grasp…

Monday, October 3rd, 2011

grasping hold

T’ai Chi taught me many things but perhaps nothing quite as useful as the unlearning of the reflex to grasp. This reflex – to grab hold of something, most often with the dominant hand – becomes a liability in any kind of fight. One problem is that it focuses the mind on the grasping hand: thus focused, the mind loses the ability to see ‘the bigger picture’. Another is that an attempt to grab some part of an opponent is a necessarily difficult procedure: he is most likely to be in motion, and the desire to coordinate the grasping hand with the moving target absorbs altogether too much of your attention. Further, even if you succeed in grasping your target you will become attached to the other person by your own grasp in a way that can be used against you. While all this is going on, much of what your opponent is up to will most likely elude you, and, because of your focus, you are open to essentially ‘surprise attacks’ from those parts of your opponent that you are not monitoring. All in all this is not a brilliant tactic.

Thus T’ai Chi seeks to disarm the ‘grasp reflex’, instead training you to remain in a state of overall awareness, and using, for example, the back of the hand, the wrist and the forearm, to make contact with your opponent. This is not done randomly, but with an interest in the areas above or below joints, elbows and knees, the hips etc. Once contact is achieved it is allowed to slide across your body as you roll into your opponent, sensing the movement of his body in space, the dynamics of his weight shifting, until you feel one of his joints nearing a position of disadvantage, his weight passing near a fulcrum where he is close to losing his balance. Only at this point is focus narrowed and your force deployed against him.

The aim is to remain uncommitted until the last moment. Thus the practice of the ‘forms’ that, to an outsider, appear to be a gentle dance, but that is the attempt to keep muscles and joints relaxed while in constant motion and, with paired work (‘pushing hands’), maintaining this while impacting and being in contact with the other.

I believe this principle is related to the balance of the hemispheres of the brain. What concerns me here, however, is how ‘grasp’ is metaphorically extended to the mental attempt to understand something. It seems to me that everything I have described above can also be applied to this. That when we attempt to understand an issue of any complexity – as the movement of a human opponent in space is complex – any attempt to directly ‘grasp’ that issue will lead only to a clumsy, partial understanding, if not indeed to confusion as it defeats you. When faced with such complexity I have found that it is better to engage it using the ‘edges’ of my mind, to forgo coming to quick conclusions, to keep my mind gently out of focus: understanding naturally emerges from this process, hardening to clarity in its own time.

I applied this recently to my travel plans: delaying the purchase of tickets, allowing other possibilities of routes and timings to emerge. This made it possible for me to change my plans dramatically; returning to Edinburgh to attend the Achaemenid conference and making better use of my time. Some may point out that not everyone has the freedom of action I had here – however I would counter that all situations have their limitations and that, within these, it is always possible to apply this brand of ‘fuzzy planning’…

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9/11 in a Mexican jungle…

Sunday, September 11th, 2011

On the 11th of September 2001, we returned from a miraculous day wandering, eventually barefoot, through a jungle in the Mexican Yucatan, led by a Mayan girl to waterfalls that tumbled down steps gouged into smooth bowls in the soft limestone. Between the trees enormous blue crabs scuttled. At last, exhilarated, we found ourselves in the girl’s hut, a circular house with a palm frond roof and an earth floor and, bizarrely, satellite TV. As I politely handled bracelets and necklaces the girl and her mother had made, bright seeds and pods strung on wire, I was distracted by an image of furious violence on the screen; a skyscraper being pierced by an aircraft blossoming a fireball and smoke. I thought it was something from a James Bond film that I had not seen before. But my partner seemed alarmed and something about it did not look like a film.

As we were driven back to the hotel we had left the day before, we talked about this incredible thing we had seen, having learned from the driver that it was an attack on New York. We picked up a hitchhiker, a man in his fifties, an American. We asked him if he’d heard the news. He told us that he had, and that two of his children were in the towers.

Back in the hotel we located a TV in a corner of a lounge. We turned it to CNN and watched the news, trying to make sense of what was happening. Other guests, a Mexican family, asked for the sound to be turned down because it was disturbing their game of cards.

Over the next few days we exchanged emails with our family and friends back home. Amidst the calm and the heat of the Yucatan, hysteria and fear poured at us from those communications. American airspace had been closed down and the airplanes of the carrier that had brought us to Mexico were grounded. We talked about whether we should try to get home; whether we would even be able to get home. None of it felt real.

We decided to continue our holiday, daily hearing more from the UK of the terror and fear there. Around us everything was serene. A Mayan woman described in the guidebooks the tourists carried, a woman who stood in a particular square holding a bright parasol, took us, with others, into the homes of local people, poor people. People who, having little, had crates of Pepsi that they used as a sacramental fluid in their religious rituals. Our guide had the demeanour of a saint as she told us about the lives of her people, and of the terrible civil war that had recently ravaged their land. Afterwards, we asked her if she had heard of the attack in New York. She had. I asked her what she thought of it. She said she was sorry for the loss of life, but that the Americans had brought her people a lot of harm, and to so many others in Latin America. She felt that this was something they had coming. What they were suffering now others, vastly more than had died in New York, had suffered. She asked me: Why is their suffering more important than that of these other people? She said that she hoped it would make the Americans open their hearts to others, to use their power more responsibly, to be kinder…

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Spartacus: Blood and Sand…

Sunday, September 26th, 2010
spartacus...

spartacus...

I have been watching Spartacus: Blood and Sand with much enjoyment and would like to counter various sneering reviews such as this (it was another review I can no longer find that provoked me to write here)…

The general drift seems to be to point out the banally obvious, that the show contains a constant diet of sex and violence, and to state that there is no plot. It seems to me that this entirely misses the critical point: that the sex and violence are the plot. Both serve to demonstrate the core aspects of the politics and culture they represent.

When you have two privileged people chatting about the day’s business, while each is ‘fluffed’ by a slave to get them sexually aroused, before they enter into full copulation, with these and other slaves watching – then it seems to me that we are being given a profound lesson in cultural history that it might otherwise take screeds of text to convey.

Similarly, when you observe men highly trained to kill, decked out in armour and weapons exquisitely customized to provide entertaining matches (yes, like a computer game, but these were real people being maimed and slaughtered) before a baying crowd of gorethirsty ‘citizens’ – then something of the politics and morality of the Roman Empire is clearly communicated. Apparently, after a day at the Colosseum, whores would gather in the streets outside so that the audience, their libidos inflamed by hours of torture and bloodshed, could sate their passions there and then on the street. From what I’ve read, sex and violence were endemic to ancient Rome and many other urban centres of her empire – and these excesses were not something enjoyed underground but in the full glare of day, promoted by the state, indulged in by even the highest stratum of society…

Further, comparisons with Frank Miller’s 300, though superficially true (Spartacus makes many stylistic borrowings), again seem to me to miss the point. 300 deliberately (or ignorantly) misrepresents history. To have Xerxes, the Persian King shown as some kind of S&M pervert (homosexuality being implied among other things), is a gross inversion of the truth. From what we know, Xerxes was a profoundly moral man, hedged about by a religious (Zoroastrian, arguably) code that was far more chaste than anything the Greeks had to offer. Indeed, those Spartan heroes, if correctly portrayed, would have spent the time before battle, combing their hair and primping themselves to appear as beautiful as they could in the coming battle. This from a military elite among whom homosexuality was compulsory. Not that I am expressing any judgement about this. Rather, I could not help being aware, while watching 300, of how Frank Miller had twisted his representation of history to reflect what appears to me to be a sinister notion of West versus East – a self-serving white hat/black hat analysis that has political consequences even today…

So, Spartacus: Blood and Sand is indeed comicbook – gloriously and creatively so, somewhat fantasy, and there is quite a lot of rather dodgy acting, but it is nevertheless a visceral portrayal of some aspects of Roman culture that goes some way to explaining why their slaves rose up, not once but several times, in grotesquely violent and desperate attempts to free themselves from the degradation and harm imposed on them by their masters…

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crucifix versus cross…

Sunday, September 12th, 2010
a crucifix in San Damiano in Assisi...

a crucifix in San Damiano in Assisi...

empty cross in a presbyterian church in Florida...

empty cross in a presbyterian church in Florida...

When I was in Portugal earlier this year, it occurred to me that not a single one of my Portuguese readers has ever mentioned the violence inherent in the Stone Dance, never mind complained about it. This stands in stark contrast with reactions in the English speaking world – where the violence contained in the books is often mentioned. This contrast linked in my mind with a comment my therapist once made to me that “you imbibed Catholicism with your mother’s milk”… At the time I was taken by surprise, being that I am an atheist and that I do not recall even being in a Catholic church (though I was baptised in one). My mother is a devout Christian, but though she was brought up Catholic, when we moved to Scotland, she abandoned Catholicism because she was uninterested in the schisms in Christianity. Her attitude seems to be that she believes in Christ and can’t see the point in denominations. As it happened, she walked down the street and joined the first church that she came to. As this turned out to be the Church of Scotland, she nominally is now a Protestant – though, as I’ve said, she’s not interested in such distinctions.

What, you may be wondering, does this have to do with the Stone Dance. Well, when I was in therapy, I became aware that the Stone Dance has a layer of structure that is profoundly Catholic in its sensibility. In fact, Catholic themes of suffering and redemption run through the books; there are fundamental subversions of the Garden of Eden story, of original sin, of the casting out of Satan from Heaven… All this in spite of me being an atheist and having been brought up with only a moderate smattering of Christian influence… But we can none of us, it seems, be free of what we “imbibe with our mother’s milk”…(see the first epigraph of The Third God)

What then does this have to do with how different cultures react to the violence in the Stone Dance… First: I myself was not really aware of the violence in the books as being an issue – violence seems to be such a natural part of our lives, that for people to take exception to it, seemed to me a tad perverse. I was, after all, writing a book about the world as I see it… and who can claim that that world is not saturated with violence? I began to see that it might not be the violence per se that some people were finding difficult, but rather something about the way that that violence was being portrayed. Please understand that I am here feeling a way through the shadows – I don’t claim to fully understand this – but I now wonder if it could possibly be accidental that the only other group of people who have not noticed the difficulty in this violence should happen to be people from the country in which I was born; that though I was only in Portugal for 8 years of my life… that I am still Portuguese. And what then could it be about being Portuguese that leads to a different attitude towards violence?

My solution, a solution that came to me when I was in Portugal on my recent visit, I can best explain by what I see as a distinction between the crucifix and the cross. In my experience, the dominant symbol in the English speaking world is the bare cross, unadorned, abstract. In Portugal, in the Catholic world in general, this cross has a man suffering on it. How profoundly is a culture shaped, the minds of its children shaped, by the difference between these symbols? The contrast between the abstract instrument of torture and execution, and the instrument being demonstrated in use, viscerally, by having a man depicted on it suffering? And it seems to me that the profound mystery (in the religious sense) here is that a man suffering on a cross should be thrust into the face of people – especially children – as the symbol of the most profound love. This seems to me to provide some insight into the difference in how people react to the violence in the Stone Dance. For that violence is ultimately about sacrifice and redemption. And it seems that I am Catholic enough to have portrayed a unity between violence and redemption, between violence and love, that is immediately understood by people who have grown up with the crucifix and causes much more of a problem for those who have grown up with the plain, bare cross…

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