Practice is Muscle Memory.

Music is muscle memory. Singing is muscle memory. Playing the guitar is muscle memory. Anybody who has played an instrument for a while knows that when you practice a piece of music slowly and correctly, you are gaining the ability to reproduce this music correctly.
Once you can reproduce something correctly, you can now speed it up, slow it down, change it, whatever: because the fundamental structure is now a part of you, and you have full control over it’s reproduction.

An easy mistake it is to confuse speed with correctness. Most people when they tend to practice will do something fast, with much effort, and seemingly complete it. However it only takes a simple test in action, or someone with an intuitive understanding of the true principles to watch this practice come crashing down. Like a skyscraper, if you have not carefully laid the foundations meticulously and consciously, then the rest is going to suffer all the more for it.

This applies to any practice: Martial arts, Movement, IT, anything.

Something to ponder in your own life: Where in your life is your integrity suffering because of shaky foundations? And what could you do consciously, and meticulously to fix this?

  • When it comes to the foundations: Principles and then Details are key.

-Ben

If you liked this post, check this one out also! Much love.

Dad

All of the thousands of bristles travelling across the tips of my fingers,
My dad,
Superman,
Protected me
And let me touch his chin to comfort my autistic hands,
To calm my waves of cerebral feeling.
My ocean of vitality
And manic energy
Tamed by touch
And love
And strength
I brushed my hands along the fabric,
The linen and cloth button tops
And the smell of deodorant in the morning
That smelt like my dad and no other.

Deep bass
That used to lift me out of slumber,
Those grey streaks of wisdom
That knew the right thing to do
Turned to white.

In the night I remember
My own lonely fright

I followed a man
Who showed me what’s right

Now I have my own chin of bristles,
My own calloused hands,
And I see how we have always waded through the darkness.

Hand in hand in hand


-Ben

If you liked this post, then check this out. Much love.

Things, Eyes, and their Brows: Cycles #1

What a wonderful world.

Bright fields and

Sunlight glazing

The grass and yellow flowers

Like supernovas

Splattered in a nebula.

 

Kids that will

One day turn to

Adults, their parents

Beating the drum,

Under and Over

 

The cycle is the weed and the apple tree.

 

Think

The line of the world

Of time going

Lineward

Into
Where?

 

Travelling anywhere,

Surfing a nervous curve back into itself,

because, because, because

What-ever

Else?

 

As a child I would hold onto

Ideas of heaven and the bestest places

Licking Icecream

With no bottom

Of the Icecream

Or the Cone.

 

Then the Blue Dolphin Swam

Mum and I

Meeting Monty,

Bestest of Friends,

We jumped to the stars on a trampoline

Battling Evil, the night away

 

Then the Morning comes,

Obviously

Ripping me from former worlds

The morning

Same as before

I, different

Others left behind or something…

The world is now greyer than before

Creation deleted and guarded

by others

 

These are the cycles

that keep us us.

 

Many wondering faces,

Smiling Sadness,

from grey into black

into red through to yellow

into green floors and brown trees

Then tables and chairs

and the glare of the top lights.

The Colours always continue

To find us holding our brows like shields

And wonder.

 

We seek the art of the beholder

and his eye

or her eye

or whatever it is

We see now, these

Eyes.

Beholders

and the like.

 

Things, Eyes, and their Brows.

 

Everything is Everything

and I’m letting go now.

 

-Ben

Getting Older

When our joints start grinding
On nights I tend to wander.
My joints didn’t used to hurt of bending
Grinding, grinding, every day
Getting older
Things I used to say,
Now I’m telling
To kids who nod and hear me
But don’t listen to a thing

You stare at yourself
The mirror is shining you back
Stubble and broader shoulders
Frame you in a way unfamiliar
Like sitting in a carriage
Full of strangers
Realising that you are one of them

Advice I was given
Schizm.
Empty truths
till Cliche’s became real one day
At the other end of a candle
Time is burning away
and I haven’t shown my light yet.

Only 19
But at 12 I was only 12 and planning my future
at 30 I’ll be working for play
and Maybe I’ll play till I work
but I’ll be too old for that

And no, I’ll say,
I’m only getting started
The days of being old have never begun
nor never departed
I do what I do because I do feel like doing it
Your words are your own
So keep on doing it

…Something anyway…

What you say
Is what you have to say
but I want to hear what
you
and everyone
has to say
because they have it
They’re all on their tracks
There’s no cover for it
Even with a sugar coat
It’s the meaning and
Time’s floating away with substance running out

Wandering about my joints now
I listened to them
they say take the main-stance and time will take you
He nodded, I listened.

That was the time I washed through my stance firmly
and found myself joined in the warm fluid
Moving
Getting older

-Ben

Breath

“Breathe fair these breaths, for these are your last breaths of true life.

For you are of ripeness unknown to you young. Never again will air pass through your lungs so full, so bright.

And the cold stone and slap of feet. The breeze and the rumpus warmth carried on the song of the trees.

This is all so clear now. In time it shall fade, all shall fade. The the crisp rocks will blur. And the water will muffle, and the breath deep in your lungs will cease to be, becoming shallow and thin.

The youth, wasted on the young, who are scarce to look back and know of their riches.”

-Ben

Memory.

Wandering greens and greys in red tint,

I entered the mouth of a giant.

It washed me with cool air.

Heartbeats of trees

Thumped through the floor under my feet,

Thoughts trickled with the water.

While the ferns followed the waves of the breeze,

The wind nursed me into quiet.

A pitter patter of ducks and  wandered the riverside,

And there behind the trees a yellow light glowed,

Casting bronze between the branches.

Then I walked 4 miles of thoughts.

I spent my feelings on food

And my food for a feeling.

I sat in the quiet of a room,

‘My room’,

Nursing the numb I’d aquired with focus, with focus.

And as weariness takes me,

I roll around and around,

Looking for the cold parts of the sheets,

Until it is stained with me,

And I think about the yellow light, and the ducks, and the thumping of the hearts of the trees in the feeling of my feet.

And it didn’t matter anymore…

An image of colour and light,

Such a beautiful memory…

-Ben