Reason Why I Quit Smoking

For the sake of your own health, for the health of your loved ones???  What ELSE, huh???  Translated…

Why I’d begun smoking?  It was, too long ago, I can no longer recall.  But, in the current atmosphere of banning smoking, all the reasons went out the windows; I’d Googled the saying, “a cigarette after meal, happy as an angel”, I’d wanted to find some proofs that made my behaviors acceptable, only to find, that the phrases got altered to, “a cigarette after each meal, sends you to heaven sooner!”

I was born in the 1950s, with a son from the 1990s, can I not, cherish and treasure him so?  After I got married, I’d, stopped smoking inside the house, during the time of my wife’s pregnancy, I’d brushed my teeth, rinsed my throat more and more often, and, I’d made myself showered, before I get anywhere NEAR my angelic baby, and felt his right hook toward me, it was, such an amazing moment.  But, you’d ask, why don’t I sign up for a quit-smoking clinic trial, and just, be done with smoking altogether?  I know I should, but, I just, never did.

Saying NO!  Not my photo…

Before school age, foods, play, sleep, I am the skies, whatever I say, goes.  After my son started school, the school teacher became the authority, whatever SHE said, went.  The anti-smoking education in Taiwan is a success, the teacher played the shorts of how smoking can be damaging to the health, and, stopped the videos at the scary photos posted on the cartons, even shown the photos of pork liver that’s turned black-and-purple, as well as the smoked yellow tissue papers to show the downside to smoking, and, of these, what convinced me the most, was the worst effects of secondhand smoke, a thousand carcinogens attached themselves to any and everything indoors, and, they can’t be rid of through the years, and, as I thought about my son who would crawl and touch everything, how can I, still feel fitting, to continue smoking?

The family gathering before my son’s basic skills exam on his last year of middle school, my youngest brother-in-law asked him which high school he’d wanted to attend, “The high school set up by the Taiwan Teacher’s University”, he’d blurted it out.  I’d recalled how he’d, not gotten in to the better schools of the northern territories, I’d blurted it out, “If you get in, I shall, quit smoking!”  Everybody was a witness, it’s set then.  On the day the grades were posted, he’d kept a straight face, said, that he’d wanted to wait until the essay portions were, graded to tell us, but, there was, that light smile on his lips, I was, so thrilled, and, I’d felt, awful about it.

And he did, become, the son of the blue skies (a nickname for the high school students at the high school set up by the Teachers’ University), and, in order to keep my promise, I’d, quit smoking, a bad habit I’d kept, for forty years on end, and, I’d, not smoked a single puff in five whole years.

It’s the testing seasons again, the added perk of getting into the school they’d wanted to—asking the loved ones to quit smoking, allow us all, to become, ambassadors of the Bosses’ Foundation, stay away from smoking, and keep healthy and safe!

the first step, throw it out yourself!  Photo from online…

So, this man finally had a motivation to QUIT smoking, and, I’m pretty sure he’d had tried quitting before, but, the “rewards” weren’t big enough for him, but this time, his own son gave HIM an ultimatum, and, quitting smoking WAS for his own good, and, because he wanted to set a good example for his son that he had when he was older, that, was probably how he was, able to quit smoking successfully!

And, for What?

From an online blog in Chinese I’m a subscriber to, translated by me…

Why are you, still, inside this confined space?  Or maybe, you’re still, afraid, feeling lost?  You feared, that if you leave the comfortable place you’re currently in, you will, get be completely, defeated, by reality, and that, if, you’d, moved along too fast, you may, forget, who you were when you’d started from before.

Feared, that if you’d left the you that everybody is familiar with

Nobody will have your back, people you know would, desert you.

And, as life goes on, more and more of these questions had, hounded down on you, they’d, masked up your hesitations, urged you onward.  So, you’d, moved, slowly onward, but, backed away, as a decision comes before you.

Who are you?

And why, are you, alive?

This is, an existentialism crisis, that this individual is experiencing, s/he is starting to, question everything that s/he comes into contact with, and, feels confused, about the purpose of life, and, there’s, NO other option (or so this person had been led to believe!), but to, keep moving onward, and, this person doesn’t realize, that it’s okay, to NOT have all the answers in one’s life, that somehow (don’t ask me how, but I just know it!!!), that things will all work out, the way it’s, supposed to………



Writing, for the Purpose, of NOBODY Else…

I have always been a writer; to myself. Hundreds of magazines, blogs, newspapers and publishing houses have turned down my writing. I was mad, even depressed. I’d go through stages of self hatred, thinking I would never be good enough and my writing was shit; I’d never get any better. You want to know why […]

via Why? — Paper Plane Pilots

U, Who Uses His Body to Express Himself

The path, of a performer, it’s, never going to be easy!  Translated…

Since my trip to Denmark last year, I’d become, more than willing, to take a long commute, to see the performances.  Back then, in a certain Modern Arts Museum in Denmark, the light in my mind suddenly, turned on, it wasn’t just a light, a star, more of, twinkling on and on, never dimming—it’d, arrived, to the other end of the world, even, there’s, no reason for me, to slack off in Taiwan, this tiny island.  And so, I’d alighted the MRT, transferred onto a train, arrived to the “wilderness”.

photo from online…

This is a café normally, at the cramped up alley between old apartment buildings.  A performance arts space, in this sort of an desolate, older residential area, this place should be called “Savannah”!  The café is spacious, which the place was made out of, with the audience, arriving, the show can begin—a table, a percussionist, two dancers, one man one woman, this, was a dance created by U.

U has a special background, born in Taiwan, raised in Indonesia, went to U.S. to study films, danced in the Netherlands.  He said he’d become, multi-lingual as a kid, but, felt, that he couldn’t, clearly express the innermost meanings well enough, until he’d discovered dance, like how I’d found my own way, to communicate with the world.  This unique, made-up way of “original language”.

Shortly after my return to Taiwan, U found, that the modern dancers here are just as good as those abroad, but, there’s, a small market for audiences, and, the field doesn’t look optimistic at all.  He’d asked, how come such great things, you just brush aside?  He’d seen a free performance at Bellavita, the dancers performed in the halls of a high-end shop, as he was really into watching the performances, he realized, that there was, a young boy, who was also, intrigued, the child asked his mother, “what, are they doing?”, the mother glanced over, said impatiently, “They’re CRAZY!”, then, pulled the child away.

male dance solo 的圖片結果like this???  Photo from online…

“As I heard that, I was, heartbroken.  How come this, was what the arts education in Taiwan had been reduced to?  I know, a lot of people would tell me, modern dance is hard to understand.  But why must it be understood?  The process of watching the performances, there would be an emotional response, something that’s, beyond verbal expressions, that, is what’s, most important.”  He’d, told me.

U’s performance was short, afterwards, he’d gotten the audience involved in a small activity.  We’d needed to, remain silent, for our partners to perform the actions we’d, wanted them to, or have them understand, what we’d wanted them to do.  My partner was a beautiful girl, she gave up easily, after one to two charades and she’d not guessed it right, she’d felt anxious, and it’d, forced me, to think of an alternative way, to express myself.  In the process, I’d found, that we were, staring deeply, into each other’s eyes than usual, and, worked harder, to listen to each other, than we normally would.

U said, he’d planned, to perform in Taiwan, at the same time, he’d wanted to, direct some short films on dancing.  I know the hardships he’s weathering, what is unsure is, the path he’d, walked on, or the path he’s about, to walk onto, which one would be, harder?  As the performances are over, I’d wanted to, walk over to him and tell him, but, I’d feared, that staring into my eyes, U may see my worries for him, so, I kept, to myself.

As I walked slowly, back to the station from the wilderness, then, transfer on the MRT back to Taipei, this almost-an-hour ride, doesn’t feel, that long at all.

like this show for the public???  photo from online…

So, this, is on chasing one’s own dreams, the writer is also a performer like the person U, so, she’d, understood the hardships that he is facing, has faced, and is about to face for his future, because she’d, weathered through it, or is, weathering through it right now, and, there are, NO easy way, if you want to be successful, you can’t find shortcuts, you just have to, bite down, and, take the trials as they come, and, fight hard, and, you might (still not a definite though…) be successful in the end!

A Lone Bird, Taking Flight

From being burned OUT!  Translated…

After the noises, I knew, I will never, return, to those days of quiet, of serenity again, every day, I’d, watched that sky that’s, constantly changing colors, the thunder that, came from, nowhere, the flood that started, out of nowhere, how, do I, get back to the days of the past, when I could, feel at ease and just, study?  How do I, go back to the days, when this trail wasn’t, so well traveled?  Right now, my mind felt, like that old shirt that’s been washed and rewashed, over, and over again, no matter how I’d bleached, there are still, age marks, spots, with the memories of the injuries I’d, sustained in life.

A bird returning to the nest flew by the skies, where, is it, returning to?  Where, can it find a nest so settled and stable?  Can’t remember, how many times the feathers changed, with that expectation, of a, brand new life, living among others, but too shamed, to fight for the food, and the only dignity it had remained, in flying solo amongst the buildings.  If name is a symbol of glory, then, distribution becomes, the biggest sort of insult.  That sort of an awful looks from fighting over the food, don’t know how many fell ill by seeing it every single day.  Just like that bird that cut across the skies, allowing, that shade, to vanish, into the distances.

And, in the depth of the night, came the sounds of flute playing, who is it, that played that song of sorrow of the eras?  Is the person, hiding that scent of sorrow in the notes, passing, to someone who can understand, or, like a nightingale, singing its songs of the night?  The notes seemed to have that ancientness to it, man’s pursuits of thousands of years, will NEVER measure up to the purities of the world, and, how can you, mutilate yourself so?  No longer, flipping at the calendars, no longer, seeking out that longitude/latitude on the maps, where to station oneself, it wouldn’t, make a difference.  Sneaking a peek, at others, everything is, so clear now.

exactly what that felt like…not my photograph…

Some sang high, those who followed along, gathered, only that lone bird, continued, flying, all on its own, it doesn’t call on its kind, so, it can only, flight for the reducing amounts of foods, that branch it’d stood on for day already, rotted out, and can no longer, withstand the weights of all the birds.  It’d, flew onward alone, left ALL the noises from the others behind, continued in flight, and, flying on, and on, and on, even as the moon dimmed out, depending on just the dying light of the stars.  It’d, kept, flying onward, become, this small, black dot in the universe.

So, this, is how the writer feels, getting lost in the daily grind, there’s, that sense of burnout, that sense of I don’t know what I’m doing here, that sense, of feeling tired, fatigued, of the same old routines, day in, and day out, and just like that bird, the narrator will, keep treading on in her/his own life, because that, is what we all do, we, carry on, with our lives!

Give Me a Bouquet of Flowers

Making your own days brighter, spending only a little money to make yourself happy, translated…

On the way home from work, I’d brushed shoulders with thousands of people, and couldn’t help, but feel somewhat, agitated, but, turning the corner, into that florist shop, seeing the wide variety of flowers, waving their arms at me, I was able to, saturate my emotions, even, felt, a bit, glad.

it’s, not for anybody else, but herself, not my photograph…

I’d selected a bundle of my favorite flowers, making the rest of my way home easier, even if I was, cramped inside the MRT trains, there was, a separate world, belonging to, just me there.  And, if there were, a couple of days that I couldn’t make my way to the florist’s, I’d lost that center in my own life, felt, that there’s, NO light in the house, that I’d, not felt safe and secure anymore.  Give me a bouquet of flowers, then, I’m, fully, recharged; a woman with a bouquet of flowers, carries herself, most beautifully in the world.

A child who’d brushed by my side said enviously, “Mommy, look, she has a bouquet of flowers!”, I’d felt, delighted, somewhat, proud, I’d, pulled a rose from my bundle, handed it to that cute child, said, “Now, you have your own flower too!”

So, this, is passing around the happiness you’d found, in your ordinary day-to-day living, because life can become a total DRAG, and, if you don’t find some way, to cheer yourself up like this woman had found the ways to, then, you will always, be carrying that soured face to and from work every single day, from nine to five, or even longer.

making the floral arrangements oneself, photo from online…

Turning Home Late, a Poem

The encounters of someone’s returning home late in the evenings, translated…

The Monk, Pushed

That Door Underneath the Moon

The Door

Already Used to This, the Silence, the Sturdiness

like this???  Not my photograph…

No Matter How Hard It’d Pushed, the Moon Just, Refused to Open Up the Doors

The Dews Made the Shawl Wet

After He’d Felt Confused, then, Laughed, Bitterly

Patted Down that Scar on His Bald Head

So Radiantly Shiny, Like the Golden Glows

Then, I Shall, Bang on the Doors on His Behalf Then

But, No Matter How Hard I’d Knocked

The Door Constantly Answered:

Empty, Empty, Empty

And Finally, the Door Swung Open

The Moon Still with that Icy Expression on Its Face

Was the Door, Pushed Open by Him, or Was it, Cracked Open by Me?

 a pagoda at night 的圖片結果or this, not my photograph still…

For Thousands of Years

He Kept, Standing Tall Outside the Temple

Waited on that Bell Chime in the Depth of the Mountains

To Reply Back to Him

So, there’s that scent of solitary, waiting, endlessly, for something that just, won’t happen, and yet, the door still opened up, it’s just, that the narrator didn’t know if s/he were the one who’d, opened it, or that if it was, some other forces in nature that managed to crack the door open…