John Perretti

“The Martist” is my coinage for the duality of the spirit of the martial and the aesthetic, a split, if you will, in interests within one human being. The artist preceded the pugilist, and the two have had a symbiotic relationship.

If a Levittown, New York cement stoop formed upon pre-fungicide infested potato fields could ever emit a sound, it most probably would be a “South of the border” purchased; “American Indian” rubber covered birch bark drum, with my repetitive beating to my vocal accompaniment of “Weee waaant ra-ain, we want rain, we want rain, weee...

Introduction: As of the onset of this writing, I have experienced fifty-six winters in many a country, with many incomplete companions (some finally deceased). I have been lucky to have truly hunted game all my life rather than stand on lines for meager rations as the Lakota were forced to do by “slippery tongued” Euro-Americans...

Part III: Far forward and away in Kyoto a yellowing Moso, a sympodial bamboo garden clumps proud and tall against the reluctant rear of the square, famous restaurant of less than willing waiters, a deliberant disbelief of normal Japanese food distribution, just within the odd Ionic pillared , entrance hearth, welcomed without the usual public...

The Origin of a Species and The Mixed Martial Arts was a seven-year grapple, “Although one can never prove sincerity unto another, this is a work of non-fiction.” And, “All that is told here has been witnessed by many and may stretch your current conceptions. This is what we mostly pure pugilists pursue. No matter...

My current coherency to tell of totally, sometimes tubular, true stories about a past that never existed within a realm as still so rightly remembered as a raw reality. Beneath me burrows were beheld and beckoned me to go belly down, in dirt below. Like the viewing of children’s ant farms within thin glass confines...