Insane and Stubborn

Many of us begin the new year with high hopes, great expectations, and visions of a bright future. I began it with a hair-tearing sense of "What the frack have I gotten myself into?"

2008 marks my third and final year as a digital media student. My chosen major is 3D modeling and animation, one of the most cutthroat of industries. Many are called; few are chosen. Among the thousands of 3D adepts who graduate from art colleges, only a select, meticulously-sifted handful make it into their desired careers. And those that do make it face a long, arduous, exhausting road. 3D artists work 50 hours a week (more if doing an urgent project), endure lengthy, eye-bending stints in front of a glaring computer screen, and come out of the office too drained to pursue a proper social life. The only acknowledgment of their blood, sweat and tears is a fleeting, half-second flash of their name in the credits-- all the accolades and media attention tend to go to the directors, producers and voice actors. They suffer from time pressure, hand and eye strain, and a workload so merciless that those who wish to marry or start a family tend to quit 3D in favor of a less backbreaking line of work.

So why am I in it? Because I am insane.

Well, actually, it's because I love 3D. Which is probably like being insane.

3D is not simply my chosen career-- it is my art, my passion, my favorite thing to do. Many people surf the Web for funny pictures and videos; I surf the Web for 3D modeling tutorials. Many people take joy in cooking food; I make 3D models of it. If I see a tasty-looking picture of food in a magazine or catalogue, it becomes reference material for my next project. Creating works of wonder in 3D is like sculpting in clay, without the fuss of getting clay residue on your hands. To mold a hunk of lines and vertices into a recognizable shape, to lovingly apply textures and lighting, is to imbue it with life. For those such as myself, who specialize in photorealism, the thrill of creating this semblance of a real-life object, person or creature is a heady drug. We are magicians; we are illusionists; whenever someone views our work and believes it to be a photograph rather than a 3D render, we gloat and laugh and bask in the glow of triumph. 

And if I can make a living by doing something I love, why not give it a shot? Why not, even though the odds against me are a million to one? Even though the selection processes of the companies I wish to work for will probably chew me up and spit me out. Even though getting that longed-for job means facing toil, turmoil and a marked lack of contact with the outside world. Why not just keep 3D as a hobby, and apply for a job in some other industry whose standards aren't so draconian? Why not do the sensible, comfortable thing?

Yes, there's the insanity, and there's also good old-fashioned, bull-headed stubbornness. Some part of me believes that I can make it past the rigorous screening processes and actually become a full-fledged modeler or animator, not just run around the office making the modelers' and animators' coffee. Some strange little creature is tugging strings in my head and commanding me to push through whatever barriers come my way. Can I actually do it? I honestly don't know. I have no clue. Yet someone or something is telling me to shoot for it. Many times, after working on over-ambitious personal projects or grueling class assessments, I've thrown my hands up in the air and begun to silently scream, "ENOUGH!" But that mysterious, unseen entity lowers my hands and stops my scream in its tracks. 

"Not enough," it says. "Until you get what you want, you haven't given enough."

So here I am, waiting for the start of the semester, armed with my trusty Macbook Pro and Intuos 3. The enigmatic thing in my head says it's not a question of whether or not I can get a job in 3D-- the question is when it will happen. It may be soon after I graduate, or it may take some extra time. All I know is that I'll get there. I don't frickin' know how. I just know that I will. 

My Life as a Black Cat

There's a fluffy, long-haired black cat that roams around the grounds of my college. It's not a stray; it has a home nearby and a loving owner, but likes to sneak a free feed from the students here. For some reason, it seems to like hanging around me. It follows me into the student lounge and meows for attention. I let it sit with me, and we have a friendly exchange: me rambling about nothing and everything, and the cat making the occasional mew.

I had a classmate named Johan. An overseas student who commenced earlier this year, he had a calm, quiet manner mixed with an air of wisdom and great strength. For this reason, I liked hanging around him. I would follow him into the student lounge and clamor for attention. He would let me sit with him, and we would have a friendly exchange, both of us rambling about nothing and everything.

It seemed I'd become his black cat.

On the last day of the school year, I stumbled into the campus horribly dazed from lack of sleep. (End-of-year assessments had taken their exhausting toll.) I managed to haul myself to the student lounge and sprawled headlong onto a couch, then fell asleep shortly afterwards.

I awoke to the sensation of my hair being tugged, and discovered the fluffy black cat playing with my forelocks. There was a faint scent of cinnamon in the air. When I sat up, I saw Johan sitting on the chair across from me, with a mug of his usual spiced tea in his hand. How long he'd been there, I had no idea. We had a group project to finish that morning, so he'd obviously been waiting for me to wake up. I started to spring to my feet.

"Good morning," he said languidly, as if in no hurry at all. He motioned to the table in front of me, where another mug of tea sat invitingly. "You can have your tea first. It will help you wake up."

"Oh, th-... thanks..." I sputtered, clearly not quite awake and also surprised by this sudden kindness. I rubbed my eyes and took the mug. The steam wafting from it carried a delicious aroma, easing me gently out of my trance.

We talked for a while, as we usually did, about whatever trivial or significant things popped into our heads. The soothing drink soon warmed me to full alertness. We bid the black cat goodbye and made our way to a computer lab to finish our project.

At the end of class that day, my classmates and I exchanged our customary end-of-year farewells and fond wishes. My friend Inder waved goodbye as he hitched up his backpack, and called out, "See you next year!"

To our astonishment, Johan responded, "No, you won't."

Inder and I did a simultaneous double-take. "What?!"

"You won't," Johan said gently. "I'm going home to Norway. This was my first and last year at this school."

The others and I were dumbstruck. This was the first time we'd heard about Johan leaving so soon. We were somewhat frozen in place as he went around and shook our hands, and gave each of us a sincere, "It was great knowing you."

"It was great knowing you too," we echoed in turn, and watched him leave. It took us several seconds to come to our senses, and even then, all we could do was exchange baffled looks.

So many unsaid words tore at me: Thanks, Johan, for being a great friend. Thanks for being there. Thanks for putting up with my inane chatter. Take care. Have fun. Have a safe trip. Stay in touch. I'll sure miss ya. Thanks. For everything. Words I could've said, but didn't. Part of me wondered: Should I chase after him? Shouldn't he be sent off with a proper goodbye?

For some reason, my feet stayed anchored to the ground, and the rest of me turned to my computer workstation, to make backup copies of my files. The niggling little voice that told me to say a proper farewell gradually faded, and I kept it silent for the next few days.

Until I ran into Johan again.

It was the most surprising of encounters. A few days into the summer break, a meeting was called with the university board, to discuss students' concerns on some key issues. Johan, having finished his term at this school, didn't need to be there-- but he went anyway, campaigning for improved facilities and equipment. He was hailed as a hero.

As we parted ways yet again, I tried to think of some short but heartfelt speech to send him on his way. The words formed in my head, but never emerged. I didn't even say "Goodbye"-- I said "See ya," as if there were still some hope of meeting him again.

The college cat would constantly, faithfully await my return, whether I was away from college for the day, the weekend, or summer vacation. Similarly, perhaps I was clinging to my cat side. Perhaps I wanted to believe that when I walked through the campus gates next semester, I'd see Johan in his usual place, ready for the usual chat over nothing and everything.

Maybe I was in denial, not wanting to accept that I was seeing my friend for the last time. Or maybe the reason's far more simple, and not as deep.

Maybe I just don't like goodbyes.

"Wasted" Time

My father once preached at a church service that time is more precious than money. Why? Because when we spend money, we can always earn or acquire some more. But once we spend time, there's no way to get more-- it's gone forever.

We're all mortal. Each of us has a finite number of days in this world, a limited amount of time to accomplish our goals. And time slips away from us no matter what we do. It also slips away when we do nothing. We can't hold on to it, and whatever we do with it is irrevocable. We can't go back in time and change the past whenever we make a mistake. All we can do is make the most of the time we have now, using it to shape the future.

After hearing my father's sermon, I became somewhat obsessed with what I did with my time. As a college student with an ever-increasing workload, I viewed my time almost solely as a resource to be spent on my classwork. "I should spend this hour studying for my test," I would say, or, "I should be spending these next three hours on my 3D model, instead of hanging around here at my auntie's house." Leisure activities became monitored; I'd glance at the clock while relaxing or indulging in a hobby, then scurry back to work when my alloted time had passed. Often, I would mix my work with my leisure time, as I'm doing now-- reading my study notes while occasionally pausing to type in this journal.

On top of that, my friends are similarly busy with their classwork, so I've become deathly afraid of wasting their time. Which is why I became terribly concerned during a recent jaunt around the city with my good pal Black Sunday (nickname used to protect his privacy).

It was a Monday afternoon and classes were finished for the day. Black Sunday needed to buy a box of processing paper for his upcoming photography class, but the college's supply store had run out of the kind he needed. I suggested that we look for the paper in the photography shops downtown. He consented.

We arrived at a shop on Pitt Street, only to find that they didn't carry film processing paper-- just inkjet printing paper. The gentleman at the counter directed us to the shop's sister store, farther down the road.

When we got there, our efforts again proved fruitless. Like the college store, they too had run out of the particular paper that Black Sunday needed.

Bummer.

We decided to hit George Street. Several meters of walking and two shops later, we got the same result: nothing. Nada. Zip.

"Let's try York Street," I said with waning optimism. "Can't hurt to try."

So off to York Street we shuffled, lugging our bags of artist's tools and other bits and bobs. My feet started to drag along the ground, and Black Sunday looked like he could use a breather too. "Just one more shop and that's it for today," he said as we entered the store. It was somewhat bigger than the others, and looked quite well stocked.

"Yes, just one more. Maybe they'll have it here," I replied.

They didn't.

Dejectedly, we made our way to the Japanese grocery on Clarence Street. We agreed that some Oriental sweets and ice cream would be just the thing to cheer us up.

It was nearing 5 PM, and since it was winter, the sun was low in the sky, ready to rest in its bed of clouds. We didn't linger long in the store, making our selections quickly: a red bean ice cream sandwich for Black Sunday, and a lemon soda for me. Just as we neared the checkout counter, something in the freezer caught Black Sunday's eye: a pile of icy-blue plastic parcels, labeled "Ice Tube Soda Flavor". Having never encountered them before, our curiosity got the better of us, and we each bought one.

Minutes later, we were sitting on a flight of stone steps beside the store, struggling with our Ice Tubes. True to their name, they were ice creams packaged in plastic tubes; one had to squeeze the tube to dispense the ice cream. The problem with ours was that the ice cream had been frozen rock-solid. Eager to get at the tasty treats, we squeezed the tubes until our finger joints grew numb with cold; we gnawed on them; we warmed them with our hands, willing the ice cream to soften. But alas, our efforts were unsuccessful.

Then Black Sunday said, "It looks like we're going to have to get really violent."

And so we did. We worked ourselves into a bloodthirsty (or ice cream-thirsty) rage. Black Sunday punched his Ice Tube repeatedly and slammed it into the steps. I crushed mine in several types of grab-and-choke locks normally seen in professional wrestling. We made quite an odd sight to passers-by, who probably wondered what the Ice Tubes did to deserve such brutality. As Black Sunday put it, "If there was a Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Ice Cream, we'd get arrested!"

Then, just as we were ready to give up, it happened. With frustrated, trembling hands, we gave our Ice Tubes a last angry squeeze, and-- lo and behold-- the ice creams came oozing forth. We were ecstatic. The taste was sublime, a delicate, fruity, candy-like flavor somewhat like bubble gum. The slushy ice was smooth-textured, almost silky, as it melted on our tongues. We wrung the tubes in blissful rapture, until the last mouthful of ice cream was gone.

When we finished, it was 5:21 PM, and almost time to head home. As we pitched the empty remains of our Ice Tubes into a nearby trash bin, a thought struck me: Had we done the right thing this afternoon, by spending our time the way we did? Should we have waited for the campus store to re-stock, instead of going on this citywide wild goose chase? Had we embarked on a monumental waste of time?

I pondered on our somewhat sorry state: weary feet from walking through several city blocks; sore backs and shoulders from lugging our school bags; aching, frostbitten knuckles from our monumental clash with the Ice Tubes. Was this a prudent way to spend an afternoon?

"Well," said the little voice in my head, "it may not have been prudent, but we did get something good out of it."

Something good? Like what?

Then it hit me.

Black Sunday and I had made up our minds to search the city shops together. We plodded on from store to store, street to street, together. We put up with sore feet and strained backs together. We performed insufferable acts of murderous savagery on innocent Ice Tubes, and enjoyed the fruits of our efforts, together.

And one day-- maybe soon, or far along in the future... it doesn't matter when-- we'll look back on this day and laugh about it, together. Because that's what friends do.

Time is precious. So is friendship. Therefore time spent with friends is doubly precious. That day, I learned that the worth of time is not measured in how or where we spend it-- it's what we get out of it. And if an activity, no matter how troublesome or trivial, brings friends closer together, it can never be considered a waste of time.

Fear and Love: Epilogue

To us, when we're young, the world seems like such a big, cold, scary place. Some of us grit our teeth and somehow manage to endure it on our own. Most of us, though, don't get by without a hand for us to hold.

Whether it's a parent, grandparent, other relative, or perhaps a trusted family friend, we have a person who guides us through life's important journeys and makes sure that we don't lose our way. Someone to stay by our side, comforting us in times of distress, ensuring us that there's always peace and calm after the storm. Someone to shield us from harm. To make us smile, even in the most awful moments. To talk sense into our heads when our minds start filling up with rubbish. When we need assurance, when we need affirmation, when the world starts shoveling dirt on us and we need to feel like we're worth something-- all we need to do is take hold of that person's hand. Once we do, all our troubles seem to melt away, swept up in the wind with yesterday's dust.

Then we grow up. We learn to take care of ourselves. And, because the world demands that we puff out our chests, stand proudly on our own two feet and walk our own path, we let go of that loved and trusted hand. That person holds our hearts forever, but we step out from his or her shadow and fling ourselves headfirst into life's challenges and puzzles.

Some of us grit our teeth and somehow manage to endure it on our own. The rest, like me, silently wish that we still had a hand to hold.

We find ourselves in a dilemma. We keep our chests puffed out and put on a brave face. It's what everyone expects of us. But without a guiding hand to steady us and give us a gentle, comforting squeeze, life as a grown-up sometimes seems chaotic and daunting. We have adult bodies, adult minds, and the physical strength and mental capabilities that accompany them-- but they're not enough to get us through the hustle and bustle of a ruthless, unforgiving world. Despite this, we feel too proud to run back to our parents or whoever used to hold our hands before. We're grown up now, we tell ourselves... too old to clutch at Mommy's apron strings or Daddy's coattails.

Then someone unexpected and new comes along. Someone who's lived a bit longer in the world than we have, and is wiser than us because of it.

For me, that person was Vamp, my teacher. He didn't offer his hand, but I took it anyway-- and thankfully, he hasn't objected. (I hope.) One day, I'll grow strong and clever enough to let go. And when I do, I won't just walk on my own path. I'll fly. I'll ride the breeze, dart into the clouds and sail into life's storms with a carefree laugh, because he not only held my hand.

He helped me find my wings.

Fear and Love (Part 8)

(Note to anyone who's reading this: If you haven't read the previous chapters, please do so... or you may not understand what's going on here.)

December 17-19, 2006

Sometime after the epic battle against Vamp, with school holidays in full swing and Christmas lurking around the corner, I had the following online conversation with him:

------------------------
Me: You still go to the office?! It's the holidays! Take a vacation!
Vamp: What are "holidays"?
Me: It's a time when people rest and relax. You should introduce them to that alternate universe where you live. You'll be happier.
Vamp: Okay... What is "happy"?
Me: What?! I'm going to kidnap you and drag you out of that alternate universe of yours.
Vamp: No chance. I am writing a paper.
------------------------

It seemed that Vamp was too occupied to get into the holiday spirit, so two days later, I dropped by his office to give him a Christmas present. Nothing flashy... just a tiny, decorative teddy bear, some chocolates, and a card filled with nonsensical ramblings (I tried to write something funny, but instead, I probably managed to make him think I was mentally unstable).

He ushered me in with a smile, but he looked tired and frazzled, perhaps stressed. Judging by the ruffled state of his hair and the lines around his eyes, it appeared that he hadn't had much sleep. He directed me to sit in one of the vacant chairs opposite him. As if someone had turned on a faucet, words came spilling out of him: He was in the process of writing a few papers, aiming to get them published. Because he was from outside this country, he needed to have some papers published here to even be considered for a post-doc position. Naturally, he would have other would-be professors competing with him-- and the competition was no bed of roses. He ran a hand through his already tousled hair and sighed.

I sighed too, but kept it silent. It hurt a little, to see him worn out and under such pressure-- but suddenly his tone of voice changed, and his face turned somewhat pleasant. He still looked a bit drained, but his familiar, kind smile soon crept up and stayed there.

We talked for an hour, perhaps more. We spoke about Christmas, and what we'd be doing over the festive season. He talked about how he, his brother, and a friend nearly triggered an avalanche-- twice-- while they were mountain-climbing in Romania. Then he talked about how he enjoyed swimming at the university pool, and that he used to play in the university's soccer team a few years ago. (He mentioned that his brother played soccer too. Those guys really are like peas in a pod.) He spoke of how he was badly stung at the beach by a horde of bluebottles (jellyfish-like creatures), which caused him to faint.

"There are many dangerous animals here in Australia," he said. "Jellyfish, spiders, sharks, snakes, dingos... Probably the only dangerous creatures we don't have are vampires."

Just like the last time, I couldn't resist. "The only vampire around here is you," I said with a mock-accusing glare.

"Yes, I am a vampire. I do come from Transylvannia, you know." We found this immensely amusing, and both of us cracked a smirk at our inside joke. "Well, not really-- I am not exactly from Transylvannia," he continued with a chuckle. "But Romania really is Dracula's home country. So... you had better watch out!" We both grinned at that.

We went on chatting about whatever trivial things came to mind-- too many for me to remember and list here. We were talking about his hobbies when he suddenly dropped this bombshell:

"I like dancing. I used to go to discos in Romania. I love disco dancing."

I turned away and pretended to rub at my eyes. In actuality, I was trying to stop myself from bursting into raucuous laughter. If I hadn't suppressed it, even people down in the street probably would have heard me roaring hysterically. What amused me so much was that I knew he wasn't joking. Just as his delicate frame and scholarly bearing housed the skills of a seasoned karate fighter, I knew that he must have other secrets and surprises in store. My overactive imagination certainly wasn't helping; in a split second, my mind was filled with images of a disco-dancing Vamp in a satin jacket and bell-bottomed pants. It took every ounce of effort to keep a straight face-- and in the end, I failed, because I broke into a wide-toothed smirk and made a strangled noise that was a suppressed snicker.

"And I like women," he went on, grinning broadly now that he could see I was on the verge of laughter. "Yes, I REALLY LIKE women!"

I couldn't take it any more. I giggled like a maniac. Clearly, this was what he wanted, because the few remaining traces of worry melted from his face, and a cheery smile broke through like a ray of sunlight through a veil of clouds. Whether he was kidding or not, I wasn't sure, and I didn't quite care. All that mattered was that we were sharing a moment of fun, an instant of glee, a friendship cemented in mirth.

We both had errands to run (a meeting for him, and a trip to the post office for me), so we said our goodbyes soon after that. I followed him outside as he walked up to where he'd parked his navy blue bicycle, which he used to get around the campus.

As he climbed onto the bike, I paused to contemplate how things had changed over the past few months. I remembered the time when I saw him as stern and imposing, a no-nonsense academic with a cold, almost impenetrable aura. Now that same man stood in front of me, but instead of being repelled, I felt only joy at being with him. It wasn't him that changed, I knew, as he smiled warmly and widely and said, "Merry Christmas".

He didn't change. But he did change me. I'm glad he did.

"Merry Christmas," I replied. "I'll see you around."

"See you," he said, then pedaled off and became a speck in the distance.

-end of part 8-

Fear and Love (Part 7)

(Note to anyone who's reading this: If you haven't read the previous chapters, please do so... or you may not understand what's going on here.)

December 7, 2006

"We can fight sometime," said the message in the chat window. "Of course, in my style."

"Of course," I typed back. "We both trained in Shotokan, after all."

"I don't want you to hit me too much!" came the reply.

"I won't hit you too hard, I promise!" I typed.

"Perfect!"

I let out a jubilant whoop. The person at the other end of the chat window was Vamp-- and he'd just accepted a challenge to a friendly fight. Now, if only we could get our schedules sorted out enough to set a date...

December 11, 2006

Vamp and I met again online, and set a time and date: Thursday, 11 AM, near his office building. We would first watch his favorite movie, Andrei Tarkovsky's Stalker, then head over to the library lawn and square off.

After setting the appointment, I soon found myself slumped in my chair, laughing until my sides hurt. I couldn't help it-- because Vamp, with his quirky sense of humor, was filling up the message window with humorous taunts and silly-faced "smilie" icons. It was the first time I'd seen him so playful.

"Are you sure you still want to fight me?" he typed. "You don't know what could happen to you if you fight me!" He inserted a picture of a brutish, buck-toothed thug.

I typed something along the lines of, "Yes, of course." I don't remember exactly what I said. I was too busy laughing myself off my seat.

December 14, 2006

I arrived at the school a bit early, with my Stalker DVDs ready for viewing and my sparring gloves ready for fighting. We had invited Black Sunday to join us, but he was running late. I hung around with Vamp in his office to pass the time, talking with him as he checked out a news website. He was drinking tea, and before I knew it, he'd made some for me as well-- I didn't realize it until the mug was in front of me, and he was motioning for me to take it.

We sipped our tea as Vamp elaborated on a story that Archangel had once told me. It was about the time when Vamp and Archangel were in communist-era Romania, and went to see Stalker on New Year's Day. Unfortunately, the movie's title was translated into The Guide in Romanian-- which was the same title as a popular Wild West, cowboys-and-Indians book. As a result, the theater was packed mostly with children who thought that they were paying to see a cowboy movie. The atmosphere at the theater degenerated into chaos, Vamp said. He described how he and Archangel were among the only adults in the theater full of dissatisfied, impatient kids. Somehow, the brothers managed to endure the noise and distraction long enough to finish the movie (which proved how much they loved it). By the last fifteen minutes of the film, even the rowdy children sat in stunned, reverent silence as the characters grappled and fought over the bomb that the Scientist had brought to destroy The Room. I could well imagine everyone getting excited, since that was the only fight scene in the whole movie.

When 11:00 rolled around, we started off towards a classroom that Vamp had reserved for the occasion. It had a projector and a wide screen, and would insulate us from the noise of the outside world. We were joined by a colleague of Vamp's, a fair-faced young woman with smooth, light-colored skin, slightly curly dark hair, and striking eyes. This was her first time to see Stalker, and it seemed Vamp was intent on turning her into a fellow Tarkovsky fan. She chatted with Vamp while I used my phone to contact Black Sunday, telling him the classroom number.

The projector and screen were set up and ready when we reached the room. I popped the DVD into the computer that served as the DVD player, and Vamp spent a few minutes fiddling with it to adjust the sound and picture.

Then we dimmed the lights, sat down, and let the movie transport us into another world.

Stalker, on the large screen with stereo sound, was an absolutely immersive experience. The scenery of The Zone came to life, all lush and vibrant. I could almost feel the dew on my face as the Stalker lay down on the grass, smell the smoke of the cook-fire as the Scientist fixed an impromptu lunch, and feel the cold, brackish water soaking into my clothes as the Writer stepped into the flooded stairwell. Aside from the sounds of the movie playing, the room was absolutely quiet. There wasn't even any running commentary from Vamp... he simply watched the film with an expression of joyful fascination.

Black Sunday joined us around halfway through the movie. The stillness was interrupted by the sounds of the door opening and Black Sunday pulling up a chair, but the silence soon returned as the movie held us completely in its thrall.

When we were done watching, we stepped outside and ventured onto the lawn in front of the library. Vamp pointed to a patch of grass under a large, thick-trunked tree, and gestured for us to join him as he sat down. "I don't like the sun very much," he said, as he shifted around to find a spot with optimum shade.

I couldn't resist saying what I said next. I simply had to... I knew that if I passed up this chance, I'd kick myself for the rest of my life.

"You're a vampire," I quipped.

He snickered and replied, "Yes, something like that."

I laughed aloud. It was good to finally get that off my chest.

We sat on the soft grass, arranged in a circle around Vamp. He proceeded to give a full-blown lecture on the symbolic meanings of the animals, objects and scenery used in the film. The four of us almost resembled a storybook picture, of a jovial father or uncle enthralling his kids with wonderful tales. He spoke for a long while, and we were so entranced that we never bothered to check the time.

Then, as if taking off a mask, his expression changed from cheerful, gentle storyteller to stern, calculating fighter. He abruptly stood up and said, "We are going to fight now. Excuse us." Our companions gawked at us with stunned looks on their faces. With a hurried explanation ("We both trained in the same karate style. We agreed to fight today,"), we donned our sparring gloves, walked a few paces away from the others, and prepared for our face-off.

--------------------
I studied my opponent, sizing him up, letting my gaze travel from his head down to his toes and back again. Big height difference, I thought, but I wasn't about to let it intimidate me. I told myself I wasn't going to lose to this scrawny, oh-so-delicately built guy with glasses and a rainbow-striped button-down shirt. Yes, rainbow-striped. Like a child's candy stick. All he needed was a flat-topped hat, and he'd be dressed just right for belting out Vaudevillian songs while playing an accordion.

He fixed himself into a wide fighting stance, with his legs two shoulder-lengths apart, left foot forward with the leg slightly bent, and most of his weight concentrated on the right leg in back. It looked somewhat unbalanced and awkward. Not to mention stiff. However, he looked like he knew exactly what he was doing-- he had a smug grin on his face, and some small inner voice told me not to underestimate him.

I started circling him, looking for a good spot to attack, throwing a few fake punches to get him to drop his guard. He didn't react. He remained almost stone-still, gazing calmly at me with confident, midnight-blue eyes.

I became dimly aware of his left leg moving. I didn't see the actual strike, but I felt it-- not hard enough to hurt, but powerful enough to make a considerable impact, hooking under my front leg and slicing my balance out from under me. Suddenly he seemed so much taller, the world looked strangely tilted, and the ground seemed to rise up to hit the back of my head.

Flat on my back on the grass, I realized I'd been knocked down. By his first strike.

"Oh, shoot," I said to myself.

I jerked myself to my feet and met his gaze. Still and unwavering, like a calm, clear pool.

I circled him again, jabbing left and right. His only movements were short, quick swiping motions, batting my punches away as if casually swatting flies. Frustrated at his unshakeable cool-headedness, I charged at him.

Big mistake.

His left leg moved. It connected. Falling again, I lashed out, managing to nail him with a solid punch to the chest just before hitting the ground headfirst.

"Good," he said as I got back to my feet. "But you move too much." He instructed me to mirror his awkward-looking stance, and as I did, I learned how stable and responsive it actually was. From this position, I could strike and defend more easily, saving precious energy by taking long strides instead of short, quick steps.

He showed me a combination move-- low hook kick, converting to a high one, using the same kicking leg. The low hook kick was what he'd successfully used on me twice, with dizzying results. "Front kick is also important," he said. He demonstrated this by using one to plough past my defenses, prodding me in the stomach.

After trying and failing to kick him a few times, I realized that his height-- or to be more exact, the length of his limbs-- made it difficult for me to even get close to him. All he had to do to block me was extend an arm or leg just a little, and I'd be deflected away, like a rubber ball. In contrast, I couldn't simply swat him in a similar fashion. Even if I managed to deflect his hand or foot, I'd still have to deal with the rest of his arm or leg-- which would come bearing down on me like a locomotive. I had to exert more effort, more movement, to successfully attack or defend.

I could feel my strength waning and started to question whether I'd be able last through the match. It didn't help that I could feel the stares of countless eyes watching us. Students coming out from their graduation ceremony, residents of the university dorms, and young couples using the library lawn as a picnic ground all stopped to gape at this middle-aged man unleashing hell on what appeared to be a girl half his age.

We traded blows as I pretended not to notice our audience. Vamp let out rapid, continuous strings of punches, which looked daunting at first, but I soon learned how to dodge them. After I landed a few good hits, he unleashed a new tactic-- grabbing my front arm, effectively disabling it, then dragging me in to pummel me. I managed to free myself from his grip every time, sometimes scoring a punch or two to his chest. When he saw that this move wasn't working, he did the low-high hook kick combination. Twice I managed to dodge it, but in between punches, he nailed me with it two more times, sending me to the ground. Once, after knocking me down, he picked me up by the arm-- only to twist it like a pretzel. In that instant, I did something I'd never done before when fighting: I yelped in pain. Like a wounded dog.

I had to admit, I was getting royally owned. I hadn't been prepared for this onslaught, this stone-faced juggernaut with fists like steel pistons. I knew at the beginning that I was going up against someone much taller than me, and with more combat experience. What I hadn't factored in was that he was also devious, merciless, and lightning-fast.

For the first time since the fight began, I hesitated. Vamp sensed my apprehension and spurred me on with comments like "Come on, hit me!", "Hit me harder! Go on!" and "Hit me! It's all right-- you can't hurt me." And I, floundering about, struggling to get past his rock-solid defenses, retorted, "Hit you? I can't even get close to you!" He gave a dismissive "Hah!" and continued about his business, raining down blows, crushing my guard.

Towards the end of the match, he unveiled another surprise: graceful, high-flying jump kicks. Because I was smaller than he was, these aerial attacks proved unnecessary; but, my golly, what a magnificent show they provided. As enjoyable as they were to watch, though, they also left him vulnerable, as he would pause for a split second to regain his balance after landing. Sometimes, this was long enough for me to land a punch to his chest, but the rest of the time, he would dodge or defend successfully.

Abruptly, he raised his hands and declared: "Let's stop. I am tired." He looked like he still had a lot of fight left in him, but perhaps the warm summer sun and humidity were making him uncomfortable.

As Vamp made his way to the shaded spot under the tree, our audience returned to whatever they were previously doing. Some of them looked amused, while others looked puzzled. Vamp, still grinning smugly and as cool as a cucumber, leaned back against the tree trunk and breathed a relieved sigh. On the other hand, I, having been soundly thrashed, kicked to the ground, pummeled and subsequently humbled, had mixed feelings. One part of me was pleased to be able to rest; the other part was frustrated that I wouldn't get to dish out more hits and perhaps regain some shred of dignity.

He removed his gloves, and as they came off, so did his steely-eyed warrior's glare. A transformation took place, turning him back into the placid, pleasant man who'd shared a moving Tarkovsky lecture just minutes ago. As if nothing had happened, he chatted congenially about his philosophy work, his brother, his karate training days, and the previous classes he'd taught at this university. I took off my gloves and listened in a daze, as my head was positively throbbing from having hit the ground multiple times.

"I received an extension on my scholarship," he said, smiling. "I will be able to stay here until September-- but after that, I have to go to Romania for three months, to attend to some things at the university where I work."

An extension? That was great news! I smiled back. If I hadn't been reeling from the impact to my head, I would have hugged him.

I decided to grill him about Archangel. "Is your brother your best friend?" I asked.

"No," he replied frankly. "He is more than that. He is my brother. We are twins. We are alike. We are very close. We did everything together, from studying computer science to philosophy to Tarkovsky."

"He said once that you guys are like copies of each other," I noted, remembering how Archangel would fondly talk about Vamp during our Messenger chats. "What's it like, having a copy of yourself? I'd be pretty scared if I met a copy of myself. I don't know what I'd do. I'd probably run away."

"Ah, yes," Vamp said, "it is natural for you to say that-- but if you grow up with your copy, it is the most wonderful thing."

Again, I wanted to hug him, but my limbs felt like they were weighed down with lead.

Next question: "Do you know half of the class last semester was afraid of you? I'm not the only one who was scared of you."

His reply: "Yes, I have heard this before. I don't care... as long as people can understand what I'm teaching them, it's fine. Some of them might not even have been scared at all. They may have been using it as an excuse for not participating in class." I pondered what he said, and it made sense... the anti-Vamp contingent was mostly composed of people who didn't join in class discussions.

I glanced over at Black Sunday. He was occupied with talking to Vamp's colleague, and had been for the past several minutes. I took this opportunity to monopolize Vamp, hogging his attention. He didn't seem to mind.

He told the story of how he and a friend stood up to seven gangsters in a rough Romanian street. After seeing him in action, I could vividly imagine him using his fists to make short work of his attackers. "It was not like a martial arts movie," he said as he noticed me spacing out. "It was over very quickly. We didn't fight them for long. As soon as we were able, we ran away."

He then talked about the latest paper he was writing, and mentioned how his wife was writing a paper too. That seemed to suddenly jolt his memory. "I just remembered... I have to call my wife and meet her somewhere," he said abruptly. He muttered a hasty explanation-- he talked so quickly that the rest of us didn't quite understand what he was saying-- and bid us goodbye. In a confused daze, we watched him leave. He disappeared from view so quickly, like a soap bubble.

"Well!" said Black Sunday, after Vamp had gone. "That was most interesting! I can't believe I just saw you kung-fu fighting a philosophy teacher! And on academic ground!" He looked at me incredulously, as if unable to tell whether what he'd just seen was real or merely a dream.

"You'd better believe it, 'cause the proof's right here," I said with a smirk. "I got WHUPPED!"

He chuckled loudly. Being an avid photographer, he would sometimes tote a camera to capture miscellaneous scenes, or fun moments with friends. Today, however, wasn't one of those times. He grinned widely and said, "Aren't you glad I didn't bring a camera today?"

"Heck yeah," I said, and I meant it with all my heart.

We said our goodbyes soon afterward, and parted ways. I took a moment to reflect on everything that had just happened: I had fought Vamp, and lost horribly. But this was a beating that I was thankful for. I had learned a few new fighting moves, gained an even greater respect for Vamp, and also strengthened my bond with him and Black Sunday. And shocked the heck out of a good portion of the people on campus.

Taking that into consideration, a few knocks on the head was a price that I was quite glad to pay.

-end of part 7-

Fear and Love (Part 6)

(Note to anyone who's reading this: If you haven't read the previous chapters, please do so... or you may not understand what's going on here.)

October 30, 2006

The last day of philosophy classes for the school year happened to be the day before Halloween. How oddly fitting, I thought. To spend the day before Halloween in the company of the man that my friends and I had called "Vamp" and "Dracula".

We had gone through all of the course material in the previous thirteen weeks of the semester. There were no more articles left to discuss, no more lessons from the curriculum. But rather than cancel the class, or allow us students to run amuck and meander about the classroom as we pleased, Vamp had other plans-- other tricks up his sleeve.

I'd known for a few weeks that he intended to show us the Antonioni movie Blow-Up. So it was a bit of a surprise when I went up to the classroom, and found him muttering irritatedly at a TV screen that was flashing images from some other movie. He glared at the video player with a scowl that could have shattered concrete, then ejected the tape and popped it back into its box.

"Something is wrong with this copy," he said in a surprisingly calm tone. "I don't know why, or how, but there is now a different movie on this tape... it has been recorded over Blow-Up. I need to take this back to the library and try to get another copy."

Uh-oh. This wasn't sounding good.

"Have any of you seen Blow-Up?" he said as the rest of the class started filing into the room. A few of us, including me, nodded our heads. "Okay. Those who have seen the movie, please explain the story to your colleagues. We don't have time to see the whole movie; we can only watch parts of it. I need to go to the library and find another copy. I hope that they have one." He then went off running like a shot.

Well, this was an interesting start to the day. Two of the guys who'd seen Blow-Up boldy stepped to the front of the class. They gave a short outline of the movie's plot: a photographer believes that he's taken a picture of a murder in progress, but he and everyone around him are too tripped out on drugs and sex to be able to deduce if it really happened. Great stuff, eh?

Several minutes later, Vamp came bursting into the classroom, holding a DVD of the movie. His neatly groomed brown hair was now ruffled from running to the library and back, and his cheeks were pink from exertion. I couldn't help feeling a bit sorry for him.

"We are lucky," he said, smiling triumphantly as he gasped for breath. "The professor who borrowed this DVD returned it just now. Hopefully there will be no more problems." He hurriedly popped it into the DVD player and pressed the "Play" button.

I sat back, wishing I had some popcorn or something crunchy to snack on while watching. We zipped through most of the scenes on fast-forward, focusing only on the crucial ones: the introduction, with the mimes tearing through the town; Thomas, the photographer, at his studio; Thomas visiting his friend, an abstract painter; Thomas taking photographs of a couple in the park; Thomas developing the photos, and discovering the possible presence of a gunman in the bushes; sex, drugs, rock 'n' roll, and more drugs; and the cryptic ending, with Thomas joining the mimes at mimicking a tennis game.

As the credits rolled, Vamp switched off the DVD player and switched himself to Lecturer Mode. I had a feeling that what was coming next would be infinitely more interesting than the movie. I was right.

"So what is the main theme of this movie?" he said, pacing across the floor. I rubbed my chin in thought and remembered his 2001 paper-- it said that objects and phenomena appear different on the microscopic level than they do at the macroscopic, or blow-up, level. Before any of us could answer, he went on, "This movie asks the questions: What really exists? What is real? What is truth? As you saw, it was impossible for the main character to determine what was real."

He took up the remainder of the class time, marveling us with a riveting, thought-provoking discourse that questioned the very nature of reality and our perceptions of truth. "Don't ask, 'What is reality?' It is meaningless." He hinted at elements from his 2005 paper: humans experience only phenomena (their perceptions of objects), and not noumena (the objects themselves). "There is no absolute truth. If we can use something, it exists; if we cannot use it, it does not exist." His tone of voice and manner blazed with fierce intensity, and I hung onto his every word. My heart sank, regretting that my friend and fellow Vamp fan, Black Sunday, was in a different class and unable to experience this captivating lecture. I wished that I'd brought a video camera, to record it for him.

In the end, we came away with lessons far more intriguing than anything we'd studied in the course material: Never accept anything at face value. Question everything. Pay close attention to the details, but don't take your eyes off the big picture. Don't be content with what's in front of you; dream bigger. Aim higher. And most importantly, be different. Don't follow the crowd. Break tradition. Change the framework. Change the world-- it doesn't hurt to try.

There were a lot of things I wanted to say to Vamp after he dismissed the class, but I didn't get the chance. I watched him leave and tried to follow him, hoping I could at least tell him how amazingly fantastic his lecture was, but he quickly disappeared from view. I resigned myself to the situation with a shrug. I couldn't hang around there, anyway-- I had to run to catch a bus to the art campus (the university's arts building was located in an entirely different part of the city). And a low growl from my stomach gave me another reason to get moving: I needed food!

I ran down to the campus food court, bought a chicken skewer and a raspberry jelly, gobbled them up, and caught a bus. This wasn't the last I'd be seeing of Vamp, I told myself. This was my last class with him, but I had no desire to let the learning stop there. Like a small kid faced with a big, confusing world, I wanted to cling to his hand, knowing I could draw strength and guidance from it. I couldn't do that as his student-- I'd been too nervous, too shy. Now I wasn't his student any more, but it wasn't too late. There was another way to keep on learning from him.

I made up my mind to be his friend.

November 2, 2006

Some time ago, when Black Sunday and I were having a chat with Vamp, Vamp suggested that we hang out sometime to watch some Tarkovsky DVDs. Then later, as Black Sunday and I were walking to buy a snack, this question popped into my head:

"What is Vamp like when he gets drunk?"

I asked this aloud, and we bounced the question back and forth between ourselves, pondering over the possibilities. Would he become ten times more philosophical than his usual self, and spout random theories like a fountain? Would he stop talking about philosophy altogether, and launch into a heated tirade at the nearest available person? Would he belt out arias like an opera singer? Or would he simply fall unconscious?

"Whichever way it goes, I'm dying to find out!" said Black Sunday. "I know a great pub where we can take him. Find out when he's available, so we can set a date. It's going to be awesome!"

So our plan was hatched, and we said our goodbyes. Once again, I found myself taking a pensive stroll down the hallway to Vamp's office.

It was the last day of classes for me at the art campus, and I'd wrapped it up by taking photos of my school friends. Since I had plenty of memory space left in my camera, I decided to take a souvenir photo of Vamp while I was there.

In my usual manner, I silently crept up to his doorway and poked my head around to take a peek. My fear of him had mostly disappeared by then, but I wanted to make sure I wasn't interrupting a meeting or phone conversation. I spotted him at his computer, briskly tapping away at the keys almost as if in a trance. "Might be busy," I said to myself. "I'd better make this short."

I stepped to the front of the doorway, camera in hand. "Hi!" I said genially. "Can I take your picture? ... Please?"

Caught off-guard, he raised an eyebrow. "Now?"

I tried to put on a pleading look. "It's the last day of classes. I'm taking pictures of all my friends. I was hoping I could take a photo of you too."

He hesitated for a second. "Okay." He smoothed back his hair, fixing a few stray locks into place, and smiled. I framed the shot and took it.

"Thanks," I said. "I'll e-mail this to you."

He laughed softly. "No, don't. I don't want to see it." He ran his hands through his hair again. "I don't like how I look right now."

I laughed along with him; however, I thought he looked fine.

"When are you available to hang out with Black Sunday and me?" I said, getting to the point so I wouldn't take up too much of his time.

"I am busy this week," he said. "Around... ten days, maybe twelve days from now... I will be free. You can send me an e-mail, and we can arrange a time. We can go somewhere here in Randwick, have a coffee, and watch some scenes from Tarkovsky's films."

I nodded. "Okay. See ya." I waved goodbye, and he waved back. I made my way down the corridor, out of the building, towards the bus stop.

December 3, 2006

Due to conflicting schedules, it took a long while for Vamp, Black Sunday and me to finally set an appointment. I decided to drop the idea of going to a pub and getting Vamp intoxicated, like Black Sunday and I had planned. It seemed like an awfully naughty thing to do.

We met up on the campus grounds, outside Vamp's office. We chatted amicably as we walked down the streets of Randwick to a quaint-looking cafe. I'd brought my laptop computer and a set of Tarkovsky DVDs to watch; however, we decided to chat some more before we started the movie viewing.

We talked mostly about Black Sunday's fun times at the university's science-fiction club, and our favorite Tarkovsky movies. It was the first time I'd seen Vamp in such a laid-back, relaxed mood, quite different from the beleaguered teacher and author of papers, who seemed to forever shuffle from one class or paper to another. He spoke of Tarkovsky's films as if recalling the fondest moments of his life, with a twinkle in his eye and a soft smile on his lips.

Our conversation drifted towards other movies, and we found ourselves talking about Kung Fu Hustle and other martial arts flicks. "The fight scenes in those kung fu movies look so amazing, but the moves are totally unrealistic," said Black Sunday.

I voiced my agreement. "Yeah, you'd get whupped if you tried those moves in a real fight. They're not practical, and those fancy jump kicks just leave you vulnerable."

"Did you take martial arts?" said Vamp, addressing both of us. "I used to do Shotokan karate, when I was younger. There were many gangsters... rough people... in my area. My brother and I studied karate to protect ourselves. How about you?"

Black Sunday shook his head. "I didn't. But Fox did. Tell him, Fox!" he said, nudging me across the table.

As much as I wanted to answer, I couldn't produce a single sound. My mouth wouldn't move, because my brain was too stunned from processing what my ears had just heard from Vamp. I sat there staring at him with a look of pure shock plastered across my face.

"You took up karate?" I finally managed to say after a few seconds. I was aghast.

"Yes, but only for a few years," said Vamp. "It was illegal in Romania at that time... the communist period. But there was an immigrant, a karate master, who held classes in secret. We would pay him, and he would pay off the authorities, so he would not be arrested. We would hold tournaments, but these would also be illegal. And since they were illegal, of course the competitors had no insurance... so we had to make sure that we did not hurt each other. My brother and I reached the rank of blue belt. We stopped training when we took up philosophy... we had no more time for karate, and anyway, we did not have the mobility in our legs, the flexibility, that other people had. And because it was required by the law, we also served for nine months in the Romanian army."

I let out a low whistle. "Wow." After a pause, I said, "I took up Shotokan karate too, but only for two years."

"Really?" Now it was Vamp's turn to be surprised. "What belt did you reach?" he said.

"Green. One rank lower than yours."

"Did you fight in tournaments?"

"Yes," I said, going goggle-eyed over a mental image of Vamp fighting in a tournament. "A few."

"Are you still practicing?"

"No. I stopped training when I started college."

I leaned back in my seat, still hardly able to believe I was having this conversation. No way! This intellectual, academic-minded guy, who spent most of his time holed up in his office, was a Shotokan practitioner? This placid-natured, art-loving man knew how to beat people up, and even reached a belt rank higher than mine? I nearly slid out of my chair.

Thankfully, before my brain could suffer a shock-induced meltdown, Vamp put down his coffee and said it was time to watch a movie. We flipped through my collection of Tarkovsky DVDs and settled on Nostalghia.

Nostalghia was a heart-rending drama, very bittersweet with a depressing ending. But beautiful, nonetheless. It was made even more beautiful by Vamp's running commentary, where he patiently explained the symbolism and aesthetics of almost every scene. It was like Black Sunday and I were sitting with a seasoned film critic.

At one point in the film, the main character, Andrei, approached a little angel girl and said one of the movie's classic lines: "Are you afraid of me? I should be afraid of you."

"Did you hear that?" Vamp said gently. "He says this because he is old... an adult... and the little girl is young. Young people are different... they can adapt more easily to change, because their minds are more open, more accepting. They are weaker physically, but on the inside, they are stronger. They can see many things that older people cannot." A look of benevolence and sincerity appeared on his face, and he turned to me. "It is the same with you and me," he said. "You don't have to be frightened of me."

I nodded quietly, for he was right. I remembered what Vamp's brother, Archangel, had told me, about Vamp merely being misunderstood, and all the remaining doubts and fears that clouded my heart like a dusky haze were dispelled. I looked at him with new eyes. I regarded the bespectacled, scholarly man seated across from me, and no longer saw a harried teacher or encumbered article writer-- all I saw was a smiling man with brown hair and blue eyes; a person I cared about; a kind and thoughtful friend. I had nothing to fear from him; I never had. All I had to do was open up my mind and change the framework in which I saw the world. It was a feeling I could only describe as wondrous, almost magical.

After the movie, we had a short discussion on the cinematography techniques used in the dream sequences and the hero's final scene. I became so wrapped up in Vamp's reflections and insights that I lost track of the time.

Suddenly, a dark-haired woman with delicate, lovely features and gentle eyes approached our table and greeted Vamp warmly. He introduced her to us as his wife. Black Sunday and I shook hands with her and introduced ourselves as she took a seat next to Vamp.

She was sweet and pleasant, and I felt at ease around her. Although she was older and taller than me, she seemed to me like a cute teddy bear that I wanted to hug and squeeze. She and Vamp clearly loved each other dearly; they gazed at each other fondly, like newlyweds, and their faces would light up whenever they looked at each other. It was delightful to see them truly happy and at peace. We talked about whatever random things came to mind: life at university, movies, a bit of philosophy, video games, a little of this and that.

The time soon came for Black Sunday and me to leave. We said our goodbyes to the couple and thanked them for a wonderful time. We resolved to have ice cream together sometime in the future, perhaps over another Tarkovsky film. Vamp and his wife directed me to the bus stop, and I parted their company reluctantly, wishing I could stay with them a bit longer.

All in all, it was a terrific day. I skipped onto the bus with a gleeful spring in my step, pleased that things had gone so well. One question nagged me from the back of my mind, though...

"What would it be like to fight with Vamp?"

I smirked. There was only one way to find out, of course: challenge him. I still had my pair of sparring gloves from my karate days, and I found myself eager to don them again, to experience the rush of combat. I'd fought against larger, taller opponents before, in tournaments and in the training hall. None of them had been as tall as Vamp, though; but I was certain I could put up a decent fight.

I grinned to myself, gazed out the bus window, and started looking forward to our next outing.

-end of part 6-