Reverberation / 殘音
2025
“As a non-native speaker, I embrace the imprecision in language as a means to highlight its deeper role in expressing emotions and relationships, beyond mere knowledge transfer—"
“高雄” is the place where I was born, a place we call our hometown. I remember that the name originates from Japan, but that’s all I know.
As a Taiwanese, we face a complex historical context, cultural identity, and even national identity. From colonial history to the Kuomintang (KMT) regime and the impacts of globalization, I see these shifts as stages of deconstruction during the construction of identity. This process has resulted in a fragmented narrative, or as I call it, “the narrative of non-narrative.” Within this historical framework, understanding Japanese culture—particularly its symbolic presence in Taiwanese society—became a question I asked myself before arriving in Japan.
“If I stand on the opposite side of a smooth, well-constructed narrative, within scattered and fragmented narratives, how can I study it?”
Standing on a well-constructed cultural foundation makes it easy to observe the gaps in fragmented narratives. However, standing on the fragmented side offers an entirely different perspective.
“Those scenarios compressed within society unfold without limitation.”
This was my first impression upon arriving in Kyoto.
When I heard the first sound of a motorbike, I thought to myself, this is the reverberation.
Shopping in a convenience store and walking along the streets felt similar to Taiwan, yet subtly different. The food in the convenience store tasted better, the streets felt safer, calmer. These micro-differences existed as a dialogue with my life in Taiwan.
I intentionally maintained my habits from Taiwan and gradually opened my senses to these new experiences. This, I believe, is the best way to start a dialogue between experiences. For instance, I stood blankly in front of a supermarket closed for the New Year holiday, simply observing.
“高雄—高雄”
Today, I decided to visit Keihoku (京北町).
As usual, I woke up late but still managed to leave on time, quickly packing my camera for the trip. Unprepared, I skipped any prior research—this is my way of keeping my senses sharp and receptive to the moment.
When we arrived at “高雄（TAKAO）,” I hurriedly grabbed my camera, ready to document the amusing moment like any tourist. But as I later researched, I discovered that this place is the origin of my hometown’s Chinese name.
I traveled from “高雄（Kaohsiung）” to “高雄（Takao）”; my hometown’s name transitioned from “高雄（Takao）” to “高雄（Kaohsiung）.”
This complicated context of the name unfolds as a bidirectional lineage, and the intersection happened during my unexpected visit. This borrowed name seemed to softly call out to me from the faraway mountains.
With the winding mountain path, speeding up and slowing down, the landscape swept past the windows. In the deeper scenery, I noticed a comparatively stationary shadow. It was a call, I thought.
Thus, I decided to borrow a name again: “遙かなる山の呼び声” as a note for this journey.
