to unify your mind, body, and spirit towards a single objective.
You punch; in a single moment, you’ve told your fist exactly where to strike, to put your whole body into it for extra damage, and to lock your arm at the elbow for impact’s sake. You’ve conditioned your mind to hit hard enough to knock the other person back, to convey to them physically that you can hit them much harder if you like. If your spirit is in the punch, your opponent will feel it. I have a hard time articulating how the spirit factors in; you have to feel that for yourself.

When you’re able to channel your mind, your body, and your spirit towards a single objective, you will find that very few things can stand in your way. You learn how to do this from your first day of training, and as you progress, you learn to apply it to everyday life. The unification is what other people sense when they’re in the presence of someone who has devoted their entire life to studying the martial arts.
I know how to do this, but I haven’t figured out how to harness it full-time yet. I have yet to rise above the lure of fighting’s brutality.

Now, given these three things, you may understand what draws some of us to the martial arts, but it doesn’t explain why we fight.

Human beings are naturally competitive. We pay big money to see people who what they do best, against each other. Hell, we put big money on the outcomes.

Fighting is no different.  We compete to determine the best.

Going a bit deeper…
Trust plays a huge role in it. You have to trust that the person will not hit you hard enough to (severely) hurt you, and you have to trust that they will stop when you tell them too. When you’re sparring someone, you may be putting your life in their hands. My strongest friendships are with those I can trust with my life. My closest friends are former opponents.

This kicks off my next point; beneath whatever reason you may be fighting, there’s almost always respect. Win or lose, you have to respect someone who is willing to take your best shot and ask for more. I don’t see that kind of respect in everyday life. Between fighters, you don’t have to ask; it’s either there or it isn’t. You just know. Chances are it will be there by the end of the altercation.

This may be just me, but I love the moment-to-moment. I live by my instincts, and nothing exemplifies this more than a good match. The earlier point I made about Unification; when you’re sparring/fighting, you have to trust in yourself that you will react appropriately in the right situation. You can plan in advance, but if you hesitate in the moment, you lose. The punch comes; you block. You don’t think about blocking, you just do it. You do it because you’ve spent so much time training yourself to respond that way. When the same works for your opponent, it can be beautiful to watch—and experience.

I’ve just spent about a thousand words on my favorite subject, and truthfully, I could probably write a book. Studying martial arts can open your mind up to unbelievable experiences, and give you ways to control yourself—and the world around you—that you can’t even imagine.

I love to learn, because it makes me better. I love the physicality of the martial arts, I love the trust that comes from fighting a friend (before you think I’m too out there…remember when you were a kid, you had beef with someone, you guys went outside and knocked each other silly, and were best friends from there on out?). I love the power you can achieve and the discipline to wield it.

I love the idea that our bodies can be more dangerous than anything we create.

This is Why We Fight.

(c) Avery K. Tingle for Akting Out LLC

Post Footer automatically generated by Add Post Footer Plugin for wordpress.

It’s another night in Elkton, Michigan. Winter is setting in; meaning it’s not safe to go outside if you’re not used to it. Lake effect means nothing until you’ve experienced it. The wind rushes off the dangerously cold water, penetrating every layer of clothing, reaching clear through to your bones and then gripping with arctic certainty.

Luckily, we’re inside, and it’s a comfortable, moderated sixty-eight degrees. Brian, my husky, well-fed best friend is on the worn loveseat across the room. He sits back lazily, one leg outstretched while the other hangs carelessly off the edge. I have to lean over occasionally to make sure he’s still awake. He is; he’s just not saying much. He never does. At six feet, two inches tall and weighing in on the other side of two fifty, he doesn’t need to say much. He’s not fat; he’s built like a linebacker and hits twice as hard.

I’m in an equally worn recliner that long since quit reclining. I’m nodding in and out of a Dukes of Hazzard marathon that was Brian’s idea; he picked up the entire series on DVD and wanted me to help him break it in. I watched the show as a kid, but as an adult nearing thirty, I’m watching two country boys tear up the country in an orange 69 Charger. What did I see in this?

Oh yeah; Daisy. And I love the General Lee.
Brian and I used to clown how my affection for the General Lee would be enough to revoke my token-black-guy status. If my love for muscle cars won’t do it, I often say, it’s my penchant for enunciating my words and undying love for all things Star Wars. That, and I say things like penchant.

There’s another side to me, though.
I’m a little surprised by the buzzing at my waist; reaching for my phone, I glance at the ID before flipping it open and answering. Kristy.
I don’t even get to say hi.
“Marcus!!” Her uncharacteristically panicked voice screamed over the earpiece. Instantly, Brian is sitting up. “Please! He’s never been like this…please come get me!”
“What the fuck are you doing?!”
Rage seeps in; I know that voice, approaching in the distance, over the phone.
“Kristy? Are you in Caseville?” I manage. Brian sits forward intently.
“YES!!” She screams. I feel relieved. I know exactly where she is. “MARCUS, PLEASE! Hurry!”
“Bitch! Who’re you on the phone with–”

Click.

Line goes dead.

Exhaling slowly, I lower the phone. It remains in my hand as an uncomfortable silence lingers between Brian and I. We connect on the fact that women and children are not to be abused. That connection makes our next exchange poignant and defining of our friendship.
“Let’s go get her.” He says.
“Yeah.” I nod, getting to my feet, putting my phone in my pocket. “Let’s.”
It’s a rehearsed routine we’ve never done before. In silence, we put on our coats and tie our shoes. He tosses me my fingerless gloves from across the room. I secure them tightly on my hands (I always likened putting on my gloves to someone taking the safety off of a gun) and tighten the nylon do-rag on my head.

We exit the house, heading to his old, beaten up, reliable F-150. It starts after a fashion, and we’re soon on the way to Caseville. Neither of us mention that it’s below thirty out here.
The ride to Caseville takes twenty minutes and is uneventful. The ride back will be anything but.

Chad’s—Kristy’s-soon-to-be-ex-boyfriend—house is a testament to architectural genius, a small castles among other homes. It looks like a looming monster in the dead of night, lightless and uninviting. It doesn’t stop us.
We park a block away and silently make our way to the house. I survey three stories from the exterior and note that there are no other cars in the driveway besides Chad’s. No resistance.
“Take the back.” I whisper to Brian as I approach the front door. Without responding, he vanishes into the darkness, off to the left. Resolved, I make my way to the front door as logic feebly tries to make it’s argument.
You don’t have a key…
Don’t need one…
Instincts have taken completely over as I step onto the porch and thrust my foot through the front door, which opens wildly, swinging into the house and threatening to close, stopped by my hand.

The house is illuminated, large, and vacant. Openings ahead of me at the stairs and from the rooms at both my left and right make me uneasy; too much to cover. “Kristy?” I call. Nothing.
Again, instinct takes over. I head to the right.

I enter a beautiful, full kitchen, complete with a bar. To the left, cowered in the corner, is Kristy. Her face is red from crying—she has a black eye, I’ll make him pay for that later—but otherwise, she’s fine. She cowers even further as I approach. Only when I speak does she seem to loosen up. “Kristy.” I say in my gentlest voice. “Come on. Let’s go.”

She whimpers, looking up to me. She quickly gets up; I grab her hand, and we’re heading for the front door–
Chad is entering the kitchen. Tall, skinny, clean-cut, the presence of privilege is replaced by abstract horror when he locks eyes with me. We’ve met before. I warned him what would happen—jokingly—if he hurt her.

A large, shiny butcher’s knife is in his right hand.
Rage takes over. What were you going to do?
Time slows. I push Kristy behind me as he brings his hand up. I step inside of him, pressing my back to his stomach as both of my hands clasp his wrist. For a moment, he struggles, but a sharp, downward motion on the wrist sends the knife clattering to the ground. With everything I have (which is a lot) I turn around and drive my fist squarely into his jaw. The force is enough to rip his arm free of my grasp.
Oh, don’t go to bed yet.
I pursue. He resists, but it makes no difference; his money has gotten him out of everything, and I dismantle people for a living. He doesn’t have a chance. Foot in his stomach, his groin. My fist under his chin, my elbow at the back of his spine. Hold him like a sack of potatoes, teach him how to fly.

He can barely move. He hurt her.
Kick, delivered sharply to his ribs. He moans. He struggles. Again, a kick. He moans, but lacks the strength to struggle. Another kick. And another. I can’t hear anything else, feel anything else…I’m dizzy. Another kick.
“Marcus.”
Brian stops me from doing something very bad.
Reality sets back in. Chad’s breathing. Otherwise, he’s not moving. For a moment, I consider finishing the job…no.

Like three thieves in the night, Kristy, Brian, and I race from the home and back to the truck. We push Kristy into the backseat and Brian does an excellent job of getting us the hell out of there legally.
The ride is silent for three minutes when time slows again.
At first, it’s just tell-tale, ominous, red-and-blue flashing lights in the rear view mirror.
Then the wailing siren, and the car pulls up directly behind us.
“Tags up to date?” I ask Brian.
“Yup.” He says, keeping his eye on the rearview.
“Got your license?”
“Yup.” He’s already reaching for his seat belt. I look back to Kristy. “You better buckle up.”
As soon as her belt ‘clicks’, Jeff brings the F-150 to angry life, flooring the gas pedal. The cop clearly isn’t ready for it and quickly recedes in the rear view.
If I look at the speedometer, I’m freaked, and yet I do it anyway. Holy shit, he’s pushing ninety.
Brian doesn’t blink; he keeps his eyes on the road, both hands on the wheel. If he’s afraid, we can’t tell. The needle dances past the hundred mark and the cop is starting to close the distance.
“Hold on.” Brian says. He’s not afraid.
I leave my dinner behind as he slams the breaks and twists the truck into a tight right, pulling us off the road and into…a field?! You gotta be kidding me.
He kills the lights and tests the suspension, bringing the truck down to about eighty as he barrels into the tall field. About a quarter mile in, he stops, kills the engine, and turns around. Either he has ice in his veins, or he’s done this before.

Sure enough, deputy do-right blows right past the field, continuing on his way.
Kristy surprises me by suddenly lunging forward and embracing me tight enough to make breathing a challenge. She’s shaking and crying; I can’t tell if it’s from happiness or fear until she speaks. “Thank you.” She whispers. “Thank you.”
I look to Brian, who simply nods. I shake his hand, and let the new memories form. Tomorrow we will have something to answer for, but tonight, she’s okay, and that’s what matters.

(c) Avery K. Tingle for Akting Out LLC

Post Footer automatically generated by Add Post Footer Plugin for wordpress.

Last year was the first NaNoWriMo I ever participated in. It was also the first one I ever won. If you had told me that this was where I’d be one year later, I never would’ve believed it.

Someone (who I will thank in a moment) liked my work enough to encourage me to get into web-fiction. Another friend suggested that I try my luck at freelance writing, and one year later, here I am.

When I first envisioned Uprising, it was meant to serve as hype for the Last Campaign. You know, hype up one story by writing another?
I really bit off more than I could chew, I admit it. Suddenly, I have to worry about deadlines, website management (I really hate wordpress sometimes) and suggestions from (gasp!) actual fans. I write that, and I say it out loud, and it still blows my mind; my story has fans.

Universal Warrior: Uprising concluded late last week. Over nearly fifty chapters, the story has thus far achieved a total of more than one thousand, five hundred individual views and a smattering of comments.  Unexpectedly, a number of requests have come in for hard copies of the story—and I’m seriously considering updating and publishing the novel. But we’ll talk about that later.

I wanted to take a quick moment and extend my sincerest gratitude to everyone who tuned in every week, stuck by me during my downtime, and took my imagination in places I never thought it would go. I want to thank every single one of you who read this story from beginning to end, because as trite as this may seem, if you’re not reading, I have no reason to write, so thank you for giving me a little bit of your time each week.

I also want to take a little time to thank some people who helped me get to where I am going.
Kenneth Jamieson, for turning me onto Twitter, hand-holding me through the internet, performing my website maintenance, the advice and guidance, and most importantly, the ten-year friendship.

Chris Tejeda, who first encouraged me to pursue a professional writing career, and everything else.

Dianne “Keikomushi” Owenns, for being my first real fan, for her tireless promotion of Universal Warrior, and because Jamendo, podcasting, you in general, kick ass. J

Alan Baxter, for all the retweets, the chance to appear on his blog, the good conversation, and the guidance when it comes to martial arts.

Samantha Buschkopf, who was there at the turbulent beginning, who I’m blessed to have as a friend today.

And last, certainly not least, Molly Greider, for reasons too many to numerate.

Also, quick shoutouts to my mother, Paula Henry, Dorothy Cardwell, Jessica Cazier, Frances Gonzalez, Abner Senires, Laura Eno, Raymond Williams, and Tammey Sweezer for the advice, asking for copies of the book, or just being there. The brightest souls I know. J

Thanks to everyone. There’s more to come, but for now, I’m going to enjoy a nice, looong break. Till the Angels return.

(c) Avery K. Tingle for Akting Out LLC

Post Footer automatically generated by Add Post Footer Plugin for wordpress.

One of my real-life heroes is Muhammad Ali.
I used to wonder what he was thinking; the day he refused induction. He had to know it would cost him something. I don’t think he knew it would cost him nearly everything; they took the Heavyweight crown from him and revoked his ability to fight, robbing him of his prime years. We never got to see the best Muhammad Ali had to offer.

But in the end, he did what he did because he believed he was right. He believed that he was doing the right thing.
At thirty-two, Ali fought one of boxing’s most thrilling matches (The Rumble in the Jungle, we’ve all heard of it). He couldn’t move like he used to, and he was facing a champion that hit so hard he could literally lift men off of the canvas.

I think about the intervening moments between rounds, when Ali realized that his old tactics wouldn’t work. If he wanted to win, he would have to wear his opponent down. He would have to absorb the blows of a man who could dent bags with his punches.

I’m a fighter, and I can’t imagine taking even one of those shots.  I’ve been hit hard enough to hear something snap in my head, I see things in triplicate for a moment…so I wonder what it was like to deflect those blows off his body round after round—and then keep going back for more.

Until, finally, in the eighth round, when George Foreman had nothing left, Ali unloaded on him. After a decisive two-punch combo, Ali had beat the odds and regained the world championship.

You may ask yourself what kind of mentality it takes to do all of the things he did?
Will you stand by your values even as you lose everything?
Do you have anything in your life you are willing to die for?

It’s easy to think that you would, and you do, until you’re actually faced with the proposition.

I’ve been hit—physically and by life—pretty hard, and I can honestly tell you that I would still come back for more if I could. If you have not your principles, then what do you have? What are you worth if you will stand for nothing?

Rare are people who will truly stand up for what they believe in when they’re actually faced with losing something. You may not understand it, but you have to respect it.

From a fighter’s perspective, I am in awe at the man’s determination to come out on top, no matter what he faced, and no matter how much stronger his opponent was.

USA Today recently celebrated “50 Years on the World Stage” for Muhammad Ali. I just wanted to add my own tribute.

(c) Avery K. Tingle for Akting Out LLC

Post Footer automatically generated by Add Post Footer Plugin for wordpress.