perspective on the past. i remember from a different angle this time around...

volume is high, beats are deep, intensity on the dancefloor rising with each DJ set. i unexpectedly bump into a friend, not expecting to know anyone at the party. she gives me a hug; we exchange words and hand gestures. improvised signlanguage aids communication as waves of sound roll over us relentlessly, practically forcing our bodies to move in response. time begins to pass as though it were an extended moment; there is no longer past or future, care or concern. as the dj starts to emcee over a drum and bass song, though, i become intensely thirsty and realize that the bouncer confiscated my water at the door. navigating through the crowd, i eventually reach the small bar/chillout area and part ways with six (?) dollars for a bottle. sitting on a folding chair, i briefly examine the afterhours event flyers strewn about over the floor and on a small table nearby. my friend, who came with a few others, tells me that they are heading out to another party. by then she looks a bit more... energetic than normal humans are apt to become during a more or less average night, though. content that her friends are not shady types, however, we speak our last words. her ponytail and cute pink parachute pants are the last visual reminders as she melts away into the flow of human traffic.

a bit later, a crew arrives shortly after the rob gee set begins. these kids are the really real ones who show up at noon (12am) and stay until the djs pack it up for the night. about six or seven of them, it is clear who is who: the somewhat older guy who immediately gets into a kung fu-slash-popping battle with a younger kid, mercilessly destroying the kid's lesser style and skills; the disaffected girl who sits with a few others on a couch in front of me and to the right. she is clearly the one who everyone else in the crew adores, considering that she says little, wears at least three bracelets on each wrist and a visor with uber-kawaii neon blinking lights flashing at random intervals. the others hove around, trying desperately to look as bored as she does, then forgetting to look bored and generally evincing a kind of vaguely creepy ecstasy-enhanced enthusiasm for everything that happens to be nearby. this is the newer generation of raver who has been told how to dress, act and live... suddenly nervous, i check one of the flyers to be sure that it isn't sponsored by mountain dew or red bull.

there is one guy, however, who seems lost. no older than twenty, he wears the partykid uniform like a pro, but he just doesn't seem to get it. wandering aimlessly here and there, it's as if he wants something but can't find it. i almost want to shove him down the short stairwell and onto the dancefloor where the hardcore kids are gleefully shoving, stomping and throwing joyous elbows. the lost one floats about for a few minutes, looking oddly out of sync with the rest of the crowd. eventually he meanders to an empty seat next to me as i contemplate jumping into the pit myself. instead, i strike up an incredibly short conversation, consisting of mainly grunts and nods on his side. open-ended questions like "who's the headliner tonight?" are actually not answered by grunts and nods... so i realize that his empty vibe is boring and walk away to enjoy the rest of the night. somewhat cruel? maybe, but there is a girl in the center of the pit holding her own among the rowdy bunch of sweaty boys. my curiosity is inevitably piqued. time begins to collapse into the moment again and sound becomes movement, as the night continues and eventually becomes morning.

audio: ferry corsten . punk

he said "a punch is just a punch"...

it's been an adjustment, starting a style that focuses on using the opponent's movement rather than my own -- despite having trained in a tiny bit of judo as a kid, and even smaller amount of gracie jujitsu and hapkido. so the past month and a half were spent away from the dojo, internalizing the basics.

misogyny.

for some reason, or no reason, the word appears.

(saru, your grammar is terrible today.)

screening thoughts. searching, sifting. nope don't write about that. a couple of experiences? nope. the past couple of years studying, um, this and that. nope. annoyingly high standards that lead to the rejection of women who, in turn, pursue even more... nope.

well. it is strange, though, to see from both sides -- pursuer and pursued. when a man tries to flirt, all too often it's painfully obvious: from the look in his eye, his "eager puppy straining to seem laidback" posture, the overt friendliness. i wonder if most men even realize that their intentions are telegraphed without even having to open their mouths. he so badly wanted it to be more than just dinner.

a woman, on the other hand, will try so hard to seem demure, disinterested, as if she is so not stealing a glance. even on the street, with the old "staring into a department store window as you happen to cross my line of sight" trick. or the "use my peripheral vision to see if he is checking me out" look... these are obvious because the woman, if seated nearby, will shift position, smooth her clothes, sit up straight and arch her back a bit and so forth. the best of all, though, is playing a nonverbal game with a cute stranger whose physicality is more forthcoming than her mentality.

we face each other, separated by a narrow aisle and two rows of seats. about my age, smooth complexion with slightly upswept eyes and softly painted lips. the sun outside inflames the humid atmosphere, in steep contrast to the soothing cool of the noisy conditioned air bustling through the interior of the compartment. eyes trained on the words in front of me, each breath is deep, even and settled, aligning the vertebrae into a naturally relaxed posture. she watches quietly from the corner of her eye, while gazing beyond the window at the clouds high above; it is more a feeling than a fact. paying her no special mind, my attention wanders back to the page at hand.

as our destination draws near, she seems to have changed posture only slightly... now, as we enter the darkness of an underground tunnel and begin to decelerate, the book is closed flat across my lap, as eyes also close for a few moments to prepare for the day's appointment.

opening slowly, reorienting to the bright visual stimulation of the car's overhead lights. she seems to shift again, slightly. as i place the book back into the knapsack, i also aimlessly check the time on my cellphone, then straighten in my seat, a silent yawn discreetly covered by cupped fingers and palm of the left hand. threading fingers together, arms extended and pushing outward just enough to tense the muscles in the triceps, forearms and hands, cracking the knuckles; rolling the shoulders easily forward and back to loosen them up a bit.

she seems to fidget as if restrained. a few moments later my hand semi-unconsciously reaches up to scratch a mild itch on the tip of my nose... and she mirrors my action exactly. just as quickly she snatches her hand away, suddenly self-aware, almost as if  upset with herself for being so obvious.

an inward chuckle; the game is won. she couldn't resist the imitation.

it only works sometimes, when the woman isn't too self-absorbed, or seems surprised when she really sees me for the first time. and of course, half the fun of mind reading through body language is making up the story -- as the communication unfolds in real time. it is a game of subtext, played by individuals who are open to it, intentionally or not.

if only people didn't ruin such games by feeling the need to talk endlessly all the time. although talking can also lead to other, more overtly enjoyable things.

a silly game, it is. i feel a rather intense dislike of being imitated, but when a woman takes my gesture as her own, the amusement is its own reward. and then of course all that talking business, and whatever comes after.