Despite the seeming monotony of existence, life is never stationary. Time keeps moving forward along with our hopes, dreams and relationships with people. What is ironic, perhaps, is that disintegration is also a form of forward movement.
Someone once showed me a series of photos documenting a bird that had died in his yard. Everyday at 5pm when he got home from work, he would take a picture of it, which is either morbid as hell and slightly degrading to the memory (or lack thereof) of this blameless creature, or complementary—proof that something compelling can most certainly come of death and rot, that even in death, there is purpose—a sort of reluctant martyrdom.
This weekend was good. I had a lot of happy moments and I didn't feel entirely alone for the first time in awhile. Sometimes I think it is better for me to be independent, that I don't need anyone, that becoming close to someone else will lead to more sadness, which these days, I no longer believe I can handle. I am not a clingy person. In fact, I am the opposite. I am sure people often become annoyed with having to pursue me, attract my attention. Hope for the clouds to leave my eyes and make me focus on theirs. I wish I were more accepting of affection, but I think I sometimes fear losing the beautiful numbness to which I've become so accustomed.
I am always cold. Frozen, in fact. This weekend, for a moment, I became so warm I thought I might suffocate. But perhaps asphyxiation isn't really such a terrible way to melt the ice lodged in my eyes.
One of my favourite fairy tales is an old, Norwegian story about a magic mirror made of ice. The images one saw in this mirror caused everything, despite its goodness, to appear ugly, repellent. This pessimistic mirror existed in a realm unknown to humans, in a time well before mankind's characteristic bitterness and cynicism. It was owned by a terrible little goblin who in a fit of rage cast the mirror from his home in the sky. The looking-glass shattered into billions of tiny, icy slivers, invisible to the naked eye, but terribly affecting.
Down below on Earth in a small village, a little boy and a little girl—beautiful, simplistic children, who despite their poverty, enjoyed every aspect of life and had been best friends since birth—were playing. The little boy, looking upwards to catch sight of the birds in the sky, did not feel it when the shard of ice pierced his eye and by extension, his very soul…(we all know the old adage…don't make me get cliché..). He finished watching the birds until they flew out of view, then continued his game rather robotically.
Though he'd always been a very joyful, sensitive boy, he now felt very little, if anything at all. But, because of the shard's magic properties, he was unaware that anything had changed at all. His blue eyes, once the color of the sky on the balmiest of sunny summer days, eyes flecked with radiant, warm light, were now the color of a frozen over pond in the bitterest of January cold. When he closed his eyes partway, his blonde eyelashes resembled icicles, unmoved by the temperate wind that blew through the countryside where he had lived his entire life.
Gradually, as the weeks and months passed and he grew, he became cruel, uncaring for the feelings of others, unable to show remorse for the bitterness he now unjustly felt towards those closest to them.
If memory recalls, the story goes on about all of the boy's many misdeeds, how he finally leaves home and breaks his best friend's heart in so doing. Though he had been unkind to her, she had always believed in his innate goodness and had sought to melt the ice enveloping his soul, though in vain. As the tale continues onward, the little village girl decides to go in search of her lost friend and travels throughout Norway's most northern, frozen land, suffering many hardships and nearly losing her life to the frost and the cruel creatures who thrive off it. She finally finds the boy within the palace of the Ice Queen, where the mirror's magic was strongest (it had been created within) and the boy had lost all memory of sunlight and happiness. He was hopelessly devoted to his new queen as a slave would be to his master, and blinked dumbly at the sight of the wretched, ragged, shivering creature that stood before him, imploring him to come home.
I don't remember how the story ends, but I expect in the children's version, the boy is able to recognize the girl, sheds tears of shame and repentance (his first in a decade) and in so doing, melts the terrible ice which had gripped his life in a stranglehold for so very long. If there is an original, un-bowdlerized version of the story somewhere still in existence, I expect that it ended badly for the girl, most likely in her tragic, hopeless demise after realizing the scourge the mirror had released upon the world, the irreversible plague which had affected so many. Still in possession of a delicate heart, she is overcome by the extremity of the cold and perishes. I simply cannot recall.
Perhaps, though I am not so hopeful, the ice has begun to thaw for me too. I must be one of the mirror's unhappy recipients. I got an email from my mother this weekend. It seemed final, like actual effort was applied in its writing. She is tired of me. She is bored of my self-indulgence and lies and unwillingness to be a different person for her. Strange, because I don't know why she thinks the situation with us is any different now, or that it's all my fault. I wrote her back. Twice. She probably hates me more, though she will never admit it.
I had spent Friday night in
Saturday, I returned to Hong Dae. I wandered around alleys with piercing parlours, bought something for my sister in an Indian man's store, and ate Vietnamese food, which was really quite good. We went to several bars, though we didn't drink too much this time. One bar, I think it was called 'Jamiroquai' (after the singer) was pretty laid back, though the stools were literally falling apart and the menus were written on the backs of cut-up Heineken boxes. Upon attempting to use the washroom, my friend broke the key in the lock. We decided it would be wise to leave shortly after…
We also went to a tiny place called 'Las Vegas Western Bar', which I really wasn't too fond of. It was really eclectically decorated with odd bits of this and that from around the world—oddly enough, the collection, trapped under the bar's glass and strewn around the window panes had nothing to do with Western culture or Las Vegas at all…African statues with erections, filthy old coins from Vietnam, random playing cards, a stuffed bear with a pair of children's panties on its head…the usual. (ha…) The waitresses were a little too chatty and wouldn't leave us alone. It was the first time I've seen a white girl (a tall blonde Russian) working anywhere other than as a teacher or in the military…Just a girl with a regular job…They gave me a free shot of a much too sweet Vodka mudslide (basically chocolate milk with a tiny bit of instant coffee flavouring and a drop of alcohol), which was nice, but I was feeling a little claustrophobic with the attention.
When we emerged outside, it was snowing heavily. I was amused at the overall fascination with snow. I was just trying not to get hypothermia…Instead, I have no voice currently (I haven't smoked a damn cigarette since Friday), have been coughing heavily, and been doing my trademark sniffing (I, of the deviated septum, yes). I promised a real snowball fight when I felt better and had mittens on…
We ended the evening in a very empty little bar where really terrible music was playing. Luckily, there was an Ipod with decent music on hand and the waitress was willing to take requests…We ended up chatting to a man who came in later, who taught us a bit about Korea and invited us to come to Daegu, which I am very interested in doing. The rest of the evening was a blur of neon and swirling snow and taxis.
Sunday was much of the same. I bought a good friend a beautiful mother of pearl mirror in Insa Dong. We ate sundubu and drank soju, despite some major ordering problems—we had no desire for soju, but were actually in search of juice or tea or some (very needed) coffee. I tried Jujube tea and listened to music that made me think of childhood—screechy Indian music with potentially obscene words in them (though who could ever really be sure)—at a tea shop called Little India Café. Bollywood stars just may be worse than their American counterparts (I learned much while flipping through some culturally appropriate magazines…), though not by much, admittedly…
I've been so sick and so cold all week at school. I have a new class on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays for gifted students who want to learn how to write essays. It seems like it could have potential, but now I have to stay at work until 10:30PM. Monday was unpleasant and I was so exhausted. I kept my coat on all day and sat so close to the little space heater in my classroom. My boss is giving me his humidifier, as I've been sick on and off since getting here.
Perhaps it is ironic that
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