Hospital bed

Lost in bed,

head against a pillow.

Wires and tubes and things.

Nothing but bread,

leaning against a white wall.

Foreign static tumbling ear-ward from an overhead TV.

Cards on sheets,

making the feeling run away for a moment.

A run of four and a set of four.

This has happened,

the hospital bed.

Flowers alongside, and greeting cards and notes.

I want this to end,

the hospital bed.

I won't lie against the cold no more.

An unexpected cycling race

There was a preteen boy racing me on bicycle today. I passed him at first, steady as I go on my long morning rides, seeming no challenge would come from it. Out of nowhere he came whizzing past me, peddling as fast as his little legs could manage. As he did so, he couldn't help but have the biggest smile on his face. He was beating the "wei-guo-ren", the foreigner, and at his own game too. You see, I get all geared up for such rides, tight biking shorts, sleeveless cycling jersey and some dashing gloves and matching helmet...a real sight for the unexpecting local. To add to the thrill of the chase, he was riding probably his first bike, a beaten-up Giant, and with it, his heavy book bag, all the while I was riding a sleek road bike. He had some sort of spurt of energy, some spark in his brain that brought on such spontaneity. He was elated and exuberant in that moment. The sun met us perfectly up in the sky, softening the pores of skin producing sweat for our bodies. As I came creeping towards him, geared up, he kept his ground, quickening his peddle, all the while peeking back to see how close I was to him. The kickstand of his bike was down and shards from it were flying as he wobbled to gain momentum on his old bike. He about lost control once, but regained it haphazardly. I pushed forward and met up with him. Wheel to wheel, we battled to be the fastest. I would get ahead of him, then he would match my strength and pull ahead. All this excitement alongside laughing and smiling the whole way down the hill. I was a kid again, racing to the parking lot for a chance at bragging rights. We soon parted ways, neither of us sure which came out ahead, but we both came out winners with smiles on our faces.

*Editors Note

Hey reader, I'm transitioning this blog over to a more visually appealing and structurally sound set up over at:

http://thebrandonshowhere.tumblr.com/

http://thebrandonshowhere.tumblr.com/

http://thebrandonshowhere.tumblr.com/

http://thebrandonshowhere.tumblr.com/

http://thebrandonshowhere.tumblr.com/

I'll be updating both blogs, but the tumblr one will have more on it. So check out the most recent stuff over there.

Hope all is well,

B

Falling off rocks

There are times where the body leaves itself and finds itself in a place unthinkable. This happened before jumping off the rock last weekend in Kenting (墾丁國家公園). Well, I’m exaggerating when saying I left my body, because part of me thinks I experienced the most realness I’ve felt in a good while. The hitting of flesh against surface. The fear caught up in my throat and the energy surrounding it all leaving me awed. The gentle floating ocean views as I wait for the waves to carry me to shore. It was real and it was bodiless all simultaneously.

The waves crashing on the rock, mist spraying the glance. I look up to see a side-walking crab. He’s dancing alongside the surf, enjoying the pious rock as I climb higher and higher, steady atop the igneous solidification, trying my own side-walk as I crawl up, my claws clambering to find the nearest hole. It’s windy up here and the sea foam is creeping up the walls. I see a pathway towards the top and I follow it. The ledge peaking out, waiting for an adventure seeking visitor.

I make my way up the rock and I’m atop it all. The blue of the sea is crust-covered and I almost lose my balance as I stare into the infinity of turquoise and topaz. I wonder if this could be it, if the sea could take me and I’d forever be trapped inside the waves. I wouldn’t really be upset, if I were to escape inside the rhythm of the waves. It seems calm there and that point where the blue and the white meet right before they crash into the sand and rock is one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen. I could be among that beauty. Lost among the oxidation process and the moon’s eternal tide. I focus again, ready for my leap of faith, into the ocean below.

I creep towards the lip of the rock. I do this slowly, getting down low and maneuvering my body over. I make it to the spot and stand tall. It’s nothing but me and the waves now. I get a sense of their direction, of their movement and drive power. It seems a big wave could simply wipe me out completely. Therefore, I wait a little while to get a sense of the waves. I match the rhythm of the waves to the rhythm of my heart and take it all in. I think of moments past and moments present. Rushing silence enters my body. Releasing everything, I step forward, and float.

The floating is immediately superseded by gravity’s need to pull me in fast, into the dark pool of salt. I hit the surface and raggedy-andy doll it into the disheveled sea, flipping round and losing myself for a second. My limbs detached and the saltwater feels fine. I gain consciousness and my lungs break the surface, taking in the rain-freshened air. I look up at the spot I conquered, a proud moment. Making my way back to the shore, I decided to wait a while and just let the waves push me back in. I am able to ride them sweetly and enjoy the rhythm of the white cap waves.

Scenes from a Storybook

Release that thought I had previously. Sit calmly in this spot and hear the buddhist chant. I'm tired, yes, and I'm sore, yes, but the blood is flowing rich with oxygen and the sun is glinting beyond the large-bark tree. I laugh when I see the lizard climbing on the rocks next to the lillypads. Why is it funny, you ask? I'm really uncertain, I think I'm just thinking about how lovely it is, the lillypads and the lizard. I imagine the lizard making a pitcher of the finest lemonade, grabbing some shades and resting alongside the lillypads, enjoying the hums and ahhs, and the sunlight barely cascading through the palm trees giving him a nice even tan.

As if a scene from a storybook.

It seems as if the visage here is constantly filled in my brain with pages hinted in stories told to children. Ones with talking animals and large-scenic landscapes. Simple and complex. Have I told you about the white crane birds? I'm almost certain that cranes don't exist here, but they certainly are the shape of what my mind recollects as a crane from picture books. White and beautiful in the sky. They fly in the early-morning glory and land on the green-white rice pastures. Yellowed underbellies and wingspans long. They eat frogs and poke at them first, as if discussing what pseudo-political babble the grasshopper just blurted out. The frog jumps, hind legs dextral, ready for his escape once the crane-like-bird can be distracted by the long-windedness of his one-sided conversation.

Then there's the koi fish and the turtles. Tall atop a hill nearby, the kois and the turtles congregate near a Daoist Temple. They lay within a pond, a plastered dragon spewing out a stream of water overhead. They are cloistered together, involuntarily, along with a random pink piggy bank in the corner of the pond. When I arrive, the koi hammer to get my attention, clobbering for air and for possible food, while the turtles just mosey around, heads poking out of the water, getting a peek of the ridiculousness ensuing next to them. It's true that I picture the turtles with canes when I retreat, smoking the finest Cuban cigar and sporting top hats. It's a childish thing to imagine, but fun especially when mixed with the vibrancy of the colour spectra. Wild oranges of the kois and deep forest greens from the turtles. They are just asking to be painted into a book, and maybe, for the turtles, the latest ironic cartoon from The New Yorker.

Finally, the clouds and the mountain tops. Long bike rides bring about many views of lonely cumulous clouds alongside their brethren, the mountaintop. I imagine the clouds teasing the mountains, shouting, "Just come up and play!" All the while, the mountain, wise and unmovable, just meditates softly taking in the air surrounding him, feeding his trees, his saplings, his little creatures and pretty things. "The clouds are just jealous of all of this," he thinks silently. It's true, the cloud is jealous of the mountain. "What if I could just be grounded for a day, with animals wildly romping upon me?" It's true also, that the mountain is jealous of the cloud. "What if I could fly for a day, just worry about the breeze behind me?" They lived in a silent wish to be the other. The only menial compromise being those silent moments on the mountain tops together.

A type of birthday song

The dark room lit with only candles, smiling faces beaming downwards, welcoming their sing-song voices cascading ear-ward, I look around, thankful for it all. It feels almost surreal, the birthday song. It's sort of daisical, I get shy. For the thought of personal attention, through a simple measure like being born, seems undeserving. The personal sublimity that I experience in that moment, the moment where the birthday song is being sung to no one but me, is impossible to reenact in daily non-birthday life. Every year I look forward to it and dread it at the same time. It's a sort of game where I'm happy that people like me and care enough for me to send me gifts and make me cake and surprise me, but at the same time, I feel insecure about whether or not I deserve such treatment. I'm just me, really nothing too special, nothing to make cake about (especially kinds with yummy peanut butter frosting!). But regardless of the inner-conflict, I let the singing commence and I love it, every second of it, despite feeling guilty for doing so.

Lets zero in on the birthday song, it's just beginning. Lets go back to the room. The darkness. The smiling faces. The candles. In this moment, this year, I am here, in Taiwan, beside loving individuals, looking around in wonder. The darkness acting as a safe-haven for the candles to burn, home to the candle two stuck beside the candle three on top of a homemade birthday cake, the setting. As the singing begins, I drift into a third-person narrative, a sort of story beyond self. He's 23 years old today. Feeling unsure as to what 23 should or shouldn't feel like, he sits awkwardly in his chair, one foot sort of leaning against the other, like teetering dominoes. His smile, big and brawny, like he's produced since age 8, perfecting it at Chucky Cheese or Discover Zone Kids, stealing it from his mom, his smile is pure and innocent. He's wearing a black shirt and many others in the room are wearing different shades of blue, then again it's dark, so these colors seem faded into the background. While the song sings on, his eyes start by looking down at his misplaced feet, then up, glancing undoubtedly towards the faces, in order to take it all in. He's in this place, fourth floor, a school, a township, a county, a country (far away from anything he has known before). He feels the love emulating like a sort of magic from the friends surrounding him. It's a good feeling. He's immensely fortunate and blessed. The song concludes, the procession claps heartily. The lights turn on and he's taken back to reality (and cake!).

For my birthday, I received phone calls from friends abroad and friends anew. E-mails and messages by the handfuls. Birthday messages of well wishes and good will. These are what birthdays are made of. Of caring friends sending packages with brimming faces. Of dancing in a club and taking plenty of pictures. Of laughing until the pain reaches the ribs. Of surprise german pancakes and 23-reasons. Of whiteboard messages and young voices saying, 'you deserve a good day'. Of hand-painted calligraphy. Of the flying white birds alongside the happy god. It seems today, I was given many blessings from this deity.

It's strange to think of a birthday abroad. Childhood birthdays of home and family always conquer my idea of what it means to have a birthday. From my early days at Chucky Cheeses, standing alongside the mechanical monster band and playing in the plastic balls, I've been enthralled with the self-righteousness that birthdays create. Americana is all about such luxurious affairs, the power behind the ME of American attitude. My birthday with My friends and My presents. In Taiwan, things are the opposite. Most people celebrate their birthday on Chinese New Year, some children don't even know when their birthday is. Since growing older, and especially in coming into a culture that discourages the individuality of birthdays, I've come to realize that birthdays are less about me and more about them. About the family, the friends, the connections that build me up and tear me down, that hold me up and keep me going. It connects me to the greater understanding of being thankful for those that show unrequited love on a regular basis. That despite the opportunity to reward a person based on the date given to them by some outward force, I am able to be in constant gratitude for people so wonderful around me. And it's not that I don't love birthdays, because I definitely do, its just that, I want to ensure I don't rely too heavily on the expectations that a birthday can create. That I take the year older as a signifier towards living a new day, another day, among great things, and ensure that I'm thanking those around me. I can withdraw the self and implore the valley within and be thankful for those around me for building me up. So for this birthday, my biggest wish is to say to you, rather than you to me, Happy Birthday. You deserve everything.

Giving the moon breakfast

Yuèliang zǒu, wǒ yě zǒu, (Moon moves, I also move,)

wǒ hé yuèliang jiāo péngyou, (I and moon make friends,)

dài lǐ zhuāngzhe liǎng zhī dàn, (pocket in filled+with 2 M eggs,)

sònggěi yuèliang dàng zǎofàn. (to present to moon as breakfast.)