Skill and the Rules

Early in my martial arts days, I recall that I had a certain distaste for ‘organized’ martial arts. My excuses were similar to those tossed around by people who dislike ‘Organized’ religion: too much ritualism, separation from the truth, breeding ground for hypocrisy, cultivation of general ignorance – etc.

Now, I never really agreed with the arguments against organized religion, since faith seems to be an issue of individuality, therefore making problems with religion (organized or not) purely personal problems; but I was avidly against martial traditionalism in my early days, perhaps without realizing the parallel mentioned above.

In my mind, it was a matter of winning. I interpreted Musashi’s ‘victory is the goal of strategy’ theme to literally mean that the ends justify the means in martial arts just as they do in dire conflict. I feel that I understand now that this is not necessarily the case.

As is common among young and untrained fighters, I was fixated on overpowering and physically crushing opponents, using various arts to that end without regard for the art or for its employment (Musashi even noted this about himself when he was older). This is all-too-common within MMA and extreme fighting circles, and is unfortunately gaining momentum in ‘Mixed Sword-Fighting’ (an amalgamation of several unrelated sword arts pitted against each other in a single tournament). The result is a degeneration of more refined aspects of older arts whose nuance is retained through the traditional approach to training.

In swordsmanship, one finds through research that many types of swords and armor exist throughout the world and arts developed to properly wield the longer-lived varieties. Those arts that met frequently throughout history developed to counter each other, while those that never met developed disregarding other styles. With this in mind, one can imagine combat between unmatched arts, but real examples are rarely seen – and learning enough about more than one art to effectively merge them would require extensive training and experience as well as a weapon that could be used for the variable techniques. (For example, a katana could be used for saber fighting as well as Kenjustu with a little creativity; but a saber could not easily be used in Kenjustu, since it requires its used being limited to one hand – also, a katana would not be as well suited for the mounted portion of combat saber skills, since most have shorter blades and would have to be held with the right hand near the pommel instead of the tsuba. Further, a saber might be useable for Iaido, but would require stylistic adaptation to offset its more forward balance and greater length. In both cases, the limited conceivable interchangeability between the katana and European saber is based purely upon the fact that they share certain geometric elements.)

All that said, deviating too far from the arts that were developed over centuries of trial and error in real combat will result in an overdependence upon natural ability and luck and this, as Musashi put it, is not the true way.

Developing reproducible techniques that can be refined through observation and cultivating form that takes the utmost advantage of body and weapon offers the stability that one needs to defeat opponents consistently. The difference between this approach to martial arts and the approach of the undisciplined, but naturally-skilled fighter is the same as that which exists between the idea of surviving on money earned through steady employment and surviving solely on money earned playing poker.

In battle, the end goal must always be victory. Even sacrificial losses are allowed with victory in mind; but in martial arts, especially in sport and in practice, victory is an intangible thing. Both opponents fight for the sake of cultivating greater skill or to demonstrate prowess – in the end, both expect to walk away, harboring no ill will one toward another. In this case (the art) the ends should not be expected to justify the means as might be acceptable in a life and death struggle. The purpose of the art is to perfect the person, who through effort enriches the art. The victory in training is merely a side effect of demonstrating greater skill – which in turn shows the superior artist.
Once again, swordsmanship seems more able to exemplify this dichotomy between fighting to win and fighting to grow. The need to win with one blow while preventing your opponent from winning with one blow makes a focus on skills foremost. Through training, the swordsman gains the strength necessary to wield the sword, finding excess strength useful but unnecessary. Increasing speed and reaction time is a constant goal as is learning the myriad methods of employing various techniques in time with an opponent’s activity. The skills one acquires through training and experience are what wins for the swordsman, while luck and strength tend to take a side seat in battle.

It has been said that some men are born naturally stronger and some are born naturally lucky, but none fall from the womb with any skill. Since swordsmanship takes great advantage of this even plain of acquired skills, matches between swordsmen are not merely clashes of opposing will, but tests of skill – and skill can not be measured properly without established criteria.

In a real battle, the end would be determined by the death or maiming of one combatant. Thus, in that case, using any means necessary to separate the enemy from his life is perfectly acceptable, provided that victory is attained at the end of the encounter. However, a victory of skill over skill is a bit more elusive and must be judged under controlled conditions; otherwise one would have to account for millions of minute factors that would skew analysis to the point that proof of ‘winning’ due to superior swordsmanship alone would be impossible to substantiate.

Now, to some it is enough to merely win, but merely beating the opponent down or cutting him or shooting him first is not the goal of the martial artist. That is the use of the art and its end purpose in practice, but it is not to be confused with the goal of the artist himself. The goal of the artist is to grow ever more adept, so that employing the art for practical purposes becomes more natural and consistent. This goal is what separates the martial artist from the brawler, the swordsman from the berserker, and the marksman from the gunner.

As a swordsman, I have found it more important to know that I have improved than to know that I can win a duel against this or that person. Perhaps in keeping with the archetype, I do sometimes focus on defeating an individual if they are particularly skilled, but more often than not, matches are just experiments from which I determine my level of proficiency. In order for the experiment to produce useful information, the variables must be controlled and monitored – i.e. rules must be known and strictly obeyed.

If I were to fight without the constraints of the art’s competition structure, I would be unable to tell if victory came as a result of my superior swordsmanship, or as a result of some other factor that had nothing to do with my skills as a swordsman.

As I am sure the reader could imagine, winning by any means other than honorable use of sword skills feels the same to a serious swordsman as cheating or winning by forfeit – it is simply unacceptable.

In the end I found that this is why the rules are important and why the ‘establishment’ represented by ancient arts is necessary for true expressions of ability to be judged and measured.

Perhaps in the open battlefield, it is obviously better to take the paper-rock-scissors approach to fighting, using the most effective means necessary to effect victory without regard for what that means might be or how use of such means reflects on the individual fighter. But to those specialists who wish to gain more from a fight than merely the destruction of opponents, paper vs. paper, rock vs. rock, and scissors vs. scissors is the only approach that seems logical.
Let the swordsman say to his foe, “I will fight you with the same weapon and the same equipment on level ground and I will obey your rules of engagement, so when I win it will be known to all that it was because I was the better swordsman,”

Weight and Strength

In recent years, I have taken the time to experiment with weight loss and gain as a method through which I would shift the emphasis of my personal performance from strength to agility, and the like.

Essentially speaking, I began this when I made the decision to move from my personal training to a more structured environment, i.e. joining a kendo dojo. Before that time, I had taken my brief karate training and expanded upon it through personal study and regular physical training. These ‘workouts’ often involved sparring with people who far outclassed me and who (in most cases) had received formal training from one fighting art or another. However, they were mostly what I would call ‘fist and foot’ arts, which traditionally tend to yield the advantage the biggest, strongest, and most durable of competitors. As such, I found that I had a natural advantage over many of my more skilled opponents, and through lifting weights, jumping rope, and working the heavy bag, I was able to approach the level of some of the more powerful of my teachers over time. In almost every case, winning at first appeared to be a matter of skill and speed, but as sparring progressed, it became more evident that real fisticuffs was a matter of hitting hard and enduring hard hits – in other words, no-holds-barred sparring often ended as a matter of situational awareness coupled with brute strength.

At the time, I weighed about 260 pounds at a height of about 6’3”. I did not appear to be of ponderous weight, due to my height and the distribution of my body mass, but I would have guessed myself to be about 60 pounds over my ideal/minimum athletic weight. That said, I rarely found it to be a problem during sparring, whether I was grappling or striking; even my swordsmanship was at the capacity of the average ‘Fist and Foot’ fighter. In fact, it was often advantageous to be so heavy, as I was able to hold my center of gravity against practically any opponent unable to shoulder at least half of my weight. In addition, I have since noted that the relatively even weight distribution (aka: the even fat layer coating my whole body – as opposed to just having a fat belly) added extra mass to my arms and legs, which yielded a higher impact inertia than would be possible with my limbs at lean mass. This, of course, was discovered once I began shedding weight which I will discuss a bit later.

I have seen parallels of this observation in Asian martial arts and sports such as Sumo and Korean wrestling styles, where being what would be considered grossly overweight by social standards is actually desirable because of the proportionate gains in impact force and the ability to retain CG control. A correlation seems to appear in old strongman photos and descriptions and can be observed in powerlifting masters around the world. Most of these men are easily overweight by anywhere between 60 to 100+ pounds, but are able to lift and move enormous loads in addition to their own bodyweight.

Having thought about this quite a bit in recent years, it occurred to me that Hollywood has essentially put the wrong image of strength into the mind of the average westerner. Guys like Arnold are indeed quite strong, but nothing compared to the upper human limits displayed by some of these rotund titans we witness pulling airplanes and throwing small cars. That is, however, not the point of this article. The point is that at 60 pounds overweight, I observed my force output to be higher than it is now that I am down to my ‘Kendo weight’ despite the fact that the muscle is still there and the weight-lifting shows that little strength has been lost.

When I decided to focus more upon pure swordsmanship, I began to reduce my intake and change my diet a bit, thereby losing weight at a regular rate of about 1 or 2 pounds per week, reaching my current weight of around 200lbs. nearly a year later. I recall at first, feeling an exceedingly energetic feeling – something which is commonly descried by dieters after the first 10 of 20 pounds has been shed. This is naturally due to your body still overcompensating for the weight of fat that is no longer present. During the time at which the body regulates muscular output to save energy once wasted carrying those extra pounds, one feels light and energetic, but the status quo eventually creeps in.

With regular exercise and speed training, I found that I was able to offset the ‘Status Quo’ a little, but the training was not the same as wearing the weight 24/7, and a certain loss of output occurred over time. So, while my endurance steadily increased along with my speed and agility, squats seemed to get heavier and the heavy bag seemed harder.

The reader may already be aware that offsetting impact force lost by weight reduction requires an increase in velocity, so that is how I learned to compensate with punches and kicks, but I have found that the balance and ease with which the heavier me rattled the bag in the past is something I have all but completely lost – no matter how fast one swings a claw hammer, a sledge hammer will always hit harder.

That fact aside, I found that once the feeling of ‘I’m lighter and faster now’ degenerated into the feeling that I had always been so, I had the strong desire to regain that lasting ‘unladed’ feeling I experienced at the onset. At that time I was a 210 pound man moving with muscles that were used to hefting 260 pounds day and night – everything was easier then. But as my body grew accustomed to the new weight, it began to save its energy as if it suddenly realized that such effort was no longer required. As a result, I was no longer able to have that degree of muscular output without conscious effort.

So what is the solution? If being heavy gives a fighter a little bit of an advantage in stability at the sacrifice of a bit of endurance and being lighter allows for greater mobility at the sacrifice of stopping power, are they not essentially both void of the completeness a martial artist might inevitably seek? I suppose the answer is yes, but this would be based upon my own personal observation and might be answered differently by different people. The solution would require a simplified explanation of the problem, which is essentially how to maintain the middle ground wherein one still possesses the reflex output of a heavy person, while being able to use that output as excess strength due to the fact that one is not actually as heavy as his body is inclined to think. I believe that it can be achieved by regularly lading the body with the weight it once had and operating with caution until one reaches a comfort level that allows for normal movement under the load. Once the adaptation is complete, a fighter should be able to take advantage of the adaptation at will by removing the burden.

I believe that examples of this type of training have been used by monks in China as well as swordsmen in mountainous areas like Korea. If the burden is borne with regularity, the effects of its removal are more pronounced and last longer. In my own experimentation, I was able to regain my 60 excess pounds in the form of weighted clothes and a backpack full of stones. Weeks of practice with the weight on my body started very slowly. Everything was slow and deliberate at first, but eventually movement became more natural. After months of wearing weight on my ankles all day everyday and wearing a weighted backpack everywhere I walked, I found that I was slowly growing stronger and faster. Whenever I removed the packs and weights, I was able to move as if I weighed 140lbs. My body had become accustomed to carrying that extra load for such a long time that my muscle-memory had accepted the load as my normal bodyweight. I toyed with the idea weeks on and weeks off to determine if there were any side effects, but found none to speak of (provided that one works up slowly to their training weight – the body can handle vast loads, but it will be at the cost of one’s less flexible components. In order for the body to get stronger, the whole must grow together, not just the muscles. For a true change, the training must take place over time).

I will continue my training for the time being and will gradually increase weight until I am able to move freely under the burden of at least half of my bodyweight. According to my experiments to date, this could lend itself to a great deal of power for both swordsmanship and Fist arts. I look forward to seeing the results.

Relaxation

Through some life experience and a great deal of humbling training with a few great swordsmen over time, it has become apparent that the need for a calm and relaxed body and attitude as absolute as one progresses deeper into the truth of duel-type combat. This is a mysterious element of higher fighting directly connected to one’s own grasp of the void and is difficult to explain in common terms. Essentially speaking, it is the ability to face your opponent in a state of uncommitted readiness. You must be ready to react, but with a mind clear of If and Then. If your mind is cluttered with thoughts about what the opponent does or does not do, you will distract yourself. In swordplay especially, I have seen many times when preemptive flinching gave away enough intent for the opponent to adjust his attack and score. This goes for fencing as well as Kendo.

Musashi Miyamoto expressed this several different ways in his Book of Five Rings, even going as far as to describe proper posture and shoulder position in detail. Perhaps I will find time to post some excerpts of his work for the reader’s reference, but for now let it suffice for me to say that the body of a swordsman should not change its way from regular life to combat and vice-versa. To remain upright, to be strong in the lower leg and back, and relaxed in the chest and shoulders – this is the bearing common of individuals who try to maintain proper posture in daily life. The feeling of the fighting stance is essentially the same, since it lends itself to rapid movement in any direction and generally sustains good balance when at rest. To be without intent is important for two reasons; the most obvious reason is that your intent can be read by your opponent if he is clever or if the intent is deep enough to be revealed by the myriad subtleties of your body, face, or movements. The other reason (the big and hidden reason) is Newton’s Law. Your body has the property of inertia just the same as everything in the material universe, therefore, if your body moves, it is committed to that movement until you exert effort to change said movement. This includes tiny movements of nervous muscles within your body – muscles that will tighten and pull in order to prepare you to pursue your intended attack or defense. Experience tells us that this is not good for speed, since the body has to work against itself in the event that something unexpected occurs. To be relaxed is to be neutral, and to be neutral is to be equally ready for anything. I believe that this must be examined thoroughly before it can be understood. I often find it difficult to put into practice when in the heat of practice, but it must be mastered if one intends to progress.

The higher aspect of this same concept is the relaxation of the mind. This is necessary for a person to effectively neutralize attack and defense bias within the body, but it can only be refined once the body comes into subjection and is forced to relax despite the urgency of conflict. The brain controls the body – this is medically proven fact. But it is not always so with the mind; the mind can be occupied with thousands of things while the body goes about its business and the two might have little reason to communicate during mundane daily routines. So we develop the habit of acting in a disharmonious way which causes us to become distracted in situations in which focus is required. To have a calm body when the mind is not calm is possible, but only with effort. Training reduces this effort by unifying both the body and the mind. Once again, the clarity achieved by relaxation is most easily attainable during the absence of intent, since powerful intent stimulates the imagination and clouds one’s view of reality. To focus upon a single detail in battle is like suffering from tunnel-vision. If the opponent realizes that you are preoccupied with some strategy, he can attack and overpower you with speed or surprise. In this case, your only hope of survival would be an error on his part or the off-chance that your strategy involved the attack he decided to execute at the time.

The best metaphor for the calm mind is the relaxed eye. When you relax the focus of your eye, you may notice that everything seems to loose focus, but at the same time you become more aware of things that are visible in your peripheral vision. You can see the movements of a wider range of things, even though you lose the detail you once saw in the finite object in front of you. This is the same of the mind in a neutral state. While one sacrifices the detailed thoughts of intent, one gains a wider view of the situation and the ability to react more swiftly as a result. As I mentioned before, this is a necessary skill, but only comes with great practice.

The Grip

The grip is an important facet of swordsmanship which is all-too-often overlooked by the novice and the casual enthusiast. It is a common oversight which frequently results in injury to the wrists, or at the very least, the development middling swordsmen who spar like animals and are easily defeated.

From what I have seen from the lesser-experienced knifemen wielding swords and similar weapons, I gather that the most common improper holding method is the ‘Hammer’ grip. In this grip, a person clutches an object in the midst of a tightly pressed fist as if to prevent its escape. This type of hold is appropriate for very heavy tools an tools with an end-ward center of balance, such as an axe or hammer, because swinging heavy tools hazards one losing his grip due to centrifugal force amplified by asymmetrical weight distribution between the two ends of the tool. I would generally limit the appropriate use of this grip to sledge hammers and large axes, since using these tools is more a matter of resisting shock than retaining grip. It has been my experience that the proper sword grip easily translates into the use of hand tools with practice.

According to the form of Kendo and Kumdo, the proper grip could be likened to that of the basic grip used in golf, but more distributed (for two-handed sword use) and with the thumb resting in line with the index finger rather than on the back of the handle. To avoid confusion, I have added pictures of both grips. Rather than noting the differences, look carefully at the similarities between the two grip styles. Remember that both arts require a swing with accuracy, speed, and finesse. Both focus on these rather than power and both seem to show a great deal of similarity for this very reason. As a sidenote, I have heard that some tennis players also use the so-called fencing grip, which is logical, but unfortunately not included in the attached image.

Note: The left two pictures are for golf, while the right are for the katana; the smaller sword grip image is actually a bit more proper than the one on the far right. The proper grip has a smoother grade between the angle of the forearm and the angle of the thumb. Acute bends in the wrist betray an unsteady grip or a rigid 'Vice' grip.

The science of ergonomics is still in its relative infancy, but it has a lot to say about the way we use our hands to hold things. For the most part, human hands are basically operated like the limbs of a marionette, pulled and twisted by myriad sinews and tendons attached to muscles in the forearm. Since the hand can pivot at the wrist, the orientation of the hand has a direct effect upon the efficacy of the muscles in the forearm and vice-versa. As a result, certain grips are better suited for ease of movement, for crushing strength, for pinching grip, for twisting (like a screwdriver), for lifting over the head, for writing, etc. The sword and golf grips are essentially a synthesis of several of these grip methods, allowing for the greatest range of motion and sensitivity of control without compromising too much holding power. In addition, the angle of the grip allows for greater reach without requiring the hold on the handle to loosen, as would be the case with the hammer grip.

This element of tactical swordplay is one of the few cases in which fencing and kendo/kenjutsu generally agree, though the arts tend to go about cultivating proper grip habits in completely different ways. To further complicate matters for the diligent student of swordsmanship, the East and West are further subdivided into dozens of different mainlines, which are each broken into several different schools. As such, we will limit discussion to the basic, stereotypical foil fencing and shinai kendo. In the first, we have the grip as it would be employed to support the weight of the weapon as well as to guide it forward into its target. The fencer uses a single hand to move the needle-like foil according to an angular thrusting pattern, deviating essentially only to parry or edit the angle of attack. To move the tip, the wrist and fingers are employed to make subtle, accurate adjustments. To move the hand, the arm is used, flowing from the body, which is empowered by proper footwork. In this type of swordplay, the grip is usually maintained through the use of an odd pistol-ish handle that supports all the fingers so as to encourage proper form. The heft of the sword is managed by the grip of the last two fingers of the hand against the base of the thumb, while the thumb, index, and middle fingers guide and control the direction of the weapon.

With Kendo, the handle is more simple, but the grip dynamic is the same, the base of the hand holds the weapon, while the two front fingers help to maintain the proper angle during the strike. Unlike fencing, the kendoka’s attacks are strikes achieved by swinging the weapon with both hands. The left hand holds the weapon and initiates the strikes while the right gently guides the weapon along, merely to prevent its being shocked out of control during a fierce engagement. All striking originates in the lower body, where the power of movement is gleaned from proper footwork and transferred through the muscles of the trunk and the arms to the datostubu area of the shinai which, like the real katana, encompasses the center of percussion of the weapon – the ‘sweet spot’. An improperly tuned grip constitutes a break in the chain of movement between the floor and the target, which results in poor attacks and awkward balance. The two-handed grip offers more swinging force than the single-handed grip, but also requires greater coordination. Coordination of grips during the execution of a technique, however, is a deeper subject best left to personal instruction and diligent practice.

I would like to conclude this entry with an excerpt from the Go Rin no Sho, by Miyamoto Musashi; a swordsman acknowledged by many to have been the greatest in Japanese history. It would be difficult for me to close with better instructions for the swordsman’s grip.

“Grip the long sword with a rather floating feeling in your thumb and forefinger, with the middle finger neither tight nor slack, and with the last two fingers tight. It is bad to have play in your hands.

When you take up a sword, you must feel intent on cutting the enemy. As you cut an enemy you must not change your grip, and your hands must not "cower". When you dash the enemy's sword aside, or ward it off, or force it down, you must slightly change the feeling in your thumb and forefinger. Above all, you must be intent on cutting the enemy in the way you grip the sword.

The grip for combat and for sword testing is the same. There is no such thing as a "man-cutting grip".

Generally, I dislike fixedness in both long swords and hands. Fixedness means a dead hand. Pliability is a living hand. You must bear this in mind.”

Strength Training:

This entry is not so much a treatise on what I do in my own training or what should be done, as it is an article discussing a given result and a method by which that result is achieved. In the martial arts community (especially the western breed), a great deal of emphasis is often placed upon strength and stability. This, along with speed and flexibility, is one of the foundational concepts of personal training – while endurance seems to be occasionally overlooked, that observation should be reserved for a separate article.

Too often, however, I have seen youngsters who are truly afraid that training for strength might somehow result in a loss of one or more of the other qualities. The idea that one has to be sacrificed for the other seems to be extracted from the proportions of individuals working in the realm of extremes, but would have no effect upon most of the people with whom I have discussed this subject. For example, a creatine-fueled muscle-building workout is not something that an Olympic track runner or tour cyclist would want, since their highly trained speed and closely monitored weights would be adversely effected by additional mass, while they would reap little benefit from the added muscular strength. However, it is often overlooked that these extreme examples are focusing all of their effort into dominating an extremely narrow field of human kinesiology while sacrificing the broad potential thereof.

The martial artist on the other hand, is a testament to the general capacity of the human body, rather than the record-breaking capacity that one element might yield through extensive fine-tuning. Therefore, it is important to avoid becoming fixated upon a single element during any kind of training intended to carry its weight in combat unless that facet of one’s individual capability is notably less than that of said individual’s peers.

Having said all of that, I must admittedly take the western stance of regarding strength a very important trait which is all-to-often sacrificed for the sake of speed. The truth is that speed is not so elusive as to evaporate once one lifts a dumbbell from the rack – if anything, most people exhibit sluggishness in sparring primarily due to the fact that their strength to weight ration is not properly balanced. The same can be said of slender people as can be observed of obese individuals. Within the bounds of common sense, the weight is not so much a factor as the related strength ratio. So in the end, the goal of strength training is not to become stronger by virtue of how many pounds of iron one can heft, but by how much weight a person can move in relation to his own bodyweight.

This is achieved by the means one might expect: through work. Lifting weights is the primary means. It establishes a base of strength as well as proper posture and a decent feel for one’s own bodyweight. There are untold billions of examples of the various exercises one might perform either at home or in a gym, so I’ll not exhaust effort detailing them. One thing that I would stress however, is that the best strength training is the proven kind and at a level of intensity that is controllable and can be performed with proper form. Overstressing your muscles without proper technique and a clear idea of what you are doing can result in injury and continuing such exertion despite the pain response that is meant to protect you from injury is no sign of strength – its masochism. Of course, as with most things, tolerances differ; but most martial artists have developed the common sense to know the difference between the ‘burn’ and a muscle or joint injury.

This type of training should be regular and at a schedule that compliments regular dojo training. Occasionally one would expect the soreness from a workout to carry over into class, but this would be less common than a novice might expect, since development is gradual once a person develops a habitual training cycle.

Strength training is not different than swordsmanship or track when it comes to the need for complete warm-up and stretching before and after (cool-down is the ‘after’ version of the warm-up). Muscles can handle huge strain at an instant’s notice – but they do better when they have had time to increase circulation, which reduces the build-up of toxins produced during exercise.

Depending on a person’s discipline of choice, there are several ways that a strength regimen might be tweaked to further benefit a desired art. The heavy bag is a type of strength training that encourages the growth of punching, kicking, and stabilizing muscles through pushing, impact, and retraction. The suburito and suburi shinai are used by the kendoka to develop greater upper body strength, control and balance, and weighted dummies or sandbags can be used by the grappler to further increase takedown and throwing strength. In China, the stone ‘lock-bell’ (known more popularly by the Japanese name Ishi-sashi) is still a popular way for fighters to increase punching power and shoulder strength, while many judoka and wrestlers tend to benefit from training with high-resistance grippers. These training methods bring undeniable results if employed consistently and are also known to increase burst speed dramatically among beginners. As I had noted earlier, strength, speed, flexibility, and endurance go hand in hand. Hitting fast is great, but hitting hard is just as important – after all, a soft little feather would have to be moving at near quantum speeds to do any damage. Once again, the mind becomes deceived by extreme comparisons: “I can hit him 100 times in 30 seconds and it’s so fast that he can’t dodge even one of them,” but said hits do no damage, so the opponent can clobber his speedy rival after he has tired himself out with repeated, useless attacks. Balance is the key.

In closing, it has been my experience that a heavier body is actually beneficial for close-quarters combat and upper-body striking, while a lighter frame gets better results with rapid kicking and cut-and-thrust arts. However, this is only because of the opponents one might expect to face – not because skinny people are somehow naturally faster than stocky types. In any given art, the interaction between practitioners has a lot to do with how much advantage a person’s body type can give them. This is not so much because a certain style of person is inherently limited in some way, but because certain opponents can present disproportionate advantages. (Ref. T-Rex Scenario) In any of these cases, I have never seen high strength levels as a disadvantage if they are attained in stride with the other training focuses of the individual’s chosen art.

Form and Function

Most recently during my travels, I wandered into a situation wherein I was offered a chance to join a kendo school. Being the type that enjoys new experiences and seeking the opportunity to expand my knowledge of sporting swordplay, I accepted and paid my way into regular classes.
After a few months of study, I have come to understand a great deal of the nuances of the form that drives the functions of the art to such a high level of refinement. Only through the adoption of methods and practices that were not simple and natural for my body to perform was I able to understand the degree of refinement to which the art aspired.
Kendo is well established as a sword art throughout Asia due to the fact that it wastes no time with lavish displays or excessive movements, nor does it purport itself to be a ‘combat art’ as seems to be popular with martial arts instructors these days, thereby avoiding a mentality disproportionate to the art’s capability.
That said, it still seems more than capable of cultivating the warrior mindset of enduring self-sacrifice as well as the physical prowess necessary to wield the associated weaponry with speed and accuracy.
In recent years, the western world has seen a rise in the popularity of the more refined martial arts, especially those of a more arcane nature which retain only an objective relationship with modern armed combat. However, this popularity gives rise to an increase in casual practitioners who have little interest in the cultivation of the art or in swordsmanship in general. From what I have observed, these people are often dismayed or disillusioned when they realize that arts such as Kendo are not the mail-order self defense arts that a person learns over the course of 6 months by attending class once a week. While this does little to prevent the spread of the art in general terms, a casual interest can result in an ‘ends justifies the means’ attitude toward training. This attitude is as subtle as it is common, resulting in the loss of form despite continued practice – which brings me to the beginning of this note.
Proper form is developed in martial arts for the sake of instructing students in the myriad nuances of proper function without necessarily needing to verbalize every detail of the given stance or motion. The odd stance in kendo, and the methods by which one is trained to strike, when employed properly, give rise to increased efficiency of movement. This efficiency allows for an experienced practitioner to move a greater speeds than the average person and strike with greater force, despite the possibility that said practitioner is not far from average capabilities.
Too often, a young student, realizing what he or she wants from training, focuses on a particular element rather than the development of proper form. This can be seen in the novice who desires greater speed (for example). In order to match the speed of his upper-classmen, he will force his body to move faster at the expense of proper geometry. The result is the appearance of greater speed, but since the technique is not performed correctly, it is only faster in the isolated training environment. The expense of such a trade is that the novice either suffers injury during training, or finds that the accelerated movement is detrimental to his performance of other aspects of the art. With respect to this common oversight, one might be able to reason that adherence to proper form would result in very efficient, but somewhat predictable function. Despite what one might expect, I find no grounds for disagreement; however, most thinkers visualize ‘predictable’ things to resemble simple math problems or the mechanical behaviors of clocks. The predictability of martial arts is more like that of a chess game – while the movements are such that they can be accounted mathematically with no unknown factors, there are few who can predict an opponent well enough to win by anticipation alone. If one imagines a chess game that can be won or lost in a matter of 2 or 3 seconds, one can easily see how quickly one’s actions and reactions must take place. Proper form lends itself to the ‘mapping’ of these actions and appropriate reactions, allowing the swordsman’s body to engage the opponent as the mind focuses on the opponent’s state during the match.
The function can be achieved without training in form, but only at the expense of awareness. There are hundreds of ways to strike the same point on a target, but only a few might be best for a given situation and only one could be considered the best of those. Over the thousands of years that human beings have been using swords for the resolution of conflicts, martial arts were developed through which skilled swordsman were able to further refine and expand upon their most successful techniques. As time passed, generations of swordsman through endless wars determined what worked most often and the best way to achieve the desired result with the weapon of choice (hence the dichotomy of cut and thrust in sword arts). As mastery was achieved, the creative elements of the ‘arts’ were focused on further refinement and upon development of new students whose skills had not yet been tested in battle. Through this process of refinement, generations of practitioners with greater and greater skill emerged, parallel with the collective inherited knowledge of techniques which together combined to create what is known as ‘Proper Form’. Through the use of the proper form in a given school of swordplay, one is able to profit from generations of battle experience without having to put one’s life on the line learning lessons the hard way.

The Practice Cut

The practice cut is the most necessary part of continued sword training; equal to sparring for its reflective benefits. Through cutting with the sword, one can become acquainted with the tactile sensation of forcing the blade of the weapon through a target and thereby determine the strength and angle necessary to properly execute cuts that would be fatal to an enemy in battle.
However, this kind of exercise is not for blades which were not originally designed for heavy cutting. Stainless steel swords and weapons designed for ornamental purposes are far from capable of holding up to the demands of the repeated practice cut, also known as Tameshigiri.
In the past I have used katana, wakizashi, tanto, bowies, machetes, cleavers, and tomahawks for tameshigiri, using multiple target materials to make thousands of cuts over a period of time. These cuts are made as individual exercises for the sake of personal refinement and should be done with the utmost care and with focused intent. It has been my experience that shorter, more balanced blades should be handled most carefully if the cut is to be successful, since the shorter blade will be unable to take advantage of the momentum available to longer weapons – angle of attack and proper movement is essential.
In general, the angle plays a key role in the stability of the target during the performance of the movements of tameshigiri. Though the act requires some movement, it is not an act of brute force. The blade must be drawn through the target and prepared for the next cut in a single movement, so excessive force should be avoided, as it reduces overall control at the end of the blade. A 45 degree angle is best for straw mats and generally works well for vertical targets of various kinds. This angle can be consistently applied against various axes depending upon the orientation of the target, be it upright, horizontal, swinging from a rope, or pivoting on an animated target stand.
To attain a higher level of awareness one should cut frequently using several targets and refine ones feeling for the edge. Sparring alone cannot provide this, as the training equipment is void of the edge – sparring only increases one’s feel for movement.
To have a complete awareness of one’s ability to perform cuts properly, the necessity of tameshigiri as part of one’s regular training regimen can never be overstated.
(Note to the Reader: The swordsman in the photo is not me. ^^)

The Calmness

Having focused a great deal of meditation upon the concept of the void and its implementation in combat (and daily life), I have come to understand the Void mind as having no parts, but a few phases which might be described not as levels of intensity but levels of completion. Since the void is emptiness, it can not be intensified; however, it can be incompletely empty at times. I have come to call one of these more easily achieved incomplete states ‘the calmness’.
This void form is one that can be easily sustained with regular practice and is essentially the antithesis to panic. Panic is the state just before total shock, just as the calmness is the state preceding ascension to the void. This is not to be confused with the void of Buddhism, which is believed to be a state of inner peace. This is a state of total intent, so much so that one is no longer thinking about the purpose, the purpose becomes his state of being – the pursuit of the end goal is what the person then embodies.
Perhaps to the casual reader, this whole matter seems a bit extreme; however, most people in this modern age can testify to a past experience wherein they were forced to focus their mind in order to make their body perform. Cross-country runners are very familiar with this concept.
I have found that the calmness is a part of the look and the posture of the swordsman. It is a focused readiness that is a lesser version of the focus in the heat of a conflict. The calmness allows one to maintain their martial discipline constantly, without merely depending upon their trained reactions. As one becomes more powerful, one must pull away from a dependency upon reactions, as it will become increasingly more dangerous to the rest of the world.
The calmness offsets this. It allows the swordsman to see the world objectively and to watch a situation unfold as if in slow motion. Since it is not so intense as the void, it is more easily maintained and allows the practitioner the glide through his daily life as if he were watching it in a movie. It removes things like stress and boredom from the mind and allows for successive completion of one’s mundane daily tasks.
I have noticed, however, that this state is difficult to maintain in unbroken continuity all day long. It is easy to be distracted or irritated by certain stimuli, but this is resolved through practice.
As I continue to study the void mind, I will continue to take notes. This seems like a key to the resolution of apprehension and that which causes a would-be hero to hesitate. It is also the way to stay one’s hand against harmless adversaries, and stifle things like rage and fear, which can corrupt the mind during combat.

The Thrust

Although somewhat less physically profound than the cut, the thrust is considered by most practitioners of edged arts as being more unconditionally lethal than the cut. An interesting thought.
As one both willing to learn and unwilling to immediately believe ambiguous statements, I have taken time out of my regular training regimen to research this idea thoroughly.
Now, I imagine the cut as being utterly devastating when performed to its highest potential, but there is something to be said for the resistance certain materials offer to the dynamics of the cutting act. We can look at historical and modern principles that lead to the development of armor and of techniques that defeat the cut all but completely in combat. An opponent apt at parrying or blocking, could be a most infuriating adversary to one whose weapon cannot make an effective thrust. Also, weapons such as arrows and bullets capitalize on the thrusting principle to a very extreme degree. A projectile is merely the tip of the sword, puncturing at high velocity any material that might yield to its passage. In this way, the arrowhead or the bullet is essentially the same as the sharpened point of a well-placed thrust. This is significant, because it is the lethality of the thrust that brought about the creation of such weapons as those we know today.
A careful study of the body reveals two essential systems that are at work in combat; essential systems that are targets within an adversary. As I may have mentioned in the past, each system offers its support to your body in a different way, and adversely affecting either system has its own negative results.
These are the mechanical system and the hydraulic system. Most simply, the cuts can cause damage to the mechanical system more easily because they can produce massive damage across a wide, but shallower area; while the thrust can often bypass the mechanical (muscular) levels of the anatomy to puncture or upset the hydraulics. In either case, damage is done, but it is the immediate result of the damage that is important in combat.
Were I to cut through a biceps, the arm could no longer bend at the elbow under its own power – but the rest of the body is essentially able to live indefinitely, despite this loss of mobility. This is a disabling maneuver and is the definition of a cutting attack.
However, were I to puncture the heart or liver, the opponent would surely die, and probably quite rapidly. This guarantees victory, whereas the disabling tactic might only buy a moment during the heat of battle.
To correlate, I could make a cut across the torso in an attempt to cause damage to the heart or liver, but the amount of force necessary to reach such organs by cutting through flesh and bone (in a single, calculated blow) would probably exceed my capacity. It is rare that a warrior has ever been documented to kill an opponent by literally cutting him in half – conversely, history is full of lethal stabs; so much so that an entire breed of swords was created that were only used for thrusting. These were quite dangerous, even though they had little or no edge at all.
To elaborate any further on this profound concept one could imagine the opponent as one of those long-armed digging machines so common in the industrialized world. To defeat it, one must stop the arm. The arm is steel and hydraulics run by a pump that is supported by the engine, which in turn is supported by fuel. Let us consider our weapon to be capable of penetrating these materials as a sword would counter flesh. One with great strength might be able to cut off the arm, or sever essential hydraulic lines by cutting. The thrust would have lesser effect on the arm, and greater accuracy would be required to puncture a line. But with the thrust, one might easily puncture the pump or compromise the engine – or one might puncture the fuel or hydraulic fluid reservoirs. Although cutting might be similarly effective at damaging the internal components, it is unlikely that one might do this with the same ease with which one might ‘stab’ through them.
This brings us to the prevalence of the thrust in Western culture. During the period following ‘medieval’ times, people of substance found themselves walking violent streets while still seeing the need to dress and act respectably. One could not expect a nobleman to stroll his domain in a full suit of armor bearing a ‘broadsword’ as he would at war. So, techniques from arming swords and other penetrating battlefield weapons were refined to accommodate a very light, elegant weapon that could be carried at the side of a man not wishing to appear to the world as an ‘armed’ brigand.
Many of these techniques originally included shallow cuts, parrying slashes, and nips at the head and neck – but many were phased from popularity as the swords were increasingly tailored to suit the less-exercised ‘gentleman’ of the time. These thrusting swords eventually evolved into the small-swords and foils with which we are most familiar today – weapons with no edge at all, but a devilishly effective point and a blade geometry tailor made for accurate penetration.
It is important to understand the role of the thrust in order to gain an adequate grasp of tactical swordsmanship, because it is a necessary part of any training one might hope to pursue. Though the thrust requires strength, its driving principle is accuracy. While the cut, though requiring accuracy, is an exercise of strength.
One must consider this thoroughly.

The Cut

The cut is a very profound act. It is essentially a rending of a material using a wedge of another material and is quite interestingly an act ingrained in our very existence. We cut things practically everyday: paper, snack bags, fruit, vegetables, meats, wood, metal – the list goes on into infinitude. Every time we take a bite of food, the process is at work via our incisors. But how many of us (martial practitioners included) truly meditate upon the dynamics of the cut?

This occurred to me quite abruptly one morning when I was instructing a young boy in the proper way to exfoliate a fallen tree that it might be taken in as firewood. I explained the importance of angle and of control – and emphasized that these were to take precedence over force. Though some force is required, the proper cut needs only the minimum necessary to drive through the target material, no more and certainly no less. Often it is our underestimation of the cutting capacity of a given instrument that causes us to exert undue effort at the sacrifice of control.

Imagine a carrot, if you will. It is quite hard and proportionately brittle. A chop can easily sever it, but what about a slice? A slice will barely pass half way through a fresh carrot before the root literally begins to split apart at the site of the division on its own. A skillful chef anticipates this and therefore applies only the pressure needed to cut the carrot to that splitting point, allowing the carrot to merely snap apart of it own accord. This allows the chef to quickly cut many carrots many times without getting tired or slipping. Let us think about this. Why is a saw good for cutting wood, but not fabric? Why is an axe used to split firewood, but a machete used to cut away underbrush? How is a grosse messer able to rend flesh and bone, but not a wooden targe? These are all questions of cutting dynamics.

During my youth, it was a chore of mine on occasion to slaughter an animal for meat. This also meant that it was necessary for me to skin and quarter the animal for butchering. A heavy knife was used for flesh and bone and a lighter, more nimble blade was used for removing the skin and entrails. Both were extremely sharp and not too different in size, but in shape they varied greatly. One was a long, curved fillet knife and the other was a cleaver. Their shape determined their use as well as the techniques used in their employment. Size would add another factor to this difference in technique and would work to change the cut dynamics of each differing blade yet further.

The sword is the same in that it comes in various shapes and sizes and (excluding the edgeless thrusting weapons) are all used to cut via techniques adapted to their respective shapes. The techniques of swordplay have always been molded to suit the requirements of the given sword, not the other way around – this means that, though there may be a unifying theory linking all schools of the sword, there is no universal set of techniques that will suit any and every sword. The cutting dynamics determine the efficacy of the techniques, and the blade geometry determines the cutting dynamics. Now, since many sword types exist – one can use one’s needs to determine the weapon that should be chosen, and adopt a school of technique to suit that weapon. This is the way of sword tactics. This must be understood thoroughly before progress can be made in any school of combat arts.

For the purposes of my own pursuit of the most effective tactical use of the sword I have chosen, I would focus upon cuts that I will call the draw, the whip, and the chop. Note here the exclusion of the slash as an effective combat technique. The slash is essentially a swing of excessive force used to drive an enemy back and is equally effective with or without an edge. Any excessively forceful blow with an edged weapon could be considered a slash, and slashes have very little use from a tactical/strategic standpoint.

As I noted once in the past, the ideal weapon would be both capable of thrusts and cuts, would be relatively light in relation to its length. A grip that could accommodate one or two hands with equal ease and dexterity would be ideal as well, along with a guard that offers ample protection to the hand as well as a shape that lends itself to both eastern and western techniques. As I noted, only a few historical weapons meet this criteria – certain Katana, sabers, and obscure medieval weapons could be used as examples. This duly noted, one might ask why this hybrid weapon never saw regular use on the battlefield. The answer is actually quite simple and is written above. The defenses of the enemy determine the most effective offense. Slices defeat unarmored foes and beasts, thrusts and chops defeat light plate and mail, and blunt impact defeats heavy plate.

With cutting dynamics in mind, ancient tacticians equipped their troops with specialized weapons that would defeat the defenses of their enemies. The samurai were not big on full suits of armor, (though interestingly, they seemed to be coveted by certain of the royal class prior to the Meiji Period) so weapons that could swipe off an arm, leg, or head with little cutting resistance were favored for close combat, leaving thrusting to the yari (infantry spear).
They would have a hard time facing off against fully armored opponents with such light, curved blades, even though they be shaving sharp and differentially tempered from habaki to kissaki. The yari, on the other hand, could make quick work of plate armor once it found its way to a joint or gap. So the Europeans created very long spear-like swords that could cut when necessary, but were geometrically focused upon gouging through a heavily armored opponent. To take it even further, the Landzneckts of Germany, through many years of competition with the Swiss mercenaries, adopted weapons like the flamberge; an enormous sword used to compete with pikemen on the battlefield.
Later, as armor gave way completely to firearms, the fierce penetrating swords of that bygone ear were cast off in favor of weapons more like the katana – cavalry sabers – that could sever limbs or eviscerate unarmored foes when the gun had been discharged. As the swords changed, so did the tactics; and techniques were adapted and refined to meet the new needs of an ever-changing battlefield. Universal swords were rarely developed because the principle of “right tool for the right job” was in effect. Imagine it this way: a Swiss army knife is excellent if you need a compact tool that will help in a pinch. However, if you need to drive a lot of screws, get a screwdriver; if you need to saw a plank, get a saw. This must also be understood before one could truly hope to understand the capacity (and limitation) of the universal sword. So we reduce our terminology to the draw, whip, and the chop (with the thrust being excluded since it is not a ‘cut’).

The draw is a good cutting maneuver at close and intermediate range, and is favored by a curved edge. In the draw, one makes quick contact with the target and draws the blade across, creating a very long and potentially very deep cut. Though this cut has tremendous slicing ability, it is no good for hard materials like bones and is therefore best for close-quarters attacks to the lower torso or across the throat. The drawing cut is very effective at close range, because it uses lateral motion to effect the cut rather than impact force. In fact, the best drawing cuts generally do not require one to ‘swing’ the blade at all. The drawing cut is almost always used with the intent to kill.

The whip is the practical opposite of the draw in terms of dynamics and favors a light, straight blade. In the whip, one swipes the blade at the target, meeting it to make a light cut, then immediately returns to a defensive position. This usually creates very shallow but painful cuts and is primarily effective as a warning or a feint. Unless one happens to knick a vital artery, one should not expect to defeat an opponent with a whipping cut. It is primarily used to unsettle an opponent’s rhythm or to cause distracting injuries to more accessible portions of an opponent’s anatomy (fingers, the forehead, knees, shoulders, etc.) The whipping cut is almost never lethal, but has its use in practical application.

The chop is perhaps the most common and widely varied cut in terms of its uses and effects. It can sever limbs or shear through an opponent’s midsection; slice through an opponent from collar to groin, or cleave through a cranium. The chop has no favorite blade geometry, but his most common with straight (and often front-heavy) blades. Imagine the handling and damage-dealing capacity of a common axe: Axes can only chop – to draw or whip with an axe is practically impossible. When one uses the sword with the spirit of handling an axe, one is most assuredly chopping. The sword, however, is able to make plays upon the finish of its chops and is therefore more resolute in its chopping ability. For example, the chop can be a complete maneuver in itself, or it can be finished in a drawing cut. They can be performed to the side or even upward from below, but the most common and most powerful chops make use of gravity; this means they strike at angles which proceed toward the ground. Historical martial arts the world over have shown us that the principal technique of the long sword is the chop that flows downward. It is designed to split or to sever and is most commonly geared toward the sturdier targets – like the shoulder or the skull – which might offer considerable resistance to any cutting attempt. This as opposed to the drawing cut, which could be expected to stop at the bone in most cases.

In all of these cuts, one must also remember the tactical usage of the cut in single combat. The cut is designed to upset the mechanical systems of the opponent: to damage muscles, sever limbs, or to defeat the body’s general integrity through the letting of blood or the loosing of the contents of body cavities. This manner of sword work can be expected to severely damage or disable an opponent, but despite its grievous affects on the anatomy of the opponent, should not be depended upon for the instant kill. This is primarily because the cut in itself is easily defeated and the geometry of its performance is somewhat predictable. For the sword to be truly effective, one must also be versed in the art of the thrust. The aspiring swordsman should think carefully about this fact and the many ways in which it applies.

The T-Rex Scenario

In the course of my own general study of martial science and the systems thereof, I have determined that certain common ideas among organized martial practitioners are actually false. However, I must restate that assertion to clarify that the ideas to which I am referring may actually be technically or theoretically valid, but practically untrue in a ‘real-life’ situation. For example: a very small, light-weight person, may actually be able to fell a giant man via martial prowess alone, provided that he is able to reach the giant’s vulnerable areas, hit them hard enough to do damage, and remain undamaged in the process. Though this can be easily imagined, a real situation of similar proportions would require that the smaller man be possessed of super-human strength and agility, while the giant would have to be slower and somewhat under-powered. This is necessary because, were the two men of different stature of the same proportion at their respective sizes, the outcome of the battle would be instantly decided by the larger of the two.

Modern martial arts seem to consistently preach the confidence-building adage “Your size doesn’t matter,” but this is inconsistent with many of the ancient precepts of strategy and tactics in general – its original meaning has been misinterpreted by the ‘professionals’ of martial arts to encourage those practitioners who have a bit more money than potential.

The saying is actually designed to direct the focus of each individual to practice their art in a way that takes the greatest advantage of their natural ability, while adding techniques to offset certain natural weaknesses. In this respect, size truly does not matter, because you opponent in this sense is you weaker self – an opponent that can be easily defeated through dedication and hard work. This adage, however, would seem to fall apart once one begins to consider the ‘classless’ duel.

In true ‘combat’ sports, (boxing, sumo, wrestling, etc.) the competitors are divided by their own weight classes – meaning that there are rules to separate the bigger fighters from the smaller. Why is this? Because in hand-to-hand combat between similarly-skilled individuals, big physically larger fighter has certain advantages; and, if the size difference is great enough, the larger fighter might have little trouble dispatching an opponent possessing a skill greater than his own.

Skill and ability go hand-in-hand with strength and speed, with intellect acting as the glue that binds them. Emphasizing one without the others tends to have little effect on over-all performance, but certain aspects of the more physical factors can be multiplied via size, vantage, and reach. For example – an ant can easily lift 50 times its body weight, making it incredibly strong, but how easily it is crushed by even the frailest of mankind. Taken further, the strongest members of our species might lift 3 times his body weight, literally hundreds of kilograms, only to be utterly annihilated by an elephant, which can only lift one fourth of its own girth. Size does matter. I call this principle the T-rex principle – since it is a constant factor in any conceivable scenario. We do not even have to calculate the odds of the ‘Man vs. T-rex’ scenario – hand-to-hand, the man has no chance; though the T-rex be a dumb brute and void of combat acumen or technique, the human fighter has no chance at all.

The fact that the human has no chance is of no concern to the reasoning of the martial scholar, the important issue is why. What gives the T-rex superiority? Mere size? Of course not, a banana tree is quite a bit larger than a man, but toppled with ease by hand alone – it is a matter of all of the factors mentioned above working together to the advantage of the T-rex. First, his size gives him greater reach and vantage; the ability to attack with impunity. Also, his size and weight make him more durable and less accessible for attack. Finally, his tremendous strength will lend itself to unstoppable attacks – and all of this leaves out the giant claws and teeth.

In the extreme T-rex scenario, no amount of skill or training can help the human win in an unarmed fight. He is vastly outclassed and that is that – Bruce Lee, Mas Oyama, Jackie Chan, Jet Li, John Wayne, that guy from Thailand, and Jean Claude Van Damme combined would still do little more to a T-rex than fill its stomach; its damage-dealing and receiving capacities are just too high. This is the perfect example of the classless duel, and it is this type of reasoning that brought about the creation of weaponry. Think about this for a minute.

This element of strategy in martial arts is very important in a real-life situation, because it governs our natural ability to ‘size-up’ a possible threat and choose whether to execute a ‘fight’ or ‘flight’ response. If this is a lesson we miss, then we might feel more than up to the task of backing-up that smart remark made toward that 7-foot tall linebacker sitting at the bar – go a head, you have a black belt in whatever, make that T-rex work for his next snack. Or just avoid an unnecessary conflict…

Now, all that said, what if the T-rex is attacking and there is no way to flee or avoid the fight? How can a man hope to defeat an opponent that drastically outclasses him? This is just as much a question of tactics as of strategy. One must work along with various constants such as environment, rather than pitting advantages against weaknesses like some arcane card game. From my own experience, I have found it useful to force the larger opponent to move or to expose some kind of disadvantage, to cause him to fight gravity or to move unnecessarily. It is important to use subversive tactics and indirect attack strategies against higher-class foes; but even then, this is no guarantee. All too frequently, one might expect to encounter and enemy that he is incapable of defeating on a level field, regardless of strategy and tactics – which brings us back to the T-rex scenario; the Rubic’s cube of unarmed combat.

Along this line of logic, I have returned to the central point of my goal to harness the full tactical capacity of the sword in the classical sense of its ability to equalize the T-rex effect to an appreciable extent without nullifying the manifestation of one’s own martial ability. Though it might be argued that marksmanship is its own martial art (an assertion with which I fully agree) it greatly reduces the physical responsibilities of the artist, aiming more toward the perfection of the more subtle movements of aim and of calmness.
The sword captures the nuance of aim while still holding tightly the principle of form and force. Thus it is the tactical sword technique which encompasses the entirety of those conceivable classless dueling scenarios, acting as the key to the other half of martial arts; the half that focuses on the augmentation of man’s ability to fight and to destroy enemies in battle.

This must be studied deeply before an adequate understanding of tactical swordplay and unarmed combat can be achieved in proper perspective.

The Tactical Sword

Of all of the sword techniques I have studied and practiced to date, I have come to the conclusion that fencing as it applies to the death of the opponent can be divided into two main disciplines: The western school of the jab and the eastern school of the slash.

The Jab school seems to be historically most interested in achieving the most effective geometry for impaling an opponent or chopping him down. Few of the techniques for the most prevalent dueling weapons of this school seem to indicate interest in slicing through the flesh of an opponent. This is likely due to the refinement of the armor of the region and the gentlemanly air that prevented the gentry from brandishing heavy war swords in unarmored duels. In all cases, the requirement for the weapon was a quick kill – regardless of the enemy’s defense.

The Slash school of the east seems most dominated by the need to rend flesh and bone with economy of movement and minimal effort. Weapons of this school seem most aimed at maintaining a keen edge rather than a sturdy geometry, calling for a greater focus on metallurgy and polish. These weapons, though not as universally hardy as the weapons of the Jab school, are generally far sharper and tend to cut soft targets with ease.
The Slash school seems to shy away from stabbing, and most of its weapons are curved to accommodate the arc of a slicing swing.

The arts of each school are tailored to their weapons, making their differences irreconcilable in practice. However, I have found that some motions work well in both cases; I have come to consider these as ‘universal’ techniques. An example of this would be the stab at the throat of face. Almost every sword discipline has a similar technique, which is used to distract or disable a less-experienced opponent. Both western and eastern fencing disciplines have a stab to the collar as well – a very effective and fast technique for dispatching a foe from a variety of starting positions.

Since most of the more prominent techniques of the given schools are specific to the intended weapons of each particular ‘way’ of fighting, one must practice with many weapons before one can hope understand enough universal technique to begin hybridizing disciplines. It was not until after much study and having endured many matches both won and lost with various weapons and instructors that I began to search for the sword that would accommodate the bulk of the most effective techniques of each school. It was in this search that I realized several things must be in place before the weapon can be chosen: one must be strong enough to effectively perform the most powerful techniques of the biggest swords and agile enough to effectively perform the fastest of the techniques designed for the lightest sword. A lot of this requires training on the part of the practitioner. Footwork changes with certain weapons, as does range, as does recovery time between techniques. More focus should be applied to the improvement of the body and self awareness than to the ‘pros and cons’ of a given instrument. The “paper-rock-scissors” approach of “This sword beats that sword” can never be universally applied, though it might be universally true to say “This person is a better swordsman than that person,” A sword big enough to kill a horse and rider at once might have a tremendous amount of cutting power, but one wielding it might easily suffer defeat at the tip of a foil with no cutting edge at all. It is a matter of the swordsman and his ability to adapt to the weapons he and his opponent have at the time. One must think about this carefully during training and maintain balance at all times.

My research brought me to the determination that the essential design of a sword that could be used to perform the most ‘universal techniques’ would be the early American (made in Germany) cavalry saber or the shobu zukuri katana. The reason for my choosing these two weapons is their similar shape and the fact that they can be wielded properly in a variety of circumstances. Both are heavier and straighter than others of the same breed, but both maintain a stable cutting curvature and a sturdy grip. Both can be wielded one-handed by either the right or left hand, or with both hands (hand and a half on the saber). And both have a well-designed, penetrative tip. Both are designed to hold an edge of exceeding sharpness and are relatively easy to clean and maintain.
The differences would be that the katana could be used with greater slashing power because of its oversized grip, but it is more finicky with maintenance and needs regular polishing to avoid visible surface corrosion. Also, the katana can not perform a parrying return cut without first turning the wrist, which may be impossible in certain circumstances. The saber is known to have an edge that proceeds a few inches along the ridge (the back) of the blade from the tip, allowing for a very fast and disorienting (if not fatal) return stroke in the event of a missed primary stroke. However, the saber is traditionally a bit longer than a shobu zukuri blade, making rapid attacks and overall control more difficult. Both are designed with unarmored melee in mind and can be used on horseback or on foot. They can both jab quickly and slash most effectively. Both are heavy for their breed and can take considerable abuse from other weapons before loosing their effectiveness in battle. Also, either one can be used in tandem with a smaller weapon given enough training. In my opinion, Kensei Miyamoto Musashi might have been fascinated by the design of the cavalry saber, since he advocated a one-handed sword style in a time and place where most men trained to wield the long sword with both hands. The similarities and differences between the two should be given much thought, but it is their ability to adopt a great variety of universal and specialized techniques from both schools that causes them to stand out in the eyes of a tactician. Though it is important to train with all weapons in order to properly understand the arts of warfare, it seems that training with the ‘sword’ should be focused upon weapons that are most universally applicable in actual combat with other swordsmen.

The Void

It has become apparent to me over a considerable time spent in study and thought, that the most effective mindset for the strategist is that of the Void.
The principle that encompasses the void is the idea that the mind can be cleared at the point of optimal mental balance; neither concerned, nor careless – just blank.
In practice I have determined this mind to be that which one experiences between the time the mind decides to take action and the time the body complies. During this instant, the whole of one’s being is focused upon the act at hand.

To further illustrate, I would make an example of throwing a ball. Before the throw, an average person might think of all manner of things – the same goes for the time following the throw. However, during the moment of highest exertion, all that person does is throw the ball. There is no thought at all. At that moment the person is only throwing the ball; they are not thinking of their shopping list, or what they want to eat, or how cool their throw will look to anyone watching.
These kinds of thoughts surely pass through the mind before and after that fleeting instant, but for that infinitesimal period in time; the three elements of the human being are one.

Meditating on this concept during my times of reflection, I have come to accept this as a common (though often unperceived) experience, generally limited to those activities that require rapid exertion and a certain degree of focus. It seems that this is not so much because of the speed of the activity, but because of the duration. It is exceedingly difficult to maintain a mind completely absent of wandering thoughts for extended periods of time unless one has purposed to do so and has isolated the state mentally.

Highly regarded masters from several different nationalities and times in history have referred to this mindset as the highest state of focus; though a means by which I might cultivate it in my daily life still seems to elude me. I must study and practice this further.

In my travels I have seen and even had the misfortune of facing such pure-minded individuals. They face their immediate goals completely without distraction, but also with a sort of detached calmness. I believe it is through continuous practice and familiarity with technique that one can learn to extend the void mentality to last several seconds – even minutes; perhaps with great experience, one could even learn to maintain this state almost indefinitely.

From my studies and experience, I must conclude that this state of mind is the principle element that separates the martial artist from the ‘fighter’. It is my belief that the void is the key to ending battles before they begin as well as the threshold to the practical management of Chi and other semi-physical resources.
Given the nature of the concept in and of itself and the type of training necessary to bring it to tangibility, it is difficult to maintain an objective approach, but the principles of the void must be understood before one might hope to make progress in this realm of training. I must return to this subject again when I have had much more experience.