Tuesday, September 13, 2005
Shadow Soldiers07: Nothing but Awareness
Wal-Mart remained open late into the evening, and that was the only time that it wasn't over crowded. So after stowing the sleeping bag in her car, Carrie returned to the comfort of her office and the pleasure of the reports. She would finish her errands after the work day was concluded.
This was what she liked. Just lay out the statistical information and let her alone, and sooner or later her eye would start to see the relationships of significant indicators.
Her office was large, with windows that received the sun well into the afternoon. She spread the reports out on the floor in two sets. Then she sat in her chair, which had wheels on the legs, and looked down at them, scanning them.
Rolande bounded in without knocking at five past two.
"What a day!" he boomed. "What an amazing case this is! You first. What have you found?"
"It's certainly nothing common," she said. "None of the old standbys. No statistical trends among the victims---that we know of." She hesitated.
"Go on," he said. He stood clear of the rows of pages and watched her.
"Well, measurements like these are in terms of what we expect. Where the deceased lived, what they did for a living, marital status, personal enemies, debt load, medical condition, race, age, gender. We may find a trend that's less common."
"Martial arts?" he suggested. She shook her head. "Apparently not. What about you?"
"The Fighting Dead," he told her. "It's the title of Thomson's book. It's the same term the man who was captured at the bank used, a different context." He raised his eyebrows for a moment. "Professor Xiao said it's a fairly obscure term, coined among camp followers of the huge armies that some of the emperors raised. It is sometimes a term of derision or irony among occasional ancient Chinese texts. Pointing out the stupidity or misery of somebody who would live for war or believe that some sort of heavenly glory awaits for those who die in battle."
"But some people might use it as a sort of accolade," she said. "Think it a wonderful thing. Like being chosen, or being empowered. If that horrible idea were revived today, it would gain some followers."
"Oh yes. Especially those who might view the ancient past in a sort of haze of glory and mystery. Some amazingly modern thinkers have revived some amazingly stupid and destructive ideas from antiquity." He looked at the array of papers on the floor and then back to her. "It's where all these modern cults come from. Take one idea from the past that nobody fully understands, set it up as a major doctrine, and off you go into self annihilation."
"Or the annihilation of others." And now she was troubled. "So what about Anne Thomson?" she asked.
"Wrote a book by that name." He looked puzzled. "Can't be a coincidence."
"Rolande, I don't think she's part of a homicidal cult."
"Oh hardly," and he let out a brief laugh. He still found the idea of a woman martial arts master funny. "But maybe they latched onto her book. Nice title, anyway, if you want to shock people. She's coming in tomorrow?"
"Yes."
"Well maybe it won't be a waste of time."
* * * *
November was not too distant, and even though the sunny autumn days of North Carolina were a great improvement over the drenching rains of London in the fall, Carrie noted that the temperature was falling. The next morning there was a sheen of light frost on the windshield, though the solid ground was merely damp with dew.
Constable Magpie, the gray and white tom cat who had adopted her, did not want to leave the townhouse when she opened the door. She at last folded up an old piece of blanket for him on the back patio and enticed him out with a dollop of tuna fish. Then she locked up, walked around to the steps that ran up the hill, and went down to her car. The sleeping bag and the purchases from Wal-Mart were in the trunk. She donned her driving gloves and slid the car out into the chill morning.
Her midsection twinged again, with that scraped feeling that the doctors had said was only in her mind. It was the cat, she thought, being forced out when he wanted to stay in. And the items in the car, the weight of the presence of that hungry, ghostly young woman that was part little girl and part spectral fighter from the past. Anything helpless or unhappy could set it off inside her. To take her mind off it, she reviewed her plans.
She'd spent the evening scanning the internet for information on traditional martial arts. And what she'd learned was that the concept of traditional martial arts was, itself, an advertising slogan in America. The basis for movies, the cause of incessant arguments by overheated males who, she had easily detected, were most likely not martial artists at all. The only bit of accurate information had come from a review of a book called IRON AND SILK. After following this review down to its writer and quizzing him via e-mail and then in a live forum, she had gathered up some usable data---words that were commonly used, the names of the few great martial arts masters that were left, an overview of the history of the martial arts.
What the modern ideas left out entirely, she thought, was the concept of suffering. It seemed to her that the very ancient teachings of Bodhidharma---if he had been a real person at all---had focused on developing the strength and power to withstand suffering in order to accomplish one's appointed role. Fighting skills had been a part of that. But the entire weave of his exercises had been a tapestry of enduring any present affliction, of overcoming the mind and its dread of pain. And this power to endure has been achieved exactly opposite of the ways that modern Westerners used. No yelling or shouting or charging about with a firm resolve all wound up to fever pitch. No building up the body by attentive care, adequate rest, sufficient food, and nurturing.
Rather, the mind had to be trained to strip itself down to nothing but awareness of stimuli---no dread, no fear, no joy, no anticipation, nothing but awareness so that the body could react appropriately. And the body was trained down, not up. Building muscle was a foreign idea. The very idea of excessive intake of protein was horrifying to Bodhidharma's monks. Eating meat , they believed, created anger and upset.
The monks instead had systematically applied themselves to a sort of self torture that had grown in intensity as they had grown in ability to bear it. Bearing loads of weight up steep steps, walking on bare hands and bare feet for miles at a time, pounding their heads into sand. And they had developed pugilistic skills, throwing skills, falling skills, archery skills. But these skill sets of coordination were only the top ornamentation of something---as far as she knew---that no longer existed in martial arts: the willingness to embrace suffering in order to overcome it.
|
This was what she liked. Just lay out the statistical information and let her alone, and sooner or later her eye would start to see the relationships of significant indicators.
Her office was large, with windows that received the sun well into the afternoon. She spread the reports out on the floor in two sets. Then she sat in her chair, which had wheels on the legs, and looked down at them, scanning them.
Rolande bounded in without knocking at five past two.
"What a day!" he boomed. "What an amazing case this is! You first. What have you found?"
"It's certainly nothing common," she said. "None of the old standbys. No statistical trends among the victims---that we know of." She hesitated.
"Go on," he said. He stood clear of the rows of pages and watched her.
"Well, measurements like these are in terms of what we expect. Where the deceased lived, what they did for a living, marital status, personal enemies, debt load, medical condition, race, age, gender. We may find a trend that's less common."
"Martial arts?" he suggested. She shook her head. "Apparently not. What about you?"
"The Fighting Dead," he told her. "It's the title of Thomson's book. It's the same term the man who was captured at the bank used, a different context." He raised his eyebrows for a moment. "Professor Xiao said it's a fairly obscure term, coined among camp followers of the huge armies that some of the emperors raised. It is sometimes a term of derision or irony among occasional ancient Chinese texts. Pointing out the stupidity or misery of somebody who would live for war or believe that some sort of heavenly glory awaits for those who die in battle."
"But some people might use it as a sort of accolade," she said. "Think it a wonderful thing. Like being chosen, or being empowered. If that horrible idea were revived today, it would gain some followers."
"Oh yes. Especially those who might view the ancient past in a sort of haze of glory and mystery. Some amazingly modern thinkers have revived some amazingly stupid and destructive ideas from antiquity." He looked at the array of papers on the floor and then back to her. "It's where all these modern cults come from. Take one idea from the past that nobody fully understands, set it up as a major doctrine, and off you go into self annihilation."
"Or the annihilation of others." And now she was troubled. "So what about Anne Thomson?" she asked.
"Wrote a book by that name." He looked puzzled. "Can't be a coincidence."
"Rolande, I don't think she's part of a homicidal cult."
"Oh hardly," and he let out a brief laugh. He still found the idea of a woman martial arts master funny. "But maybe they latched onto her book. Nice title, anyway, if you want to shock people. She's coming in tomorrow?"
"Yes."
"Well maybe it won't be a waste of time."
* * * *
November was not too distant, and even though the sunny autumn days of North Carolina were a great improvement over the drenching rains of London in the fall, Carrie noted that the temperature was falling. The next morning there was a sheen of light frost on the windshield, though the solid ground was merely damp with dew.
Constable Magpie, the gray and white tom cat who had adopted her, did not want to leave the townhouse when she opened the door. She at last folded up an old piece of blanket for him on the back patio and enticed him out with a dollop of tuna fish. Then she locked up, walked around to the steps that ran up the hill, and went down to her car. The sleeping bag and the purchases from Wal-Mart were in the trunk. She donned her driving gloves and slid the car out into the chill morning.
Her midsection twinged again, with that scraped feeling that the doctors had said was only in her mind. It was the cat, she thought, being forced out when he wanted to stay in. And the items in the car, the weight of the presence of that hungry, ghostly young woman that was part little girl and part spectral fighter from the past. Anything helpless or unhappy could set it off inside her. To take her mind off it, she reviewed her plans.
She'd spent the evening scanning the internet for information on traditional martial arts. And what she'd learned was that the concept of traditional martial arts was, itself, an advertising slogan in America. The basis for movies, the cause of incessant arguments by overheated males who, she had easily detected, were most likely not martial artists at all. The only bit of accurate information had come from a review of a book called IRON AND SILK. After following this review down to its writer and quizzing him via e-mail and then in a live forum, she had gathered up some usable data---words that were commonly used, the names of the few great martial arts masters that were left, an overview of the history of the martial arts.
What the modern ideas left out entirely, she thought, was the concept of suffering. It seemed to her that the very ancient teachings of Bodhidharma---if he had been a real person at all---had focused on developing the strength and power to withstand suffering in order to accomplish one's appointed role. Fighting skills had been a part of that. But the entire weave of his exercises had been a tapestry of enduring any present affliction, of overcoming the mind and its dread of pain. And this power to endure has been achieved exactly opposite of the ways that modern Westerners used. No yelling or shouting or charging about with a firm resolve all wound up to fever pitch. No building up the body by attentive care, adequate rest, sufficient food, and nurturing.
Rather, the mind had to be trained to strip itself down to nothing but awareness of stimuli---no dread, no fear, no joy, no anticipation, nothing but awareness so that the body could react appropriately. And the body was trained down, not up. Building muscle was a foreign idea. The very idea of excessive intake of protein was horrifying to Bodhidharma's monks. Eating meat , they believed, created anger and upset.
The monks instead had systematically applied themselves to a sort of self torture that had grown in intensity as they had grown in ability to bear it. Bearing loads of weight up steep steps, walking on bare hands and bare feet for miles at a time, pounding their heads into sand. And they had developed pugilistic skills, throwing skills, falling skills, archery skills. But these skill sets of coordination were only the top ornamentation of something---as far as she knew---that no longer existed in martial arts: the willingness to embrace suffering in order to overcome it.
