I’m writing this book

It’s official: I’m writing a new book. 92,371 words in, to be precise. Fourth revision and counting.

Every now and then I come out and declare my insane intention to have another book published. Here I am again, asking for your help.

Coming out is a ritual I take seriously, for at that moment, by telling everyone, I make it impossible to turn back. It happened to all the 4 books I published in Brazil, including the first one that took me 10 years to get published (and it was the friends who heard my announcement who didn’t let me give up).

This round, I am moving my sight from Africa and Brazil to China and America, where the new story happens. From my mother tongue Portuguese to my second language, English. An adventure for sure. It will be hard, frustrating and exciting. It has been, and will be way more.

Like before, I am counting on you to never let me give up. The coward in me will try. Now the side that doesn’t like to disappoint the others will keep me in check.

Meanwhile, there’s this page. A peek into my research on the universe of the book and some exercises on the way the protagonist speaks.

Oh, the story! I must say something about the story, right?!

I always liked the clash between modern and cultural traditions, tech and faith. This is a book isn’t any different: kung fu and artificial intelligence, two of my favorite themes, so you can imagine a blast I’ve been having for the three years since I started this project. It tells the adventures of Claudia Yang (Yang Yinyin in China), who moves to The Bay Area to follow Bruce Lee’s steps. From the flowery parks of Berkeley and the underground fighting scene of Oakland, she teaches Tai Chi during the day, cage fights at night. Ultimately, the story is her strange journey towards immortality, one she always intended to pursue, just not the way it ended up happening.

So grab a chair, follow the page, share your thoughts, and more than anything, help me stick with the plan.

Love,

PJ Pereira.

Best fighting style for women

What’s the best fighting style for new #femalefighters who want to learn to defend themselves in modern days? Why?

Personally I’d rather learn everything I can from anywhere I feel it’s worth, and make my own, but one must always pick a starting point. My suggestion: pick one you think it’s going to be fun.

Fighting is a long journey until you get to real skill. If you don’t enjoy you’ll quite before you are ready to use.

Remember: me. Prepared their entire lives to know how to wrestle and punch and get hit… a half ass, two weeks long self-defense course is not going to prepare you to catch up.

#boxing #muaythai #bjj #judo #karate #wingchun #kungfu #kravmaga #filipinomartialarts

Instagram photo from @lucyjaynemurrayuk who practices #kiokushin

Continue reading

About swords

That ain’t me in the photo. I love blades. Especially swords. Being from Wudang, I have almost an obligation to know at least some. But since my headaches started, Shifu took them away. I would easily have chopped my face off in a moment of agony. Despite understanding the reasons though, I still want them. Maybe someday science will find a cure for #clusterheadaches and I’ll be able to do it. Oh, and I’m not bling either. My name is Yinyin. They call me Tigress.

#clusterheadache

#suicidalheadaches #swordfighting

* this account is fictional. More into: link @ bio

#Repost from Instagram @fma_global with @get_repost

・・・

It takes great courage to pick up a sword.

But It takes greater courage not to use it🙏. @prototype_alina

.

As you know from my Instastories, I can’t get enough from weapons & training with them😁😌🙏 #martialartsproblems.

Why so angry?

They say I’m always angry. Bullshit. Sometimes I’m happy and excited like a little girl. Fuck you, haters.

#femalefighters #girlpower

* this acct is fictional.

Instagram Repost from @lorrendullum

Me when I wake up and IT’S FIGHT WEEK 🙌🏻

You can fight back, girl

Men grow up fighting. Even if poorly, that gives them the advantage of knowing getting hit isn’t the end of the world. Most of my students (only women, since I refuse to teach men) walk in so terrified of getting hurt, they freeze at the first drill. Look at the video below, ladies. You can get tagged multiple times and still fight back.

That’s lesson number one.

#fightinggirls #femalefighters #girlpower #unitedbyblood

* this account is fictional

Video is #Repost @fit_misss from Instagram with @get_repost

・・・

Sparring last night with @arahsay_uccipay — getting fight ready ☝🏻🙏🏻👊🏻💜 #wmma #mma #womensboxing #femalefighters #womensmma #cagefighting #spidermonkey #ultimatemmact

What?!

Wtf?! I understand martial artists attraction to fire arms. Disagree, but understand. I can imagine that high capacity may be fun for these people. But can’t understand how they wouldn’t trade more safety for kids against their little shooting thrill. But posting these photos right after a school shooting, @bulletvalentina ?!? C’mon?! You must be better than that. (Bullet Valentina is a UFC fighter)

Artists of Fist

Martial artists, they call us. For a reason. Who, other than artists pour their hearts on pointless passions under risks ordinary people will never understand? Just because they have to express themselves that way. We work on our craft, our mind, then we go perform. We create, in front of everyone, something different, every time. With real risk. Give me a dancer who choreographs the spectacle on the go, and can die while doing it; or a painter whose canvas wants him to fail; a poet who bleeds for his words. There’s no art more art than fighting. If you don’t get it, it’s because your westerner mind can only see art if it’s for sale. Lululemon safe. I am not, neither are my fists. I get paid if I win, but at that point, I have done it already. I have risked everything because… because.#femalefighters #femalemartialartists #unitedbyblood Praise to both @criscyborg and @hollyholm – two amazing artists

The Worst of the Headaches (v2)

(does this version work or this one here is better?)

EVERY WARRIOR WISHES FOR A GLORIOUS, OR AT LEAST WORTHY END. For me, if it was over I’d be content. When the first sting stroke, sharp and deep, through my temple and into my soul, I knew what was coming. The stabbing, the venom, the humming. Piercing through the side of my skull, pouring the poison inside, waiting for my brain to swell. So big it tries to escape through my sight. My parents died young, perhaps I could as well.

The ghost stingers, they never fail. Once started, they will go for hours. Dismaying pain. I wail. Stabbing, squeezing, stabbing, squeezing, stabbing, squeezing, until no wish remains. They would leave me there, on the border of death, crying in vain. Perhaps waiting for the last step after I’m gone insane.

But I’m too weak, I can’t. I never can.

There’s no dignity in staying. No honor in losing. For I know they would come again, few times per day, for weeks, no choosing. Watch me go through life, terrified of its return. Like today.

Today. No different. It stabs, squeezes and stabs more. I pray. Maybe this one will be a short. A yell: help! My body shakes, skin drips both hot and cold. The pain. It answers itself. A squeeze. Strong. Between the ear and the eye, five nails dig into my flesh, like fire. I squint, as hard as I can. Would rip the skin and everything, if I could. Stabs. Many. Growing stronger. Faster. This ain’t a childhood! So much pain they can be heard: Tween! Tween! Tween! My left eyelid falls, lifeless, and the eyeball in-rolls. It always starts that mean. Worse, it goes.

Will this be the time I do it? Squeeze. The head grows from within, tries to thrust my eye out of its hole. I press it back. With the palm, the fist, knee. Hold. Anything I can find, any position I can arrange. Another stab, there’s no change. The face curls, bone and everything, twitching in agony. Another sting. In the darkness of myself, I shriek, the heart drums – in sync with the pain as it comes. I beg the immortals for an end. Stab, stab, stab. Crush me, please. Stab, stab, stab. Engulf me whole. Stab, stab, stab. There is no future from here. Let me go!

Squeeeeeeze.

Eyes open. Barely. World still there. Why? Carry me, mother! Rob me from hell. Ache still throbs, but light… has shifted? How long has it been the pain persisted? Has the sun gone down already? Or it’s the poison blinding me dull? “Too much yang.” – Shifu said once. A statement so null. Knowing didn’t soften the squeeze. Never stopped the stab.

The pain is full. Breathe, Yinyin, breathe. It’s your heart beat in command.

The torment insists. The stingers, invisible, toxic, grand. Now in swarms. Relentless. Out of my hands. My head, eye, jaw. I kneel and everything I inside erupts, and then more. Through my mouth, green, warm and chunky. I moan the cry of a dying monkey. Scream and curl. Flat on the ground, my body twists over my spills and all I can think is how soothing that is. Not for long, girl.

Please, let the curse take me, this time! Give me the fate of the ancestors of mine. I have no kids, no family for grief. My death is harmless, it has no teeth.

The Dao doesn’t listen, there’s nothing to be done. Head squeezes again, for the mercy of none. Had Shifu left swords, I would have sliced my face. Dropped my aching chunk and ran to the mountains of fate. Had he left a spear, a dart, they would be through my right eye, to the back of the scalp. The image, the peace…

The ground’s dry. Sucked the last moist of mine, leaving only old pieces food. My fingers play with them, my half-digested witnesses of pain. The last meal and it’s thin veil of mud. Underneath, the floor, hard and inviting, whispers a thought: come.

I bang the side of the head against the surface. Too soft of of a puddle for me to escape. The foot of a table. A hard edged stool. The pain dulls me for an instant but it’s not enough. They move, and the irony, so deep: these fists have knocked out so many people. But one cannot punch herself to sleep.

Squeeze, stab. Fuck! Need something hard and unforgiving. A rock, a hammer, any heavy tool will do. The wall! I find the strongest edge of all. Before the next stab, I run. Jump. Hit my head, and go.

Not me, but close

The good thing about being me is there aren’t photos floating around the Internet. Also the bad part, cause I keep having to describe myself to those who ask. Not the creepy ones though.

I liked my hair. Easy. Didn’t cover my eyes during the fights; could be grabbed at night, and tied back for the cage. Just like this photo of a random girl I found online, plus the black ends, making a softly defined stripe around my neck. Reminds me of who I am: a Tigress, queen of the conglin. A proud girl of yang.