Hi!

	Well, got another one of these done.  Not quite as pleased with it
as with the first one, but hope you like it (and don't find it too
boring...)

***

      Sketch Two: On the Practice of Art
	by
	Michael Noakes

     As Hiroshi went over his school notes, Sayuri gladly
accepted a refill of her cup.
     She smiled at Hiroshi's unconscious mumbling as he slowly
worked his way through the more difficult English words,
stumbling over unfamiliar pronunciation and awkward syllables. 
Strange, she thought, that he -- like most of her peers, she
recognized -- had so much difficulty with the language, while it
came so easily to her.  Her vocabulary was limited, she realized, but
she spoke with little hesitation and surprising confidence.
     "Kuso!" he exclaimed in English, and thumped his head on
the table.  Sayuri smirked: it was always the swear words that her
friends seemed to pick up first -- and then end up misusing, anyway. 
"I _hate_ this stupid language!  Why couldn't they just spell the
stupid words the way they sound!  Like this one," and he slid the
notebook towards her, jabbing his finger at a particular word. 
"How the hell am I supposed to know that 'ghoti' is pronounced
'fish'?"
     Sayuri shrugged, suppressing a laugh.  Most of her friends -
- the other women in the class -- hadn't figured Ms. Hinako's little
riddle out yet, either; they were still convinced the English were a
nation of linguistic lunatics.
     Hiroshi shifted his glare from the textbook to the girl sitting
across from him, eyes softening into a gaze of abject supplication. 
"I just don't get this stuff!  How d'you pick it up so easy?"
     "I don't know.  Just a talent, I guess," she answered, and
hid her smile behind her cup.  Hopefully a useful talent, she mused. 
She had some vague dreams of traveling some day, and she hoped
her facility with one language would transfer over to any others she
eventually tried to learn.  The trick, she realized, wasn't to translate
the language in your head while speaking -- you just had to _think_
in the language you were using.  No conscious effort, or applied
reasoning -- just talking.  Just talking.
     "It's not fair, I say," continued the blond-haired boy, when
the door chimed and another student entered the kissaten.  Sayuri
turned and recognized Yuka.  She looked thoroughly peeved and
frustrated.  Her friend stomped over to the table and threw herself
onto a seat.
     "Class went badly, I guess?" asked Sayuri.
     "Yeah."  A brief pause, and then, "I don't know why I
bother!"
     "But I thought you _liked_ ballet. . . ."
     "Yeah, well, I was wrong."
     "Two weeks ago. . . ."
     "Two weeks ago was two weeks ago!" snapped Yuka. 
Then she let out a deep breath and sank back into her seat, visibly
relaxing.  The waitress surreptitiously took advantage of the lull to
take the girl's order and quickly move away.  "I'm sorry, Sayuri. 
I'm just . . . just frustrated, I guess.  I don't know.  When I first
started, I though I might be good at this stuff . . . but I just don't
seem to be getting any better!  At least, not as fast as the other
beginners. . . .
     "It was my parent's idea anyway.  I never wanted to take
ballet -- it was their stupid idea -- it's not _my_ fault I don't have
any talent for dancing -- I mean, what, because I'm a girl I should
learn how to do that stuff, somehow it'll make me a better
_person_ or something. . . ?"
     Yuka sighed and looked downcast.  "I'm just no good."
     Hiroshi glanced at the depressed girl sitting next to him,
then cast an anxious look towards Sayuri.  What, she wanted to
ask, what am I supposed to do?  She remembered how excited her
friend had seemed after the first class, despite being forced into it
by her parents.  She also knew how easily Yuka got discouraged
with herself, and how little her parents did to boost her ego.  But
she didn't really know what to say. . . .
     Fortunately, a sudden sound from outside provided a
distraction.  An explosion, maybe?  Loud enough to rattle the cups
and utensils on their table, and make the restaurant windows
tremble.  Looking outside, they saw a figure leap in and land catlike
on the sidewalk.  Ranma.  He glanced over his shoulder, smiling
slightly.  A beat.  Then movement: twisting (trio of knives
imbedding in the cement), ducking (bandanna slicing over his head),
springing back with a graceful flip.  Then away, leaping out of their
view.
     Sayuri turned back to her drink, unperturbed, as Hiroshi
closed the notebook.  After a moment, she realized that Yuka was
still gazing wistfully out the window.
     "Yuka?" she asked.
     Her friend shook her head slowly, still looking outside. 
"It's not fair," she said softly.
     "What isn't?"
     "The way he moves.  The stuff he can do," she answered. 
She turned back to her friends, smiling sadly.  "The way he moved
right there -- when he was dodging those knives, or whatever.  It
was just like what I've been practicing.  Kind of.  But I just can't
get it right -- and he does it so _easily_!  No, more than that: he
makes it look _good_, even when in the middle of a fight.  It's not
fair!  He's not a girl -- not a real one, anyway -- he's never taken
dancing lessons . . . and he's already better at ballet than I'll _ever_
be!"
     "Oh, come on, Yuka," said Sayuri.  "Don't compare
yourself to that showoff!  And besides, he wasn't doing ballet, he
was doing martial arts.  It just looks a bit the same, I guess."
     "Yeah," added Hiroshi.  "And don't' forget, he's been
practicing that stuff all his life.  You've only been at it a couple of
weeks.  Of _course_ he's going to look like he knows what he's
doing."  He paused for a moment to take a drink.  Yuka looked
slightly mollified, until he added, "Besides, he's got better
motivation that you do."
     "And what's that supposed to mean?" demanded the short-
haired girl, sounding somewhat angry and a little defensive.
     "Well . . . I mean, you're just doing it because your parents
want you to, right?  But Ranma . . . well, he's doing it 'cus he
_has_ to . . . just to stay alive!  I mean, you've seen the psychos
that keep popping up around here!  If he didn't know martial arts,
he'd've had the . . . the _kuso_ beat out of him."  He smiled,
pleased at his usage of an English word.  Sayuri just shook her
head.  "I mean, that's probably why he started taking all that martial
arts stuff in the first place: self-defense."
     Yuka frowned.  "I don't think so.  I think he started taking
it for the very same reason I'm taking ballet: his parents forced him
to.  And you know what?  I bet he doesn't even really like it, not
really, not deep down inside.  Everyone always assumes that
because he's so good at it, because he's been doing it so long, that
he loves the stuff, finds some kind of meaning or peace through it.
     "But you know what?  I bet you he doesn't.  I bet he's just
like me.  Deep down, he hates it; or if he doesn't hate it, he sick and
tired of it, but can't stop now, he's got to keep it up, has to keep
his parents happy, doesn't want to make his father angry. . . ."  She
shivered.
     Sayuri snorted.  "You're both wrong.  I mean, just look at
the jerk.  He's just showing off!  He's good at the stuff, knows he's
good at the stuff, and through it, gets to always be the center of
attention!  You saw the way he dodged, just now.  He didn't
_have_ to move with so much flourish, flair -- he wanted to!"  She
turned to Yuka.  "Sure, maybe he first started because his parents
forced him too -- after all, that's the whole reason that stupid
engagement with Akane happened, right?  Or, heck, maybe his dad
just got him started because he wanted his son to be in good shape,
to be more . . . manly."  She smirked.  Obviously Ranma's martial
arts hadn't helped him with _that_ particular goal.  "And, yes," she
continued, nodding toward Hiroshi, "maybe part of it _is_ just to
keep himself in one piece.  But, really -- if he was _that_ worried,
he'd just turn to the police about all those crazies.  No.
     "For Ranma, martial arts is just another way to show off to
the world just how great and wonderful and awesome of a guy he
is.  Having three fiancees isn't enough: he's got to be the world's
greatest athlete to boot . . . and wants the world to _know_ it, too. 
If he was a real artist, I'd say it was a way to express himself
creatively; but as it is, it's just a way to feed his huge ego."
     Sayuri punctuated her statement by finishing off her drink
with a loud slurp.  Hiroshi looked at her somewhat skeptically,
somewhat disapprovingly, from across the table.  Yuka returned her
gaze to outside, sighing audibly.  A silence settled between the
three friends.
     "Well, I dunno," finally said Hiroshi, "I mean, maybe's it's a
little bit of all three?  Or, heck, maybe it for some kind of need for
social. . . ."
     His thought was interrupted, however, as the kissaten door
was thrown open, and in bounded Ranma, female and soaking,
smiling broadly.  The waitress smiled in return as she handed over a
convenient kettle of hot water.  Ranma thanked her, turned to
leave, then hesitated and stopped by the table.
     "Hi guys," she said.  Dirt smudged her face.  Her clothes
looked a little tattered.  "What's up?"
     "Not much," Hiroshi started to answer, but was interrupted
by Yuka.
     "Can I ask you a question, Ranma?" she asked.
     "Sure.  Shoot," answered the redhead.  She glanced out the
window.  She tightened the belt at her waist.
     "Why do you do martial arts?"
     She blinked.  "Why?" she asked, sounding a little confused. 
She raised the kettle overhead and poured.  Steam briefly wreathed
her face.
     He put the kettle down and flicked back an arrant dripping
bang.  He grinned.  "Hey, I just _do_ 'em, man!"  And then he
bounded away, away from the table, out the door; there were brief
sounds of scuffling, a second explosion, and then nothing.

	March 1998
***

	Ranma 1/2 is the brainchild of Rumiko Takahashi.

	This story mainly arose out of a discussion I had with my sifu and
a couple of guys from my class over, over beer at the local pub.  What is
a talent?  Why does anyone persue any form of Art?  What does one gain
from it, and how does the expression of that art feel to an accomplished
artist?
	I don't think I've addressed these questions fully or directly in
my little story above -- maybe the story just needs a little tweaking.  I
certainly haven't answered them.  But I hope it gives a little insight
into why Ranma is so dedicated to Anything Goes, and maybe what he gets
out of it.

	Later!
	-Mike Noakes

*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*
There they stood, ranged along the hillside, met* E-mail at:
   To view the last of me, a living frame       * s669330@aix2.uottawa.ca
   For one more picture! in a sheet of flame    * Homepage/Fanfiction:
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Dauntless the slug-horn to my lips I set,	*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *
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	-Robert Browing, "Childe Rolande to the Dark Tower Came" (34)
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