The Khatun Returns

Hi there.

I took a sabbatical. A longer one than I expected. A longer one than y’all may have expected.

During lockdown, I began writing Quarantine Ep. 3 [with a delightfully pretentious title, if I do say so myself: Abstractions from my Arboraceous Abode: All Dressed Up with No One to Punch :( ] during my brief stint living in a sylvan container allergic to photons. But you know what? The in-person session requests at that time: they bummed me out. I missed beating people up in the flesh, I missed real unpixelated eye contact over mugs of coffee, but I was sticking out this lockdown thing. So—except to indulge some virtual sessions and calls—I vanished.

After a bit of that, I decided to vanish even harder—to lie low until it was time to once again smear a physical head into a physical mat.

That time could have come much earlier, as far as pandemics are concerned—but I’ve been on an unexpected detour.

A summary, calibrated to an apropos level of vagueness: in the throes of lockdown-induced boredom, I signed up for some online community college courses: physics, chemistry, math, computer science. This turned into being admitted as a student to one of the gatekeepiest universities in the country. I used to say college was for chumps, and now here I was at one of the fucking CHYMPS [but I ain’t saying which one in a blog post].

So, that happened. Other things also happened. Like: two contract jobs, one in [light, somewhat frivolous] reconnaissance [otherwise I obviously wouldn’t be mentioning it here], one in computational physics. As for Muay Thai, since my last post I’ve trained at three different gyms and a club as I’ve moved around. And competed in an organizational shitshow of a scrimmage in California—which just made me miss Thailand.

I’ll be spending the brunt of the next couple years based in the San Francisco Bay Area—so if you’d like to session with me, being here [or coming here] is your best bet by a long shot. If you can’t [or won’t] come to the Bay Area, I am amenable to planning special trips for those who manage to make me an offer I can’t refuse. Other than that, I intend to do a few trips of varying duration during that timespan, though I make no promises in advance regarding the wheres and whens.

After years of being immersed in science and tech, I’ve been craving some chaos and dirt, and enfolding randomized algorithms back into my analog life.

Things are good. Psyched to be back.

If you sent me an email during my hiatus regarding a serious inquiry—bump it again. I’ve got over 500 unreads in my inbox so A. it’ll take a while for me to clean it out, and B. a lot of emails will undoubtedly slip through the cracks in the process.

Watching:
Inside
Contrapoints [her whole damn channel]
Pantheon [Season 2, at last!]
Triangle of Sadness

Reading:
Exhalation by Ted Chiang
Infinite Powers by Steven Strogatz
The Candy House by Jennifer Egan
Honestly? A lot of textbooks and academic journals

Quarantine Ep. 2

—Thoughts from My Thalassic Lair—

How Not to Win My Favor

I’m going to say this, here, now, without apology: I’ve been fantastic.

It’s a strange time, one during which it can seem almost crass to admit publicly to enjoying oneself and one’s day-to-day life too much. I’m not usually one to censor the expression of my own triumphs and joys, but in conversations with family and close friends lately, I often wait to check the conversation’s temperature before glowing all over someone who may be addled by tragedy or financial ruin or both. I may be ruthless, but I’m not heartless.

But, hell, I wanna gloat somewhere. If not here—where?

Every day’s been an opportunity and a source of fulfillment. I’m continuing to run from zombies on the reg. My pull-up game has never been better than it is right now. I’ve been gifted a Zoom class from a brilliant commercial photographer. I’ve just learned to make fried chicken and, after a day of brining and two and a half days of trying, made the best I have ever had, on my first try. I’m getting really into coding. I’m creating a sexy chainmail garment inspired by the Periodic Table. I’m disciplining a lovably neurotic German Shepherd. I’ve just received the fantastic news that a submissive I regularly chat with [who vanished a couple months ago—I assumed the worst] did indeed contract the virus, but has now recovered. And so on.

While, for everyone’s sakes, I hope testing becomes widely-available enough to allow society to safely re-open, and while I’ve typically defined myself by my love of aimlessly imposing myself onto open roads and traveling freely…speaking solely for myself, I’d be quite happy to observe lockdown measures for a long, long time.

Okay. Change of topic. I’m still getting a lot of email from men who seem, not defiant, but unaware, that there’s a pandemic on—asking, as if it were currently the most normal thing in the world, what it’d take to get me across state lines and into their house, or, better yet, how much it’d take for me to host the match at mine.

To which I say…well, nothing, actually. I don’t respond to those emails.

Either, A. these people just want attention and think baiting me on the pretense of booking a session [at a time when that’s clearly not viable] is the way to get it [if making my acquaintance is what you want, there are legit ways to do that, even now]; or, B., more concerning, they truly don’t see why an in-person session between two humans who’ve never met before might be inadvisable right now—the sort of thing I’d need to be either stupid or destitute to accept [also: my heart goes out to anyone who may be struggling so much financially that they reasonably feel they have no choice but to accept unsafe non-essential work].

Look. I get it. Times are wacky. Just about everyone is some mixture of bored, broke, grieving, scared, angry.

But if you’re someone who has the income to burn on sessions right now? Consider tributes to the session girls, models, or sex workers you like, whose income streams might’ve been disrupted [if not altogether derailed] by present circumstances.

And if you’re bored? Speaking for myself, I oblige those who re$pect my time with regard and attention. A couple fun facts about me: A. I’m not just nice to look at and am as equipped to dazzle you with my rhetoric over the phone as I am with my thighs in the flesh; and, B. I have a serviceable camera, a refined eye, a bodacious meatsuit, and know how to employ the three to great effect.

Or not. But fishing to see whether I, or any peer of mine, is financially constrained enough to meet up right now will not land you in my good books. Be frugal, or be indulgent—just don’t be obtuse.

Watching:

Tales from the Loop
Merchants of Doubt
The Great Hack
2040

Reading:

Flowers for Algernon by Daniel Keyes
Bad Blood by John Carreyrou
Deadeye Dick by Kurt Vonnegut
The Disappearing Spoon by Sam Kean

Quarantine Ep. 1

—Thoughts from My Thalassic Lair—

A Triptychal Update

Body

Full disclosure: I’ve been thriving.

My quarantine’s been quodlibetic [and quadriceptic 🦵🏽]—anything but quiescent.

It’s been a bit under a month. I’m running about four miles per day through redwood forests, along creeks, to rocky outcroppings and long stretches of deserted beach. I hardly ever encounter a person, but the snakes are out for mating season. They’re a bit too well-camouflaged for their own good: I’ve nearly trampled a few underfoot. I’m also strength training: lots of core work, lots of burpees, and making good use of some scavenged 25-lb. dumbbells.

While I can still drill martial arts technique [I’m quarantined with a man who trains MMA and a woman who trains judo and taekwondo], the one thing I’ve really been missing is having willing punching bags at my disposal—to get to be a real jerk about it.

I’ve carried on with intermittent fasting, which had a transformative effect on both my training, and my general experience of being alive, before and during my truncated tour with Nixie. A few have expressed interest in learning more about this, so I may make a post of resources for any of you weaklings out there who’d like to experiment with IF in the [futile] hopes of increasing your chances of keeping up with me during a future session.

It’s been an interesting opportunity to flex new practical skills: everything from DIY turkey hunting-and-butchering to making agnolotti with homeless pasta dough.

Mind

After a decade of reaching far corners of the earth, working a fantastical array of gigs in different fields, it’s stopped feeling so novel—after all, when airports feel more like home than actual houses, even air travel becomes pedestrian. I love martial arts and beating people up, it’s such a perfect application of my natural brutishness, and I’m going to keep doing those for as long as my body allows, but I’m also someone who, at any given time, wants to be juggling several different plates. At this point, I’ve been asking myself…what else?

And I’ve circled back around to the thing I once rebelled against with newfound curiosity; i.e., I’ve enrolled in college courses in programming. The quarter started two days ago, yet I’ve already done all required reading, labs, and assignments due before midterms. Since that’s clearly not enough to keep my brain occupied, I’ve also been working on my Mandarin literacy, reviewing math and science via Khan Academy, and availing myself of a gifted Masterclass subscription.

Currently reading:
Parable of the Sower by Octavia Butler
Made in America: an Informal History of the English Language in the United States by Bill Bryson

Spirit

I’m optimistic [at least agathistic], not only about picking up sessions right where I left off, but of the diagnostic power of this disaster to inform widespread and long-overdue social, economic, and political restructuring, so that capital-We aren’t so easily rocked in the future by unexpected-by-most-but-nonetheless-predicted-by-some-widely-ignored-Cassandras disasters.

It’s been interesting, hearing from those of you who’ve reached out.

A couple of the customs requests I’ve received are for fetishes I’d not heard of before, which I LOVE! The spectrum of human desire is boundlessly creative, and I love when someone’s highly-specific proclivities leads me on unplanned adventures to new amusements. Keep ‘em coming.

Of course, a few have written me long emails, expecting me to return their outpourings in my own free time with no recompense, and I have not obliged these expectations. My time is still precious and comes at a fee. I get that y’all are cooped up, lonely, with desires and needs and compulsions towards escapism. If you want me to indulge you with a longform email correspondence, a handwritten letter, or a phone call, you’re most welcome to consult my list of virtual offerings.

Stay healthy—stay home if you can, for the sake of all those who can’t, and let’s flatten this bitch of a curve so we can get back on the mats sooner than later.

…After all, you’re of no use to me if you’re infirm.

Episode 3: Premature Evacuation [for now!]

—Big Trees to Big Apple—

USA Roadtrip w/ Nixie Neutron

In under two days, Las Vegas shifted from, “Everything’s fine, guys, you should all parrrrty, it’s almost St. Patty’s Day, wheee!” to “Everyone GTFO, yesterday,” to [………crickets]. 

It became obvious that we had no viable alternatives but to abort mission and try to get ourselves to secure places as soon as possible, and prepare to be stuck there for weeks to months. Nixie bought a flight; I made arrangements to scoop my sister out of now-derelict Los Angeles and then backtrack up the coast the way Nixie and I had so recently finished driving down.

We were squanched out of Luxor as it shut down the next day, and thus squanched over to Flamingo to spend our last night before Nixie’s getaway spaceship outta dodge. 

Nixie’s favorite cocktail bar in town had made DIY cocktail kits for the folks stuck at home [i.e., everyone]; we availed ourselves of one of these and marinated in azure soup, donning bubble mustaches, in our room with a view of the deserted city below.

By the next day, everything was shut down except for weed dispensaries, which had long lines out the door. Otherwise, the streets were empty, except for a few homeless stragglers who didn’t have anywhere to hole up. I wondered how many of them might still not know why the city was empty.

While we loitered in a parking lot, a raggedy older woman lugging a trash bag shuffled up to the open passenger door of the van, while Nixie was in the back packing her things. The woman asked me where I was from; I struck an attempted balance between friendliness and aloofness, worrying that the woman might be leaning a bit close [more worried for her sake than for mine, but not thrilled about the prospect of potential contamination in either direction]. After we exchanged a few words, she said, “You girls best get inside now. It’s not safe out here.”

“We know. We’re both headed home. You should get inside, too.”

“I live out here. Ain’t no inside for me to be.” Without a goodbye, she ambled off, looking frail and resigned to circumstance.

We were tired, Vegas was uncharacteristically gloomy and wet, and there was nowhere for us to be, either—no hotels, no cafes, we found an empty botanical cactus garden but were kicked out within minutes—so we parked by a supermarket and used their WiFi to watch RuPaul’s Drag Race in the van until it was time to drop Nixie off at a nearly-vacant McCarran International.

Then, equipped with a chicken’s foot around my neck and a cockroach on my carotid sinus, I drove the 4-5 hours back to Los Angeles, to serve as getaway driver for a different sister [this one being from the same mister], so that we can hole up together in Northern California for up to the next several months.

This trip’s been prematurely ejaculated, but I’m optimistic about the future:

We’ve already laid the groundwork for an awesome tour. We spent about six months planning this trip, plotting a route, sussing out interest in different cities, securing potential venues, arranging accommodation, researching martial arts and circus gyms to continue our training, networking with local wrestlers and dommes, making arrangements with clients, pouring overhead into all the things we might need, kitting out the van, compiling outfits and itineraries. That doesn’t have to have been for nothing. If the world settles back down in the foreseeable, we could pick up right where we left off.

“How will we get on traveling together?” is always a relevant concern when embarking on the road with someone new [especially with the added complications of being on a high-stakes and fast-paced working tour]…but I figure, if we were able to get through the uncertainty, absurdity, and stress of a looming pandemic [and major economic downturn] together, and not just “barely”, but symbiotically and intact and managing to still have a really fun time of it…I think that bodes extremely well for how smashingly things would go in a happier, healthier, more prosperous time.

I’ll figure something out—I always do.

Meanwhile, I’m offering up a slightly different menu than my usual [check out my new Virtual Offerings page].

Use my Contact form or email virago.khutulun@protonmail.com to inquire about any of the above options.

Episode 2: SoCal > Vegas

—Big Trees to Big Apple—

USA Roadtrip w/ Nixie Neutron

At the Madonna Inn, we were finally able to squeeze in a proper HIIT workout, complete with weights, cardio, and calisthenics, in their little fitness room. Having been on the road for days without much time to invest in fitness [other than the incidental exertion of sessions—not that most of y’all provide too much of a challenge 😏, and of functional expeditions on foot], we were hankering for a more focused inducement of sweat.

After that, we tenderized ourselves briefly in the Inn’s outdoor hot tub—along with a dear friend who’d come to visit us in our sparkling pink tower—before setting off into the soggy blue yonder [Nixie must’ve brought the rain with her] and a few errands I won’t bore you with.

We spent a lovely day and night in Ventura County with an old friend of mine, being entertained by the roughhousing of a red husky and a tortoiseshell cat, the briefest walk from a mirror-smooth ocean. The next day we explored a large boat and met a few more sea lions before continuing to Long Beach, our home for the next few nights [to be finally spending more than one night in a place feels quite stabilizing].

I had an excellent first session at Dungeon West in Los Angeles. My opponent was a muscular man whom I very much enjoyed taunting, pulling into various chokes, practicing a few new leg-locks I’d recently learned, and improvising some new moves on [my favorite being one where I discovered I could simultaneously choke him with my thighs and wrench his arm uncomfortably upward, sitting comfortably and hands-free, all with a smooth and energy-efficient tensing of my legs: quite comfortable for me, not so comfortable for him]. He offered a bit of initial defiance, but I smoothed out his attitude soon enough.

The next morning was a bit dreary: I had to get the van towed [all is well now—everything is dealt with—but there was a long slog of tedious phone calls to get back to “all is well”], the day’s new victim flaked on me [his loss], and the friend I was meant to visit was horribly ill [i.e., immunocompromised, i.e., not someone I felt I could visit, and potentially put at risk, in good conscience].

And here’s where things get darker and weirder. Where we started thinking about contingency plans—not easy to do without having a physical place to isolate in [not to mention the loss of a year’s projected income, after putting in so much time and money in overhead expenses and planning].

Los Angeles: We started exercising more rigid hygiene and avoiding larger crowds, but continued going out with a select couple friends, thinking we could conscientiously enjoy ourselves.

But then: A. All our gigs for the year began writing us to cancel; and B. There was no traffic during rush hour.

I repeat. There was no traffic during rush hour. On a weekday. Between Long Beach and downtown LA. Something was clearly amiss.

Joshua Tree: We ditched the city and headed into the desert, hoping it’d be easier to isolate there while continuing to figure out what to do.

We slept in the van on BLM land, far from other campers. Astonishingly, there were hundreds of people camped out—in the past I rarely ran into anyone out there—having large campfires together. Maybe there was an event going on? Or maybe those people had, like us, thought it’d be safer outside of the city…but had then become complacent and lonely and joined up like a pioneer wagon train? Don’t know, because we didn’t talk to anyone.

The next day, to our dismay, when we had to go into town for provisions [we aren’t really set up for extended off-grid van-camping, since it wasn’t something we’d expected to have to do when we planned this trip more than half a year ago—we’d been all set to stay with friends along the way] and WiFi [so Nixie could make some crucial international calls]…and every business in the small town was completely packed with tourists, many of them clearly over 70, some probably over 80.

We felt like we could not, in good conscience, go inside these crowded businesses, so it took hours before we were able to sneak in somewhere for WiFi [spoiler: no officials we spoke to over the phone had any advice—and they still don’t] and supplies to take back out into the desert, where we spent the rest of our day and night.

We found a few ways to make the most of our time during our nights in the desert: checking out [empty] Salvation Mountain in the morning and driving by Slab City [but staying in the car, despite it being almost entirely empty], then through the Mojave Desert [where we got out of the car, stretched, marveled at the boundless space-ward spread of sage and purple hills, and breathed with relief that we were nowhere near the virus, nor anyone with whom we could pose a mutual risk].

We got in to Vegas, where we’d booked a room far in advance, back when our biggest worries were around the logistics of frugality and recreation and keeping in shape and juggling social inclinations.

Which brings us to now.

We’re currently holed up in a room at the Luxor. We’ve got the place for tonight: tomorrow they’re shutting down all the MGM hotels on the Strip [and possibly all the others, too, but I don’t have that intel].

The Vegas Strip is refreshingly sparse. I overheard a couple strangers talking and dismissing the whole thing as a conspiracy [“I’ve been a nurse for twenty years, and this is all hokum”], but most of the people who are still here are keeping a notable distance from one another. Overall, it feels safer existing here than it did in Joshua Tree.

My nervous system is shot and I feel tired and foggy-headed despite last night’s uninterrupted sleep [unlike previous nights in the van, which have been a bit cold and cramped].

Long story short: as sad as I am to admit this, we have to postpone [I hesitate to say “cancel”, but I honestly don’t know what the timeline of this postponement is] our tour that we’ve been planning, preparing for, anticipating, and paying into for the better part of a year.

I hate it, I really do, and we were so reluctant to accept this reality…but there’s no other way. Most of our bookings have already cancelled. The few that remain aren’t enough to cover our overhead costs in getting to them, PLUS there’s the possibility of more rigid lockdowns [at the state borders, and within cities]. We can’t afford to potentially get trapped in a random spot.

If you’re someone who’s booked us along our tour and paid a deposit: don’t worry, we haven’t forgotten you, I promise. We’re not going to unceremoniously cut and run. We’re just dealing with a lot. We’ll be in touch with you soon in order to make sure everything’s all right.

On the other hand, if you’re someone who can afford the loss and/or who’s interested in customs: Nixie and I are currently hoping to find work doing remote custom videos or providing other remote services that don’t force us to travel. If you’re keen, PLEASE be in touch!

We’re strongly, emphatically hoping that we can reconvene and carry on with this epic cross-country tour sometime in the future, when this virus has been contained and the world [and, hopefully, the economy] are restored to some sort of balance. I have a lot of other thoughts on the whole thing that I, for now, will not share.

[In the meantime: stay safe, y’all!]

Episode 1: NorCal > SoCal

—Big Trees to Big Apple—

USA Roadtrip w/ Nixie Neutron

After months of planning [coordinating remotely from different continents], a revolving roster of rad ladies [to gallivant with in the woods and assemble sandwich cakes with before seeing us off], a farewell via Finnish sauna [to sweat out the demons and soften our muscles for the tribulations ahead], and liters of frozen bone broth [to keep our joints well-lubed and gut microbiota well-populated]…we were off!

Our first day comprised of ten hours of driving [largely through the Avenue of the Giants], a photo shoot with a dear friend of mine, puer tea and a white cat, and a night nesting in a gorgeous coastal garden on its own tectonic plate and well beyond cell phone range.

We spent the following morning catching up on admin, admiring chickens and sea cliffs, briefly wandering around a Zen center, and availing ourselves of an auspicious cold spring [while being evaded by a hot one] on our way to our first session of the tour.

We were extremely excited for our inaugural duo session in our much-adored Bay Area dungeon base, with a victim whom we’d previously each beaten up separately, who graciously facilitated taking photos of some of the predicaments we got him into over the course of the evening, in the matching outfits he’d gotten us for the occasion.

One of us would take his legs into a lock as the other got him into a Triangle Choke or Americana, then we’d switch. I also loved beating him up a bit with some striking [my personal favorite]: Nixie would hold him back in a rear naked choke, or would hang onto some ceiling-mounted stirrups in order to get him into a head scissors while he was standing upright, and then I’d pepper him with some punches and kicks—hard enough to hurt, but lax enough to make it last more than a couple seconds. The grand finale was seeing how many submissions we could get with our final minutes: we managed to get ten out of him in five minutes before he had to throw in the towel and yelp the safe word. We all had a blast, as evidenced by this excerpt from the email he sent us the very next morning:

It was unreal to get so thoroughly beaten up by two beautiful women in dresses. The juxtaposition of beauty and unstoppable skill in wrestling is amazing. The striking was impeccable. I’ve watched the videos many times and they are so wonderfully accurate. You two are both a dream come true. I love playing hard - and love the safety I feel with both of you.  I’m quite convinced that if I could  have lasted for the last 10 minutes, you would have hit the 20 submissions easily. I absolutely LOVED doing a 2 on 1 session with the two of you. 

We spent International Women’s Day in Santa Cruz with a couple of my favorite ladies for the beach boardwalk, sea lions [i.e., condom-dogs] and an otter, pinball and laser tag, a filial banquet, a late-night hot tub trespass. Then drove along the cosmically astounding PCH, past goats and sand-flipping elephant seals, dead architecture, and spent a night of flopping upon pink sparkly everything.

Elephant-in-the-room time: Coronavirus.

After the idyllic start to our journey that I’ve outlined above, it’s gotten a bit more real in the last 24-48 hours for us re: the implications of a global pandemic, not to mention the ineffectual ways many people are dealing with it [example: I’ve heard of people going to crowded parties, bumping elbows instead of hugging or shaking hands, and then proceeding to talk close to one another’s faces, share glasses, etc., as if bumping elbows is going to nullify the close contact of being in an intimate party with a load of strangers]. So we realize the importance of taking the minimization of our exposure risk into our own hands.

We are staying as informed as possible on the road, are exercising near-obsessive hygiene, talking to others about mitigating risk in practical ways [rather than senseless fear-mongering, hoarding, and superficial gestures like bumping elbows at a crowded party].

We’ve been economically impacted already [and also feel a lot of concern and empathy for everyone else who similarly works in fields that don’t support working remotely: servers, caretakers, session wrestlers, sex workers, etc.], facing cancellations [of course, we’re all too happy to have people cancel on us if they might be infected, themselves!] and a much-slower-than-usual trickle of inquiries, and have also made the executive decision to cancel some of our planned visits and appointments with people we believe to be at greater risk [due to age or pre-existing conditions], which saddens me as I as much looking forward to visiting some friends and family along the way that I now, in good conscience, do not feel I can take any chances with.

Still, for the time being we are soldiering on, with day-to-day lifestyle adjustments but otherwise more-or-less as planned, doing the best we can with the resources and information we have [and with new information as it becomes available], looking forward to kicking some of your asses nonetheless!

Will have further updates [fun and functional] in my next blog post, so stay tuned. And wash your hands, you filthy animal!

Thailand vs. America

Considering that I was born in the States, I followed an unusual path into martial arts: I started striking in Asia, then grappling in Europe, and then, only then, salmoned upstream to North America in order to start beating guys up back in my homeland.

Training in America has been different.

In the States, fighting can be serious business, even at the most amateur level. When guys talk about fighting, they talk about sitting in saunas and donating blood to cut weight, with the same schizoid relish with which a workaholic simultaneously boasts of and confesses to his sleep deprivation and caffeine intake. They talk about creatine, protein, and glucosamine [to be fair: so do I].

A lot of emphasis is put on being ready. Being ready, prepared, qualified by the time you step into the ring for the first time to fight—to fight to win. There’s blood and glory on the other side of a wall of red tape.

By contrast, in Thailand, there’s a playfulness and informality around the lower-level fights. People aren’t so addled with imposter syndrome, and the outcome isn’t given as much importance. The attitude is more trial-by-fire, sink-or-swim. The first time they throw you into the ring, it’s so you can learn to fight. Most of my Thai trainers had their first fight around age ten. No biggie.

Funnily enough, I think some of this discrepancy exists because amateurs aren’t paid in America, whereas every match in Thailand comes with an obligatory fight purse, since it’s sponsored by the country’s only form of legal gambling.

In the States, if you’re a novice, all you’re usually fighting for is glory, and by the time you do your first fight you’ve possibly been training for years and are being called upon to prove what all that training amounted to, or didn’t. Your identity and reputation may feel inextricably linked to whether you win. Balls-to-the-wall, bro.

A lot of Thais who fight at the lower level, on the other hand, are paying their way through college, are semi-retired former fighters, or are otherwise milking a side-hustle teeping farangs. They’ll get paid whether they win or lose, and it’s in their best interest to think of the big picture, to make sensible choices in order to fight again in a week or two.

I got thrown into the ring—on the insistence of my head trainer and the owner of my gym—after I’d trained Muay Thai for only six weeks. Like any good self-optimizing American, I became neurotic about what I might need to eat more or less of in the weeks leading up to it. Among other things, I decided I needed to eat tons of chicken feet every day. For the collagen, y’know. As if that was going to determine what happened to me in the ring.

And then, there I was, in the ring, facing off against an opponent who was not the same person who’d been on the fight poster. Of course I had no idea what I was doing. Of course I more-or-less blacked out during the fight—I went the full five rounds, but could barely remember any of it afterwards, amidst the haze of adrenaline and the abrasive-hypnotic sarana. Of course, all the pad work and sparring and sprints had not quite prepared me for the sensory overload that was my first fight.

But that’s the point.

Sometimes nothing can prepare you for the thing, except the doing the thing, itself—being confused, looking like an ass, kicking your way, with a resolute Beginner’s Mind, to what you’re trusting is going to eventually become retrospective clarity.