Tag: martial arts

The first law of [kenpō] states that when your opponent charges straight in and attacks, you should use your feet to move your body along a circular path. You should also consider moving your arms in a circular pattern to deflect the oncoming force. When your opponent attacks you in a circular fashion, however, you should respond with a fast linear attack—along a straight line from your weapon to his target. Just as the circle can overcome the line, the line can overcome the circle.

— 10 Kenpo Laws Every Martial Artist Should Know – Black Belt

Thank the gods for the Internet Archive Wayback Machine, else I could not have linked to the source article.

I wasn’t thinking about a murder. I was thinking about killing.

The Japanese martial dojo is a training hall remarkable for its beauty. Clean lines. A lack of clutter. The warmth of wood and the stateliness of ritual. Don’t be fooled. Look closely at us as we move in that space. We watch each other warily, alive to the sudden rush of attack. We’re controlled and focused. But there’s a murderous ferocity running like a deep current in us all. It gets exposed in many small ways.

Most dojo are big spaces. Sound bounces around in them in a jumble of shouts and thuds. But if you have enough experience, you can hear things distinctly. Asa Sensei was a kendo teacher of the old school. When you find a really good group of swordsmen training together, you can hear things in the quality of the noise they make. We were in Asa Sensei’s dojo, and the chant of the swordsmen was fierce, a pulse of sound generated in a circle of swordsmen that rang throughout the cavern of a room. It created an energy that I could feel as I swung my sword and shouted along with them.

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see both Asa and Yamashita standing and watching us. Their dark eyes glittered, but beyond that, they could have been carved in stone. My teacher’s shaven head sat on his thick body like an artillery shell. Asa was thinner and had gray hair swept back from a wide forehead. But the way they held themselves—the thick, muscled forearms that were visible beneath the sleeves of their indigo training tops; the dense, rooted silence of both men—made them seem almost identical.

They were watchers, those two. It’s how you must get after a while. They drink in their surroundings until they can feel it on their skin, taste it in their mouths. Until the breath flows in and out in the rhythm of what surrounds them. And then, when ready, they strike.

When you see them as they truly are, these men are frightening. They hold so much back, measuring you, judging you. They dole out knowledge in grudging bits, forcing you to struggle for each morsel. Looking back, you reluctantly admit that maybe it was necessary. But while you eventually come to trust them, it makes you wary.

I struggle with this. Yamashita is my teacher and I had once thought him perfect. I knew better now. He was still my sensei, but the relationship had changed. He looks at me with flat, emotionless eyes. And sometimes, I look back in the same way. I’ve learned a great deal. Not all of it is good.

The first time I stood across from Yamashita, any confidence that a black belt in two different arts had given me vaporized in the blast furnace of his intensity. Yamashita knows what you are up to before the nerve flash of your latest bright idea leaps across a synapse. As far as I can tell, he is without technical flaw. And without remorse. With Yamashita, every time you step onto the training floor, you are being tested. Over the years you accommodate yourself to it, but it’s still a reality that hovers just out of sight, like a prowling animal, both feared and resented.

— Deshi, chapter 2

Stick:

Some lessons can’t be taught, Elektra. They must be lived to be understood.

— “Elektra” (2005)

One part of mental training is anticipation—that is, expecting a situation and acting upon it. This part of training occurs as much—if not more—outside the dojo as inside. For example, take the scenario of a person walking toward you on the street. Train by looking at his hands. Are they swinging normally at his sides, or is one hand hidden, or are both? If the latter, then something may be amiss and you need to be prepared to act. Train by looking at his belt, his wallet pocket (if he lias turned so that you can see it), his wrist with a watch, or the shoulder over which, his workout bag is slung; these can offer clues as to whether the person is right- or left-handed, information that can be useful in self-defense. Then look at his eyes, for they are the windows to the mind. If you feel safe with an approaching person, let your concentration go to the next person, but always keep a comfortable and safe personal distance from people. Above all, such observations serve to keep you mentally alert to the people and things around you.

— Japan’s Ultimate Martial Art, Chapter 1

Now I faced the black belts. My awareness of time began to slip. These fighters were far more skilled. The psychic tension of fighting is as big a factor as mere matters of technique. I could exert a type of mental force against my opponents, but now they were capable of pushing back. It meant that the pace of the matches was different: a wary circling, a flurry of attacks. Manipulation of the tips of the swords. Deflections, feints. And pushing against me like a force field, I felt the psychic pressure known as seme, communicated through posture and the weapon itself.

— Deshi, chapter 2

Bruce Lee and I were having dim sum, a traditional Chinese breakfast of meat-filled pastries, in a downtown Los Angeles restaurant after a lesson. I seized on this opportunity to tell him that I was discouraged. At forty-five, I felt I was too old and my body too stiff to achieve any real ability in jeet-kune-do.

“You will never learn anything new unless you are ready to accept yourself with your limitations,” Bruce answered. “You must accept the fact that you are capable, in some directions and limited in others, and you must develop your capabilities.”

“But ten years ago I could easily kick over my head,” I said. “Now I need half an hour to limber up before I can do it.”

Bruce set his chopsticks down alongside his plate, clasped his hands lightly on his lap, and smiled at me. “That was ten years ago,” he said gently. “So you are older today and your body has changed. Everyone has physical limitations to overcome.”

“That’s all very well for you to say,” I replied. “If ever a man was born with natural ability as a martial artist, it is you.”

Bruce laughed. “I’m going to tell you something very few people know. I became a martial artist in spite of my limitations.”

I was shocked. In my view, Bruce was a perfect physical specimen and I said so.

“You probably are not aware of it,” he said, “but my right leg is almost one inch shorter than the left. That fact dictated the best stance for me—my left foot leading. Then I found that because the right leg was shorter, I had an advantage with certain types of kicks, since the uneven stomp gave me greater impetus.

“And I wear contact lenses. Since childhood I have been near-sighted, which meant that when I wasn’t wearing glasses, I had difficulty seeing an opponent when he wasn’t up close. I originally started to study wing-chun because it is an ideal technique for close-in fighting.

“I accepted my limitations for what they were and capitalized on them. And that’s what you must learn to do. You say you are unable to kick over your head without a long warm-up, but the real question is, is it really necessary to kick that high? The fact is that until recently, martial artists rarely kicked above knee height. Head-high kicks are mostly for show. So perfect your kicks at waist level and they will be so formidable you’ll never need to kick higher.

“Instead of trying to do everything well, do those things perfectly of which you are capable. Although most expert martial artists have spent years mastering hundreds of techniques and movements, in a bout, or kumite, a champion may actually use only four or five techniques over and over again. These are the techniques which he has perfected and which he knows he can depend on.“

I protested. “But the fact still remains that my real competition is the advancing years.”

“Stop comparing yourself at forty-five with the man you were at twenty or thirty,” Bruce answered. “The past is an illusion. You must learn to live in the present and accept yourself for what you are now. What you lack in flexibility and agility you must make up with knowledge and constant practice.”

For the next few months, instead of spending time trying to get limber enough to kick over my head, I worked on my waist-high kicks until they satisfied even Bruce.

Then one day late in 1965, he came by my house to say goodbye before leaving for Hong Kong where, he said, he intended to become the biggest star in films. “You remember our talk about limitations?” he asked. “Well, I’m limited by my size and difficulty in English and the fact that I’m Chinese, and there never has been a big Chinese star in American films. But I have spent the last three years studying movies, and I think the time is ripe for a good martial arts film—and I am the best qualified to star in it. My capabilities exceed my limitations.“

Bruce’s capabilities did in fact exceed his limitations and, until his youthful death, he was one of the biggest stars in films. His career was a perfect illustration of his teaching: As we discover and improve our strong points, they come to outweigh our weaknesses.

— Zen in the Martial Arts, Chapter6

Author’s emphases are in italics. Mine are in bold.

After a brief ritual salutation, Marangan’s student came at me. He was using two sticks, wielding them in a series of complex patterns that made it difficult to judge potential angles of attack. I engaged my opponent cautiously, then backed out of range again and again as I assessed his skills.

Most times in the Japanese arts, you’re going up against a single weapon. They have a preference in Japan for the commitment this engenders. But, of course, it also tends to create a flaw in your training. After all, the old samurai carried a long and a short sword. What if an opponent used them both?

There are varieties of double-handed weapon systems in the Japanese arts. Miyamoto Musashi was famous for his nito style, using long and short blades simultaneously. And you occasionally run up against people in a kendo dojo who use it today. As a matter of fact, Yamashita would sometimes insist that I watch these people and train with them. Not to adopt their style—”the road to perfection is steep enough carrying one weapon, I think, Professor”—but to learn how to combat it.

And what had I learned? Basically that if you’ve got one weapon and the other person has two, you’re in for a rough ride. And the only way to beat them is to use an attack that is so precise, well timed, and focused that it cuts through the cloud of uncertainty that the opponent has created. And that’s not even it. You have to feel the opponent’s pattern in your gut and then when it happens—if it happens—your response snaps out like an electric spark, almost independent of your control.

You just have to hope you don’t get pounded to death while you’re waiting for the spark.

— Tengu, Chapter 15

But too much thought is a danger. The masters say that it makes the mind “stick”; it creates gaps in your defense. There is a time for thought and reflection, and the practiced feel of a wooden weapon in my hand let me know that this was not the time or the place.

— Tengu, Chapter 15

Marangan called out to his students. They flocked around him and he singled one out. Marangan draped a hand over the younger man’s shoulders and gave him some instructions. The student wore track pants and a black T-shirt with a red insignia on the chest. They told me later it was a fighting cock, a pretty popular martial image in the Philippines.

I sized him up. He was about my size, which was good. In combat, the length of an opponent’s arms and legs can be critical. Unfortunately, he was probably ten or fifteen years younger than I was. You hate to admit it, but over thirty your body doesn’t work as well as you’d like and is more subject to injury. In purely physical terms, he was probably my match. So I’d have to use some finesse. Cunning was a technique not well appreciated by the young.

— Tengu, Chapter 15

My opponent was whipcord thin with angry eyes, a younger version of his master. It’s funny how we all tend to become copies of our teachers. I know guys in New York who have developed Japanese accents. I’m not sure how I’ve come to resemble my own sensei. I’m taller and thinner and stamped with the genetic markers of County Mayo. But sometimes in the mirror, I catch a glimpse of the same flat mask Yamashita wears—the expression that seems so neutral but hides the fact that you’re watching everything, analyzing angles and distances, and, in fact, seeing the universe as a series of fluid scenarios of attack and defense.

I wonder, sometimes, what it is I have become.

— Tengu, Chapter 15

Marangan led us out of the office and down the hall. Double doors were propped open to reveal a large, high-ceilinged place. There was a faded sign over the entrance that announced the Kapatiran Marangan Kali. I didn’t understand Tagalog, but I knew a training hall when I saw one.

These places are all different and all the same. Spaces empty of embellishment or ornamentation stripped down and filled with the smell of sweat and the lingering psychic charge of effort and adrenalin. A Japanese training hall may be matted or have a hardwood floor. There may be some weapon racks hugging a wall and a small Shinto shrine tucked into a corner. But those are the sorts of details only a novice focuses on. The real essence of these places is something more subtle.

Marangan’s training hall had a dingy floor and smudged gray walls. Wiry young men in black T-shirts and sneakers worked alone or together, some with rattan sticks, others using their hands and feet. The wooden floor thudded with their movements and the sticks filled the hall with clatter. If you listened, you could pick up the grunt of effort, the hiss of breath, the emotional give and take of attack and defense. It didn’t have the understated geometric precision of a Japanese dojo. But I knew this place….

— Tengu, Chapter 15

Emphasis mine.

“…Yamashita Sensei is a master of the sword and other arts,” [Ueda] began. But Marangan jumped in. If he were a cobra, his hood would have swelled out in excitement. “And you are his student,” he told me with a slight air of satisfaction. “Come to rescue your master.” He smiled then, and you saw that his teeth were crooked and stained and long like his face. “I honor you for the effort.” Marangan stood up. It was a smooth motion, like a spring uncoiling. “Perhaps you would be interested in my art as well.”

“We gotta waste time with this?” Micky hissed in my ear as we followed Marangan.

“Yeah,” I told him. “Shuddup.” I knew Marangan. I’ve spent most of my adult life with people like him. When he had described himself as a mandirigma—a warrior—it sounded a bit over the top. But people like him lose themselves in a world of their own making. It doesn’t matter whether the art deals with fists or feet or sticks or blades. The pursuit of the art takes hold of you if you do it long enough. It becomes in many ways a reality bigger than reality itself. Everything is judged in terms of it. Including people. Marangan would need to know how I fit in his world. It would tell him how far he could push me and how far I would push him back….

— Tengu, Chapter 15

Author’s emphases in italic. Mine are in bold.

Master Lo:

You have learned only half of what I teach, Jeff. You’re strong. You’re quick. But you’re only a tiger, not a dragon.

The tiger does not think, therefore it cannot act. It can only react, respond. The tiger is strong and fearless, but it cannot initiate action. That is the difference between man and tiger.

Jeff:

Tiger is what I know.

Master Lo:

The dragon is also very strong, but full of wisdom. The dragon fears what its strength can do….

The dragon always has a choice; the tiger, never. I have shown you the dragon, but you have not seen it….

— “The Perfect Weapon” (1991)

I stood in the middle of a circle of soldiers and I could smell the antagonism in the air. They eyed me stonily. I sighed. Teaching people is difficult enough. Teaching them when they don’t want to learn from you is even harder.

They were all sergeants of one type or another. Fit and hard. I knew from the briefing material I had gone over last night that they had all been through a prototype advanced unarmed combat course. They’d done Airborne and Ranger and Special Forces training. Some were just back from a tour in Iraq. Their body language clearly indicated that they didn’t think I had anything to tell them.

[Colonel] Ashby introduced me as Dr. Burke and started to give a quick synopsis of my expertise. It was standard stuff, the Ph.D. and books, the blackbelts I had earned. It was a miracle no one snickered out loud. I waved Ashby off and stood in the circle.

“I’m Connor Burke,” I said to them. I looked around the circle, taking in their faces, reading their stances and the different body shapes. “I think you’ve all done things I haven’t and have that knowledge I don’t.” You could see they liked that. We all want respect. “But,” I continued, “that cuts both ways. You guys work with a range of weapons. I work with blades and sticks and bare hands. For you, close combat is anything under three hundred meters. In all my fights, you can smell the opponent’s spit. So I can probably teach you some things as well.” But their eyes told me that they were still skeptical.

I thought about my brother Micky and the discussions we’d had over the years. Micky is a pragmatist. He’s suspicious of the exotic. It’s only in the last few years that he’s grudgingly admitted that Yamashita’s training isn’t an exercise in delusion. And I had to have the same sort of conversation with these people around me now, only it all had to be compressed into a few days.

“Look,” I continued, “I don’t break boards or claim I can levitate. I work in an old tradition that has much the same goal as yours.“

“What’s that?” a compact, swarthy soldier asked.

I smiled. “To locate, close with, and destroy the enemy.“

The soldier made a grimace that I think was a smile. “Fuckin’ A,” he said, and heads nodded. But they were still wary.

“The bottom line is that you’re professionals,” I continued. “It’s your responsibility to learn every possible thing that can help you in getting the job done and maybe help you stay alive. I’m here to see what I can contribute to your mission readiness.” The reading last night had come in handy. “Okay?” A few heads nodded. “Let’s see what you’ve got,” I told them, and the workout began.

I spent two whole days watching them move. All systems tend to emphasize a finite range of actions and techniques. It’s what creates stylistic patterns. Individual capacity and talent introduces minor quirks and variations as well. So I observed the training to see what areas were emphasized and what additional things they could benefit from.

No style is complete—the range of possible attack/response scenarios is infinite. And this sort of training was only part of what these soldiers were expected to do. They had focused on a general range of techniques and emphasized specific skills in hand to hand work. It made sense, in a way. Yamashita would have said that they were neglecting “basics,” but he’s also someone who believes it takes three years to teach students the correct way to grip the floor with their toes.

— Tengu, Chapter 9

Emphases mine.

Dojo is a word most martial arts students are familiar with, though many students erroneously associate it with the word school, as in high school or college. The dojo, however, is a place where only martial arts are taught and. strictly translated, it implies the instruction of only the “true Japanese martial arts” of Ken-Jutsu. Ju-Jutsu. and Kyu-Jutsu. It is more than a gymnasium or club; it is a cherished place of learning and brotherhood.

The Japanese use a broad interpretation of the word. To them, dojo is symbolic of the methodical, ideological, philosophical, and, most importantly, the spiritual aspects of the martial arts. Jujitsu involves more than physical techniques: it involves the molding of one’s character, the training of one’s mind, and—last, but not least—the developing of one’s body. The dojo’s foundation is based on the idea of virtue. Keep in mind that students of martial arts today are, in effect, the descendants of the samurai of yesteryear. Today’s students should work toward the propagation of the spirit of the Zen warrior, a spirit that encompasses more than an expert knowledge of lethal fighting techniques. It represents the attainment of a virtuous way of life where the main theme is the code of Bushido—The Way of the Warrior.

— Japan’s Ultimate Martial Art, Chapter 1

There is a major difference between a trick and a technique. A true technique involves the skillful execution of timing, balance, posture, coordination, and speed and will always work if properly executed. Its development and mastery depend entirely on your personal commitment to training. Jujitsu training requires practicing at the dojo at least twice—preferably three times—a week. But true training requires more than just practicing techniques at the dojo: it requires a change in one’s way of life. One must train oneself both physically and mentally. In Jujitsu, extreme mental discipline is both, a requirement and a result.

— Japan’s Ultimate Martial Art, Chapter 1

A former factory worker from the British Midlands may be the last living master of the centuries-old Sikh battlefield art of shastar vidya. The [44-year-old] father of four is now engaged in a full-time search for a successor.

The basis of shastar vidya, the “science of weapons” is a five-step movement: advance on the opponent, hit his flank, deflect incoming blows, take a commanding position and strike.

It was developed by Sikhs in the 17th Century [C.E.] as the young religion came under attack from hostile Muslim and Hindu neighbours, and has been known to a dwindling band since the British forced Sikhs to give up arms in the 19th Century….

On his first day of training [with his 80-plus-year-old master], the frail old man handed him a stick and instructed Mr. Singh to hit him. When he tried, the master threw him around like a rag doll.

“He was a frail old man chucking me about and I couldn’t touch him,” he says. “That definitely impressed me….”

But even his most advanced pupils have only recently reached the stage where they can fight him with weapons without getting hurt….

“It is not just martial technique, there is a lot of oral tradition and linguistic skills that has to be there as well,” he explains.

— The only living master of a dying martial art – BBC

[The protagonist is a trained swordsman staying in a city far from home. His sensei arranges for him to train at a local dojo. This is his first time there. As a “new student”, he is given a white belt to wear.]

…When the class was called to order, I made sure I sat at the end with the beginners. Everything in a traditional Japanese training hall is related to issues of rank: it conditions whom you bow to and how, the roles of people in paired exercises, and how you’re supposed to behave in general. Even the room is divided into spheres of higher and lower status. Higher ranks line up closest to the place of honor where the scroll hung. As sensei, Hasegawa would sit at that end. The line would stretch away from him, across the room, and as individual rank decreased, so your place in the line grew farther and farther away from the teacher.

I sat near the door, with the kids….

…The Hasegawa school was rooted in the traditions of judo and aikido. The advanced students worked with wooden swords and the short staff known as a jo. They handed me one of the staffs, which were made from white oak.

We moved through some basics, practicing movement and strikes in isolation. Then we progressed to paired techniques….

“Kata,” [the sensei] called. Kata are the formal practice routines of the old arts, choreographed actions developed from traditions where the slightest error with a weapon could maim your opponent. Some martial artists disdain kata. When done right, true kata practice can make the sweat stream off you and your hair stand on end.

In the paired exercises focusing on jo, the attacker uses a wooden sword and the defender wields a jo. There are twelve kata for jo, and they grow subtly more complex as you progress through them. As a junior ranked person in this school, I got to defend with the jo. I was looking about for a partner, when [Hasegawa sensei] slipped into place in front of me carrying a wooden sword. He grinned slightly as we bowed.

But when we came together, he was all business—focused, smooth, and lethal. We started with the kata called tsukizue. Hasegawa was holding back a bit, getting a feel for my skill level. As we advanced through each form, his movements grew crisper, harder, and faster. His eyes tightened in concentration as my response kept pace with the increasing intensity of his actions.

By the time we had finished the final kata called Ranai, we were both sweaty. We brought our weapons down and bowed formally to each other. The smile was back on his face. I glanced around me and noticed that the rest of the class had sat down to watch. Thinking back, I remember the fleeting impression that most other activity had stopped some time ago.

“Thank you, Sensei,” I said. “That was the sort of thing I needed.”

“My pleasure, Dr. Burke,” he said, and sounded like he meant it. He called the class to order and we began to line up for the formal bow that would end the session. I started to move down to the end of the line, but Hasegawa laid a gentle hand upon my arm.

“Oh, no.” He gestured beside him in the special spot reserved for teachers. “You sit beside me here….”

— Kage, Chapter 6

All the Mayhews’ guards were down now, but so were many of the assassins, and Honor and [her treecat] Nimitz were in among the others. She knew there were too many of them, yet she and Nimitz were all that was left, and they had to keep them bottled up in the entry alcove, away from the Protector and his family, as long as they could.

The killers had known she’d be here, but she was “only” a woman. They were totally unprepared for her size and strength—and training—or the mad whirl of violence that wasn’t a bit like it was on HD. Real martial arts aren’t like that. The first accurate strike to get through unblocked almost always ends in either death or disablement, and when Honor Harrington hit a man, that man went down.

— Honor of the Queen, Chapter 20

Seth:

We are…pilgrims on our way to worship at the Temple of Ar.

Dar:

I’ve never seen a…pilgrim…who could use a staff the way you did.

Seth:

Ah, but, sir! All pilgrims share a deep love of life—especially their own!

— “Beastmaster” (1982)