Knowing where the trap is — that’s the first step in evading it. This is like single combat, Son, only on a larger scale — a feint within a feint within a feint…seemingly without end. The task is to unravel it.

—Duke Leto Atreides, Dune

A feint can be used as a test, to gather information, or a trap, to get someone to do what you want them to do, or both.

The most important part to understand is that the opponent is inherently involved in the situation. You can only gain advantage from a feint depending on the way he or she (re)acts.

A savvy person will react with exactly the right amount of effort, especially important because a feint is only a mock attack. In Tai Chi terms, they balance an opponent’s yin (expansion) with yang (compression), and vice-versa¹. In Taoist terms, they act like a mirror, reflecting only that which is in front of them, nothing more and nothing less. With a savvy person, the feint fails, and nothing is gained.

An ignorant person will fall for the trick. They overreact and unbalance themselves², exposing their vulnerabilities. Without understanding true intention, without seeing the big picture, they get played like a sucker.

And the more they react, the more ridiculous they look.

1. Hence the emphasis placed on sticking and yielding; a physical connection is needed to know where the center of an opponent is at all times [↑]
2. In Tai Chi terms, this is considered overextending or collapsing the structure of the body or limbs [↑]

While Joel and his family were on extended vacation, I took care of their cat, Sprocket.

He used to be 25 pounds (from the previous owner who overfed him) but slimmed down to around 14 or 15, I’d say. You can tell he used to be much bigger; if you run your hand down the length of his body, you can feel the bones on his frame sticking out prominently, and there’s a fair amount of extra skin hanging from the belly.

He never got along with Dolly. For the entire time he was with me, which was just under two months, they got in about two dozen fights. Every now and then, there would be a tremendous cacophony of hissing, growling, meowing, and running from one end of the house to the other. I’d say that Sprocket was more often the aggressor, but Dolly started her share of fights. Even though she still has her back claws (Sprocket is completely de-clawed), he had a large weight and size advantage. His bite is also very strong (which I found out from feeding him treats¹), I’m guessing from all the practice he got from eating.

It made me re-think getting a second cat while Dolly’s still alive. Two cats can fill a house nicely, but she didn’t get along with him at all. Since they don’t know how old Sprocket is, the aggressiveness may simply be due to his age, but I’m not sure I want to take the chance.

In any case, I can tell he enjoyed the change of pace, which was living in a house with two parents, two kids, and two dogs, to just me and a cat. He’s a sucker for treats, meowing quietly as a “reminder” to give him one. One funny thing I noticed is that he seemed to have harder-than-average paws. When pacing around on the kitchen tiles before being fed, it would sound like a horse trot.

Sprocket also loves attention. No matter what I was doing — cooking breakfast, playing games upstairs, writing downstairs — he would follow me around. It did make my Tai Chi practice more difficult, as he’d spread out on the open carpet and roll around under my feet.

He loves to sleep on blankets, and would always fall asleep on my sheets when I was under them, most commonly near the feet. He got along especially well with Bronwen. When she stayed the night, he would keep her up by constantly walking over her body, looking for a warm place to nestle.

I’ll certainly miss him. Hopefully, he’ll remember me the next time I go over to Joel’s house.

1. I don’t think he was ever fed by hand; he would always nip my fingers when giving him a treat. Dolly is the opposite. She very delicately moves towards the treat with her mouth, and snatches the treat with her tongue. [↑]

A person who tells you to stop blogging because it’s bad for you, leaves rambling comments such as this, this, and this, draws creepy diagrams about you then e-mails them to people you don’t even know, yet blogs compulsively herself.

How simple a thing is happiness: a glass of wine, a roast chestnut, a wretched little brazier, the sound of the sea. All that is required to feel that here and now is happiness is a simple heart.

—Zorba the Greek

I feel like writing.

Saturdays are usually reserved for relaxation, but I mixed it with a few errands throughout the day. Bought extra auburn foliage for one of my pots, and a funnel to get fresh-ground pepper into my new pepper shaker. Picked up my weekly groceries. Sat down at the pizza parlor to start Beautiful Losers while my Hawaiian was being baked.

I watched Zorba The Greek tonight, about the adventures of an aimless Englishman who goes to Crete, and the lessons he learns from a man he meets named Zorba.

Though generally jovial and lighthearted, it was heavy and heavy at times. There’s a scene where a beautiful widow (the love interest of the movie) is ritualistically stoned and killed out of jealousy by the men of the village, simply because she wouldn’t let any of them have her. The direction is a little inconsistent, but Anthony Quinn’s portrayal of the Grecian spirit keeps the movie in tact. Many believe the movie to be an analysis of Apollonian vs Dionysian thought, but I saw it as a nod to Taoism as well.

Zorba’s a Taoist, whether he knows it or not. He shuns intellectual thought and analysis, and loves life with bubbling spontaneity. In the end, the Englishman learns from Zorba, not about life, but how to live it.

And it inspired me. Not just the dialogue or the playfulness, but the locations too. It made me want to travel, to see new places, to meet more people, and explore other cultures.

One day. For now, I’ll enjoy the comfort of my house.

So here I am, staying up late with my back next to the open window, eating butter pecan tarts, drinking Dragon Well tea, and writing as much as I can.

I think I’ll go practice the form now.

Tomorrow, I have nothing to do but live.

In my book tonight, I was reminded of the time I was sitting on the floor of my room and you were lying on the bed when I felt the foundation shudder beneath me. I mapped the escape route in my head, thought of the coats cause it was the end of winter, and was about to grab your hand to lead us outside if the earth shook again, threatening to bury us in three stories of wood and concrete. I told you to be ready to run upstairs on my word. How I loved you then.

For in doing so, I reveal my vulnerability.