Letter from my Brother in Taiwan

Dear all,

So fast! How does everything move so quickly? And what passes beyond the blur of events is even more disturbing: neglected relationships—friends and family to whom I have meant to write for so long.

A blur of events, but not necessarily drama—at least nothing extraordinary. A newborn kitten appeared in the stairwell of our dorm and one of our newborn couples adopted her. The needs of the kitten, her eyes not yet open, rivaled that of a baby, and the couple became such parents that the comparison went without saying: trips to the vet, bottle and formula, feeding every three hours, napkin diapers, nervous calls to the babysitter during an evening out, etc. Many tears were shed when they had to give her up.

And typhoons. The first, Sinlaku, brought mostly rain and perhaps some disappointment. For several of our students it was their first such event and, expecting drama, they got instead a series of rainy, windy days. The second, Jiangmi, brought rain, too, but this time it fell sideways and with such a howl that no one could complain of being overwarned. And still one could see locals out on their mopeds: helmets, visors, ponchos, and flip flops poking out beneath. We watched on tv as the news crews filmed the streets of downtown Taipei. This town stops for nothing, and my favorite clip showed a scooter turned over on the sidewalk, then a woman falling down, and a man further on falling down, too, and then—you guessed it—the camera is going head over heels as well. There is something inspiring about people who can’t all have such urgent business that they need to go outside in a category 4 typhoon, but who go out nonetheless. “You’re going to have to put me on the ground, Mother Nature!” She only did so occasionally.

So, enough small talk. Let’s talk about me for awhile J. Last year’s series turned fragmentary toward the end, and this year I will try starting that way. For the God’s eye view of it all, let me say that everything is okay. Even well. From ground level... a journal entry from our second week here in Taiwan:

Culture is a blur. It moves in such a way that it escapes the containment of mind and word. I don’t mean it in an abstract way. I mean that we watched a fascinating film on Taiwan, followed by an engaging question and answer session, went to a surreal mall, camped inside the tallest building in the world, and where is the time and energy to reflect? Or to capture? Or to unpack? Showered with diamonds, but unable to grasp more than a handful. What wonderful punishment for desire.

So I’m in the commercial appendage to Taipei 101, the abdominal sac of that giant green monster that towers above the city and the world at a height of 1670 feet. The attached mall is five stories, with a massive indoor courtyard and huge pillars supporting a glass sunroof above. The whole place is very chi-chi. Its stores sell jewelry, designer accessories, imported specialty foods, and various other things I can’t imagine spending much money on. I had planned to splurge on a hot chocolate in one of the cafes in the courtyard, the German-themed one with the plush chairs and the wooden bar. But at nine dollars US, I can’t stomach it. It isn’t the money—it’s the insult. Calling it “handcrafted liquid chocolate” is creative, even appealing, but with a price almost three times the average restaurant meal, the phrase is more of a slap in the face than a caress of the throat. And for all it’s haute couture, the place still betrays a bourgeois crappiness. As I sit in the cheap seats of the courtyard, nearby, from three stories above, a drip, drip through the rain-drenched sunroof hits a bucket on a mat. A brassy metal stand and sign warns of wetness. Cheap metal posts—the kind they use in airports to create waiting lines—stand guard around it. Drip, drip punctuates the muzak. So rich and shallow, a layer of mousse is this place. Too thin to scoop; too sweet to satisfy. And the ceiling leaks.

And somehow I like that. There’s something of Gahan Wilson in it. He drew a cartoon of heaven as a bus station waiting room up in the sky, floating amid the clouds. Angels in togas with fake wire wings mill among each other, aimless and bored. An old newspaper lies on the floor. One angel is blowing his nose. A new arrival expresses his disappointment to his companion: “Somehow I thought the whole thing would be a lot classier.” And this place, too: a bourgeois monument to bourgeois grandeur. And the rain drips through, drips into the shallow foundation of it all.

Oh, wait! There’s something going on. A woman, a public servant in the non-governmental sense—she works for the mall—has come out in her sterile, navy blue uniform to inspect the bucket. She watches it with some care. I like that, too. There’s some humanity to her concern. “Where is it dripping, exactly,” she seems to ask herself. “Could the bucket be better placed?” She seems to answer yes, for she nudges it with her black tennis-shoed foot. Perhaps the bucket will now capture more water. I can still hear some of the drips missing the bucket, tapping dully on the mat underneath. And I like that, too.

Okey-doke. There’s a slice of what’s been going on. Please do let me know how you are doing. I’ll try to get some pictures up on facebook soon. Take care of yourselves.

Love,

Kerry