Went and played ultimate frisbee yesterday. I forgot how frickin hard that game is, but was reminded in under thirty seconds of play when the black borders started creeping in around the outskirts of my vision. Must. Defend. Frisbee. Must not let... *chest explodes*

Today my leg is all gamey. Sigh. I have the sneaking suspicion that I, like Socrates, am mortal. In most other ways, however, the ancient philosopher and myself differ. Here are some of the ways in which I am not the same as Socrates: 1. I only wear togas once or twice a year. 2. I prefer the company of women to young boys. 3. I did not develop the dialectical method of philosophical enquiry. 4. I am immune to hemlock.

I just started reading Kawabata's Master of Go, which chronicles the last game of go played by Honinbo Shusai (fifth from the bottom on this list. You'll need the sgf viewer as well). The first move took one whole day. How many games were played before even one stone was placed?

The open board is a blank field of infinite possibility, but once even one stone is placed on its surface, it is changed forever. It becomes limited, but still remains limitless. An infinite series of possible future moves spring from that one action. Two fingers on either side of the stone. The wooden sound of histories, possibilities being created.