My master’s thesis defense was scheduled for Thursday, June 25th, the last major step in the process of completing my degree from Chung Yuan University, where I’ve been studying for the last two years.

Weirdly, the university’s graduation ceremonies, with all the robes, tassels, handshakes and whatnot, were held on the 6th. Chenbl and I took a train out to Zhongli early that morning, splurging on a taxi to campus rather than taking the usual bus or Youbike. I changed into a snazzy blue suit in the department research room, which has become like a little dormitory for our department’s students as it’s where we all keep stuff in our lockers, hang out between classes, work on compositions or other homework, chat and discuss projects, eat bentos bought from nearby alley food stalls, and sometimes even sleep. Although the room isn’t actually in our department building, it has a nice balcony that overlooks the campus greens (the balcony doors are locked shut, alas).

We arrived early because I was being inducted into the Phi Tau Phi Honor Society for graduating at the top of my class. I’d collected some other phi’s in college back in the day but I forget exactly what phi’s they were…Beta something or Sigma? Phi Tau Phi is a Taiwanese honor society, though it was founded in China in the 1920s. As with the other Phi’s, I hadn’t heard about it before I was invited, and to be honest I’m not exactly sure what they do, get together and play greek letter word games over drinks at literary bars? No idea. Anyway, I walked across the stage in the campus cathedral performance space and was given another little key/pin thingy, waving to Chenbl, who was taking pictures from the balcony as I took my seat to listen to the various speeches.

Class of ’26

Next was our department graduation, which was almost concurrent with the PTP event but luckily in the same building, so we rushed over to find my fellow graduates and their families sitting and watching our department heads, Harvey Chang and Emily Chen, giving inspirational speeches about how our careers would still thrive in the coming age of AI. I managed to throw my graduation robes and hat on in time for the tassel-turning ceremony, after which we took group pictures, ate pizza and chatted about how strange it was to be “graduating” before we’d done our thesis defenses, and some, including me, having not even done our graduate recitals at that point. Yet here we all were, the seven of us, less than half of the number of students who entered the program two years ago, wearing our graduation robes and munching on Dominoes in the same room where we’d undergone those awkward, anxious first interviews for entrance to the program. I remember being disappointed with my interview, thinking I’d bombed and that I wouldn’t be accepted, and subsequently surprised to find that I was third on their list of accepted students.

Full of pizza, we had some time before the big general graduation ceremony in the big auditorium. There’d been rehearsals the day before, but I hadn’t bothered wearing my robes as I didn’t want them to get dirty (The Humanities College hood/tassel color happens to be an easily sullied white). But I was all decked out now, so Chenbl and I walked around the campus, as many other graduates were doing, taking pictures in various spots, in various poses.

Chenbl again ascended the balcony of the auditorium for the main graduation ceremony to take pictures. I was representing our department as it wasn’t practical for every single graduate to cross the stage. There were more speeches, and the music, provided mainly by professors in our department including Professor Luo Ming-fang’s vocals and Professor Jian Shan-ken with a string quartet, was quite nice. We filed onto the stage, stood at attention and saluted. It’s been a minute since I actually saluted anyone, so this was a bit surreal. I got a nice fist-bump from Professor Chang on my way back to my seat.

I had gone through all the pomp and circumstance and fineries of graduation. Now I had to do the Actual Graduation Things, i.e. my recital and thesis defense.

My graduate recital was held at the Feng Ya Song Arts Salon space on the 13th. I engaged the services of the Ramblers’ favorite driver, Mr. Gao, who was waiting for us at Guting Station in the morning to drive us out to the campus. I was once again reminded how lucky I am to have so many talented friends who have been willing to help me make this show into reality. Not just my fellow ramblers David and Andrew, who have been generous with their time and advice, but also long-time friends of the Ramblers like the amazing vocalist Olivia Yan and drummer par excellence Carol Huang, and newer friends like vocalist Jason Wang, who is a street performer, pianist Will Tsai, who is also a master’s music student but at NTNU, and singer Tristan Ai, whom I was introduced to by Luke Deming when I was teaching at Shih Hsin University.

When we got to the arts salon, my junior Manfred Sun, a first year student in our program, was already busy setting up the space. Manfred, who is from Hong Kong, knows his stuff and made sure that most everything sounded good. In addition to this, Manfred is also an excellent improvisational piano player, which came in handy as Will was switching to violin for several of the songs that still required piano. Early on I’d considered using the washtub bass, but it really didn’t fit, so David and Andrew traded off using a cute li’l electric bass guitar that did the job.

My fellow student Nicky Lee was already at the space as well, joining some of my photography students who had come to help set up chairs, etc. The show involved an interaction between my photography and music over the course of 14 (yes, 14!) songs that I composed, so Chenbl played a presentation consisting of videos he’d taken of me out photographing, along with a pre-recorded voiceovers, in between songs. For the actual songs, our friend Lu Bin-hao had helped me make some animations for the audience that really added to the whole effect.

I did screw up on several occasions during the show, though most people (were probably being polite and) said they didn’t notice. Still, I’m not new to performing, and I long ago realized that working through mistakes and integrating them into the performance is far more productive than getting bent out of shape about it. To keep it a buck, though, many of my music professors being in the sizable audience didn’t really help my nerves.

Still, we not only got through it, some of the songs did actually bang, if I do say so myself. I thought, somewhat incredibly as I sang the last verse of the last song: This is the last verse, after this, it’s done. I thanked my professors and everyone else for coming, was assaulted by multiple bouquets (I now have an impressive collection of teddy bears holding tiny diplomas), and we embarked on another round of group photos as I breathed an hour-long sigh of relief. The audience, including my professors and their families, were ebullient about the show and how well the presentation and pacing (thanks to Chenbl’s direction via his notebook), enhanced not just the music but the photography, combining them into the whole experience. All in all it was incredibly satisfying and gratifying.

But I wasn’t done yet. The next Wednesday night was our last production class, in the recording studio beneath the university library. The class itself was ordinary, but the atmosphere was different, almost pre-nostalgic, if that can be a thing; we were all aware that this would be the last time we’d be in class together, or at least I was. I’m going to miss the camaraderie of being part of a group of students, all of us sharing similar trials and tribulations, getting assignments done, complaining about this professor or that, or the system in general. Even though I’m older than most of them, and I haven’t been living on campus or even in town, I’ll miss being part of something like that. After class we all walked out of the familiar glass doors, stood chatting for a bit, and then we went our separate ways. And that was that.

But I still wasn’t done. As I mentioned before, I had to defend my thesis in front of a panel of experts on the 25th, and luckily for me the typhoon that had been threatening to derail this plan veered northward towards Japan instead. As for the experts: In addition my department head, Professor Chang, who was also one of my thesis advisors, there was Professor Chiu, my filmmaking/video arts teacher and my other thesis advisor, as well as Professor Jang, who is a production professor in our department, and Professor Kenjo Tan, a noted Malaysian music producer who has been teaching courses at Chung Yuan as a guest lecturer. All of these dudes are highly accomplished industry professionals, and as Chenbl and I were setting up in the conference room on Thursday morning, I had a brief moment of panic that I would freeze up and make a complete idiot of myself in front of them.

Thankfully, that didn’t happen. When the professors arrived and sat down, I remembered that I’ve known all of these guys for a while, and while they are accomplished players in the industry, I’m not exactly a newcomer myself. After we’d chatted a bit, I started the presentation, but it felt like we were just still chatting, just with me going through my presentation as I did so, discussing an interesting topic rather than me trying desperately to get my point across. The session even went over time as the discussion went off on various tangents about music and image creation, how they relate and support each other, what kind of impact AI will have, how we can/should deal with it, etc. It was an intriguing conversion and honestly quite gratifying to be able to discuss these things with a group of such accomplished individuals.

I should note that, due to the unofficial theme of this program being “Me Doing Too Damn Much”, my masters thesis is nearly 700 pages long, a huge, daunting tome (I still feel that the premise is simple enough and that it’s actually quite readable, but then again I would think that, wouldn’t I?). While part of the length derives from the fact that I wrote it in both English and Chinese, it’s still by far the longest thesis this year, and possibly ever in the program. “Surely this is no master’s thesis!” the printer in Gongguan said when I’d picked up the copies to give my professors. “This has got to be a doctorate thesis!” So it was a big ask for all of my defense panel experts to read all of that. I should also note that the faculty and staff at Chung Yuan have been amazing, always ready to help and generous with their time and experience.

After our discussion, I was politely told to skedaddle while they discussed their joint decision. It didn’t take long; I was ushered back in and told that I’d passed the defense, and the professors even talked about how the research could be continued and utilized in practice. We kept on chatting until, one by one, they left, each congratulating me. Then it was just me and Chenbl packing up our things. Through the typhoon wasn’t going to hit Taiwan, its effects were beginning to make themselves known in the form of heavy wind and rain that rocked the 1818 bus as we headed back to Taipei.

That night was also my last official class at Chung Yuan, albeit online. I attended it on my phone on the subway home, and then finished it in front of my iMac at the Water Curtain Cave. As Professor You signed off from somewhere in Beijing, I realized I was DONE done, shouting it out in such a gleeful fashion that my neighbors were probably wondering what the hell was going on in the Water Curtain Cave this time.

Tonight was the Golden Melody Awards. This time last year I was walking the red carpet there; now I’ve got a Master of Arts degree in music production with a concentration in photography.

Interesting times await.

Twenty-five years.

Damn. It’s been a quarter of a century since I began writing this blog on April 22, 2001. I was living in a shared apartment on Hsin-sheng South Road then, recently returned from New York City, where I’d studied filmmaking. Back then I was riding my 135cc racing motorcycle over the railway bridges to and from my job at Ogilvy & Mather, describing the antics of the infamous Whiny Woman and letting my turtles run amok in the office as I pondered getting more into filmmaking, music and photography.

I know I don’t post in here nearly as frequently as I once did, especially in those early days. But come on: This has got to be one of the longer-running blogs out there at this point, all the way back from the golden age when it seemed everyone had a blog, and downright retro in its design (but, thanks to my friend Xander, relatively up to date underneath it all). I know only a handful of people read this thing in any case, but I count it as a win if I’ve managed to entertain and/or inform y’all of anything over the decades.

I doubt that 2001-era me would expect that, in 2026 I would pursuing a master’s degree, have nearly paid off a cool little apartment at the foot of the mountains, been part of six albums with a local jug band that got three Grammy nominations and a Golden Melody award, have had my photography exhibited all over the world, done several workshops, or even have been teaching photography for over a decade, including a university course. I think that young man would be pleased to know those things waited for  him in the future, as well as getting a couple of books published and the movie done. Of course it hasn’t been a bed of roses; there have been not-so-great times as well, inevitably, but, well…I’m still here, still grateful for all the opportunities I’ve had thus far, as well as all the cool folks I’ve met along the way.

This thesis is currently taking up all my time, but perhaps, with luck, I will soon have graduated and can spend a bit more time doing other things, as well as writing about them here, something I feel is becoming rarer and more precious these days when it seems that more and more of the internet is being buried under soulless, vapid, engagement-bait-laden text and imagery churned out by AI.

In any case, thank you all for sticking around; see you next time.

Friday, April 10

We were booked for a late-afternoon flight to Tokyo for our series of shows at this year’s Yokohama Jug Band Festival. The last time we did this was 11 years ago, in 2015; I made a video about it here.

I was working in the morning, so I took all my stuff, including my trumpet, my big purple backpack and two large orange washtubs, to the office in the morning after an ill-advised late-night packing spree that had me leaving the Water Curtain Cave with too many clothes and too little sleep.

After a lunch at a nearby cafe, I took the MRT to Songshan Airport, hauling the tubs, which was awkward at best. People kept staring and muttering things like, “Is he, like, just always ready to take a bath or something?” I wanted to point at them and say “Of course! And where are all your tubs, then?”

Slim showed up as I sat in the airport lounge area next to a self-playing piano that could have used a few lessons, and we boxed the tubs at a nearby packing place. David, Robyn, Cristina, Zach, Scarlett, and Tim arrived, and I went to get some travel insurance while they greeted each other and caught up. Scarlett, now almost five, is still beholden to her middle name, playing on the railing which was thankfully protected by glass (though I wonder if she knew that).

Immigration was smooth, and soon we had boarded a China Airlines Airbus that was so old it used USB-A and didn’t even have Bluetooth (shudder). We were all sitting together, so we didn’t have window seats, which were instead wasted on people who don’t appreciate glittering views of nighttime Tokyo. But it was lovely, so lovely, to be flying again, being that white dot sliding across the sky, traveling again for real after so many years. I’ve been so full of constant, grinding anxiety lately that I really needed a trip, to Japan, Tokyo no less. And with friends, too, though unfortunately Chenbl couldn’t make it this time.

Despite warnings of turbulence from the cockpit, the flight was smooth; even the typically meh China Airlines cuisine failed to dampen my spirits. Tokyo Haneda airport, despite being the city airport as opposed to Narita, was still impressive and full of tourists, which I’d heard about but hadn’t experienced on this kind of scale before; line after line, kiosk after kiosk, snaking across football field-sized processing areas. We made it through with patience on everyone’s part, and nobody even batted an eye at my passport.

It was too late to take the train out to Yokohama, so we’d hired a large van. The driver, who we’d assumed was Japanese, communicated with grunts and gestures until we realized he was actually from Northeastern China, whereupon we had a lively conversation. Well, the others did, particularly David, who dusted off his “mainlander” accent. I stayed out of the fray, just gazing out the back window at all the cage-less, non-grated building windows.

It was quite late by the time we arrived at our hotel, once again the Plumm, where we stayed 11 years ago when we played at the same festival in 2015. We’d shared rooms that time, but now we had our own rooms, for which I was quite grateful. It was so very satisfying to be staying in a tiny Japanese hotel room once again, with its clean, standard plastic bathroom and fresh white towels, just like those delightful old days of yore when I used to take such trips more often.

But we had several shows and activities lined up for the next day, so while the others chatted outside, I took a hot shower and went to bed.

Saturday, April 11

Sleep was hard to come by, possibly because of the travel vibe I’d been soaking in. I laid awake until 3am; I might as well have gone out and chatted with Slim, Zach and Conor and gotten the same amount of sleep. Instead, I got up around 9am and went down for the hotel breakfast, which, while not free, was convenient and quite tasty. I had Eggs Benedict, eating with Cristina and Scarlett, who wouldn’t eat much of her kid’s meal except the rice.

The weather outside was brilliant, clear and crisp. I walked over to the Mint auditorium at 11am for the opening conference. Mooney, the organizer, was on stage with another of his band members dressed up in a parody of the current Japanese prime minister. Together they named all of the 60-odd jug bands in attendance, including some commentary and jokes that I did not understand. After I nabbed a couple of Festival shirts that had our name on them, David, Andrew and I went to the mall below the massive Yokohama Station, where I got a bento to enjoy as I sat by a canal.

Then it was back to the hotel to charge my batteries as well as those of my devices, and then out around 3, walking over to the space under the bridge where they’d held one of the events last time, flanked by a curious little old building with four tiny units. I always wonder who lives there and what it’s like inside. Nothing was happening there now, but it was cool to be standing in that space again, watching the trains and people pass by.

A few jug bands were setting up by the river to jam. I walked back over towards the afternoon venue, passing another one located in what looked like a parking garage, then over to the one that had been over the river before, but was now in a little square by a department store. As I approached between the buildings the sound was horribly screechy, but when I got to the square it was ok again. My old friend Louis, who was just in Taipei last week, showed up to listen to our show.

After the show I walked around the area some more, pausing on the blue bridge from the venue building over the river between it and the station, enjoying the cool vibe of Yokohama on jug band festival weekend. Louis happened by, and we walked around through the crowds of festive holiday-makers looking for something to eat while Louis talked about how strange he found Yokohama compared with Tokyo. I said it kind of felt like Keelung, or rather, Yokohama is to Tokyo as Keelung is to Taipei…both history-laden seaports close to the capital with dodgy histories and an intermix of cultures. We had fish and chips at an underground British pub called the Tavern. It was good; I always enjoy my conversations with Louis.

But I had to go back to the hotel to get my jacket as the day was cooling, and I’d likely need it after the evening show. The venue, Thumbs Up, was absolutely packed. I sat for a while outside in the hall as people came and went after the show, wondering if anything else was going to happen, but it had been a long day so I went back to the hotel to sleep.

Sunday, April 12

Breakfast at the Plumm again, this time by myself, reading a book and gazing at people walking by in the brilliant sun outside. It was a bright day, but windier and cooler than the day before. I’d planned to walk over to a bakery by the fisheries area that Andrew had suggested, but I only got a block before realizing I should probably be wearing a jacket, so I went back.

Walked to the gargantuan Yokohama Station, and noticed a tiny, crooked alley lined with old traditional bars and shops amid the modernity surrounding it, a tiny Golden Gai or Piss Alley in Shinjuku, but it was silent in the morning hours. Perhaps someday I’ll see what it’s like at night.

Looking for a way across the mass of tracks and river bridges, I went up the escalators to the platform that overlooks it all, Facetiming with Chenbl to show him. The way across, of course, was a tunnel underneath. Then Google Maps led me through some really quite boring corporate areas full of gleaming featureless buildings; the only people I saw were a bunch of white kids playing on an old well or something, and a solitary salaryman coming out to a loading dock to grab a smoke.

Soon enough, however, things got interesting as I approached the older neighborhoods surrounding the harbor and canals. Also mostly deserted, but very pleasant. I found the Ainomi Bakery that Andrew had suggested, and bought a cinnamon bun, feeling slightly guilty that I wasn’t buying more as the woman who ran it didn’t seem to be exactly swimming in business. The cinnamon roll was good, though, and I ate it sitting in a small park overlooking a large harborside construction park as a young woman walked her dog nearby. As I walked back through the neighborhood, admiring all the clever ways Japanese buildings occupy small spaces, I held back as the dog-walking woman was taking the same route, and I didn’t want to seem creepy.

Back at the main road, I ascended an overpass and passed by a young man with his mobile phone pointed at a homeless guy who was sleeping on the bridge surrounded by a bunch of bags. I wondered if he was making a documentary about the callous people who don’t help unhoused individuals and just walk by, and if I would at some point appear in said documentary, flippantly and uncaringly passing by, but it turned out that the young man had called the police, who, from what I could see from a distance, escorted said unhoused person down off the overpass.

I walked along the tracks back to Yokohama Station, and then took a subway out to the last stop, Chinatown. It was a mess, all tourists, foreigners and Japanese who wanted to partake of what Japan thinks a Chinatown should be, I guess. The reason I was there, even though I dislike the area, was to pay my respects to Matsu and Guan Gong at their respective temples. Once I’d said hello and wished for safe travels, I got some beef curry and coffee jelly at a Veloce café and then got the hell out of Chinatown, escaping over to the harbor and the lovely Hikawa Maru, an old 1930’s cruise ship permanently docked there. A newer, larger cruise ship was docked across the way, I only had eyes for the Hikawa.

The walk up the harbor and up to the baseball stadium among the cafes and trees was marvelous; it was great to be there once again, and in such nice weather. Photographers wielding long lenses were gathered together shooting tulips as baseball fans roared and shouted amid band music from the stadium. After consulting Google Maps, I decided to walk back to the hotel instead of taking the metro; Google said it would be a breeze and take less than an hour.

Well. Google apparently was not taking my slow walking speed into account when it made that estimate. It was a bit of a slog at first, but after I resigned myself to the fact that it would take me a lot longer than I’d thought, it turned out to be a lovely walk, especially when I crossed through desolate neighborhoods as sun got low and shadows got interesting. I do think that Craig Mod‘s ippon ura, or what I call “one alley in” has a somewhat different meaning in Japan, in that Japan tends to keep its main thoroughfares more main thoroughfare-y, so the different when you go one alley in is a bit starker than in Taiwan, though both can be quite rewarding. I especially admire how the trains on elevated tracks and canals all coexist with these buildings. Everything is inches away, and everything is fine.

Eventually I reached the bridge by the old venue I mentioned earlier on my way back to the Plumm, but I had no time to rest as we were already headed out again, instruments in hand, back to the station, onto a train out to Fujisawa, a neat little station with the usual pedestrian overpass-laden square outside. Chenbl, my sister Leslie and I had actually been there before in 2020, but we’d only seen one side of the station. Night had fallen by this point, the lanterns and bar lights casting a warm tint onto the alleys and workers coming back from work to the bars. Our destination was Hang Loose Grill, a tiny establishment on the top floor of a four-story building, located at the end of a hallway lined with similarly tiny places, most of them music bars but one paralegal office, which I suppose must come in handy.

We were there at the behest of Yuichi, who often plays in Taiwan and who had carefully crafted the washtub stick we’d been using, as we couldn’t take one on the plane. The place was full of local, many older, jug band musicians, with delicious hamburgers cooked on a small but well-appointed kitchen in the corner behind the bar. After a couple of tunes, I played with Scarlett out in the hall, seeing how high we could bounce ping pong balls, as the jam intensified inside.

The trip back to Yokohama was quicker than the one out. It was our last night there, and I didn’t feel like going to bed right away, so I sat outside the Plumm with the others and chatted into the night, watching the people walking by on their way home and wondering what it was like to live there.

Monday, April 13

I needed to buy gifts before we returned to Taiwan, but I didn’t want to do so encumbered by my luggage, so I headed out around 9am back towards the station, where the Takashimaya Department Store was located. It didn’t open until 10, so I had a light breakfast sitting by the window at the front of a nearby Doutor Coffee shop, watching people walk by and just enjoying being in Yokohama. When the time came, I walked through the mall to the entrance to the store, where people were gathering as two workers repaired something in the ceiling. Two women in uniforms appeared and bowed in unison before opening the doors at 10 o’clock, to the exact second. I mistakenly went up to the 7^th floor before realizing that what I wanted was downstairs.

Fearing I would be late, I rushed back to the hotel, as we needed to catch the 11:38am train to Haneda airport. We’d given the tubs and stick to Yuichi the night before, so I was just carrying my trumpet and backpack.

The Keikyu Line was located all the way at the other end of the station, so far that I was thinking I needed a metro line just to get there, but I found it eventually. Slim had just arrived as well, and after we got rid of as much loose change as we could while buying tickets, we ascended the wide stairs bearing notice that There is no Elevator So Don’t Even Think About It Even Though You’re Probably Going to the Airport and Have Baggage But You Look Like You Need Exercise So Suck It. Ahead of us an elderly woman was being helped up the stairs by a caregiver, so I’m guessing there really was no elevator anywhere, so sir no how.

David, Robyn, Kai, Andrew and Conor had gone ahead, and the Paradises apparently got on the train from a different, elevator-equipped point, so it was just Slim and I lingering on the platform wondering if everyone would be able to get to the airport on time. The trip took longer than the promised 15 minutes, but we got there via a strangely unsettling reversal of direction halfway through. The others all had to check luggage, so I went ahead through security and to the gate, where I sat for a while when I really should have been having lunch, as Chenbl sensibly noted when we Facetimed. But by then it was too late, so I was first in line to get on the plane after the Privileged Class. I didn’t have a window seat, so I watched a movie on the way back, and such was my hunger that the China Airlines meal actually tasted…well, if not good, not bad.

Chenbl called just as I was walking out of immigration after we got into Songshan, and while talking with him I forgot that the others had to wait for baggage. But I couldn’t go back in, so I sat outside waiting, listening to the highly suspect renditions of Phantom of the Opera on the player (and talent)-free piano, until I realized that they’d probably used another exit and had already gone their separate ways.

So I gathered my things, got on the metro, and went home. It was a fabulous trip; I’m glad to have had the chance to have such an experience once again, and I’m grateful to everyone who helped arrange such a memorable trip. I did take some video and photos, but those will have to wait until I’m done with all this master’s degree business.

And now, we continue with our regularly scheduled chaos.

Last weekend we played three shows in three regions in three days, a mini tour of our fair island.

I lugged my instruments, baritone, trumpet and stick, to work on Friday, for we were boarding a VW van down to Taichung in the early afternoon. Our usual driver, Mr. Gao, had delegated the job to the most capable Ms. Chen, who took us on a long drive involving interesting corners of Ye Olde Taipei County. The band was joined this time by an accomplished the Japanese clarinet player Teppei Kondo, who came admirably dressed for the part. I always like visiting Taichung, a reminder of the college days of my youth.

The venue for the show was a traditional Taiwanese banquet featuring dozens of large round tables, held at the Yide Mansion, the former home of a trader who worked with the Japanese rulers at the time and was subsequently hounded out of Taiwan after the Nationalists came and renamed the place very Nationally before squatting there and then letting it fall into decay until the city government renovated it in the late 2000’s (how’s that for a metaphor). Unpleasant history aside, the complex has a comfy, laid-back atmosphere, in a nice part of town surrounded by high-rises full of people with excellent hearing judging by the noise complaints that began pouring in as soon as the festivities began. The stage’s backdrop was a clear digital screen showing old photographs from back in the day, including quite a few I recognized. The show, moved up a little due to said noise complaints, went pretty well, and the audience, sated with banquet food and drink, were amenable to hearing us blather on about this and that after the show. Some of the kids in attendance were fascinated by us; many questions and photo requests were forthcoming. We also had our own table and food, which was a nice touch as many organizers tend to shove the band in a back room with cold bento boxes.

The next day we were to play at Weiwuying in Kaohsiung. Did we just go right down to Kaohsiung from Taichung since we were already almost halfway there? We did not; instead Ms. Chen drove us all the way back up to Taipei, where we all slept in our respective beds (I assume). We then got up Saturday morning to meet up again at the high speed rail station. Kaohsiung’s only an hour and half by bullet train, so it made sense as we are not a terribly rich band.

Photo by David Chen

In contrast to the cool, rainy weather up north, sunny skies and residual summer heat greeted us as we got out our taxis and schlepped our gear across the fields to our little stage. I say little because, despite it being generous in size and more than enough for our needs, it was dwarfed by the massive stages elsewhere in the area, as well as a giant inflatable pumpkin leering down at everyone. The grounds had a festive Halloween feel in the afternoon before our show; I walked around taking photos of various people picnicking and playing in the park in the slanting sunlight, and some of our Kaohsiung friends came by to say hello and see us play.

As night descended, however, throngs of people poured into the park. By the time we were done with our show, getting over to the road to find taxis became a challenge. I was hauling my gear and fell behind, though I knew where everyone was headed. When I got there, however, nobody else was around. David messaged asking where I was, as they were elsewhere, so he just told everyone to get taxis as best they could. After some confusion, we all managed to make it back to the high speed rail station in time to catch our late-night train back north.

Sunday was the Calling Music Festival, held on the flood plain that forms Sanchong’s southwest border, the very site where, over two decades ago, we filmed the car chase scene for Clay Soldiers. And look, I know that our band is called the Muddy Basin Ramblers and all, but this was, in my opinion, too much mud. It had been raining in and around Taipei for over a week, and the state of the ground was such that one really needed to pick out a path least likely to entrap one in a soil-based morass. Once again, we were on a huge stage that was the least of three massive stages. Yi-hong, our usual sound guy, was at the controls, so we managed to get through sound check despite the other sound people clearly not knowing how to mic a jug band. Some people appeared in the distance carrying what looked like a huge condom, which turned out to be a tarp to lay down in front of the stage so that our audience didn’t sink into the mud. Despite the conditions, the show went quite well. In fact all of our audiences had been great over all three shows. I’ve been singing in Taiwanese more lately, and I think I’m getting somewhat used to it, I’m still working on going from just singing to sanging, if you know what I mean.

After the show we hung around waiting for dinner in the craft & services tent, which, though tasty, had to be consumed while wearing earplugs at the volume of the other two stages was obviously designed for young people who laugh at the prospect of hearing loss. I’d thought of hanging out and chatting a bit more, but chatting was rather a chore with all the noise, so I decided in favor of returning to the relative dryness of my Water Curtain Cave. This week is mid-terms, I have homework, and I just got my thesis subject approved, so now all that remains is, well, actually doing it.

Back to work, as the people sang.

The late-summer weather’s been brilliant recently, so Thursday after work I decided to take the train out to Keelung, which I haven’t done in a while. We’re currently arranging our photo walk locations for the fall semester, and I wanted to check out what’s new there so we can tell students when we go. It’s about 45 minutes by train, not an unpleasant journey, though I was reminded how uncomfortable the seats on the commuter trains are. They look nice, have high backs and tasteful upholstery, but in practice they feel like furry 80’s school bus seats. The low-backed seats on the older trains are actually more comfortable IMHO.

Hoping against hope that the new waterfront area between the front of the harbor and the cruise ship terminal might have actually been finished, I was greet by yet more construction when I exited the new station. They’ve been working on that thing for ages, and while some progress has been made, it’s still far from complete. Another example of this waterfront city’s great potential going to waste. And it’s been going on so long that it’s become ingrained in the very identity of the city.

Keelung harbor

First things first, though: Sustenance. After a tasty brunch at the (rather expensive) Acorn Cafe, which was full of busy young people working on their notebooks, I walked over to look at the construction project by the maritime plaza. A pedestrian bridge/platform is slowly, glacially taking shape over the roadways, and I spent some time photographing the silhouettes of workers wrangling structures from cranes against the deep blue sky. It should be something when it’s done, but bog knows when that will be, nor if any thought has been given to maintenance after it’s done.

But the narrow streets and alleys that constitute the core of Keelung beckoned, the close, dark grid between the harbor and the highway and train paths; the grittiness, the raw DNGAF character of the town is truly impressive. It might seem intimidating to those unfamiliar with it, but the gatherings of elderly uncles in the arcades outside cheap coffee shops, the stone gateways that date from the Qing Dynasty, the street cats lounging around in between 1970’s tailor shops and craft house techno bars operated by kids barely out of their teens, overlooked by incense-shrouded temples that aren’t listed on any maps, endow it with an earnest nature different from that of Taipei. Keelung not only feels forgotten, it feels low-key cool with that.

Beyond the pedestrian overpass that has been the subject of many an Instagram post, I visited what I call the polka-dot stairs, where the afternoon sun shining through a 1960’s-era trellis adorns the stairwell and anyone walking by with a lattice of dots. I’ve seen other photographers lingering around there waiting for subjects to walk by, and I’ve even taken a couple of shots there myself. Beyond, however, is an interesting duel corridor of closed shopfronts, the metal doors hiding tiny two-floor spaces. One of them was apparently a bar once upon a time, though it’s hard to imagine how such a small space could have accommodated  such an establishment. Perhaps a Golden-Gai-type setup. This time, however, a heavily tattooed workman was busy trying to make one of the spaces habitable, and he graciously let me take a look. There was one small window in a space big enough for maybe one bed, and tiny bathroom with just enough room for a toilet. A ladder led up to an even smaller loft above, with its own tiny window. “The people who own it want to make it habitable,” he told me, wiping sweat from his brow despite the large electric fan that was blowing nearby. “It’s a job, though. The place leaks like a sieve, the waterlines are screwy, the power is iffy, and all the electricity boxes are in the basement, which by the way is spooky as hell…in fact this whole place gives me the creeps, especially at night.” He stopped and looked at me. “Are you interested in renting?”

“Tempting, but no,” I replied, recalling my time at the Chungking Mansions Taipei, which dates from a similar time with similar issues. “Who owns this building? Is it connected to the railway?”

“It’s supposed to be partly owned by the Keelung City Government, or was once upon a time, and partly owned by…uh…I’m not sure exactly; I don’t think anyone can say for sure. You know how it is.”

It’s true; a great deal of real estate in Taiwan is actually tied up in these unfathomable black holes of age-old ownership issues. I wished him luck in his efforts, and he turned his heavy metal music back on as I walked downstairs and over to the nearby fetid canal by the train tracks to watch a bird, seemingly holding its beak, pecking at whatever was able to live in that odiferous sludge.

The view down the street of the sunlit harbor, the Cosco Star that we took to Xiamen years ago berthed in the afternoon sunlight across the water, buoyed my spirits, so I headed back down in time to see the blue-and-white ferry from Matsu being escorted to its dock by a tugboat. The new ship isn’t the same as the old orange-and-white one that Prince Roy and I took many years ago. Back in the Japanese era, ships were always coming and going from the harbor, going all sorts of places all the time. As I watched the passengers disembark the Matsu ferry, I tapped down the urge to board a ship and go somewhere; it’s been far too long. I actually wouldn’t mind spending some serious time documenting Keelung, as my friend Cheng Kai-hsiang did recently through some kind of subsidy program. The idea of this city being such a historical “gateway to Taiwan” that is simultaneously so neglected is a fascinatingly complex conundrum to explore (but probably also depressing if one digs deep enough).

In any case, school is starting up again; I have a master’s degree to finish, a thesis to propose, research, write and defend…my day job, gigs to play, and a photography course to teach; I have neither the time nor money for other things at the moment. Still, it was nice to catch a glimpse of that realm as the sun set behind the hills that wrap around the city. I had dinner at the harbor-side Mos Burger that almost completely fails to capitalize on the view, and then caught a train, uncomfortable seats and all, back to Taipei and home.

I brought my pocket trumpet and the washtub stick with me to work last Friday, as half of the Ramblers, i.e. David, Andrew and myself, were traveling alll the way down to Hengchun, a cool township at the very southern tip of Taiwan with a fascinating history and surprisingly intact Qing-era city wall and gates, to film some promo videos for the folk music festival where we’ll be playing in October. The schedule had been in flux due to an apparent line of typhoons waiting to pass through the area, but the organizers figured there’d be a small window of Not Typhoon on Saturday when we could film. I needed a break in any case, though, a change of pace and place, even if just for a short while.

After taking the metro to Taipei Main Station, I had a lovely sandwich, salad and ice coffee at one of my favorite spots, the Ueshima Cafe tucked in the space between the escalators from the platform and those leading outside. We were leaving at 1:33, so I had plenty of time to enjoy the smooth jazz, re-read some Murderbot (The Murderbot Diaries are my Sanctuary Moon), and watch the passengers walk by outside.

We had a brief moment of uncertainty on the platform when David hadn’t shown up, but it turned out that he’d gotten just gotten the car number wrong. The trip to Kaohsiung took an hour and half; the trip down to Hengchun, a fraction of the distance, would take over two hours, thanks to a long history of not extending the railway and/or highway that far south due to political chicanery and other shenanigans.

But when we arrived at the pickup area at Zuoying Station, we found it oddly deserted. On the other side by the entrance, a couple of smashed cars were being lifted up onto trucks; apparently some idiot tried to either exit the entrance at high speed or vice-versa, and the entry route had been blocked by the wreckage or the resulting collision. Fortunately they cleared it up in time for our driver, Mr. Chen, to pick us up.

Mr. Chen, it turned out, was an expert tour guide, and filled us in on all the goings-on on the Hengchun Peninsula over the past several decades. As we drove south the weather worsened, heavy rain forcing us to slow down. We stopped at a run-down rest stop, watched the roiling ocean and listened to the rocks being tossed about by the frothy brown waves. I recalled the first time I’d been down there, when I was a production assistant for a Japanese movie production filming there in the early 1990s, running around with a mohawk and tank top, climbing up the sides of abandoned freighters beached on the rocky coastline and racing old VW vans around ferrying actors and crew here and there (and probably scaring the shit out of them in the process). During a patch of bad weather we spent two days in a hostel playing mahjong. No internet, no social media. Just mahjong, punctuated by soggy bentos and snoring crew.

At Hengchun we checked into our hostel and walked over to the West Gate square where the filming was taking place in front of the Guangning Temple, among traditional banquet tables under tents to keep us mostly out of the rain. The film crew was professional and creative, but filmmaking is a long, exhaustive process, and they were trying to get the elder musicians’ stuff done first so they could go home at a decent hour. Some of the other musicians really loved trying out the washtub bass, and at one point we started up an impromptu show with the other musicians, which went on until the film crew shut us down as we were interfering with their process. As it turned out, we didn’t need most of the instruments we’d brought, but I suppose the production team wanted to have their options open.

Finally, late at night, we finished up and were treated to delicious banquet food, so much we couldn’t finish it. Rocky, a man who was playing a chef in the video, invited us to his nearby music bar for a jam, but we were knackered, wet and tired, and decided to call it a night.

I love staying in hotels, and really appreciated the nice big shower, balcony, air conditioning, and fresh towels and linens. Though I’d planned to sleep in, I woke up at 6 a.m. and was surprised to see nice weather outside, so I got dressed and went for a walk. Almost immediately it began to storm again, so I circled the block from the old street to the city government and went back to the hostel to get some more sleep. Later, I found that the others had had the same idea, with much the same results.

We had some breakfast at a nearby shop and then found a cool coffee house resembling a log cabin, complete with a DJ on a turntable. Talking with the other patrons and the owner, it would seem that Hengchun has seen a bit of an influx of entrepreneurs from other parts of Taiwan in the years since covid. I get it; the vibe of Hengchun, in part a result of it being so isolated and just being so far south, is more that of a small island than other parts of Taiwan, akin to the feeling of Okinawa vs. mainland Japan. I may enjoy city life, but I always enjoy visiting Hengchun, and I look forward to going back with the whole band for the festival in October, when the place will be hopping. We played there first in 2010, and again in 2022 (both Years of the Tiger as it happens), so this will be our third time. Alas, as I’ll be back at work on my master’s program then as well as teaching the community college course, the scheduling will be tight once again, and I won’t have sufficient time to properly explore the town as much as I’d like.

Mr. Chen’s son picked us up at the hostel and drove us back to Kaohsiung, where we caught an earlier train back to Taipei that allowed me to meet up with Chenbl for dinner at a place overlooking the river at Bitan, before finally making my way back to the Water Curtain Cave.

My video production class’s final assignment this year was to make a video about our personal connection with our art, be it music or otherwise. The professor suggested many ways of doing this, including using the latest AI tools to convey things not previously possible with traditional video production techniques.

Now, anyone who knows me realizes that I have been rather stridently anti-AI from jump, having seen way too many bad-faith attempts to pass off AI-generated imagery as actual photography, and while I still have many reservations (and I still don’t consider AI-generated images to be actual photography), I realized that I didn’t have to actually use AI to fabricate images out of thin air for this assignment; rather, I could use it as a tool to animate actual photographs either of me or that I had actually taken, bringing the images closer rather than further away from a  more comprehensive atmosphere of the scenes I was describing in the video. I used apps like Kling and Vidu, though others probably would have worked just as well, and Suno to produce the music, to lyrics that I wrote myself. The AI artifacts are of course noticeable, though I feel that those will most likely be smoothed over in subsequent iterations of the tech.

The result is here: On the Other Side

Any readers out there who knew me during the times depicted in the video might be able to recognize the scenes displayed in some of these clips. That house was my actual house in Maitland, Florida. I really did wear that riotously colorful band uniform at Maitland Junior High School. That tan Datsun 810 was my actual first car. I did participate in the Wild Lily student protest, etc. All of them are real scenes, and though they may not have actually looked like they do in the video (which would be not just unlikely but downright uncanny), I was surprised at my visceral reaction to seeing them “come to life” as it were, many of them corresponding to my memories of how things actually went down. It felt like the AI was digging out buried memories, even though I knew that it was simply recreating them based on my prompts, which were in turn based on what I remember of those days, all the way from standing in my driveway in my scout uniform ready to go camping in the early 80’s, all the way up to walking the red carpet at the Golden Melody Awards a few weeks ago.

Am I biased because these are all personal memories that are significant to me and likely nobody else? Of course I am. It’s likely that to others, this is just a jumbled collection of incoherent scenes that don’t mean anything in particular, even though I tried my best to match the lyrics and footage to convey something greater than either. But as with any attempts at expressing oneself, I feel it’s better to keep trying, to keep making things, even if they just disappear into the algorithmic void time after time, in the slim hope that some small part of the signal can make a difference to someone out there, on the other side.

I was walking across the suspension bridge near my place last weekend when I heard someone singing English pop songs on the opposite bank. Buskers are common at Bitan, but they’re usually singing traditional Taiwanese tunes or playing Nakashi music on saxophones under the highway bridge, which amplifies the music, bouncing off the concrete pillars. Curious, I walked over the square that is usually occupied by dancing women and/or tai-chi practitioners, to find a young Taiwanese man wielding a purple digital guitar attached to a battery-powered amp, singing to a completely empty square. Occasionally people would walk by, but nobody seemed to notice him, and he would say “Thank you” to the empty square after each song.

I sat listening for a bit; he had a good voice, intonation and range, and his English pronunciation was near perfect. When he took a break, I talked with him a bit, and discovered that his name is Howard Lee, and it was his first day busking, though he’s been playing with bands for years. He seemed a little down, and I couldn’t blame him. He had rented the amp and paid to park at a nearby garage, and it seemed that he wouldn’t even break even from the little money he’d made.

“I play a little trumpet,” I said. “Would you mind if I played along for a song or two?” He said ok, so I went back and got my horn, and sat in with him for a few songs that I’d never heard before (I really should acquaint myself better with what the kids are listening to these days), but I could figure them out, and I’ve always enjoyed the challenge of playing along to new songs. A few people noticed and dropped a bit of money into the guy’s hat before his amp ran out of battery and his time slot was up. I thanked him for letting me play along, and we went our separate ways.

Yesterday a few of the Ramblers held a little farewell dinner for our departing violinist, Moses, who is going back to the States to finish his studies in the Bay area. I got to the beef noodle place early to get a good place in line, soon to be joined by Andrew, David and Moses. Our last gig, at Craft House, was the only one with both new and old members playing together; Andrew will be holding it down with us going forward. The noodles weren’t bad, though not as good as the old restaurant in the now-demolished Golden China Hotel, alas. Full of noodles and other noodle-related foodstuffs, we walked through the alleys, over have some tea in the park where I’d been so vexed by early-morning dancing women when I was living in the Sogo Locker, the last place I lived before moving down to Xindian 20-odd years ago. “Didn’t you use to live around here?” David asked at one point, which shows how long I’ve known him.

“I lived in like four places around here at various times,” I replied, which is true, and never fails to feel strange when I walk by the scenes of shit that went down decades ago. Earlier in the day I’d had lunch at Patty Addy, a smash burger joint across from where I lived in the mid 90’s (obviously it wasn’t there then; the now heavily tattooed owner was an infant at the time). The burgers were good, and I was surprised at the size and heft of the chicken strips I’d gotten as a side; they were more of a meal than the burger, especially such hot weather. I should have suggested waffles to go with them instead. The place feels like an old diner, cramped, with an open kitchen that was conspiring with the summer heat to defeat the air conditioning.

After lunch I walked over to Moom to browse some photobooks, exchanging the hot fumes from vendors’ stalls for that refreshing aroma exclusive to bookstores. I’ve been so busy with my studies that I haven’t been in a hot minute, so I was curious to see what was new. For some reason, I was just tired of looking at black-and-white photos. I was in the mood for the colors of the world I see. I respect black-and-white imagery, but it doesn’t feel like the real world to me, and that’s one of the main reasons I photograph. To each their own, of course. I’ve photographed that way in the past, and will probably still do so in the future, but I’ve always wondered how we would view such images if color had been widely accessible from the jump.

I looked through a few issues of Aperture magazine, but I’ve never really enjoyed photography magazines. I’d rather look at a body of work put together into a kind of emotional narrative than scattered bits of this and that in magazines, and the print quality also varies quite a bit. I looked at the huge tome The Pearl River, by Swiss photographer Christian Lutz, and I cannot fathom why this thing is so. damn. big. The images, which aren’t bad, are just not well served by being spread, full bleed, across gutters so that oftentimes the subjects are marred or lost in the crease.

One book I really enjoyed was Mike Brodie’s A Period of Juvenile Prosperity. Well printed, nicely ordered, with a sense of intimacy seldom felt elsewhere. Interestingly, while all the photos are horizontal, the book itself is vertical, so that there are wide swaths of empty space above and below all the photographs. This was one damn expensive book to make, it seems, but it’s worth it. He was a teenager when he made the photos; he’s 40 now. I hope he made bank from it.

It feels more meaningful to be known for a book or books than “that one image from years ago that everyone knows and is trotted out each and every time someone’s mentioned” as so often seems the case in social media these days. A recently retired columnist whose blog I’ve read for years described it as “Being on the shelf,” i.e. being listed among the people generally known for that thing. Not that I’m known for anything in particular (or at all), but in that surreality where I was known, I feel I’d rather be known for a body of work than just this thing or that. It’s a moot point in any case, as the greatest satisfaction I’ve found from doing these things comes from actually doing them more than from what happens afterward.

So I recently concluded the first year of my master’s program at Chungyuan U. I’ve learned quite a bit, and it’s been a fascinating change of pace in general, but I’m not gonna lie; it’s also been a bit of a slog, not only rushing to catch trains back and forth from Zhongli several days a week, but at the same time teaching the community college photography course as well as the university photography course, working my day job and other gigs, and also Rambler gigs, all at the same time. I really need to cut down on all of this somewhere if I’m going to keep up this pace. However, I do now have, including the required courses for the second year, more than enough credits to graduate (with, if I may say so myself, a pretty damn high GPA), so next I just need to get working on my thesis, album, and performance, all of which are going to be difficult enough without having to worry about other classes.

The community college course concluded last week, after I had some great online discussions with my friends and excellent photographers Blake Andrews and Nikita Teryoshin about my students’ work this semester. Well, besides the meeting with students to discuss their photobooks yesterday. And online meetings with other students that should happen this week. Then it will have concluded (I think).

Our latest album, Jug Band Millionaire, having been nominated and not winning a Grammy, was also nominated for a Golden Melody award, thanks to the inspiring work of our friends at Onion Design. Stuff I’ve worked on has been nominated a few times over the years, and the first time the Ramblers were nominated, for Medicine Show, I thought it would be fun to do the whole red carpet thing. And it was, but it was a little awkward as we didn’t really know anyone, the chairs were uncomfortable, and we didn’t win. So the next time we were nominated for Tiger, I thought: Meh, maybe skip it. And then we actually won. So we all went again this time, and things weren’t nearly as awkward as before, possibly because over the intervening years we’ve met and know more people in those circles, and also just one of the few perks of getting older: Just not giving a fuck.

We met up in the hot sun outside the Taipei Arena, feeling odd to be dressed up with no instruments, and then went down into the backstage area where police were leading sniffer dogs through the long crowded hallway that leads to the stage. Presenters were getting makeup done, and various groups

milling around in various regalia. The chairs in front of the stage were much more comfortable than last time, nice and padded. They put us in a luxury van to drive us around the block so we could get out and wait to walk the red carpet. As we set out, I was just about to say something snarky like, “And now cue the awkward silence as people try to figure out who the hell we are,” when actual applause and cheers came from the crowd, surprising me. In addition to my ever-present Leica, I was also modeling my equally well-worn Taiwanese Wotancraft messenger bag, not out of any sense of fashion, but rather simply a lack of space anywhere backstage to put stuff. At the interview spot I couldn’t help but take a photo of the wall of photographers opposite, many of whom made the de rigueur peace sign in response.

Inside the arena, the sound and light shows were much more intense than I recall from last time, and I had to don sunglasses and air pods to make it through the show without being overwhelmed. As it turns out, we didn’t win, but the show was fun, there was witty repartee in some of the speeches, and it was nice to see some old friends.

Our next show was last Saturday night on the tiny stage at Craft House,  a tight fit as we were joined not only by violinist Moses, who is leaving for the States soon, but also Andrew, who is our incoming saxophonist. The show was raucous as only a Ramblers-With-New-Members-Figuring-Shit-Out can be, but also a lot of fun. Amazing to think we’ve been doing this for 20-very-odd years.

So, as classes and things are wrapping up, I am, to be honest, kind of burnt out. My mind resists thinking about things I have to do next; I haven’t even looked at the photos I’ve taken since February FFS. I need a break, some time and place to rest and recharge before everything starts up again in the fall. In the past I would have loved to just take a solitary trip to Japan and just space out there for a week or so, to regain my mental footing, but circumstances are different now; I’m going to have to be creative in making this happen somehow. There’s supposed to be a ferry from Keelung to Ishigaki starting in September, but that’s not soon enough (I am still interested in that, though). I do miss riding the crazy bike along the riverside paths as I did back in the day; I need to dig it out of the depths of the garage and take it for a spin. Not immediately, as the first typhoon of the season, Danas, has us in its rear view mirror at the moment, having taken an unusual path up the Taiwan Strait, and providing us with hopefully enough water to make it though at least part of the summer without a drought. But the trails might be a bit of a mess right now and need some time to recover. I can relate.

During our photography class last Friday, Chenbl made the unusual move of slipping out of the classroom, leaving me to navigate his computer while we were looking at students’ photos. He had hinted to the students about a “special secret guest” coming to the Rambler gig I had the next day, and I’d wondered if it might possibly one of Chenbl’s mysterious alter-egos, a la Captain Chaos but Actually Fabulous, but when he came back I was surprised to see he’d brought our old friend Junku Nishimura with him. Junku was our gracious host when we visited Yamaguchi in 2017. I greeted him with a friendly WTF? and introduced him to the students, some of whom knew him from the BME workshop we’d done in Taipei several years ago.

After class we met up in Ximen and went to a stir-fry place to catch up while enjoying plates upon plates of various meats and other fried things before I had to catch the last train back to Xindian.

Saturday was the first time the Ramblers have played in a while, and to be honest things haven’t been the same since our beloved Paradises left our fair island for the dubious wilds of the Floridian panhandle. Our latest album, Jug Band Millionaire, having failed to win the Grammy it was nominated for, is now up for a Golden Melody award, and we plan to be at the ceremony. It will be my second time walking that red carpet, and should be fun.

On Saturday, however, we were playing for a graduation celebration of the Art Department of Fu Jen University. Soundcheck was supposed to be at noon, but as Ramblers will Ramble, we only got started at around 12:40, after a bit of hand-wringing by the staff. Chenbl and Junku showed up, Junku armed with (he claimed) the required traditional bottle of Shaoxing wine necessary for such events. It was a traditional show, and I sang Four Seasons of Red (四季紅) with, according to Chenbl, a bit more stridence than the song merits. “It’s like you’re worried that people won’t understand your Taiwanese pronunciation,” he told me afterward.

“But I am,” I said.

“Your pronunciation’s fine; don’t let that get in the way of actually singing the words!” Now, as Chenbl can SANG sang, this is no doubt good advice and something I need to work on.

I won’t be able to make the next show due to having class out in Zhongli that day, so I left the washtub bass stick for David, and headed out into the Plum Rain-soaked avenues with Chenbl, Junku and several students. We took the metro to the Songyan Cultural Park, where Junku bought a film cannister-adorned belt-hook, and then out to Xinzhuang, because Junku wanted to see some place with “old streets”. He was staying at that one old guest house in Wanhua because Of course he was.

It was raining even harder in Xinzhuang, but we braved the wetness and walked down the old street, lined with traditional shops, exploring alleys and temples and stopping for snacks along the way. I’d been pulling all-nighters trying to get homework done so I was rather tired, but some coffee jelly did the trick. Night fell, and the students bade us farewell, after which Chenbl followed his nose into an alley where we found an old-style restaurant, its walls yellow and cracking from decades of cooking smoke, adorned with signs forbidding the consumption of alcohol on the premises due to “that one time”. Nonplussed, Junku pulled out a green bottle of “medicinal” spirits he’d purchased. I could smell it from across the table (“Minty, not mediciny!”).

But it was getting late, I was tired, and the rain relentless. We parted ways back at Ximen Station, where Junku and I performed the traditional farewell ceremony of Photographing Each Other from Opposite Subway Trains.

Today, it’s back to the pleasantly forested campus of Chungyuan amid the last of the rainy season, before Dragonboat Festival and the arrival of spectacular summer heat. Classes are ramping up as we approach the end of my second semester; my digital music production class is even requiring me to reacquaint myself with my old nemesis, the bass clef (odd thing for a bass player to say, I know, but in my defense, I never use sheet music for Rambler bass lines). Also, my video production class is delving into the uncanny valleys of AI, and my other classes have so much homework that I’m no longer able to audit the second-year classes I’d been enjoying up to now. Last weekend my recording class took a field trip out to Yuchen Studio, where we recorded Millionaire; it was good to see Andy and learn a bit more about the place’s functions and history. Apart from the photography class, however, my own photos have just been piling up on my hard drive for the last few months, and will likely continue to do so until the end of the semester.

But, you know…so far so good, actually. It’s fun being a student again, interacting with interesting new people, including both my professors and follow students, and I have yet to tire of taking the train to and from Zhongli, though regretfully I have not yet been able to explore that fascinating mess of a municipality as much as I’d like to. Perhaps I’ll have more time during this summer break, though I really need to figure out what I’m going to do for my master’s thesis projects. You’d think I’d have plenty of time to plan that during the hours I spend on the train; in all honesty, I just like to sit and look out the window while munching on a hurriedly-purchased station bento lunch and sipping enough coffee to get me through my afternoon classes. It’s become a kind of necessary meditation amid all of the hustle and bustle of my life these days.

To wit: One day on the train, the rhythm of the sunlight, bouncing as it was off the passengers lost in their dopamine delivery devices, gathered up the previously distinct concepts of imagery and music in my mind, coalescing them into the idea that time is a far more profound aspect of our reality than we recognize. That is to say, photography and music are really both just variants in the expression of time, and the effect they both have on our consciousness and subconscious takes us to very similar places. Perhaps that might explain why music and photography coexist in the lives of so many artists.

Making that into a thesis, though…might need a few more trips.