17th Century China and "Layover"

Recently, my friend shared with me a passage by Zhang Dai, a 17th Century Chinese writer, and funny enough, this passage reminded me of Layover, on the Shore. And thus, I share this lil' something with you:

At West Lake on the middle of the seventh month there is nothing to
look at; one can only look at the people looking at the
mid-seventh-month festival. Those who look at the mid-seventh-month
festival can be looked at as five types:

One: in tiered pleasure boats, playing flutes and drums, wearing tall
fancy hats, enjoying the finest feasts, their lamps shining amid opera
players, noise and glitter roiling together, looking at the moon but
actually not seeing it--so they look.

Another: also from boats and belvederes, with famous ladies and
distinguished young women, with beautiful youths in tow, their
laughter and cries intermixing as they sit around the open-air stages,
turning and gazing right and left, present beneath the moon but
actually not seeing it--so they look.

Another: boating and singing, with famous courtesans and leisured
monks, sipping small mouthfuls of wine and lowly humming tunes, with
gentle flutes and lightly-plucked strings, pipes and voices sounding
together, beneath the moon and looking at the moon also, but hoping
that the others look at them looking at the moon--so they look.

Another: neither in boats nor in carriages, wearing neither gowns nor
head cloths, tipsy with wine and sated with food, calling out in
groups of three or five, squeezing themselves into the throngs at
Zhaoqing Temple and Broken Bridge, hooting and hollering and making
ruckuses, feigning drunkenness and singing without tunes, looking at
the moon, looking at those looking at the moon, looking also at those
not looking at the moon, but not really looking at anything--so they
look.

Yet another: in small boats screened with gauze, around clean tables
and warm stoves, their tea kettles heated to a boil, calmly passing
around plain porcelain, good friends and beautiful people, they invite
the moon to sit with them. Some hide in the shadows of trees; some
flee the noisy inner lake. They look at the moon, but their manner of
looking at the moon is unseen by others, nor do they make a point of
looking at the moon--so they look.

Normally, when the residents of Hangzhou visit the lake, they depart
at mid-morning and return in early evening, avoiding the moon like an
enemy. But on this night, drawn to the famous event, in bands they
scramble out of the city, bribing the gatekeepers with extra wine
money. The chair-bearers hold torches and wait by the shore in rows.
As soon as people get in their boats they urge on the rowers to
deposit them quickly at Broken Bridge and rush to the heart of the
festival. As long as it is before the second drum (9 p.m.), people
will be yelling and playing away on drums and flutes as if being
boiled and shaken, as if having nightmares or talking in their sleep,
as if deaf and dumb. Boat big and small crowd against the shore, so
that nobody can see nothing but pole knocking pole, boat ramming boat,
shoulder rubbing shoulder, face watching face.

After a while the celebration dissipates. The officials' banquets
break up, and their servants yell to clear the roads. The chair
bearers shout at the boaters, who are now terrified that the city
gates will close. Their lanterns and torches like a constellation of
stars, they crowd together and depart. Along the shore, people
likewise rush the gates in bands. The crowds gradually thin, and soon
the dispersal is complete.

We then begin to moor our boat near the shore. The stone steps of
Broken Bridge having begun to cool, we sit there and beckon guests
over to drink without reservation. Now the moon is like a mirror newly
polished, the hills have recovered their orderly aspect, and the lake
looks freshly scrubbed again. For their sake, those who were sipping
and humming emerge, as do those who were hiding in the trees' shadows.
We go and greet them, and pull them over to sit with us. Cultured
friends come; famous courtesans arrive. Cups and chopsticks are laid
out; flutes and voices sound. Only when the moon's colors turn somber
and the eastern sky is about to brighten do the guests depart.
Afterwards we set our boat adrift and sleep sweetly amidst ten miles
of lotuses, their fragrance brushing against us. In our limpid dreams,
we are most content.

Chinese culture is the shit. Layover is the shit.

Happy Holidays!
Kwok

My Favorite Films this Year

A couple days ago, I listed some of my favorite films from 2008 for a friend. I thought that since I've made this list anyway, I might as well share it.

There are a couple notable exceptions--my moviegoing stopped when I stepped out of the country earlier this month. (I have ridiculously high hopes for The Curious Case of Benjamin Button.) But anyway, here it is:

My favorite film this year:
Happy-Go-Lucky

And the runners-up (in no particular order):
Frost/Nixon
Iron Man
The Dark Knight
Four Months, Three Weeks, Two Days
In Bruges
Il Divo
The Wrestler
Speed Racer
A Perfect Life
24 City
Wall-E
Tropic Thunder
Miracle at St. Anna
Synecdoche, New York
Slumdog Millionaire
Wendy and Lucy

- Kwok

Crossing the River

In January 2008, I met an astrologer who told me that the year would be defined by the act of crossing a river --a turbulent, necessary period of change for the better. Now that 2008 is coming to a close, I would like to say goodbye to this river. Wet, tired from doggy paddle, and uncertain if this other side of the river will be as great as I hoped, I resign to the passing of time as the life raft. Let the Age of Aquarius begin.

Layover Editor, On the River

Watch The Wrestler

And worship Mickey Rourke.