This summer, numerous foreign enthusiasts of #taichi# visited Chenjiagou, a small village in #Henan# province where tai chi originated, to practice tai chi and experience Chinese martial arts culture. #CulturalExchange# #ChinaVibe#

oming to Blu-ray 2/22 from @FilmsRadiance Shinobi Vol 3 (LE) •Mist Saizo Strikes Back •The Three Enemies •Mission: Iron Castle • BLU-RAY LIMITED EDITION SPECIAL FEATURES High-Definition digital transfers of each film, made available on Blu-ray (1080p) for the first time Uncompressed mono PCM audio Interview with historian Stephen Turnbull (2026, 21 mins) Interview with ninja scholar Antony Cummins (2026) Interview with period film scholar Taichi Kasuga (2026, 22 mins) Newly improved English subtitle translation Reversible sleeve featuring artwork based on original promotional materials Limited edition booklet featuring new writing by Jonathan Clements and excerpts from a 1915 novel about ninja hero Mist Saizo Limited Edition of 3000 copies, presented in a rigid box with full-height Scanavo cases and removable OBI strip leaving packaging free of certificates and markings #shinobi# #bluray# #ninja# #movie# #cinema# #physicalmedia# #Bluray# #Cinema# #Movie# #Horror# #Movie# #Movies# #HorrorCommunity# #FilmCommunity# #4KBluray# #4KUltraHD# #physicalmedia# #FilmstaGram# #physicalmediaforever# #bluraycollector# #bluraycollection# #Horror# #HorrorMovie# #HorrorMovies# #Film# #Cinema# #CinemaLovers# #FilmTwitter# #Cinephile# #MovieBuff# #NowWatching#

#SKYHI# NEW ALBUM︱4/15 Release💿 #𝐒𝐮𝐜𝐜𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐈𝐬𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐁𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐑𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐠𝐞# -𝐃𝐞𝐥𝐮𝐱𝐞 𝐄𝐝𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧- Tracklist 14 : At The Last – THE LAST PIECE ver. – feat. STARGLOW, YUTA, KEI, RAIKI, KANTA, TAICHI @starglow_bmsg @bmsg_trainee ▶︎

🎞YouTube At The Last feat. STARGLOW [BMSG FES'25] SKY-HI NEW ALBUM 「Success Is The Best Revenge -Deluxe Edition-」 4/15 Release💿 「At The Last - THE LAST PIECE ver. - feat. STARGLOW, YUTA, KEI, RAIKI, KANTA, TAICHI」収録 @starglow_bmsg @bmsg_trainee #SuccessIsTheBestRevenge# #SKYHI#

Three years ago, an old American man moved onto our street in Japan. Nobody knew what to do with him. His name is Floyd. He's 81. West Virginia. Six-foot-three, hands like shovels, and a face that looks like it's about to tell you to get off its lawn. He didn't speak Japanese. He didn't smile. The kids on our street called him "the bear." He came because of his wife, Michiko. She grew up on our street. She met Floyd in 1970, when he was a young airman stationed in Japan. She followed him to West Virginia and stayed for 52 years. When she got sick, she wanted to come home. So he brought her home. She died the next spring. Everybody thought he would go back to America. He didn't. For 52 years, Michiko had been his voice. She ordered for him. She talked to the neighbors for him. She translated the whole world for him. Now the whole world was in a language he didn't speak. I'm the only one on our street who speaks some English. So I'm the one who saw it. Two coffee cups on his table every morning. He poured both. Then things started happening. Every morning at 5 a.m., Floyd swept the street. Not his part. The whole street. In front of every house. In Japan, this is a disaster. If your neighbor sweeps in front of your house, you are ashamed. So Mrs. Ota started sweeping at 4:45. Floyd moved to 4:30. The Fujii family moved to 4:15. By June, the cleanest street in Japan was being swept in the dark by people who were all very tired, all very upset, and nobody knew how to stop it. Then the repairs started. The Ishizukas' gate, which had squeaked for eleven years, stopped squeaking. Mrs. Ota's crooked mailbox stood up straight. A boy's bike with a broken chain was back on his porch one morning. Chain fixed. Tires pumped. Seat raised one inch, because he'd grown. No note. Nothing. Half the street started to believe in a repair ghost. The boy was Taichi. He was eight. His father had left. He figured it out first. One night, he hid behind his door and saw the bear on his porch with a flashlight in his teeth. The next night, Taichi was waiting. Floyd didn't say anything. He just handed him a wrench and pointed. They didn't have one word in common. They had a wrench. It was enough. Every night after that, the bear and the boy fixed something on our street. Then, in February, Floyd collapsed on the sidewalk at 5 a.m., with the broom still in his hand. His heart. The paramedics needed his medicines, so I went into his house with Mrs. Ota. On the refrigerator was a piece of paper. Old. Soft. Michiko's handwriting, in English. I translated it for Mrs. Ota, standing in his kitchen. "Floyd. When I'm gone, please take care of my street. You can't talk to them. That's okay. You never needed to talk." And under it, a list. Every house on our street. "Ota-san. Bad knees. Carry her rice. Ishizuka. The gate squeaks. It always has. Fix it. Fujii. New baby. They're tired. Sweep for them. The boy at number 7. No father. Be there." Every line had a check mark. In heavy pencil. Over and over. At the bottom, in big, clumsy capital letters, in Floyd's handwriting: "DONE, MICHIKO. STARTING OVER." Mrs. Ota sat down on his kitchen floor and cried. She's 84. She told me she'd been angry at him for three years for sweeping in front of her house. He had been carrying her rice every week because his wife asked him to. For three years. Without being able to say one word about why. Floyd was in the hospital for two weeks. While he was gone, our street did something. We swept his part at 5 a.m. Mr. Ishizuka oiled Floyd's gate, which didn't squeak, just to be safe. Taichi fixed Floyd's bike with Floyd's wrench. And Mrs. Ota spent fourteen days in her kitchen practicing three words of English. The morning Floyd came home, the whole street was standing in front of his house. At 5 a.m. Everyone holding a broom. Mrs. Ota stepped forward. "Welcome home, Floyd." He just stood there. The bear. Six-foot-three. Eighty-one years old. Then he put one big hand over his face, and his shoulders started to shake. Taichi walked over and held the other one. He sweeps at 5 a.m. again now. So does everybody else. Nobody fights about the time anymore. I asked him once, in English, why he never just told us. About the list. About Michiko. He shrugged, like it was obvious. "Where I'm from, you don't talk about love," he said. "You fix the gate." America, some of you have never said "I love you" out loud. You just show up with a toolbox. We noticed.