A great passage- A farewell to Arms

"We two were talking while the others argued. I had wanted to go to Abruzzi. I had gone to no place where the roads were frozen and hard as iron, where it was clear cold and dry and the snow was dry and　powdery and hare-tracks in the snow and the peasants took off their hats and called you Lord and there was good hunting. I had gone to no such place but to the smoke of cafes and nights when the room whirled and you needed to look at the wall to make it stop, nights in bed, drunk, when you knew that that was all there was, and the strange excitement of waking and not knowing who it was with you, and the world all unreal in the dark and so exciting that you must resume again unknowing and not caring in the night, sure that this was all and all and all and not caring. Suddenly to care very much and to sleep to wake with it sometimes morning and all that had been there gone and everything sharp and hard and clear and sometimes a dispute about the cost. Sometimes still pleasant and fond and warm and breakfast and lunch. Sometimes all niceness gone and glad to get out on the street but always another day starting and then another night. I tried to tell about the night and the difference between the night and the day and how night was better unless the day was very clean and cold and I could not tell it; as I cannot tell it now. But if you have had it you know. He had not had it but he understood that I had really wanted to go to the Abruzzi but had not gone and we were still friends, with many tastes alike, but with the difference between us. He had always known what I did not know and what, when I learned it, I was always able to forget. But I did not know that then, although I learned it later. In the meantime we were all at the mess, the meal was finished, and the argument went on." (A Farewell to Arms, pg. 19)

Damn great writing! Like a jumbled memory of events poured straight out of his head. It sounds even better read aloud. It captures perfectly that slice of humanness, picture of life, when you greet a friend again after being away and there is a difference between you. That difference is some great experience that cannot be shared, that even in trying to convey it the meaning is lost, and it will always exist between each other.

Fallback plan

I wonder if there are others out there with the same echoing fatalistic fallback buried behind every plan and endeavor? Suicide,no. Defeat and fade to obscurity within yourself, no. Retreat and regroup, yet with none of the hopes and dreams that so compelled earlier life, no. Its a simple, solid voice that whispers "should you fail, a life less glorious, a life less successful, a life shorter and harder but a life free awaits you." Its a solid plan of action that lies under all other plans. And sometimes its so tempting to give in to that voice.

To follow it out of the city, out of civilization and into the borderlands where no pity or glamor await. Take to the road and walk, let the feet carry you where it will and survive on what you can. Exist in a nomadic life, growing old without technology`s comforting cushion or culture`s uniting warmth. Every day a different place, a different feeling and a different sunrise. Its a bold move that would forever halt one`s advance in history. "Here" they would say, tracing the time-line, "here is where he disappears, here is where his share in the human race was forever halted." Even one with a small bit of intelligence can foresee the isolation that would slam down at that decision.

But there at the base of life, at the bottom of the barrel, life appears most beautiful. It seems when every shred of dignity and honor that you wear as a wardrobe is stripped and gone, when food takes on the quality of necessity and the sun striking out of the night is god, then and there does life appear most valuable. Sometimes it is very tempting.

But I believe one shouldn`t give in that easy. How would I write? How would I know the joy of friendship or see another`s passion of interest? In the midst of society I can still feel a bit of fellowship and share in the pride when something grand happens or feel sad at the collapse of hope. It would be very hard to cut those links, and once they were severed, they are forever.

I wonder what other ideas lie under all other plans, for other people? Do they have an ultimate fallback, some solid bedrock to walk out upon? Hmmm

Love

Love is being torn apart. Love is a cold, steel spike of agony that pierces the heart. Love is a fading memory of longing that leaves nothing but a wild ache and crashing waves of sorrow.

But that is love in the embrace of loss and cannot first arrive without the experience of that which is honest, immediate and perfect, true love.

Lost in love? Love lost? Love too weak or too strong, love undefined or defined by years, moments and minutes? Love in a memory, her face gleaming and haloed, a sun burst of aching longing, every second of every day. The price paid for the singular experience of knowing, for a certainty, the taste and sight of true love? Gladly.

The words I write

I read my last entry and am awe-struck. To me it seems to convey exactly what I was thinking and striving to convey. It may not be clear to others but somehow I wasn`t writing for another audience, just for myself. Is that the key? That any endeavor, any artistic or creative effort must be first and foremost dedicated to oneself? To be true to your own feelings? It just seems when I am caught up in explaining the ideas that seem to explode in my head that they come out most clearly and flow with a passion. True that I can get caught up in the moment and loose myself in philosophical questioning but there are moments to be sure. Moments of re-reading when the words and phrases match the scenery and images in my head. Is that true writing?

Its a dilemma that writers must all face. Do we write for an audience to understand or do we write to explain our own urges. Sometimes it feels as if I would go crazy if I could not shape these thoughts into words and those often come out the clearest and strongest. So a writer must feel strongly about his subject, that is clear. But I believe, for myself that they come out most coherently when I write to myself. Not a dear self letter, but as if every word represented a second added onto my life, if it was clear and conveyed exactly what stirred around upstairs then I had a few more moments of sanity.

I remember a quote by a good painter that went something like "I can never recreate what I saw exactly, it becomes a copy devoid of what made it special for me. I must paint something that represents those strong feelings, that way it is from me and true to me." It seems she is expressing thoughts similar to mine, that the world is not the same to everyone and cannot be described in such black and white terms. We all color it a little bit differently and the act of finding those special colors is what stimulates the creative urge.

And god, I keep coming back to the sword. The truest and smoothest use of it in training has always come with letting my body move naturaly. Trying to conform to stances and techniques that are at odds with each other feels unnatural and like they are abrasive. I know it begins to sound mystical and almost lost in vague descriptions but everyday it seems the borders separating the different acts of life get thinner and thinner. That what once I thought was seperate is now inter-connected, no, not interconnected but lacking any single defining difference. Ahh, these thoughts.

Art and its impact upon myself

I went to the Seattle Art Museum yesterday. It was nice to see expressions of life through the eyes of other people. Some of the paintings, in their portrayal of a human expression or arrangement of landscape, seem to be in possession of a greater understanding of the human condition than I. I saw a porcelain or marble figure of the sculpture`s daughter and it was beautiful. My eyes were drawn to the lines around the eyes and mouth. She looked so regal and intelligent yet so young, in the flower of youth. A painting of a cove somewhere along the western coast struck me with the same poignancy. The key feature was a mass of roiling clouds pierced through by brilliant shafts of light. That light fell upon a recently rain-soaked scene, so all was glistening rock, bush, sand and water. Sometimes I am amazed at the surety these artist display. Every stroke seems to fall into place. But maybe looking at it from the end result I simply don`t see all the toil behind it.

There were also modern and abstract artwork on display as well. Its funny but before I always admitted those into the category of artwork. But now I look through those galleries and fail to find much that appeals to me much less consider artwork. I find myself saying "that's not art." But why?, I ask myself. What right do I have to define what is and isn`t art? People say that failure to find any meaning in a painting is failure by the viewer, somehow I just don`t have a deep enough understanding of symbology, art history or obscure culture references. Does one need all that to enjoy art? Should it be a puzzle of images, each linked deep into the fabric of our history? Or should true art strike deep into the heart and lodge there, forever altering how you perceive the world?

I find it difficult to solve the answers to those questions without having a firm grasp on what art is. It can`t be defined solely as anything created by hand or with some touch of a theme or pattern. Maybe Im talking about Great Art here, art that acts as a mirror, that reflects those strong feelings and desires back upon yourself. The longer I look at great art the more I see the artist, his influence, her passion or madness impressed in whatever medium worked out. And yet, seeing the artist`s blood and sweat visible in angles, plains, colors and strokes never ceases to cause a mirrored reaction within myself. I too wonder that because I can see these emotions and evident artistic drive in the creations, do I as well possess those qualities? Not they`re artistic abilities but the sudden madness to create, the deep emotions that come out stark and strong and the almost unendurable urge to believe that my art is of goodness and part of the human spirit which, strongest, screams to fly.

If great art then speaks to the soul of a person similarly impassioned then what is bad art? To me it seems it is art that doesn`t have human-ness to it, (doesn`t sound right) Art that hides behind intellectual symbolism; geometry focused. While symmetrical or asymmetrical yet balanced composition is important it shouldn`t be the sole focus of any piece.

Bad artwork is also those done by artist rejecting the past traditions in favor of any new techniques that has a hint of originality, even if it is bereft of any connection to the human soul. (soul or feeling?) I have been there too, have felt the bitter sting of a millennium of tradition, have felt the suffocation of history`s edict saying "If it has not come before it is not right." I know the rebellious, almost overwhelming urge to proclaim myself original and born of new ideas and new techniques. But, and I say this with only the barest hint of an understanding, that the past evolved out of great men`s same rebellious instincts and that inside each dusty, old tradition was a new idea of a dreamer that reached for the stars.

True art then is art free of the argument of style, free of the clash of traditions, picked clean of both immaturity and the failing of old age. It is not only those pieces that shine on the greatness of ourselves but also illuminate the fear and depravity of weakness in the dark. In other words the whole of ourselves not in the stark light of noon but in the radiant light of a new day or ending shadows of twilight. Truth is not exposed by average effort but by subtle angles and nuanced patches of color, by creating that which speaks to the mind of forms and shapes of that almost insubstantial muse, truth.

Hike to Snow Lake

I went hiking today, far up in the Snoqualmie-Mt. Baker National Forest. A long struggle through powder and shifting snow, a trek deep into pine-covered canyons on a trodden path of day-old snowshoes tracks. It felt good, no, great. I don`t know why I stayed away so long and why the city holds me so tight. Perched on a ridge of snow, an entire valley of silence flowed up and over me. It makes me laugh every time, I forget so easily how real one feels up in the mountains, how solid and sure of existence. Up there moments come in unexpected places. I caught glimpses of the setting sun illuminating flowing clouds over a ridge-line, line after line of fading blue mountains stretching so far and unbroken surfaces of snow, unexplainably pure and somehow devoid of any humanizing characteristics.

I kept stopping and looking around, at the jagged peaks towering above me. I felt like I needed to take as much as I could with me, that it was my last chance that day for any happiness. Silly but as I began to drive back to the city it was with an increasing dread, like I was leaving something precious and special behind. Though once I cleared the narrow mountains the blazing evening sun set the snow-coated peaks and glistening rocks aflame. The rays struck the last vestiges of the autumn leaves, brightening their color until I swear they seemed a deep red and gold. Very distracting while driving.

But I guess Im writing this to try and capture the feeling of truly being out there. Standing in the snow, taking in a particular scene, thinking alot about different things. It just hit me then that there too many thoughts fluttering around and suddenly there were none. For a brief time I wasn`t even aware of myself, just all the textures, colors and sensations of the natural world. I dont think that does it justice but its like taking intense pride in all the surroundings without actually thinking about why. Anyway, it was a great hike.

Vague theory after practicing

Lately, when practicing single-handed fencing or cuts, there is less and less an emphasis on isolated muscle use and more focus on the whole body being involved in the swing. Now I`m by no means static in any cut but I believe I was never drawing together the whole body but rather using my legs, torso and arm separately. A jump would be followed by torquing the body followed by the extension of the arm to cut but all in a very sequenced manner. Now to some people it would look like they flowed into one another. But between each of those motions lie huge gaps of time, vast distances of unused energy. I only know that I`ve been doing it wrong because of those rare moments when its feels like I cut from my feet. The tiniest jump is the strongest cut- that I can`t feel any pause in the transfer of motion or energy, from the first movement to tip of the sword ending its arc. Like every cell of my body is working together as a solid unit, all pushing towards that one goal.

Its depressing though to think how far that can carry. Whats to say that every move shouldn`t be like that. No wasted moves, no nervous or excited movements, every step devoted to the unification of the cut. It sounds too high-reaching, that thinking. But in times when Im exhausted after practice and I stop thinking so logically I swear, standing there loose and fluid, that one can achieve that state, where there are only the right moves and there are only the right cuts.

Thought-Action Vs. Pure action

Is there ever a pure response devoid of any thought? Is keeping an awareness of the opponents movements considered thinking about your actions?

The most oft-repeated advice: do not think, move. Train until it becomes second nature. This obviously meaning that if one has to think about a move or reaction to an opponents attack then it is too late. But having no thoughts in a fight? That seems silly. How would you be capable of moving or responding to anything. If any mental activity need be done then it is a simple focused awareness of the opponent. The time it takes to name an attack, think of an response and do it is ages. It is like there is only one move to do that moment, and so no time need be spent thinking about which one to do.

The idea of mentally pondering moves should be done in practice, shadow boxing and sparring. There one can stop and examine the technique and drill the muscle feeling of it. Over time it becomes less of a mental image and more of a feeling in the muscles; a urge to tighten this finger or pull back the right shoulder etc. In a way the moves become ingrained in the body rather than the mind, they can feel the attack or the movement of the opponent much better than an analytical mind. By feel I mean the nuance of small moves: shuffling feet, twitches of the arms, shoulders leaning forward. Those are movements of the body that your own can recognize.

Those thoughts are what distract from a complete awareness of the opponent and the environment. Rather than saying "If this than this," it seems better to always be on the verge of attacking, yet open to an infinite amount of possibilities. Its difficult to describe but like a blue sky with a single red line running through. I stand an inch from that red line, ready to cut down the middle. But, I can feel a thousand other almost whispery faint lines of red branching from that starting point. And its not me or the opponent that decides the correct line but simply when the cut opens itself up, like its the only proper line to proceed on.

I find it difficult to use so many words to talk about something that shouldn`t be thought about so deeply. But its hard to grasp, this theory of pure action and decision. Can you practice this, train this state of mind? In other walks of life, analyze your reactions to events and see what arose during the pivotal moments. Was there indecision? a list of possible directions? or was there simply a smooth transition from action to reaction? Granted this cannot apply to all manner of problems in life, but I ask myself this: cannot it help to be prepared in this manner, to not have every single point of progress mapped out in the mind but rather flow decisively through these crossroads?

What is Genius? What is hard work?

I have had to look myself in the mirror many times and say "I am no genius." What do I mean by that? I think its someone born with an innate gift and proclivity towards accomplishing their endeavors. They have no problem seeing patterns and trends in impossible equations, they are drawn to particular roads of life easily and are content with traveling up that road to the ends of the universe. They are not troubled with the doubts and anxieties that distract and bother the normal person. A genius has only to turn their gaze upon the world and see a lighted path for them to go.

But, to say truthfully, what is the difference between a genius and a hard worker? To look upon two men at one moment in time; one, that through perseverance and long years of toil comes to one realization, and the other, through a glance at some disparate object comes to the same thought; are they the same? Do they differ on some level of intellect or ability to reason? Not if they both arrive at the same point. Time then? Yes the genius may flow through the setbacks that keep a normal man traveling so long. Is it an excuse? A reason to fail, to say I`ll never be great because it doesn`t come easily? Never. Yes, I`ll concede that what I would call a Genius is someone who can not only see multiple sides to an idea but can carry the natural progression of that idea forward in time, back into the past to its roots and even make irrational jumps in logic to arrive at amazing thoughts.

But someone who excels at hard work, who is dazzlingly good at perservernce and disclipine and who, though not having an intuitive grasp to life`s connections, can through repetition see the lines hidden to most of us. So I say don`t worry about not being natural at something, seek through practice what is natural and train that.

A nameless opponent

I train and I train, always against an evolving, imagined opponent. When my skill rises I imagine that my opponent is better, when I break through a slump I see my opponent rising even higher. It is a way of improving, never seeing a final end to one`s ability. To me that opponent is some nameless person out there that is training harder than me, more dedicated and diligent in his pursuits. That opponent represents someone who has gone farther than I, but I feel in imagining this person I can see how I can improve. As this opponent is always better than I, every cut is parried and every move is countered. It is like a game of eternal chess with yourself. Its also justification to say "see, i can be better! If he can do it so can I." Never be complacent to one`s ability, never be satisfied with what you know.

But on the same hand I feel it is paramount to be supremely confident of what your abilities are and how far you can act in the present. The very reason you can evolve and see past you present abilities is because you understand them 100% and can build! Not understanding, for example, how you arrived at a particular cut (the movement of muscle, its application etc) leaves it to become an isolated technique with no relation to any others that you know.

The end of a journey

I took a long trip. Through the American North-west, seeing much of this countries most scenic wilderness. I won`t say where as I`ve written enough about that elsewhere. But I traveled on foot and that made all the difference. Intensely solitary and introspective, it was more than I bargained for. I practiced with the sword, thought about formulas, systems, footwork, angles- all that pertains to the movement of a sword. And what ultimately did I arrive at? That I have much more work to do. I came back a little stronger and possesing a balance honed to a fine edge but the trip widened the horizon which I thought lay but a few miles distant. Now I see it stretched out of sight, a vast and seemingly impossible distance to cross.

Im anxious now to concentrate on further examinations of possibilities. How can I evolve and how can I push the boundary of my ability? Ill continue to write of these thoughts and the progress I make in understanding the perfect cut, but now Im back in the city, full of distractions to my desire and it will be hard to focus. But the memories I have of days and nights of wandering should help in bolstering these times of soul-numbing dullness and compromise. Well much to look forward to, till later.

At the trailhead

I have returned to the country of my birth. And the truth rings in my ears more than ever; you can never go home again. It is never the same. Can you ever come to terms with friends and family that were never there for the events that changed the coursing of your life? So I find myself again on a hill overlooking the lights of a city, again able to see the weaving's of energy that flow around the nightscape. But it holds no secrets, no under lining meaning to me now, as if the burden of so much memories locked within the landscape keep me from seeing the reality of the land. And I want to, I had forgotten how beautiful the Northwest can be, how the fading sunset clashes with the illuminating city skyline, how the deep pine forests evoke a broad calm feeling and how coffee drunken outside on a cloudy windy day is not miserable but glorious as a reminder of shifting shades of nature.

And I think will the lofty ideas and philosophical points of view disappear now that I am seperated from the isolation and thought conductive environment? That was always at the back of mind and a small reason why I never wanted to leave that country. The fear that I will lose every insight and foothold of my inspiration gained from the long hikes through country, mountains and temples. That the periods spent sitting in my small apartment lost in thought, walking through the surreal towns and riding the trains through varied landscapes will be drowned in the overpowering culture of this country.

But I have set a task before me. One that involves lots of hiking and walking and plenty of solo time. I will be able to tell if all has been lost or merely buried under the intense process of re-adjustment. I will leave this journal for now as there is little access where Im going. Paper as always is just at hands reach.