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Time and the Sword — Also, Sword & Laser Interview!

Time works differently when there are swords involved.

I don’t mean by that the old “everything moves in slow motion” adrenaline-pumping effect associated with true oh-shit-I-will-die-in-the-next-ten-seconds panic. That kind of adrenal time-dilation goes away after your first few minutes on a fencing strip, if you ever feel it at all—a modern fencer is as safe as anyone in history ever has been when menaced with a blunt blade. The blade’s made to bend, not pierce. You, intrepid D’Artagnan, are wrapped in kevlar-reinforced armor and wear a ballistic-test mask that makes the sport almost completely unmarketable due to the fact that all players appear to be transformations of the same white-jacket-and-cheese-grater 3d model. (I guess we could maybe wear different color socks?)

No, I mean that time is more flexible. Controllable. Traversable. Amenable to influence.

We’re conditioned—especially those of us who grow up in the US-schools environment—to waiting for the next stimulus from the outside world and responding accordingly. We don’t often think about adjusting the tempo of the world around us; email comes in and must be answered. Walk sign turns to little dude and the street must be crossed. Onions are browned, garlic must be added.

Fencing, though, puts you on equal footing with “the outside world”—reduced and concentrated on the strip in the form of some dude with a sword. The outside world wants to stab you. The outside world moves in patterns—maybe it likes a 1-2 disengage for example, or advance lunges. The outside world not only knows how it wants to attack you, it knows how you’re likely to respond to its attack, and as a result it knows how to set traps. And so on and so forth. If you limit yourself to pure reaction, you end up frantic, at the mercy of the outside world’s time, and that’s a loser’s game. Give the outside world enough time, and it will skewer you. Sometimes it will skewer you on accident.

Fortunately, you have a sword, and can reclaim time for yourself.

For example: I have a tendency to retreat when I’m in a bind—say, when I’ve been caught in a parry. I’m a reasonably athletic guy; I can retreat very quickly, and most of the time get myself out of danger. But that “RUN AWAY!” move is pretty limited: among other problems, it only works at one speed (as fast as possible!), which makes it easy for a smart opponent to incorporate into his (or her) game. Once I start the move, I have very little control.

But if, instead of running away, I stay in the bind—well, then things get interesting. Held as I am in a parry, I can nevertheless choose how and when to try my next attack on a different angle. I can sense when my opponent begins her (or his) riposte, and perhaps catch her in a bind of her own. I can begin infighting (basically trying to find a way to stab the other fencer even though we’re way too close for proper stabbing) immediately, or I can create an extra beat or two of room, waiting for my opponent to make a mistake. I can build tension by drawing out an action, or I can break it by pressing rapidly for advantage. An simple change presents me with a huge range of options for shaping time.

Now, I don’t think the message here is “commit to the attack”—since part of the reason I feel like I see more options by staying in the bind is that I’m not just listening to instinct. Staying in the bind, I feel like Frank Herbert’s human being in the trap; by suppressing the animal response (“move as fast as possible to save myself!”) I’m able to see a whole range of other options and approaches to time. It’s possible that a fencer whose natural tendency was to bull-rush into engagements might see more options if she were to retreat instead; I don’t know. I’m no coach. I barely know which end of the sword goes in the other guy.

But I think this sense of time control applies beyond the martial arts. It’s easiest to see there, because the whole outside world gets reduced to the form of our opponent—but the same issues apply to ethical dilemmas, to email, to love and poetry and boardroom meetings. How do we instinctively respond to stimuli? How can we open up more options for ourselves? How can we create room to play about inside our own lives? In a way this is just another face of the karmic determination issue to which I’ve returned again and again over the last few weeks. (Fence for social justice!)

Tempo, by Venkatesh Rao, is a great book on this very subject, if you want to read the musings of someone who actually knows what he’s talking about. Or, you know, you could get yourself an epee and find a gym!

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A few postscripts!

1: I was on the Sword & Laser podcast last week! The show is totally cool, I had a great time, and you can see it here now:

2. A while back I posted a link to this piece of killer fan art for Choice of the Deathless, by Piarelle on DeviantArt. I may have mentioned back then that I love fan art—there’s no feeling like the sense you’ve inspired someone to create something awesome. Someone must have wanted to ensure I had a great week, because a couple days ago designer Glinda Chen sent me this amazing piece based on Two Serpents Rise. Thumbnail below, click through for full glory:

Isn’t that awesome?

Hope y’all are having a great week! See you around.

The Lunge

Since I came back from France, my fencing lessons have focused on the basics—mostly extension and lunge. Extension is straightening your arm with your blade pointed toward the other fencer; most normal folks call that a ‘stab’, but stabbing is a violent motion, while a perfect extension wastes neither energy nor effort. Your point floats out, and the other person happens to be in the way.

A lunge, on the other hand, is more or less exactly what it says on the tin: you start in the standard fencing ready stance (like a cat stance for those of you with more of a martial arts background), extend your arm, and spring forward, crossing a large distance in an eyeblink’s time. A good lunge flows like water; mine tends to judder like boulders bouncing down a hill.

In my first lesson after returning to the States, my coach and I figured out what I was doing wrong (one of the many things I was doing wrong): I was getting in my own way. Rather than kicking my front foot off the ground first, I was leaning forward and using that foot to spring forward, which telegraphed, slowed, and shortened my lunge. Focusing on that one aspect of technique has really improved my lunge. It’s faster now, smoother, longer. I even stomp the floor less when my front foot lands.

Of course, now that I almost know how to lunge without making a fool out of myself, I lunge all the time during bouts—even when I shouldn’t. Opponent is advancing? Lunge! Opponent is retreating? Lunge! Opponent is obviously baiting me into an attack? Advance Lunge!

I should know better, but damn if that smooth feeling doesn’t tempt me into the next foolish move. I have one cool new key, and I try it in every lock. Time will fix this, though, and experience. Learning a new technique, or a new aspect of old technique, is hard, but so much easier making that technique a part of you. And losing because you’re excited by your own freedom is much better than losing because you can’t help stumbling over yourself.

Still, better to win. But let’s take this one bout at a time.

Swords

Yes, I have an epee — the first sword I’ve ever owned that I will actually use (unless something goes horribly wrong). Its blade was made in the Ukraine, and coated with some sort of electroplating material to stave off rust, which gives the metal a faint rainbow patina.

I love it. The loaner weapons at the club feel as if they’re made from rebar by comparison. My blade is flexible, true, and feather-light.

Now all it needs is a name.

Muhammad Ali vs. the Octopus People of Cephalos IX

Saturday I took my first private fencing lesson, and the teacher said some awfully familiar things as he put me through my paces:

“Relax. When your shoulder’s tense, it announces what you’re going to do before your blade moves.”
“Don’t lead with your body. It gives away your movement.”
“Keep your wrist aligned.”
“Bend your knees more. It hides your intent.”

These themes were also the core of my taiji instruction, back in college (and in China). Relax the shoulders, root yourself in your foot, keep your knees bent, maintain beautiful lady’s wrist. Strange to think that two forms of activity so different in their practice, at least to an untrained observer (taiji’s beautiful and flowing, but slow, while the only thing in the Olympics faster than a saber tip is a bullet), spring from the same principles. Maybe that’s not so strange, now that I think about it: the human body is a constant, so why shouldn’t forms of combat, no matter how stylized, share elements?

In that case, what would an alien martial art look like? Something designed to be practiced by a creature with three limbs, or tentacles, or wings? What principles would change? What would stay the same? And how would an alien fighting style interact with a human one? Would a boxer be any good against an octopus-wrestler, given that the tells he uses to identify intent, speed, and direction would all be wrong?

Fighting Like an Old Man

Three weeks ago, I started fencing again. I fenced throughout high school, and won a good deal more than I lost. My form was poor, and relied too much on explosive action and not enough on technique. I fenced with leaps, with snake-speed, with techniques borrowed from my Wado-Ryu Karate training. In short, I fenced like a young man.

I didn’t set foot on a strip for nine years after high school, but recently, thanks to a coupon and a need to have a reason to keep myself in shape, I began taking classes at a local studio. Holding a sword for the first time after an eight year absence feels like settling into your own bed – you know this place, you know this feeling. In bouts with the other students, I began fencing like a young man, jumping up and down the strip, relying on speed and power.

Now, I’m not as fast as when I was seventeen. Nor am I nearly so resilient. After two weeks of leaping and lunging, I woke to find that I couldn’t walk without a limp. I’d pulled or strained one of the tiny muscles in my hip that helps one recover from a lunge, and even a normal pace caused pain. I worried that I might have to skip fencing this last week. I cursed myself for forgetting that I’m not a teenager any more. Grow up, I thought.

I went to fencing. I hobbled through warmups. I stretched, I conserved my energy. And when time came to fence, I fought down my instincts to press the attack, and fenced like an old man.

I lunged rarely, and only when certain of victory. I parried and I riposted. I gave ground in a slow and calculated fashion. I struck exposed wrists, upthrust arms. I sidestepped attacks and hit undefended flanks. I controlled my opponents’ blades, and guided them off-line to create openings for myself.

I won five bouts in a row, and lost none that evening.

My form remains horrible, and half the tricks I tried I got away with only because I was more experienced, even though I hadn’t fenced in years. My point, I have a point, is more that just because a certain way of fencing, or moving, or writing, or thinking, works well when you’re a teenager, doesn’t mean it still works even in your twenties – people grow, change, develop. That’s okay. If we don’t respect these transformations, we invite pain; if we do, we can earn victory and joy.

I hope I can keep this in mind as my hip heals. Otherwise I’ll be jumping up and down the strip like a crazed kangaroo again, and nobody wants that.