I'm not sure what if it was the neon pink and yellow neon lights that were painting lines on my walls or the saintly individual playing the saxophone somewhere nearby; I felt an electric type of excitement about being in this place again. A little chuckle escaped from within and I thought, "I love it here." Just a few hours before I had watched a gathering of some 20 people, all at or close to the age of eighty, playing tradtitional Chinese instruments that were probably invented a thousand years ago. Two and four stringed lutes were being coddled into making creaking, rustic sounds as those who were instrumentless sat nearby and sang or watched with old unpolished eyes.



To hear the sax bellowing below me created this image of cultural tectonic plates crashing together and forging new mountainous ranges that divided the young from the old. Such as it is here in China, the clashing has only really started and I imagine whole continents will be slowly chipped away by the warmly welcomed western front.



The old generations are passed over treasures, inherently saving what's left of the traditional life. True to the Chinese spirit of living in harmony with ones surroundings, I can imagine a slowly creeping smile etching itself onto the face of the old man as he listens to the same saxaphone that I am and remembers the days when those didn't exist.