![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
By the Lake
Nov. 18th, 2005 01:24 pmTo float in totality, to have no technique, is to have all technique.
It felt like forever ago that he was out here last: the air's a hell of a lot colder and there was even some frost on the grass earlier in the morning when he came out for his first run. Not really t-shirt weather any more, but not really cold enough for a winter coat either.
So he goes without. It's easier anyway: after six laps around the lake at varying speeds, Spike stops and breathes and walks, and then does what he does best: practices a formless art that looks like memorized forms.
It isn't. It's a study in spontaneity and continuity, though: an invisible foe the recipient of punch and elbow strike, knee strike and kick, hand strikes and leg strikes. He circles and watches and bows and waits, then punishes his unseen enemy with ruthless intent. It's almost as demanding as an actual fight, though the risk of injury is lower. Some day, he'll let Elaine spar with him: when she's ready.
You are all back, elbows, forearms, fist and forehead. You look more on the order of a cat with its back hunched up and ready to spring, except that you are relaxed. Your opponent hasn't much to shoot at. Your chin is tucked between your shoulders. Your elbows protect your sides. You are partially contracted in the middle. The on-guard position is the safest position.
He will teach her that. He might even teach her that today, if she's in the mood. He strings the makeshift punching bag up on the tree, stabilizes it, tests it gently.
Then, he tests it not so gently: it holds.
He's ready.
It felt like forever ago that he was out here last: the air's a hell of a lot colder and there was even some frost on the grass earlier in the morning when he came out for his first run. Not really t-shirt weather any more, but not really cold enough for a winter coat either.
So he goes without. It's easier anyway: after six laps around the lake at varying speeds, Spike stops and breathes and walks, and then does what he does best: practices a formless art that looks like memorized forms.
It isn't. It's a study in spontaneity and continuity, though: an invisible foe the recipient of punch and elbow strike, knee strike and kick, hand strikes and leg strikes. He circles and watches and bows and waits, then punishes his unseen enemy with ruthless intent. It's almost as demanding as an actual fight, though the risk of injury is lower. Some day, he'll let Elaine spar with him: when she's ready.
You are all back, elbows, forearms, fist and forehead. You look more on the order of a cat with its back hunched up and ready to spring, except that you are relaxed. Your opponent hasn't much to shoot at. Your chin is tucked between your shoulders. Your elbows protect your sides. You are partially contracted in the middle. The on-guard position is the safest position.
He will teach her that. He might even teach her that today, if she's in the mood. He strings the makeshift punching bag up on the tree, stabilizes it, tests it gently.
Then, he tests it not so gently: it holds.
He's ready.
