Daylight again

Morning. Damp, under slate-gray skies.

An empty bottle of bourbon,

Brimming with missing memories.

Fermenting thoughts roil,

Earl Gray answers the call.

Not the couch: stillness is decay,

Compulsion, the couch.

A book! That's it, a book!

Every page a refuge, 

Every sentence a bulwark,

Keeping at bay the waves.

Crashing into the barricades, relentless.

Not so much a pack of hungry jackals,

But a warm blanket of anesthesia.

Despair, how insidious thy hand!

Potent indeed, yet, inadequate.

Music swells, fear-storm abates.

It's daylight again!

This is kung fu

Amorphous thoughts swirl,  

Each infinitesimal, profound, 

A grain of sand trapped, 

In a summer dust devil,

Purveyor of nature's casual malevolence. 

Stings come thick and fast,

From without and within.

In a maelstrom of confusion, chaos rules, 

Listless guilt feeds impotent rage.

The narcissistic pulls of a million dipoles,

Do paralyze the iron's will.

Mad energy SCREAMS for a method!

Somewhere in the darkness, a spark,

A notion of a beginning,

The beginning of a notion.

A concert of digits, of body and mind,

Stars and bones align,

Simplicity is expressed in earnest.

The first wave breaks against the rocks.

Then another, and another,

Relentless rhythm distills intent,

The spark is an inferno.

Rock must wither, its faults revealed,

Darkness must recede.

The storm's violence belies

The stillness of its core.

Peace and perspicuity abide

At the point of the closed fist.

And this is its way,

The way of time, and mindful effort.

This is kung fu.

Kung fu forms as moving meditation

I've always been aware that kung fu forms are very complex and dense in content and not just in terms of the variety and sequence of moves. In performing these forms, one works on breathing, strength, coordination, mental focus, balance, footwork, power…  As a beginner, I was overwhelmed just thinking about all this. So I took my teacher's advice and began to practice the forms over and over again, but focusing on a different aspect each time. And, that approach helped me make significant progress. But now I understand how interdependent these aspects of kung fu are… for example, power cannot be expressed without good balance and footing, nor can it be used effectively without fluidity and good structure. So, clearly, at some point, it's necessary to synthesize all the different lessons.

How can I practice my forms with speed, power, coordination, fluidity, balance etc all at once? I know what doesn't work… I cannot hope to achieve any success by using a linear, checklist-like thought process.  Tried it, found out just how miserably it fails. Rather than improving my kung fu, it left me scatterbrained and made my movement chaotic. And then it hit me that I should have seen it coming… I'd tried the checklist approach elsewhere and learned just how badly it fails. It had happened while sparring… I'd gotten so focused listing possibilities in my mind, I got clobbered.

Thinking about sparring, I realized I also already knew the right answer. On just a few occasions, I'd managed to be fully alert without being tense. I wasn't actually thinking at all in the usual way… I would simply observe my opponent and respond. When I say observe, I don't just mean visually either… it was an odd synthesis of sensory information. Did I know about the incoming punch because I saw the arm move or because I heard my opponent's foot shift or because his facial expression changed? I couldn't tell you. I just knew the punch was happening. And my response happened similarly too… I didn't really consider a number of options before selecting and employing one… my arms just sort of went where they needed to go. I should try to achieve the same mindset while practicing my forms. Attain a state of calm alertness where I'd be able to identify and correct my technique on the fly without getting bogged down. In fact, one could argue that a major objective of practicing forms is really to achieve such a mindset which can then be applied elsewhere whether it is combat or some other situation. In fact, done this way, even a pre-defined form would transcend to honest self-expression. In this sense, the practice of forms could very well be thought of as a moving meditation where one trains to settle the mind.

At the minimum, such practice of forms should be effective training for martial applications but going beyond that, such training obviates the need for physical conflict as a means of gaining insights.

Wu Wei: As Applied to Breathing

One of the most important lessons I’ve learned from gung fu (and subsequently tai chi and yoga) is how to breathe effectively. I’ve learned that, for an effective inhalation, I must use my abdominal and intercostal muscles in sequence to expand the abdomen and the chest while maintaining a steady, even flow of air – like sipping tea as one of my teachers put it. And to exhale, the sequence is simply reversed, slowly and steadily collapsing first the chest and then the abdomen. This way, every breath is both effective and efficient.

Over the past year or so, a major focus of my gung fu practice has been to coordinate my breathing with my movements. I started out with the simple view that one exhales when exerting force. The first challenge to this view came during tai chi – I was simply told to breathe naturally and not worry about holding to one inhalation / exhalation per move. And yoga added to my confusion… suddenly I was learning to inhale while exerting force. This seemed to immensely benefit my flexibility and looseness. And, when I thought about it, it made sense too… one could inhale to expand and exhale to contract. So, now I thought there were two ‘right’ ways to breathe. I figured, to focus on power, which is hard, exhale when exerting force and to focus on flexibility, which is soft, inhale while expanding or exerting. But then I began to wonder how I might find both hard and soft within each move. If, say Hung Gar, as a style, combined both hard and soft, I reasoned that at some level, each technique had to have some components of both hard and soft as well. Indeed, when I attended a tai chi seminar in Salt Lake a few months ago, the teacher said as much and encouraged participants to work on finding various combinations of breath and action that flowed together. Then it began to dawn on me that there wasn’t going to be one or two simple correlations between breath and movement. For instance, how I breathe while using an overhead tigerclaw block would depend on how hard or soft I want the contact to be, how I want to bridge with the incoming strike. While this helped me understand the overall concept, it left me with one huge question. How exactly do I apply this in practice? And then, a few weeks ago, I started learning Wing Chun. While I’ve barely gotten started with the style, I nonetheless noticed immediately the emphasis on breathing naturally. 

This morning, as I was practicing my tai chi, I was focused on keeping my movements slow and smooth and forgot about my breathing. Part way through the form I noticed that I was breathing slow, deep and steady but not holding to any set pattern such as one breath per movement. Whatever I was doing, seemed to help me move better but I still don’t understand exactly what I was doing. So, now I have to try and repeat this in order to figure it out a bit better. But such is the way of gung fu I guess… I’ve found next question and once I have some sort of handle on this, I’ll have more questions still. It’s never going to get boring.

A pendulum’s escape

On a sticky summer afternoon,

An ancient rosewood pendulum squeaks,

Ever a slave to gravity,

Back and forth, between past and future.

Overhead, blades chase each other,

Moving as in molasses, with plaintive wails.

Sunlight charges in at a slant,

With the Light Brigade’s passion,

And quixotic purpose.

In its beam, a multitude wander,

Furiously, feverishly, going nowhere.

Time is as a fly, so nimble,

Stuck in a honey pot, powerless.

Eyelids flutter open,

The reverie is a morning mist,

Vaporizing with the sun’s kiss.

In the sky, hangs a sullen moon,

Pale, pallid, cold and accusing.

Overhead, blades chase each other,

Moving as in molasses, with plaintive wails.

Ancient rosewood is kicked away,

The jute groans its exertion.

Gravity, its own slave,

A jerk, rending manacles,

Back and forth, past and future escaped.

The pendulum stops, mourned by none,

Mourning time, no more.

Time remembered, time lost, time escaped.

Disclaimer: This piece is a product of my imagination and its emotional content does not reflect my actual state of mind.

Seven Principles of Scientific Presentation (and Life in General)

1.     When in hole, stop digging.

Corollary i.      Learn to recognize a hole from the inside as well as out.

2.     Never laugh at your own jokes – they’re probably not that funny.

Corollary i.      Do not laugh if even you don’t think you’ve been funny.

3.     Say it like you mean it but not like your life depends on it.

Corollary i.      Don’t swallow your own bullshit.

Corollary ii.     You must learn to recognize bullshit.

4.     The audience is not your friend.

Corollary i.      Leave yourself an out and cover your ass.

5.     Keep it simple – because, everyone would probably rather be some place else.

6.     Remember, it’s all just theatre.

Corollary i.      Assume a GAFO (giving a flying one) imbalance: Make the audience care.

7.     It never hurts to actually know what you are talking about.

Right about now, Stephen Covey is quaking in his boots.

Simple ≠ Easy

Keep it simple, one is often told. Sound advice, even sounds like it ought to be easy to practice. But, what is simplicity? Is it the absence of complexity? Or is it economy of effort? I find my practice of gung fu and my recent efforts to learn to swim driving me to reexamine my understanding of the nature of simplicity. I recently watched an interview with origami grandmaster, Sensei Yoshizawa Akira where he talked about simplicity. Paraphrasing his words, there is a simplicity to the efforts of the novice, but it is dictated by his/her limited knowledge/skill. The efforts of a more skilled practitioner are characterized by complexity and variety of technique. But as one progresses further in one's practice of the art one develops fluency in the technique and the ability to truly and honestly express oneself. And, in so doing, one returns to simplicity. Only this simplicity arises out of skill and understanding, rather than being imposed by the inadequacy of either. He could have been talking about gung fu or cooking or any practice for that matter. Well, that's what gung fu is, the dedication of one's time and efforts to the pursuit of ideals in one's practice, whatever that practice might be. And, simplicity is an ideal well worth pursuing.

Some thoughts from Aikido practice

During Aikido practice the other night, Sensei spoke of separating the opponent’s mind and body. As I reflected upon this concept, my mind returned to the gung fu principle of wu wei. I realized that separating the opponent’s mind and body can be a practical realization of wu wei as applied to combat. This is how I understand this idea:

Fundamentally, one must act naturally or spontaneously. With respect to combat, this means that one’s actions are simply a natural response to the opponent’s actions. When an opponent chooses to act, he skews the distribution of his attention, strength and balance in the direction of his intent. Thus, unilateral action compromises the opponent’s grasp over the situation – this is not to be misunderstood to mean that the control has by default passed to the other party, i.e. oneself. Rather the opponent has simply allowed one an opportunity to alter the situation. It is this capacity that one acts – simply doing what the situation necessitates rather than trying to force the situation to fit the mold created by one’s sense of self. In practical terms, one can achieve this by taking advantage of the skew in the opponent’s attention, strength and balance.

Movement relative to the opponent can realign one away from the opponent’s strength and balance. Thinking about how such movement can be achieved leads me to the concept of fluidity and back to the notion of wu wei. The goal of one’s movement must be to complement and complete the opponent’s structure and force. One’s actions must be a spontaneous response to the situation created by the opponent’s intent, or in other words one must be like a fluid and take the shape that is dictated by the vessel that is the opponent’s rigid intent.

Once in appropriate position, one can neutralize the opponent’s intent by applying a force to complementary that generated by the opponent thereby separating his strength from his balance rather than by simply trying to overwhelm it.

Aikido aims to achieve this goal in its most philosophically and practically pure form, disrupting the opponent’s balance and thereby breaking his control over his own strength. This is achieved by connecting with the opponent either physically (joint locking etc) or mentally (for instance, by inducing a sense of impending physical contact). Disruption of balance leads to loss of positional and kinesthetic awareness, allowing one an opportunity to apply a small force to complement the opponent’s force and direct the opponent’s center of mass in a safe direction.

Hung Gar offers the possibility of achieving a similar outcome through striking with the intent of disrupting balance, disrupting the mind through pain or by directly disrupting strength by causing damage to the body.

While some of these approaches may lack somewhat in elegance and refinement compared to others, they also offer viable alternatives which may be necessitated given the limitations of one’s skill. Also, with the same limitations of skill in mind, I do think that a fundamental intent is still necessary to the extent of deciding the level of violence necessary – in other words, the response must be proportional to the threat.

Regardless of the specific approach one takes, it is important to extend one’s thinking beyond unilateral action, beyond victory and defeat and to endeavor simply to respond to a situation and prevail through it.

Cuppa' Joe

Anger, apathy, the fire burns so cold. The flat grey sky above, the cold morning light, the world seems so indifferent. The sun is lost in clouds, having perhaps tired of the routine. It’s freezing out – at least there’s something to feel. Children walk to school rushing headlong towards a future of certain bleakness. The world, it would seem, has fallen off its axis. The morning’s news only makes it worse – greed, apathy and worst of all, naïve optimism. The fire burns brighter but it doesn’t warm – instead its harsh light makes the dullness even more impossible to ignore. The once comforting ritual of coffee brewing seems now oppressive and forced – enjoy this coffee before it turns to ashes in your mouth. And then, the coffee pot burbles plaintively and an aroma tickles the senses – the smell of what a morning ought to be, reminding me of the faint ember of life that still glows in the corner, weak yet defiant. The first sip is a tidal wave of sensation and thought, the ground shifts underfoot, the world rights itself with unbridled violence. Vast as the blackness is, it is nonetheless powerless to resist the flashlight beam cutting a swathe through it… context! In one glorious swoop, context redefines reality… I exist, I live, I thrive. And, people ask me why I don’t get my coffee at Starbucks…

Shifting sands

Have you ever returned home from a trip to find it intangibly different from the way you left it? It’s happened to me lots of times. But always, the feeling has been transient. Except in the most recent case; and, this time, it wasn’t my apartment that felt vaguely alien. This summer, I traveled to Chennai (the city formerly known as Madras), India – the place I’ve thought of as home for some years now. However, when I finally landed there, after some drama with an overbooked connecting flight, there was a nagging emptiness, a lack of emotion that just wouldn’t go away.

[Cue a segue out of left field.] The feeling reminded me of a rather peculiar neurological disorder – it results from damage to the brain, specifically to the connections between the fusiform gyrus (the face-recognition area of the brain) and the amygdala (the emotional center of the brain). People with such damage suffer from a curious form of face blindness, where they recognize the faces of people they know but think the person to be an impostor. The rationale behind this pathology is rather simple: from memory, they recognize the pattern of the face but the recognition is not accompanied by an emotional response from the amygdala, as happens in healthy individuals. As a result, the brain concludes that the person, who looks familiar, must be an impostor.

Now that I’ve wandered hopelessly far from whence I started, let’s return rather abruptly to the main plot. The problem wasn’t that I was bothered by Madras having changed in my absence… I had noticed changes during every visit too. But it had always retained an ineffable quality that made it unmistakably Madras, unmistakably home. However, this time was different… it had changed in a way that I couldn’t quite put my finger on… I felt like I’d walked into someone else’s home, nonetheless at the location where mine had been. And what bothered me most was how indifferent I felt about this. What had changed?

Like a child relentlessly picking at a scab, I kept digging into my thoughts until the little voice in the back of my brain was suddenly a deafening scream: “Fuck it! Nothing is yours! Nothing remains!” Ah, at last, a clue! Despite the oppressive summer heat, the city felt cold, aloof, uncaring, even unfamiliar, it’s rhythm suddenly different from the one that had so mesmerized me years ago. I realized that the city once again felt every bit as unfamiliar as it did when I moved there in 1997. But what had changed about ‘my city’ that should bother me so? Or was it really I who had changed? Before I even began to find an answer, I knew it would have to involve both… I had certainly changed but the city had likely changed too.

The answer came to me in a stunning moment of clarity as I sat in a restaurant eating an excellently cooked dosa. The food was excellent, I was in the company of family… but something irked me still. And then I put my finger on it… it was the rest of the restaurant… the activity, the buzz, the palpable impatience – people wanted me out of there – the harried waiters who could no longer even feign politeness, the hungry customers with pocketfuls of cash waiting for a table…they all wanted me out of there. And that was it… there was simply no room to relax any more, the city was too busy being a rat race to be fun.

The why was easy enough to figure out – all I had to do was drink a few glasses of tea (yes, glasses, not cups) and keep my ears open. Road-side tea shops are the real nerve centers of Madras, where one feels the pulse of the city at its strongest. (And, I am mixing up my metaphors, I know.) So, there I was, sitting on a wooden bench drinking strong, sweet, creamy tea and listening. With each conversation, I felt my perspective widen, my understanding grow clearer.

As it often does, it all boils down to time and economics. The 21^st century has witnessed economic progress hit India and hit it has, with all the subtlety of a tropical cyclone and as much balance and planning as a riot. Not that it could have been much different – this is India after all, and we Indians jus do not do simple. And Madras has definitely kept pace with the rest of the country, if not led the charge. It’s visible – lots of shiny new Audis and BMWs on the roads, stores peddling every luxury brand under the sun. But not all is well – the nouveau riche must still drive their sports cars past the same old slums and at every stop light, they must still ignore the destitute beggars. In a city trying unabashedly to gentrify itself, land is at an all time premium and as the rent rises inexorably skyward, all but the very well heeled feel the ground eroding away from under their feet. All this has turned Madras into a city full of people hanging on with grim determination and desperate people do not have the time to be nice. And, so it is that the place I once called home has turned too cold and unfamiliar to give me the time of day now. Suddenly the saying that “home is where the heart is” seems like rather cold comfort indeed.

A Momentary Lapse to the Dark Side

I was watching a documentary about the legendary Pink Floyd album The Dark Side of the Moon and something that Roger Waters said triggered off an avalanche of thoughts and memories. He talked about how “everything up to [a certain] point was preparation for life that would start later and [he] realized suddenly that life was already happening. [He] realized that life began at dot and at any time one could take control of it…” When he said that it made me think of my own life and the influence upon it of the Indian social context in which I grew up. The notion of education and ‘growing up’ being preparation for life that would start later is very much the way of thinking in Indian society. Even as I grew up being a good little hamster, keeping his wheel turning as fast as was demanded and then some, I began to question the fundamental principles that the worldview I’d been taught was predicated upon. By the time I was out of high school, I realized that the massive edifice of a life’s plan I’d constructed was built on a foundation of well, nothing. I also realized that the loneliest place an individual could find himself in the midst of a collectivistic society.
"And if the cloud bursts, thunder in your ear
You shout and no one seems to hear.
And if the band you're in starts playing different tunes
I'll see you on the dark side of the moon."
Lyrics like this suddenly felt a great deal more personal.

Thereupon followed the existential crisis and period of darkness that I imagine everyone goes through in some form and to some degree. Thinking back to those times brought to mind yet another bit of Pink Floyd brilliance, this time from the song Time…
"Hanging on in quiet desperation
Is the English way."

Whether it was the way life had always been in the subcontinent or a dark remnant on the Indian psyche of the colonial past, it is certainly how I looked upon the Indian experience of life in those days. At that thought surfaced memories, all to vivid, of fears past… fears best summarized by more Pink Floyd lyrics,
"And then one day you find ten years have got behind you
No one told you when to run, you missed the starting gun."
And out of all this angst came the person I am today… someone consciously trying not to lose the here and the now in the formless mists of possible futures. Thinking back on all this I realize it’s no mystery why music and prog rock/metal resonates with me so strongly… it’s been, and continues to be, the soundtrack to my life. And every night, when I sleep, my fears come out to play in the dark garden of my dreams:
"The time is gone, the song is over,
Thought I'd something more to say."

A couple of first paragraphs

Arguing with BULLSHIT

How could one, knowing fact from conjecture, knowing inference from observation, ever be totally certain? And without selling the truth short to put on a mask of certainty, how does one then debate the illogically obstinate? Employing logic against blind, stupid lunacy leaves one in much the same position as a wave crashing against a rock. How then does one deal with such a situation? How does one argue with BULLSHIT? More importantly, how does one keep at bay, cynicism and apathy? Perhaps, Max Planck was right when he said, “A scientific truth does not triumph by convincing its opponents and making them see the light, but rather because its opponents eventually die and a new generation grows up that is familiar with it.”

Cold Days

At times I wake up knowing that the day will be passed in quiet desperation. Some time during the night, my mind must have wandered somewhere dark and the old, familiar monkey is back upon my shoulder. First glimpse of daylight and I already feel tired… life, it seems, is an oppressive, utterly pointless tedium. I look out the window and the sky is an impenetrable mass of gray, which seems rather appropriate. I got through my morning routine – calisthenics, shower, coffee – even though every thing seems harder than usual. I step outside and there’s a cold wind blowing rain drops into my face like little, icy needles. Pile on the misery! But through all this, there’s a glimmer of something somewhere in a corner of my mind that tells me “This too shall pass.” So, I can’t stop, I can't even really slow down… I must just keep on keepin’ on.

The Linearity Trap

I have not written for some time now – over a year – in part because I’ve not felt the need to put down any of my thoughts but also in part because I’ve been struggling to find the words to express myself with. There have been many, many first paragraphs, even a few second. But nothing seems to translate, to flow. My conscious mind tells me I should be very troubled by all this, but curiously, I’m not. Realizing that brought a fresh question to my mind – do I need turmoil to fuel my writing? I’m certainly cognizant of how much I’ve depended on writing as a means to find clarity in times of confusion. Indeed, most of my writing was fueled by mental flux. Emerson was right on the money when he said “Bad times have a scientific value. These are occasions a good learner would not miss.” But oddly, in learning to live through difficult times, I seem to have forgotten how to deal with placidity.

And perhaps, along the way, my writing has become dependent on mental flux as a source of inspiration – all indications certainly point to this being the case. The past six months or so have been a period of relative calm (I think) and I have had the hardest time writing anything at all – and this has bothered me immensely. The resultant unease drove me to reexamine myself and my recent past. Careful recollection tells me that these months have not really been entirely calm – no more so than substantial chunks of my past, anyway. So, what’s different now? The answer, it would seem, is me… more precisely where I stand with respect to the events that make up my life. It appears I have moved with respect to these events, suddenly finding myself closer to the eye of the storm… that little island of calm from whence I can observe the gusting winds. More importantly, with respect to my current predicament it would appear it is the perception of flux, rather than flux itself, that I’ve come to depend upon as writing fuel.

But why would any of this unnerve me so? The reason lies what I see as the value of writing: it has helped me to learn and to grow. And, without growth, there is only stagnation – the thing I fear most – for stagnation is decay and decay, death. So, it is that writer’s block felt every bit like an existential crisis – oddly, a quiet but persistent one – and therefore, I persisted in my efforts to write. As with every task, I set myself a seemingly easy goal: to write a page of something, anything at all. Weeks turned into months and the accursed page just wouldn’t fill up.

Jump across space and time to at cinema hall at a multiplex, the evening of last Wednesday. I’m watching, in 3D no less, Werner Herzog’s new documentary, Cave of Forgotten Dreams, about the Chauvet cave in France. The cave, apart from being a place of breathtaking natural splendor, is home to the oldest known cave paintings. And they were far indeed from simplistic stick figures that I expected. Even as I marveled at the beauty of the lions and horses painted on the walls, the thought crossed my mind that they had spent thousands of years hidden within the cave while history happened outside: the dark ages, the renaissance, two world wars… a whole lot of history.

And then, I got to thinking about that notion itself. It was a fairly interesting thought but it wasn’t much more than that. It was not the start of a chain of logic that led me somewhere more interesting. It wasn’t the only such thought I had during that movie either… there were several such isolated, amorphous thoughts. Each one interesting in its own right, within its specific context, interrelated even but not in any linear fashion. That’s when it hit me: I’ve had a lot of these amorphous thoughts over the last several months. But I don’t know what to do with them. Even the descriptors I can muster for these thoughts – amorphous, non-linear – only tell me what they are not. Therein lies the fundamental problem: I am limited by the linearity of my thought. In identifying this limitation, I have discovered my next challenge – to move beyond linearity. Perhaps, in time, I will make some headway in that direction and write about it on this blog. For now, I can only wonder how such a post would be structured.

Half a world away, I journey inward

The need for such an approach arises from the subjective experience of objective reality that we know as the human condition. I began by granting the fact of my own existence. This allows me to work under the assumption that my identity, which I seek, exists, in some form and thereby, simplifies the problem manifold. In so doing, I have established the ‘fact’ of my existence as the frame of reference, the foundation upon which all other knowledge I possess is predicated.

The next step was to define that which I sought. Upon some consideration, I redefined my question as “Do I have an identity that extends beyond context, i.e. my past and present experiences and actions?” The simplest experiment I could think of was to try and observe myself in a radically different context. From a reductionist standpoint, there are two significant weaknesses in the experiment’s design: a) as both observer and subject, I’d be prone to bias and, b) being privy to my observations, I’d invariably be affected by them, i.e. the act of observation would alter the subject of study. However, these could be offset to a degree by recognizing and accounting for them, as far as possible.

Moving halfway across the globe to begin by graduate studies gave me the perfect opportunity to conduct such an experiment. It is important to acknowledge that the need for the physical separation from my past stemmed from my lack of mental discipline at the time. Over the last five years, I’ve been engaged in a continuous, iterative process of introspection and self-assessment. At each step, I became aware of the impact that the knowledge, thus gained, was having upon me. Observing my own evolution, I came to the realization that it should be possible for me to consciously guide the process, at least to a degree.

Over time, as I changed and grew more and more comfortable in my own skin, I noticed improving clarity in my self-observation. The act of observation was changing that which was being observed as well as the observer – after all, compartmentation of thought notwithstanding; they are both the same entity. Along the way, I’ve come to realize also that the process of seeking is continually revising my definition of that which I seek. Indeed, I’ve come to look upon ‘my identity’ very differently now.

For the longest time, I was troubled by the immense influence of my circumstances upon my identity. I desperately sought to discover for myself a context-independent identity; so that I could see myself more than the sum of my past experiences and actions. This is no longer a concern for me. I see now the flaw in my linear, reductionist approach to the problem. I find it more apt to describe myself as a complex adaptive system and my identity is an emergent behavior/property of the system (i.e., me). Therefore, while my identity is informed by my past, it is different from the sum of my past. The question of whether one is more or less does not arise, because the process of my evolution is non-linear, far from monotonic and not commutative.

My response to new experience is heavily influenced by my history and the different parts of my history do not always exert the same level of influence. Therefore, I no longer consider my identity in linear terms or even as a function of time even thought it is constantly evolving in time. While I recognize the infinite nature of one’s search for one’s identity, I no longer consider it a journey in simple space-time. Rather it is more akin to an evolutionary optimization problem, where one is constantly redefining the optimum criteria based on new input even as one tries to more towards it. This idea in turn leads me back to the concept of ‘wu wei’ – I mustn’t stagnate nor must I hurry. The key is to be conscious of all my experiences and actions which in and of itself is an ideal to strive for. And, to me this provides a rather satisfactory answer to what I’m doing with my existence – I’m learning – about myself and about the universe (well, the infinitesimal fragment of it that I interact with). It is both the means and the end, at least to me.

Wei Wu Wei - Action without action

‘Wu wei’, which roughly translates to ‘spontaneous/natural action’, is a Taoist concept applicable to the martial arts. The idea is for the martial artist to neither act nor remain passive, for these are both unilateral; both are states of inertia. He remains free from inertia in his interaction with the universe – which is represented by the opponent – and restores balance with minimal expenditure of energy. He forces neither action nor inaction, he neither attacks nor defends, he is neither protagonist nor antagonist. He rises above and beyond being a party to any conflict, and simply prevails through them. The opponent’s force which disturbs balance/oneness is countered with a smaller force that complements, rather than opposes it.

To achieve ‘wu wei’, the martial artist must first look inward and quell the fluctuations within. He must achieve a state of calm hyper-awareness where he is keenly attuned to all his senses. In this state of mind, he is also able to rapidly process sensory information and make decisions. The key to speeding up the thought process is to adopt a non-linear approach that utilizes the pattern recognition and predictive functions of the neocortex. The subjective experience of such a mental state may be perceived as a slowing down of time and it is absolutely vital to ‘wu wei’. In short, he must be like still water, reflecting his opponent’s weaknesses and letting him defeat himself.

His attacks find his opponent’s vulnerabilities because they are simply a response to the existence of an opening. This is what Bruce Lee referred to when he talked about his ‘fist striking on its own’ and what Miyamoto Musashi called the ‘strike of non-thought’. Likewise, wu wei allows the martial artist to avoid and deflect his opponent’s attacks and frustrate him at every turn. Thereby, he is able to turn his opponent against himself in both mind and body and ultimately dissipate his very will to fight. At this level, the martial arts become, to use Bruce Lee’s words, a means of ‘honest self-expression’ and transcend from a fighting art to a path to self-realization.

However, honestly expression requires intense introspection and deep knowledge of the self. He must shed all that is unnecessary – reducing himself, body and mind, in the crucible of training to the solid core of his being. While he must constantly strive for improvement, he must do so without being at conflict with himself – in short, he must accept his nature and his humanity. He must be comfortable in the knowledge that the ideal will always remain beyond his grasp. Such realization will bring lasting peace. And, it is this inner calm, rather than aggression, that brings clarity of expression and the ability to prevail.

In achieving such growth, the martial artist surpasses action and reaction, attack and defense, indeed, all limitations. And he no longer limits himself to a style or even to action that is only physical. He applies himself as necessary to the situation at hand, be it through thought, word or deed. His goal is beyond even victory. In a way, he becomes the eternal, the intangible, his ‘self’ no longer a party to any conflict. The opponent is then reduced to a helpless hand swatting at thin air. Such is the method of ‘wei wu wei’.

A Question of Balance

What follows is an attempt to crystallize some thoughts I’ve had with regard to my pursuit of gung fu. The words gung fu translate to ‘time and hard work’ and it is my understanding that the development of martial skill happens as much in the mind as in the body, if not more so. Developing skill demands not just constant training but constantly evolving training.

In martial arts, as in all things, one must strive constantly for balance. The first step in seeking balance is identifying the antagonistic elements that compose the equation. In doing this one is forced to examine oneself in the blinding light of honest introspection.

In order to be effective, training must hone one’s body and mind into an effective tool. One must train the body to maximize agility, speed, balance and efficiency of motion and the mind to develop sharper perception, thorough situational awareness and stillness of thought. The key is to balance the hard elements within gung fu forms with the soft, the external with the internal.

In a sense, one could think of the body as a tool to develop and transmit force, into the earth for movement or into the opponent. Hence, training must be balanced between developing form and fitness. In fitness training one must balance strength and power with speed and flexibility. While working on form one must balance the various elements: stability, balance, breathing, power, speed, fluidity. Even within the context of a single move, one must balance tension and relaxation just as one must balance following the traditional form with improvisation.

The true martial artist does not start fights but finishes them. While he must avoid being the instigator/aggressor, he must possess the fortitude to prevail should conflict be forced upon him. Even so, the martial artist must measure his response, balancing concern for his own well being with concern for his opponent’s well being. Where he must be gentle in dealing with an errant act of rowdiness, he must be able to act with unbridled violence when such action is called for.

Although the martial artist must possess the capacity for violence, it is vital that he use the right motivations to propel him in a conflict. Aggression, while untamed, must be free of anger and malice and should be expressed through one’s instincts and reasoning skills rather than as an emotional outburst. In this way, one remains in control of oneself and is best able to avoid unintended damage to all parties involved in the conflict as well as to bystanders.

A walk in the rain

Weathered fingers clasped tightly around a flashlight, its faltering beam cutting a narrow swathe through inky blackness. Unrelenting rain drummed a hypnotic rhythm as it pattered on dense foliage, interrupted only by the squelch of wet grass under tired feet. The man kept a steady pace, a tattered poncho pulled tight over his head, following the narrow trail with practiced ease. He seemed in no particular hurry, however, even sodden as he was. Every few minutes, a frog croaked, seemingly always from a few paces off to his right. It seemed he only had the frog to share the night with, every other denizen of the jungle driven to its den by the rain. Rainwater streamed down his face in rivulets, blurring his vision, before disappearing into his long gray beard. But, the man neither stopped nor slowed. He walked, unwavering as the rain itself. Alone, within the immense darkness, he was more sharply conscious of his own existence than he had ever been. His reality was limited to the ground underfoot and the flashlight beam and the future extended no further than the next step. As thunderclaps counted off the passing hours, neither the rain stopped nor did he. It was a contest of will, a man against the elements themselves, and it concluded just as faint wisps of pre-dawn light crept up hesitantly onto the eastern skies. His pace steady, he walked on as night gave way to day and rain-clouds retreated, humbled and in defeat, to reveal clear blue skies. Coming up on a precipice, the man paused, gazing at the vast expanse of green that stretched out below. At the very edge, stood a figure, sodden and haggard, his shoulders slumped. As he turned around, the old man saw a bespectacled, curly haired youngster and figured he must have lost his way during the night. Just then, the sun peeked over the horizon, illuminating the faintest of smiles on both their faces. Feeling content, the man stirred. He had fallen asleep at his desk again. He smiled. He would write of a dream, of an old man, long since confined to a wheelchair, who dreamed every night of walking. In a log cabin across the jungle, another set of eyes fluttered open. The old man had fallen asleep in his wheelchair yet again.

Academia: Conflicting Perspectives

This post is a crystallization of my thoughts after reading an article in The New Yorker about the problems facing the University of California. (http://www.newyorker.com/reporting/2010/01/04/100104fa_fact_friend)

As a graduate student, I play the roles of both student and educator at different times. From time to time, I’m faced with a situation that elicits conflicting responses from these two parts of me. These are often issues pertaining to the responsibilities of students and educators towards each other and towards society at large. To further complicate my existence, there is my primary role as a researcher – about which I am the most passionate, by far. The researcher in me is ever eager to apply reductionist methodology to life, never willing to engage more than one problem at a time. This part of me is also eager to dismiss the aforementioned issues as being unrelated to the scientific question(s) at hand and therefore, inconsequential. However, these are issues are anything but inconsequential: issues that affect students and/or faculty at academic institutions have far-reaching effects on research conducted within the system of academia. So, the question boils down to, “Which voice do I listen to? Do I think of myself as a student, an educator or a researcher? Or perhaps, there is a way to reconcile these disparate voices?”

I’ve tried different approaches in the past. I’ve tried to be purely a student of my discipline, which happens to be science – a virtual non-member of the student body, completely oblivious to the mundane, everyday realities. In a sense, this is very much along the lines of being a scientist focused solely on research, unmindful even to the business of conducting that very research. At other times, I’ve tried to be a more active and vociferous member of the student body, whether by involving myself in student politics or by simply sticking to principles and vocal about my ideas and opinions as an individual. The consequences have ranged from minor victories to boredom and disgust over time/effort wasted over trivial details to being subject to the wrath of those in authority. The end result has been disillusionment which has left me with little faith in student political bodies. However, given the successes student movements have achieved in the past and my inability to conceive of viable alternatives, I have little choice but to function within the so-called “system” and seek change from within. While that would seem like a viable solution, it does not address what, for me, is the greater question: “How do I keep apathy at bay when it is so easy wrap myself in a warm blanket of scientific problems and ignore the world outside the lab?”

If and, hopefully, when I have an answer to that question, it will be the subject of a new post on this blog.

An evening at the movies

Disclaimer: I describe here an evening from the recent past as a weak attempt at telling a story.

It’s dark. Long, languorous notes of “Shine on you crazy diamond” fill the room. I stir from my blissful state of inertia and take a look out the window. It’s cloudy and judging from the cool blow glow the mountains are bathed in, the sun must be pretty low in the sky. What time does that make it? Hmm, well what month of the year is this? November, yes, there’s a dusting of snow on the hillside. I suddenly feel the need for some crisp evening air and a movie. What’s playing? The Coen brothers have new movie out, “A Serious Man”. A comedy, perfect!

A change of attire, shoes, jacket and I’m sauntering down to the train stop, day-old snow crunching underfoot, Lisa Ekdahl singing to me. I look up and the moon is a crimson wisp in the western sky hanging over the brightly lit city with a quiet air of dignity. I wonder why I think the moon looks dignified. Grateful Dead’ “Friend of the devil” and few hundred more yards and I’m on the train. I peer out the window – the city looks sleepy. Maybe it’s me, maybe I’m sleepy. I see leafless trees reach up in to the sky like so many dried up, gnarly hands pleading for escape from the tired, gaudy neon lights, Jethro Tull’s “Bungle in the Jungle” plays in the background.

Head leaning against the window, I see the familiar geometric shapes of the city library come into view superimposed on a reflection of the railcar’s interior. It’s my stop, and it’s Calexico’s “Sunken Waltz”. A few dried yellow leaves peek through the snow, catching the multicolored lights of storefront signs, as I walk along familiar streets. Then I see the marquee, it’s the Broadway Cinema. Within seconds, I’m walking up to the concession stand, ticket in hand. The nice, familiar lady, whose name I don’t know, tells me of the movies she’s been watching lately as makes my usual cup of Earl Grey.

Tea in hand, I settle into my seat in the nearly empty cinema hall and pull out my headphones, all with a practiced ease that comes from repetition. Once again, it's practically a private screening. As I take a tentative first sip, the screen comes to life with the first of the trailers. I knew then, with absolute certainty, it was going to be another wonderful evening.

Why I walk

I spent most of my teen years ignoring my father's complaints about my lack of, what he called, discipline. I was convinced (like every other teenager. perhaps) that he didn't know what he was talking about. Having lived on my own terms for the last four years, I've had every opportunity to make of myself what I will. I realized some time ago that I'd ended up cultivating some of the very habits he tried to insist on. In other areas, I've continued to go in a direction diametrically opposed to the one he pointed towards. Needless to say, this was rather intriguing, if not puzzling. So, I embarked on an attempt to take stock of what I've done with my life over the last four years and to understand better some of the things I've done.

Let me begin with a confession.

Four years ago, I was rather lost, unsure where my life was going. I knew on a deep level that I was passionate about science and that I should give research a serious try before making any decisions - but it was nothing more than a blind charge really. I felt like I'd not accomplished anything worthwhile and that in turn, led me to question who I was. I had a lot of questions and no way to really answer any of them. And, I constantly felt under pressure... to succeed, to live up to expectations. I've always been one to deal with my issues on my own - so, I pretended to be cocky, even arrogant, just to hide my fear and vulnerability. I knew even then that sooner or later facts would have to be faced, questions answered. I told myself that graduate school would be the time for that... I would use the opportunity and the freedom of being away from everyone and everything I knew to find myself.

The approach I came up with for this journey of self-discovery is one that I have previously described in some detail (see Empirical existentialism). I took up a back to basics approach:

• I would deconstruct myself down as close as possible to the very core of my being and then build myself back up.
  
• In order for my quest to be fruitful, I would have to pare myself down in both body and mind, eliminating as much of the undesirable and the non-essential as possible.
• Such a process is, by definition, infinite. More importantly, there would be a learning curve to even making a real start. I expected this to span between a few months and a few years. For this reason, I would not check my progress for at least the first year or two.
• Finding oneself entails locating and exceeding one's limits - mentally and physically. I find these to be best accomplished in solitude. I decided for that reason to skip explaining my actions to people. If bonds were strained, if bridges were burned... I would ascertain on a case-by-case basis what losses were acceptable.
  
• The implementation of this decision would require that I learn to dispassionately consider how people regarded me and my actions - in some cases people I had valued/continue to value significantly. And, often I would be required to not react to these opinions.
• Lastly, but perhaps most important of all, I could not permit myself any laxity in assessing myself. I would be my own harshest judge and critic.

As with most journeys into the unknown, it was extremely slow going in the beginning. It was especially hard letting go of old ties and habits. But, over time, I've noticed the going get easier... the pace picking up.

On a physical level, I decided to go about achieving health and strength through effective management of food, sleep and exercise. I regularized my eating habits to eat three meals daily and the effect was a reduced but more consistent appetite than before. I also decided to indulge my liking for good food - particularly coffee, chocolate, vegetables and fruits while consciously avoiding soda and junk food. Pretty soon, I didn't crave the latter any more because I'd realized how bad they tasted - who'd want to drink a quart of coke when one can enjoy a nice single malt or a glass of fresh fruit juice? I took up kung fu, racquetball and hiking - activities I enjoy immensely which just happen to also provide exercise. Along the way, I had to deal with a pesky herniated disc in my lower spine... a painful experience both physically and financially but one I learned much from nonetheless. The resolution of that problem was neither instantaneous nor complete... to compensate for this, I began a daily stretching and calisthenics regimen. The net physical result is that I've gotten lighter (from 225 lbs to 166 lbs), faster, stronger and healthier... I finally feel like I'm getting into the physical condition necessary to live the life I want.

After much introspection and retrospection, I realized I needed to reevaluate the way I related to other people and to find avenues to channel my creative energies. With respect to the former, I set about playing reductionist, severing all non-essential and/or counter-beneficial ties from my past. Along the way, I started making new ties, picking up some very good friends in the process. As for the latter, I tried my hand at several hobbies including writing, sketching, hiking, photography, reef-keeping and kung fu. I gave up on sketching because it didn't feel like a natural way in which to express myself and I've indefinitely shelved reef-keeping purely because of financial and time constraints. Other than that, I've managed to stick with the other hobbies. In trying to keep up with the physical demands of kung fu, racquetball and hiking, I've had to push myself to the limits of my physical/mental endurance and beyond... and every step I've taken past what I thought were my limits has shown me something of myself I did not previously know existed. Passions of mine I'm glad to have indulged are reading, especially comic books and graphic novels, music and movies. The resulting changes are even more dramatic than my physical transformation - I've never been as happy, confident or at peace as I am now. I've also managed to largely rein in my previously wild temper. But most importantly, I've stopped feeling like an outsider all the time. While I may never be one to immerse myself in the thick of things as far as society is concerned, I've certainly grown more comfortable in this world of man that I inhabit. I've grown comfortable with the notion of being a member of the human species and that's saying a lot. All that being said, I've still got a ways to go... so, I'd better get on with it.