Like so many of us out there who have the urge to write about Taijutsu, I often find myself sitting down to put my thoughts to paper, only to discover that I truly don't know enough to add to the greater knowledge of Mankind! However I recently made a somewhat interesting connection between the two great interests in my life - acting and Ninpo, and thought to share them with my fellow practitioners of this wonderful art.

We often speak about free response and instinctual training in Taijutsu. And why not? I think everyone deep down wants to know that, if thing turn ugly, their response will be immediate, appropriate, and effortless. How often have I wondered, "If I did get jumped, would I handle it using these wonderful katas and henkas that I've studied? Will it even remotely look like Taijutsu? Or will I just go nuts, plowing into everyone and everything that gets in my way? Will I overreact? What if I seriously injure or even kill someone just because I 'sensed' danger? Will I ever be able to actually strip bark off of trees with my bare hands?" Other than that last question, I call this litany that runs through my head my 'internal critic'. Every time I step into the circle, or participate in a belt test, my internal critic comes along, and keeps up a constant annoying patter as I attempt to flow. "You're going to actually hurt one of your uke because you don't know how to control yourself! I can't believe you just responded that way! Could you be more stiff? What the hell was that supposed to be - a shuto? My mother could shuto better than that!" I have a brutal critic. What's more, this constant monitoring and critiquing of my actions cause inhibitions and momentary halting of my instinctual responses. That looks bad and is embarrassing in class, but it could have lethal ramifications on the street.

I first met my internal critic way back in my first year of undergraduate school, when I was studying acting and theatre. Back then he was much less subtle, and pretty much just yelled 'You SUCK!!" over and over every time I rehearsed or performed on-stage. Such a barrage of constant self-critiquing had an obvious result - I did suck! I froze, I stammered, and generally I stifled every creative instinct that I had. In talks with my acting teacher, we often discussed this phenomena, and how to overcome it.

We discussed the essence of acting. According to proponents of "The Method", which emphasizes emotional truth in all actions on-stage, acting means: 'The creation of a living human being and the artistic rendering of that being on-stage.' Deep stuff. Or is it? Even the word that we use to describe what I do for a living is short and sweet. ACTing. ACTor. As an actor in the rehearsal process, my job was filled with choices-how to move, how to speak, when to speak, when to move, as well as the deeper aspects of creating a character; emotional obligations, wants and motivations, ego and conflict all had to be clearly defined in order for my character to come alive, be interesting, and fulfill the dramatic requirements of the play each night. We often emphasized the physicality of a character as a means of discovering the true nature of the play, the character, everything. Obviously I'm not going to move or speak like Stanley Kowalski while participating in an eighteenth century French farce. Likewise I won't mince about the set, shooting my cuffs and taking snuff while acting in "A Streetcar Named Desire". Yet each choice, given the right play (read: circumstances) is correct and 'appropriate.' So the rehearsal became a time where I would purposefully do things wrong, so I could feel it in my bones and muscles. I had to slowly learn that in class or in rehearsal, you have to suck before you get it right, or else you'll never know what right and wrong feel like.

On-stage, the smallest amount of divisible time is called a 'beat'. Each beat is one 'I want'. "I want to charm her." "I want to cajole him." "I want to leave this room." "I want to seduce her." Simply put, one follows the beat until it is no longer viable, working or effective. Then one finds a new beat. A new want, a new tactic to achieve that want, until that one must flow into yet anotherx and so on, flowing forward to the play's end. Obviously, such a myriad of decisions will result in inappropriate choices from time to time. "This doesn't feel right" is the bane of all directors, but it is absolutely essential for the actor to follow his instincts if Truth is to be obtained in the process.

So what did my acting teacher tell me? Simply this: Trust your instincts. Go with the flow. Don't stop. Now, where have I head this before? I suspect "The Boss" is a superior actor!

I came away from years of training in acting, as well as countless seminars hosted by such theatre luminaries as Ian Macellen, Patrick Stewart, Eric Morris, James Earl Jones, and one of my favorites, Kelly McGillis-whom I had the honor of working with at the Shakespeare Theatre at The Folger-with the following philosophy towards acting, which has heavily impacted my studies in Ninpo: Live in the moment. Never stop. Be honest. When something doesn't feel right, go back and look at what artifice you have placed on the moment. (A pre-determined outcome, or expected response to an attack, perhaps.) I find myself, after physical confrontations, rewinding and replaying the tape over and over in my head, wondering what I could have done better, how I could have more effectively moved and responded. Inevitably the answers lie in not being grounded in the moment and feeling what is actually happening to my body and emotions.

It would appear then that all those years of training in theatre were but a prelude to my next great passion: Ninpo Taijutsu. I wish I could say that all the training in Method acting has resulted in an expertise in Taijutsu rarely found outside of Japan, but alas, such is not the case. As it turns out, the internal critic delights in all manifestations of the word 'act', and hammers away at every opportunity, giving me little respite despite my efforts to silence him. I became aware of the critic's yammering once again during my green belt test-the test which historically signifies one's initiation into the Bujinkan and pledge to continue down the path towards enlightenment. In our school, the infamous test was essentially 'Survive or Get Hammered', with student after student attacking until *snap!* you lose all hope of flowing and start fighting for your life. Bloody noses and bruised egos are the order of the day, but there could be no better wake up call for those initiates, myself included. I had to get to the point where I could stop thinking, and start acting - and the senior students happily obliged me. I had to visit that place where conscious thought and the consequent movement are not only unacceptable, but deadly. I kept thinking, "Do this technique! Do that technique?" And I failed miserably. I eventually stopped wanting to defend against everyone with wonderful Taijutsu techniques, and started wanting to defeat them any way possible. What I did was nothing like Taijutsu, but it worked-and that is what it's all about. The worst attitude for an initiate to have is "I have studied for awhile. I now how to fight now." Because your head may know, but your muscles are still in the dark. It takes time, patience, and the willingness to do it wrong before it can be done right.

So what would happen now if I were jumped in some dark alley? That, Grasshopper, even I don't know. I think it would (hopefully) look a teeny bit more like Taijutsu-give me twenty more years, and I'll know for sure!

David J. Bockman is a member of Actor's Equity, SAG/AFTRA, a certified Fight Director, and studies taijutsu at the Illinois Martial Arts Academy in Schaumberg, IL. He can be harangued online at Flex123@aol.com.