(Like) I'm in California

Wow. Nine months since my last post. I guess life gets in the road. Or maybe I was just waiting for something to write about, and now I've found it. I'm in California on business, and California is the place of impressions (both banal and profound), so I'm going to write about them.

That's right. California. The place where the word 'like' is so frustratingly common that it probably needs to be made an article in the English language, where being blonde is de rigeur and where the sun really does seem to shine more than it does in Queensland. I landed in LA, like, and immediately proceeded through the bus-terminal-like (that was a real 'like', as in a proper use of the word to indicate a simile) airport and to a waiting hire car. And then it was straight out of LA--via the traffic on highway 10340772-I (whatever that means)--and on to Santa Barbara. Along the way I had a strange sense of disconnection. The signs I passed by made me feel very much embedded in a Hollywood cop show, sitcom or song; Sunset Strip, Venice Beach, Santa Monica Boulevard, Beverly Hills, Malibu, Orange County flowed past me until I wasn't sure whether the experience was real or whether I'd been transported by Wonkavision into some TV programmer's idea of Heaven.

But then I reached Santa Barbara, and all was made good. What a beautiful town, even if it was populated by said blondes with brightly coloured shopping bags bearing all the right labels. The Spanish architectural influence shines through in a way that isn't tacky at all, not like when you see it on the Gold Coast. And the food that I did get to try--vegetarian mexican with fried black beans, tofu and (admittedly tasteless) cheese--was actually enjoyable, if not necessarily as richly flavoured as I might expect in Melbourne. I spent a day realising that underneath the cliche that first confronts you when you arrive in America were warm people who were proud of who they were and just wanted to help. It was easy to spend a day in Santa Barbara. The Santa Barbara Museum of Art was exceptional, with a brilliant collection of Asian artifacts (pictured will be posted up as soon as I can), the courthouse was beautiful inside and out and free, with a view from the tower that would cost money most places, and the town itself was about as picturesque as one could imagine, recalling the adobe walls and laced ironwork of an era long past. An archeological site (that's right, in the most hip of hip places), El Presidio de Santa Barbara, matched any historical site in Europe as far as transporting one back in time goes. Yes, not as grand as the abbey ruins in Canterbury or as culturally alien as tombs from pre-historic Japan, but transporting nonetheless, and somehow more immediate. You could feel Lt. Jose Francisco de Ortega pacing the Presidio after even 225 years, wondering how to protect the Spanish territories from the English and the French.

But such a day had to end, and that night took me to Lompoc, a town atmospheric for a very different reason. At Lompoc, and in the surrounding Santa Ynez valley towns, I saw less class and more kitsch. I also finally articulated my problem with tipping. And, somewhat unexpectedly, I once more touched on the wonders of America. But that's for the next episode, where I 'll tell you how I experienced Obama, Denmark, Hiroshige, olives and coffee all without leaving the States.

The Problem With Synthesis

OK, here is my rant against journalistic fairness. The other day, I was listening to a journalist report both sides of the Climate Change debate. On the one hand, the journalist referred to statements from, amongst others, the IPCC panel, Ross Garnaut and Graham Pearman. On the other hand, the journalist listened to a range of other commentators, including representatives of the automative transport industry, leading businessmen and so on. The idea was to present a balanced view of the climate change debate; you know, 'is it due to human activity or not', 'will it have a significant impact on us', 'what can we realistically do about it?' I suppose journalistic integrity calls for both sides of an argument to be heard, but I think we're taking synthesis a little too far. Sometimes, one side really is just wrong. The irritating thing about this particular coverage was that one side (the side disputing the evidence for climate change) was appealing to ideology to justify its arguments. You know, something like, 'but when I was young we had terribly hot summers' or 'what about all the rainfall in Queensland at the moment'. When science was quoted, it was misquoted. 'The weather is cyclical and has been for forever', meaning of course that this time is no different. 

Well, look at the hard science, the facts, the things we observe and measure. Put aside the ideology. This is different. No cycle has ever been this dramatic before. No evidence exists, indeed, of any change in temperature or greenhouse gas levels that mimics what we're seeing today. Putting even that consideration aside, we know that the uptake rate of greenhouse gases by the deep ocean (which is the primary method of removal of these gases) is considerably slower than our rate of production. It isn't an issue for debate. It's just reality. So all those journalists who give the ideologues a voice to maintain journalistic integrity may as well be giving a voice on climate change to two year olds (apologies to all well informed two year olds who might be offended by this). Synthesis, this notion that both sides might have a point, is valid when we're talking about entirely subjective matter -- you know the sort of thing I mean: which movie is better; whether classical is worth listening to more than pop; whether crocodile really does taste like chicken -- but not when we're talking about observable phenomena. Anyone who argues that the sky isn't blue, despite the evidence to the contrary, isn't presenting a valid alternative view. They're just delusional.

Ichigo, Ichie (一期一会)

The term ichigo, ichie is inscribed on the side of my bokuto, just below the tsuba. I see it frequently, about half the time that I draw my bokuto from its saya, but I don't always notice it. Recently listening to an interview with Dave Lowry, the author of (amongst other things) 'Autumn Lightning: the Education of an American Samurai', I was reminded of the ichigo ichie concept and why I'd had it put in such an overt place. 

Ichigo, ichie is literally 'one time, one meeting', but it might also be interpreted as 'one moment, one life' or 'one chance in  lifetime'. [1] In the interview, Lowry was using the concept specifically to emphasise the distinction between western fencing and Japanese fencing: in particular, that western fencing tends towards a battle of attrition, with fencers succumbing to prolonged blood loss from many deep cuts and lacerations, while Japanese fencing tends towards short and brutal. 

But Ichigo ichie is clearly of broader relevance to martial artists. For example, it shapes our attitude to the practice of koryu. When we practice kata, we must respond to the moment that is and not to the moment that was or that might be -- in other words, we need to avoid the tendency to intellectualise during the event, to pause and analyse, or to deconstruct as if deconstruction makes sense within a kata that is sensible only as a whole. Furthermore, each kata in Tatsumi ryu [2] ends with a moment of zanshin, a state of relaxed alertness. In zanshin, we are open to the moment and what it holds, not revelling in our victory or thinking of the battle's end. Again, this is a perfect embodiment of the idea of ichigo ichie.  

Ichigo ichie extends to guiding our everyday attitude. We experience each moment only once, and so we should live within it, notice it, respond to it as if it is the only moment we will know. The message is simple and yet, in our hectic lives, we seem to regret and hope, when we might just be. I'm as prone to this as the rest, and so I had the characters engraved on my bokuto. Now all I have to do is notice them when I see them. 

[1] See Dave Lowry's article here for further discussion. 

[2] Keeley, L 1999. 'The Tojutsu of Tatsumi Ryu, Murphy's Law, and the K.I.S.S. Principle', Sword and Spirit: Classical Warrior Traditions of Japan v2, Berkeley Heights, NJ:Koryu Books 

The View from the Bottom

Last night, at training, my form wasn't particularly good. I've been a student of Tatsumi Ryu for several years now, and it was frustrating to be making so many basic mistakes. I came home all pent up, and sat down at the computer, trying to think of things to do to relieve the negative energy I felt. I jumped onto Flickr, and immediately saw the photo above. In that moment, this photo, taken last year in the Otway Ranges National Park, wasn't a group of trees. It was a metaphor for where I stood in Tatsumi Ryu and for the many who had climbed to lofty heights before me. It might have simply added to my woes, this symbol of my inexperience, but there is a bright glimpse of sky through those trees. Those trees are all looking up too, at the clouds, which have climbed higher still.

My Son's First Grading

Anna and I went to watch our son's first grading in Tae Kwon Do today. He's preempting the rest of the class, because he can't make the grading day this Saturday. We were so proud, watching him perform his kicks and punches, all with a kiai full of enthusiasm and energy. Daniel is naturally energetic, and Tae Kwon Do seems the perfect form of catharsis--I wish I'd been able to catch it on film.

It struck me while I was watching that children receive instruction and correction with a wonderful sincerity. Perhaps it's the degree of trust they place in their teachers, perhaps just their inherent nature or perhaps their innocence--whatever it is, children seem to leave the ego at home when they learn. Daniel and his training friends were completely open, like sponges soaking up plankton. My pride gets bruised on occasion when I'm training. Certainly I strive to do everything perfectly, but the more I think on it the more I wonder whether (sometimes, at least) my effort is purely egotistical. Daniel wants to learn because learning is a wonder to him. I'm sure that, sometimes, I want to learn to satisfy some inherent competitiveness in me; I want to be better than the man I'm standing next to. So, today Daniel taught me something, although completely unwittingly. Note to self: learn for the sake of learning. I suppose this is what Lao Tzu meant when he admonished us to retain the child.

Which leads me to a big thank you to Hall's Tae Kwon Do here in Melbourne. Great job.

Kafka on the Shore

I've just added a new book to my list. Kafka on the Shore is a contemporary novel with strong elements of myth and Campbell's heroic voyage. A marvellously subtle piece that has Western structure, but Japanese sensibilities. This is the first Haruki Murakami novel I've read, but I'll certainly be getting my hands on more of his work. His writing has a quirkiness that blew through me like a breeze.

Murakami is Japan's Franz Kafka, but with an ease and optimism all his own: Kafka on the Shore is an existential 'whodunnit', a tale which questions our perceptions of what is real and what isn't, our relationships with the present and the past and what it means to be alive. It's full of tangents and asides, wonderful digressions onto topics as diverse as music, film and philosophy--Murakami is apparently fond of music, and musical motifs feature pretty heavily in all his works; in fact, his website list all the music referred to in his writings, which probably says more about him than any blurb I could write--but everything remains connected and relevant. Reading it felt like solving a riddle or traversing a maze; every corner seems richly complex and yet undeniably part of a whole.

Get it and read it, and fall into the world of the boy named 'Crow'.

What's in a name?

The Bamboo Sword: Hints of kendo, perhaps? Or a derisory reference to all those who pretend at swordsmanship? Neither, actually. It's the title of a short story by Shuhei Fujisawa, printed recently in the collection "The bamboo sword and other samurai tales" by Kodansha International. Fujisawa's story inspired, at least in part, Yoshi Yamada's The Twilight Samurai, which is well worth seeing if you haven't yet seen it. In both the story and the film, the protagonist is so impoverished that he has sold the blade of his katana, replacing it with a bamboo substitute.

'Yes, alright!' you say. 'But why have you chosen it for the title of this site?'

Well, because the idea of a bamboo sword appeals to me. In Yamada's The Twilight Samurai, Seibei is a modest character, contented not by his status as a warrior but by the joy he finds in his two daughters. The bamboo sword symbolises his dedication--a sacrifice made for the love of children--and also his humility, a virtue I respect and aspire to, even if Nietzsche did label it the refuge of the weak. In both Fujisawa's short story and Yamada's film, the bamboo sword is not the handicap one might expect: Seibei is a warrior, and a warrior is not defined by the weapon he wields, but by the mind with which he wields it. In fact, the faux sword is actually a strength, rendering Seibei's opponent Yogo reckless and falsely confident.

One night not too long past, while sharing a meal, my sensei asked me to consider a koan: what is a swordsman without a sword? I hesitated, not wanting to embarass myself. But, while the image of Seibei didn't immediately arise, I like to think he had some hand in prodding the answer from my subconscious. The Bamboo Sword is a nod, then, to Seibei; I hope it does him justice.