The churning vacuum of water, cylindrical, sucking life into a vortex of nothingness.
I read the Wing Chun forums, perched upon some driftwood, swaying lazily on the oceanic currents. I am being like water. The arguments on the forums, the lineage disputes and the hate that exists between Gung Fu men is rinsed, tumbled and then put on display to readers of the world wide watery web.
Interesting how the internet is called a ‘web’, a way for the elders to entrap newer entrants into the martial arts world. A place where the vulnerable get semi-swallowed, regurgitated and then spat into the cawing mouths of fledgling birds who crane their necks to feed.
Forum battles are won and lost on no more merititorious a skill than ones ability to type. The fights are carried out on the strength of nouns, pro-nouns, adjectives and verbs.
The ravens covet the history of their elders as if they were bewjewelled pebbles, held in beaks that know not why they struggle to hold onto them.
My head swims as I read the same theories espoused gut churningly innumerable times. Bile mixed with excrement poured into already polluted seas. The individual cups of those involved brimming with brown liquified arguments. Drunk heavily like mead for demons.
I glance the dead bodies floating down river. Sacrificial burials on rivers that stand in opposition to the sanctity of the Ganges. Perhaps this is the the River Styx. I watch from my vantage point atop driftwood. The bodies of Wong Shun Leung, Ip Man and Bruce Lee float past. I gaze into the lifeless eyes of Dai Fa Min Kam, Chan Wah Shan and someone I take to be Leung Jan. The worshippers of these decedents, stand on the shore. They are arguing amongst themselves as to the successor of the secret knowledge. So secretive is this knowledge that it drowns itself out of existence.
I rise up, close my computer and choose to live my life. No comments are left on the forums. As a general rule, I do not enter into discussions with Wing Chun men on forums. I do not wish these ‘talkers’ ill will. A while ago I simply ceased caring about the trivialities and follies of lesser men.
My hands shake. Encrusted scabs peel back from my knuckles, blood having soaked time and time again into my gloves. As I stand to walk I feel overworked sinewy muscle sliding across aging bones.
It’s not time to train. It’s time to sleep. It’s never time to discuss. It’s always time to ‘do’.