Soul Aikido, the practice of changing the possible into the favorable through the simple practice of gently willing it to be so. Not unlike how Aikido teaches that your opponent contains more than enough clumsy inertia for you to destroy him while saving your energy for your own pursuits, protecting you from not only harm, but even exertion from any force of evil.

When practiced within the dojo of the Soul, outside intent and attempts to harm your inner self, are dispatched with barely a conscious thought. As autonomic as breathing, your steadfast vow to bend like the reed, slams any threat, clear and present, or subtle down to the motherfucking floor.

material provided by lawnjart late one night, onto thefez's open Word document...

He awoke, the sun making its presence known very early due to the lack of shade. As his eyes opened, glittering drops of morning dew shot splinters of light through the air as they were forced from where they lay. He rose from the matted down grass he chose as bed with a motion so fluid, he seemed to pour up from the ground and into the air. When drawn up into his full five eleven, he cast nonchalant gesture back at where he slept, flora sprung back to it’s undisturbed height, and even looked a bit greener for the journey. He walked a few feet to where some water stood in a muddy depression, knelt, and cupping his hands, brought a draught of the tepid water to his lips. Drinking deeply, he indeed looked refreshed, and in fact, almost imperceptibly disheveled instead of someone who just spent the night in a highway median.

It was time to head into the city for some coffee and a cigarette.

He walked slowly, or rather unhurried and without regard to personal safety along the highway east toward the city. The automobiles, shining steel scarabs in the morning sun, streak past in a brightly colored parade of discontent and duty. Each one late or early, hurried or reluctant, and in their heads, already at their desk, counter, cubicle, time clock, cross. It is hard to tell if any of these people noticed or considered the lone figure strolling along the highway, even the most attentive would only have seconds to view him while careening down the pavement at such speeds. To be sure no one did, far too there and then to notice someone in the here and now. An absent minded smile touched his lips as he walked and his eyes played lovingly over every tree, shrub, guard rail, bird, bug, cloud and piece of road side trash. From the open window of a speeding sedan, a fragment of song took wing from the car to his ear: “it’s all too beautiful…” He couldn’t agree more.

The highway is built high up, so in leaving it one descends into the depression that is the city. This is just what he did. His whole demeanor shifted ever so slightly, so that upon first glance he still would appear wistful and happy, but if one would study his features for a time, one would discover storm clouds amassing in the whites of his eyes. No one studied his face; in fact no one would meet his gaze except children and animals, who always seemed pleased to see him. Making his way toward the tallest buildings and the heart of the city, convinced he would find adequate coffee and tobacco there, he strolled past ramshackle despair, immaculate delirium, humid desire, diaphanous dreams, and death… endless… and the storm clouds grew. He wasn’t convinced just yet, but it seemed a good city to start in. He strolled past liquor stores, laundromats, video stores, diplomats, groceries and houses. The scenery changed to that of restaurants, high rises, arenas, and emporiums. A scent made it’s way to his nostrils and he looked up at the building he was currently walking past. Music Expresso is what this place was called, and deciding that he was fond of both, (providing this was just a misspelling of the coffee drink) entered the establishment.

On her way here this morning, Sarah stopped at Smitty’s (a place she never goes) and bought a pack of American Spirits(a thing she never buys). It seemed to her a good idea that cigarettes be additive free, now that she thought about it, so it also seemed to her a good choice. What it was that puzzled her so was the fact that she did not smoke, in fact, as she was opening the pack at her table surrounded by all the poetry she had written since she started wearing black, she found it only naggingly odd that she still had no desire to smoke one. As her eye lighted upon a grumbling dissertation on how everything would be much better if it all were to explode, (one of her favorites) she fished the first cigarette from her first pack with the dexterity of one who had smoked for years. She held the cigarette up, and though her eyes never left the page, other parts of her registered the light breeze of an object moving through space, the feather touch of the cigarette leaving her hand, and the polite tones of a man saying “thank you”. None of this however, struck her as anything but natural. Without consciously noticing the exchange that took place, other parts of her registered the meaning behind her uncharacteristic purchase.

Otto was not particularly enjoying any of his favorite tunes this morning. Wood pussy held none of the beauty today that made it his favorite band. As a matter of fact, as he was watching another deadbeat customer walk in from the city, he found himself offended by his favorite love song, “fuck my stink” and stabbed an index finger at the open button on the CD player. He groped along the shelf where everyone kept his or her favorite working ambiance and put in something called Dead can Dance and felt instantly better. For the first time since childhood and without drugs, Otto felt peace descend upon him and he decided while lighting a smoke that it was no longer a word he completely despised.

Steven watched the man with an unlit cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth approach the counter. He instinctively slid a book of matches across the formica, a bit out of place in light that Steven had never performed that action without verbal prompt before. Roboticly, Steven asked the self-same question he asked day in, day out…”whadaya want?” The man studied the menu with a thoughtful expression as so many had before. After some deliberation, he announced; “all things are indeed relative, and that being so I could just as well be in Vienna as I could here.” Steven went right to work building the specified, or rather eluded to beverage, a minor victory for him had he noticed that he did not ask for the clarification he usually required when presented with anything but a straight answer. When he finished, he passed the drink over to the customer, scooped up money that wasn’t there; (exact change) rang it into the till, and sat back down with his magazine.

He sat down with his Relativity Viennese which is some sort of cinnamon mocha late beverage, struck a match, to his cigarette, inhaled deeply and watched the smoke curl through the café

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