Extension
When I was a far younger person, I was taught to follow a parry with an immediate riposte, with extension if necessary. This is fine with bladework. But the thing to note is that sports are not always the best metaphors for life; and sports may sometimes be the worst metaphors for life. We talk of 'moving the goalposts' or 'overcoming hurdles' or 'running with the ball', not realising that 'covering your bases' and suchlike can actually lock us into patterns of inappropriate behaviour.
I remember that as I grew up, and even later, when the Eternal Hoodlums gathered, that I used to parry with immediate riposte all the time. In social conversation, this tends to lead to the feeling that your tongue is sharper than necessary, that you are too 'quick off the mark', that you are glib, affectless, demanding, rude. I have never had a stutter. I have often listened to others in the same way that a duelist observes an opponent.
It is not the best paradigm for conducting one's social affairs. And over the years, I adopted that paradigm less and less. Then I became a teacher, only to discover that being a teacher is sometimes like putting a target light on over one's midriff. There were always junior versions of the hellhound I used to be, all trying for a chunk. To my horror, the old skills came back. Like bicycling or swimming, when required, they returned with a semblance of the old facility.
I learnt to suppress the urge – to not parry, bind, riposte in response to every innocent or ignorant jab. And there came a time when I learnt to listen without sporting metaphors running through my head. The problem, perhaps, is that most men do indeed have those metaphors in a dominant role, whether they like it or not. Other kinds of listening tend to be thought of as feminine, or unnatural, or manipulative, or deceptive.
It's a problem indeed. But again, as the years go by, I become less and less concerned. I am me; this blog an extension of my hand, of my mind. What I show is part of what I am; it is never the whole simply because one is never wholly and fully committed along exactly one dimension of movement. But it is I who am here, displaying his ignorance and his laziness, his charm and his strength, his faith and his weakness, his learning and his folly.
What that makes me, I don't know. I care about what it might really make me, but I care not so much about what people think it makes me. I don't need assurance about who I am, or speculation as to who I might be – what mythic stereotype, what Freudian type or Rorschachian inkblot, what Jungian archetype best symbolises me – I am amused by it, sometimes confounded or rebuked. Most of all, I am me, human in weakness, steadfast in duty, simple in virtue.
It isn't what I grew up with, but it is what the good ladies taught me in the very beginning of my career. I never forget, though, that sometimes I am horrible in arrogance, dangerous in wrath, blind in obstinacy, erratic in execution. I can always try to be better, and I can always hope that God judges mercifully. And I rest in that, not because my conscience is clear, but because my conscience is satisfied; satisfied with the idea that some day I will receive both just reward and just punishment, modified by whatever grace is given to this poor soul of mine.
I remember that as I grew up, and even later, when the Eternal Hoodlums gathered, that I used to parry with immediate riposte all the time. In social conversation, this tends to lead to the feeling that your tongue is sharper than necessary, that you are too 'quick off the mark', that you are glib, affectless, demanding, rude. I have never had a stutter. I have often listened to others in the same way that a duelist observes an opponent.
It is not the best paradigm for conducting one's social affairs. And over the years, I adopted that paradigm less and less. Then I became a teacher, only to discover that being a teacher is sometimes like putting a target light on over one's midriff. There were always junior versions of the hellhound I used to be, all trying for a chunk. To my horror, the old skills came back. Like bicycling or swimming, when required, they returned with a semblance of the old facility.
I learnt to suppress the urge – to not parry, bind, riposte in response to every innocent or ignorant jab. And there came a time when I learnt to listen without sporting metaphors running through my head. The problem, perhaps, is that most men do indeed have those metaphors in a dominant role, whether they like it or not. Other kinds of listening tend to be thought of as feminine, or unnatural, or manipulative, or deceptive.
It's a problem indeed. But again, as the years go by, I become less and less concerned. I am me; this blog an extension of my hand, of my mind. What I show is part of what I am; it is never the whole simply because one is never wholly and fully committed along exactly one dimension of movement. But it is I who am here, displaying his ignorance and his laziness, his charm and his strength, his faith and his weakness, his learning and his folly.
What that makes me, I don't know. I care about what it might really make me, but I care not so much about what people think it makes me. I don't need assurance about who I am, or speculation as to who I might be – what mythic stereotype, what Freudian type or Rorschachian inkblot, what Jungian archetype best symbolises me – I am amused by it, sometimes confounded or rebuked. Most of all, I am me, human in weakness, steadfast in duty, simple in virtue.
It isn't what I grew up with, but it is what the good ladies taught me in the very beginning of my career. I never forget, though, that sometimes I am horrible in arrogance, dangerous in wrath, blind in obstinacy, erratic in execution. I can always try to be better, and I can always hope that God judges mercifully. And I rest in that, not because my conscience is clear, but because my conscience is satisfied; satisfied with the idea that some day I will receive both just reward and just punishment, modified by whatever grace is given to this poor soul of mine.
Labels: Character, Conscience, Metaphors, Reflection
etched with acid at 12:30:00 am
2 Comments:
Strictly as a point of reference, even in bladework it's not always a good idea to parry with immediate riposte, especially not with extension.
The reason being that there are some compound attacks that seek exactly to draw the defense in one direction, then attack from another. Attack, yield, second attack from different line is fairly common.
Of course, if one insists on making a riposte immediately after a parry, he jolly well better be prepared to be counter-parried, and counter-riposted! Then, if he is fast enough, and lucky enough, he can counter-counter parry, and make a counter-counter riposte! After that, it just goes down the too many "counters to count" road.
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