tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-214442712024-03-18T12:03:53.465+09:00I'm no Picassoanother reluctant expatI'm no Picassohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06516337555349888808noreply@blogger.comBlogger1034125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21444271.post-31545933423814625272016-04-22T19:56:00.002+09:002016-04-22T19:56:27.441+09:00UpdateSo, unless something weird happens, this will be the absolute last post on I'm No Picasso.<br />
<br />
I've got a permanent home now, over at <a href="http://followtherivernorth.com/">followtherivernorth.com</a>, and I'm also on<a href="http://followtherivernorth.tumblr.com/"> Tumblr</a> and <a href="https://www.instagram.com/followtherivernorth/">Instagram</a>.<br />
<br />
No more breadcrumbs, no more little trails -- no more screwing around.<br />
<br />
I'm not taking INP down, because some of the posts here still seem to be useful for some people, but I probably won't be back.<br />
<br />
I hope to see everyone around.<br />
<br />
Take care. I'm no Picassohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06516337555349888808noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21444271.post-47766236750428573782015-06-23T20:43:00.001+09:002015-06-23T20:43:31.981+09:00New Blog?<a href="http://followtherivernorth.blogspot.kr/">I've moved. </a>I'm no Picassohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06516337555349888808noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21444271.post-79771559832326029982015-05-17T13:44:00.000+09:002015-05-17T13:44:27.855+09:00Balancing then and now. How is it that something I've done for so long can suddenly feel so foreign? A few weeks ago, <a href="https://anageonism.wordpress.com/">Stupid Ugly Foreigner</a> came back to Korea for a wee visit and we met up one Saturday afternoon, me rattled and in a mid-deadline haze, to catch up on -- what, years? -- of conversation in a few hours. It's some strange social mark of our tribe, how we don't meet for months or years, and then turn up at the designated spot and carry on like it's been a few weeks.<br />
<br />
As we strolled along toward the tiny burrito shop where the handfuls of fresh cilantro the man who runs it piles on top of the meat and rice can convince me at times to swing by after work-- a good ten minute walk from the nearest station -- just to pick a couple up for B and myself, we did eventually get on the subject of the blogs. Maybe not so odd, as they are how we originally met. He's retired his now, too, and for essentially the same reasons I'm not on mine much anymore. Namely, we don't know how to juggle more than a few types of writing at once. <br />
<br />
I am writing food articles now, in addition to slowly plodding along on a project that is only beginning to develop edges. I'll go weeks without anything, and then a slow, dull ache sets in and I sit down, not sure what will come of it, only to have ten pages at a time come rolling out. I'm cautious to hem it in -- it's doing its own thing, and for now, I'm allowing it to. <br />
<br />
My daily life is mainly a blur of learning Korean company politics, how to communicate more clearly and delicately in my second language, in that regard, and in many others, deadlines, overtime -- way too many company-comped midnight cab rides home to count. As Friday approaches, I plot grocery lists, order books and records and hard-to-find ingredients, and then, when Saturday arrives, I revel in being-homeness. I cook as much as I can, fed up with quick salads and meals from the company restaurant wolfed down in a rush to get back to the office -- lunch and dinner, about a third of the time. I try to leave the apartment at least once every other weekend to make sure my social life doesn't completely crumble, or to take in something of the outside world other than the inside of a bus or a subway tunnel.<br />
<br />
B was unemployed for about a month, searching for a better job than he had before, eventually settling only to quit again within a week. I've been poisoning him with chatter about moving to the country and working on our own terms, and although we both know we need to buckle down and earn the cash to buy the land and house first, it seems to have gotten to him on some real level. So when, at the new job, the 부장 started pacing up and down the space between the cubicles like a jail warden, and the no overtime they promised turned out to be overtime every night (I laughed when he actually bought that, but tried not to rub it in when reality set in), he couldn't hack it, which is not like him. We had a sweet deal for a while, him working a short half-hour bike ride away, home by 6:30 every night, and me, with the time to put dinner on the table. It's hard to let that go.<br />
<br />
At the moment, we're fighting with our landlord who has decided in the eleventh hour to hold our deposit for an extra month and a half, which will make it impossible for us to move as we had planned. But when we do move, we will be much closer to the magazine offices and things should get a bit easier. The summer is going to be hard, with no vacation time, but when the fall rolls around, there's a trip home in October for a dear friend's wedding, which may double as a work trip, if I can get an article organized. Of course, Chuseok in September and a long vacation at Christmas, which we may take with friends in Europe if everything goes well. I'm waffling about whether or not to continue with this job for another year after the winter. On the one hand, the experience is valuable and the money is good, but on the other, there is a lot I was able to do in my spare time last year that I'm missing. Like sleep, for example.<br />
<br />
The point is, there are options. More than I expected there to be, and for that, I'm grateful. I do worry sometimes about how, over the past decade, my life has been a continuous string of promises to myself to buckle down for just one more year, and then... and then... and then. I'm 30 now, and I'm going to need then to become now at some point soon. But I also know that I'm easily bored, and listless without some goal to work toward. The past ten years have been, for the most part, good ones. B said something shortly after we got married, for no apparent reason -- we were in the kitchen setting the table for a meal, and it just popped out: "Well, we're done now, I guess. Just need to buy a house and have a baby, maybe, and then that's it." I stared at him in horror, because the idea of just finishing life halfway through....<br />
<br />
I think the key is to find a balance between being "finished" and always waiting for "then". I'm trying. At least for now, my thens are getting a little closer together. One more week, and then I'll be working on a story again. One more late night, and then we'll have made it through deadline. One more day, and then it'll be the weekend. <br />
<br />
But now, it's Sunday afternoon and a little get-together at a friend's house is waiting, and I've got to finish the baking. Then, tomorrow will be Monday. Five more days, and then it will be the weekend again. I'm no Picassohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06516337555349888808noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21444271.post-82029123060611910162015-03-23T16:03:00.000+09:002015-03-23T16:51:01.975+09:00Meditations in a non-emergency. <div class="p1">
<i>I can’t even enjoy a blade of grass unless I know there’s a subway handy, or a record store or some other sign that people do not totally </i>regret <i>life. It is more important to affirm the least sincere; the clouds get enough attention as it is and even they continue to pass. </i>-- Frank O'Hara</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
B and I are scheming to get out of the city. Or at least, to gradually downsize our presence in the city until it is entirely voluntary. We’re talking over ten or so years. Especially in the spring and the summer, when I wake up on Saturday morning, I’m not sure what to do. I have this strange urge to build something, plant something, scrub something. I don’t want to get on the subway. That’s not how I grew up. </div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
For as long as I can remember, that’s what everyone in my family did, once the sun came up, and the weather was nice, on a weekend. Build a new fence. Build a new shed. Refinish a coffee table. Plant a vegetable garden. Work on the car. Work on the boat. But then I did go to the record store this Saturday. (And when the fuck did records get so expensive? Have we started to run out of the things?) In the shopping center under Hoehyeon is where all of the record stores in the city are gathered, actually, and it’s been a long time, but it was nice to remember how it feels. When you start pulling things off the shelf and setting them on the counter, and the store owner quietly watches and then cracks a smile because, by glancing over the pile you’re making, he’s actually cracked you a bit as well. Without saying a word, he pulls one of the records out of its sleeve and puts it on the turntable. He gives it to you for half off, just because you had the good sense to pick it. </div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
But we’ve started to fantasize out loud, when we cram ourselves onto the train in the mornings, or when that same little fucker with the brown leather jacket and his fucking newspaper appears at the bus stop just as the bus is pulling up every single time, and still always manages to be the first person on. When we sit down to eat dinner at 9 o’clock at night because I insisted on cooking at least once this week, if I wasn’t even going to be home for dinner every other night. When three different stupid young couples push obliviously past us on the way into the restaurant to get their reservations in first. </div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
What if we kept a small, bare-bones place here in the city for sleeping and showering and ordering food for dinner if we had to, while working, and the rest of the time we ran away to a place where people would need an actual fucking car to get anywhere near us? Where that woman glaring at us from across the train with her thumb and index finger shoved into her right and left nostril, respectively, doesn’t even exist? Where there are no dumbfucks locked in an embrace and gazing into each other’s eyes while also taking up what constitutes the entire width of the sidewalk? </div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
It’s just a thought. A few thoughts. Three or four times a day. </div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
But it will get better once we move. </div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
For now, I’m enjoying the hell out of my job. I wish I could discuss it in more detail, but this isn’t a little middle school buried in the backstreets of a lesser-known city. Anybody with half a brain, some decent googling skills and a desire to know has probably already pieced together where I’m working, and would be able to work backwards from there to figure out who anybody I may discuss here is. </div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
I will say that we brought on a new chef for our Korean food article this month. I will say that I am extremely happy about this. I will not get into the details of why. That kind of thing, you see? But we went to Gapyeong, which is actually one of my favorite places in Korea, and which also happens to produce 95% of the country’s farmed dureup, which I had never tried, but which is really good. The weird part is that they cut the branches off the trees on the mountain, and then grow the shoots, the part that is eaten, by placing the cut branches upright on moist soil in the greenhouses. No roots. No planting. No nothing. Pretty cool. </div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
This chef was Italian and very friendly and excited to talk about food and just about everything else, which was a real joy. He broke the ice right away by leaning over to pluck a stray hair off my sweater while I was introducing myself, explaining that he, as a chef, obviously suffered from paranoia about loose strands of hair floating around. I told him I had two cats, so he was in for a long day. </div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
Later in the day, after all of the quote-gathering and fact-recording and photo-shooting, we finally had a chance to just sit down and eat together and talk about the food. I said, if I could I would just travel the world fucking eating. He said, you could, if you become a food critic. I said, I don’t want to criticize food. I want to eat it. If I don’t like it, that’s fine. Someone else probably does. He said, ah, but you’re the scariest kind of customer to me. You’re the kind who won’t even give me a chance to fix what I’ve done wrong. You will just quietly go and never come back. </div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
I think that shows a shocking level of humility, not a common trait in most chefs of his caliber. </div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
Yesterday I practically shoved B out of the apartment so I could get to work on the article, but it didn’t do any good. I had had a good chuckle at a foreigner in a mask of stormtrooper proportions in Myeongdong on Saturday, but the fucking joke was on me. I’m not one of those people who steps outside and practically faints at the first whiff of yellow dust. Instead, I wander around clueless all day only to be laid out with the mother of all sinus infections for the next week, at least. De-cat-furring the apartment on Sunday morning (aka, “cleaning”) must have pushed me over the edge. </div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
As a result, I finally hauled out the glass jar of organic lemongrass tea I bought at some stupid herbal tourist trap this winter and worked out that I essentially paid approximately $10 a cup to make myself tea. The fucking rosemary plant died as well, after a month. </div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
But today’s an easy one at work, and the article’s not due till Thursday. Hunners’ of pitches due in the middle of next week, and then the deadline period starts next Wednesday, but today and tomorrow are pretty much the best time this month to be a bit under the weather.</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="p1">
I got real worked up about the whole Ryan Boudinot brouhaha on Friday and was going to do a post, and maybe I still will. In fact, I definitely will because I’m already starting to simmer just sitting here thinking about whether or not I’ll write about it. But it may be a while. In the meantime, enjoy this sanitized post where all the really juicy bits about work or whatever have all been cut out because I like my job and want to keep it. </div>
I'm no Picassohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06516337555349888808noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21444271.post-14385926599171582322015-03-14T02:12:00.001+09:002015-03-14T02:12:18.747+09:00잘 살자I should be asleep. I have a lot of shit going on this weekend, but I find myself suffering from some kind of weekend rebellion since I returned to work. Being unemployed/out of school/traveling for five months had me used to being able to indulge myself in pretty much whatever I wanted whenever I wanted, which honestly took most of the fun out of it, after a while. But now, with my 야근-packed work schedule, I find myself gleefully rebelling on the weekends.<br />
<br />
Today was a good day. We had, I surmised, a decent amount of 회식 left over in the previous year's budget which was to disappear, and our printer's deadline got pushed back by a day, so we all piled into a cab and the 편집장님's car and made our way to a froufrou 한식 place, and then dawdled over tea afterward. A three-hour lunch. One of the best results to arise from language school is that I no longer feel weird about speaking Korea even in front of a large group of native speakers. I don't know that I would even speak as much as I do now in Korean if it were in English, but I got used to pushing myself, and now it's become a habit which I think has somehow made into a more outgoing person in Korean than I am in English. The point is, I'm enjoying getting to know my coworkers better, and today was nice.<br />
<br />
A big part of my new job is poring over news sites and culling information for pitches, which has got me starting large files of lists of things I want to see and do. There's so much going on in this city all the time, but I've become complacent in my little home life, and I've also been on a budget for so long, avoiding spending money on anything other than the necessary upkeep for personal relationships. But spring is here, and I have cash coming in again, as well as a constant stream of tempting events flashing before my eyes. One thing I will say for sure is that the National Library has done great things by putting on their current <a href="http://www.koreatimes.co.kr/www/news/culture/2015/03/142_174755.html">Indie Publishing Reading Room</a>. I've been discovering these little indie bookshops that are popping up all over the place over the past year, but now there is an outpouring of articles about these places that is sorely needed. I'll be checking that out tomorrow, as well as the Buddhism Expo that's on down the way a bit.<br />
<br />
Tonight was good. B's way to work coincides with most of mine, so we've been going in together and then trying to catch each other on the way home, as well, when possible. Tonight, we met at the subway station and then impulsively decided to head out for dinner, rather than doing our usual Friday night sofa/order-in/movie thing. We're struggling a bit at the moment with how to handle the household shit, with both of us getting home around 8 or later every evening -- we (I) usually cook at home, save once or twice a week -- but the upside has been actually getting out of the apartment more together, and finding new restaurants, breaking some well-worn routines.<br />
<br />
We had a great dinner, tried some new craft beers, and when we got home, B gave me my birthday present a bit early -- a gorgeous stereo system with a turntable, something I've been blabbering on about for ages. My grandfather used to sit and listen to his records for hours on end, and I know it may sound odd, but having it sitting there across the room from me just now somehow makes me feel closer to him. God help our neighbors, and god help the movers if they do any damage to it when we move.<br />
<br />
B and I have been having some squabbles lately, centered around the pressure of trying to reorganize our household now that we're both working. We just came out of two weeks of back-to-back intense overtime, him coming in past midnight one week, and me, the next, which was the worst case scenario in terms of both being able to spend time together, and also sleeping schedules. We've agreed to take the next two years to basically work our asses off and save as much money as possible, while also building up our resumes, so we can hopefully buy our own place and move into more steady and high-paying freelance work while also having the financial ability to pursue some other things in the future, but it's going to be stressful at times.<br />
<br />
But sitting together on the couch tonight listening to the cheesy 50s musical LP that was sent along service with the stereo, I just got thinking about how lucky we really are. There aren't many people our age and from our backgrounds who have the opportunities we do. I expressed this to him, and told him, you know, we really don't need to be fussing at each other about anything. We have good jobs, good lives and each other. We travel, we eat great food, we have the ability to buy not only whatever we need but also a good deal of what we want. We don't need to be making trouble where there isn't any. It's going to be a little bit rough for a while, but we're going to adjust. We're also going to move in a few months, which means our 1-2 hour commute times will be cut way down, giving us an extra few hours in the day.<br />
<br />
"그래." He ruffled my hair. "우리 잘 살자."<br />
<br />
Part of living well is chugging a sneaky coffee at midnight if you feel like it, and blogging at 2am about nothing if the fancy strikes, but another part, I guess, is getting yourself to sleep early enough to not waste part of that precious thing known as Saturday.I'm no Picassohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06516337555349888808noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21444271.post-13652159793654751422015-03-08T03:50:00.001+09:002015-03-08T03:50:25.975+09:00Not dead. Not even slightly. What do I have to say for myself? Not much and a lot all at the same time. It's been about a year, hasn't it? I'm not even really sure where I left off...<br />
<br />
It's been a long year, a very challenging year in a lot of ways -- one of the most challenging of my life, if I had to choose, but also rewarding. It definitely felt like a good time to get off the internet and focus on life. Which is not to say you can't do both at the same time, but for some reason, the desire to write here just continuously dwindled until it was gone entirely. I think a big part of it was that it's hard for me to write when I'm going through a lot of big life changes. When I'm not sure of where I am with things, of what I'm feeling, I certainly don't know how to explain it to others. I also found that the more I turned toward immersing myself in Korean, the less I had energy left to deal with English. In fact, once I hit the higher levels at language school, I didn't have much energy left to focus on anything else at all.<br />
<br />
So what's happened this past year? I graduated language school, for one, which was not as easy as I had though it would be. We lost about half of our ranks along the way. I failed to get the grad school scholarship, which was a blessing in disguise. By the time I had finished applying, I had been talking with a lot of professors and friends who had been through or worked with the program I had been considering, and I was already starting to have my doubts. I chose my undergrad program specifically because it was about as far from traditional as you can get, and what I was seeing of lit programs here was that the main focus would be on learning the canonical explanation for what a work means, and how to regurgitate that knowledge properly.<br />
<br />
In a lot of ways, looking back on it now, I think I was operating on the assumption that I didn't have any other choice. I didn't know of any other way to try to get to where I wanted to go, and I also wasn't even sure of what I wanted. When the scholarship results first came out, I panicked. But then I got a grip and slowly began to realize that I had been handed a second chance -- a chance to think more outside the box, to not settle for what I thought I had to do.<br />
<br />
So, what else happened this year? I went to Vietnam and got a horrific case of food poisoning, which I didn't even regret, because the street food was worth it. I went to Japan twice, once alone and once with Busan and his brother. I took Busan back to the US, where we had an incredible road trip that included my favorite southern beaches and New Orleans for Halloween. I spent a shitton of time with my family, which I really needed. I got married. I started writing a book. I got a few poems published. I became obsessed with cooking, and taught myself how to do things I never thought I could. I read dozens and dozens of books. I did a lot of translation. I had my first job interviews in Korean. I wrote articles. I got really familiar with Korea's indie publishing scene.<br />
<br />
I also lost a lot of sleep, cried a countless number of times, doubted myself, threatened to leave the country for good, missed the birth of a new nephew and faced my first few struggles with being a wife and daughter-in-law.<br />
<br />
And I got a job which, if I'm honest, I don't think I really deserve. But somehow the powers of the universe came together and everything fell into place. That is, after a nerve-racking five week interview period. I'm now working as an editor at a travel and culture magazine, a job which involves a bit of translation, a lot of editing (obviously) and fantastic little trips around the country to write about food. It's a great magazine and my new coworkers have been amazing so far. It's a bit of a mindfuck working in an all-Korean-speaking environment and doing research in Korean, while also concentrating so hard on English all day, but I'm learning a ton and I genuinely enjoy the work, and the pay is much higher than someone with no quantifiable experience in the field really deserves.<br />
<br />
The last six months especially have been a blur, and I wasn't really sure where things were heading for a while, but I feel like things are settling down now. I don't know how often, if at all, I'll be dropping in here, but this is the update for now.<br />
<br />
As a side note, let me just say... a couple of months back, for some reason I can't recall, I was searching through my inbox and I came across a number of emails from people who have read this blog. I've never been the best about responding to comments and emails, but rereading them from a distance, it hit me just how many people who have no fucking reason to care about me or my life reached out to me again and again to say the most genuinely kind things, to offer help and support, to cheer me on or make me laugh or even just to relate. I don't know how many of you will still be checking in, but if you are reading this, whoever you are, I hope you are well and that life is treating you kindly. Thank you for being around.I'm no Picassohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06516337555349888808noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21444271.post-17184416277072581872014-04-14T22:35:00.003+09:002014-04-14T22:38:44.271+09:00Finally getting on the right track. I'm happy to report that I successfully passed my first semester at language school, and have moved on to the next level. I won't lie -- this has been far more demanding than I ever expected it to be. This semester alone I have two debates, six presentations, three essays, three exam periods, three short novels to read and an entire volume of poetry to read and interpret -- every single poem, individually. All in Korean.<br />
<br />
My program is amazing, and they've brought in a graduate of the masters program I hope to enter to teach an additional evening course (for college credit) on Korean literature for free. It's a shitload of work, but that, in addition to one other Korean lit class I'm taking, should give me a sufficient foothold in beginning to learn how to write about and interpret literature in Korean. If you had told me four months ago that I would be, at this point, writing essays interpreting poetry in Korean, I would have laughed you out of the room. But you only find out what you're capable of doing by trying, and you only become capable of doing it by.... well, by doing it.<br />
<br />
I still stumble a bit through my daily life in Korean. Speaking will forever and always be my weakest skill, but sitting down to explain Frank O'Hara (for example) in Korean is bringing me a lot closer to the language in a very short amount of time. Studying has become less of a task and more of a longed-for return to writing about the things I really care about. And my critical writing was never very fancy-pants to begin with, so what I've realized over the past month is that there's really nothing that I want to say that I can't, with a little bit of editing spit shine put on it by a teacher or Busan.<br />
<br />
These two courses alone have taken me from seeing the idea of entering a masters program in Korean literature as a ridiculous fucking notion to something that, with a little elbow grease and maybe more than a few all-nighters, there's really no reason I can't do.<br />
<br />
So for now, my blogging will stay short, because I need my sleep where I can get it (I'm also now working a part time translation job). And I'll sit and wait for the results of the scholarship I've applied to. But one way or another, I can't see the road back to where I came from, from here.I'm no Picassohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06516337555349888808noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21444271.post-40896603305885794742014-03-07T11:43:00.000+09:002014-03-07T11:43:41.366+09:00Lucky. It's a funny thing. When you're an English teacher in a small neighborhood in a city outside of the big city where you encounter another foreigner approximately once every six months, it's much easier to keep a blog. When you're attending one of only a handful of language schools in the city where most other foreigners in Korea also dwell, you tend to get a bit more finicky about your privacy. Which is the exact opposite of what I expected to happen, once I stopped being a teacher. But there you have it.<br />
<br />
I'm also really, really busy. Much busier than I expected to be. That's mostly because the crunch time is now. Everything I've been doing for the past few months has led up to this two week period. But it's weird -- now that it's here, it feels like everything is much more in hand than I expected it to be.<br />
<br />
What I can say is that I am, at the moment, sitting at the double desk in my little "office", Busan on the other side working on his programming (he's finally given up the company life for good and begun free lancing for real -- which isn't to say he won't be in and out of offices -- he's just going to be in and out now, rather than simply... in). I'm about to finish up my "study plan", which is the last thing I have to do for my scholarship/grad school application, which isn't due in for another two weeks. I've begun pre-studying for my final exams at language school already, which also aren't for another two weeks, as they fall directly after my birthday, and nobody wants to cram on their birthday (although I probably will, anyway).<br />
<br />
I got some of the best grades in my class for the midterms, despite turning the interview portion of my entrance exam into a plea to be placed in a higher level than the interviewing instructor thought I'd be capable of handling (my scores on the written exam evidently backed me up sufficiently enough to grant my request), and my speaking is, as I suspected, quickly catching up to my fellow classmates. The point of this is not to brag, because after five years in this country, I'm really more relieved than proud (my classmates have only been here for about a year and a half), but instead to kind of remind myself that in general, in life, I tend to somehow rise to the occasion. It's something that I need to remember now, as what's out in front of me is intimidating. But I think people in general tend to meet the expectations they are confronted with. And at some point, it becomes your job to set your own expectations for yourself.<br />
<br />
The last couple of days, as I fill out this application, which also requires writing to my old professors for letters of reference, which in turn has led to a lot of catching up and remembering my time in New York, I've been thinking a lot about how it was before I left my hometown.<br />
<br />
It might sound stupid to a lot of people, but coming from the background and the place that I did, taking off for art school in New York at eighteen was fucking ridiculous. My family has always supported and believed in me, but I faced more than a few doubtful conversations before I left. Some people (who I love and respect even now) even went so far as to say that they'd bet the farm I'd be back in my hometown before the year was up. Not that they didn't respect me for trying.<br />
<br />
But I didn't go back.<br />
<br />
It's not much different now. I can see the doubt in the eyes of a lot of people when they ask me what I'm planning to do and I answer. The truth now is the same as it was then -- I don't have a fucking clue if I'm going to make it or not. And I don't have any kind of drive to "prove them wrong". They could be right. Who fucking knows? But fuck it, I'll try anyway. It's better than not trying. That's all I know for sure.<br />
<br />
I've got Plan A, Plan B and Plan C. And the stakes are not as high as they were before -- I also have the ability and the privilege of being able to bow out at any time and go back to making money. Decent money. I'm going to be alright.<br />
<br />
But for now, as I get ready to hand in this ridiculous dream plan of an application, I'm just trying to remember that more ludicrous plans of mine have panned out in the past. And you only get one go round. I may be getting older, but I'm not quite old enough to throw in the towel on moving forward just yet.<br />
<br />
Today, I'm just enjoying the moment. The hard part (for this year) is almost over. B and I are not where we want to be yet, but we are exactly where we wanted to be right now. This year started off rough, but it's a beautiful day and we're here in our beautiful apartment working side by side on moving forward. That means I'm lucky.I'm no Picassohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06516337555349888808noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21444271.post-31162410381474904952013-12-14T01:57:00.001+09:002013-12-14T01:57:20.951+09:00Suck it up. Well. Here I sit in a back room of the family homestead here in Texas. It's not a small house, but throughout the day, at various times, it is full to the brim with three to four little ones, two teenagers, four adults and two dogs. Getting a moment of quiet that doesn't come in the middle of the night is no simple task. And even that must remain a quiet moment. Other people still have jobs.<br />
<br />
I knew I had it good with the two adult, two cat, three bedroom situation. But I didn't realize just how good. Of course, a full house is a different kind of good, and one I don't get to enjoy very much anymore.<br />
<br />
At any rate, getting any kind of tangible work done has been a challenge. And blogging itself has become a different kind of challenge over the past few months (year?).<br />
<br />
But here I am.<br />
<br />
Last night while looking into some things with the journal, I ended up on that last unconquered form of social media, Twitter. Since the thing came out sometime in my early university years, I've been confused by it. And I think in the beginning, it was confusing. But it's come into its own now, and I think that sunk in fully for the first time as I clicked through page after page leading to page after page of small and independent bookstores and presses and artist spaces and cafes last night, a whole treasure trove of the kinds of things I've known have been going on in Seoul, but which I haven't seen any trace of, in either Korean or English. Twitter, it turns out, might be useful. Especially as the 140 characters of Korean are much easier for me to conquer than the pages and pages of it I might face otherwise.<br />
<br />
These are the places I need to be finding. I'm not writing off big and academic publishing for the future, because those things have the widespread reach that moves culture and, perhaps more importantly, the money. But I've always been a small press person. Maybe because poetry that's not more than 30 years old mostly happens there, or maybe because it's what I was "raised" on at university. But the fact remains that you just can't access these spaces in English. You have to do it in Korean. And so I find myself piling up the motivation it will take for me to stop whining (for another stretch, anyway) about flashcards and textbooks.<br />
<br />
But I also find myself struggling with this ongoing question and psychological block I have with the language itself, which is figuring out when it's "enough". When do I have enough Korean to try to go into these places, and how do I get enough Korean to go into these spaces comfortably without just going into them, and figuring it out? When do I have enough Korean to read poetry without translation? When will I have enough Korean to start translating? Where's the exam for these things? The certificate, or the license? When do I deserve to give myself enough credit to do these things?<br />
<br />
Talking to a friend about the Tweeter last night (one who has been very successful in his Korean studies, as it happens) he told me the website is a great resource for improving your Korean and that makes complete sense. Obviously. But when I think of getting online and pumping out even 140 characters worth of my Korean for all the world to see, I still get a sinking feeling that says, you're not ready for that yet. You're not good enough yet. But after five years.... really? How long am I going to fall back on what is becoming more and more of a bad excuse?<br />
<br />
Those of you who have actually been successful at second languages will know that this is the wrong way to go about it, entirely, and I know that too, as a second language teacher. But I also know myself well enough to know that this kind of thinking will be my biggest struggle over the next few years. On the one hand, this obsession I have with being fully prepared has served my progress well. I didn't go into restaurants in Korea until I could do it without using English. I didn't start taking taxis until I could do it in Korean. The mindset that no one else should have to suffer because of a shortness in my ability-- a mindset the guy I first came to Korea with also shared, leading to an interesting first six months for us-- is less a self-righteous emblem of ethics and more a crippling, shame-filled reaction on the gut level.<br />
<br />
But I think this is just going to have to be a year of sucking it up and getting over it. Because the truth is, you don't actually find out if you can order in a restaurant in Korean until you try it.<br />
<br />
And I won't know if I can walk into those small press offices and have a conversation until I try that.<br />
<br />
And I'm not getting any fucking younger.I'm no Picassohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06516337555349888808noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21444271.post-44898847545510199792013-11-25T12:30:00.005+09:002013-11-25T12:30:40.822+09:00Turning it over and boys fighting girls. What a gloomy day, here in Seoul. The way I'm feeling now is complicated. This is the week when it usually starts, the looming sense of lack and distance from home and family. Having been in the habit for five years of watching this week roll around and gathering foreign friends around who are all feeling the same things, making a makeshift version of the holidays with our makeshift families, and feeling a bit melodramatic at the dull ache that sets in as the days go by and the Koreans you know and love don't quite realize what these days really mean to you.<br />
<br />
But I'll be home this time, and instead of all of that, I feel a bit sad that I won't be here to share the holidays with my people here. It's odd. You avoid even bringing it up, a thin layer of guilt covering over the conversation surrounding it, knowing it's not fair that you're the one who gets to go home. I've been on the other side of it. And also, feeling a bit like you're abandoning the people you love during the season when it's most important for you to be there for each other.<br />
<br />
For some reason, I feel a bit nervous about going home this time around. I can't put my finger on it, but I think it has something to do with this apartment filled with furniture and pets and Busan, with weekly dates with friends that no longer take on a transitory tone. Something about this not just being the end of one year and the start of just one more, for now.<br />
<br />
When I get back, it'll be go-time for a lot of things. Applications and interviews and exams and waiting periods. There's a lot of my life for the next few years that's resting in other people's hands, and the only thing I can do is do my best to earn a whole lot of different kinds of approval. It's been five years since my life was this up in the air.<br />
<br />
And that's the other thing. Somewhere in all of the reading and studying and taking long bike rides with B through the autumn leaves, the shifting through submissions, the meeting up with friends for weeknight coffee dates at new cafes, the evening strolls with 붕어빵, the cooking, the writing, the endless phone calls that weren't rushed, for once, by time zones and work schedules that have made up this extended vacation, I realized that two five year anniversaries passed. Two, which put together, make up a decade of my life. The first was the ten year anniversary of leaving my hometown for NYC and the second, of course, was the five year of coming to Korea.<br />
<br />
Without too much more prattling on, I guess the all of the thoughts and strange feelings I can't quite pin down come down to one main theme: It's time to start the next decade.<br />
<br />
But in the meantime, would you like to hear a story? How about the story of the fight in the Secret Garden at Changdeokgung?<br />
<br />
A while back I mentioned the fight(s) on boats at Hongdo, but I never got into the details. The first erupted between two middle aged men fighting over seats. The second involved a man who decided that in order to have a better view of something over the side of the boat, he needed to place both of his arms on the rails on either side of me and press his crotch against my ass. I guess I was expected to just accept that decision on his part without flinching, but suffice it to say, I reacted. Which was beyond all measure of good grace, as far as that man could figure. How dare I turn around in shock and give him a look when he, a complete stranger, pressed his dick against my body? What an insult to his pride! Words were exchanged, and he moved down to the other side of me where he decided the only way to right the wrong committed against him was to menacingly glare at me. I stared back, instead of looking down and acting afraid of him like I should have, at which point he attempted to start a fight with B instead. B remained calm, when the man demanded to know what my problem was, and just very matter-of-factly explained that I didn't like being touched by strange men.<br />
<br />
At that point, I got really pissed, because I think if you start a fight with a woman, you should be man enough to own up to it and finish the fight with the woman, not go looking for the man responsible for her to start in with instead. What, are you tattling on me to my daddy? Having a word with my manager? So I went off in obscenity-laced English to B about how he was a loud mouth, had been gunning for a confrontation with people on the boat since before we even boarded, and to ignore him because garbage just wants to make other people smell dirty. B chuckled. The man realized I was not going to be managed, and moved -- grumbling, but at a good clip -- further down the boat.<br />
<br />
The reason why I'm retelling this story now, all these months later, is because my perspective about what happened on Wednesday when B and I took a tour of the back garden at Changdeokgung is colored by how I personally feel when a man decides to take liberties with a woman's personal physical autonomy and then gets in a huff when she doesn't just lie down and take it.<br />
<br />
I don't know how it started. Like so many of these situations, everything was fine until it wasn't. One minute we're listening to the lady explain about how the king had this building constructed so he could "experience life as a humble yangban", and the next, a younger woman and an older man are nose-to-nose, exchanging tense words. According to the woman, the man had been staring at her and making her uncomfortable, so she asked him what he was looking at. According to the man, she was an untrained crazy bitch from God knows where who needed to shut her fucking bitch mouth.<br />
<br />
I don't know whether the man was staring or not. I don't know whether the woman was crazy or not. What I do know is that the woman was not shouting, but she was standing firmly in her place and refusing to take even half a step back as the man got in her face shouting obscenities. She spoke calmly, but firmly, and refused to look or move away. Which made the man even more furious, as all the older women around us began to click their tongues at him and wonder out loud how a man of such an age could use such language toward a woman in public. Which made him even more furious, to the point where he raised his fist and pulled back, as though prepared to strike. At that point, B let out a little sigh of resignation and rushed over to push the man back. A couple of the older women grabbed the woman and pulled her back to our side, and I positioned myself somewhere in between.<br />
<br />
She stood quietly for a while, still staring across at the man, but not moving or speaking, while he continued to push back against B's grasp and cuss and swear about how a woman like that could be a person. It got to the point where even I, being not involved at all, started to get aggravated by the things he was saying, and just as I turned away from the woman and back toward the man in shock to something he had said, the woman made a break for it and got right back in the man's face, calmly repeating again and again that he should apologize. We pulled her away again, and B got the man moved back toward the end of the trail with his wife, and with a big distance and every other person on the tour positioned between them, we rushed through what should have been the last twenty minutes in about five, and the tour guide and another woman saw the woman to the gate, while instructing the man and his wife to go walk around for a bit before leaving.<br />
<br />
During this ordeal, B shocked me a bit by commenting that something was "wrong" with the woman, because she wouldn't just leave the situation alone. Hold up, B. First of all, Mr. Old Fucking Asshole back there is still running his mouth, swearing her up and down, but I guess that's just expected, because he's the man and his pride was injured? Meanwhile, she is very calmly and without a word against his character, repeating her request for an apology for him <i>raising his fucking fist to strike her</i>. Who is not letting what go? And who is the one who is acting crazy? Because let me tell you -- if it had been me he had raised his fist to, there would be no walking at a safe distance and finishing the tour. You would've had to haul me out by my collar. B said, but what if she gets hit? Isn't she afraid?<br />
<br />
Fuck being afraid, B. How long are women supposed to walk around in public having our shit violated by entitled men because we are afraid? I'll get hit? Fuck it. Hit me. We'll go to the police station and I'll haunt your life for the next six months at least. Some things are worse than being hit, and on certain days in certain situations when you've just had enough, for women that can include backing meekly down to yet another fuckwit who tries to use his physical strength to make you understand that he gets to do or say whatever he wants, and there's nothing you can do about it.<br />
<br />
For the most part, I think physical confrontation over pride is fucking stupid. There was a story a while back about someone getting killed on the subway in Busan because he was staring at someone else. There have been a flurry of similar, milder stories in Seoul in past months -- fist fights breaking out for the same reason. B himself has had it happen on multiple occasions that some alpha male has interpreted his quick glance as a challenging stare, and then some random man is up in his face asking him what the fuck he thinks he's looking at -- I've witnessed it myself more than once. And mostly, I just chuckle, because... well. As a foreigner, how would it go for me if I decided to get up in someone's face every time they gave me what I could interpret as a nasty stare?<br />
<br />
But you know what? On some days, with the liberties some men take, looking me up and down and up again, moving from one seat to another to get a better look, I wish to God I could do what that woman did and just ask them what the fuck they think they're looking at, and why they think it's okay to stare at me like that, as if I'm public property. Because when women or children stare, it's whatever. But when a man does it to a woman, whether there's any malice behind it or not, it just feels different. It's threatening, and it makes your heart beat faster, as all the other times that stare has turned into something more serious come rushing back to you. And the indignity on the man's part that these kinds of things are met with, when women respond completely within reason to violations of their personhood that these same men would never tolerate without comment, make it all the more ridiculous.<br />
<br />
So when I saw her, standing there at the gate with a determined look on her face, waiting calmly for the man to come out, part of me wanted to grab her hand and tell her it wasn't worth it. That there are a million more like him, and we'll never get anywhere if we try to take them all on. But the other part of me was cheering her on. Because there are too many people who will, without thinking, look at that situation and think, "What's wrong with her?" <i>Her</i>.<br />
<br />
Just to finish this post, the last before home, on a bit of a brighter note, here are some photos of the last couple of months and what I've been up to.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjupBBkz8VRgg5wThM-ej2LwoicO1_O4qvxVpbjq9umVJvICWudtR8ja1oVcVCFPW6DOO2UMHPSjoDi6jORvcIDP6jl1PMVH0OlPNrrWFc_c1dMThz_KNGLV7kaR7SMQ3M8vPqVQw/s1600/CYMERA_20131010_162025.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjupBBkz8VRgg5wThM-ej2LwoicO1_O4qvxVpbjq9umVJvICWudtR8ja1oVcVCFPW6DOO2UMHPSjoDi6jORvcIDP6jl1PMVH0OlPNrrWFc_c1dMThz_KNGLV7kaR7SMQ3M8vPqVQw/s400/CYMERA_20131010_162025.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
B's pumpkin birthday cake with cream cheese frosting. </div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqbR7G4wL5JwT4BqEBV5UE8X79odVhwNyp_1vwzqtdztMaDXQvq9pH0RJ9S9ikYyp4A0t1YwpydCjbj49pBt3iKrbQPoChh6BpLgPdQVzfVlzwkx-qfWRaA-UhXK1yWhAL2ZGCBg/s1600/CYMERA_20131026_120948.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqbR7G4wL5JwT4BqEBV5UE8X79odVhwNyp_1vwzqtdztMaDXQvq9pH0RJ9S9ikYyp4A0t1YwpydCjbj49pBt3iKrbQPoChh6BpLgPdQVzfVlzwkx-qfWRaA-UhXK1yWhAL2ZGCBg/s400/CYMERA_20131026_120948.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaRugNaCWbeqQJRvb8AlBgYkEFcKIJl_okml2HOdJeC2mcnZnp1_xIiIsAMYdP2Trig8NerBCFqxGJ3OB77DJ9WtWO5H1vAqEKnIRXF_g6oB3i9m_EeverYcNeyVTPC97VB2buwA/s1600/CYMERA_20131109_115845.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaRugNaCWbeqQJRvb8AlBgYkEFcKIJl_okml2HOdJeC2mcnZnp1_xIiIsAMYdP2Trig8NerBCFqxGJ3OB77DJ9WtWO5H1vAqEKnIRXF_g6oB3i9m_EeverYcNeyVTPC97VB2buwA/s400/CYMERA_20131109_115845.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZId9kDabY4eWrxQr2Ol4sJiTCnQexUCyeB3Xjwb25HTAyFZm4KWGpFoRrHIqLGzomPXjwiAoHgjZTyGYHwicG6g0LxXuXEnc8khb-JqWq3loJmyAC5frGZP5lYIX1do7oWNUIUw/s1600/CYMERA_20131109_115915.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZId9kDabY4eWrxQr2Ol4sJiTCnQexUCyeB3Xjwb25HTAyFZm4KWGpFoRrHIqLGzomPXjwiAoHgjZTyGYHwicG6g0LxXuXEnc8khb-JqWq3loJmyAC5frGZP5lYIX1do7oWNUIUw/s400/CYMERA_20131109_115915.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIj6Art9kEbv42FrTFuPcoVuk9Jy42OzhlkSXxRj1Ij0-uLOEtzjqvz9he5tfpbI916Hn7EXbFW38aQqAv1Y_9-AD3C6vMAYroi_dwQXE3pC1x2PrYNA075STb-3xd1OKamLtkzw/s1600/CYMERA_20131109_115953.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIj6Art9kEbv42FrTFuPcoVuk9Jy42OzhlkSXxRj1Ij0-uLOEtzjqvz9he5tfpbI916Hn7EXbFW38aQqAv1Y_9-AD3C6vMAYroi_dwQXE3pC1x2PrYNA075STb-3xd1OKamLtkzw/s400/CYMERA_20131109_115953.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzkRX2nmqG1cVOnf07zbnxqGztf-Z9IQKjuWxhlC7alHYLij-3u3DmOGqOjBhRyioV3mzlmX2BdqvcsuMC60nyJHAnmCNCMYR5OM7r3zzGVACTKGG9YL9T8YAP-1_RHlUMVhvEqg/s1600/CYMERA_20131109_120129.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzkRX2nmqG1cVOnf07zbnxqGztf-Z9IQKjuWxhlC7alHYLij-3u3DmOGqOjBhRyioV3mzlmX2BdqvcsuMC60nyJHAnmCNCMYR5OM7r3zzGVACTKGG9YL9T8YAP-1_RHlUMVhvEqg/s400/CYMERA_20131109_120129.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
Han River Park on early morning bike rides. </div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGUdwOuZm59FS7MR_H12qFnJrnlprbiuObQ2VwpBPa6gkRG6j7e7YgQTeVy_vFSf4T04vth83zSzKUUQWkVfctBl9luTxJ1F8X_KgBrYE0MTgckx7mAEM_4GC32q4JplIRHzKb1A/s1600/CYMERA_20131110_141233.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGUdwOuZm59FS7MR_H12qFnJrnlprbiuObQ2VwpBPa6gkRG6j7e7YgQTeVy_vFSf4T04vth83zSzKUUQWkVfctBl9luTxJ1F8X_KgBrYE0MTgckx7mAEM_4GC32q4JplIRHzKb1A/s400/CYMERA_20131110_141233.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhA-mwn1JkAIfMlKP0784UpL4V9MXlE2I3tOZ-QrHUHWOrl6DJECjnB4MvKcHnD4iW_71aOFWxFiksx2oAJiBQuHrgeLHb8E1JQg3XQOgLn8wZGFt4BQBkli2fI4T5X1onxIJQI_A/s1600/CYMERA_20131110_141313.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhA-mwn1JkAIfMlKP0784UpL4V9MXlE2I3tOZ-QrHUHWOrl6DJECjnB4MvKcHnD4iW_71aOFWxFiksx2oAJiBQuHrgeLHb8E1JQg3XQOgLn8wZGFt4BQBkli2fI4T5X1onxIJQI_A/s400/CYMERA_20131110_141313.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg33XD82JuryrrZaNFwIVu7wP6mHUMg2xFM9rKwM5fMrnQYr06eiLfI81xC9FA0eainmMgQYdJezaPcuBI3CV5rao8nyYReAJFSmaN2Q1NdrK9THoDVRJEuJ-g6bd8_vEeOtpUQvw/s1600/CYMERA_20131110_141455.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg33XD82JuryrrZaNFwIVu7wP6mHUMg2xFM9rKwM5fMrnQYr06eiLfI81xC9FA0eainmMgQYdJezaPcuBI3CV5rao8nyYReAJFSmaN2Q1NdrK9THoDVRJEuJ-g6bd8_vEeOtpUQvw/s400/CYMERA_20131110_141455.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaslUdnNb5wB-bEoGdWt6U1OYNvj7ffiXC60NCYZRQLeAmkZnvQyhflz4KIcaHnzOGyj-zD-ZA4TD9MJDf54LgK1a6yncbHR5dF0wz4_-ahD1fRvsI7rSXFViLVLVSkKbCrXkvGw/s1600/CYMERA_20131110_141527.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaslUdnNb5wB-bEoGdWt6U1OYNvj7ffiXC60NCYZRQLeAmkZnvQyhflz4KIcaHnzOGyj-zD-ZA4TD9MJDf54LgK1a6yncbHR5dF0wz4_-ahD1fRvsI7rSXFViLVLVSkKbCrXkvGw/s400/CYMERA_20131110_141527.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Sunday afternoon hike up the mountain behind our apartment. </div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhmBA0VXTx_UM7k9CEv_RPW6JamuN9zf1yE06zsqIuuAp2_Hg5DnT606J58v2y8ioYcBp24T-1V71GHlmmXg2MLZe5P1q6hEIaaen41JOpHPMUTNSsH4UDX32lYmogwpGzTqnBEg/s1600/CYMERA_20131113_171305.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhmBA0VXTx_UM7k9CEv_RPW6JamuN9zf1yE06zsqIuuAp2_Hg5DnT606J58v2y8ioYcBp24T-1V71GHlmmXg2MLZe5P1q6hEIaaen41JOpHPMUTNSsH4UDX32lYmogwpGzTqnBEg/s400/CYMERA_20131113_171305.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
Study buddies. </div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhozB9xn5o0ABppLIX42x_EAzqYOKWx5nGHSht8IGQfqpl-mQT-rYBcbrPbXwHtkw927RsTTyF0mMZ08Dpo9CddmgBuS5UuCn0Nj8eNkWnO_WsOe1NNiYJ0AkRnFaBGxNOz-AxBIw/s1600/CYMERA_20131113_224407.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhozB9xn5o0ABppLIX42x_EAzqYOKWx5nGHSht8IGQfqpl-mQT-rYBcbrPbXwHtkw927RsTTyF0mMZ08Dpo9CddmgBuS5UuCn0Nj8eNkWnO_WsOe1NNiYJ0AkRnFaBGxNOz-AxBIw/s400/CYMERA_20131113_224407.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
The baby's obsession with food manifested on B's poor finger.</div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikqBolA-MrEtuggq9GAp-0-yr-G_159T6iFXM4mJmtYivcqL-lqbMQa1_iKEtohebZXUKE_aVC1_d7tZwewoZNmXVpyBjsqLxNAPdMKAIjiFb2dnszk0YCdYsxDXccy42qRXUWCQ/s1600/CYMERA_20131116_102428.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="345" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikqBolA-MrEtuggq9GAp-0-yr-G_159T6iFXM4mJmtYivcqL-lqbMQa1_iKEtohebZXUKE_aVC1_d7tZwewoZNmXVpyBjsqLxNAPdMKAIjiFb2dnszk0YCdYsxDXccy42qRXUWCQ/s400/CYMERA_20131116_102428.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Saturday morning cinnamon rolls. </div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqD30MPGLPV797HA447ZbyMXFsYtiUcQeFHhp9WXwvMo2HOvwoZuNagaLUWeIgp7I1g73-N5sSwuLn03e-20y0L6njUxr2IdLE-OSb_cIHfS3IA_M4eBhzkGaBZUvzXqw0nyY7Uw/s1600/CYMERA_20131116_134643.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqD30MPGLPV797HA447ZbyMXFsYtiUcQeFHhp9WXwvMo2HOvwoZuNagaLUWeIgp7I1g73-N5sSwuLn03e-20y0L6njUxr2IdLE-OSb_cIHfS3IA_M4eBhzkGaBZUvzXqw0nyY7Uw/s400/CYMERA_20131116_134643.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
Riding along the Hongjaecheon.</div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOSPiF93UNEp_DSRzCG46-9W2PLR5UrAQISZt_NYGFhs43lBzGEsIKuBNLRtQuWi93kt9LMfZK3wvvYn2hvRWw1JrXOr6F188bVNatkQmxkoM7BV-NuCbGKaOmIeAIpNePjaPwzQ/s1600/CYMERA_20131116_190147.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOSPiF93UNEp_DSRzCG46-9W2PLR5UrAQISZt_NYGFhs43lBzGEsIKuBNLRtQuWi93kt9LMfZK3wvvYn2hvRWw1JrXOr6F188bVNatkQmxkoM7BV-NuCbGKaOmIeAIpNePjaPwzQ/s400/CYMERA_20131116_190147.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
Pumpkin ale at Hopscotch. </div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqKGeOjNlgoqLP93rkJY71-Lv9BIVdiNDgJdbqbpbTtI9gnPBlcE28BMfSfK03GXqgZ-uJgS5b4exvEMvF0q4XXAysMsQPshJYrCDRI1iNh0luhGJSfrKmFo5_F6A8CyY2UhwvEQ/s1600/CYMERA_20131120_155718.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqKGeOjNlgoqLP93rkJY71-Lv9BIVdiNDgJdbqbpbTtI9gnPBlcE28BMfSfK03GXqgZ-uJgS5b4exvEMvF0q4XXAysMsQPshJYrCDRI1iNh0luhGJSfrKmFo5_F6A8CyY2UhwvEQ/s400/CYMERA_20131120_155718.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpq8nuYpKKfgqaSZFwW7bs_VG71Db0wAk29a0GgirvtaG7WUx14zhP14qJvsvSGqeJClm2TOZ8KrXddLEi-hH7ICDBHP_eTlbVrDF6Twn3wfKAaCZTM36RsFvNl8PQvcF6NGO__w/s1600/CYMERA_20131120_155743.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpq8nuYpKKfgqaSZFwW7bs_VG71Db0wAk29a0GgirvtaG7WUx14zhP14qJvsvSGqeJClm2TOZ8KrXddLEi-hH7ICDBHP_eTlbVrDF6Twn3wfKAaCZTM36RsFvNl8PQvcF6NGO__w/s400/CYMERA_20131120_155743.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVL1QF_KrGlZ57rBO5VhnxxPhrLgkeg9SmqpkCgItlkWbvdvGC02dwCoh4aUIvgtuweiaNriPQA3hrzHEexJ-ikUwi8Q9P5sXOr94WTEjxaVA_tx3uVOaBVAbpfR9O5cripYxAMA/s1600/CYMERA_20131120_155813.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVL1QF_KrGlZ57rBO5VhnxxPhrLgkeg9SmqpkCgItlkWbvdvGC02dwCoh4aUIvgtuweiaNriPQA3hrzHEexJ-ikUwi8Q9P5sXOr94WTEjxaVA_tx3uVOaBVAbpfR9O5cripYxAMA/s400/CYMERA_20131120_155813.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjInIOYZoG5Vu1hSFYy1At05bYdQgkxkWqdwZouSaeCnOJklMEvstknfcYqKCILo9zTxapuVXcIoMB9trfBA6P72PljCHSqd8l2aX93GahroxK_GeK84nZ4fNltphIS8l5x93dEcQ/s1600/CYMERA_20131120_155859.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjInIOYZoG5Vu1hSFYy1At05bYdQgkxkWqdwZouSaeCnOJklMEvstknfcYqKCILo9zTxapuVXcIoMB9trfBA6P72PljCHSqd8l2aX93GahroxK_GeK84nZ4fNltphIS8l5x93dEcQ/s400/CYMERA_20131120_155859.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
The infamous tour of the back garden of Changdeokgung, before things went south. </div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiijwzfWIXcrOLfbqcQIyC0PTwNfwmgcz6gPJmWbNH0lVcF9RKFE_RtL5u9WovdqL4NNCzTWRrDLhNXEFMDH_E031EHjy6T619AjwTF_MG1gBzbkSmqodfbFyAZMz9dNqSsPKvjJw/s1600/CYMERA_20131125_104838.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiijwzfWIXcrOLfbqcQIyC0PTwNfwmgcz6gPJmWbNH0lVcF9RKFE_RtL5u9WovdqL4NNCzTWRrDLhNXEFMDH_E031EHjy6T619AjwTF_MG1gBzbkSmqodfbFyAZMz9dNqSsPKvjJw/s400/CYMERA_20131125_104838.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
The first snow. </div>
I'm no Picassohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06516337555349888808noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21444271.post-48724902436046399282013-10-29T14:26:00.002+09:002013-10-29T14:26:49.690+09:00Sunday and Moja. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLEkv9KqFM2QCHIfJz05yODSxRLdnr67OViePsO42CBcp7Jl_-yuup0lkkbx14nq1KQRWl_P_VGl8Wl5GawKR9y1xLixPL9__EycNqj8hj1NpFl5M1b9P1YGlGvhBRRusyK1fGYA/s1600/1390717_776081514435_1976612651_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="220" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLEkv9KqFM2QCHIfJz05yODSxRLdnr67OViePsO42CBcp7Jl_-yuup0lkkbx14nq1KQRWl_P_VGl8Wl5GawKR9y1xLixPL9__EycNqj8hj1NpFl5M1b9P1YGlGvhBRRusyK1fGYA/s320/1390717_776081514435_1976612651_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS8uzMCZTc1Urhtgswtnyoh2UetaKLb5AHp10AemOdJvDB1mGDPlSGnamC7LhPCovMTqDW85diSorP25VUcSuxSXy2AVYL8xyD-zQLbY2pzB2bF9LHIPSHV1RqoFzZ3DiJyscMCg/s1600/733922_776663318495_969198695_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS8uzMCZTc1Urhtgswtnyoh2UetaKLb5AHp10AemOdJvDB1mGDPlSGnamC7LhPCovMTqDW85diSorP25VUcSuxSXy2AVYL8xyD-zQLbY2pzB2bF9LHIPSHV1RqoFzZ3DiJyscMCg/s320/733922_776663318495_969198695_n.jpg" width="192" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
These are the two new main things going on in my life right now. After taking a couple of weeks to adjust myself (and also get over the usual sinus hell created by the shift in weather), this weekend saw the acquisition of a new bicycle and a new little baby kitten named (by B -- I take no responsibility for it) Moja. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Our apartment is about a ten minute walk from the Bulkwang Stream, which is something we were very keen on when it came down to choosing it, but also something we somehow lost track of in the midst of all of the moving/job finishing bustle. I'm more than a little sad that it took us until the tail end of October (and the warm weather) to get around to buying bikes, but I'm glad that we at least managed that. The Bulkwangcheon park itself is lovely, but the truly amazing thing about it is how... well, how dearly guarded the rules of pedestrian etiquette are within it. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Let me be clear: I do not ride that fucking bicycle outside of the park. I can't. I hope to eventually get around to it, but I don't hold out much hope. I can't even manage to walk down a sidewalk most days without having three or four collisions in the span of half an hour, and crossing streets even on foot, even at appropriate crossings, leads to nearly being hit by a car at least half the days out of the week. So how am I supposed to manage on a bike? I'll take my fucking time with that, thank you. But in the meantime, I've been shocked to see how seriously the right/left flow of traffic, appropriate passing behavior and bikes-on-the-bike-path, pedestrians-on-the-pedestrian path rules are taken within the park itself. Certainly better than what I remember back in the US. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Occasionally you have the odd grandmother blindly wandering out perpendicular into the middle of the bike path, or a middle-aged man striding out down the center of the bike path with his chest puffed out and a challenging, territorial look on his face, but the main annoyance inside the park is the fucking pigeons. As B and I attempted to make our way out of the park and the short distance down the regular streets to the Emart on Sunday, however, I gave up within five minutes. Although the sidewalks here are all equipped with built-in bike paths, they are all blocked with cars illegally parked on the sidewalk, and what parts aren't are full of illegal street vendors' goods and people milling about gazing into their smartphones waiting for a bus. After three or four near hits and nearly falling over from having to slow down so much to ride behind a college-aged couple with linked arms in armorous oblivion so strong it resisted even the sound of my bell, I just gave up. If this is how the sidewalk bike paths are, I'm not even willing to risk the street itself. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
But the good news is, we are just a short 15 minute ride down the stream to the Han Gang, and from there you can go as far as you want. Which is what I've been doing every morning since I bought the bike. I'm happy to say my mood and energy have greatly improved, since falling into a slump after finishing working. It's not easy to go from being on your feet surrounded by teenage boys all day to a quiet chair at a quiet desk in a quiet house. Without that boost of the walk to work in the morning, I was feeling as though I never fully woke up. So now, I wake up with B at his morning alarm for work and we share a cup of coffee while watching the news. I, so far, successfully emotionally blackmail him into carrying my bike down the five flights of stairs out of our apartment building, walk him the bus, and then off I go. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
It was on yesterday morning's ride, after I stopped off to grab a coffee and sit on a bench beside the Han for a while, watching the morning traffic slouch its way down the expressways over my head, that I realized how lucky I am at the moment. Two weeks ago I was on one of those buses at 7 am, the stress of the day having already started with a hope and a prayer that traffic would be light enough for me to make it to work on time. And it just got worse from there. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
In a way, I thrive off of stress. I've never done very well without it. But I think I'm old enough now that it's a good time to learn how to relax a little. How to take a two hour bike ride down the river in the morning, sit on a bench and have a quiet cup of coffee without doing anything. And how to appreciate that. Appreciate that, instead of being on one of those sweaty buses on my way to work, I'm going to get back on my bike and ride home to read, write and study. Do some gardening. Bake a loaf of bread. Take care of our energetic new little kitten. Call home. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
When you look at it that way, a couple of months doesn't seem so long. So I'll do my best to enjoy it while I can. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
I'm no Picassohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06516337555349888808noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21444271.post-72541135563020750912013-10-20T12:34:00.000+09:002013-10-20T12:34:14.188+09:00The first week after; a fine life. I got a message from a friend in a different country yesterday, asking after my newly unemployed status, and if I was enjoying my new "freedom". The truth is, what I'm enjoying is not having to go to that job every day and wait for whatever steaming pile of other people's irresponsibility may be deposited upon my desk for the day. I'm enjoying not having to brace myself at lunch time to go down to the cafeteria to have to nod and smile my way through the most bizarre conversations possibly imaginable, as if they and the people inflicting them upon me were anywhere near normal.<br />
<br />
I'm enjoying that. But as a rule, I do not enjoy being unemployed. I don't have much experience with it, and I quickly begin to feel listless and panicked about the meaning of life. While I'm sure Marx would have a mouthful to say on the subject, it is what it is, I guess. I can barely cope with a couple of weeks vacation, so the next few months should be interesting.<br />
<br />
The way things are at the moment, I'm baking and cooking a lot. I'm introducing that terrible thing called exercise into my daily routine, for "health". I'm getting older -- I'm getting tired, and I'm getting headaches. I can't really seem to handle sugary or heavy foods anymore without feeling ill. If I refuse to pull back on the coffee and cigarettes (alcohol has already almost completely disappeared from life, save for the occasional beer with a friend or glass of wine with dinner), then I should at least try to do a healthy thing to counteract it a bit. Is that how it works? Anyway, I won't let go of those last two strongholds in my life before trying everything else I can think of.<br />
<br />
I'm emailing and meeting up with a lot of people, getting out and doing things I didn't have the chance to do before, being obligated to spend most operational hours of the day out in Incheon. I'm slowly getting to know a portion of the foreign community that I feel I will kind of settle in with eventually, which is a nice feeling. I'm getting my Korean studying organized again for a major revamp, and getting myself settled into a number of other personal projects I've been looking forward to for a while, as well. I'm beginning to build myself a daily routine that doesn't mostly feel like pacing around, trying to figure out what I should be doing, until everyone else finishes work. <br />
<br />
B and I are also adjusting. Finding a balance between spending time together and having enough time on our own to do our own things, when huge portions of all of our time is spent under the same roof. I have to say, although we thought the amount of space we ended up with in the new apartment was a bit ridiculous at the time (three bedrooms), it's helped a lot in that regard. There's no bickering over differing agendas, since we both have our own "rooms" to use. If the basketball comes on the tv, I can just head to my room to pull up in my arm chair and read a book. Doors are almost always open, but they can be closed, when they need to be.<br />
<br />
There have been a few domestic squabbles, mostly due to differing concepts of "private" and "public", so to speak. For instance, I would prefer it if when B digs into the loaf of pumpkin bread I've made, he does not use his bare hands. I may want to eat some of that later, and I would prefer if it didn't look as though a rabid animal had gotten to it first -- use a fucking knife. Also, please do not put leftover food into the refrigerator in the container it was formerly being consumed out of, without any kind of cover. Please. <i>Please</i>. We have foil, plastic wrap and Tupperware overflowing from the cabinets. Choose one. You may not mind consuming food that's been, essentially, left sitting exposed to the elements for 24 hours, but I do. For his part, B's made it clear that demands of this type make me a "perfectionist -- let's live a relaxed life!"<br />
<br />
On the other hand, when I settle in to read a book and finish the last bit of a bottle of wine that I bought, I'm having a hard time watching him swoop in and empty the remaining portion into his own glass. B's perspective: "There is no 'your' and 'my' -- there is only 'ours'!" Funny how often 'ours' consists of whatever I currently have in my hands. That wine sat there for a week without any interest from him. He brought home a new bottle of wine after work on Friday night, and then got very offended when I told him I wasn't really in the mood for wine. He sulked a bit as he poured his own glass, and then proceeded to carry on for fifteen minutes about how delicious it was, and how much I was missing out. He didn't even finish the glass. The bottle is still sitting, mostly full, on the counter, where I'm sure it will remain until I try to pour a glass and his interest in it suddenly returns.<br />
<br />
It's all good, really. Life is soldiering on, and what's mostly dawning on me at the moment, is what a truly malleable thing it can be, when you have the right combination of opportunity and initiative. There was a truly exhausting conversation over on that other website this past week about ESL teachers being "trapped" in Korea. But I've been far more trapped in far worse circumstances in the past then just a job I really loved with coworkers I really, really did not. And trapped is not something I generally settle for. The conclusion I came to in an unrelated conversation with B earlier this week is that 'fine' is not really what I'm looking for out of life -- I would like to have much, much more than fine. But more than fine only comes when you're willing to put in the work and energy and sometimes time spent in very un-fine circumstances to get there.<br />
<br />
So, the un-fine circumstances are behind me, and now it's time for me to spend some time opening my eyes to what opportunities there are, and doing whatever work I need to do to take advantage of them. To me, the most extraordinary life is one that consists of acquiring -- not things or money, but experiences and knowledge. And now, it's just up to me, and that good old fashioned Protestant work ethic, to take things from 'fine' to better than.I'm no Picassohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06516337555349888808noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21444271.post-52619643240541456332013-10-08T10:53:00.000+09:002013-10-08T10:54:32.658+09:00Untitled.Look, I know I'm slacking on the blogging again. The truth is, between doing all the website/email related stuff for the journal, while at the same time finishing all the editing and page design for the kids' newspaper at work, I really don't want to spend too much more of my time looking at a computer screen. I even left the damn thing at the new place when I came back to Incheon for work this week because I don't even want to be tempted to look at it once I get home from work in the afternoons. Which means the Incheon apartment is pretty much just me, a bed, a cooking pot, one pair of chopsticks...<br />
<br />
It's just not worth writing about. But by this time next week, I'll officially be finished with work. And set free out into the wide world, with nothing but time.<br />
<br />
So hang in there. I guess. <br />
<br />
<br />I'm no Picassohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06516337555349888808noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21444271.post-45824606944465466342013-09-25T21:29:00.002+09:002013-09-25T21:35:39.050+09:00IQ update.In case the title hasn't tipped you off, I'm getting ready to chatter on about the journal for a minute, so if you're bored by that... you don't need to read this. Obviously.<br />
<br />
We're getting ready to put the first issue of <i>IQ</i> to bed this coming week, and it's been an interesting first run. The fiction editor and I come from fairly different literary backgrounds, and it's been a lot of fun hashing out submissions with her. I'm hoping that as some of the work is now out there, to give a kind of shape to the thing, the submissions will become more targeted, but I also know that we won't be able to rely on our initial boom of interest for the second time around. There's a reason why they say making it to the third issue is the time to start breathing more easily.<br />
<br />
We're in the process now of trying to find more people we'd like to solicit work from, to kind of curate more of the direction we'd like go in. I also don't have the right to be disappointed in the lack of submissions from Koreans this time around, as I've been too preoccupied with the move and work to really sit down and put in the effort to get the word out in Korean. I'm hoping to work on that during my months of work-free, school-free time before the next issue comes out.<br />
<br />
One thing we're really struggling with is getting any kind of even gender distribution. I've had to kind of patch together a lot of the publishing schedule on the fly this time around, just to even manage to get two female names on the list. I'm really hoping that the submissions from women pick up at some point. It's kind of inexcusable for a journal run primarily by two female editors to be cranking out nearly all-male content. I know that's a point of contention for a lot of people, but I want to make it clear that we are not prioritizing female contributors over male -- simply, we would like to be able to organize the pieces we accept to not end up with all-male issues. But it's been a challenge.<br />
<br />
As it stands, we've got the rest of the first issue in order, and even some things filed away for the second, and a couple of interesting solicitations out there as well. But we had a somewhat serious conversation about some decisions we're going to have to make, as editors, in regards to content. Namely, should we lower our expectations a bit and accept more work that isn't quite matched to what we're hoping to make? Or do we compromise the desire to keep the journal as mostly Korea-based or related? Or do we figure something else out?<br />
<br />
Something I'd really hoped for was for the journal to be more than just a platform for publishing creative work from the community -- to hopefully, eventually, also serve as a resource for seeking out creative spaces, events and people in the arts. The whole driving desire behind it is to try to contribute to the English language creative community here, and to hopefully try to help others, as well as ourselves, to connect to the arts here in English, and to each other.<br />
<br />
Originally, I had really hoped to keep the editors out of things, as far as contributions go. One thing I absolutely will not compromise on is turning the website into some personal vanity project to publish our own creative work. I find it weird when people try to turn what is essentially a personal blog or website into a "publication". I already have more blogs than I can keep up with, frankly, and I'm not really interested in starting another one to showcase my own work under the guise of being an "editor". But I've been really surprised to see that we have received exactly zero submissions along the lines of reviews, articles or interviews. I had expected it to be a medium that people would feel more comfortable working in. But it hasn't turned out that way.<br />
<br />
I've led kind of a sheltered life in Korea, in terms of being a foreigner. Despite being a blogger, I've neglected, in a lot of ways -- although I don't know that "neglect" is quite the right word -- to reach out to the wider world of foreigners available to me. I don't have any issues, for example, with publications like <i>10mag</i> or <i>Groove</i>, or whatever, and there are a lot of blogs that I think I would really enjoy, if I could manage to keep up with them, but I just... don't. I rarely respond properly to solicitations I get through the blog, dropping balls left and right on things I'm asked to write or contribute to. I pass up invitations to events, preferring to hang out in the same neighborhood places with the same people doing the same things. People have to ask me two, four, ten times to meet up before I finally get around to it. I don't join 'groups'. I fucking hate Twitter. I find restaurants by walking down the street. But in the course of trying to get 'out there' more for this journal, I've come across some really amazing things that have been going on that I've had no idea about, mostly because I exist within a very small circle, foreigner-speaking, here.<br />
<br />
I think that's been mostly good for me, for the past five years. But I also think that it's time to get a little more dug in. I'm about to enter a whole new world in terms of my life here, as it is -- it's going to be unavoidable, soon enough. But I'd like to do what I can to really take advantage of that time.<br />
<br />
Y'all know me. INP is not the place you come to for travel photos, restaurant recommendations or to put your finger on the pulse of what's going on. This is a blog, in the classic sense -- it's always been a blog, and I reckon it always will be.<br />
<br />
But going forward with <i>IQ</i>, we've made a decision between us that if the information about what's going on in English in the arts won't come to us, then we will go to the information. I'm not trying to white knight about how we're going to be the next<i> SEOUL Magazine</i>, or anything like that. It'll be a humble effort, for sure -- in an email I received the other day from someone I've been talking to about an interview, the person mentioned "the media" and I had to laugh. Buddy, I ain't the media. And I don't intend to be. But I figure that something that gets me up off my ass and out into the wider world, building more connections with the people I occasionally whine about not having around, can only be beneficial, both personally and for the journal.<br />
<br />
And I'm excited. The mental list of things I've wanted to check out for a while has been lingering in the back of my mind and, even better, I now have valid excuse to approach people I have an interest in chewing the fat with and corner them into answering my questions. Hopefully over time, the momentum will build a bit and then I can just start checking the 'submissions' inbox for things to do with my weekend.<br />
<br />
Fuck. We'll see. Whatever.I'm no Picassohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06516337555349888808noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21444271.post-22726843043438331702013-09-24T22:09:00.003+09:002013-09-24T23:42:04.019+09:00Chuseok, the first. I'm really overdue for a post. I'm really overdue for a lot of things these days. But in a great way. I'm always busy, and at least half of the time, it's doing things I want to be doing. Not many folk can say that.<br />
<br />
First and foremost, I need to talk about Chuseok, which involved, yes, doing that thing I said (and B's mom said) I would never do until I was engaged -- going down to Busan to stay with the family for the holiday. I don't really feel like I have the time to give it the attention it properly deserves right now, but I'll try to get down the main events. Suffice it to say that his family is lovely, and even though I was a bit nervous for most of the three-night-four-day trip, I really couldn't have hoped for it to have gone better.<br />
<br />
Mom, little brother and B all claimed they were shocked by his father's behavior during my visit. They'd expected him to get a good gander, and then wander off to his room to close the door and ignore me. But it was quite the opposite. When he first arrived home for the evening, I had already posted myself at the kitchen sink to wash the endless dishes produced from Mama B's cooking, more out of nervousness than anything else. He muttered something to B in the saturi that I only thought I knew through B -- his parents, around each other especially, are so much worse -- and B laughed and called my name. I turned around -- I had only briefly stopped washing the dishes to bow and greet him when he came in, and he wanted to get a good look. I'm pretty, but a bit too tall. In case you were wondering.<br />
<br />
And then he did retire to his room. The next twenty minutes were a flurry of B being called back and forth, back and forth between his father's room and his mother in the kitchen, being told to do this or that, as well as being told numerous times to tell me to, for God's sake, stop doing the dishes and take a rest. Papa B was also taking the opportunity to ask a number of questions about me, until B finally got fed up and told him to come out and ask me himself whatever he wanted to know. At which point he fell quiet, and then told B to go fetch his comb so he could put on his wig before he came out.<br />
<br />
I had told B a long time ago that I thought I might get a kick out of his dad. B insisted that I would just hate him, but as it turned out, I found him to be, by far, the most amusing part of the trip. The wig was only the beginning.<br />
<br />
As soon as he emerged, I was summoned to the sofa to sit and have a chat. His first question: "I'm scary, aren't I?"<br />
<br />
He wasn't. At least probably not in the way he meant. But what is the right answer to that question? I titled my head a bit and said, "A little...." I was then ordered to his room to take a look at a huge photo of him from his youth when he was a pro boxer hanging on the wall. To drive home the point of how scary he was. Then, called back to the sofa, I was told that although he knows he can be scary, I shouldn't be afraid, because his heart is soft.<br />
<br />
I got back to the dishes as soon as I could. B handed out the gifts I brought for everyone, because I was too shy to do it. I really like giving gifts, but the actual moment of handing it over makes me feel uncomfortable somehow.<br />
<br />
After an incredible home-cooked dinner of beef ribs, Little Brother, B, myself and Mama B went out drinking at a neighborhood hof. Everybody arm wrestled. I only narrowly escaped having to wrestle Mama B. We met one of her old friends -- an unni who owned a 7080 hof and who was a bit odd, to be honest. Mama B, taking advantage of the rare opportunity to go out and drink as much as she wanted without Papa B getting irate, got a bit more than a bit drunk and starting waxing poetic about I don't even remember what. Eventually, exhausted, we made it back home.<br />
<br />
The next morning was charye, which was interesting for me, as it was my first time to see it. It was taken as a given that I would bow with the family. Before and afterwards, I hung around the kitchen trying to look for ways to be useful without getting in the way. Although Mama B stayed firmly in charge of the reins and all major tasks, I did at least manage to stay busy the entire time picking up what I could here and there. Eventually, everyone stopped barking at me to go sit down and just accepted that I was hellbent on being as helpful as I could. B, in the midst of being chewed out by both parents for "making" me do work, told them at one point to just give up -- that he could see, knowing me, that there wasn't any talking me out of it, and that I would feel too uncomfortable just sitting around while Mama B was doing all the work.<br />
<br />
After the meal, Papa B retired to his room again, but left the door open in order to be able to stay up to date with the goings-on and to shout out his own participation from time to time. Despite the fact that both brothers had been sort of piddling around at tasks ordered to them by the mother for most of the past two days, for whatever reason, when I told B to tell his mother we would do the dishes after the meal and to take a rest, Papa B suddenly got agitated and started shouting about how men don't do dishes, and how -- and this was apparently news to the entire family, and patently false -- they were descended from yangban stock, so it was even more shameful for a man of their family to do dishes. At which point howls of laughter poured out from three separate corners of the apartment. B shouted about being slaves. The family registry was produced. I was shown a photo of a shirtless, snarling ancestor with a beard and what appeared to be a sword on his back, which somehow made total sense. And who was not yangban.<br />
<br />
Afterwards, we spent five hours in nightmare traffic to get back to the ancestral gravesite in Papa B's hometown. Dark was falling as we climbed the mountain to do more praying and bowing. In the car on the way there and especially back, Papa B got so nostalgic and chatty that all three other members of the family spent most of the time not responding to him directly, but chortling and mocking about how noisy he was being, and what had come over him. He pointed out this spot where he had gone to school, that one where he had run a car off the road, and the other where his grandfather had lived. Mama B rolled down the window and cooed about the fresh country air. Papa B shouted out, "Smells like shit!" Later, when we rolled past a cattle farm and B announced the same sentiment in the same words, he got scolded by Papa B for using the word "shit" in front of a lady -- you should say it smells <i>that way</i>.<br />
<br />
We stopped in to Cheongsong on the way back to get baeksuk, which I was really excited about. Samgyetang is one of my favorite Korean foods, but I've never had baeksuk before. The mineral water tasted like shit. I mean, it was really shocking. And this is coming from a woman whose grandparents' farmhouse was run on sulfur water. To be frank, I felt like I was drinking blood. So did everyone else except Papa B who insisted it was the best ever, even as he cringed throwing it back.<br />
<br />
There was arm wrestling at the table. Again. The food was sublime.<br />
<br />
We got home just past midnight.<br />
<br />
The next day, Little Brother and B and I went out to see Haedong Yonggungsa, which was stupid crowded beyond belief. But beautiful. We had ice cream and then were summoned to a massive, lush beef restaurant on the other side of town for Papa B's treat at lunch. It was insane. I don't even want to think about how much money it cost. Everyone was shocked that he would go to such efforts, and I was very touched by it, because it reminds me of precisely the kind of stoic move a man in my own family would make to show his acceptance or kindness. He gave another brief speech about how he may not seem that kind on the surface, but how he wanted me to know that he would be kind to me. And then he cleared his throat, and promptly left us all sitting at the table to go outside and have a smoke.<br />
<br />
The beef killed us. It was awful, in the best kind of way. It just kept coming. I bowed out on round three, and it was up to the boys to get through the last two on their own, which Papa B ordered discretely on his way out and had sent over to the table in a sneak attack.<br />
<br />
After lunch, Little Brother and B took me to their old neighborhood and showed me the house they grew up in. I knew it was humble, from B's descriptions, but I wasn't expecting what I saw. It was little more than a shack down in a little crevice by a creek, half fallen down by now. The two brothers got reminiscing about the old days, and the mice, and how it was hard, and embarrassing, but they were happy.<br />
<br />
B and I went out that night to meet B's oldest friend, a real strange guy who I like very much, despite his sometimes off color behavior. He's always very sweet to me and I think we bored B a bit with our chattiness.<br />
<br />
The next day, when it was time to say goodbye, I got only about halfway through my thank you and I'm so happy to have met you speech to B's father, before he cleared his throat, waved his hand and went off to his room to close the door. B's mother took both my hands and very nearly hugged me (something B claims she never does). She sent us back with bags and bags full of stuff, and staunchly warned me to make sure B kept up with it all, because he left five bottles of expensive shampoo on the bus last time. There was an endless parade of arguing over all the things she kept trying to shove in my and B's hands, and finally we were off.<br />
<br />
Once back up to Seoul, I quickly ran back to the apartment to shower and get dressed to go out for a friend's birthday party in Gangnam. It was nice to be back home, and to put the whole thing behind me, but it was also nice to be back home and to feel like, for the first time in Korea, I have a real family waiting for me down south anytime I need a home-cooked meal, a bottle of milk in the morning, and an almost-hug.I'm no Picassohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06516337555349888808noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21444271.post-13899420173176789392013-09-09T20:10:00.000+09:002013-09-09T21:53:45.545+09:00"I'm hungry.": The declaration that launched a thousand feelings. As sometimes happens in life, this weekend (and over the course of the last couple of weeks, in fact) I found myself thinking on some things, and then, this afternoon, a link popped up on one of my social networking accounts to<a href="http://groovekorea.com/article/fear-becoming-housewife"> this article</a> from <i>Groove, </i>which runs a weird parallel to some of the things B and I have been dealing with lately.<br />
<br />
Only a parallel, though, and not the exact same line.<br />
<br />
A long while back, when B and I were first discussing moving in together, we had a conversation while out for a walk on a winter day, about all the various things we were scared of, when it came to moving in together. I've often thought that it's lucky that B and I are usually on the same page with commitment type things, because otherwise, there'd be a lot more hurt feelings. I think the adjustment to coming around to living together has been made a lot easier by the fact that we both feel we can be completely honest about our doubts and hesitations, without worrying about the other party taking it personally. We both get it -- it's a big step, one that neither of us has felt inclined to ever take before, and it's going to mean a lot of good, new things, but it is also going to mean letting go of a few things in the process.<br />
<br />
Anyway, back to the walk -- I confided that one of my biggest fears was that I would end up taking on the brunt of the household duties. That I was worried about the time demand of grocery shopping, cooking and cleaning for two. Or at the very least, probably, one and a half. B vehemently denied the possibility that anything like that would happen -- he had been living on his own and taking care of himself for several years. He was adjusted to not relying on his mother to do everything for him. I warned him at the time that I knew how these things worked, that it wasn't so easy for a man who had been raised in a certain kind of environment, no matter how adjusted he was to taking care of himself, not to revert back to old ways once there was a woman in the house again.<br />
<br />
What I hadn't realized at the time is something that has only just fully dawned on me in the past few weeks, which is that I, too, have my own cultural baggage with regards to a woman's place in the home.<br />
<br />
Unlike the author of the<i> Groove</i> article, I was raised in a home that ran very similarly to the way a more traditional Korean home is run. It's not a cultural difference that B and I have to surmount, but rather a cultural similarity we're both going to have to work together to overcome.<br />
<br />
The 'epiphany' moment for me, with this, came a few weekends back, while in the midst of packing, off loading more stuff, finishing up the ordering, installing and assembly of the new apartment's dressings, arranging for a mover, and just after the stress of having orchestrated two out-of-town trips, largely in a foreign language. Work stress. Stress from the new journal. The mounting stress of applying to, paying for and planning around school. My plate has been very full for going nigh on a year, now.<br />
<br />
I had already been on B's case for a couple of weeks, especially in regards to the furniture for the new place and our trip down south. B has a bad habit, which he readily admits, of somehow figuring that because I'm pushing him to help me get something done, that I'm absolutely gungho about doing it myself. Not so. I just see that certain things need to be done and, despite not really looking forward to doing them, myself, I don't see the point in putting them off. Then starts the nagging. And in the process, I have to remind him what seems to me to be approximately a million times, that I don't want to be doing this either. But it has to be done.<br />
<br />
It drives me nuts. It drives him nuts, too. But naturally, I feel I am in the right.<br />
<br />
There's an added level to this ordinary couple-style bickering, as well, which comes down to the fact that doing anything in Korean, or on Korean websites, for me is a lot harder than it is for him. And there had been some built-up tension over that, as well. Some of it self-hating, on my part. I hate that certain things we both should be helping with are easier for him, and I hate that I haven't gotten to the point where they are as easy for me. I hate feeling resentment for it when, not only am I trying to book our trains and hotels alone, I'm also doing it in a language that he speaks natively and I speak haphazardly.<br />
<br />
In some ways, it's good for me, because I do worry at times that having B on hand has hampered my progression in the realm of independence in this country. I don't want to get too comfortable with asking him to do things for me, rather than figuring out how to take care of them myself. Even if there are language issues, and even if it is an entire system that is new to me and different from the way things are done in my home country. I think it's obvious enough at this point that self-pride is a big part of the issue, on both sides.<br />
<br />
But the fact is, I also don't want to allow him to settle into complacency and the idea that if he doesn't want to do something, and he can come up with enough ways to make it difficult for me to get him to help, he can get out of doing them. I don't want a partnership like that. It makes me unhappy, bottom line. And if something is making you unhappy, you have an obligation to the relationship to speak up about it.<br />
<br />
So, we'd been dealing with all of this. And on one bright, sunny Saturday morning, when I had been sitting out at the kitchen table trying to get one or another task accomplished for a couple of hours already, he came sauntering out of the bedroom having just woken up and said, simply, "I'm hungry."<br />
<br />
And I more or less lost it. And by "lost it", I mean, I turned completely cold and quiet. Which is what tends to happen when something has made me completely furious, and I have no idea why. So B sat there reading the mood and trying not to make any sudden moves, as I frantically replayed the entire situation in my head again and again, trying to figure out why I was suddenly so angry.<br />
<br />
What it came down to, after a little gathering of my thoughts and emotions on my part, and after a little while of talking it over together, was that, in the end, it didn't matter what the intention behind the "I'm hungry" announcement was. It didn't matter if he was just informing me of a fact, or, as I strongly suspected, letting me know that he had an expectation for me to meet, because the end result was the same -- I felt responsible.<br />
<br />
This is going to be hard for feminists who were raised in a different kind of household to understand, perhaps. I think for some women it's difficult to grasp how certain sexist ideas are built into not only your family structure, but also your idea of loving and caring for other people.<br />
<br />
My female role models growing up were three strong women who would stop at nothing to protect and care for their families. They didn't take nothing from nobody, in a lot of ways, but they also had a lot of pride in what it meant to be the woman of the house. And, in my mind, rightly so. It's difficult for me to articulate, but to them, taking their humble resources and creating a clean, comfortable home and a satisfying meal was no less warrior-like than being willing to defend your family with your fists. They fought hard against their circumstances to do the best for their families, in the same way that the men did, in their own ways -- all three eventually, in fact, stepping into the men's shoes themselves, and handling both roles at once. But not one of them ever abandoning their notion of what their primary role was.<br />
<br />
But, here's the thing. In my home, although the woman's station might ultimately be placed below the man's (and it often was), the role of homemaking was never placed below that of providing, monetarily. Although I was taught all kinds of garbage about being submissive, and the man being the head of the household, I never once in my life remember a single member of the family, male or female, speaking disparagingly of the traditional female responsibilities. Homemaking was something to be proud of, and it was considered to be hard work worthy of praise and gratitude. The problem was the overwhelming emphasis on who was to be responsible for all of that hard work.<br />
<br />
So I have a new, weird and conflicting inner battle to wage, as I move closer and closer to being the woman of a house. I can't help it -- it's in my bones. I feel proud of taking care of my home. I feel proud of preparing food to nourish the people around me. When my mother took a part time job, and started taking night courses at the local college when I was in the second grade, I was given a kind of talk that many men may relate to, something along the lines of that speech you've seen so often in movies, about how 'you're the man of the house, now,' only mine involved laundry, dishes and preparing food. And I realize how that may sound, but all I can tell you is that it felt differently than you might think. It felt like a promotion, like an entrusted and important role, just as much as it felt like an unfair burden when there was still a perfectly capable adult man at home in the evenings (my father).<br />
<br />
When B says, "I'm hungry," I hear a lot of things. I hear, "I expect you to do the thing that women are supposed to do, regardless of the fact that I'm perfectly capable of doing it myself." I also hear, "I'm in need. Take care of me." And at the moment, I'm in the process of figuring out what those conflicting messages mean for me, personally.<br />
<br />
In the meantime, after our talk, B has agreed to understand that I have a job. That I have career aspirations that are in full swing. That I am, ultimately, another fellow adult with a lot of responsibilities and my own shit to worry about. That, as much as I would love to follow his original suggestion to 'just tell [him] no', it's not that simple for me. That just the words hanging in the air make me feel a long lineage of filial and feminine obligation. That my intellectual ideas and the things that are ingrained into my psyche don't always match up so cleanly. And that sometimes, when he feels hungry, he might also consider that maybe I'm hungry, too. And fucking cook something. For both of us. I'm no Picassohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06516337555349888808noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21444271.post-73990444201567354782013-08-29T21:59:00.001+09:002013-08-29T23:06:44.652+09:00Pop songs and the love I have. I've been so wrapped up in the future lately that I haven't been giving a lot of attention to my present. But today we had our English pop song competition at school, and it was the best time I've had -- not just at work, but anywhere -- in a long while. And so I thought, how 'bout an INP throwback post? The way I used to blog: about my kids.<br />
<br />
I've been working really closely with these guys for the entire year, as most of them have joined the English club and the newspaper class. There are the two hours a week we meet regularly, and then there are all of the other hours -- during lunch, break times, before and after school, which we've spent editing articles, practicing speeches and songs, and working on their reading comprehension, whenever they have the time to stop by, and all of the evening, weekend and vacation emails we've exchanged in the meantime. They've all worked so hard. Most of them want to attend a foreign high school, but several of them don't have the finances to go to English academy, so they've taken full advantage of the open door policy to come in and get as much help as they can. I'd say on average, I've been spending between six to eight hours with them each week. And it has been the most rewarding work I've done, since I've become a teacher. Watching them go from turning red and barely able to mutter a full sentence when I approached them, sitting with a white sheet of paper in front of them for forty-five minutes at a time, without the courage to write down a single sentence.<br />
<br />
It was a struggle at first, because they are all type A personalities, and they don't like to make mistakes. We ground through the first couple of writing assignments, with them stopping every three words to check in with me about something they were unsure about. But I kept pushing them -- you don't need an answer right now. Just write. We will fix it later. Trust me to understand you, even if you're not perfect, and trust yourself enough to believe that you can make yourself understood, even if you make some mistakes.<br />
<br />
This week, three of them came in after school to sit at my office table and work on their final article. I sat beside them the entire time, and every now and then one would stop and ask a question. But for the most part, within the space of an hour and a half, they all put down an entire page of writing.<br />
<br />
They ask me questions now, without feeling too self-conscious about whether or not what they're saying out loud is perfect. They speak to each other in English without feeling embarrassed, just because. In short, they are evidence of what a group of young people are able to do, when given the opportunity and the resources.<br />
<br />
Today, to start with, there was Yeongwoo. Yeongwoo is the little brother of another very sweet student I had two years ago. Yeongwoo is one of those ones who just feels like an adult, already. He's a kid, but he's smart, he's mature and he's responsible. No one ever has to tell Yeongwoo what he should be doing. His brother was the same way.<br />
<br />
He came to camp this past month, and during the camp, I taught "Count On Me" by Bruno Mars. It's a bit fast, but the lyrics are simple enough for the students to understand with a little explanation, and it's a catchy tune right in line with what the older students like these days. When Yeongwoo took the stage with his guitar, which I didn't even know he played, he started by saying in English that before he started he wanted to say that he was dedicating his song to Liz Teacher. He sang the song we had gone through, word by word, the month before. It's only the second time I've ever had someone play a song for me, and the other time was a beardy redheaded metal singer in a Glaswegian pub -- Britney Spears, "Baby One More Time". It was quite a different experience, this time around. For one thing, I didn't wind up cornered in the bathroom by a couple of rough looking groupies giving me the third degree about who I was to Yeongwoo.<br />
<br />
Yeongwoo is the kind of kid it'd make you cry to say goodbye to. I'll leave it at that.<br />
<br />
Next up was supposed to be Minho, but Minho wasn't ready. I'm not sure what's up with Minho and these activities. Minho's smart as a fucking whip -- genuinely, and without trying. But the "without trying" part is key -- Minho's got a bit of an attitude issue these days. He's alright if you get to know him well enough one on one, and he'll never give you shit if he respects you. But he's just not feeling the whole try hard angle at the moment. I don't know if Mom puts him up to this shit, or what. But Minho wasn't ready, because he didn't have the lyrics to his song down, so we moved on to two second graders who did a great job with "Let It Be", and from there on to Gyu-in and Yeongseok.<br />
<br />
Gyu-in. Let me put it this way: Gyu-in is the president of the environmental club. And whatever you picture when you imagine the president of the environmental club, that's what Gyu-in is. He was my biggest challenge when we started out, because he just got so uncomfortable every time I tried to speak to him one on one. He could have understood me if he had calmed down, but he never would. But he's fine now.<br />
<br />
So. They take the stage. Gyu-in breathes in deeply and pulls at his collar. He looks like he's hyperventilating a little. He and Yeongseok exchange a nervous smile. And this song starts to play over the speakers:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/Vysgv7qVYTo?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
<br />
And Gyu-in. Fucking. Busts a move. Understand? I mean he busts it out. Full on Hongdae club style. I could not believe my fucking eyes. You think you know a kid. And, I'm not fucking kidding, this kid, with his partner slowly withering and backing away beside him, steps forward and shouts out for the room full of 20 students and teachers to put their hands in the air and leads them in the final chorus of the song.<br />
<br />
It weren't the best of the day. But it was my personal favorite. I'll never look at Gyu-in the same. Unfortunately, the aviators he brought along for the performance didn't make it on stage, because the other kids told him he looked like a taxi driver. I can only imagine how fucking epic that would have been.<br />
<br />
Next up was Jihoon, who has been a darling of mine since he was a first grader, and Yongseong, who is the most easily misunderstood of the bunch,besides maybe Minho. Jihoon, I don't know what to say about him. He's got a sweet freckled face, he works diligently at absolutely every task set in front of him (including helping his parents run their meat restaurant after school), he's a bit bashful, but loud as all hell when he's with his friends. He does things because they should be done, and not because anybody told him to, or because there's any credit or reward. He gives a hell of a speech, when it's just me and him. But he shrinks in front of a crowd. He reminds me a lot of myself at his age, except he is more adventurous, more willing to put himself out there and go for what he wants. It's not that he believes in himself, exactly, so much as he sees every opportunity as one he deserves to take. Jihoon is the one I have to be most careful about, because any slight correction is taken deep inside himself, where he keeps it to continuously mull over and over. The look that crosses his face when this happens is one of the most heart-breaking things I've ever seen. Nobody will ever be as hard on Jihoon as he is on himself.<br />
<br />
Yongseong is an anomaly in my time as a teacher. I've never seen another kid quite like him. On the surface, Yongseong seems sarcastic, irritable and above it all. He sits back in his chair, sighs often, and is one of the rare students I've ever seen roll eyes. But it is only an appearance -- it's not even an attitude. His posture and demeanor completely belie what's going on inside. In reality, he is sweet and genuine, and painfully eager for praise. He's shy. He'd rather die than put anybody out. He's a touch awkward. He's been one of the most touching parts of this whole experience. During vacation, I let the kids know I'd be at the school for the two weeks during camps, and free in the afternoons, so if they called ahead, I'd be happy to coach them through their speeches for the speech competition we had last week. Yongseong sent a message one night, and came up the day after. He brought a vitamin drink. He sat quietly, awkwardly, in the chair beside me. And when I prompted him to begin talking through his speech, so I could give correction, he turned red and looked down. "Do you want me to read it first, and you can follow me?" He nodded.<br />
<br />
Two days later, I came out of the camp classroom to grab something from my office just in time to catch the back of Yongseong speeding down the hallway away from me. He hadn't wanted to send a message to come again, because he knew, in part, I was staying late just for him, so he had decided to take his chances by just dropping by. When he saw I was in classes, rather than interrupting, he tried to just run off.<br />
<br />
That's Yongseong.<br />
<br />
They sang "Way Back into Love", and although I had sat in on their practice the day before, in which Jihoon totally dominated, he fell back on stage and was barely audible. I wanted to go up on stage and shake him -- he did the same exact thing during the speech contest last week. Yongseong, on the other hand, lost a bit of his street cred today. He sang the love ballad with genuine heart.<br />
<br />
Then there was Minho. Minho was finally ready. He was going to sing "You Lift Me Up", which they've been working on in their music class for the last couple of months (minimal effort -- comically dramatic). His friend stood behind him on the stage holding up a piece of A4 paper with a mountain scenery sketched across it in colored pencil. The painfully long musical intro started, and Minho stood poised, with his hands clasped in front of him, and his chin in the air.<br />
<br />
The part where the singing should have started came and went, and Minho remained unmoving in his pose. The mountain scenery wearing gym shorts danced back and forth across the stage behind him. Slowly, sniggers started to spread across the room. "시작했...어요?" Minho's nose crinkled up into his forehead in the way that it does when he's confused.<br />
<br />
New HT restarted the music. Minho took up his pose. New HT cued him. He glanced casually around the room, and then started to hum. After a few dozen seconds, during which the sniggering became full blown laughter, he shouted out that he needed the lyrics and dashed off the stage.<br />
<br />
Take three. Same pose. The music started. He missed the cue. He sang a bar or two, did a deep bow, said thank you and took his seat. Someone shouted out from the back, "개그콘서트네!"<br />
<br />
I'm not even really sure if he was joking or not. That's Minho.<br />
<br />
And finally, Honggyu and Minjae. They're not English club students. They're in the school band. But Minjae lived abroad when he was younger, so his English is some of the best in the school. Honggyu -- I've never seen him a day without his guitar, since he was a first grader. Honggyu is never wearing his uniform -- he is always, always in his gym clothes. He has a round face and a confident demeanor. He doesn't speak English well, but he never sweats it when I speak to him. Minjae is like an ajeosshi stuck in a teenager's body, and he has been since he was in the first grade. He's unflappable. He smiles easily, and chuckles often, but never gets excited or upset about anything. Honggyu has a new, sky blue guitar. He sits with one foot up on his knee, leaning back and tapping his other foot, totally at ease. The guitar is just another limb by now.<br />
<br />
They sing "All About You" by McFly, which I have never heard before. They do the harmonies, the whistling, the whole lot. It's brilliant. And Honggyu, who doesn't speak much English, has spent so much time over the years singing English pop songs, that his pronunciation comes out perfectly. Everybody instantly knows they've won, but nobody is upset. They're all busy enjoying the music.<br />
<br />
And I realize, in that moment, that I'm never going to get this time back. I'm never going to feel the exact same way, in any situation in the future, that I do watching these kids. Even if I have my own kids someday, it won't be like this. To have popped into their lives at a such an awkward stage, to never have spoken to them in their native language (although they speak to me in it, plenty), to see them, at most, a few hours a week for three years. But to love them so much. I'll be lucky if three of them remember my name in a few years, but they'll never know, unless they become teachers some day, how much of my life has been made up of them. How important they have been to me. How many hard days they've gotten me through (at least as many as they've given me), how connected to this country they've made me feel, and how much I'm going to miss them.<br />
<br />
<br />I'm no Picassohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06516337555349888808noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21444271.post-66428646895150531992013-08-16T23:07:00.002+09:002013-08-16T23:07:40.143+09:00The journal, the apartment, the evil submissions -- the end in sight. Now that we got the bitchy post out of the way (although there is at least one more partially bitchy post coming, about grown men starting fights on boats -- look forward to that! -- am I the only one who has vacations like this?), maybe a bit of a general update might be in order.<br />
<br />
I had quite a busy vacation this time around, compared to what I usually manage with my in-country off days, which I guess is fitting, because life is pretty busy at the moment. I knew if I didn't get some time out of my apartment(s) and out of Seoul/Incheon, I was going to have some kind of a mental breakdown in the coming months, when it starts to be business time with making the full transition over from being an EFL teacher to being a... whatever I'm becoming. I feel like I've been steadily preparing for months, in all kinds of ways, and I'm glad that I have, because now, as we near the zero hour, I realize how much more I have to do. Despite feeling overwhelmed by it all, however, I cleared out enough time in my schedule for two trips away this time. The other one was where the boat fighting happened, but that's another post.<br />
<br />
After (and in between) those trips, I got IQ officially up and running with our first content, and a whole new site design (<a href="http://imminentquarterly.com/">go check it out</a>). Although I was pleased with myself in general for making a website merely happen the first time around (website design -- a skill my professors deemed necessary enough of writers to insist on an entire mandatory course in the subject while I was at school -- was the only course I had to beg my friends to assist me with), I knew the design was a bit crap. But I was prepared to live with it, because I figured a. it was the best I could manage and b. most lit. journal website designs are crap, because I don't think writers are very good at it in general. Some of the best, most established journals in the US have some of the most terrible websites I've ever seen (not counting some of the Korean sites I've had the misfortune of having to navigate). It's just the way it works. But I was relieved when an old acquaintance from university who is running a small press, and who is similarly tech-disabled, got in touch to let me know about another service that makes things a hell of a lot easier -- Squarespace. It's a bit pricey, but for all the headache it will save me with getting things organized and up on the site properly, I think it's well worth it.<br />
<br />
So there was that. And on the subject of <i>IQ</i>, it's been really touching to see how many messages and emails have poured in from people saying that they are so happy to finally see something like this emerging in S. Korea. We are still, honestly, struggling a bit with submissions, which is surprising to me, considering how many hits the website itself is getting -- far more interest than I ever expected. But I think we might make it. The first issue is always the most dangerous, but they say if you can make it past issue three, you'll be alright. I guess we'll see, come this time next year, if we've managed to stay afloat.<br />
<br />
I also managed to get the last of our furniture ordered, put together, stained, painted and varnished in the new place. We're still waiting on our TV console, which for some inexplicable reason needs three months from ordering time to arrive, but the new place is finally feeling like a functional home.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWMs1D8nVsS7wF98TTrmC8jG-fNRjMOoymJu-8TtQCeLqEBfMRjJ7xPnlh8mwCj3onrh2zpbEE6xxKtOkYkJXTt7I8zMEE7fUURuGD7Qdm8QwKEN8R_QorrriZndxsYbZlmw-Xtg/s1600/1146563_757373485475_1952774471_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWMs1D8nVsS7wF98TTrmC8jG-fNRjMOoymJu-8TtQCeLqEBfMRjJ7xPnlh8mwCj3onrh2zpbEE6xxKtOkYkJXTt7I8zMEE7fUURuGD7Qdm8QwKEN8R_QorrriZndxsYbZlmw-Xtg/s400/1146563_757373485475_1952774471_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX69mjUevtS7FnucqpAUYhcOQwxmT8aPgrmPiauHMfzOATFEK0QlWJfBRoaYUY1W-i9qMum6Z-iOomlhygZl8su52Y0C_c9jtBYFW8gaYUtJQGmx_-h2zGplYLfhtDBpHFcU4AYg/s1600/1157741_757373505435_700510353_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX69mjUevtS7FnucqpAUYhcOQwxmT8aPgrmPiauHMfzOATFEK0QlWJfBRoaYUY1W-i9qMum6Z-iOomlhygZl8su52Y0C_c9jtBYFW8gaYUtJQGmx_-h2zGplYLfhtDBpHFcU4AYg/s640/1157741_757373505435_700510353_n.jpg" width="384" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivjXm4kNnUVuQOnLZMc7UfEOjBpQtCtzLzbYbyKgiNbYWPJ9H-ByKW_2-WcERjtzkDtfpQfxYyAi5BrncuE4_kEF5mlyGmtLUKeTyqEaZp-GcXTrrJD_Qxdtyq5NqY7Y3ElnunLQ/s1600/1002758_745409875645_1715317972_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivjXm4kNnUVuQOnLZMc7UfEOjBpQtCtzLzbYbyKgiNbYWPJ9H-ByKW_2-WcERjtzkDtfpQfxYyAi5BrncuE4_kEF5mlyGmtLUKeTyqEaZp-GcXTrrJD_Qxdtyq5NqY7Y3ElnunLQ/s400/1002758_745409875645_1715317972_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdidoHlTi3DgMC6Tv8Fv450p83MvPwCFf6_7ma6GrmrdUhNV8eRbXmlVZ6jpZqlK5eCKyUFX2NNDIcQZBWa-bdQBuLeT8YYUOhDQvEFmSIQ_NkjWQvggiisksPB3PFZjSs92fuzw/s1600/1010542_757373525395_558949309_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdidoHlTi3DgMC6Tv8Fv450p83MvPwCFf6_7ma6GrmrdUhNV8eRbXmlVZ6jpZqlK5eCKyUFX2NNDIcQZBWa-bdQBuLeT8YYUOhDQvEFmSIQ_NkjWQvggiisksPB3PFZjSs92fuzw/s400/1010542_757373525395_558949309_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
And now, I'm currently using this blog post as an excuse to further put off the one thing I didn't manage to cross off the to-do list for the past two weeks, which was to go through another round of submissions for the newly edited poems (which I never got around to doing the last time I said I was going to -- because it's awful). But I got a nice start going tonight, and <i>will</i> have it done by tomorrow.<br />
<br />
Next week, I have to apply for my first term of language school for after I return from Texas in January. I've been back and forth and back again about which school to choose. It's the usual conundrum -- Sogang, to fix my speaking, or Yonsei, to get ready for academic-level reading and writing, and to boost my TOPIK score? In the end, I've decided to go with Yonsei, if only to get my foot in the door at the school and to make it easier when it comes time to start working them over to get them to let me in to their Korean Lit. master's program. That was ultimately the deciding factor, as I would really like to get my speaking under control. But I guess I'm still banking on that coming with time.<br />
<br />
Today, two minutes before the clock turned over on quitting time, I had my schedule for the new semester placed into my hands. Across the top of each of the four weeks this time, instead of being labeled "Week 1", "Week 2", etc., they were merely labeled with the one or two weeks of dates during which I would be teaching them. Because there are only seven teaching weeks left.<br />
<br />
I guess this is happening.I'm no Picassohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06516337555349888808noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21444271.post-84727338181156046792013-08-16T13:38:00.001+09:002013-08-16T16:10:42.020+09:00Kanghwa-No.I should have been making updates all throughout vacation, because there are a lot of topics that I want to hit, as a result of the things that have gone on during this time. But you know, that's the thing about life and blogging. When you're living, you mostly don't have time to blog it.<br />
<br />
I guess I'll start with Kanghwado. This is not going to be an optimistic tale, my friends -- I'll warn your right up front. But it gets better after this one.<br />
<br />
Let me just start by saying, if it is within my power to prevent it, I will never go back to Kanghwado for the rest of the time I am alive and in control of my senses. I've been before, four or five times, but almost always accompanied by an older Korean male who owned a car. That might not sound like an important determining factor in whether or not you enjoy a place, but I assure you that it is. One of these other times, although accompanied by an older Korean male (B), we were left to our own devices with public transportation and finding our way around. That was the trip where several people refused to take photos of us when we politely asked, we got iced out on the beach, a handful of people were rude beyond all reason when asked for simple directions (including people whose fucking job it was to give directions), and we got called 양키놈 by an old crusty taxi driver for no apparent fucking reason.<br />
<br />
The time after that was when B and I went in the dead of winter, booking a nice-looking (and fucking expensive) pension ahead of time, only to find out when we got there that the photos on the website were completely fake -- rather than looking over a beautiful ocean view, we were able to glimpse a trash heap and a winter-dead mountain in the distance, the pension itself actually being a 20-30 min walk from the beach (or anything else). There was also no heat, and we spent the entire time wearing all of our clothes at once and huddling under the covers. <br />
<br />
I thought maybe these were just outliers, just a couple of bad trips. After this recent trip, however, I can say that Kanghwado is beyond all measure the absolute rudest place I have ever been in Korea, and possibly the world, save for Paris. And it's hard to imagine why when, after all, they are for most of the day the proud owners of a fucking enormous mud pit. I don't mean to be ugly about it, but let's be real -- it's not exactly one of the seven wonders of the world. No matter how "seaside" they would like their town to be, the sea is hardly fucking there.<br />
<br />
I won't get into all of the details, because I don't really feel like reliving it, to be honest, and a big part of the problem would have been solved if we had taken the 성수기 seriously, and booked ahead of time, instead of showing up to scope it out for ourselves (reasoning that it was a Wednesday -- there had to be something open). But after my last trip, you can't hardly blame me for being suspicious of online bookings and wanting to see a place in person before I paid any money for it.<br />
<br />
It took a while for one of us to say it. The friend I went with has been in Korea for six years, and we're both considered to be generally well adjusted to life here. One of our favorite subjects are all of the things that happen to foreigners here 'because they're foreigners'. Convenience store clerk is short with you? Because you're a foreigner. Taxi driver gives you shit about where you're going? Because you're a foreigner. Little old grandmother running a tiny restaurant speaks to you in 반말? Because you're a foreigner. Guy you had a date with doesn't call you back? Because you're a foreigner.<br />
<br />
I can't even think of the last time either one of us attributed something to being because we are foreigners, unless we were joking. Mostly because things usually either are because you're a foreigner, and obviously so (someone shouting English at you on the street, the butcher giving you a 3 thousand won discount on your chicken because you speak Korean well -- thanks, Butcher Ajeosshi! -- etc.), and therefore don't need that kind of commentary, or else they are just generally not because you're a foreigner, but rather because someone's being a dick. And most of the time they'd be a dick to a Korean person, too, although perhaps in a different way.<br />
<br />
However, I think it was around eight pm that evening, after 3 hours of hot and sweaty summer public transport, and nearly two hours of searching on foot for lodging while hulking around our bags, that one of us finally said it. And I think it was my friend who broke down first. And before she could even finish the sentence, I started to nod vigorously, in relief that one of us had finally let it out.<br />
<br />
I believe it was after the guy who quoted us a price of 200 thousand won for a basic minbak-style room, after the woman who told another woman to be quiet when she tried to direct us up the hill to a place she knew still had rooms open, after <i>two different men</i> asked if my friend and I were staying "alone together", and then did a disgusting pig laugh about what that implied, and just before the woman who told us her pension was so beautiful that of course she wouldn't have open rooms for months, because, look how beautiful my pension is! What are you even thinking trying to get a room here? Hahahaha!<br />
<br />
That last one, for the record, was not because we were foreigners. It was because that lady was a cunt. <br />
<br />
Story after story, incident after incident. In some regards, I get it. It's the high season. They can charge whatever they want to stragglers without reservations who are clearly desperate. They also get spooked by the idea of "dealing with" foreigners, aka dealing with English. But it's important to note the only time either one of us spoke even one word of English during all of this, was when the one lady told the other to be quiet about the open rooms, and I lost my shit and told my friend to pick up her bags and come on, because these people don't want us here (which severely embarrassed the lady who at that moment realized that I had understood the exchange).<br />
<br />
It just went on like that. For three days, it was that way.<br />
<br />
In between, there were two lovely minbak owners, some cutie pie kids hanging around to play with, two coffee shop owners who were first class (one grandpa and one ajumma), a kitten, a puppy, and some seriously good barbecuing.<br />
<br />
But then there were the ajummas at the minbak who used the opportunity of encountering Korean-speaking foreigners to grill us over how much money we make (which we were apparently lying about, because they know we make <i>much</i> more money than that) and what qualifications we have and why Koreans have to learn English (not something I'm in charge of, but a great issue to take up with both your government and your society), to then flip it and try to push us into teaching their children illegal privates, and to cackle in my friend's face about how she would never get married, according to her palm. They drunkenly crashed our final evening's dinner, which we had specifically moved away to a great distance, in order to avoid them. As we finally got tired of being fucking harassed on our vacation by people who had, frankly, no fucking business speaking to us in the first place, we gave up on our own evening out under the stars and went into our room and locked the door. And it was a good thing, as one of the ajummas (three sheets to the fucking wind) spend the next ten minutes banging on the door and shouting at us about going to noraebang.<br />
<br />
Unbelievable. Guess where that bunch were from?<br />
<br />
And maybe that's the issue: Kanghwado is where Incheon goes to vacation. Maybe Kanghwado is where Incheon comes from. I don't know. All I know is, it was by far one of the worst experiences traveling I have ever had. The only thing we could manage to say to each other throughout this trip, while enduring these situations, was that we didn't even feel like we were still in Korea. We had never, ever been treated this way by Koreans before. We had never been made to feel this unwelcome in Korea before -- I mean, actively un-welcomed. Not like the foreigners who get upset that their co-workers don't throw confetti and blow a horn every time they walk into the office and not even the way that you do when someone shouts remedial English in your face when you've spoken to them in clear, adult Korean, but some real fucking foreigner-go-home type shit. Some real hillbilly stuff. <br />
<br />
After all was said and done, we were standing, sunburnt and bug-bitten, soaked in sweat, at the bus stop for the final bus back to civilization. It comes once an hour. It was the heat of the day. We'd been on three buses and a ferry already. We were beyond done with this trip. We were standing, waiting for that bus with the very last bit of sanity we had in us. We were still holding it together, but barely. The bus was five minutes out. It was almost over, and soon we could stop being fake-positive and just admit out loud how bad it had been. And then a family got out of a car at a restaurant across the street. The little girl spotted us on the other side of the trafficless road, and pointed, tugging on her mother's shirt. And this full grown bitch setting an example for her child threw back her head and guffawed. I mean, she shrieked with laughter. She pointed and she heaved and she fucking laughed. Looking us dead in the eye. It was just the funniest fucking thing she had ever seen in her life, two foreigners waiting for a bus. And then she waddled her hillbilly ass into the restaurant, with her child who she's in charge of raising to behave like a human being right behind her. And at that moment, we both knew we would never, ever go back to Kanghwado. I'm no Picassohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06516337555349888808noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21444271.post-14969671593654745962013-07-29T23:30:00.000+09:002013-07-29T23:37:36.084+09:00This summer. As someone in the comments pointed out, it has indeed been a while since I've updated. I'd like to say, no drama, all good. And it is, now. But we've had some things go on.<br />
<br />
First of all, as just a little followup on T-shirt-gate, when the principal required us all to put on our school t-shirts for a group photo on the last day of the semester (which New HT didn't tell me about, so even if I had kept the t-shirt... it would have been at home), the people in charge of the t-shirts put their skulls together and somehow, in the face of having to explain to the principal why I didn't have one, managed to produce a medium. Amazing, that. So I put on the t-shirt and took the photo and everyone was happy. I even got an apology off of one of the offending parties involved for not listening to my size the first time around. Of course, none of this would have ever happened if New HT had taken down my t-shirt order herself, as she had apparently been asked to do, in which case the teachers in charge of the issue would have never been having that conversation with me in the first place. But there you go.<br />
<br />
Speaking of that, camps started last week and when I went into the office I had, as has become usual since New HT has been on the scene, no schedule, no student list, no idea who was even showing up the first day. I had asked her to send me the student list and schedule the week before, but there was a virus attached that made it impossible to open, on my new computer, and therefore impossible to print out. New computer, you ask? Yes. Interesting side note about the virus: The previous week, on or around the same day I received and opened the file for the first time, I came back from lunch to a completely crashed hard drive, which meant all of my lesson plans (including all of my camp plans) were gone forever.<br />
<br />
So, at any rate, I set about getting all my shit together for the first day of camp and ran downstairs to the main office to bother some of my other co-teachers to see if they had the student lists for the camps for the respective grades (what I also didn't realize the previous week was that she had only sent one of the student lists -- there are two camps). They did. Lots of annoyed sighing was done about how New HT doesn't even have a homeroom class, so what is her fucking issue, etc. One of my co-teachers went off about how she should have had the lists and schedules printed and put in a file and handed them to me, that I shouldn't even be printing them off in the first place. I just laughed. It doesn't even phase me anymore. They printed the lists for me and I went back upstairs to send the kids a reminder message about camp start times. <br />
<br />
Fifteen minutes before class was due to start, New HT started sending me messages on Kakao about how she needed the student list in order the call the students and tell them that camp was starting, because she had forgotten to let them know the dates and times. I had no sooner checked the message than the phone on my desk rang, with her frantically squeaking down the line. I told her the file had a virus, she had only sent me one list anyway, and that I had already taken care of it, but I needed to get off the phone because class was starting in a matter of minutes.<br />
<br />
These are just the things that happened. I'm not rattled by them anymore. I take care of myself and do what I can not to let this woman get in my way. She's a waste of oxygen and everyone knows it, so why bother getting upset about it?<br />
<br />
I taught my first week of camp. The kids had a great time. I had a great time. It was all good.<br />
<br />
What was not good was coming home from work the Friday previous to realize my cat, Vera, was not in my apartment. My fourth floor apartment.<br />
<br />
There's a tiny window in the back of the laundry room that doesn't have a screen. It's the only possible way in or out of my place. She fell (or jumped) out. And there was no sign of her anywhere.<br />
<br />
I spent the entire week doing twice, thrice daily hour long searches of the entire neighborhood -- early in the morning before work, after work in the afternoon, in the wee hours of the morning when it's dark and quiet and cats tend to be out. I put up signs. I bothered the building ajeosshi in three different apartment complexes. I had countless conversations with curious and pitying neighbors. I probably got to know my neighbors better in that week than I have in the past five years living here, and to be fair, although it was a terrible experience all around, I've got some truly lovely neighbors. Even now, people who I don't even remember having spoken to are stopping me on the street to ask about my cat.<br />
<br />
Who I am happy to report is currently lazing at my feet.<br />
<br />
Around 12:30 am on Thursday night, after nearly a week of hot and sweaty desperate searching, I was woken out of a dead sleep by the sound of a cat. It was weird, because I don't even remember it clearly, and I'm not even really sure it happened -- that I didn't dream it. And although I was thinking the entire time, this is fucking ridiculous, I jumped out of bed, threw on some clothes and headed outside. I wandered around for about half an hour before realizing the lack of sleep over the past week had definitely gone to my head, and this was without a doubt the stupidest thing I could be doing at 1 am on a work night. I sat down on my stoop and did something I never, ever do anywhere near my home, because of students -- I lit a cigarette. And as I sat there, I was suddenly aware of a shape moving in the dark about two feet away. I looked down, and there she was staring up at me.<br />
<br />
I sat my ass on that stoop until just past three am waving dried squid around frantically, watching that cat circle me and cry, never coming close enough for me to grab her. And then I thought, this is it. She's home. She knows I'm here. She'll be here tomorrow. She just needs time. She's scared.<br />
<br />
Friday afternoon, as I walked up to my front door with arms full of groceries, her little head popped right out of the basement window directly below my building. A few more tries with the dried squid and she hopped right into my arms.<br />
<br />
Some other things have been going on. My ma's been in the hospital back home with some serious issues. My paternal grandparents were found in a bad state when my grandmother had a stroke and my grandfather couldn't remember what day it was. It's a complicated situation, and a long, long story, but he's dying. Maybe two to four weeks. My maternal grandmother found out she needs a major surgery.<br />
<br />
But this is life. And I feel my age more these days in how calmly I react to situations. You do what you need to do, you do what you can, and you find a way to live with the rest.<br />
<br />
Busan's mom came to visit this weekend. It was a lovely weekend. And this week marks the start of vacation, which will mean a quick trip out to Kanghwado with a friend, followed by a trip down to Heuksando and Hongdo with B. A few days left over here and there to get the rest of the furniture stained, painted and put together in the new place, maybe a rooftop garden started, maybe some visits to Seoul Art Cinema, or Book City and Heyri Art Village. Writing some poems, submitting some poems, launching the lit arts mag.<br />
<br />
And then four weeks until Chuseok, after which teaching becomes a thing that winds down and finishes.<br />
<br />
This summer, this year have been the oddest kind of short and long all at once. I said in a previous post that I feel like my life has gathered some kind of serious momentum, and I only feel that more and more with each passing day. There's a lot to do. Too much to do to keep getting pissed off when New HT behaves like New HT has always behaved. It's time to start looking at the bigger picture -- saying goodbye to my kids, this job, this neighborhood, and this part of my life in style.I'm no Picassohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06516337555349888808noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21444271.post-74621839780884903672013-07-17T18:16:00.002+09:002013-07-17T18:16:36.114+09:00T-Shirt-gate.Look. I mighta done wrong. I don't really know. All I know is, I done what I done.<br />
<br />
Last week. Lunch time. I get my tray. I have a seat. I mind my own business and eat my food. Not two bites in, and one of the school counselors leans over and very loudly shouts in my face, "T SHIRT SIZE? T SHIRT SIZE?"<br />
<br />
Now. Look. I get it. I know that just a few short years ago, I was grateful for the people who spoke to me in whatever English they had, because I needed it. But all I'm saying is 1. English does not need to be ten times louder than Korean and 2. I have spoken to you in Korean for over a year now. You have been in a teachers' class with me and watched me watch you all have very long, very native conversations in Korean and understand it. Instead of randomly screaming "T SHIRT SIZE?" in my face, would it not possibly be a better option to just explain whatever it is you want in Korean? Possibly?<br />
<br />
I looked around the table to see six or seven other female teachers, none of whom I know well or particularly like leaning in. And I knew where the conversation was going. And I knew answering that question was more or less setting myself up for yet another unpleasant, unsolicited encounter with rude people while all I'm trying to do is eat my food as quickly as possible and get out.<br />
<br />
So I just simply pretended not to understand. Not very plausible, I realize, but what were they going to do about it? I blinked. I shook my head. I shrugged. I went back to eating my food.<br />
<br />
Toward the end of my meal, I started to feel bad. And... never again for the remaining three months of my contract will I doubt my instincts like this, but as I stood up and picked up my tray, I thought, I'm leaving now. They can't make a scene and whatever goes down, I can just walk away from it. So I pushed my chair in, leaned over the counselor and said, "I'm sorry. One more time?" In Korean.<br />
<br />
Her face lit up and she did the t shirt size shout one more time. But before I could answer, she grabbed me by my collar and hauled out the size tag from the t shirt I had on, which just so happened to be both American and unisex. And so it was a small, because that's what size I wear when we're talking American unisex sizes. She pulled away and looked confused, sized me up, sized up the fit of the shirt, and leaned in to check one more time. Still small.<br />
<br />
I explained that American sizes generally run bigger than Korean sizes, so in American sizes, unisex I'm a small. In American women's t shirts, I'm medium. But since she was asking about Korean t shirts, in that case I'm sometimes a medium, sometimes a large, depending on what we're talking about.<br />
<br />
Immediately, the other teachers who had been leaning in again to listen pounced. One who I have never spoken to before in my life started shouting, "NO! NO! X LARGE! X LARGE!"<br />
<br />
I blinked. I finished pushing in my chair. I picked up my tray and walked away, as the discussion about what size I actually was raged on behind me.<br />
<br />
Today, an extra large t shirt with the school emblem was plunked onto my desk. It was much bigger than I would ever wear. I probably would have done fine with a medium.<br />
<br />
Now, I want to make something clear, here. I'm not offended that someone would suggest I'm an extra large. I've been an extra large before, and I wasn't ashamed of it then, and I wouldn't be ashamed of it now. It's not about some fingernail biting omg I look fat! kind of emotion. This is about the fact that I answered a question that was asked to me by a fellow adult, and my answer was ignored in favor of the answer of a complete stranger who knows nothing about me, or my dress size.<br />
<br />
The fact that she felt the need to shout over me in the first place, when she's never managed to have any other kind of conversation with me before, is rude enough. And yes, calling someone out loudly in front of all of their coworkers for being a larger size than they say they are is fucking rude. But it's about the assumption that because.... I'm a foreigner? I don't speak Korean well? I don't know why? For whatever reason, I don't know how to figure out what size t shirt I wear. And to then take the answer that I gave, and take the answer that a completely nobody not involved in the situation gave, and determine that the nobody probably has the opinion that should be trusted. So what do I end up with? A t shirt that I'm swimming in. Thanks for the consideration. Thanks, but no thanks.<br />
<br />
So I took the t shirt down to the counseling office after work, dropped it off at the front desk with one of the counselors, and said, plainly, "This t shirt is the wrong size. It's too big for me. Thank you, but I can't wear it." And bowed and walked away, as the counselors nervously laughed and turned red.<br />
<br />
I could have just taken it and said nothing, but the thing is that I've realized over the past year or so that I've entered another awkward growing phase in my life in Korea, and what this one is all about is renegotiating how I respond to these situations. Sometimes I'm going to under-react, and sometimes I'm going to overreact. And I'm honestly not sure, objectively, which this one was. But it's not really about being objective, right now. It's about figuring out where I feel most comfortable, and what makes my life here speaking shitty Korean and having people constantly assume I don't understand what's going on the easiest for me. Later on, I'll get back to perspective and what's "right" and all of that. Or maybe I won't.<br />
<br />
Do I feel a bit guilty about embarrassing them? Yes. I do. Because they don't have bad intentions, and I think they realized instantly what the situation was and why I was a bit upset, just a little bit too late. And if they had realized, if they had taken the time to think about it, I know they never would have done it. But that's not the way it went down, and after having left work so many times over the past few months feeling frustrated and bottled up and thinking about what I would have <i>liked </i>to have done, I left feeling liberated of the entire situation. It wasn't my problem anymore.<br />
<br />
And for now, I feel like that's what's important.<br />
<br />
On a related side note, today I went into the cafeteria to find two of my closest coworkers sitting at the table with empty trays, chins in hand, looking a bit glum. When I sat down, I asked them why they looked so serious. They had just been discussing how rude the majority of our coworkers are, and how the atmosphere in the school is just really terrible now -- how nobody shows anybody else any respect, and how they feel like they're always giving other people respect but never receiving any in return, and how they've come to the conclusion that after this year, it's time for them both to move on to a different school.<br />
<br />
I concur, my friends. Good luck making it to February. I'm out in October. So I don't really need a school t shirt anyway.I'm no Picassohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06516337555349888808noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21444271.post-36387056786103450902013-07-12T11:44:00.000+09:002013-07-12T14:32:42.732+09:00A friendly reminder from your neighborhood bitchy feminist: There have been a few different incidents over the past couple of weeks that have led to a rash of ill-advised online discussions in which men circle around to contemplate amongst themselves how women being sexually harassed/raped/abused in public should figure out how to protect themselves from that kind of thing. First, there was <a href="http://www.koreatimes.co.kr/www/news/culture/2013/06/135_137698.html">this article</a> about Korean police blaming women for being raped, which led to a bizarre mixture of foreign men tsking at backwoods Korean culture and sexist Korean men while the comments on every site I saw featuring the article quickly began to fill up with other Western men defending this line of thinking. At almost the exact same time, <a href="http://www.rjkoehler.com/2013/06/25/american-english-teacher-indicted-for-up-skirt-videos/">this story</a> about a foreign teacher getting busted with a shocking amount of upskirt videos taken on public transport came out, and now that Korean men weren't involved at all, it became all about how Korean women can't expect this not to happen considering the fact that they dare to wear skirts and appear in public at the same time. <br />
<br />
Finally, the big thing this week is <a href="http://www.seoul.co.kr/news/newsView.php?id=20130711500014">this shocking, disgusting fucking bullshit video</a> of two foreigners behaving worse than dogs. Which most people, thankfully, are outraged about. But there are still those dribbly lipped hanger-onners who refuse to let go of the mindset that this is their golden opportunity to educate the female masses about stranger danger and that ol' devil's brew. This is it. This is their time to shine. They have an idea -- a notion. A revelation. They have something that all the women need to hear, and by God, they are going to make sure all the women hear it.<br />
<br />
In every single one of these conversations that I've seen, not one single woman has been involved in the "short skirts are a no-no" bullshit condescending lecturing. In fact, not many women have bothered to get involved at all, probably because they know it's an uphill battle they won't win. A lot of men, in fact, have been stepping up to argue back, and the only women who have jumped in have all been saying the exact same thing: Stop addressing what the<i> women</i> did wrong in these situations. Which only results in the circling back to misandry and how saying that men shouldn't blame women for their own sexual assault is actually -- hold on to your hats -- really mean toward men. Because they deserve to have their opinions and not be interrupted with the females answering back. Because telling men they are wrong about anything is basically just reverse sexist. Men deserve to be able to explain women's lives to women without their input, because they are men. Whimper whimper.<br />
<br />
Look, I'm going to keep this short and sweet: When you jump into a conversation about women being raped, assaulted, abused and harassed in public and the first notion that occurs to you is to dust off your little top hat, climb atop your overturned milk crate and start explaining that short skirts, drinking alcohol and being female all at the same time basically creates these scenarios, <b>you are a fucker</b>. You are a fucker, because you are essentially turning a situation where men have behaved lower than animals into an opportunity to talk down to women. You've scanned this situation with a judicious eye and decided that.... yeah, actually it's the women who need my expert behavioral correction in this situation.<br />
<br />
That makes you a fucker for two reasons: 1. You assume that somehow, although men are the parties who are behaving like dogs in these situations, it is women who need to be guided. If you ask me, if I were going to do something as asinine as build a lecture for the masses out of an incident where one woman wore a skirt and one man broke the law by sticking his phone up her skirt to take a photo, I might feel more like the category that could use some fucking assistance would be the men. But not these guys. No.<br />
<br />
The reasoning behind this is simple: Men don't need to be lectured by other men, because men are adults who understand things. Women, on the other hand, can't understand things for themselves and they need a man to explain things to them.<br />
<br />
2. We fucking know. Thank you. Asshat. We know. We know that if we wear a short skirt, a man might see that as an invitation to think of us as public property. We know that if we have one drink too many, or lose our friends in the crowd, or don't walk down the right street going home, or get into the wrong taxi, or accept an invitation to conversation with the wrong man, or dance the wrong way, or stand the wrong way, or sit the wrong way, or direct our eyes in the wrong way.... we might get raped, assaulted or harassed. We know. We know that even if we leave the house in a head-to-toe body suit we might get raped. We know that if we spend the night sipping on a soda and happen to turn away from our glass for two seconds, we might get raped. We know that even if we stay inside our houses with all of our doors and windows locked, we might get raped.<br />
<br />
So thank you. For your fucking advice. I hope it made you feel better to say it. I hope you feel like you've done your manly duty explaining the world to the women, who could put an end to all of this sexual harassment, assault and rape if only they would stop being mean and take your advice without interrupting you. After all, you've put a lot of thought into this. Maybe not as much as the women who live in this world every day, but you kind of scanned the article and made a post online about the first thing that occurred to you, and that in and of itself deserves acknowledgement and respect. The kind that a man gets for having a thought, parting his lips and letting it dribble out. <br />
<br />
You are a fucker. <br />
<br />
<br />I'm no Picassohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06516337555349888808noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21444271.post-21882831015172654802013-07-07T21:53:00.000+09:002013-07-07T22:16:21.654+09:00A Saturday with momentum; A real life Sunday. This weekend after Smalltown tried to phone me once or twice without answer, he sent along this message: "Eliza..... yellow porpoises ruled by force for eternity... 'who will save us from those horrid creatures' the little nestling cried... 'not i' the lion stuttered... 'not i' dared the whale... rich bloody redness rose from beneath the twitching sea life offal which lined the floor. The scaly, silvery, mucky carpet of putrid mire purged by flora pattern-groan-creaked.... then began to disperse... carted away by the vibrating spiral conveyor which must have layn beneath... 'WHO WILL SAVE YOU' roared the nestling from the top of Mount Wrath.... porpoises strewn on grass."<br />
<br />
Now, if you don't speak Smalltown -- and I'm assuming most of you don't -- allow me to translate: "Hey I've been trying to get a hold of you but you never answer your fucking phone. Get your shit together and call me back."<br />
<br />
I answered: "demon in the phone. ghost in the machine. what are you up to?"<br />
<br />
Translation: "Sorry. I've been crazy busy, but I've been meaning to call you back. What are you up to?"<br />
<br />
Then he called one more time, and this time I answered. He was sitting on a beach in Busan with a beer in his other hand. I was huffing my way down the street after a hell of a day to meet a friend for dinner.<br />
<br />
"I just feel like my life is this gargantuan stone I've been shoving and heaving with all my might and then, somehow, without my noticing, it started to roll and now it's gathering speed... And it's like, hold up. I know I was pushing this damn thing, but just hold on a fucking minute, here...."<br />
<br />
This is what happened on Saturday morning.<br />
<br />
Friday night, I took the bus out to the new place with a bottle of wine in my bag to celebrate B finishing his job and officially becoming a contract worker (a plan which has been long in the works) by sitting on the floor of our mostly empty new apartment and eating greasy pizza. Which is what we did. Then, around 8:30 am on Saturday morning, as I was just finishing fixing the coffee, the doorbell rang for the first time of the day. The half a billion piece china set B's mom ordered for us had arrived.<br />
<br />
Let me try to explain this as best I understand it at this point. B's mom knows we are moving in together and is over the moon about it, but I'm not so sure that she has a cultural reference for what's happening. And so, as far as we both can figure, in her mind, the only reference point is marriage. And that's kind of the situation we're being faced with. She wanted to buy us a bed, but B argued her out of that by saying we'd already ordered one (we hadn't, but we had chosen one), and then she had his father send him 3 million won to help us furnish the new place anyway. But she was still set on sending her own gift. Which is how we've wound up with -- no joke, no exaggeration -- approximately 30 variously sized bowls with cherries and butterflies on them.<br />
<br />
I boggled at the size of the box. I knew the dishes were coming, but what the fuck could be going on in there that would require a container of this size? And then we opened it, and it just kept coming. Three layers of bowl after bowl after bowl.<br />
<br />
After unloading it all onto the counter tops, I pushed my hair out of my face and sighed. "Okay. It's obviously... this is Korean style. It's fine. We can use my Western style dining sets when we cook Western, and we can use this when we have Korean.... and six to eight guests for dinner."<br />
<br />
B laughed. "I told her a million times not to send it, but we had to give up on something."<br />
<br />
"No, you're right. Just, when she calls, tell her they're beautiful and we love them and thank you so much."<br />
<br />
"그래. I will."<br />
<br />
Sitting out on the balcony with our coffee and cigarettes, we took in the cool morning weather. We had a busy day in front of us, but it seemed that it would at least not be too hot. We heard B's phone ringing, and he jumped back inside to grab it. The two massive armoires, which required a lift to be brought into the apartment and which were supposed to arrive next weekend, were ready to go and would be arriving around 2. B asked the delivery guy if he knew of a lift service he could call to come with him and thankfully, the guy said that he did. After he hung up, B spent a good five minutes frantically wandering back and forth across the apartment floor muttering to himself. I called him back over. "Just come here and finish your coffee. We'll go in fifteen minutes, and take a taxi, and that should give us plenty of time to get to the secondhand place and back before they arrive. It's going to be fine. Just take it easy."<br />
<br />
After quickly shoving the dishes into our formerly spacious cabinets, we headed out for the secondhand furniture shop. B's mom called right on cue to check in on how we liked the china. B cooed into the phone about how pretty it was, while shooting me a wink from the side. I nodded.<br />
<br />
Furniture shop. The phone shop to upgrade both of our phones. Another furniture shop. B put in an order for his desk and chair to be delivered at 4. We headed back home to cook and eat a quick lunch and take it easy for a minute before the shit started to show up and we had to get everything situated.<br />
<br />
Just as B turned off the stove and I finished putting the rice into bowls to sit down and eat, we heard someone shouting from the street. The armoires had arrived an hour early. We helped the guy haul them in from the window, move them to the bedroom and remove layers of packaging. He left, and we sat down to eat our cold lunch.<br />
<br />
By this point, I had started to bug out a bit. It was B's turn to settle me down. And he did. But then, as we stood at the sink washing the dishes, we heard someone shouting B's name from the street <i>again</i>. I checked the clock. 2:30. B shook his hands dry. "What the fuck?" He went to the window. The desk and chair had arrived an hour and a half early.<br />
<br />
A man tramped in hauling four huge boxes. I stood in the kitchen with wet hands and knew, instantly, what had happened. But I didn't say anything until B had opened the boxes.<br />
<br />
This was not his desk and chair. This was our sofa and armchair, which were also set to arrive next weekend, here on our floor in a dozen pieces.<br />
<br />
We put together the sofa and arm chair, took three trips hauling boxes down to the trash from the fourth floor, and sat quiet, dazed and sweating on our new sofa waiting for the desk to arrive.<br />
<br />
And then I took a shower. And then I was out on the street, talking to Smalltown on the phone.<br />
<br />
Later that night, sitting outside with a friend at my new favorite coffee shop enjoying the cooling of the day, I explained that I wasn't quite sure why, but the day had felt more than busy, like something more than a lot of furniture arriving all at once.<br />
<br />
My friend didn't mince her words in response: "You're getting wifed up. And you're bugging about it."<br />
<br />
She was right.<br />
<br />
I had planned to go back to my place last night after dinner and coffee, to take some time to myself and recover after the day I had had. But instead, I found myself lingering longer than usual with my friend, buying two summer berry beers and taking the train back to the new place to wait for B to get home. I put his drunk ass to bed, put his beer in the fridge for later, and sat in our new arm chair by the window in the dark drinking my own. It was quiet.<br />
<br />
This morning, we woke up and B cleaned while I cooked breakfast. We ate. We watched the History channel on our new TV, which B finally realized I'd argued against getting not because I hate TV, but because I hate how easily sucked into wasting my time watching it I can be. We lay on the couch. B cut up a watermelon. We went out in our gym shorts and slippers in the rain to the grocery store around the corner to buy stuff to make kimchi jjigae, and waited in line behind all the other couples in gym shorts and slippers. We came back home. I cooked while he took a nap. We ate.<br />
<br />
As we walked to the train together tonight, B headed to his basketball game, me, heading home, he said: "Today we had a real Sunday."<br />
<br />
"What do you mean?"<br />
<br />
"We cleaned. We watched TV. We cooked. It was a real life Sunday."<br />
<br />
I started to say that every Sunday is a real life Sunday, but I stopped. Because I knew what he was trying to say.<br />
<br />
"우리 집 너무 커. 리즈 빨리 와."<br />
<br />
"응. 빨리 올께."I'm no Picassohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06516337555349888808noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21444271.post-13202165676642874932013-07-02T21:53:00.002+09:002013-07-02T21:53:41.247+09:00More poem chatter. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCuSpjBG_IvxXPOxJccWDufTdYUSTWco1Co3HAlqyh5jJ7ngVtPo5HLF02FWWGfTy17V4q9aBjTIIW_Z6QS7VicqRup4EAFHKsje5SfWQD_Avo_REoHRbpTFye1UFtNqC3tJurPQ/s640/CYMERA_20130702_212820.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCuSpjBG_IvxXPOxJccWDufTdYUSTWco1Co3HAlqyh5jJ7ngVtPo5HLF02FWWGfTy17V4q9aBjTIIW_Z6QS7VicqRup4EAFHKsje5SfWQD_Avo_REoHRbpTFye1UFtNqC3tJurPQ/s320/CYMERA_20130702_212820.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
If you think that looks a mess, you should see the state of the poems.<br />
<br />
This is a grainy, poorly lit shot of the notebook that currently contains my life, opened to the 'submissions' section. Can we talk about submitting for a minute? Too bad, we're gonna.<br />
<br />
In the upper left-hand corner you can see the last part of a list of over fifty journals to potentially submit to. I've been through about 40 of them. Submitted to 40 journals? No. Fucking no. Crossed about 35 straight off the list for being defunct, on summer hiatus, or doing theme issues, which I refuse to partake in. Do you know how long it takes to compile a list of 50 journals to submit to? Do you know how long it takes to go through them all, website by website, checking the content to make sure it's your kinda bag, and then getting over to the submissions page, to figure out that for one reason or another, you can't do that thing?<br />
<br />
Then there is the choosing of the poems that potentially match the tone of every, individual journal, the cover letters, which should be personalized if you have a shot in hell of getting anywhere, the special fairy dust guidelines they all have for their formatting.<br />
<br />
Now let's talk about what happens when you sit down to have one of them long view looks at the poems you've been submitting for the past two months, and you suddenly realize they're all shit, and would be much better if you just... here and there... well, shit.<br />
<br />
I don't, for longer than a second or two, ever stop to wonder why I haven't gotten around to this until now.<br />
<br />
That having been said, there's nothing that can quite be compared to sitting down to those poems you thought were on point a month ago and realizing they're a mess, and then slicing them all up and putting them back together the way they should've been in the first place. It's like finally getting your point across in a frustrating conversation. In fact, that's exactly what it is.<br />
<br />
Kafka had writer's block when he wrote:<br />
<br />
"Finally, after five months of my life during which I could write nothing that would have satisfied me, and for which no power will compensate me, though all were under obligation to do so, it occurs to me to talk to myself again. Whenever I really questioned myself, there was always a response forthcoming... Look, the world submits to your blows... But that means nothing. You can achieve nothing if you forsake yourself."<br />
<br />
And Ginsberg said:<br />
<br />
"To gain your own voice, forget about having it heard. Become a saint of your own province and your own consciousness."<br />
<br />
Finally getting your point across in a really frustrating conversation with yourself. Fuck the submissions, and the journals. I sat down with the fan on and a bottle of wine between my knees, and that's what I did tonight.<br />
<br />
I guess I'll send the new ones out again tomorrow, and pray the old shit gets rejected.I'm no Picassohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06516337555349888808noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21444271.post-35270108060110530762013-06-30T22:15:00.001+09:002013-06-30T22:15:18.221+09:00Drowning in words. Well, it's been another great, but exhausting weekend. I spent the bulk of the day yesterday trying to help Busan find work pants for his new contract, because he's a big baby and needs the equivalent of a personal shopper/mom to buy his clothes. In the end, after coming with me to briefly meet up with a friend, we sent him off on his own to Dongdaemun to figure it out for himself. And he did.<br />
<br />
Spent the evening in Itaewon trying to eat good food, despite the heat zapping our appetite. I haven't been one of Itaewon's biggest fans in the past, and I don't know if it has changed, or if I have just finally found my groove with the place (probably a combination), but I'm becoming more fond of it, these days. It seems like every time I'm there I find a new great restaurant or coffee shop. The food is genuinely exciting. The atmosphere is far less bro-ish than it has been in the way I've experienced it in the past. It's good. And I'm happy to be just a straight shot on the subway away, soon.<br />
<br />
Afterwards, I met back up with B to crash at the new place for the night. We watched Park Chanwook's new movie <i>Stoker</i>, which simultaneously bored and horrified B. I thought it was pretty good. Beautifully shot and weird and uncomfortable.<br />
<br />
This morning, I finally managed to sleep in and get caught up on my rest, a bit. I think it's the million different directions I'm trying to move in all at once, probably, but I've been running on three or four hours of sleep a night for a few weeks now. I woke up again at 5:45 this morning, and just refused. Finally crawled out of bed just before 9. It felt good.<br />
<br />
Came home early and got to work returning a dozen or so messages and contacts about IQ. We're doing great, as far as attention and interest goes, but I'm starting to get a bit nervous about submissions. I know it's really early, yet, but my fear from the beginning with this thing was that we wouldn't be able to drum up enough stuff from inside Korea, and we'd have to scrub it up and go international to make it work. I would hate to see that happen, because a big part of the motivation behind this little venture, for me and the other editors, is to open up a space for this kind of thing for foreigners within Korea. There are writers groups and meet ups, but as someone who lives outside of Seoul, it's been difficult to form a community here. If you don't live inside the city, you're mostly left to your own devices.<br />
<br />
As for me, I don't feel the need to put yet another overworked, under-read journal out there into the world. I admire the people who do it, but I've never felt compelled, until I realized how much I missed that kind of thing here in Korea. And how hard it is, without following a million different blogs, to keep up with what other creative people are doing here. Articles and information, photographs abound. But the creative work is hard to find. But I believe in my heart that it's being done. So, I hope we can get it together.<br />
<br />
To top it all off, I spent another hour tonight working up another chapbook submission (which I should've done last week -- today is the deadline). It's another long shot at a press I'm way underqualified to be submitting to, but it's worth the shot. I'm all about taking the shots these days. You gotta reason that after a while, your aim has got to improve.<br />
<br />
For now, I'm off to try to work on some new stuff. Unplug my internet and enjoy some cyber silence.<br />
<br />
Send your stuff!<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />I'm no Picassohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06516337555349888808noreply@blogger.com0