Yes, it’s been ages since I posted here. For one thing I haven’t posted much of anything elsewhere either, having been in a non-Internet-friendly mood for the past few years. Also, as our band has spent every Sunday for the past few months recording our second album, I haven’t been going to the park.

I have resumed my practice, such as it is, though Teacher X seldom appears at the park these days; he teaches mostly at other places, and if I could get myself up on Saturday mornings, I would follow his lead. But I’m lazy like that. Little Qin often goes to the park on Sunday mornings, however, and though his style is completely different from that of Teacher X, even though they both studied under the same masters, I enjoy chatting and practicing with him.

Little Qin wasn’t there today, however, which kind of sucked as I’d brought a photobook he’d lent me, thinking of returning it. In any case, I’d come all that way, so I put my stuff down and went through the form a few times, to limber up. As usual, Mr.V and NL Guy were grappling. Mr.V is now apparently teaching, which I find a bit troubling, and said so when Little Qin told me about it. “It’s actually pretty common,” he told me. “You could teach if you wanted to.” I shook my head at this. No way.

Another older student came by, and engaged Mr.V in some pushing as well as some brown-nosing, now that he’s a teacher, I guess, while I managed to keep from rolling my eyes. NL Guy was free, so I practiced with him a bit. He hasn’t changed at all; Oh, he started out supple enough, but true to form kept advancing even though we were doing in-place tuishou, leaning heavily on me. Eventually he got tired of not pushing me over, grabbed me by the shoulders and shoved me to one side. When I remarked on how much force he was using, he denied it, as usual. You’d think I’d have learned by now. We switched feet, and he kept leaning on me, vigorously defending each breach of his defenses with a frenzy of movement and force that reminded me of a cockroach when you poke it.

This went on for some time, longer than I should have let it, and I felt like I’d just done a hundred sit-ups afterwards, such was the effort I’d spent in staying upright. Poor form, I know. My stomach aching and sore, I saw down for some rest, but one of the foreigners who practice in the park came up and introduced me to a large, beefy fellow who turned out to be Thai, who wanted to practice with me. Reluctantly, I said ok, and we began.

This fellow, who was very polite and soft-spoken, not only telegraphed his intentions a mile away, but when he decided to made a move, his whole body went rigid. There was precious little interaction there. He’d been practicing for a few months, so I thought I’d offer some advice on this aspect, but when I broached the subject, he was adamant that he was a supple as fine silk, and he obviously didn’t think much of my opinion, so I just said, “Forget it. You’re very good. I’m going to get some water.”

I went over to work on the sword form for a while, and when I got back, one of the other, older guys from another group was giving him the exact same advice, with another Western fellow providing what I thought was rather extraneous translation, seeing as the Thai guy’s Mandarin was better than his English. This time, however, he was nodding eagerly, happy to receive such wisdom.

As you have no doubt surmised, I would make a terrible tai-chi teacher. Not just because I suck at tai-chi, but I just don’t have the manner for it.

In any case, it was hot, I was sore, and the prospect of lunch at Sababa was beckoning, so I continued my day elsewhere.

We held a private screening of the movie last night at Chengchih University for friends, cast and crew who have generously donated their time and efforts to making the film. I barely made it in time, as we’d scheduled it for 7pm, and I only get off work at 6. Lots of people came, and as Dean and I talked a bit about the film beforehand, including apologies that it took so damn long, I could see some skeptical expressions in the audience. “Good lord, why did I come to see a nearly two-hour home movie,” some of them seemed to be thinking. Well, Gavin seemed to be thinking, anyway. So I shut up, Dean managed to start the projector, we sat down and watched. Paul Jackson arrived late, after his scene at the beginning, unfortunately, and Bill arrived with his girlfriend after we’d started, so I didn’t have a chance to explain to him how we’d cut nearly all of his lines! But there was nothing for it, and I still maintain that he has much greater screen presence this way, so I just sat and watched.

It always kind of surprises me that I can watch this film and still be interested and into the action, even after seeing it a million times. It was different this time, of course, it being a larger screen, with a real audience and all. Better, really, though the projection was too dark and fuzzy, and the speakers were rather crappy. Cockroaches were wandering about the floor in front of me, and I wondered if I should have sat in the back to better observe the audience’s reaction as well as avoid the insects.

But I could still hear reactions from the audience behind me; gasps, laughter and other exclamations. They seemed to be enjoying it, and we got an enthusiastic round of applause after the final scene when the credits rolled. After chatting a bit in the screening room, we retired to a nearby temple for some drinks and food, and talked some more. I was happy that Maurice, Paul Barlow, Azuma and Jane could be there, but unfortunately many other cast members couldn’t make it, e.g. Dolly and Sandy, who had to work, and of course Rowan, Josh, April and Alex, who are all out of the country.

Now, I suppose everyone could have been really good actors (haha!), but most seemed really impressed with the movie. Surprised, even, that not only was it a real movie, but that it was entertaining. People were surprised that it didn’t feel nearly as long as it was (or as they feared it would). It was most reassuring, and I’d say this screening was a success, even though the temple guy tried to stiff us on the bill afterwards.

In other news, we’re in the process of applying for the Golden Horse festival and competition. I’m not entirely sure of our chances, being such a radically different film from anything else there, but technically, it qualifies as a Taiwanese film, and I’d hope that the organizers could see the potential in including such a film in the festival. A friend of mine, an art professor down in Kaohsiung, has done some wonderful artwork for us, and he graced us with his presence at the screening. Another friend and co-worker of mine is working on the subtitles, and another on the website, which I will talk about more when we’re further on.

Actually, when my co-worker was working on the subtitles in the cubicle next to mine at work yesterday, he popped his head up and said, “Hey, this is really good!” I looked over at his screen to see which part he was doing, but all I could see was waveforms. He wasn’t watching the film, just listening to the audio. So I suppose it would make a good radio play as well! Heh.

(This is an article I wrote on the dysfunctional relationship between Taipei and its rivers for Village Taipei URS magazine)

It is said that fengshui has strict requirements on the positioning of cities. The central axis is supposed to run from north to south, with its north end pointing towards a mountain that runs from east to west and acts as the guardian of the city. A winding river around the city is said to be an auspicious feature. Even the Forbidden City in Beijing was built according to these rules. And at first glance, the city of Taipei conforms almost exactly to these conditions as well, surrounded by winding rivers and bordered on the north by Yangmingshan. But something happened along the way, a kind of divorce.

Taipei used to be all about the rivers surrounding it. Trade poured in from overseas as ships plied up and down the rivers, bringing goods and passengers to the riverfront districts of Dadaocheng and Wanhua. For hundreds of years, the pristine water supplied to the Taipei Basin by the rivers was the source of health, livelihood and transportation.

But the focus of the city was destined to move inland as it expanded. The authorities built a walled administrative center halfway in between the two main business districts, and then the Japanese tore down the walls and built what is now the Presidential Office, facing away from the river, away from the old business districts, towards the eastern plains that were the subject of elaborate plans for the development the city. Nonetheless, ships from Taiwan still traveled all over the region under Japanese rule.

But that would not last. When the KMT began administering the city, under the cloud of the threat from mainland China’s communist forces, the sea and everything close to it became off-limits, mirroring on a smaller, civic scale China’s retreat from the sea in the late Ming Dynasty, another tragedy on another scale. Personal craft were banned, military installations took over the shorelines, and ferry services dried up and disappeared. The island was repurposed for the use of small industries, whose pollution was deliberately overlooked so that quick profits could be maximized. Purportedly for flood control purposes, huge walls were built separating the rivers from the city, hiding them from view, cutting off access. The government widened the bottleneck of the Danshui River in Guandu, allowing saltwater to flow inland and completely change the ecosystem, which was already under severe attack from the unregulated pollution flowing into the river from the city’s primitive sewage systems and countless small factories. The path of the river was changed, and, as if to add insult to injury, dredging the river ceased; with no ship traffic to accommodate, it soon became too shallow for all but the smallest, flat-bottom boats. The shallower rivers flooded even more, of course. Even then, the reek of pollution made this a somewhat less than appealing notion, and fishing was out of the question for the same reason. Waterfront property wasn’t for living any more; it was for factories and junkyards. Stray dogs had better views than the majority of the expensive high-rises in downtown Taipei.

Gradually, the people of Taipei forgot about the rivers surrounding them. Rivers were just things one caught a brief glimpse of when hurtling across a bridge from one part of the city to another, if one were brave enough to take one’s eyes off the whirling maelstrom of scooters for a second or two. The prohibitions against coastal uses combined with local beliefs that water was dangerous, not just during Ghost Month, but all year round, a self-perpetuating and most vicious cycle, as the more people believed that swimming and other water activities were dangerous, the fewer people engaged in such activities, and with almost nobody knowing how to swim, the danger of drowning became all the more severe for those who did venture into the water, reinforcing the belief that water was dangerous, and so on. The polluted state of the water did not exactly help in this regard either, and the government actively discouraged any riverside farming or settlement. Again, “flood control”, a problem exacerbated by the very measures implemented to control it, was the driving force behind such actions. However, in Taiwan, the difficulties in dealing with the pragmatic realities of life resulting from ill-advised policy are almost always dealt with in the same fashion: Under-the-table practices with little of no enforcement. Thus, the farms and other river-related activities, became part of the unofficial mythology, like the rivers themselves.

For decades, this was the state of things in Taipei. The old waterfront districts of Wanhua and Dadaocheng languished, falling into disrepair as the city’s focus moved further and further inland from the forgotten rivers. The old districts were now bordered not by the river but instead faced huge concrete walls that allowed no scent or sign of the river it concealed. Hidden rivers were not just easier to ignore, they were also much easier to pollute, being out of sight as well as mind for most of the populace, and without any public impetus for reform, factories were free to continue dumping whatever chemicals they liked into the waters. The results of these pollutants entering the riverside farms and fishing, a world that didn’t officially exist, were likewise ignored.

Starting a decade or so ago, however, some of these things began to change. Recent administrations have opened an eye towards the existence of the rivers, raising enforcement of environmental standards to the point that the water isn’t as toxic as it once was. A certain amount of fish and other flora and fauna have returned. Boats now ply the waters between Dadaocheng, Guandu and Danshui, and there is talk of a new ferry down the coast to Hualian. The riverside has been transformed into a place for bicycling and sports.

But the huge walls still exist. More important than the physical walls, which remain necessary for flood prevention, are the mental walls the people of this city have built in their perceptions of the rivers over the many decades since the two parted ways. The government can spruce up the riverside paths and place a few boats on the water, but all it takes is a glance at the picture windows of many a riverside dwelling to see that they have their work cut out for them. For more often than not, the expanses of double-glazed glass do not present the views they were made for, but rather buttress stacks of boxes, clothes and other household detritus.

Chinese architecture traditions are partially to blame for this, after centuries if not millennia of courtyard-style buildings with no real windows facing outside, but when a magnificent view of the river, winding its way from the mountains to the sea, is placed on the same level of value as the concrete wall of the building next door, the reality of priorities influenced by decades of ignorance becomes apparent.

There’s no easy answer; government authorities can encourage riverside and seaside development, and some progress has been made on Taiwan’s east coast. Kaohsiung, having always been a port city, has also made great strides in this area. The aura of an international port has kept it open and alive, though just as, if not even more polluted than Taipei, over the years, and parts of the Love River have ceased to smell like cesspools. Current construction methods, floodways, underground storm water reservoirs, etc., make the existence of primitive floodwalls unnecessary, and with Taiwan’s population growth slowing, there simply isn’t a need to cover up the rivers with concrete and buildings; there is space for wetlands, for floodplains, there is space for the river.

But that would only be the beginning. The participation of the rivers in the existence of a city is an indicator of more than physical presence; rivers are the opposite of walls; they connect us to the rest of the world. Taipei tore down one wall but built many more, the most important of which were in the minds of its residents.

It’s high time those walls came down.

After some reserve stuff this morning and afternoon, I went down to the Taipei World Trade Center to meet up with Chenbl at the musical instrument expo that was going on there. Thankfully, the downpour that nearly engulfed my bus had eased somewhat, so I didn’t get too wet before I made it to the door, but it was still a puddlicious experience.

Inside, the area devoted to musical instruments, just a small part of the cavernous hall, hosted a cacophony of various bleats, blats, and 74 amateur drummers all doing the same thing on every drum set in sight. I tried out a fiberglass sousaphone at a mainland Chinese stall, then gave the general public a preview of the songs on our upcoming album using some other brass instruments I’d never played, at least the ones with valves. Neither I nor they were much good, though a lot of people took my picture as I was playing.

Chenbl was looking for flutes and violins, and as he haggled prices with seller, I grew quite weary of the constant bad drumming and other noise, and by the time we left I had the beginning of a migraine, which didn’t put me in the best of moods as we waited for one of the u-bikes to become available at the bike stand on the other side of the street. We were both taking bad pictures of Taipei 101 when I spotted an elderly fellow in front of me take a shot with his cellphone. He then turned to me.

“You have to delete that photo,” he said, in accented English.

“What?”

“You must delete your photo,” he repeated. I was confused.

“Why?”

“Because of my right to privacy, you can’t take a photo with me in it without my permission.”

“I’m fairly sure I can.”

“No, you must respect our laws when you come here, just like us Taiwanese.”

“Uh, I am Taiwanese.”

He switched to Chinese at this point. “Have you ever heard of personal privacy? Come on, we’re going to the police.”

I thought, oh boy, do you know who is standing next to me? Sure enough, as soon as we switched to Chinese, Chenbl, who had been uploading his own 101 shot to Facebook, joined in. “And just who are you?” he said. “Why should do anything you tell us to? You want to go to the police? Feel free.”

“How do I know you won’t be gone by the time I get back?” the man said.

“You don’t. Why should we care? You have no evidence of anything; we haven’t done anything wrong.”

“So, if someone were to throw something at you, and you didn’t have any evidence, it wouldn’t be wrong?” he said. I looked at Chenbl.

“Is that a threat?” I said, glaring at the man. Up until now the conversation hadn’t been particularly hostile, but it was taking a nasty turn. Chenbl held up his phone.

“If anyone throws anything, I have this conversation taped, and I’m pretty sure it would implicate you in any such act.” The old man laughed harshly.

“You guys are really something. You win this one, but it’s a small city; we’ll meet again.” Jesus, this is straight out of a comic book, I thought, and all because he thought I’d taken his picture. The man walked to the other side of the street, playing with his phone and hopefully not calling 20 of his best friends to resolve the situation. We didn’t hang around long enough to find out, electing to find bicycles elsewhere. We’d been planning to go see some friends play at Huashan, but my headache convinced me to go for a massage at the underground mall instead.

Dean and I met with the Taipei Film Commission people today; not the bigwigs, who were busy, but a couple of people in their office. After they eventually managed to find a laptop capable of showing a DVD (something I’d think would be rather handy at a film commission), we sat down and watched the movie on the tiny screen with the tinny speakers of the Asus they’d brought in. I didn’t even think they would want to see the whole thing, just verify that it’s a real movie, but they did. Much of the time they appeared to like it, being on the edge of their seats despite the poor viewing experience.

Afterwards, however, they didn’t seem too optimistic about our chances of local distribution. Taiwan, they said, only deals in arthouse films, with a smattering of slapstick comedy. What about Hollywood action films? I wondered. “They love those,” I was told, “provided they are from Hollywood.” One major problem with our film is that we don’t have any big, well-known stars.

Still, they said they would help us look around, so we’ll see what happens. We’ll hold a private screening for cast and crew in a couple of weeks, in any case, and should any movie company reps happen to slip in the side door, well, so be it.

Ten years ago today, Lady X: Episode 5, the second and final of our original episodes, went live on the website. Don’t bother looking for the Lady X competition site; it’s long gone. Time flies.