Monday, November 21, 2016

It is with great sadness I learned this morning of the passing of my friend, grandmaster Ron Harris, who died suddenly yesterday of heart failure. Ronald was an amazing person, a university professor who championed conservative values while promoting the economic success of black Americans. As a martial artist, he trained with the best, from Dan Inosanto to Leo Gaje, with whom he traveled to many seminars. Ron held a 7th Dan in Kajukenbo and was once tapped by Sijo Emperado to create an escrima system specific to that art, though it never caught on due to lack of qualified instructors at the time. He taught "Classic Eskrima", as well as Muay Thai, Boxe Francaise/Savate and Taekwondo. He contributed articles to Black Belt and Inside Kung Fu and other publications, and sponsored seminars around the country, first coming to my attention with tournaments he threw in San Diego in the 1990's. He was well-versed in BJJ, and his younger brother Russ trained the first American to beat the Brazilians in the Octagon. Ron trained Marines in hand-to-hand over the years (he currently has a son at Annapolis) and just this summer I designed a training dagger for his program, which I was showing to folks at the MACE seminar just two days ago. Through Ron I've met some amazing martial artists, like Jan Miernyk and Dan Medina. I'm still in shock over this news, and I'm sure he will be missed by many.

Saturday, August 27, 2016

Today I received the second email I've had of someone saving their life with one of my lightweight plastic flutes. This is the kind of thing that really makes my day!

"I'm writing to let you know that the wonderful shakuhachi flute I purchased from you about one year ago finally failed, but despite being a beloved possession and a joy to train with and play it broke while saving me from hospital bills or my life. I was walking to my car after my HEMA class that I supplement with FMA when I observed a disheveled man swinging a bat at someone's car screaming obscenities. I called the police but he observed me doing so and started swinging his bat angrily on the ground screaming. All I had in my hand and not my bag was the flute. He swung at me as I rushed in with a guard and I heard a crack as his bat struck my flute. Had the flute not been there the bat would have hit the back of my ribs cleanly but the flute STILL HADN'T broken. THe break instead occurred when I redondoed the flute around and began beating him hard about the head. One of the strikes sent the top of the flute flying leaving me to punyo and knee until the cops arrived. Had your flute not been there, I could have been hurt severely or killed by a dangerous man. It may be a while before I can get another one of your beautiful pieces to play and train with. But I am grateful for your weapon and hope I never have to use one again in earnest. Between the flute, FMA, and HEMA, I'm in one piece today."

Tuesday, April 05, 2016

The Three T's

The "three t's" are a basic progression of learning, which can apply to a broad range of physical skills, which I'll reference here to the pursuit of skill in martial arts. They are tools, targets and timing.

The first T is tools, and these are primary. Can you imagine going to a carpentry class to learn to build things, and not be taught the safe and proper use of the various implements before starting to use them, or driving a car without first knowing basic controls? In karate, for example, among the first things taught will likely be a horse stance and how to throw a basic punch. From there one branches out into other stances, blocks, parries and strikes, and how to combine them. In styles that feature footwork, one may start with a on-guard position and a simple step or two, combined with related hand movements. Eventually both methods ought to achieve similar goals.

The second T is targets. Without these, we're simply dancing. Targeting brings specificity to our action. Tools teach "how"; targeting teaches where and why. For instance, the various applications of finger jabs, claws, chops and punches. This engages the imagination by creating external focus and takes us through the various stages of mechanical development of skill.

The third T is timing, which is knowing "when" to do what is needed. Initially it is a mechanical process as our conscious mind struggles to control all the details. When we learn techniques, it is an internal dialog about coordinating information. As we progress, it becomes relational to external circumstances. Just like learning to drive a car, what feels awkward at first eventually becomes unconscious and automatic. Without timing, we have a pile of pieces from which to assemble a puzzle. It is the difference between "dead" (self-involved, unresponsive) and "live" (fully responsive and aware) martial arts. No longer do we try to figure out which technique corresponds to whatever confronts us; our action is innate and appropriate. Bruce Lee described this using water as a metaphor; it has no shape but simply fills whatever vessel into which it is poured. Circumstances are our container through which our actions now flow accordingly.

In application, these three elements tend to come into play in reverse. For example, when someone throws a punch, we need to move inside or outside of the opponent's body structure to avoid the blow and set up counters. Our entry is timing. Once we have position, targets become accessible, to which we apply various tools (strikes, grapples, takedowns, etc). Our goal is to become un-self-consciously proficient in the mechanics involved, freeing our conscious awareness to monitor and evaluate what is appropriate and necessary.


Wednesday, November 12, 2014

Fitness Quest

Well, today was mission accomplished. A wild idea that popped into my head about my 60th birthday was today brought to fruition. On October 12th I suddenly thought "my birthday is exactly in one month. What should I do to mark it?" and then the idea of doing 600 push-ups appeared. At first I tried to dismiss it as ridiculous. After all, I could be doing fun stuff, and this sounded like work. But the idea hung around persistently, waving at me from the edges of awareness, and soon I came to embrace the idea of this as a worthy challenge, a kind of quest. A friend from the aiki side of martial arts turned me on to a Japanese term, shugyo, for a similar type of disciplined spiritual endeavor.

I'd probably gone years without doing 600 push-ups, and with some shoulder injuries, I'd only begun doing them somewhat regularly about a year ago for rehabilitation. If I was going to make this happen, I'd have to train for it, and so I set a secondary goal of 3000 push-ups in the one month run-up to my birthday. That meant averaging 100 push-ups a day, which I broke up into numerous sets of 10 or 20, logging every set in my notebook. Exercise can be addictive, and I quickly realized that 3000 was too low a goal, so within the first few days I refocused on 4000 pushups for the month. Sundays were my big days, doing upwards of 300 push-ups during football game commercials, getting ahead on the count so I could rest on another day during the week.

I reached 4000 Monday evening, giving me Tuesday to rest up before the big day today. Ironically, I'd been pain free all month, but the last few days one of my shoulders was sore from working so hard. Now the underlying goal of this quest was to strengthen deep muscle and connective tissue. The push-ups were varied to hit muscles from different angles to support the shoulder joint, incorporating inclines, declines, close grip, wide grip and uneven grip push-ups as well as traditional flat ones. Some were done for explosiveness, others on slow count to feel the burn deeply. This was pure volume work, more like the 6x daily Bulgarian power lifter workouts than fatigue-and-rest body building. It was harder to start these last few workouts because of the soreness, but once I'd done a couple of sets to warm up, everything felt fine. I also supplemented the push-ups with yoga stretches, Indian clubs, kettlebells, squats, pull-ups and planks.

After the focus and consistency to get ready, today almost felt anti-climactic. Last night, waiting for midnight, I meditated and examined my mental state of readiness. In my mind, I felt I had already accomplished my goal. After the stroke of midnight I did 7 sets of 20 before going to bed, so that I wouldn't feel pressured for time when I awoke. By noon I'd finished half, 300, and then late in the afternoon I did the rest. Almost. I got to 580, only one more set of 20 to go, and couldn't just do it. I felt the distance I'd come, all the emotional and mental energy driving the physical work, and had to let the moment marinate awhile. Finally, as with every other set, I felt the time was right, and then it was done.

So how do I feel, now that it's done, besides sore, or tight from pumped muscles? My posture is better and I stand taller. I feel more fit and energized. There's currently a calm sense of euphoria, that I accepted and followed through on a crazy, spontaneous thought. There are lots of deadlines in life, but a challenge for its own sake is different. Unlike work or bills, there are no external consequences if we choose not to do something of our own volition. Everyone who competes in any sport, however, knows the feeling and sacrifice of preparing for an event, as do those who take on solitary pursuits for their own sake.


Having done this, I'm enjoying the feeling of accomplishment, and also the urge to build on it rather than see it as a single endeavor. I don't know what my next will be, but it won't focus on push-ups! Perhaps 100,000 punches on a heavy bag before the end of the year? Hmm .....

Monday, September 08, 2014

Disputes between martial artists are like disputes between academics. It's as though a geology professor in Montana were to declare exclusive purview over the entire field, and declare those credentialed professors at other institutes of higher learning to be unqualified in the discipline all have studied from the same sources. Outside a narrow group of initiates in the field, does anyone take that seriously or even care?   

At best titles reflect achievement; our society is a meritocracy, where pieces of paper declare worth. At worst they feed the ego, all too often poisoning a person's self-inflated sense of importance. Introducing oneself as a grandmaster might raise an eyebrow in an elevator, as much because of the esoteric reputation it connotes than any real appreciation. It's no different than a lawyer introducing himself as a senior partner in some law firm of which you've never heard. You may appreciate the long climb it took to reach such a position, but even if you are interested in services offered, which will probably be a narrow field of specialized expertise, you would probably be wondering how much coin he would charge, and in reality much of the work on your behalf would be done by much less exalted, and certainly less expensive, low-level "associates" grinding their way through the corporate hierarchy.

When I was starting my journey in martial arts nearly half a century ago, actual grandmasters were as common as real dragons. If you were to meet one, it would probably be at a distance. Even if it was in a seminar, the actual hands-on mentoring would almost undoubtedly be from lower ranking instructors. That may be less true nowadays, especially in some arts, but that is because rank, like the dollar, has inflated. I can meet more grandmasters at a party now than I encountered in my first 30 years on the mat. Does this somehow diminish the value of what was learned from those other teachers? Certainly not. If anything, without developing a background and depth, encounters with the higher ranks would be no more significant than that introduction in an elevator.

My Tai Chi teacher, the late John Wong, held rank of 5th degree or higher in at least 4 systems. He trained under William Chow, was a trusted associate of Adriano Emperado, and taught his grandfather's system of Tai Chi at his Wu Shing Academy. He told me that my knowledge was like a PhD in martial arts, but to a novice, little of that matters. It is the basics that they need, and it takes years to pour so much information into those just starting their journey.

Back when I was a freshman at Cal Berkeley in 1973, it was explained why that university had more winners of the Nobel Prize and other high honors than almost any other school on the planet. It was because professors there had teach classes for underclassmen, unlike other institutions where tenured professors could reside in their ivory towers amongst their peers and learned journals. What this meant was they had to constantly ground themselves in the fundamentals of their discipline. It's a lesson that applies to many areas of life.

Aikido, an art in which I spent some time back in the 70's and 80's, has one of the most logical ranking systems I've seen. First and second dan black belts assist more senior instructors. By third dan their skills are more clearly evident, but it generally takes a fourth dan to teach at one's own school. Fifth and higher were quite rare, generally encountered in seminars or as visiting teachers, a practice I truly appreciated in that style. It was a rare privilege if you trained at a school where such presided, but again, much of the hands-on monitoring and correction came from those under the head instructor.

Back around 1990 I met an elderly Taekwondo teacher who held a fifth dan in that art. He flatly stated that ranks beyond that were for politics, not skill. In truth, by the time most get to such a level, their physical skills are diminishing with age. Their value is what they can pass on to those below them. In my own chosen art of Escrima, my teacher, the late grandmaster Angel Cabales often said that his Master's certificate was "for politics. While rank such as that is generally reserved for the closest and most dedicated students, the truth is much of the art will be passed on by the much larger pool of instructors and even advanced but uncertified students. some of whom might be as skilled in the art despite lacking a piece of paper.


This is not to denigrate those who rose to high rank, but simply to point out the pyramid structure of hierarchy. Much like an iceberg, what is seen is only the tip, supported by the vast mass often undetected beneath the surface. In truth, what rises to the top once was below; do not presume those who toil without recognition are less worthy than those who once were such themselves.

Friday, June 13, 2014

An interview I did in 2014 with Professor Paul-Raymond Buitron (visiting from Laredo, Texas) at VEA Martial Arts in Manteca, Ca., in which I talk about my personal history in Escrima:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R5CGjOQtQmA

Check out all the other interviews with various masters and grandmasters by Prof. Buitron under "Sages of Escrima" on Youtube!

Wednesday, May 21, 2014

Dogs are psychic.  I learned this back in the late 1970's.  I began training in a couple of martial arts and in yoga in 1978, figuring I'd decide which one to focus on after getting a taste of each.  I soon set aside Tai Chi for later, focusing on Kenpo, but I kept up the yoga practice with private instruction for about a year.  In hindsight, I wish I'd stayed with it longer; if I'd realized how popular it would become worldwide (especially with young women) that probably would have enticed me to stay. Regardless I did get a lot out of the principles, which I continued to use in my martial arts stretching over the years. 

So what does this have to do with dogs?  I had two malamutes living with me back then.  Every time I would start a routine, they'd immediately crowd around, making it impossible.  It wasn't that they were trying to stop me, it's that they loved the energy of what I was doing.  My solution was to put them in the back yard, and this is where I discovered their ability to sense things.  The spot where I would practice was not visible to them.  I could sit there for any length of time and they'd be content to lie on the porch.  The second I started a routine, however, they'd immediately begin howling and scratching at the back door to get in!  This wasn't random either; it was every time!  It took a lot of focus to ignore them; it wasn't easy, and perhaps one reason I abandoned that particular practice.  Instead I began doing the Tai Chi stretching routine I learned at the Wen Wu school.  These are standing stretches, so I could do them with the dogs in the house.  Being upright, I wasn't down on their level where I was vulnerable to their interference, and for whatever other reason, those didn't excite the same response.

In more recent years I've noted other times dogs take to act in response to what I'm doing.  In particular, they always seem to know when I'm going to the bathroom.  The dogs can be quietly out in the yard, but the instant I'm unable to run out to correct them, they begin barking at neighbors or fence fighting with their dogs!  Yelling from inside the house won't work when they know I can't come out, and how they know this is a mystery known only to them.

So what exactly is it to be psychic?  If nothing else, it's the ability to sense things unrecognized by others.  The first time I recognized this in dogs was the behavior of our miniature schnauzer in the  2-3 days before my father's death when I was 14.  It was odd, my mother noted, how the dog was slinking out of the room whenever my father walked in.  That was unusual, as they had a good relationship, and my father would often take the dog with him on long walks.  Suddenly the dog was nowhere to be found when dad got the leash. On the last day of my father's life, the dog was missing.  Eventually I found him quivering under the couch.  That night, after dinner, my father had a massive heart attack; I found him slouched in his chair when I went to play chess with him.  The ambulance arrived, and my mother, usually a slow and cautious driver, tailgated it across town to the hospital while I was left home alone.  That dog and I had never been close, but that night he crept into my room and joined me on my bed, the first time he'd sought me out in the five years he'd lived with us.  Though he and I never closely bonded (he was definitely my mother's dog) it was the turning point in our relationship.