Stepping Stones Across the River

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Crowds in Taiwan breath like a school of fish. There is a lubricated nonaggression that informs the way people manage to negotiate the precious resource of space. Here on the mainland, it is all corners and elbows. Broken movement gives rise to a wobble of continual missteps; a constant cold sore like irritation of blockage and avoidance.
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It is as if there is a bass note mantra that beats from the brainstem; “I’m ahead of you, I’m ahead of you, I’m ahead of you, I’m ahead of you…”

Perhaps it is the Chinese version of driving a Hummer, the Chinese way of declaring oneself important and above. It might simply be that population density and scarcity breed a particularly acidic aggression. Or that the forces of capitalism and the free market banging up against faux-socialist belief that leads to a different kind of Cultural Revolution. The current rate of growth, as evidenced by a battleground of demolition and rebuild creates a feeling of rootlessness,  as the wheels of commerce churn out consumer lust and dreams of keeping up with Chen’s. It leaves one with  the metallic taste of aggression, careless disregard and the feeling that life is a commodity to be parceled and bargained.

Taiwanese temples effuse a perfume of smoky dreams and wishes. Its guardians, gods and psychedelically carved ceilings smoked black by prayers and burnt fragrance. In China you know a temple is close by when the cigarette shops give way to those hawking over-sized incense and ghost money. Unlike the yellow and gold currency used in Taiwan, here they burn fake American $1000 bills. Should you wish to enter the temple itself, there is a fee.

There is always a fee.
The divine is accessible; on a pay per view basis.

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For some reason, the temples here remind me of refrigerators with abandoned food that is neither spoiled, nor eatable. There is a complete lack of nourishment, and an emptiness incapable of being filled.