So I lost the nail of my right index finger. Not that this is terribly surprising. It got whallopped quite soundly by about ten pounds of metal. Fortunately, the X-rays showed no damage to the phalanges, so I'm all good. Broken fingers are no fun, and it really would've sucked to break one of 'em.
That's one of our riskier two-person fighting forms that we do. Spear vs. halberd is a challenge at the best of times, and there's a little less of a margin of error on that one. But I have it on reasonable authority that it looks pretty darn good.
We also do a less nerve-wracking fighting form where the worst-case scenario is a bad bruise. My buddy picks up a 6-foot long staff, I pick up a pair of 2-ish foot long clubs, and we try to beat each other to death with them.
Now let's take a minute to talk about these forms. Yes, they're choreographed and planned out (we do do free sparring with weapons, but that's neither here nor there), but that doesn't mean that it's not real. You screw up in these forms and you get clobbered. Yeah, you know what's coming, but we're not pulling our strikes, and I have the bruises to prove it. I came close to being knocked unconscious by my partner when I was a little slow on a block. My fault, really. And the bottom line is that if you can't accept the reality that you're going to pick up a few bruises doing this kind of activity, you probably shouldn't be doing it.
The form in question is a little more anxiety-causing than some others, at least for me, for one simple reason. Those clubs are short. If you want to strike at someone holding a long staff, you have to be well inside their strike range to be in any way effective. If you're not careful, a guy with a staff can knock your head off of your shoulders before you're able to close in enough to get on the offensive. So it's in your best interest to know where both ends of that staff are at any instant in time, and not be where they are.
Suffice it to say, you learn to read someone's body posture really fast. You learn to move quickly and keep light on your feet to avoid getting clocked. Trust me, even the light end of the staff to the head is no fun.
Now, while these forms are the ones which are most likely to cause injury, they're also the ones that you learn fastest. Getting clubbed in the ribs is often a strong motivator to not make that mistake next time.
Showing posts with label martial arts. Show all posts
Showing posts with label martial arts. Show all posts
Sunday, March 04, 2007
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
How much floor space does $300 of liquor take up?
So I got a few bottles of cognac today.
A few.
As in: three.
My Kung Fu master likes Cognac. And as a direct consequence of having met him, I've acquired a taste for it that I didn't possess before.
Anyhow, there's a big celebration and banquet coming up during which I happen to be one of three central figures. This is not a minor event, although very few people outside of thos who actually practice Kung Fu seem to realize just how non-minor it is. I'm being accepted as a disciple to an art which dates back 500 years. In short, it's been decided that I'm one day going to carry on the legacy and pass the knowledge I acquire on to someone else.
Yeah, this is a big deal.
So, traditionally, one gives the master a gift which he would enjoy. He has a great love of Cognac. Cognac, it turns out, is not cheap. Especially if you get very nice cognac. Cognac which has been aged many years to smooth it out; and if I'm going to be taught things that have only been taught to a select few throughout history, I'm not gonna cheap out on it.
Now, this cognac I got my hands on was not as expensive as some cognac out there (I saw a bottle which cost $7000), but it's not exactly a cheap acquisition, and it takes up less than a square foot of real estate on my floor.
Anyhow, I don't want to write about the price of cognac in Canada (title notwithstanding), but I guess I'm feeling a little introspective as the New Year has passed, and as I'm about to take a couple of big steps over the next few months. I'm becoming a disciple to a remarkable martial artist, I'm receiving my PhD. after four years of work. I'm taking my infinitely-better half to Europe for six weeks (a place neither of us has ever been). And throughout that time, I've had a constant companion in the martial arts.
I really wish I had the eloquence to explain what this means, but the truth is that I don't. The best way I know how is to say how it started.
Four years ago, I was in a bad place. Not that things weren't going well for me, mind you. I'd been accepted into a Master's program (the switch to PhD would come about a year later), my research was going well, but the bottom line is that I wasn't happy. A friendship had just ended under unpleasant circumstances, and I was dealing with it badly. I'm not generally prone to emotional outbursts, but frankly I spent about three months walking a very fine line between uncontrolled rage and deep depression. You'd be surprised how close together those two can be.
So I needed something to replace the hours that I was spending feeling sorry for myself. Hey, I'm not proud of it, but without going into detail (which I omit to protect the guilty), you can trust me that it warranted a little wallowing. I'd toyed with the idea of taking up a martial art before. I'd given Aikido a try while I was at UBish; a loooong time ago (picture a 12-year-old Drew in a white uniform and a green belt), I'd tried Tae Kwon Do; a mere few months before the events which lead up to this, I'd tried Kendo. All of which, it should be mentioned, are admirable martial arts. They just weren't for me. Tae Kwon Do, I'd done because I thought it was cool. Aikido, I took up because my significant other at the time had suggested it. Kendo, well, I don't know why I decided to try that one. It looked cool I guess.
The bottom line is that I was sick of feeling sorry for myself and decided I needed somewhere else to focus all that feeling-sorry-for-myself-energy, at least for a few months. Kung Fu seemed as good a place as any. One of the students I shared an office with ran a Kung Fu School; or rather he helped his brother run a Kung Fu school in his spare time, and three questions later, I was learning the White Tiger Style of Kung Fu, along with two buddies from High School.
My life improved rather sharply. I'm not sure to this day whether the two were related. But I was happier, I was healthier, I lost weight, and my endurance and strength increased beyond what I thought was possible. For the first time I could remember ever I realized that I could say that I was happy without a little voice in the back of my head saying no, you're not.
Some time after I came to that remarkable realization, I met April. To say that the two of us hit it right off would be both a cliche and an understatement. I'm not prone to romantic language, but in her I found a half of myself I didn't even realize was missing. Ugh, that sounds so... ugh. Not untrue, mind you. But... ugh.
Like I said, I'm feeling a little introspective, so bear with me.
So we're at now minus three years or so, and I'd been studying the White Tiger Style of Kung Fu for about eight months. I was learning a lot. I ascended quickly to the Blue sash level, and was working on the Green Sash forms and techniques. I managed to pass my test for the Blue sash while doped up on decongestants. An accomplishment I'm actually kinda proud of to this day. It had taken me almost two years to get to that point. I wasn't an asskicker by any description of the term, but I had learned a lot in those two years.
And somewhere in there, the completely unexpected happened. Suddenly, Kung Fu wasn't a crutch anymore. It wasn't something I did to smooth the wrinkles of my life. It wasn't something that made my life easier. It was just something that was there. It was something that just felt right. Like it belonged in that one spot in my life. Like it had always been there.
Keep in mind, when I'd started, I'd intended to keep with it for a few months at most. Now I was going on two years.
October, 2005.
The White Tiger school my two companions and I had been studying at was closing its doors. The young man I'd studied under directed me at a Grand Master of a different, but related style of Kung Fu, and that's where my pursuit of Bak Mei began.
I'm not going to go so far as to claim that it was a moment that changed my life, but I will say that it was a moment that I still use to describe it. It was one of those moments where we describe all the others as "before this," and "after this." This was one of those moments. I started learning this style of Kung fu in a cold basement in the middle of Chinatown. A tiny little building that I'd never have noticed if not for the fact that I needed to climb down into the basement three times a week to learn a style of Kung Fu that I'd never even heard of a month ago. I know, it's weird when I put it that way, but the fact is that for the last almost-three years, Bak Mei has been a dominant positive force in my life.
And I learned. Under the steady tutelage of a Chinese Grand Master and his two existing disciples, I learned the art. I learned to Lion Dance. I Taoist philosophy and somewhere, something was unlocked. Another piece of me that I didn't even realize was missing was added, and suddenly I found myself wondering how I ever managed without it.
Again, I draw your attention to my lack of eloquence. I don't want to say this sounding as if Kung Fu was just a crutch for me. The best way I can put it is that it's part of me. It isn't something I do anymore. It's part of who I am.
On March 10th, I take another step. I'm taking it with the same two companions that have been with me since the beginning. The people who shared the same journey. I'm taking it with April, and I take it surrounded by other students and by the man who got me started on it all.
There are worse ways to spend an evening.
A few.
As in: three.
My Kung Fu master likes Cognac. And as a direct consequence of having met him, I've acquired a taste for it that I didn't possess before.
Anyhow, there's a big celebration and banquet coming up during which I happen to be one of three central figures. This is not a minor event, although very few people outside of thos who actually practice Kung Fu seem to realize just how non-minor it is. I'm being accepted as a disciple to an art which dates back 500 years. In short, it's been decided that I'm one day going to carry on the legacy and pass the knowledge I acquire on to someone else.
Yeah, this is a big deal.
So, traditionally, one gives the master a gift which he would enjoy. He has a great love of Cognac. Cognac, it turns out, is not cheap. Especially if you get very nice cognac. Cognac which has been aged many years to smooth it out; and if I'm going to be taught things that have only been taught to a select few throughout history, I'm not gonna cheap out on it.
Now, this cognac I got my hands on was not as expensive as some cognac out there (I saw a bottle which cost $7000), but it's not exactly a cheap acquisition, and it takes up less than a square foot of real estate on my floor.
Anyhow, I don't want to write about the price of cognac in Canada (title notwithstanding), but I guess I'm feeling a little introspective as the New Year has passed, and as I'm about to take a couple of big steps over the next few months. I'm becoming a disciple to a remarkable martial artist, I'm receiving my PhD. after four years of work. I'm taking my infinitely-better half to Europe for six weeks (a place neither of us has ever been). And throughout that time, I've had a constant companion in the martial arts.
I really wish I had the eloquence to explain what this means, but the truth is that I don't. The best way I know how is to say how it started.
Four years ago, I was in a bad place. Not that things weren't going well for me, mind you. I'd been accepted into a Master's program (the switch to PhD would come about a year later), my research was going well, but the bottom line is that I wasn't happy. A friendship had just ended under unpleasant circumstances, and I was dealing with it badly. I'm not generally prone to emotional outbursts, but frankly I spent about three months walking a very fine line between uncontrolled rage and deep depression. You'd be surprised how close together those two can be.
So I needed something to replace the hours that I was spending feeling sorry for myself. Hey, I'm not proud of it, but without going into detail (which I omit to protect the guilty), you can trust me that it warranted a little wallowing. I'd toyed with the idea of taking up a martial art before. I'd given Aikido a try while I was at UBish; a loooong time ago (picture a 12-year-old Drew in a white uniform and a green belt), I'd tried Tae Kwon Do; a mere few months before the events which lead up to this, I'd tried Kendo. All of which, it should be mentioned, are admirable martial arts. They just weren't for me. Tae Kwon Do, I'd done because I thought it was cool. Aikido, I took up because my significant other at the time had suggested it. Kendo, well, I don't know why I decided to try that one. It looked cool I guess.
The bottom line is that I was sick of feeling sorry for myself and decided I needed somewhere else to focus all that feeling-sorry-for-myself-energy, at least for a few months. Kung Fu seemed as good a place as any. One of the students I shared an office with ran a Kung Fu School; or rather he helped his brother run a Kung Fu school in his spare time, and three questions later, I was learning the White Tiger Style of Kung Fu, along with two buddies from High School.
My life improved rather sharply. I'm not sure to this day whether the two were related. But I was happier, I was healthier, I lost weight, and my endurance and strength increased beyond what I thought was possible. For the first time I could remember ever I realized that I could say that I was happy without a little voice in the back of my head saying no, you're not.
Some time after I came to that remarkable realization, I met April. To say that the two of us hit it right off would be both a cliche and an understatement. I'm not prone to romantic language, but in her I found a half of myself I didn't even realize was missing. Ugh, that sounds so... ugh. Not untrue, mind you. But... ugh.
Like I said, I'm feeling a little introspective, so bear with me.
So we're at now minus three years or so, and I'd been studying the White Tiger Style of Kung Fu for about eight months. I was learning a lot. I ascended quickly to the Blue sash level, and was working on the Green Sash forms and techniques. I managed to pass my test for the Blue sash while doped up on decongestants. An accomplishment I'm actually kinda proud of to this day. It had taken me almost two years to get to that point. I wasn't an asskicker by any description of the term, but I had learned a lot in those two years.
And somewhere in there, the completely unexpected happened. Suddenly, Kung Fu wasn't a crutch anymore. It wasn't something I did to smooth the wrinkles of my life. It wasn't something that made my life easier. It was just something that was there. It was something that just felt right. Like it belonged in that one spot in my life. Like it had always been there.
Keep in mind, when I'd started, I'd intended to keep with it for a few months at most. Now I was going on two years.
October, 2005.
The White Tiger school my two companions and I had been studying at was closing its doors. The young man I'd studied under directed me at a Grand Master of a different, but related style of Kung Fu, and that's where my pursuit of Bak Mei began.
I'm not going to go so far as to claim that it was a moment that changed my life, but I will say that it was a moment that I still use to describe it. It was one of those moments where we describe all the others as "before this," and "after this." This was one of those moments. I started learning this style of Kung fu in a cold basement in the middle of Chinatown. A tiny little building that I'd never have noticed if not for the fact that I needed to climb down into the basement three times a week to learn a style of Kung Fu that I'd never even heard of a month ago. I know, it's weird when I put it that way, but the fact is that for the last almost-three years, Bak Mei has been a dominant positive force in my life.
And I learned. Under the steady tutelage of a Chinese Grand Master and his two existing disciples, I learned the art. I learned to Lion Dance. I Taoist philosophy and somewhere, something was unlocked. Another piece of me that I didn't even realize was missing was added, and suddenly I found myself wondering how I ever managed without it.
Again, I draw your attention to my lack of eloquence. I don't want to say this sounding as if Kung Fu was just a crutch for me. The best way I can put it is that it's part of me. It isn't something I do anymore. It's part of who I am.
On March 10th, I take another step. I'm taking it with the same two companions that have been with me since the beginning. The people who shared the same journey. I'm taking it with April, and I take it surrounded by other students and by the man who got me started on it all.
There are worse ways to spend an evening.
Thursday, February 15, 2007
Some things you have to be nuts to even try
Okay, so there are people out there who have very well-established comfort zones. Some have them so well-established that any attempt to step outside that comfort zone freaks them out, whether it's them stepping out of it, or someone else. Some people, for example, say that I'm completely nuts to go camping in the backcountry every so often when I have a perfectly nice house right here. It's not exactly an untenable position. Granted, they may be missing the point of going into the backcountry in the first place, but their point is nevertheless a valid one.
My comfort zone tends to be a little bit on the wider side. I like being in the middle of nowhere for days on end. I routinely face off with a guy who's bigger and stronger than me and end up getting pretty badly bruised for it.
So me and one of my long-time martial arts partners have taken it upon ourselves to learn a form which involves duking it out with shiny, pointy weapons, and trying not to kill each other in the process. I arm myself with a Chinese eagle spear, he arms himself with a nine-ringed halberd, and we promptly attempt to kill each other with them.
Okay, it's not as crazy as it sounds.
The halberd is made out of steel and is methodically hacked at my feet, my head, and my chest throughout the form. In return, I jab my spear, methodically, at his head, chest and feet. Each time, we duck, dodge, or move out of the way of the offending weapon before it has a chance to skewer or clobber us.
Again, let me emphasize my previous "not as crazy as it sounds" dictum.
It should be mentioned that the spear is blunted (it looks sharp, but it really isn't), and the halberd is unsharpened (pointy and heavy, but not sharp); but even these can do a lot of damage if they hit you hard enough. The halberd (the heavy metal end of which is repeatedly swung at my head) weighs in at about 10 lbs, give or take a little.
For those of you who haven't figured it out yet, that's enough to leave a substantial bruise, or crush a finger quite nicely if it should happen to hit one.
I think you can see where this is going.
Making a long story short (which is actually kinda a necessity, since I'm trying to type this without use of my right index finger), my right index finger is now in a splint. They haven't x-rayed it, but at the very least, it needs to be immobilized until the swelling goes down.
The fact that a blunt weapon managed to draw a not insubstantial amount of blood should probably tell you something.
So, we'll see how long this takes to heal. Fortunately, I'm still able to do the lion dances over Chinese new year, but I don't know how functional my right hand is going to be for martial arts demonstrations.
Stay tuned.
My comfort zone tends to be a little bit on the wider side. I like being in the middle of nowhere for days on end. I routinely face off with a guy who's bigger and stronger than me and end up getting pretty badly bruised for it.
So me and one of my long-time martial arts partners have taken it upon ourselves to learn a form which involves duking it out with shiny, pointy weapons, and trying not to kill each other in the process. I arm myself with a Chinese eagle spear, he arms himself with a nine-ringed halberd, and we promptly attempt to kill each other with them.
Okay, it's not as crazy as it sounds.
The halberd is made out of steel and is methodically hacked at my feet, my head, and my chest throughout the form. In return, I jab my spear, methodically, at his head, chest and feet. Each time, we duck, dodge, or move out of the way of the offending weapon before it has a chance to skewer or clobber us.
Again, let me emphasize my previous "not as crazy as it sounds" dictum.
It should be mentioned that the spear is blunted (it looks sharp, but it really isn't), and the halberd is unsharpened (pointy and heavy, but not sharp); but even these can do a lot of damage if they hit you hard enough. The halberd (the heavy metal end of which is repeatedly swung at my head) weighs in at about 10 lbs, give or take a little.
For those of you who haven't figured it out yet, that's enough to leave a substantial bruise, or crush a finger quite nicely if it should happen to hit one.
I think you can see where this is going.
Making a long story short (which is actually kinda a necessity, since I'm trying to type this without use of my right index finger), my right index finger is now in a splint. They haven't x-rayed it, but at the very least, it needs to be immobilized until the swelling goes down.
The fact that a blunt weapon managed to draw a not insubstantial amount of blood should probably tell you something.
So, we'll see how long this takes to heal. Fortunately, I'm still able to do the lion dances over Chinese new year, but I don't know how functional my right hand is going to be for martial arts demonstrations.
Stay tuned.
Wednesday, March 15, 2006
Requiem for a Stick
So my stick died on Sunday night. Either I have a s*itload of power or the structure had been severely compromised. It was probably a little bit of both.
My staff (studiously dubbed Trembling Ram) snapped just past the halfway point; leaving two pieces where once there was one.
Oh well, I got a lot of decent life out of that staff. We had an understanding going. It didn't bean me over the head (much); I didn't break it into tiny pieces and use it for firewood. You could call it a truce, I suppose.
I'd worked so heavily with that staff that I knew its center of balance to a millimeter. I knew how it felt in my hands, how it moved, how it felt hitting another person's staff in the fighting forms... I knew that staff.
So now I guess I'm going to have to spend time "re-educating" another one.
So I'm in the market for a new stick. If I'd been thinking straight, I would've bought one while I was in Vancouver. There's a really good store there that sells White Wax Wood staffs at good prices, and I wouldn't have had to pay shipping. Fortunately, my Martial Arts school gets a discount on equipment they buy; be it weapons, uniforms, or sparring equipment; so I'll probably get a decent price for it. Maybe cheaper shipping, or something.
I might actually get two staffs. One out of waxwood for my solo forms (because chinese white waxwood looks so cool when you burn it and use it in solo forms. A second out of iron wood for fighting forms because it's heavier and tougher.
Now I have to go and come up with two new names.
Dammit.
My staff (studiously dubbed Trembling Ram) snapped just past the halfway point; leaving two pieces where once there was one.
Oh well, I got a lot of decent life out of that staff. We had an understanding going. It didn't bean me over the head (much); I didn't break it into tiny pieces and use it for firewood. You could call it a truce, I suppose.
I'd worked so heavily with that staff that I knew its center of balance to a millimeter. I knew how it felt in my hands, how it moved, how it felt hitting another person's staff in the fighting forms... I knew that staff.
So now I guess I'm going to have to spend time "re-educating" another one.
So I'm in the market for a new stick. If I'd been thinking straight, I would've bought one while I was in Vancouver. There's a really good store there that sells White Wax Wood staffs at good prices, and I wouldn't have had to pay shipping. Fortunately, my Martial Arts school gets a discount on equipment they buy; be it weapons, uniforms, or sparring equipment; so I'll probably get a decent price for it. Maybe cheaper shipping, or something.
I might actually get two staffs. One out of waxwood for my solo forms (because chinese white waxwood looks so cool when you burn it and use it in solo forms. A second out of iron wood for fighting forms because it's heavier and tougher.
Now I have to go and come up with two new names.
Dammit.
Tuesday, March 14, 2006
Don't trust your eyes.
Riddle me this....
So I made the rather surprising discovery during a sparring session last night that I apparently spar better blindfolded than I do when I can see.
This, I have to admit, is something I'm at a complete loss to explain.
Actually, I can't even fully explain what possessed me to try it in the first place. I was sparring with an opponent of roughly-equal skill and getting my ass rather thoroughly pounded. So I decided that I'd see what happened when I closed my eyes. I mean, I figured it was pretty much impossible for me to get my ass kicked any worse, right?
Well, surprisingly enough, when sparring against a sighted opponent, I performed vastly better when I'd blinded myself. As my partner put it: it was as if I'd left the room and had been replaced by an identical twin who actually knew what he was doing.
Yeah, I'm at a complete loss to explain this one.
--Drew
So I made the rather surprising discovery during a sparring session last night that I apparently spar better blindfolded than I do when I can see.
This, I have to admit, is something I'm at a complete loss to explain.
Actually, I can't even fully explain what possessed me to try it in the first place. I was sparring with an opponent of roughly-equal skill and getting my ass rather thoroughly pounded. So I decided that I'd see what happened when I closed my eyes. I mean, I figured it was pretty much impossible for me to get my ass kicked any worse, right?
Well, surprisingly enough, when sparring against a sighted opponent, I performed vastly better when I'd blinded myself. As my partner put it: it was as if I'd left the room and had been replaced by an identical twin who actually knew what he was doing.
Yeah, I'm at a complete loss to explain this one.
--Drew
Sunday, January 08, 2006
Am I gettin' old or something?
So I made it back to Calgary, and in a move of incredible idiocy, I decided to start Kung Fu-ing right away.
Turns out that my body isn't gonna let me get away with that. It turns out that taking three weeks and not doing any physical activity means that I can't just jump straight back into it.
So I'm very, very sore right now.
The thing that bugs me about this is that when I was 18, I probably could've got away with it. I'm not saying that I wouldn't have hurt, but at least I wouldn't be unable to move.
And, no, I'm not exaggerating. It literally took me twenty minutes just to get myself out of bed this morning, and another five to make my way across my room to the computer so that I could type this.
On the plus side, my fingers don't seem to be hurting that much, so typing isn't that high on the torture scale. I do have a few muscles that aren't kiling me. Unfortunately, they aren't located in my back, shoulders, legs, arms, feet, neck or face. Dammit.
Okay. Need to go eat something, then lie down. I hurt.
Turns out that my body isn't gonna let me get away with that. It turns out that taking three weeks and not doing any physical activity means that I can't just jump straight back into it.
So I'm very, very sore right now.
The thing that bugs me about this is that when I was 18, I probably could've got away with it. I'm not saying that I wouldn't have hurt, but at least I wouldn't be unable to move.
And, no, I'm not exaggerating. It literally took me twenty minutes just to get myself out of bed this morning, and another five to make my way across my room to the computer so that I could type this.
On the plus side, my fingers don't seem to be hurting that much, so typing isn't that high on the torture scale. I do have a few muscles that aren't kiling me. Unfortunately, they aren't located in my back, shoulders, legs, arms, feet, neck or face. Dammit.
Okay. Need to go eat something, then lie down. I hurt.
Wednesday, June 29, 2005
Sometimes I wonder if your average turnip could outsmart me.
I'm not dumb. At least I don't think I am. I'd like to think I have at least average intellect. I'm not saying I'm a genius either, because let's face it, I'm not.
What I do have is a complete lack of anything that could even remotely be described as common sense.
My Kung Fu school is giving a huge Bak Mei demonstration on Friday in Medicine Hat. Being the enthusiastic martial artist that I happen to be, I decided that I'd do a few demonstrations. Four of them, in fact. Two empty hand fist forms, a staff form, and a two-man fighting staff demo. This doesn't sound like much, but the two fist forms are the longest in the style (and at full-force, they're somewhat exhausting); I hate staff forms with a passion; and the two-man fighting staff demo involves having a huge guy named Tom try to beat me to death with a stick. And that one's going to be performed last, so I'm gonna be exhaused, and Tom's still gonna be trying to beat me to death with a stick.
And all that doesn't include the Lion dance I'm doing before the Kung Fu demo.
No, I take it back, I am dumb.
Note to self: obtain defibrilator before demo on Friday....
What I do have is a complete lack of anything that could even remotely be described as common sense.
My Kung Fu school is giving a huge Bak Mei demonstration on Friday in Medicine Hat. Being the enthusiastic martial artist that I happen to be, I decided that I'd do a few demonstrations. Four of them, in fact. Two empty hand fist forms, a staff form, and a two-man fighting staff demo. This doesn't sound like much, but the two fist forms are the longest in the style (and at full-force, they're somewhat exhausting); I hate staff forms with a passion; and the two-man fighting staff demo involves having a huge guy named Tom try to beat me to death with a stick. And that one's going to be performed last, so I'm gonna be exhaused, and Tom's still gonna be trying to beat me to death with a stick.
And all that doesn't include the Lion dance I'm doing before the Kung Fu demo.
No, I take it back, I am dumb.
Note to self: obtain defibrilator before demo on Friday....
Tuesday, June 07, 2005
Be Water.
Bruce Lee, in an interview not long before his untimely death, offered the following dictum:
Empty your mind: be like water. Put water in the cup, it becomes the cup; put water in a bottle, it becomes the bottle; put water in a teapot, it becomes the teapot. Water can flow, or it can crash; it is formless, so it assumes all forms. It's simple, direct, and free.
Be water, my friend.
And that is the sum of my available wisdom for today.
Empty your mind: be like water. Put water in the cup, it becomes the cup; put water in a bottle, it becomes the bottle; put water in a teapot, it becomes the teapot. Water can flow, or it can crash; it is formless, so it assumes all forms. It's simple, direct, and free.
Be water, my friend.
And that is the sum of my available wisdom for today.
Tuesday, May 31, 2005
The difference between.....
There's a fundamental difference, I realized last night, between showing an art, and marketing it.
And make no mistake about this one, there's a reason why they're called the martial arts. How someone can watch our SiFu go through one of his weapons forms and not describe it as an art form is beyond me. It's like a dance. Poetry in motion.
But that's not what I want to talk about, really.
We did a Kung Fu demonstration last night at the Devonian Gardens in Calgary. Lots and lots of fun was had, and we had a great opportunity to show the art.
We were not, however, the only martial arts group there. One of the local Hap Ki Do schools was also doing a demonstration, so we got to see a little bit of their show.
Now, don't get me wrong, these people (a lot of young kids in their group, by the way; they looked to have an average age of about 16) were remarkable athletes; but somewhere along the line they'd lost the art, and were basically trying to sell it to the people watching. Flashy music, staged fight sequences, kicking demonstrations; all very impressive looking, but at the end of the day, that's not what the art is about.
Now, granted, when we demonstrate our forms, we do have Chinese drums, gongs, and cymbals playing; but that's because that's how it's traditionally done. I think it has something to do with the idea that if you can focus enough to do your form with a really loud racket distracting you (and believe me, those drums can be pretty damned distracting), you can use these skills when you need them. Or at least, that's the explanation that makes the most sense to me; I mean there has to be some reason it's been done that way for 500 years. The bottom line is that we were showing what the art is. We weren't trying to sell it. If people approached us afterwards, we had some business cards to offer them, whereas the other school had pamphlets that they handed out to every one in attendance. We took this opportunity to show our skills, they took it to sell their school.
Of course, I commented to my Daai Si Ying that I felt horribly undisciplined as I watched these 16-year-olds going through their warmup in perfect unison. We, by contrast, were sitting on the bench he was about to use to break some rocks, leaning casually against the railing behind us. Some of our school was out there doing some situps, doing an impromptu warmup, or running through a form. Every once in a while one of our school members would smack another and they'd start sparring; but really, there was no real rhyme or reason to it. They had sixteen students there, standing in a perfect 4 x 4 square, throwing a series of punches in perfect unison; doing a series of push-ups and sit-ups on one count, throwing a series of kicks right together.
Yeah, we don't do that.
But it works just fine for us.
And make no mistake about this one, there's a reason why they're called the martial arts. How someone can watch our SiFu go through one of his weapons forms and not describe it as an art form is beyond me. It's like a dance. Poetry in motion.
But that's not what I want to talk about, really.
We did a Kung Fu demonstration last night at the Devonian Gardens in Calgary. Lots and lots of fun was had, and we had a great opportunity to show the art.
We were not, however, the only martial arts group there. One of the local Hap Ki Do schools was also doing a demonstration, so we got to see a little bit of their show.
Now, don't get me wrong, these people (a lot of young kids in their group, by the way; they looked to have an average age of about 16) were remarkable athletes; but somewhere along the line they'd lost the art, and were basically trying to sell it to the people watching. Flashy music, staged fight sequences, kicking demonstrations; all very impressive looking, but at the end of the day, that's not what the art is about.
Now, granted, when we demonstrate our forms, we do have Chinese drums, gongs, and cymbals playing; but that's because that's how it's traditionally done. I think it has something to do with the idea that if you can focus enough to do your form with a really loud racket distracting you (and believe me, those drums can be pretty damned distracting), you can use these skills when you need them. Or at least, that's the explanation that makes the most sense to me; I mean there has to be some reason it's been done that way for 500 years. The bottom line is that we were showing what the art is. We weren't trying to sell it. If people approached us afterwards, we had some business cards to offer them, whereas the other school had pamphlets that they handed out to every one in attendance. We took this opportunity to show our skills, they took it to sell their school.
Of course, I commented to my Daai Si Ying that I felt horribly undisciplined as I watched these 16-year-olds going through their warmup in perfect unison. We, by contrast, were sitting on the bench he was about to use to break some rocks, leaning casually against the railing behind us. Some of our school was out there doing some situps, doing an impromptu warmup, or running through a form. Every once in a while one of our school members would smack another and they'd start sparring; but really, there was no real rhyme or reason to it. They had sixteen students there, standing in a perfect 4 x 4 square, throwing a series of punches in perfect unison; doing a series of push-ups and sit-ups on one count, throwing a series of kicks right together.
Yeah, we don't do that.
But it works just fine for us.
Monday, May 30, 2005
A world of hurt.
I've been taking Kung Fu now for about two years; and that's a pretty hefty workout regimen. Three nights a week, I spend three hours working out with the school; on nights when I'm not in the school, I spend an hour working out alone (beating the snot out of a heavy bag, practicing forms, etc.); and as if all that wasn't enough, a buddy of mine comes over once a week and we spar for about an hour.
Suffice it to say that until this weekend, I thought I had a reasonable idea of what pain is.
My mistake.
My Daai Si Ying brought some of his best and brightest (and me) in for a private lesson on Sunday wherein we learned some of the deeper secrets of Kung Fu; and believe me, there is quite a bit of depth there. The great thing about this is you learn so much by doing it; the unfortunate thing is that you come to realize just how much you don't know.
Suffice it to say that in terms of workout intensity, this we're sitting in an entirely new ballpark.
In hindsight, it probably wasn't the smartest idea for me to do a long day hike (a little over 13 km) the day before, followed by a three-hour Kung Fu class that night, followed by a three-hour private session the following morning.
In short, I hurt. A lot.
Suffice it to say that until this weekend, I thought I had a reasonable idea of what pain is.
My mistake.
My Daai Si Ying brought some of his best and brightest (and me) in for a private lesson on Sunday wherein we learned some of the deeper secrets of Kung Fu; and believe me, there is quite a bit of depth there. The great thing about this is you learn so much by doing it; the unfortunate thing is that you come to realize just how much you don't know.
Suffice it to say that in terms of workout intensity, this we're sitting in an entirely new ballpark.
In hindsight, it probably wasn't the smartest idea for me to do a long day hike (a little over 13 km) the day before, followed by a three-hour Kung Fu class that night, followed by a three-hour private session the following morning.
In short, I hurt. A lot.
Saturday, April 23, 2005
Huge Guys with Hard Elbows
I hurt.
I just ate, both literally and figuratively, an elbow.
This would not be much of an issue if the other end of said elbow were not connected to a man who weighs approximately 320 lbs. And no, I'm not exaggerating. If anything, I'm actually underestimating the guy's weight. He's fricking huge.
There's a difference between sparring and flailing. Sparring is an exercise. The purpose of the exercise is to learn improvisation; to react to your opponent and respond. The object is not to hurt your opponent. Sometimes accidents happen, someone gets smacked in the face or whatever; but for the most part, it's bloodless. Flailing is a very different exercise. You swing wildly not giving a flying, um, darn what you hit, if you hit, or how hard you hit. This guy was deeply in the latter category. We're also very careful in how we use elbows; largly because they can be absolutely devastating weapons. Hit someone with an elbow and you can do everything from winding them slightly, to breaking an arm, to cracking some ribs to breaking a nose or a neck. And it's a very difficult weapon to moderate. There is very little difference between the force required to snap someone's head upwards, and the force necessary to break their neck. So, no elbows, as a general rule; until you get really good.
My opponent in this particular case was not that good; he just thinks he is. It's a damn good thing my reflexes are good. I jerked my head back about six inches just before he hit. If I hadn't; I probably would be in the market for some replacement teeth. As it was, he probably hit me hard enough to break my nose, but since he didn't actually hit my nose, that was a non-issue. He hit my two front teeth pretty hard, not hard enough to knock 'em out, but hard enough to make 'em hurt a bit. My lower lip got cut up pretty badly. I think I bit down on it.
As it is, yeah, I hurt. My jaw feels like someone took a sledgehammer to it, my lower lip has started swelling. I don't remember it, but apparently as soon as I got hit, I dropped like a stone. My Daai Si Ying thought that I'd suffered an anneurism or something. I don't think I blacked out or anything, I think my head just got a little knocked around. Tom, our resident med tech agreed with that assessment. My pupils were a bit dilated and I was having a little trouble tracking his finger when he moved it around. That improved after about 20 minutes, a little water, and sitting out for a bit.
At any rate, Daai Si Ying was decidedly unimpressed at the other guy and decided to teach him control.
I'm not a violent guy by nature, but I have to admit that watching my former opponent get the crap pummeled out of him was immensely satisfying.
I just ate, both literally and figuratively, an elbow.
This would not be much of an issue if the other end of said elbow were not connected to a man who weighs approximately 320 lbs. And no, I'm not exaggerating. If anything, I'm actually underestimating the guy's weight. He's fricking huge.
There's a difference between sparring and flailing. Sparring is an exercise. The purpose of the exercise is to learn improvisation; to react to your opponent and respond. The object is not to hurt your opponent. Sometimes accidents happen, someone gets smacked in the face or whatever; but for the most part, it's bloodless. Flailing is a very different exercise. You swing wildly not giving a flying, um, darn what you hit, if you hit, or how hard you hit. This guy was deeply in the latter category. We're also very careful in how we use elbows; largly because they can be absolutely devastating weapons. Hit someone with an elbow and you can do everything from winding them slightly, to breaking an arm, to cracking some ribs to breaking a nose or a neck. And it's a very difficult weapon to moderate. There is very little difference between the force required to snap someone's head upwards, and the force necessary to break their neck. So, no elbows, as a general rule; until you get really good.
My opponent in this particular case was not that good; he just thinks he is. It's a damn good thing my reflexes are good. I jerked my head back about six inches just before he hit. If I hadn't; I probably would be in the market for some replacement teeth. As it was, he probably hit me hard enough to break my nose, but since he didn't actually hit my nose, that was a non-issue. He hit my two front teeth pretty hard, not hard enough to knock 'em out, but hard enough to make 'em hurt a bit. My lower lip got cut up pretty badly. I think I bit down on it.
As it is, yeah, I hurt. My jaw feels like someone took a sledgehammer to it, my lower lip has started swelling. I don't remember it, but apparently as soon as I got hit, I dropped like a stone. My Daai Si Ying thought that I'd suffered an anneurism or something. I don't think I blacked out or anything, I think my head just got a little knocked around. Tom, our resident med tech agreed with that assessment. My pupils were a bit dilated and I was having a little trouble tracking his finger when he moved it around. That improved after about 20 minutes, a little water, and sitting out for a bit.
At any rate, Daai Si Ying was decidedly unimpressed at the other guy and decided to teach him control.
I'm not a violent guy by nature, but I have to admit that watching my former opponent get the crap pummeled out of him was immensely satisfying.
Trembling Ram
Stick, I dub thee Trembling Ram.
So my Daai Si Ying suggested the name "Trembling Ram" for my staff. It actually sounds quite a bit cooler in Cantonese, but I can't remember it at the moment, so I'll have to ask him what that translates into. Again.
Anyhow, I the basis of the name is the fact that I was born in the year of the ram. In Chinese astrology, Rams are supposedly timid by nature. Sometimes clumsy in speech, they are always passionate about what they do and what they believe in. Ram people never have to worry about having the best in life for their abilities make money for them, and they are able to enjoy the creature comforts that they like. Ram people are wise, gentle, and compassionate.
Sounds like me. My element is Earth, so here's some material my Daai Si Ying gave me, transcribed here verbatim.
Frankly, I don't know if there's anything to all of this or not, but I gotta admit that that's not too bad a description of yours truly.
Besides which, it sounds cool in cantonese.
Just wish I could remember it.
So my Daai Si Ying suggested the name "Trembling Ram" for my staff. It actually sounds quite a bit cooler in Cantonese, but I can't remember it at the moment, so I'll have to ask him what that translates into. Again.
Anyhow, I the basis of the name is the fact that I was born in the year of the ram. In Chinese astrology, Rams are supposedly timid by nature. Sometimes clumsy in speech, they are always passionate about what they do and what they believe in. Ram people never have to worry about having the best in life for their abilities make money for them, and they are able to enjoy the creature comforts that they like. Ram people are wise, gentle, and compassionate.
Sounds like me. My element is Earth, so here's some material my Daai Si Ying gave me, transcribed here verbatim.
This is type of Ram is optimistic and more self-reliant. In spite of his strong attachments to the domestic scene and devoted loyalty to family members, he will still try to maintain a certain degree of independence.
Earth as his element makes him conservative and careful. He won't like to waste money but he won't be counting the pennies either. But being a Ram, he will still find it difficult to deny himself. What may appear as luxuries to other people will be bare necessities to him.
However, just as he plays hard, the Earth Ram will work hard. He can take his responsibilities seriously and will go out of his way to help his friends. It is unlikely that he will ever turn his back on someone in trouble.
Although he may be more adept at concealing his emotions, this particular Ram is also prone to being neurotic and ultradefensive when criticized.
Frankly, I don't know if there's anything to all of this or not, but I gotta admit that that's not too bad a description of yours truly.
Besides which, it sounds cool in cantonese.
Just wish I could remember it.
Wednesday, April 20, 2005
More Stick stuff.
My stick got put through its paces last night.
Holy crap did it ever. We spent the night learning a two-man fighting staff form. We learned the whole thing in one night. Lots of fun; but holy crap was it an intimidating activity. The fact of the matter is that with a fighting form; whether it's two-person staff, two-person empty-hand, two person staff vs. bench or crutches vs. bench, or two person weapon vs. empty hand; if you screw up, you get hit. No punches are pulled, so if you get hit, you get hit hard. About two months ago, I got a nasty whack across my right eyebrow. I had a pretty ugly black eye for a while; and my right eyebrow was split; but I definitely learned not to screw up that part of the form again.
I also learned how to suture myself up; which, believe it or not, is actualy pretty hard when you're doing it by looking in a hand mirror. I didn't even get a scar from it (well, I did, but it was super-tiny; my eyebrow hides it).
Anyhow, as those who have been reading previous postings have read; I now have a stick of my own. A nice, white waxwood staff. Light, springy; and, as it turns out, strong.
This thing has a thickness of about an inch at its widest point; and it didn't even twitch at some of the more nasty blows it received. Especially when my buddy was bringing his staff down in a blow which would have made a very nice indentation in my skull. The staff took it. I was positive it was gonna splinter like a toothpick, but it barely even bowed at it.
So, yeah, this is pretty strong stuff.
A lot stronger, it turns out, than my fingers. I took a nasty whack on my left hand. Not hard enough to actually break my fingers; but close. It hurt like a sonuvabitch.
All in all, more successful than a lot of the attempts at staffwork I've done lately.
And it still doesn't have a name. For the moment I'm just calling it "stick." Maybe I'll think of something eventually.
Holy crap did it ever. We spent the night learning a two-man fighting staff form. We learned the whole thing in one night. Lots of fun; but holy crap was it an intimidating activity. The fact of the matter is that with a fighting form; whether it's two-person staff, two-person empty-hand, two person staff vs. bench or crutches vs. bench, or two person weapon vs. empty hand; if you screw up, you get hit. No punches are pulled, so if you get hit, you get hit hard. About two months ago, I got a nasty whack across my right eyebrow. I had a pretty ugly black eye for a while; and my right eyebrow was split; but I definitely learned not to screw up that part of the form again.
I also learned how to suture myself up; which, believe it or not, is actualy pretty hard when you're doing it by looking in a hand mirror. I didn't even get a scar from it (well, I did, but it was super-tiny; my eyebrow hides it).
Anyhow, as those who have been reading previous postings have read; I now have a stick of my own. A nice, white waxwood staff. Light, springy; and, as it turns out, strong.
This thing has a thickness of about an inch at its widest point; and it didn't even twitch at some of the more nasty blows it received. Especially when my buddy was bringing his staff down in a blow which would have made a very nice indentation in my skull. The staff took it. I was positive it was gonna splinter like a toothpick, but it barely even bowed at it.
So, yeah, this is pretty strong stuff.
A lot stronger, it turns out, than my fingers. I took a nasty whack on my left hand. Not hard enough to actually break my fingers; but close. It hurt like a sonuvabitch.
All in all, more successful than a lot of the attempts at staffwork I've done lately.
And it still doesn't have a name. For the moment I'm just calling it "stick." Maybe I'll think of something eventually.
Monday, April 18, 2005
Lion Dancin', Beer Drinkin', Stuff breakin'
I'm starting to wonder if I have some inherent desire to hurt myself. Wouldn't surprise me, 'cause right now, I hurt like a sonuvabitch, and all of it is voluntary (if not self-inflicted).
We did another lion dance yesterday. It went very well. We ended up doing what's called a "bridge dance;" which, believe it or not, is actually kinda tricky. It involves dancing back and forth on a rather narrow (about 10 inches wide) bench, doing some impressive acrobatic maneuvers, and making it all look good. Rather difficult, actually.
So, when we actually get on the bench, my partner and I need to do some rather impressive maneuvering. It's not traditionally part of the dance, but we have to do it 'cause my partner's short and she can't quite pull off the mount. Dismount she's fine with; 'cause gravity does most of the work; but the mount is a little finicky. Since nobody really pays attention to the Lion's tail, she uses her hands to help her get onto the bridge (it's about a three-foot hop that she can't quite make).
Now, things get tricky. Do do most of what we need to do on the bridge, she now needs to be controlling the lion's head, and I need to be the tail for the simple reason that most of the maneuvers we need to work our way through involve the person controlling the tail lifting the person controlling the head in the spinning them around a few times, and depositing them back on the bridge (I would like to take this opportunity to reiterate that the bridge is very, very narrow). So, as she climbs onto the bench, I duck and cover as she leapfrogs over me, grabs the lion's head and takes over.
As I dropped, my left foot slipped, and my shin slammed hard into the edge of the bench.
I don't think anybody noticed, but it hurt like a sonuvabitch. This would be the first of several injuries I would be subjected to that night. The rest of the dance went without incident (which my lion dancing partner greatly appreciated, since a screw-up in this part of the dance usually involves her faceplanting on the bench; it's a small miracle that she hasn't broken her nose yet).
Then came the Kung Fu demonstrations.
Now, Bak Mei is generally not a flashy art (nobody will ever make a movie where the protagonist uses Bak Mei); but the demonstration I was doing was a form called Daai Sek Sze (directly translated: Big Stone Lion), which involves the one flying kick that exists in this particular martial arts style.
One unfortunate detail: you have to both push off and land on the leg that I'd just whacked against the edge of a wooden bench (and which, I hasten to add, now has a bruise roughly the size of a large orange, or a small grapefruit, on it). Walking on this thing hurt. Imagine what landing on it must've felt like.
And this kick is performed twice in the form.
Ouch.
The first one went well, relatively speaking. I don't think anyone in the audience saw me wince as I hit the ground. The second one didn't go so well. I think I new what was coming and I braced myself for it. But when I hit the ground, my leg buckled, and my ankle rolled over.
Ouch.
I finished the form; but I was pretty much limping off the stage at the end of it.
So we finish the demo (I had another form I was supposed to do, but I had to hand it off to my Daai Si Ying; the top student; largely 'cause I could barely walk, much less hop around looking like I was beating the crap out of someone).
So, the night ends, we all take a bow. We weren't required to do another lion dance (Thank God), but I was hurting pretty bad at this point.
And the night had barely started.
One of my fellow students was having a housewarming party. Lots o' fun.
I mentioned in an earlier posting that Kung Fu practicioners like to break stuff. Not necessarily in huge quantities; but we do like to break things. Usually after consuming a beer or four, because alcohol allows Chi to flow more freely. Or so they tell me. Either that or it's just an excuse to get drunk and break stuff.
Anyhow, after everyone's had a couple of beers (or more), we start breaking things. We start easy: beer bottles. Hell, we had a bunch of 'em anyway; so we might as well, right?
The only hard part of a beer bottle break is not ending up with a bunch of shards of broken glass in your hand at the end of it. The object of the exercise is to strike the lip of the bottle, and make the bottom of the bottle burst outward. You start easy: filling up most of the bottle with water, and as you get better, you progressively remove about an inch of water from the bottle. I've seen people do a beer bottle break on completely dry bottles. I can't do that. The people who do it with dry bottles are the ones who can break rocks with their pinky fingers (which, by the way, I also cannot do). I can do it at about 2/3rds full, but it takes me a couple of tries.
So, my Daai Si Ying is getting somewhat impressed. We decided to proceed to chair lifting. This consists of grasping one of the legs of a chair where it meets the ground, and lifting it off the ground.
Try it; it's a lot more difficult then it sounds. You have to manage to shove that leg under the chair's center of gravity, then lift it straight up. All with one hand.
And as if all that wasn't enough; my Daai Si Ying decided to put some weight on it. He found a box of somethingorother (I think it was books), and told me to lift it.
So I tried.
I failed miserably; twice. At which point he handed me his half-empty beer and said "drink this, and try again." So I hammer it back, next attempt is successful.
I'm starting to get slightly ripped at this point. And the Chopsticks come out.
Chopstick breaks are kinda fun. The object of this exercise is to punch into the air, holding a chopstick in the punching hand, and the force of your punch combined with the inertia of the chopstick makes it snap. We use plastic chopsticks; but I've seen it done with Bamboo; again, by people who break rocks with their pinky fingers. So, Daai Si Ying hands me a chopstick, and says "break."
It takes me a couple of tries, but the chopstick breaks.
So, he hands me two chopsticks, and tells me again: "break."
This one took me a little while. These were thicker chopsticks than I'm used to; but they broke nicely.
So, he hands me three chopsticks.
I can do three on a good day. And these ones were just being damned stubborn.
"Does anybody," Daai Si Ying asked, "have a beer they can loan this gentleman?"
Immediately, six people are thrusting half-empty beer bottles in my direction.
Not that I'm complaining, mind you, but at this point I'm starting to think I have to work tomorrow and I really don't wanna be hungover. Fortunately, I took the train to the party, so I didn't need to worry about that; but a hangover was really the last thing I needed.
And lo' and behold, they break.
So I'd had enough of chopsticks, so I sat down.
You'd think I'd have quit while I was ahead, right?
No; my Daai Si Ying had one last thing he wanted to show me. He stands me up and he shows me a series of joint locks; which is basically the ultimate in mercy fighting. The basic principle is that if you force the wrist to the point where it can't bend any farther, the elbow bends to copensate. If you force the elbow, the shoulder takes over. You force the shoulder, and the hip takes over. Once you've got the hip, they're screwed. You can basically force them to the ground by shifting the position of their arm very slightly (the farthest he had to move my hand was about eight inches). So this exercise meant that I spent a disproportionate amount of time saying something to the effect of "Okay, you can stop right there; I like my arm in one piece thank you very much," or "pray, dear sir, could you see your way clear to not breaking my wrist?"
Just 'cause I'm in pain is no reason to be rude.
So, my wrist is now the size of a canteloupe; or at least it feels that way.
Yeah, I'm starting to wonder if I'm a glutton for punishment.
We did another lion dance yesterday. It went very well. We ended up doing what's called a "bridge dance;" which, believe it or not, is actually kinda tricky. It involves dancing back and forth on a rather narrow (about 10 inches wide) bench, doing some impressive acrobatic maneuvers, and making it all look good. Rather difficult, actually.
So, when we actually get on the bench, my partner and I need to do some rather impressive maneuvering. It's not traditionally part of the dance, but we have to do it 'cause my partner's short and she can't quite pull off the mount. Dismount she's fine with; 'cause gravity does most of the work; but the mount is a little finicky. Since nobody really pays attention to the Lion's tail, she uses her hands to help her get onto the bridge (it's about a three-foot hop that she can't quite make).
Now, things get tricky. Do do most of what we need to do on the bridge, she now needs to be controlling the lion's head, and I need to be the tail for the simple reason that most of the maneuvers we need to work our way through involve the person controlling the tail lifting the person controlling the head in the spinning them around a few times, and depositing them back on the bridge (I would like to take this opportunity to reiterate that the bridge is very, very narrow). So, as she climbs onto the bench, I duck and cover as she leapfrogs over me, grabs the lion's head and takes over.
As I dropped, my left foot slipped, and my shin slammed hard into the edge of the bench.
I don't think anybody noticed, but it hurt like a sonuvabitch. This would be the first of several injuries I would be subjected to that night. The rest of the dance went without incident (which my lion dancing partner greatly appreciated, since a screw-up in this part of the dance usually involves her faceplanting on the bench; it's a small miracle that she hasn't broken her nose yet).
Then came the Kung Fu demonstrations.
Now, Bak Mei is generally not a flashy art (nobody will ever make a movie where the protagonist uses Bak Mei); but the demonstration I was doing was a form called Daai Sek Sze (directly translated: Big Stone Lion), which involves the one flying kick that exists in this particular martial arts style.
One unfortunate detail: you have to both push off and land on the leg that I'd just whacked against the edge of a wooden bench (and which, I hasten to add, now has a bruise roughly the size of a large orange, or a small grapefruit, on it). Walking on this thing hurt. Imagine what landing on it must've felt like.
And this kick is performed twice in the form.
Ouch.
The first one went well, relatively speaking. I don't think anyone in the audience saw me wince as I hit the ground. The second one didn't go so well. I think I new what was coming and I braced myself for it. But when I hit the ground, my leg buckled, and my ankle rolled over.
Ouch.
I finished the form; but I was pretty much limping off the stage at the end of it.
So we finish the demo (I had another form I was supposed to do, but I had to hand it off to my Daai Si Ying; the top student; largely 'cause I could barely walk, much less hop around looking like I was beating the crap out of someone).
So, the night ends, we all take a bow. We weren't required to do another lion dance (Thank God), but I was hurting pretty bad at this point.
And the night had barely started.
One of my fellow students was having a housewarming party. Lots o' fun.
I mentioned in an earlier posting that Kung Fu practicioners like to break stuff. Not necessarily in huge quantities; but we do like to break things. Usually after consuming a beer or four, because alcohol allows Chi to flow more freely. Or so they tell me. Either that or it's just an excuse to get drunk and break stuff.
Anyhow, after everyone's had a couple of beers (or more), we start breaking things. We start easy: beer bottles. Hell, we had a bunch of 'em anyway; so we might as well, right?
The only hard part of a beer bottle break is not ending up with a bunch of shards of broken glass in your hand at the end of it. The object of the exercise is to strike the lip of the bottle, and make the bottom of the bottle burst outward. You start easy: filling up most of the bottle with water, and as you get better, you progressively remove about an inch of water from the bottle. I've seen people do a beer bottle break on completely dry bottles. I can't do that. The people who do it with dry bottles are the ones who can break rocks with their pinky fingers (which, by the way, I also cannot do). I can do it at about 2/3rds full, but it takes me a couple of tries.
So, my Daai Si Ying is getting somewhat impressed. We decided to proceed to chair lifting. This consists of grasping one of the legs of a chair where it meets the ground, and lifting it off the ground.
Try it; it's a lot more difficult then it sounds. You have to manage to shove that leg under the chair's center of gravity, then lift it straight up. All with one hand.
And as if all that wasn't enough; my Daai Si Ying decided to put some weight on it. He found a box of somethingorother (I think it was books), and told me to lift it.
So I tried.
I failed miserably; twice. At which point he handed me his half-empty beer and said "drink this, and try again." So I hammer it back, next attempt is successful.
I'm starting to get slightly ripped at this point. And the Chopsticks come out.
Chopstick breaks are kinda fun. The object of this exercise is to punch into the air, holding a chopstick in the punching hand, and the force of your punch combined with the inertia of the chopstick makes it snap. We use plastic chopsticks; but I've seen it done with Bamboo; again, by people who break rocks with their pinky fingers. So, Daai Si Ying hands me a chopstick, and says "break."
It takes me a couple of tries, but the chopstick breaks.
So, he hands me two chopsticks, and tells me again: "break."
This one took me a little while. These were thicker chopsticks than I'm used to; but they broke nicely.
So, he hands me three chopsticks.
I can do three on a good day. And these ones were just being damned stubborn.
"Does anybody," Daai Si Ying asked, "have a beer they can loan this gentleman?"
Immediately, six people are thrusting half-empty beer bottles in my direction.
Not that I'm complaining, mind you, but at this point I'm starting to think I have to work tomorrow and I really don't wanna be hungover. Fortunately, I took the train to the party, so I didn't need to worry about that; but a hangover was really the last thing I needed.
And lo' and behold, they break.
So I'd had enough of chopsticks, so I sat down.
You'd think I'd have quit while I was ahead, right?
No; my Daai Si Ying had one last thing he wanted to show me. He stands me up and he shows me a series of joint locks; which is basically the ultimate in mercy fighting. The basic principle is that if you force the wrist to the point where it can't bend any farther, the elbow bends to copensate. If you force the elbow, the shoulder takes over. You force the shoulder, and the hip takes over. Once you've got the hip, they're screwed. You can basically force them to the ground by shifting the position of their arm very slightly (the farthest he had to move my hand was about eight inches). So this exercise meant that I spent a disproportionate amount of time saying something to the effect of "Okay, you can stop right there; I like my arm in one piece thank you very much," or "pray, dear sir, could you see your way clear to not breaking my wrist?"
Just 'cause I'm in pain is no reason to be rude.
So, my wrist is now the size of a canteloupe; or at least it feels that way.
Yeah, I'm starting to wonder if I'm a glutton for punishment.
Thursday, April 14, 2005
Oiling up something long and rigid.
It's not what you think.
Pervert.
So I spent a chunk of yesterday preparing my previously-mentioned stick. It's a long, involved process that involves some 600-grit sandpaper, a bottle of mineral oil, a blowtorch and some clear-coat varnish.
Start by sanding down the stick, and soaking it in mineral oil. Once the oil is soaked up, you take it out back and burn in a pattern with the blowtorch, then you go though another series of soakings, followed by a sealing with varnish. I'm currently at the second-soaking stage.
So far, we're working on a principle of mutual loathing. The stick hates me, and I hate it right back. But I've got the blowtorch, so it stays in line.
My instructor suggested that I name this thing. No luck on that front so far. On my list of eliminated names:
Bob
Rodney
Thumper
Thunder Donkey
Thunder Snake
Elephant's Tusk
Hrunting
Roaring Mouse
Screaming Hawk
Bill
Max
Bellowing Driveshaft
Monkey's tail
Flying Crane
Osgood
Matt
Fred
Bob
Adam
Tom
Dick
Harry
Lightning tooth
Water Spear
Quicksilver
Note that I do not have a list of possible names for this thing, so any suggestions will be greatly appreciated.
Pervert.
So I spent a chunk of yesterday preparing my previously-mentioned stick. It's a long, involved process that involves some 600-grit sandpaper, a bottle of mineral oil, a blowtorch and some clear-coat varnish.
Start by sanding down the stick, and soaking it in mineral oil. Once the oil is soaked up, you take it out back and burn in a pattern with the blowtorch, then you go though another series of soakings, followed by a sealing with varnish. I'm currently at the second-soaking stage.
So far, we're working on a principle of mutual loathing. The stick hates me, and I hate it right back. But I've got the blowtorch, so it stays in line.
My instructor suggested that I name this thing. No luck on that front so far. On my list of eliminated names:
Bob
Rodney
Thumper
Thunder Donkey
Thunder Snake
Elephant's Tusk
Hrunting
Roaring Mouse
Screaming Hawk
Bill
Max
Bellowing Driveshaft
Monkey's tail
Flying Crane
Osgood
Matt
Fred
Bob
Adam
Tom
Dick
Harry
Lightning tooth
Water Spear
Quicksilver
Note that I do not have a list of possible names for this thing, so any suggestions will be greatly appreciated.
Monday, April 11, 2005
Buying Sticks.
I strolled down to Chinatown yesterday to buy a big stick, largely at one of my Kung Fu instructor's suggestions.
I don't like staff forms, as a general rule. Actually, at the moment, I'm not a huge fan of weapon forms in general. They feel cumbersome and unwieldly in my hands, or maybe it's just that I'm clumsy. I'm not sure which. At any rate, it's somewhat beside the point. The senior student advised me to purchase a staff, and when the senior student advises you to do something, you do it.
Part of my dislike for the staff comes from the fact that I invariably whack myself with it; and it hurts. A lot. The human body, it turns out, does not react well to having a large hunk of wood hitting it.
Nevertheless, he assured me that this would pass. I'm somewhat skeptical, since I'm the quintessential klutz, but we'll see.
I don't like staff forms, as a general rule. Actually, at the moment, I'm not a huge fan of weapon forms in general. They feel cumbersome and unwieldly in my hands, or maybe it's just that I'm clumsy. I'm not sure which. At any rate, it's somewhat beside the point. The senior student advised me to purchase a staff, and when the senior student advises you to do something, you do it.
Part of my dislike for the staff comes from the fact that I invariably whack myself with it; and it hurts. A lot. The human body, it turns out, does not react well to having a large hunk of wood hitting it.
Nevertheless, he assured me that this would pass. I'm somewhat skeptical, since I'm the quintessential klutz, but we'll see.
Sunday, February 06, 2005
Lions and Kung Fu and Swords (oh my!)
So, we survived our first show, managed to keep ourselves breathing, keep ourselves together, and the show went without any real hitch. All in all, no complaints.
We started with the Lion Dance (and that's L-I-O-N, not L-I-N-E), which was probably the single most solid lion dance we've ever done. Everything just came together. Linda and I walked through our corners and did our routines without a hitch; something which pleased me to no end, since there was a time when we weren't sure if she'd even be in the dance tonight. She was, which made all of us very happy. It would've been kinda a bummer for her to be put on the bench 24 hours before the show.
My solo form went very well. Not perfect, mind you, but it was solid. I messed up in a couple of spots, but I don't think that anyone in the audience noticed.
Rock breaking, wire breaking, chopstick breaking... Kung Fu folks in general like to break stuff.
We then jaunted over to the local Chinese restaurant, loaded up on more food than I thought I could fit in my li'l stomach, and more cognac than I knew I could afford, and generally had a good time.
All in all, last night goes in the books as a success; for SiFu, for the school, for me personally, and for all of the students.
Yay.
We started with the Lion Dance (and that's L-I-O-N, not L-I-N-E), which was probably the single most solid lion dance we've ever done. Everything just came together. Linda and I walked through our corners and did our routines without a hitch; something which pleased me to no end, since there was a time when we weren't sure if she'd even be in the dance tonight. She was, which made all of us very happy. It would've been kinda a bummer for her to be put on the bench 24 hours before the show.
My solo form went very well. Not perfect, mind you, but it was solid. I messed up in a couple of spots, but I don't think that anyone in the audience noticed.
Rock breaking, wire breaking, chopstick breaking... Kung Fu folks in general like to break stuff.
We then jaunted over to the local Chinese restaurant, loaded up on more food than I thought I could fit in my li'l stomach, and more cognac than I knew I could afford, and generally had a good time.
All in all, last night goes in the books as a success; for SiFu, for the school, for me personally, and for all of the students.
Yay.
Friday, December 24, 2004
There is no spoon
I wish I had the vocabulary to explain exactly what happened to me tonight.
I broke a soup spoon.
Okay, more accurately, I wish I could explain what that meant.
I broke a spoon.
It was a Chinese ceramic soup spoon, generously donated by the Chinese restaurant at which we were celebrating my SiFu's birthday.
Now, normally you wouldn't think of the breaking of a ceramic soup spoon as a life-changing experience, but I'll be honest with you, the moment that spoon broke I felt something which very nearly borders on religious (and this is coming from a guy who not so long ago told off a pair of religious fanatics at his doorstep).
Maybe I should start from the beginning.
I try not to generalize if I can avoid it, but Kung Fu practicioners, as a general rule, like to break things; chopsticks, beer bottles, beer cans, rocks, soup spoons, you name it.
We like to break 'em with our bare hands, and it's not a matter of showing off, either. These often seem like parlor tricks (the beer-bottle break, in particular is something of a hoot at drinking parties, 'cause it looks really cool), but there's some genuine value to these breaks. Each one cultivates a certain type of movement, and requires a certain manipulation of ging.
So, after a couple of glasses of cognac (my SiFu likes cognac), the members of the school who were there started breaking things.
We started with the chopstick breaks, which are, believe it or not, a lot harder than they sound. The secret is to break the chopstick(s) without actually hitting anything. You hold them in your hand, and throw a punch with the hand holding the chopsticks into empty space, and the force of your punch breaks the chopsticks.
Like I said: a lot harder than it sounds.
So, after a bit, one of the elder students hands me a pair of chopsticks, and tells me in no uncertain terms: "SiFu says 'break.'"
"I've never broken two before," I told him, "on a good day, I can do one."
"You're thinking too hard," he tells me, "just do it."
Next thing I know, I'm holding two broken chopsticks in my hand.
This was to be the first of four tasks I would complete that night that I had never done before.
So we moved on a bit. Same senior student hands me a beer can. I didn't even know what to do with a beer can, much less how to do it.
He saw my confusion and said, "twist the can in half without letting go of the can."
"I have no clue how to do this."
"You don't have to. Just do it."
Two minutes later, I'm holding two halves of a beer can in my hands, and I'm wondering how the hell I managed to do that. And notwithstanding the small cuts I had in my fingertips from the sharp edges of the can, I was relatively unscathed.
Task number two.
About twenty minutes later, same senior student hands me a beer bottle. "SiFu says 'break,'" he tells me again.
This one, I'd seen people do, but I'd never even thought of doing it before that moment. It's a focused strike at the mouth of a beer bottle which, if done properly, causes the bottom of the bottle (and only the bottom) to break.
If done improperly, you end up with a handful of broken glass.
Here, I'm getting a little apprehensive, since I'm actually doing something where there's a small element of risk involved.
But, two minutes later, I'm looking through the mouth of a beer bottle whose bottom has been almost surgically excised. And I say that with no vanity involved. More shock, really.
Three down.
So, finally (after another glass of cognac), the senior student hands me a spoon.
So, just to recap, my list of casualties thus far is; two chopsticks, a beer can, two beer bottles (I did it again, just to convince myself that the first time wasn't a fluke), and now, they're handing me a spoon.
I'd never broken a spoon before. When I pointed this out to the senior student, he (quite rightly) observed that in the last couple of hours, I'd done no fewer than three things that I'd never done before.
I had to admit that he had a point.
So I hold the spoon in my left hand, and prepare to strike it with the edge of my right.
The senior student stopped me and shook his head. "One finger. Doing it with the whole hand is too easy."
I chose this moment to (respectfully) inform him that he had to be f*cking kidding.
Then he said something that I didn't quite understand the meaning of until last night: "if you don't hit it hard enough to break it, you're going to hurt yourself. If you don't know with every fiber of your being that that spoon is going to break, it won't, and all you'll have to show for it is a bruised finger."
So, I hit the spoon with the index finger of my right hand, I hear a loud snap and in my left hand, I'm suddenly holding a much shorter, significantly less useful spoon.
So, the next day, I'm looking at the ex spoon sitting on my desk, and asking myself how, exactly, I did all this stuff.
My first thought: it's a fluke, obviously. I got lucky.
So, I gather together a few beer bottles, I go to Chinatown and buy myself a few spoons (I didn't have the heart to tell the guy running the store what was going to happen to these spoons as he very carefully wrapped them in newspaper so that they wouldn't break) and some chopsticks, and I set about reproducing each event.
Two chopsticks, two beer bottles, and a soup spoon later, I'm about to stretch the number of broken soup spoons from two to three.
And I pulled back just a fraction. On a break I'd done twice before, I hesitated just a tiny bit.
And it hurt like a sonuvabitch.
Suffice it to say that the spoon, rather arrogantly, refused to break.
The point, which I admit that I was rather verbose getting to, is that the bruise now adorning my right index finger is not the result of the two spoons which I hit hard enough to break, it's the result of the one spoon I hit too softly. The one spoon I didn't put everything I had into hurt me more than the two I hit as hard as I could.
Now, I think there's a life lesson here. Not just about the breaking of ceramic spoons (which, while that would also be a life lesson, I think is probably one of the most useless life lessons in the history of mankind), but about life in general.
Approach life with everything that you've got, or what's the point?
I broke a soup spoon.
Okay, more accurately, I wish I could explain what that meant.
I broke a spoon.
It was a Chinese ceramic soup spoon, generously donated by the Chinese restaurant at which we were celebrating my SiFu's birthday.
Now, normally you wouldn't think of the breaking of a ceramic soup spoon as a life-changing experience, but I'll be honest with you, the moment that spoon broke I felt something which very nearly borders on religious (and this is coming from a guy who not so long ago told off a pair of religious fanatics at his doorstep).
Maybe I should start from the beginning.
I try not to generalize if I can avoid it, but Kung Fu practicioners, as a general rule, like to break things; chopsticks, beer bottles, beer cans, rocks, soup spoons, you name it.
We like to break 'em with our bare hands, and it's not a matter of showing off, either. These often seem like parlor tricks (the beer-bottle break, in particular is something of a hoot at drinking parties, 'cause it looks really cool), but there's some genuine value to these breaks. Each one cultivates a certain type of movement, and requires a certain manipulation of ging.
So, after a couple of glasses of cognac (my SiFu likes cognac), the members of the school who were there started breaking things.
We started with the chopstick breaks, which are, believe it or not, a lot harder than they sound. The secret is to break the chopstick(s) without actually hitting anything. You hold them in your hand, and throw a punch with the hand holding the chopsticks into empty space, and the force of your punch breaks the chopsticks.
Like I said: a lot harder than it sounds.
So, after a bit, one of the elder students hands me a pair of chopsticks, and tells me in no uncertain terms: "SiFu says 'break.'"
"I've never broken two before," I told him, "on a good day, I can do one."
"You're thinking too hard," he tells me, "just do it."
Next thing I know, I'm holding two broken chopsticks in my hand.
This was to be the first of four tasks I would complete that night that I had never done before.
So we moved on a bit. Same senior student hands me a beer can. I didn't even know what to do with a beer can, much less how to do it.
He saw my confusion and said, "twist the can in half without letting go of the can."
"I have no clue how to do this."
"You don't have to. Just do it."
Two minutes later, I'm holding two halves of a beer can in my hands, and I'm wondering how the hell I managed to do that. And notwithstanding the small cuts I had in my fingertips from the sharp edges of the can, I was relatively unscathed.
Task number two.
About twenty minutes later, same senior student hands me a beer bottle. "SiFu says 'break,'" he tells me again.
This one, I'd seen people do, but I'd never even thought of doing it before that moment. It's a focused strike at the mouth of a beer bottle which, if done properly, causes the bottom of the bottle (and only the bottom) to break.
If done improperly, you end up with a handful of broken glass.
Here, I'm getting a little apprehensive, since I'm actually doing something where there's a small element of risk involved.
But, two minutes later, I'm looking through the mouth of a beer bottle whose bottom has been almost surgically excised. And I say that with no vanity involved. More shock, really.
Three down.
So, finally (after another glass of cognac), the senior student hands me a spoon.
So, just to recap, my list of casualties thus far is; two chopsticks, a beer can, two beer bottles (I did it again, just to convince myself that the first time wasn't a fluke), and now, they're handing me a spoon.
I'd never broken a spoon before. When I pointed this out to the senior student, he (quite rightly) observed that in the last couple of hours, I'd done no fewer than three things that I'd never done before.
I had to admit that he had a point.
So I hold the spoon in my left hand, and prepare to strike it with the edge of my right.
The senior student stopped me and shook his head. "One finger. Doing it with the whole hand is too easy."
I chose this moment to (respectfully) inform him that he had to be f*cking kidding.
Then he said something that I didn't quite understand the meaning of until last night: "if you don't hit it hard enough to break it, you're going to hurt yourself. If you don't know with every fiber of your being that that spoon is going to break, it won't, and all you'll have to show for it is a bruised finger."
So, I hit the spoon with the index finger of my right hand, I hear a loud snap and in my left hand, I'm suddenly holding a much shorter, significantly less useful spoon.
So, the next day, I'm looking at the ex spoon sitting on my desk, and asking myself how, exactly, I did all this stuff.
My first thought: it's a fluke, obviously. I got lucky.
So, I gather together a few beer bottles, I go to Chinatown and buy myself a few spoons (I didn't have the heart to tell the guy running the store what was going to happen to these spoons as he very carefully wrapped them in newspaper so that they wouldn't break) and some chopsticks, and I set about reproducing each event.
Two chopsticks, two beer bottles, and a soup spoon later, I'm about to stretch the number of broken soup spoons from two to three.
And I pulled back just a fraction. On a break I'd done twice before, I hesitated just a tiny bit.
And it hurt like a sonuvabitch.
Suffice it to say that the spoon, rather arrogantly, refused to break.
The point, which I admit that I was rather verbose getting to, is that the bruise now adorning my right index finger is not the result of the two spoons which I hit hard enough to break, it's the result of the one spoon I hit too softly. The one spoon I didn't put everything I had into hurt me more than the two I hit as hard as I could.
Now, I think there's a life lesson here. Not just about the breaking of ceramic spoons (which, while that would also be a life lesson, I think is probably one of the most useless life lessons in the history of mankind), but about life in general.
Approach life with everything that you've got, or what's the point?
Thursday, September 30, 2004
Neat stuff.
The universe has just become something of an interesting place over the last few days.
I'm now completing my candidacy exam; the written part anyway. I'm really, really, really looking forward to having that done; in part because I've seen practically nothing of April for the last month. I've seen more of my profs than I have of her. Doesn't that suck? At any rate, this'll all be over soon. I hope. I really, just want this to end right now. I want it over with, I want to have this chapter behind me, so I can progress straight to PhD.
Bak Fu Pai is going really well. Amazingly well, actually. My SiFu has arranged for his best and brightest (and me) to train with a grandmaster who lives here in Calgary. It means we need to start learning a whole new style of Kung Fu, but quite apart from the fact that it's similar to the style we're learning now, just training with this man is quite an honour. Suffice it to say, when my SiFu speaks of someone with tha t level of reverence in his voice, it's time to stand up and take notice.
Anyhow, must get back to the salt mines. See y'all later.
I'm now completing my candidacy exam; the written part anyway. I'm really, really, really looking forward to having that done; in part because I've seen practically nothing of April for the last month. I've seen more of my profs than I have of her. Doesn't that suck? At any rate, this'll all be over soon. I hope. I really, just want this to end right now. I want it over with, I want to have this chapter behind me, so I can progress straight to PhD.
Bak Fu Pai is going really well. Amazingly well, actually. My SiFu has arranged for his best and brightest (and me) to train with a grandmaster who lives here in Calgary. It means we need to start learning a whole new style of Kung Fu, but quite apart from the fact that it's similar to the style we're learning now, just training with this man is quite an honour. Suffice it to say, when my SiFu speaks of someone with tha t level of reverence in his voice, it's time to stand up and take notice.
Anyhow, must get back to the salt mines. See y'all later.
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