A Legend of Moms

It is said in Kevin's family, well, in fact, it was only between Kevin and his mom, that when Kevin was a kid, mom bathed him. And, whenever they had this daily routine, which little Kevin disliked a lot, mom told him stories. It's a legend of Kevin's mom. A legend, because no one remembers it. Not Kevin, nor any other members of the family, only mom. So, it may be correct that Kevin never had bed time stories, but it is not clear whether the bath time stories ever existed. And it turned out a question Kevin suspected from time to time.
Legend goes that mom's stories were all from what she read in her childhood. Another legend goes that mom, when young, had only times like herding cows or cooking meals to read. What to read were all books borrowing from kids of rich families in her class. At that time, in a small village, life and the world were simple, to an extend that stories like La Dame aux Camelias could make her shed tears.

Once a week Jane's nurse had her evening off; and then it was Wendy's part to put Jane to bed. That was the time for stories. It was Jane's invention to raise the sheet over her mother's head and her own, thus making a tent, and in the awful darkness to whisper:
"What do we see now?"
"I don't think I see anything to-night," says Wendy, with a feeling that if Nana were here she would object to further conversation.
"Yes, you do," says Jane, "you see when you were a little girl."
"That is a long time ago, sweetheart," says Wendy.
"Ah me, how time flies!"
"Does it fly," asks the artful child, "the way you flew when you were a little girl?"
"The way I flew! Do you know, Jane, I sometimes wonder whether I ever did really fly."
"Yes, you did."
"The dear old days when I could fly!"
"Why can't you fly now, mother?"
"Because I am grown up, dearest. When people grow up they forget the way."
"Why do they forget the way?"
"Because they are no longer gay and innocent and heartless. It is only th gay and innocent and heartless who can fly."
"What is gay and innocent and heartless? I do wish I was gay and innocent and heartless."

And that's all for today, folks. What's after this is not suitable for kids. But you do have to admit, it is always good to have some fine written passages to read, instead of some lousy murmuring or bits and pieces of fictional plots. Besides, like readers, writers have to read.

Chapter 8 Nala: A Play

There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under heaven.
(Ecclesiastes, 3: 1)

The cycle of an oversea student's life in UK.
I. Arrival: Summer. Not knowing one's whereabout, not even the arsehole to the earhole. Calling home everyday, or lover. Enduring, oh, appreciating the quality and the price of British food. Learning English--attention, English, not American English. Lots to read, lots to see, nothing under the sun is not novel.
II. Relocating/ed: Autumn. Beginning studying in one's institute. New accommodation, new flatmates, new classmates, new goals. Getting to know bars, pubs, parties, boys and girls, supermarkets, bargainning price goods, part-time jobs, essays, boys, girls.
III. (Up)rooted: Winter. Being alone in the flat. Seeing friends off in Heathrow. Bloody essays. Reading. Breaking-ups(statistics-supported!!!). Being alone in UK. Waking up and going to bed whilst the moon hangs up high. Being alone. Snowing, quiet white world. Being alone quietly.
IV. Re-conception: Spring. More sunshine. More colours. More time for walk. More sightseeing, more pub talks. More trains. More meeting-ups, more dancing events. More emails, more arrangements. More nights wondering what is s/he thinking. More plans. More and more people turning up as couples.
V. Realisation: Summer. Degree dissertation. Reading reading reading reading. Complaining in pubs. Playing pulls only to get oneself distracted. Couple seperated, or thinking about seperation. Recalling another place called motherland. Trying to extend UK Visa. Stucked in dissertation writing as well as relationships as well as to-be-memories as well as...

Nala is not married nor single, which distinguishes her from the herione of Henrik Ibsen's play. Her real name reminds people more of the fair provocative lady in Zola's erotic novel.
The comments I heard about her are countless, but one from my Italian flatmate is worth of writing down here: Gosh, I would be ashamed dancing with her.
She was like a fire dancing in the hall, which I didn't know when I met her for the first time. At the beginning I didn't even think she's pretty. Cute, maybe, but too much acting in her behavior. However, why did I turn Rina down when she approached, asking me if I wanted to be in a play with her? I knew that, somehow, it was Nala I wanted to be in the play with, not Rina. Which was why I didn't turn down Nala.

The plot: silly experienceless boy trying to ask a clever girl out, and the girl, while realising the helplessness of the boy, and after turning down lots of stupid proposals of his, offering the boy one simple easy way to have a date.

An eternal debate: is it life imitating art, or art imitating life? Of course the stupid play done in the first summer was totally not qualified as art, yet it rehearsed what happened in the next spring. Only this time the girl didn't help out much, or, the boy had even less intelligence then the one in the play.

The next time I talked to Nala, it was the second summer already. We met up for a good-bye coffee. For two hours we talked yet never the same as before. Nothing personal, only future plans were slightly related to. It was beyond my comprehension, although I didn't really want to understand anything about it. She agreed to meet, we met, and then we parted. It was like something that had to be done, without real cause or reason. I sent her e-card on her birthday, she returned a christmas card. Neither of us had heard from each other ever since.

Chapter 7 Brighty

Calling all angels
Calling all angels
Walk me through this world
Don't leave me alone.
Calling all angels
Calling all angels
We're trying, we're hoping,
we're loving, and we're hurting,
We're crying, we're calling,
But we're not sure how this goes...
(Jane Siberry & K D Lang, "Calling All Angels", from the soundtrack of the motion picture Until The End of the World, dir. by Wim Winders)

Another legend goes that whenever a child stops believing in fairies and put that into words, a fairy dies. But, whenever a new born baby bursts out laugh for the first time, a fairy would be born.
Brighty was not a fairy, and her death, made JC born again.

It was like a game, boring from my perspective now, yet quite serious then. In Kaohsiung, in a Christian family, a Catholic school, Brighty and JC successfully covered up their sexuality. Years latter there was a time when I went to the hospital to keep Brighty company, we surprisingly, via our conversation, found out that we had crush on the same girl in high school. We both laughed.

We were not close friend until we attended the collage. Home is a mysterious place. One loves it, yet one grows up outside of it, in some cases. Ever since collage, Brighty had not a home. Her room was always packed, as if she was a character from Thelma and Luise, always on the run.

Running from what? her own family, in which the mom and the dad were widely respected as elderlies in the church. Brighty loved Jesus, she even lectured me once, for...what could be the reason one lectures a boy? Lust of course.

But she loved Cho as well.

Cho, if you wanna know the work of God, you gotta see Cho. Ney, let me rephrase myself. If you wanna see a goddess, be it Athena, Hera, or Aphrodite, go see her. The moment she stepped into the room, you can feel, physically, the eyes of all are fixed onto her. It's not just the undeniable beauty that snared me, but the impassivity, the undisturbedness that she posed. "This girl is special," thought I.

So did Brighty.

The next time I saw Cho, it was in a department store, the least possible place for one to find me. And what I saw, also the least possible to me,Cho and Brighty was there, walking airily hand in hand.
For Brighty it was even less imaginable. Never had she planned to come out, not to me at least. I was sort of putting my feet carelessly onto her secret territory. And to Cho, hoo, she was surprised as well. Ain't it nice, now we're all a little surprised.

Why is there such question as "to tell or not to tell?" Because there are people that make a fuss of it. Inasmuch as I made no fuss, Brighty hid nothing from me ever since. And we formed a small circle, two of us only.
That was quite a childlike time we had. Everytime Cho and Brighty had a fight, I had a call. From Brighty. They were sweet to each other, but they could also fight each other over the most petit things. Brighty would call, complaining all about Cho, and I listened. And what I listened most of her complaint was how wonderful Cho was.
"She is over the top in every way," Brighty would say. "So perfect, she's not even a human." And she said directly, "she's way out of my league."
Nowadays people don't say that. People may feel the same way, but they don't say it. For not losing face I think. So now when I think of it, Brighty was quite lovely in fact. So honest.

And Cho joined the circle very soon. She called one day, out of my expection. "Could we go out sometime?" she asked, "it doesn't feel good whenever you have a fight with your lover, you know the next thing will be that she called someone you know but not that well." Good reason. "So I think we sould be friends."
That's Cho, direct, and clever. Bold in a certain way.

It's not necessary describing our meeting-up. What turned out was that Cho and I got alone ever better then Brighty. Brighty was even jealous of me. Of course she knew very well that it was just friendship Cho and I shared. So three of us went on. Things between them didn't change much, only more intimate, and more fights, and more phone calls for me.
And because of that, I saw Cho cried in front of me, one time after their fight, right in front of me. Brighty left and Cho was in tears.
"I am afraid," she said while crying, "sometimes I can't even recognise her. It was very nice being her friend. But lover...she was like fire...burning people up."

Things like this went on and on. I saw them as two in love deeply but struggling for their own problems. The more they want each other, the more they hurt.

"Time washes everything," Kristen told me three years latter. She was referring to another issue of mine. But if you think, what was the thing that time washes away? Memories, isn't it? And where come the memories? Things lost, things no more.

Lu called in the morning while I was in bed trying not to face the predictable hangover.
"Brighty died." Lu siad, briefly.
And I was wide awake, zero hour.

You don't need to know all the details. It was tiring of course. Also I don't want to tell you what I went through in the week. You know you know, you don't know you don't. But there's one thing I want to say.
That morning when Cho came to the hospital, she was crying like...like...like what? Use your imagination, or memory. What I didn't know before seeing her, was that I had no words to say to her. It was hard, what do you want to say? You stand beside her, silently, seeing her all crying, holding her hand, cuddling her shoulders, speechlessly.
Seeing it from now, I was selfish making her the CD. I wanted so much to say something to her, but couldn't. Only once in my life time, I decided to do one thing, and dared to ask the world to help. And the world did, at least two in the world did help me.

"This CD is made to be forgotten." So I wrote in a sheet attached with it.

JC met Brighty and I only one month before her death, in the most unlikely situation, a gay coffee shop, run by the only homosexual book store in Taipei. As I said at the beginning, JC and Brighty successfully covered their sexuality, even from each other. So it was one of the classic surprising bumping-into-each-other I would say. JC was so embarrassed, Brighty and I tried very hard not to expose her, only politely leaving her our number and email.
JC finally find someone she could talk to about her situation, and Brighty took her responsibility, sharing with her all the knowledge she gained from many times of struggles. They had similar background, similar troubles.
So when Brighty died, JC cried like hell over the phone.
Yet one would be surprised how strong and independent JC achieved after that.

Before launching to UK, I visited Brighty's tomb. On the picture she smiles just the way she used to be. So bright, no worries nor doubt in her eyes. It's we that stay in this world that doubt and worry.

Cho is happily with her girl friend now. My CD had come to where it belonged, somewhere forgotten.

Chapter 6 S.J.K

Arittakeno yume o kakiatsume
sagashi mono sagashini yuku no sa ONE PIECE

rashinban nante jyutai no moto
netsu ni ukasare kaji o toru no sa

HOKORI ka butteta takara no chizu mo
tashikameta no nara densetsu jyanai!

kojin teki na arashi wa dareka no
BIORHYTHM nokkatte
omoi sugose ba ii

arittakeno yume o kakiatsume
sagashi mono sagashini yuku no sa
POCKET no COIN, soreto
YOU WANNA BE MY FRIEND?
WE ARE, WE ARE ON THE CRUISE! WE ARE!
(Song from TV animation series One Piece)

What story can I take as a symbol to represent what is shared amongst Shaggy, Jason, and me? One Piece, the story of a kindly-hearted, stupid kid called M0nkey de Luffy persuing his dream of becoming the king of pirate, getting the mysterious treasure buried by the previous pirate king.
Of course none of us are pirates. Especially for the two of them, descendants of the nomads from northen Mainland China.

It was quite interesting how we recognised each and every one. I don't know the situation in the States, but in UK, one couldn't possibly ignore oversea students from China. I was shocked when I first met them. Entering the accommodation and you hear Chinese spoken in the so-called mainland accent, smelling the dishes so familiar, somehow you feel dislocated. I was greeted. I accepted with, how odd, slight fear. Around the table sitting Jason, Sherry, Candy, Jay, Jeccie, all speaking in different accents. Candy was the cutest, youngest, and not to our surprise, the most naive one. But it was also her the most impressive to me at my first night in Colchester. With an ambition to develop a career in mass media, she asked me lots of question about media in Taiwan, and to everybody's amusement, I knew much less than she did. How on earth would I know those sort of things? I didn't even care. But then I sighed that the entertainers reunited the two Sino-countries.

Jason and I got close because of Rock and Roll. I was always shy, and, facinated by the decadents. Well, used to. But these are not the most distinct characteristics of Jason. Jason was, well, was, a womaniser, and he made it bluntly. Shaggy is another type. He was like a prince, at least when he played piano, he looked like one.
And I was like a strange creature amongst them.

First chat with Jason, he knocked my door and asked if it was possible that we talked. I was generally defensive. Jason took the first step, so he was welcomed. We talked a lot about everything. Mostly about politics, and rock and roll, and movies, and UK, and life. You see, that's what a nice conversation should be, pointless, not focused, just enjoy the moment together.

And friendship, just like relationship, always came to a point that needed to be taken forward, otherwise it would fail.
When she left, I was invited to Shaggy's place, three of us, "like men," talked and drank. It's a typical thing oriental males do, when upset, they drink. Yet it was first time for me. I had nevr been into that that much. I had always been the last one with clear conscious in the scene when all others were drunk, and I sorted things out for them. But that night, I didn't care that much. I somehow knew that I was accepted in the circle and I needed not defend any more. It would be them care for me, not the other way round.

So a winter, and then a spring we spent time together. At the end of the winter, Jason fell with a girl from Shanghai, and the story was, well, a good laugh, to me at least. Shaggy was the prince, remember? So, in real life, like princess in fairy tales, prince got troubles.

One night I remember at the end of that spring. Shaggy was upset, maybe, over his relationship with a lass in Beijing. I guess. He never explained. Anyway, he asked me and another girl to join him on a short trip to the beach. With loads of beer, and the cheap guitar Shaggy, Jason, and I bought together. Maybe it was loneliness, or the sense of abandoned, I don't know.
At night, at the beach, we couldn't see very far. The ocean was as dark as the sky, and there was almost no light there. Shaggy and I both played guitar, and we sang. But he remained speechless. I didn't know what happened. However, given how much I cared about him, I didn't ask anything. I myself was drawn by the scene and memories stirred up by it. I recalled when in army, I stared at the sea everynight like that, thinking of her. I wrote, and I made phone calls. And she did the same. How could love fail? I don't know. Is it a relationship built on seperation? Is it longing shapened by waiting? Is it at the point where imagination meets reality that we could possibly love, and once getting across the fine line in-between we lost?
I started singing "With or Without You," just to get the thoughts, all mixed up, off my head.
I'd never sung like that, yelling like a rock star on stage, yet also like the last man crying to the one above, or maybe I was just not caring the two sitting behind me any more.
But when I finished, I found Shaggy with tears on his beautiful face, cuddling the other girl.

Chapter 5 The Beginning of the Affair

To dream the impossible dream,
To fight the unbeatable foe,
To bear with unbearable sorrow,
To run where the brave dare not go...
(Don Quixote/Cervantes, "The Impossible Dream", Man of la Mancha)

For everything that has a beginning has an end. And, vice versa.
My affair, with cigarette, started in a dark, shadowy room, and I was surrounded by a group of dreamers.

"Why is it all youngsters wish to save the world?" Jesus Christ, in The Last Temptation of Christ, asked desperately. Kevin, of course, was no exception. Yet little did he know, at one's youth, no one actually know what the world one sets out to save is like. When ignorance find sincerity, you get a bewitched knight.

It was the end of the century, a century when millions got killed systematically, when humanitarian writers commited suicide, and those that dare not questions the justification of such act, when Dream Work turned into a giant enterprise.
However, it was also a century dreams were actually given possibility to be fulfilled. People were encouraged to persue it.
Kevin (ah, long time no see) was lying on the porch reading The Unbearable Body, whilst waiting for his friends late for their secret meeting. What's the meeting for? Well, you see, in the gospels, Judah went to the Pharisees and Priests to be bribed, to betray. Kevin and his friends were holding the meeting to fight back the disciple group, for they know they were excluded from the heavenly gift. The gift of being entitled rebels, with or without a cause.

It's something about Kevin, that he always, or at least for severaly times, saw the thing to come unnecessary, not really significant. First time stepping on the street, chanting slogans among at least ten thousands Taiwanese, he realised right in the middle of the protest that it was meaning-less. Such thing happened many times. Enthusiasm got blocked even before the actually action. Kevin himself didn't even know why he still stayed with those that didn't share the same view. Was it fear? Maybe. You see, as an orphan, company, at that time, was important to him. He listened, nodding to opinions he disagreed, smiling when he didn't care. (Lucky that he didn't sleep around when he didn't want to.) Fear ate the soul.

That night, Kevin was happy that he was called to the meeting, even though he could not actually relate to others' emotion. He was considered the most compliant one in the NGO to which they were offering their services. Only once the leader of the organisation singled him out in a meeting, asking provokingly that "having documented so many meetings, you really have nothing to contribute?" To contribute what? That all these were crap? That you were a bunch of wankers? Well, so he said, since she asked. To Kevin's surprise that he was applaused. How sick, thought he.
Anyway, this time, the meeting of the youngsters of the organisation, was a secretly held to overthrow the elders, those in power. "Idealism lives not in human organisation," Pianist used to tell him, only that he wasn't sophisticated enough to understand that. None of them were.

The meeting went as a gathering of wankers in fact. Kevin remained silent, speechless, but he didn't expect himself like that among these youngsters. With nothing to contribute, he took the cigarrette of his friends, started smoking. For the first time in his life he consumed a fag to its end. He kept the same act, all night, only to keep his mouth not totally empty before the end of the long long night.

That was six years ago, and only one in that youngsters' group is still in the business of saving the world. All the others are leading lives as orphans. Things go back to how they originally were. One of them got married. Happily, I think. Two of them started travelling, Kevin be one of them. And that, was the real beginning of our little tale, my beloved reader.

The quotation at the beginning was from an off-Broadway show, again made into a film, Man of la Mancha, one of the rare films that drove Kevin crying. He hid his whole body under the table where the projecter was located, while the professor was hosting the discussion after the screening in class, weeping silently. Should Don Quixote even face the real? Should he be cured from his insanity? While spared of punishment from his fellow prisoners for the encouraging show, did Cervantes reconcile with himself?

Yet it was long ago. It was the story of one of the Kevins. Just one.

Chapter 4 The Eternal Sunshine of The Spotted Minds

Rarely one encounters in a life time experiences of agony. And when such thing occurs, one knows not how to express one's feelings. You don't cry out, you shed no tears, you don't even talk, even if there are people willing to listen.

The afternoon after one night out, I got her call. "I must tell you..." (well, what she must tell me is on the you-don't-need-to-know base.) "Congratulations," I said, while I was in bed, in a room the decoration exceptionally elegant and erotic. But I didn't know to whom I congratulated.
Terry laughed dramaticaly when I told him that night in a Pub. "You are quick! Unbelievably quick! Ha ha ha!" Without any idea how I should feel about the whole situation, I went clubbing with them. It was always comforting staying with family, and they were the only family I got in London.

"I know how you feel now. We've all been there. You'll be fine," that was Terry's last comment on my issue. I wasn't quite sure where was there that he said they'd all been. If he meant 30 years of service in the British Navy transforming him inhuman as Andre said, seduced by widow of the neighbor and producing a boy that he could not possibly handle, then I couldn't have been there. Yet it was the privilege of the elderly to say such words, "you'll be fine." They lived it, and they knew it. Yet I'd just begun to experience it, kicking and screaming. That night in club, something was murmuring, mourning in me, and I couldn't stay with them. Also, I lost my mobile there. "You are really a trouble maker, aren't you?" so he said, with his typical ironic, wickedly warming smile.

The weekend ended without Terry's prophecy fulfilled. I felt worse than the first day she called.
Signs of one person in pain. First sign, one mutes oneself. It's not he or she has nothing to say, in fact, there's a hell lot of things going on on his or her minds. Yet one find no words that could possibly describ it. Second sign, one goes out, with no clear sense of direction or destination. You simply can't stay in, it's suffocating. You need fresh air, a lot.

So I went out alone the second night. Jump on the bus, I started travelling around London. At night, London is no different to other metropolis, dark, quiet, yet restless. I experienced this in New York years ago. It was as if there were things going on somewhere you couldn't see. Things you don't know. There were eyes watching in the dark.

But, of course, it couldn't concern me the least. I got bored of the sight from the bus window very soon. It felt the same as that of the window in my room. Everything looked the same. Maybe this is the reason why we went out when we are in grief. To us the world has changed, and we need evidence. It doesn't make sense when such pity happen to us while the world remains not moved.

There was an area in London surrounded by clubs. I got off the bus there. In pain, one does not think. All action was spontaneous, like the reflection of human body. I got off there out of the same reason. I didn't know what I was doing.

I met Elaina there.

Elaina, a woman at her 50s, wore clothes dingy and ratty, short, gray hair, spoke strong Irish accent. She appraoched me first, requesting the direction to a small area in London which is right next to where my place was located. "I'll wait for the bus with you," I said. I didn't need to, yet I needed her. I needed a company. Besides, it would be nice staying with the homeless. Oh, yes, she was one.
"I don't think the bus will come soon, let's walk to the next stop," she said, "and I'll buy you a beer." I liked her immediately. A poor woman, with dignity, and manner. What I didn't know, was that she had a kind heart, yet broken.
She talked all the way when we walked. At first she was trying to explain to me why it was so important that she got to the place. "My son will meet me there," she told me, and I saw excitement in her eyes. "You know, me husband wasn't good to me. He almost kicked off the my son from my womb. But I finally saved the baby. They are all good kids. Me husband..." She talked a lot, and I listened. It's witchy how her stroy calmed me down. Interestingly enough, when you feel like dying, you listened.
I didn't tell her about me, and she didn't asked. That's one thing I know about being with homeless people. They rarely asked questions. They simply tell you what they want to say, if they know that you would listen.

She really bought me a beer, an herself another. We chatted like old friends, her arm in mine, two stranger walking on the streets of London at night like kids from preschool taking the excursion. I said nothing about me.

"Let's sing" she said. We were both kind of drunk. I had stopped thinking about my own problem. She sang alone, a song I'd never heard, yet reminded me my pain.

(Her song)
You've got to hold on, hold on
Hold on to what you've got
If you think nobody will want her
Just throw her away
Very soon you will see someone have your girl
before you can count

The song repeated, only the "girl" was changed to "boy." It was a typical Irish song, celtic, melody extending far, rhythm went slowly, like praying, perfectly matched the scene we were in, an elderly sharing life with a youngster. Hearing the lyrics I couldn't help asking God "are you kidding me?", although so is said that He does have a sense of humour. But I smiled finally, kind of bitter, but from my heart at least. My first true-hearted smile since the phone call.

The bus came. I joined her and paid her fee. At night on London's bus, you see lower class people, niggers, drunkers, teenagers. Normally at time like this, nobody talks.
"Your turn, you sing," she asked me.
So I did.

(My song)
When you walk through the storm,
Hold your head up high
And don't be afraid of the dark.
At the end of the storm
There's a golden sky
And the silver songs of the lark.
Walk on through the storm,
Walk on through the dark,
And you'll never walk alone
Walk on, walk on,
With hopes in your heart,
And you'll never walk alone
You'll never walk alone...

She joined me right away. I bet she knew the words by heart. It was a song I learned from a movie situated in Ireland. Terry told me few days latter it was an Irish song as well. We sang in the bus as if there were no one there. I saw one lass staring at us, and I returned her a careless smile. We got off the bus together, all giggling.

That night she led me to a dodgy area, asking for a few quits, and got herself some drugs, some thing I have no idea what that was. Seeing her asking for money, looking for friends that would "kindly" sell her drugs, friends that she could share it with, friends that shouted at her, looking down upon her, I felt sorrow. There were rules in that society, and I was previliged to have a glance. "Do you want some?" she asked. I didn't take it, didn't want to take things I don't know.
Thinking that I didn't use drug, she held my hand tightly, looking into my eyes, with her eyes so open, the widest I'd seen all through that night, asking me "then promise me, never ever touch this thing, never!" I saw in her eyes a horrible kind of seriousness, as much as the happiness when she talked about her children.
"Ok, I promise," I said.

Somehow I suspected whether her son would pick her up days later, or she would ever get back to Dublin, or not. Later that night she dissappeared, looking for other friends. Another friend of hers walked me home. Another life's story, heavy as well. Plots were similar, bad husband, kids, drinks, short of money, drugs. It was odd that these people kept me company when I was at my lowest. And they were sincere, all they want was a chat, someone to talk to, no questioning, no judgement.
I returned home when the sun came up.

Chapter 3 Ecstasy

For once there was an unknown land, full of strange flowers and subtle perfumes, a land of which it is joy of all joys to dream, a land where all things are perfect and poisonous...

Year, 2003.
Season, summer.
Location, somewhere inbetween Asian and European Continents.

Speed, donno.
Height, not sure.

"Look, Frankford!" she happily whispering to my ear. I was asleep. But I joined her at the tiny window immediately. Europe, land of civilisation, mythology, aristocracy, revolution, and all things with history and beauty (and of course, land of blood shed, massacre, slavery, invasion, errogancy, if you like). It must have been ten hours at least that we stayed in the air plane, and both of us were glad to find the sunshine spreading on the vast green land throught the cloud.
It was the beginning of this trip, trip to a new found land for us. Little did we know, it was also a trip to the heart of darkness, or the darkness of hearts.
She looked at me with an extremely sweet smile. That was her most distinct characteristics, that smile. One can melt in it. She kissed me softly. And we both fell asleep again, my hand in hers.

We were on the plane to Great Britain, the United Kingdom (a rather bizarre name for a nation). I was just mustered out of the Republic of China Army, eager for a new life, a new world. Intellectual career was her ambition, and I simply wanted to experience living abroad, and see if I can understand what modern academia was all about. But above all these, it was our only chance to be in the same country. Border line, the great invention of modern world, money and lives put onto it only to strengthen our belief that people might hate and hurt each other only because of different languages or skin colors. We planned to overcome the world and free ourselves from its restrictions. One day, there would be a land of our own, a garden long lost. We were both living on dreams.

Year, 2003.
Season, winter.
Location, Colchester, Essex county, UK.

It was funny how beautiful people look when they walk out the doors. She cried, so hard that I felt fear growing inside of me. An autumn had passed, so had the gorgeous time we shared.
"You didn't even call! Not once! d'you know how I worried about you?" tears covered her beautiful face, looked in my eyes grotesquely distorted.
I called in fact, she didn't get the ring. Things like this happened, two people, so in love, out of some inconsiderable misunderstanding, hurt each other deeply.
Yet that did not really explain anything. Why did I leave in the first place? That was the question. Bored? of her? of life in the small pretentious town? I don't know. Terry told me half years later, he decided to break up with Andre because he needed a space of himself. How odd, demand of one's life demands the breaking of the other's heart. "Love one as one really is," says who? And who listens?
She got her ticket the next morning, three days later, she flew back to Asia.

Day, four days ago

"So what's it? You don't love her any more?"
"...."
"Anyway, are you coming or not? I am leaving very soon, and I plan to spent the last three nights in clubs."
Kid was leaving UK. In fact she had been in London for about three months. After finishing her study in the State, instead of going back to Taiwan, she moved to England, trying to write a novel about her experience in New York. We had a fight about drug ab-use before, so she promised me to stay beside me when I gave it a go. In fact it was not even the experience of E or clubbing that I was looking for, I simply wanted to spend some time in London, with Kid. It's a pretty absurd friendship we shared. Kid, not a lesbien, sportive, quick wit, a Christian praying when she's high, has every quality that I lack. I asked her once, when I heard the death of Yang Mu-gu, a widely respected pastor, that how did we start to getting close? She said that was possible the time when she told me about her suicide plan, when I didn't object.

First time using Ecstasy, I was stoned in the beginning, like all tiredness was squeezed out of my body. They all came surrounding me, asking me how I felt. Andre pulled me up and led me to the hall. "Dance, or you'll fall asleep," he said. I tried, yet the spinning feeling remained. I scrunched at the corner of the hall, trying to keep my mind clear and my body relax. It was so intense. Andre stick a small bottle into my nose, asked me to inhaust it. I ran to the toilet right after following his instruction. Throwing up like hell.
And then magic thing happened. Coming out of the toilet, I gredually awoke. With every step I felt my sensation sharpened, to an extent as if I had never feel things before. The music became layered, and the lighting excessive. Above all, I felt "me". So brisk, so airy, confident, calm, able to embrace people and things. "I had never been so disenchanted in my life!" I shouted at Kid's ear. She returned me a witty, all-knowing smile. "Go, have fun," she shouted back.
So I did.

Chapter 2 Salvador

Yesterday upon the stair
I saw a man that wasn't there
He wasn't there again today
How I wish he'd go away. (by Oscar Wilde)

Ever experienced a relationship that lasted for one night only?
Be aware, relationship, nothing physical, don't take it wrongly.

How did I meet Salvador? Well, in London, you can meet any kind of person you want--in a club. You can even have options like middle-aged gentlemen wearing suits if you like. But that would be quite another scene.

Anyway, that night, rather unusual that I went clubbing with no friends. That's somehow not a smart thing to do. You see, in London, go to club looking for one night stand had been outdated. It was more a place friends getting together, having music and pills, and some nice time. Going to club alone, regardless of how strange it was, people would suspect: what is this chap after?

Nothing really. It was simply a night trying to have a place to stay. Besides, given the backlash towards gay community in the UK, the number of clubs were reduced, so you could always expect yourself bumping into some one you know. I met a few that night. But with the effect of the pills I lied on a couch and rested. That was one of my personal habbit. You see, people always think that those who go clubbing are either looking for drugs or sex, or both. But in fact, that's because people know not how to live with things instead of depending on things. Of course drugs get you high, but to depend on it means to be bereaved of all possibilites of enjoying it. Things you own end up owning you. Whenever in club, I tried not to bother others, just enjoy myself. And I found one of the things I enjoy in clubs was being alone. It's funny that in the day time when most of us seem to have all the time in our hands we still could not be with ourselves, but at night in a club full of people eager for all sorts of things I can find a place of my own and successfully be undisturbed.
What do I do when I was alone? Well, lots of things are going on. Most of us have unfinished business, and these business need to be taken care of. Being alone is a way of taking care of myself for me.

So I lied on the couch, eyes closed, so tired as if I was going to fall asleep. But I didn't. Another thing about drug, it's something you don't actually need to live but something that could possiblly make you live differently, at least see life in a different way. One's condition would be encouraged to emerge with drug's effects. So when one is physically lonely, one search for bodies. When one is psychologically lonely, one search for company. I always was with myself in that situation, because it was me that I needed. I was the centre of the world.

Somebody leaned her back against my arms. I opened my eyes, seeing a beautiful sight of one's back. I closed my eyes again, remaining silent. The girl started chatting with someone sitting in front of her, and I can hear the voice low and hoarse, kind of sexy. I once again opened my eyes, finding that she was staring at me defiantly. What a direct seduction, and she looked comely. But I so wanted to feel myself that only her warm, soft back leaning on my arms would be pleasant enough.

That, was when Salvador came in.
Salvador, a person whose look would not be popular in the London gay scene I asure you. Round belly, face un-shaved, strong but not in style, and manly. It's not that gays are not manly, but there was always a kind of subtlety, gayly in a word. But Salvador didn't have that. He looked just like a normal heterosexual man. That's why when he asked I sort of worried I was gonna get beat.

"Are you boy and girl friends?" asked he, smiling carefully. Out of a strange, unnecessary courtesy, I said "no, we've just met."
What happened next was not within my expectation. Salvador simply joined us on the couch, but in fact, he was intruding between me and the girl and seperated us. And, even more surprisingly, he turned to me, not the girl, and started asking things. "Well, don't worry about her, she's just a kid," that was all he said.
From Salvador I knew that they were among a group of friend, others including the girl were Brazilians, but Salvador himself is a Portuguese.
"Are you gay?" he asked. One sees that question coming in London's club, well, if you are not that gay. There are other question for you if you are obviously one.
"No."
"No? Then what are you doing here?" he kept asking me, with that curious smile on his face.
"Well, there's no rule that gay only can come in a club, is there?" Smile stayed. "Besides, it's nice being here."
"I know, and..." he caught up with the subject, and we talked more.

It's something interesting that when I really feel comfortable with someone, I could not remember what we really talked about or did together. All I knew was that when leaving the club, we exchanged mobile numbers.

He texted me very soon. I was in bed, rejected his invitation, but asked whether it was possible to meet up another day. So we met two days later. Evening, Leicester Squar. The night had come and people walking excitedly.

"You have a sense of feather," he said. "Not like some gays, sissy. You look straight but you have a kind of velvet in you," he continued. "That's what I like about you."
We kept on talking all night, about all sort of things. Relationships, life, work, London, home country, architecture, literature. I had not talked to a person like that in a long time. Maybe it's because of his sincerity, or maybe that he disclosed no attempt at sex, I don't know. "I used to fuck around," he said, "but I stopped. Somehow I realised what I want is a relationship. Some one you would always be happy to be with."
He was married to a girl from somewhere in East Europe, so she could get the right of residence in EU. Oh, right, she was a lesbian. "I loved her," he said, "but there are things we don't get alone. It's not just a visa marriage, but it still worked out badly."
As much as I enjoyed his company, I still can't remember much of our talks, only the merry feeling. It was just like brothers finally seeing each other after years of separation, but more than that.
"Why do you stay in London?" I asked. You have do know, he'd stayed in London for more than ten years, without coming home for a single year.
"Well, you must know that western society is not as open-minded as you a Taiwanese imagine," he said. "All my family and my friends turned their backs on me when I told them that I am gay. I can't live with them," the bitterness in his smile is almost invisible, somehow I thought that was merely my imagination. He was from a family with aristocrat blood. "Here no one knows me, I can choose friends, friendly to me." I said nothing, just one week ago, a gay man was murdered in SoHo area, right next to Leicester Squar.

He walked me to my place. I saw him getting on the bus. It was him showing me how much fun it was to use bus in London. Ever since I rarely used the tube. What was even less considerable, I never had a chance to see him again. My mobile was gone few days later.

That night in central London, he told me that he was an HIV carrier, at the enchanting scene of the bank of River Thames. The best thing ever happened to him after discovering his own condition was that his boyfriend was not infected. He led a loner's life after that, for ten years. I think, with that night so marvellous, he should not possibly confuse me with those that alienated him only for his sexuality or disease. I still think of him sometimes, on the other side of the world. I think he's still alive, dancing in club, talking to girls cheering them, walking alone on the streets of London.

Chapter 1 Farewell Party

Histories, like ancient ruins, are the fictions of empire. While everything forgotten hangs in dark dreams of the past, ever threatening to return. -- Velvet Goldmine, dir. by Todd Haynes

I can still remember that afternoon, we went clubbing for the last time in London. As usual, after one night dancing and high, we went someone's place for a chill-out. It was Andre's place as I recall now. We sat in the living room, sharing the precious goods, chatting freely.

Kevin had planned to tell them his leaving UK, yet the morning was young, and he really wanted that happy, peaceful moment to last longer, even for just a bit. So he kept silence, following others' topic and giggled.
They were quite accustomed to him behaving like this already. The first time when they met, Kevin was introduced, with a certain kind of caution, as a straight. By causion I do not mean that they were told not to violate him, but that they had to be gentle. They were, in fact, all of them. The tenderness of this group of good friends, queers all, kept Kevin with them for the whole autumn, until the beginning of the winter.

Terry was the centre of the group, even though on the surface it seemed to be Old Lady that held the group together. He entitled himself "Alpha Male", the one who stood up and made the decision when all others were still not knowing where to go. In that afternoon, so trashed, Kevin went to Andre's bedroom to sleep for a while, leaving the others to themselves. Paolo came in to "see" how Kevin was for two or three times, and of course there was something he was after, as everybody knew. The Alpha Male came in at least twice to drag Paulo out, out of good will. Kevin vaguely remember all these, and no bad feelings remains. How could he feel bad? All through these months it had been this group of local people taking care of him, and, talking about Paolo, he behaved such a gentleman when Kevin turned him down for the first time (in fact it was the second time he was courted by Paolo, only that Paolo was always drunk and on drugs, heavily, in club, that he could not remember the real first time) he conforted Kevin that "there's nothing to be ashamed of being a straight." Kevin didn't see that coming--from a gay's mouth. And for that Paolo would be remembered for all time.

After sleeping it was late in the afternoon, only Terry, Andre and Paolo was there. They were still chatting as if there was everything to talk about. Kevin, while entering the room, heard Paolo saying "yes, I am a Peter Pan". He said that as a response to Andre who accused him as childish. How sad, Kevin now thinks, but at that time he just looked at them, smiling sorrowfully, for the rest few hours would be the last remaining time they spent together, and it's quite right, Paolo is a Peter Pan. They all were in fact. Andre, tough inside, half Japanese half Scot, staying in London on his own for 14 or 15 years, one could still see him laughing like an innocent college boy, especiall when he was with Terry. Terry and Paolo, wow, that's a hell lot of stories, both of them. All of them in their fourties, leading a life like teenagers, only much more mature.

Because of them, London was Neverland.

Kevin's announcement of leaving came as a shock to them. Andre asked about his plan, with care, Paolo abviously was reluctant to let him go, only Terry, smiling, subtle and ironic as always, only asked when Kevin plan to come back.
He almost wanted to, as a matter of fact. Yet he couldn't, life for him had come to a point the he knew not where it led.

Paolo left first, boyfriend's call. Kevin waited a little bit, following Terry and Andre's suggestion (they knew Paolo far better then Kevin). By the time came when Kevin had to say goodbye, Andre hugged him, tightly, even kissed his cheek.Terry led him out to the station, northen line, one of the tube stations on it bombed recently. Kevin said goodbye to his most trusted friend in London, then trotted accross the street. When entering the station he looked back, finding Terry was still looking at him, waving.

In J M Barrie's story, John, Michael, and Wendy were taken to Neverland, and then left. Once again Kevin felt the fairy tale not for children.

From U2's concert in US, long ago.

(Bono said himself recently in an CNN interview that he thought what they did in their times of singing songs like sunday bloody sunday was stupid. Well, this Kevin is not a clever guy.)

Well here we are, the Irish in America. The Irish have been coming to America for years, going back to the Great Famine when the Irish where on the run from starvation, and a British government that couldn't care less. Right up to today, you know, there are more Irish immigrants here in America today that ever, some illegal, some legal. A lot of them are running from high unemployment, some run from the troubles in Northern Ireland, from the hatred of the H-blocks, and torture, others from wild acts of terrorism like we had today in a town called Enniskillen, where eleven people lay dead, and many more injured on a Sunday, Bloody Sunday.
[song begins]
I can't believe the news today!
I can't close my eyes and make it go away...
How long? How long must we sing this song? How long
Tonight, We can be as one, Tonight
Broken bottles under children's feet
Bodies strewn across a dead-end street
but I won't heed the battle call
it puts my back up, my back up against the wall
Sunday Bloody Sunday...Sunday Bloody Sunday
And this battle's yet begun
There's many lost, but tell me, who has won?
The trenches dug within our heart
sand mothers, children, brothers, sisters, torn apart
Sunday Bloody Sunday...Sunday Bloody Sunday
How long? How long must we sing this song? How long
Tonight, We can be as one, Tonight
[Bono holds the music as he launches into an improptu speech]
Yeah! And let me tell you something. I've had enough of Irish-Americans who haven't been back to their country in 20 or 30 years, come up to me, and talk about the resistance, the revolution back home. And the glory of the revolution. And the glory of dying for the revolution.
Fuck the revolution!
They don't talk about the glory of killing for the revolution.
What's the glory in taking a man from his bed, and gunning him down in front of his wife and his children? Where's the glory in that? Where's the glory in bombing a remembrance day parade of old-age pensioners, their medals taken out and polished up for the day? Where's the glory in that? To leave them dying, or crippled for life, or dead, under the rubble of a revolution that the majority of the people in my country don't want.
No more! Sing! No more!
[song restarts]
No more!
Wipe your tears away...
Wipe your tears away...
Wipe your bloodshot eyes...
Sunday Bloody Sunday Sunday Bloody Sunday
And it's true we are immune
When fact is fiction and TV reality
And today the millions die
We eat and drink while tomorrow they die
And the battle's just begun
To claim the victory that Jesus won...
Sunday Bloody Sunday... Sunday Bloody Sunday

from http://www.dynamicobjects.com/d2r/archives/002627.html

Blast, Crying, Phone Calls, and Memories

One of the Kevins was shocked, stoned, while walking through the entrance of the building where his office was located in, seeing the screen on the wall showing the streets of London.

Title: London Blast, 9 dead, many more injoured, 1 bus and 7 underground stations.

The second before he passed through the gate he was still caught up by some unspeakable fantacies; the second after, fantacies vanished, and came all emotions stirred up with mixed memories.

Never once he rushed into the office like that.
The door was closed, not usually seen as well. He opened the door and stepped in. Knowing that the huge news would not be his duty in the slightest chance, he appraoched his desk and turned on the MSN window. Only Shaggy the Beijing kid was on line. Short confirmation ended, one of the Kevins quickly picked up his cell phone and called Jason. Line jammed. In fact it was the network stopped services. "How silly I am ," he thought.

It was actually silly if one sees it from a realistic perspective. Be the one you try so desperately to reach still not beyond reach, the phone call wouldn't be that necessary. Be the person gone, no answer could be expected. So why does one call at moment like that?

Jason answered the phone four hours later. This Kevin was finally relieved.

I think, at that night, Kevin simply wanted to know one thing--his loved ones stayed alive. It turned out as he expected. It is not that Kevin never experienced the loss of his loved ones; in fact, it happened more than once. Everytime such thing happened, Kevin felt as if he is left in a desert by himself, and his company taken to somewhere mysterious. A sense of loneliness, I guess.
But there's something deeper than that.
Another mystery--where am I, if they are already somewhere else? Here and there, both unthinkable.

Here we think about the thinkable. Shaggy was fine, and so were Jason, Candy, Larry, Andii, Phil, JK, Paul. Alex had left UK, so I needed not worry about him. Yet Salvador had been lost contact with Kevin, since Kevin stupidly lost his mobile phone in a club. Even though his death is foreseeable, given his HIV. And Emili, did her sweet smile survive the horrible incident?

He gradually realised that a part of his heart is in London, with every pieces for every one he loved, he laughed with, hung out with, or even just had one night nice chat with.

Last time when Brighty died, I kept silent, for no word could possibly be appropriate. So this time, my wish is to be kept in me.

If in a summer night, a stranger

It has been three weeks at least, not one pill, not one night out dancing, only drinks, talks, and more talks. It's a certain kind of life, for orphans I guess, or foundlings, as you may come across in some 19th century realist English novel, in which these poor creatures always gathered at night on the darkest corner of sinful cities, sharing filthy food, smiling, for the company they got.
Six months in Taipei, seven months Taiwan in total. A period of time went so rapidly that I couldn't even be aware of its passing, yet so slowly that I somehow become capable of taking things in, and before my times in UK as someone else's story. Nevertheless, every once in a while, the illusion would come back and haunt me that it is my life now someone else's story, not mine.

It is to this point, I think, that a star is finally to be born, and a great story is demanded to be told.

First rule of this blog, nothing here is true.
Second rule of this blog, NOTHING HERE IS TRUE.
Third rule, whomever thinks she or he is mentioned, that's not true, so no questions, no confrontation.
Forth rule, no plagiarism, less parody, please. Don't bullshit a bullshiter.
Fifth rule, no rules are meant to be obayed.

Ladies and Gentlemen, and whoever I don't know, Welcome to Somewhere Out There.

who's that kid?

kid? kid? you kids!

感謝kid

please go to kid's blog via http://meankid76.blogspot.com