The Taiwan premiere of Breath, a Korean film starring Chang Chen, was held at a West Gate District theater last night. I was waiting outside the lobby for Eric, who had the tickets, when I noticed a bunch of people with cameras were loitering purposely around a parked VW van with tinted windows. After a while a girl dressed in white with brown, ankle-length argyle socks got out and walked into the lobby, illuminated by the flashes of one of the photographers. I think she was sent out to test the waters, as all the other photographers ignored her and kept their sights on the van and whoever was in it.

Eric showed up and we shunned the crowded elevators, taking the stairs to the theater, where a press conference was being held. When we were finally let into the theater itself, we found that the row we were supposedly sitting was made up not of actual seats, but wide, furry divans of questionable taste. The numbers on the tickets didn’t match, so Eric went to find an usher while I stood around. The argyle girl was there with a similar quandary, complaining that she couldn’t find her seat. “I have the same problem,” I said, but she ignored me. Eric came back with a manager and we all ended up just sitting randomly and awkwardly in the divans.

A press guy made an announcement, and Chang Chen was called upon to make a speech. “Thanks for coming,” he said. “Uh, just watch the movie. I’m going to get something to eat.” The lights went down and we watched the film, which was about a Korean woman who might have been insane and her infatuation with a death-row prisoner (Chang Chen) who was kept in a cell with three other men and one sharp object, with which he kept trying to kill himself, nearly always spraying his roomies with blood in the process. There are some laugh-out-loud moments which quickly become sad when you realize what’s really going on, and the plot seems to challenge every idea you come up with to explain what you’re seeing as you go along. Director Ki-duk Kim filmed the movie in just 11 days, as is his style, keeping the locations and story quite simple. I have to say I was a bit jealous when I heard that.

After the movie we caught a taxi over to Chaochang, the very bar on Heping East Road where I attended the wrap party for Hayashi Kaisho’s Umihoozuki (coincidentally also title The Breath in English) way back in 1994, when the second-story venue was still called Fenchang, or “Cemetery”. When Eric told the cabbie the name of the bar, the driver said, “Oh, I know that place, it’s Jay Chou’s place, isn’t it?” In fact, it’s now partly owned by Chang Chen, but we didn’t correct him.

Inside, I chatted with Chang Chen, whom I met when we were both working on Mahjong, and he said he remembered me, though I wouldn’t be surprise if he didn’t as I’ve changed a lot since then. We talked about filming of Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon and he said the costumes were a royal pain. “But shitting in the middle of the desert,” he said, smiling, “now that is truly a pleasure.”

I also met Jimmy, the artist whose illustrated books are published by the same publisher that published my book, Locus. Jimmy’s a small, thin man, with thick glasses and an easygoing manner. The bar was full of film people, producers, directors and many people who seemed to do many different things. I had an interesting conversation with Roger Huang, who produced Exit No. 6, Formula 17 and Betelnut Beauty. It turns out that, like with Chalaw, we are almost exactly the same age; he was born four days before I was. It was gratifying to talk with people who are passionate about the prospects of Taiwanese cinema.

As the night progressed, wine was handed out, and the guests became drunker. Shouting erupted occasionally from the more boisterous tables. I found myself talking to a certain member of the cast of Mahjong, who was quite drunk. “You remember me?” I said. He said he did, but seemed uncertain. I told him I was the one foreigner at the table who kept screwing up his lines by speaking them in Taiwanese* and his face lit up.

“Oh, yeah, right!” He leaned in drunkenly, and asked: “So when are you getting married?”

“Huh? Who told you I was getting married?” I said.

“You’re not getting married?”

“Uh, I don’t have any immediate plans, no.”

“Do you like girls or boys?” he said suddenly. This caught me by surprise. I’m not used to people being so blunt. Then again, I’m not in the habit of denying my identity either.

“Uh….”

“Ah!” he said, and hugged me, and then stumbled off. It was a strange encounter. Eric had left by this point, and it was getting very late, so I said good-bye to Chang Chen and Roger and navigated the steep stairway down to Heping East road, where I caught a cab back to Bitan. An interesting night.

*Edward Yang had set things up in the movie so that all the Taiwanese would speak English to the foreigners, while all the foreigners would speak Mandarin to the Taiwanese, and there I was messing with the plan by speaking Taiwanese. This lasted for a few takes until Yu Wei-yan, the producer, came over to speak to me.

“TC, you’re not doing it right,” he said. “Do you know what you’re doing wrong?”

“I have a pretty good idea,” I said.

“Ok, then,” he said, and returned to the gaggle of crew at the other end of the room. I did my lines in Mandarin, and the shot went off without a further hitch.

Wednesday: I started out practicing with the older new guy, who is a bit more aggressive than he used to be, but he’s improved a bit. Either that or I was having an off day. It happens. Sometimes I am very easily pushed, for some reason. Usually it means I’m thinking too much and am not relaxing enough. The ONG said he found it hard to push me, though. “Yang Qing-feng can push me almost every time,” I said. Qing-feng was there, so I switched to practicing with him instead. Practicing with him is like pushing smoke; I have to sort of waft around and be extra careful not to get caught in his well-laid traps.

The next partner was moving quickly, almost frantically. He would launch a surprise attack and push me over, time and again. Finally I got tired of it and pulled one on him, but he scolded me, saying, “You know, that’s not tuishou. That’s cheating!”

“I know, I’m very aware of it, actually,” I said, looking right at him. Of course he didn’t like what I was implying, and that was that. I started practicing with the Guy Who Is Not From Hong Kong, who was extremely rigid, practically the mirror image of the Tree Root Master, who wasn’t there. In fact, I hadn’t seen him around in a while. Not From HK was trying to teach the ONG as we practiced, which explained some of the latter’s changes in style. That night’s pushing was a bit rough; I found bruises on my arms after I got home that night.

Later, I was talking with Teacher Xu, who said the Tree Root Master and Mr. You weren’t going to be attending class for a while, but he didn’t get into just why. I asked him about matching an opponent’s speed and how to not get caught up in the rush. He picked up a leaf and flicked it with his finger. “The leaf isn’t doing anything, it’s just being flicked around. Like that,” he said.

After practice I was sitting on the curb while Weeble and Qing-feng practiced. Everyone else had left. I heard a rustle in the grass behind me, and something hit my back. Weeble laughed. “That rat ran right smack into you!” he said. I looked around, but the rat, or whatever it was, was gone.

Saturday: The cheerleaders were practicing their routines on the balcony again, not leaving much room for forms. I practiced with Mr. Hu at the edge of our territory as the teenagers moved in. Periodically, whenever they tried to gain ground, I would throw Mr. Hu at them. Eventually they got the message and backed off, leaving us enough space to practice.

Teacher Xu told me that I was moving my feet too much. “Don’t involve your feet in your strategy so much, ” he said. “Turn your waist, not your feet.” He also said that tuishou is not so much about forcing your partner to move a certain way as much as taking what they’re already doing and using it, either by slightly modifying it or even exaggerating it, to your advantage.

After everyone else had gone, I practiced with the UPS Guy for a bit. After he left, I went through my sword form a few times, and a couple of the teenagers came over to talk to me. “How long have you been here?” they asked. I said since about 10am. “No, in Taiwan,” they said. Of course I knew that was what I meant. Instead of answering, I asked them their ages. After they told me, I said, “A bit longer than you.” I’ve found that to be a real conversation-killer. But that’s a topic for another blog.

One of my college roommates, Yao Fu-wen, got married today. The banquet was held at a fancy Dunhua North Road restaurant starting at noon. He picked a nice day; the weather was bright and the air fresh, possibly due to the proximity of a late-season typhoon down in the Philippines. Once I’d handed in my red envelope and signed my name, I walked inside the elaborate hall and found three tables of Tunghai University classmates, some of whom I hadn’t seen in almost 20 years. Yu Long-tong, another roommate with who I got into fights with in the dorm for reasons I can’t recall except that he was completely insane, was there with his wife and children. We used to talk a lot about politics back then, and I learned to ride on his little red 100cc motorcycle in the cow pastures below the campus proper.

Also present was Cai Jian-shu, who was my friend Boogie’s roommate back then. Tong-ah, who is rather green, dabbled in political promotions for a while but is now doing research at Academia Sinica, and Jian-shu is teaching at a university in Kaohsiung. With the exception of the grey in Tong-ah’s hair, neither of them had changed that much. They said that I have, however, in that I look a lot more like a terrorist now.

The dinner started off with lights, music, bubbles and a parade of chefs with LED-lit trays. Before we could eat, we had to listen to various officials from the KMT (Fu-wen’s employer) give speeches about how good a worker Fu-wen is, and how perfect the happy couple are for each other, and what a good, useful-around-the-house kind of gal the new bride is. The food, when it came, was good and plentiful. We ate and chatted and gave toasts until about 3pm, when the food ran out, and we lined up to get candy from Fu-wen and his new bride.

Outside, we decided to go to a teahouse and catch up with each other, so we all piled into various cars and met up again at a place on Dongxing Road, not far from the old China News office. Tong-ah kept telling Jian-shu he should move back to Kinmen, where he’s from, but when Jian-shu asked Tong-ah why he hadn’t moved back to his old family home in Penghu, Tong-ah was silent. “Don’t think I haven’t considered it,” he finally said. We talked about marriage, politics, stocks, cars, the economy (Jian-shu got his PhD in economics), and many other things. It was a good time. We finished around 6pm, and walked out of the teahouse to find it was raining and blustery outside. Jian-shu had was going to catch a ride with another schoolmate back down to Kaohsiung, a long car ride. I said I’d visit him after Kaohsiung’s MRT system finally opens. It’s been delayed for a while, but I’m guessing they’ll do their best to get it open before the elections next year.

I said goodbye to the group and walked through the rain down Dongxing Road, recalling the days when I worked at the News office there and there was nothing to eat except biandangs from downstairs. The area’s changed a bit, though, with a lot of new buildings and even a Mister Donuts. I made my way to the City Hall MRT station to take a train back to Xindian, where my friends Gordon and Xian-rui were hosting a genuine, full-fledged Thanksgiving feast at their house at New Garden City. Gordon had truly outdone himself, and I found myself regretting having eaten so much earlier. Still, I managed to eat two servings of turkey, dressing, candied yams, cranberry sauce, mashed potatoes and string beans, as well as the chocolate mousse and mince pie afterwards. It was delicious. They had also invited Xiu-juan, a woman Xian-rui and I play badminton with, as well as her husband, a Filipina woman who exclaimed, “Your Mandarin is better than mine!” when she heard me talking, and a Canadian woman named Glennis (not sure how it’s spelled), so the dinner had an appropriately festive, semi-familial feel to it. There was also wine.

After we’d all stuffed ourselves, we sat around talking and digesting while Amour, our hosts’ dog, explored the floor around the table in case anyone had dropped anything. The lights of Taipei glittered outside through the raindrops on the windows.

I’ve been getting too many reminders lately, too many overdue notices, so to speak. Moving back into smaller quarters has disallowed me to continue shunning the cries emanating from various hidden corners of my life. There’s not much else to say, except that one can only cheat oneself so much before it becomes unbearable.

I recently came across the photography of Joakim Eskildsen, and although I find most online photography sites pale in comparison with a simple search of Flickr’s Explore feature, this guy is amazing. His composition, colors, manipulation of light, emotion and presentation of people in their environments constitute, in my mind, real photography, something I’d forgotten in this age of digital photography. He uses a Pentax 6+7 film SLR with prime lenses, apparently.

I just finished watching Layer Cake, and was reminded how a real movie communicates with its audience, not through dialogue, which is almost ancillary to the story, but visually, viscerally pulling emotions out of the audience. And this, ladies and gentlemen, isn’t exactly that deep of a movie.

I was at the house of a friend who bought some CD’s of ours, and he put on an old Louis Armstrong album including some of the songs we play. When Louis plays, it’s like nobody ever played before, or ever will again.

During the move, I was going through my old stuff, throwing away some of it. I went through old journals from the 1990’s, when times were tough for me, when I was a struggling camera assistant trying to make it from month to month and moving house periodically, almost systematically, throughout the city. I also reread a bit of the English version of my book, recalling the words of my old colleague Carl Davies, spoken not long after I was hired at the China News, to the effect that I couldn’t write myself out of a paper bag. He was right, of course.

I woke up this morning at 5:59am, after only a few hours of sleep, thinking: what the hell am I doing? If I don’t get to the core of things now, it’s likely I never will. I can’t quite explain it, and I suspect I should stop trying and get on with things.

It’s probably a bad idea to write under the influence of codeine, but here goes.

Friday after work I was out shooting with my new lens and decided to stop by the newly renovated second floor of the train station. It’s all done by the Breeze Mall people, and it’s a classy job. There are many good restaurants in there, including a spot for a future Sababa. Walking up from the scruffy, depressing first floor to the elaborate, warm second floor is like night and day. The restaurants on the inside of the square look out over the main hall and ticket windows, which is a cool 60’s lounge effect. Mister Donut is back near its original spot from years ago. It looks like my lunch options have opened up a lot with this new development.

I thought that my cold was over, but when I woke up on Saturday morning it was back, so I skipped tai-chi practice and instead had lunch with Eric and Daniel at the new Sababa near Yongkang Street. It’s impressive, not larger than the other stores but more nicely laid out with a nice balcony and a light, airy feel. The weather was perfect for sitting on the balcony; I was the only one in the place when I walked in just after 2pm, but in a matter of minutes it was full.

By dinnertime my cold was getting worse, and I went to bed early instead of contemplating attending the first day of the Blues Bash IV out in Xizhi. Nyquil aided my sleep, but when I got up on Sunday morning it was rainy and cold outside, and I was in no mood to go out of doors. Nonetheless, I dragged my stuff together, took a large swig of Liquid Brown Mixture that I’d been saving for just such an occasion, and headed out to catch a cab, picking up Slim on the way.

The Dream Community was nearly deserted when we arrived. David and Conor showed up shortly after we did, both looking worse for wear after the previous night. We eventually did our sound check, the technicians hooking up electrical outlets to the lights in the rain while standing on tall metal structures. The speakers, covered with plastic bags, crackled with sound.

After that, it was time for some delicious ribs and mashed potatoes, and then I found an empty table to sit down, put on my sunglasses and take a nap while everyone thought I was either meditating or purposely ignoring them.

The bands started up as the rain continued, and the temperatures continued to drop. Definitely not the best weather to have a cold in, I thought. I went into the office and found the Snowman sitting perplexed at the computer. “It won’t type English!” he was saying. We helped him switch it back from Chinese input.

The show went alright, though we had a hard time hearing each other. After it got dark we couldn’t see the audience, and nobody was standing directly in front of the stage due to the driving rain. But when we finished each song, applause would erupt from shadowy corners of the tents beyond the lights, from a phantom crowd. Playing without Thumper and Sandman was a challenge, but we got some help from outside musicians Nathan James and Bill from DC’s band, who graciously donated their time to cover for the missing Ramblers.

After the show I had some more ribs, stuffing myself pretty thoroughly, as well as some Japanese codeine-based cold medicine from Slim. Back in the office, a young Brazilian man with long dreadlocks was showing his left-handed trumpet, which had sticky valves. I offered him some of my valve oil, but he said he didn’t know how to apply it, so I did it for him. It turns out that he is just now trying to pick up the trumpet, being primarily a percussionist. I gave him a quick lesson and got him playing a C scale, which he seemed happy about.

Outside, we huddled around a portable heater chatting. I was amused to see the show resulting from three guys vying over the attentions of one girl. It was like watching a National Geographic special. “And now the male will attempt to impress the female by attempting to fit the only two Hungarian phrases he knows, i.e. ‘waiting room’ and ‘red wine’ into a normal conversation….and he’s done it! Let’s see how she reacts…”

DC Rapier was getting threats of violence from area residents, so they decided to pack it all up and head on over to Capones. I think this may be the last time the Blues Bash is held at the Dream Community; between the distance, lack of transportation options, and the death threats, it just doesn’t seem to be working out. My hope is that next year they’ll consider having it down at Bitan. On my way back to the office to get my things together, I ran into the guy who I have a small crush on, to whom I admitted at Daniel Pearl Day that I think he’s sexy, etc. I apologized for my behavior, but while I was doing so, I have to admit I was thinking: Damn, he’s sexy in that shirt.

Brent had driven his car to the bash, so Slim and I hooked a ride back to Bitan from him, which was much nicer than taking a taxi even if we did come perilously close to becoming lost in the more dismal parts of urban Xizhi (which is most of it, from what I can tell). I got in, turned on the lights, put on an album of old Christmas favorites, and began to type this out. Tomorrow: back to work.

組我房子的朋友前一陣子透過網路認識到了一位 ‘一鍵鐘情’ 的男朋友， 后來決定搬回去美國， 不住我的房子。 所以我從那間又大又亮的房間搬回來我小小的’水簾洞’。我搬回來之前利用空房的時間好好的從新刷漆， 把地毯拿出去洗， 窗簾換新的。 今天可以說差不多終于弄好了， 但是還有一些東西還需要丟掉。

我這間房子的環繞聲音還沒從新習慣。 包含隔壁的電梯開開關關的聲音， 樓上 （還是樓下？） 的洗衣機的聲音， 附近白癡養的小狗一直放在家里不管而哭泣的聲音…可能再過一陣子會變成下意識里面的東西。 至少希望如此。

我們樂團終于出唱片了！ 上上禮拜在華山文化中心有開唱片的派對和表演， 幾百個觀眾由來參

Last Saturday some kind of children’s dancing festival/competition was being held at CKS Hall, so our space was periodically invaded by bunches of similarly dressed children who would line up and dance around for a minute, then leave. So, no space for forms. All that was left was pushing. I practiced with Not from China Guy. I figure that, while dealing with him, eliciting a flurry of violent activity is good enough, a signal that I must be doing something right in provoking such a response. Beyond that, things start to get dangerous, so I usually retreat. Though I know that the ideal is to use as little force as possible, I still want to learn how to use what little force I can summon more effectively. It seems to be mostly in one’s attitude, focus and intent.

One Wednesday, I spent most of the time standing around watching other students practice. I did get a bit of a workout towards the end, which was good. Teacher Xu told me that I should try not to let different styles fluster me. I’m guessing he means the more aggressive styles I find it hard to deal with, in that my negative reaction just makes it harder for me to deal with them, resulting in a cyclical deterioration in my performance.

I’m also wondering just how much of this account is read by the other students, and if they are reluctant to practice with me because they don’t want to end up being talked about here. Maybe it would ease their minds if I told them hardly anyone reads this site.

The Water Curtain Cave is mostly tidied up, except for the bathroom, which is full of bags of stuff I’ve accumulated over the years and will probably need to throw out. I spent all day Sunday cleaning, sorting, unpacking, etc. I went through a bunch of old floppy disks full of old porn, ancient links and journals to remind me just how desperate the 90s seemed to me at the time.

Now all the place needs is curtains, which I’m going to get on Friday, and rugs, which are at the cleaners. With the new paint and posters up, it’s back to being the comfy little cave I remember.

On Saturday night I met up with denizens of the Little Bear Village at a hotpot place behind Sogo, located in a U-shaped building I’d walked past every day going to and from work when I lived in the Sogo Locker. There was a good turnout, 20 or so bears and cubs of varying descriptions. I’ve lost weight recently and thought they might not let me in, but it seems I’m still ok, at least just hairy enough to get me in the door. A lot of meat was eaten and spirited discussions held, and afterwards I rode on the back of a scooter to Base, a karaoke bear club off Zhongshan North Road near the Combat Zone. My ride’s owner, btw, was Porco, aka “Snowball” because he likes to wear white.

The place filled up quickly after we arrived, but I had to catch a cab over to The Source to meet with Joe, Marty and Micheal at 11:30, as Marty wanted to introduce me to some movie industry friends of his. The taxi driver was a maniac; I was left standing on the steps of the Central Bank 15 minutes early, so I sat in one of the building’s alcoves and ate a chocolate bar while watching the traffic on Roosevelt Road. A large rat startled me before I remembered that I don’t really mind rats as much as cockroaches.

Eventually I crossed the road and found Marty and Joe in the bar, as well as my fellow Bitanian Greg. The movie people were sitting outside chatting with some folks from the Berlin Film Festival, but after they were done Marty introduced me to them, including Eric, whose English is near perfect. I’d brought a copy of Clay Soldiers along and gave it to them as well as my card. It turned out that they had read my book.

Michael showed up, and I spent the rest of the night talking with him and everyone else, before taking a walk down Roosevelt with Michael before catching a cab home. I think I also caught a chill, because my throat started to hurt the next day, and now I’ve come down with a cold, the first one I’ve had, it seems, in years.

Yesterday I sold my last L-series lens, a Canon 24-105 f/4L IS USM, and picked up a Sigma 17-70 f/2.8-4.5 DC macro for about a third of the Canon’s resale price, as I just wasn’t using the Canon that much since it wasn’t wide enough to use as a walkaround lens on the cropped frame 20D, and I doubt I’ll be rolling in enough dough to justify spending NT$75,000 on a 5D body any time soon. Even a brand-new 40D is about half the cost of a 5D. Also, I like doing macro shots, so the Sigma makes more sense for me. We’ll see if it works out.

The solid grey weather of last week, ever since I moved, has now broken into bright, sunny days. The sunlight on my face feels good.

Our self-titled album is now officially out, and we had a party/show last Saturday night to celebrate at the Huashan Culture Park on Zhongxiao East Road. Sandman, who started drinking early to keep up with his usual pre-show nerves, and I got there around 3pm, though we were supposed to get there at 2 to start setting up. I busied myself putting up pictures (oddly enough we’d run out of posters; I had to draw a sign for the door downstairs) while Robyn directed the entire operation with exceptional speed and efficiency. After a while we did what we could during the sound check to make the harsh acoustics of the place a tad more acceptable to the human ear.

Before we knew it, it was 6:30, and guests began arriving. We’d been featured in the newspapers and other media, and the place, an elegant hall on the second floor, filled up quickly. Almost as quickly, the food provided by Alleycats and Sababa vanished. It was a strange situation for me, socially speaking, as there were so many people in the room that, under normal circumstances, I could have chatted with any of them individually all night, but instead I had to keep excusing myself and doing more mingling. The replacement pizza smelled wonderful, but it was for guests, not the band, and we’d feasted on biandangs earlier anyway.

Soon it was almost time to go on, so we all made our way back to the green room, where there was a nice smoking balcony attached, and got ready to go on. Upon The Appointed Hour, David opened the door to the stage, and we all hesitated, staring at the open door, and the stage and people beyond. I think we could all feel what it meant, those few steps. Sandman was the first through the door, and I followed, the rest of the band behind me. The crowd erupted as we strode onto the stage, with a degree of emotion that I’d never encountered before in my career as a Rambler. There were there to see us, and we were there to make them happy.

“I’ve been wanting to say this for the longest time,” David announced to the audience. “This is the first song from our NEW ALBUM!” We began playing through the songs of the album, in the same order, more or less. Hundreds of people were stuffed into the room, and most of them ended up dancing, and many whooping as well. Several little kids banged on their small plastic chairs to the music just below the stage. At one point there was a minor confusion over the key of a certain song, but the crowd didn’t seem to notice.

Seventeen songs went by in a flash, and it was over. We put our instruments away and chatted with people before they left, all of us high from the show and just being able to hold the album in our hands, the finished product of so many months of effort. It was almost sad in a way, being the end of an exciting, fun and rewarding period for all of us, even though it was also a beginning of sorts.

Later on we piled everything into cabs and went over to Bobwundaye to continue the celebration, which lasted into the wee hours of Sunday morning. I accompanied Jason Green for a few tunes on Charles’ surprisingly sweet Jupiter trumpet, which he got for a song, and didn’t have too much to drink.

One by one, the band left. Thumper disappeared, Sandman and Jojo went home, and David exited to cheers. Eventually, Slim and I also bade Conor and the others farewell and hopped in a taxi back to Xindian, our work done, at least for now.