Large Fierce Mammal

Sister LFM (left) and Mrs. LFM, both slightly blurred by alcohol, prepare for the ritual, post wish making, candle extinguishment.

A snowflake forms thousands of feet above the ground and makes its way, riding the many risings and fallings and seemingly random swirling pathways of the wind, to land exactly where it was meant to. In the practice of Zen archery, it is understood that as long as the archer does what is required in the moment, the arrow will strike its mark. ~ The Sword and the Snowflake – Chapter the First

Last night, Sister LFM threw a stupendous party in honour of Mrs. LFM’s birthday. Hosted at the Peter Thompson Estate, the gang that assembled were of the sort we’d drink with any day given even a half-assed excuse, let alone a good one like this. Many, many, and yet again many thanks to everybody involved in making the event happen.

Every time Mrs. LFM has a birthday, I get to feeling like I’m the one who got all the gifts. In the time leading up to the party, I put together a poem inspired by my beauteous bride that first saw the light of day last night – if that makes any kind of sense. Today, you get to read it.

A snowflake’s born in regions far
From where it’s meant to light.
It seems to ride without control
In random windblown flight.

But random isn’t what defines
Where snowflakes come to rest.
Their destiny will bring them home
On paths that can’t be guessed.

You see, wherever snowflakes land,
On ground or upturned face,
No snowflake can be said to find
A wrongful resting place.

Nature blessed me with this Truth,
She gave a gift to me –
My Snowflake landed in my arms,
Right where she’s meant to be.

Happy birthday Baby. Let’s have a thousand more just like it.

Dusty: 1997-2012

Today, at approximately 12:30 PM Atlantic Time, Mrs LFM and I were with Dusty when he took his last breath. He wasn’t in pain or discomfort, but the past 48 hours had seen a decline in his health and joie de vivre that told us it was time. He was 15, and throughout his long, happy life, had always been possessed of that kind of overflowing vitality that so often comes packaged in the form of a good old rangy mutt. Nature blessed him with that, and us with him.

A little over a year ago, I wrote a memoriam to Alf, another great spirit whose life enriched ours, and there were written some heartfelt words I will present again on this occasion. I feel compelled to revisit them here as they speak to the responsibilities of Leadership, of Trust, and the being worthy of it:

Any Leader of Dogs worthy of the title understands and accepts the responsibilities that come with fully embracing the beautiful thing that is a relationship with a Dog, and knows going in that the relationship comes with an expiry date – one that, with all likelihood, will lead to their being dragged kicking and screaming into being the one who must decide when to end the life of somebody they only want to love and protect forever.

This is the one terribly painful part of Leadership, for it tears at the heart and leaves a searing hole. Those who willingly walk this path in the joyful company of a Dog, who strive to lead wisely and well, and do not flinch from the final responsibility to lead their charge out of this life when the time comes, are far finer and stronger creatures than he who speaks the words, “It’s just a dog”, for that one will never enjoy aid, comfort, nor friendship from us. The lesson that life is too short and precious to waste is hard won, but as hard as it is to endure, to have your calming voice be the last thing your trusty comrade ever hears is a gift that carries power beyond measure.

I’ve written of Dusty at length in my 11 July 2010 article called She Brought Me Her Worst Born, and if you haven’t read it, then I invite you to do that now. There, I told the story of how he came to be with me, a gift from Shadow, his mother. Shadow too is now long gone, but I will be forever grateful to her.

Dusty was the perfect dog. He just wanted love, fun, food, and to be included. Not a nasty bone in his body, throughout his life he more than once charmed self-professed “cat people” so that, if they didn’t love dogs, at least they loved him; and several others, who were fearful of large dogs, not only into accepting his attentions, but into actually enjoying snuggling with him. I also have photographic evidence that he could get a woman on her back faster than anybody I’ve ever known.

So tonight, sweet Dusty’s absence will leave the LFM Pack smaller by what feels to be much more than one, and while we may not reply immediately, Mrs. LFM and I invite comments here from anyone who had the honour of knowing Dusty, wish they had, or otherwise want to express their feelings.

An album of Dusty photos is up for your perusal on Facebook. Feel free to go and admire them. He loved to be admired.

Today we’ll celebrate the True Arte of the Sabre in all its lethal beauty. Rarely seen here in North America, this connects with what I talked about in my 16 May 2011 article, To the Point. I assert that society suffered a major setback when it cast aside swordsmanship as one of the essential foundations of sound character. Many will watch the action that follows and see only an archaic dance of death, but we who play live steel understand the quality of character that grows from such harmony of mind, body, and spirit. Just to take a stand with sabre in hand requires the defeat of many adversaries, none of which is the one who stands facing you, and that vital combination of sang-froid, self-confidence, grasp of reality, and intolerance for bullshit will stand the swordsman on firm ground in all areas of life.

The Swordmaster’s Grimoire, a wonderful blog written by Adam Crown, M.d’A. and Linda Wyatt, summed this up beautifully in an address to new fencing students at Cornell University:

You’ve all made it to Cornell – and a couple of you have made it through or almost through Cornell. I would therefore conclude that somewhere along the way, you’ve learned how to bullshit.
Maybe you convinced a teacher that the dog really did eat your homework.
Maybe you professed a hardship to get an extension on a deadline.
Maybe you convinced a teacher that he/she was your best teacher EVER, or that his/her subject was the most interesting.
Maybe you’ve passed exams without studying by playing the elimination game with multiple choice questions.
Maybe you filled papers with weasel words or just wrote what you knew your teacher wanted to hear, rather than what you actually thought. You dropped a few names, hit all the required buzzwords, threw in some choice quotes, whether you understood them or not. You included in the bibliography books you’d never actually read.
Maybe you faked whole classes by just skimming the textbook or reading someone else’s notes.
Maybe you learned how to kick that extra point by being “liked.”
Maybe you cut class to spend time with a lover and conned your teacher into believing you had to take care of a sick granny.
If you yourself didn’t do any of these things, you most certainly saw someone who did.
What you learned by it is that rules aren’t really rules, they’re just “guidelines” or suggestions. They’re only rules for SOME people. Not for the cute or the clever.
You learned that most rules you can bend way out of shape with little in the way of repercussions, and some you can break and get away with it. Some of that is because the rules are stupid and ought to be broken.
But some of it is because nobody says what they mean, means what they say or does what they say they’re going to do.
In short, you’ve learned that a substantial amount of the world is bullshit and if you excel at bullshit management yourself, you’ll do just fine.

But not here.
Not in the salle d’armes.
Not when you cross blades.
Maybe you can play that scene from “The Princess Bride,” to a T, reciting a litany of The Great Masters by heart: Marrozo, Viggiani, Agrippa, Capo Ferro and so on from Day One to Just Now. Maybe you can quote all their theories and ideas. Maybe you’ve even learned the appropriate Italian (or French) term for This ‘n’ That, assuming an accent reminiscent of Inspector Clouseau.
But when you take sword in hand, none of that academic puffery matters.
Not one bit.
You won’t be chatting.
Your opponent won’t be giving you a multiple-choice quiz.
But can you stand on guard, maintain your balance, line focus and distance?
Can you extend your sword arm swiftly, accurately and at the right moment?
Can you lunge – and can you recover in good order after you do?
And, above all, can you parry, small, tight and at the last possible instant?

When you cross blades with someone it will be obvious who you are, what you’re made of, and how well and how hard you’ve trained.
And you If you can do the thing, that will be clear, if you can’t do the thing, that will be clear, too and all the Kings horses and all the kings lawyers with all their impressive bullshit won’t be able to save you.

The real beauty of the fencing is that there’s just absolutely no room for bullshit.
It’s honest.
One of the most honest things you can do.
For many people, the most honest thing they will ever do.

And, of course, there’s no crying, either.

Now see what I mean and think on it as you go through the day, and every other day you have left.

Guillaume Herbaut photo. Source: http://www.popgive.com/2009/01/tough-ukrainian-girls.html

“I wanted girls to gain confidence to be themselves, and not just quiet wives working, working and swallowing all the time their own dreams….” ~ Katerina Tarnouska, founder of Asgarda

If you’ve spent any time here, you’ll know a couple of things. First, how much I appreciate strong, intelligent women; and second, that the foundation for the True Love Mrs. LFM and I have for each other is based, first and foremost, on mutual respect and admiration.  In the past year alone, there were three LFM items that spell that out –

• Mrs. LFM’s The Greatest Thing You’ll Ever Learn …, from 10 August 2011;
• My Dark Sentiments 2011 – Day 22: An Insidious Curse, from 22 October 2011; and
• My This Makes Me Happy, from 17 November 2011.

There’s lots more here in the same vein, but that selection will serve.

It’s always gratifying to learn that people in other far flung corners of the planet share our philosophy, and today I learned of an entire organization that does. Ladies and Gentlemen, meet the Ukrainian Asgarda movement.

In a part of the world where sexual slavery and abusive relationships are spectres that haunt women to a degree most here would find hard to grasp, and the current Prime Minister can publicly justify an entirely male cabinet on the grounds that, “Reforms do not fall into women’s competence,” thirty-seven year old Katerina Tarnouska formed Asgarda in 2004. Now, deep in the Carpathian Mountains, the martial arts of the Cossacks are practiced and taught by a group of women who will be nobody’s victim, and I tend to think that if one of these Ladies goes down, all the blood on the ground won’t be hers, and all her wounds will be in the front.

Some excellent journalism has already documented Asgarda, most notably Sally Howard’s piece titled Fight Club that appeared in the 12 September 2010 edition of The Telegraph, and the Popgive pictorial featuring the work of French photographer Guillaume Herbaut, a representative sample of which graces the top of this article. I encourage you all to use the links embedded herein to acquaint yourselves with Asgarda while, for reasons of our own, Mrs. LFM and I retire with a bottle of vodka to consider opening a branch office. I believe we can give the Girl Guides a run  for their money.

Source: http://bluebicicletta.wordpress.com/2011/05/20/get-back-on-the-horse-a-new-drawing-with-color/

Doers and Talkers

By LFM

The Doers and the Talkers
Are as a breed apart.
While Doers work and get things done,
The Talkers never start.

The Talker never does a thing
But bend the Doer’s ear,
The noise he makes comes from his mouth,
Not tools and working gear.

This happens from a simple cause –
A Talker doesn’t long
To join the Doers on their trail
Where Talkers don’t belong.

He sounds off with derision
When a better man is seen
To stumble time and time again
Pursuing “Might have been”.

But never will he lift a hand
To prove his “better” way.
His awesome skills he’ll hold in check
For use some future day.

My own reply, when Talkers call,
In person or by phone –
“Gather not your wool balls here.
“Piss off and find your own.”

The inspiration for this poem came while I was reading the intro to my Esteemed Friend Laurie Lacey’s 15 January 2012 Natural Healing Talk newsletter.

Some day soon, Mrs. LFM and Laurie’s Lady Rita, will tolerate Laurie and me sitting by a fire all night inspiring each other to even worse inscriptions than this! The mind recoils at the thought!

Trails

by LFM

Every act, decision made,
Is ne’er a job that’s done.
Instead, it makes a path to tread
Down which your fate will run.

No matter how well planned your course,
However pinned and plotted,
Deciding to turn right or left
Affects how life’s allotted.

As life unfolds before your gaze,
And things come into view,
There’s risk you’ll trade a well lived life
For one that’s just lived you.

One trail may run both smooth and straight,
Through vistas wide and clear,
So most may choose that one before
The branch that’s dark and drear.

The one that weaves through gnarly woods,
‘Cross rivers needing fording,
With promise of adventure laced
And evils needing warding.

But they who seek the easy ways,
Those free from strife and test,
Will come to learn all gentle paths
Don’t lead to peace and rest.

What’s good in Life eludes the grasp
Of those who miss the fact
That what we get from living it
Springs from our every act.

Myself, I worry not about
The path on which I walk.
My care is for the place I AM,
And action before talk.

My every act, my every thought,
My every given damn;
My death will come, unflinching met
Quite happy where I am.

Many of the most entertaining movies I’ve ever seen are in the so called “B movie” category. There is a lot of absolute crap to be found there to be sure, but the number of true gems that one uncovers among them makes the hunt worth while.

Once upon a time, in my neck of the woods, there was a now demised movie rental business called Blockhouse Video. Killed off by obsolescence born of technological advancements, in its day that establishment could be relied upon to maintain a wondrously comprehensive selection of B movies, and among them is the discovery I am presenting today.

Released in Brazil under the title A Grande Arte, and for the North American market as Exposure, this grim 1991 film features a subtlety of violence rarely seen in main stream cinema. There is no deafening gunfire in concert with endless car chases here, and while some characters are undeniably repositories of sadistic psychosis, the action unfolds free from the typical Hollywood “explanation” that often portrays the study of blade based combative arts as synonymous with insanity.

Starring Peter Coyote as Photographer Peter Mandrake, the story is based on a novel by Rubem Fonseca, and tells the tale of the photographer’s hunt for the killer of one of his models. The incomparable Tchéky Karyo – an LFM favourite – stars as Hermes, the man who teaches Mandrake the mysteries of the blade.

Specific technical issues for the sake of dramatic effect notwithstanding, I forgive them all, and got a special chuckle out of the hushed delivery and colourful claims of the knife dealer, whose wares adorn the lead in to this article. This film is granted a resounding LFM seal of approval.

Another serendipitous discovery happened today by the name of FPS Russia. A self described “Professional Russian“, this guy doesn’t need anyone to do his talking for him so I’ll turn him loose with a couple of gems to show you what I mean. And like he says, don’t try any of these tricks at home.

Your friendly neighbourhood search team. This was taken by Mrs, LFM just after we successfully “rescued” her and her trusty companion Gunner. Milo is proudly proclaiming his awesomeness. (Click the picture to enlarge)

The way our work weeks are structured, field work in the service of clients runs from Friday through to Tuesday with Sunday usually taken for personal use, and Wednesday through to Thursday is reserved for administrative paperwork, writing and other creative pursuits, training and development of our own Pack, and quality us time.

Yesterday being Tuesday, we conducted a tracking exercise involving Mrs. LFM heading off into our local woods with Gunner, and me with Milo searching them out after giving them about a half hour start. The plan was for Mrs. LFM and Gunner to follow a circuitous route that I was not fully aware of because neither was Mrs. LFM, with the destination being some as yet unknown point along the river that runs for many kilometers from south to north along the western boundary of our well forested “back yard” before it empties into the LaHave River near Bridgewater. If Milo lost their scent trail, or I missed his cues and failed to react appropriately, the whole affair would rapidly devolve into dumb luck. (more…)

If you’ve gotten far enough to read this after Mrs. LFM’s title photo, and if you believe the hype, the year just ended will also mark the end of the calendar printing industry because 2012 is it. Well, Mrs. LFM and I have appointments the day after Armageddon so that shit’s not on for us. Our sign stays out – Business as usual.

In the mean time, here’s some (more) eye candy of the LFM kind from our adventures on and off the job in 2011. You may wish to have a look, or you may just want to pour yourself a drink and go back to reread the title a couple hundred more times. Most pictures will enlarge when you click them, but no matter how many times you click the title picture, that blacked out area will stay where it is. (more…)