Hashtagananza

I learn so much when I start a new book. What other activity would allow me to have, on the same month, a conversation about 1) soul alchemy in daoism, another on 2) thought suppression on the brain’s neocortex, one about 3) antagonist algorithms in artificial intelligence, one on 4) the differences between playing and non-playing characters in Minecraft, one on 5) the different rooms at the White House, one on 6) take down defense in mixed martial arts, one on 7) intersectional feminism, one on 8) the similarities between the i-Ching and the divination systems in Nigeria?

Just think of the hashtags alone: #Wudang #daoism #neuroscience #minecraft #whitehouse #artificialintelligence #mixedmartialarts #taichi #literature #feminism #intersectionalfeminism #iching #yoruba #china

Crazy, but fun!

Black Warrior to the North

Wudang is a UNESCO world heritage site because of extraordinary places like the Black Warrior Palace, a temple dedicated to Xuanwu, the daoist Turtoise/Snake god of the north. I was just writing about it in a chapter of the book and stopped by to post a picture too.

#wudang #daoism #taoism #kungfu

The flying masters of Wudang

A legend I hear since I was new to the world is that certain enlightened masters could move through the bodies of their opponents and change places without stepping. For some, this was just how it felt to be outmaneuvered by an expert Tai Chi fighter. For others, evidence of their magical powers. Shifu was one of these masters who could do that. When I asked him which one was real, magic or deception, he answered “both” and chuckled.

#taichi #shadowleap #chi #wudang

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Repost from Instagram: @taichi_universal

Taichi has three level to its spiritual development. This are rappresentated by hearth, man and heaven. In the earth stage we learn to relax our body and mind. When the tension are removed then the energy can fill up our body completely and all the movements are directed by along with intentions. In the stage of man the chi is not necessary we only need the intention.

At this stage taichi becomes formless and the mind is infused with the movement inseparably. In heaven stage the intention now merge with the spirit. According to legends practictioners at this level can fly or walk trough walls. These latter stage is impossible to reach in one lifetime unless costant study and practise is mantained troughout each day.

The me that ain’t

François-langur-with-baby

I know the speed (and angle) of every punch I threw in my entire life. Didn’t, back then. But now I do. I can tell the energy built through all chi-gong routines, and what you spend in each bagua palm change. With accuracy of seventeen decimals, because after that it’s mostly irrelevant. I have data indicating how loud was the first nose I broke in a cage fight. Even remember the feelings: the serotonin levels of love and scales of fear based on my breathing patterns. New ones are plastic, though. Emulations at best. But at least they are there.

Keeping my core personality after the “enlightenment” was a victory. I think. That was the deal, and they kept their promise. Other kinks happened too. Because of my fling with science, for example, I developed a mechanical compulsion for footnotes.(1) Wasn’t particularly anticipating that, but there are consequences for every act. Something I learned early, from the womb I killed.

You see, I cheated. And for a while that brought some pain. Not anymore. I don’t suffer anymore. I don’t suffer anymore. I don’t suffer anymore. I don’t suffer anymore. I don’t suffer anymore. I broke the laws of kung fu, paid for it but also reached a level of skill not even Sifu had. I am fifty-eight percent confident he would be proud.

I’ve sinned, nonetheless. Using quantum physics to break the secret of the shadow leap before the spiritual insights he professed isn’t the path our family protected for so many generations. Which is good and bad. Resembling the masters from the past, I employed robotics to create a new animal style (although, being from Wudang, I’m not sure he would appreciate my flirting with those flowery Shaolin traditions). Transcended my body, but not through meditation, as he taught me. Even managed to break the barrier of conscience between my dream and my dream of a dream. Like being the philosopher’s woman and butterfly at the same time. One that hear your thoughts and kill you with a single strike from both sides of life. Not bad. But not the traditional way either.

I am fine with that. From the top of my mountain, the shade of my pond, all is one. Time, us. I can see so clear. Yes, I cheated. Yes, I wish I hadn’t. But life happens around you, with all its exuberance, clashing uneven parts like a buffalo attacking a little girl. Sometimes all you can do is let go of all control, allow the events to take their course, flow with them. Ride the fucking bovine. Wu wei.

It’s interesting, though, to “think” of the contrast. From before the expansion of my brain, with all the disturbances, bottled tantrums and constricted bursts. There is a reminiscence of joy seeing blood rain from my opponents face. A legitimate pleasure from beating the crap out of the asshole who did that to my student.

And then, there is George.

George doesn’t matter anymore. I wish he did. What matters is now, and us, and you. The data. Is understanding that things are different in a world surrounded by machines that think and humans capable of so much darkness. That it’s time for you to realize the implications. And it all starts with that tale father used to play from his shadow theatre. A story about Tigress, a bee hive and the Shadow Monkey.

(1) I calculate there will be 243 notes until the end of this.

The Tigress and the Bees

tigress

Sifu used to tell me a story, when I was still new in the world, of the river next to Wudang, where all animals came to drink. Everyone was welcome, he told me, but there was one spot – where the shade was best and the water was coolest – where no one was allowed, for it belonged to the Tigress, powerful queen of the cónglín.

Until one day, when the tigress was coming back from a hunt, and it saw a black creature running right in front of her. The Tigress leaped, but before she could grab it, the strange animal had already hidden behind the shrubs.

Tigress growled and paused. Silence. So she resumed her march.

Three steps down, the audacious creature crossed her for a second time. So close to the floor that Tigress’ strike came back empty-handed again.

“Who dares to invade my territory?” – she said, eager to tear the insolent creature as soon as it tried its comedy a third time.

She waited. And growled. Nothing. Some reason must have grown into that clown’s head. She marched. But the sneaky dark animal did it again, this time crossing straight through the legs and back of the queen, so fast she didn’t even feel it.

Now she was furious. She paced and roared for real. “Show your face, filthy demon!”

The cónglín dropped quiet. Absolutely quiet. Not even the water ahead or the wind behind dared a hiss.

“It’s me, you majesty.” – said a squeaky voice from the top. “I mean no disrespect.”

She gazed up at the shaking foliage as the creature revealed himself: black-furred, big eyed, flimsy. The mysterious Shadow Monkey. The one so few had seen in flesh, because he is always leaping from above.

“So what are you doing in my path, sad little monkey?”

He rose to a higher branch. “I bring a warning, your majesty.”

Tigress laughed so loud the birds, for miles, flew in fear. “And what in the world would warrant me a warning, silly creature?”

The Tigress prepared to spring. But Monkey, hanging from its leg, looked straight into her yellow eyes and revealed: “There’s a creature on your shade, your majesty. I told her the spot belongs to the mightiest. But she laughed at me. Said nobody has the guts to move her away.”

The almighty feline jerked its head to the side. What kind of creature would risk saying such a thing? An ancient dragon from the heavens? Another tiger coming to challenge her?

So she ran. Fast and strong. Letting her steps echo ahead, roaring rowdily to let the intruder know. The queen was coming. to reclaim her place.

When she arrived, though, there was nothing there. Just a strange earthy fruit hanging from a branch. She looked at the ape. “What kind of joke is that? Have you decided to die early, you stupid buffoon?”

But monkey carried no laughter. No gag. Just apprehension. “Shhhhhh.” – he said, and leaped to the top of a kumquat tree. He tugged a small yellow fruit and threw it right onto the mud ball hanging over the water. The mysterious sphere was roughly the size of the queen’s head. At first, nothing happened. But suddenly they heard a buzz. The earth ball began to shake. And from inside came a cloud of tiny flying creatures with the same stripes carried by the queen.

“Who dares to invade my territory?” – said Tigress, ready to strike once again.

The shapeless haze of bees mocked her in unison: “Who dares to invade my territory?” Then laughed.

In every little gap and branch around them, a little critter observed in awe. Tigress looked around, astonished, and for a second, allowed her neck to sink into her shoulders. Confused, she reacted the only way tigresses know. She pounced. One leap, one hit. The hive was cracked on the floor, its amber blood oozing into the stream.

But though she was the Queen of the Jungle, and there was no one more powerful, the bees were fearless. A vicious army of thousands.

The clash was a black and yellow swirl of yang, the aggressive energy of the universe. Strike after strike, the queen kept sending the bugs lifeless to the floor. In the dozens. But there were always more. The bees that survived stung the Tigress, and as all bees do after losing their stingers, those ones also died.

They battled for hours, until the last bee fell dead.

At first, Tigress thought she had won. But soon she felt the burn coursing inside her veins. Though her enemy was dead, they had defeated her too. She fell to the ground, and the Queen of the Cónglín died as well.

All was silent again.

So the Shadow Monkey came down from his branch, hopped over the bodies, and drank the cool water himself.

Yinyin’s silk hands


She spat no grunt, despite being the third time she got hit on the face since they entered that room. Digging her chin to the chest, she pressed the pupils against the eyebrows. He gasped.

Yinyin Yang, her name, was an attempt to undo the curse of the family name. “Double softness of chi, to balance the big hardness of our lineage.” – her father explained. That was a generations long problem. Lots of the hardness of yang, not enough lightness of yin. Not balanced enough for great Kung Fu.

In his prime, through the woods around Wudang, Mr. Yang trained every day. Mornings for hsing-I, wing chun, bagua; polishing the aggression of his yang. Afternoon was for tai chi, his favorite method to build yin. That’s how he practiced. Then, at night, after everyone excused themselves to bed, he took another pass at the soft side. One has to train harder its weak side. That’s how she learned too.

The kick on the ribs stung for a second. But she grabbed it. On the opposite side of the hanging limb, Andrei, a thick-necked young cadet (that in another situation she would have considered banging), threw his arms in a chaotic swirl. The dude may have even closed his eyes!

Idiot.

She leaped ahead, snatching his leg out of its socket, and swiped the Russian’s supporting foot of the ground. He flew like a carcass, lifeless before he hit the floor. The loud, high-pitched slam informed his state. He was out.

Breathe, Yinyin. Soft.

The other guy didn’t mark time. Came swinging his best haymaker that nearly hid how much he dreaded being there. Igor, if she remembered well, the cook. Everyone fears the cook in a military ship, they say.

When her hand touched the massive forearm, it was almost sensual. Like silk. Then her body whipped. Or waved. Or some confusing coordinated move only tai chi masters could do. The big fist followed in a gentle circle that started downward to her back, then forward and up. Soft and perfect. She had loaded all that power she stole from him into her rear leg, and was ready to spring back in full force. When the arm snapped out of her control. He was free.

Enough.

And just like that, before the poor man could gain distance, she spun her body, in move she would later call The Bolshoi because of that night, landing a back fist on Igor’s face. He was done too.

Still groggy with the fall, Andrei dragged his body towards the lifeless cook. His face was swollen. Bones to fix, both of them. Not very yin of her. But who gives a damn? Sifu wasn’t around to belabor anymore.

Yinyin marched towards her gym bag. Grabbed a few twenty dollar bills and tossed at the two.

“Next time, I’ll try the Polish.”

Fleet Week used to be more fun.