Familiarity

Last weekend I went to Suwon, a city about 2 hrs from Bucheon. I don't know a great deal about the area, and I'm sure I only saw a tiny portion of it, but compared to Seoul, it's bleak, dirtier and slightly depressing. I'm glad I went and it was definitely interesting to see, but perhaps I wasn't in the best space this week and didn't find as much good as I might potentially have.

Last weekend was Seolnal or Lunar New Year, a day where throughout Asia, families pile into cars and drive for hours in order to make visits to their relatives. According to my students, they visit their father's parents on the first day of the Lunar New Year and their mothers' on the second. I guess it's usually a big deal, where lots of money is spent, people wear traditional clothes, and believers make offerings to the various Gods. The students, in any case are glad to have Monday off from school.

Near Suwon station, where we got out, there really wasn't much of anything, or if there was, it was all really spread out. There were many fast food and "fusion" restaurants. We stopped in one and got a rather unappealing fried chicken salad, as it was the only potentially edible item on the menu. "Juice?" we asked the waitress. "Soju," the waitress replied. "Tea?" we tried again. "Beer," she replied, confusedly. In the end, to compliment our cold salad on this freezing day as we sat in the (apparently) non-heated section of the restaurant, she brought ice water with tea bags seeping very slowly, as well as some more water, regular.

Afterwards, we walked around looking for objects of interest, but in the end, came to the conclusion that we were probably in the "red-light" district, which would explain the lack of stores or cafes with any sort of appeal to foreign people (most signs were in Korean, and everything seemed pretty utilitarian). Anyway, wandering randomly, we turned a corner where we saw an empty window furnished simply with a chair and a heater in front of it. Almost before the question was out of my mouth, I knew the answer: "What's that for….Oh!" We walked about 4 blocks in extreme discomfort, hoping the next street would bring an end to the seamlessly endless supply of window prostitutes. They were all dressed similarly, in white, pink or blue jogging suits that looked like pyjamas, with bared bellies and loose hair. Because there were so many of them and since it was still pretty early in the evening, for the most part, they just looked kind of bored. The only other people on the streets were rough-looking men. I wanted to disappear. A few of the girls gave me curious or amused looks. I held my breath and kept my eyes to the ground, although it's been pointed out to me on several occasions that I somehow still manage to see a hell of a lot with focused eyes or not.

I've heard a lot about prostitution in this country, of course. I've seen the double barber poles outside bars aptly dubbed "bikini" or "sexy," a subtle code that everyone knows…I've seen the many flyers under the windshield wipers of parked cars, as well as little, wallet-sized photos of pretty girls littering the sidewalks and gutters along with cigarette butts, soaking up the moisture from rain, garbage and alcohol. I've even seen little vans stop to let out girls clearly dressed to "party"—high boots, short skirts, and bright jewelry. They walk, chatting together on the way to wherever it is they go. Terrible things hold such an appeal for me. I don't understand how some people manage to go on, even appearing cheerful, whereas I, upon experiencing even slight discomfort, and generally more than prepared to wallow in defeat, utterly ruined, distressed beyond repair. I am not very melodramatic, just very un-resilient, I think.

I know I've always been a "brooding type," but lately somehow, my thoughts distract to the point where they almost seem removed, no longer my own, barely recognizable. O wonder if this is an effect of the Prozac, which I am still taking, though the pills tend to still give my headaches or stomach cramps from time to time, without making me feel any better, emotionally. The things I suffer for what they all are satisfied sanity is, I suppose. I still have some really strange dreams, many of which seem embarrassing to write out and barely seem possible to have come from my own mind. In bed on Saturday night, sleep was an ordeal and I couldn't get comfortable—constantly feeling my knees press up against my legs hurts sometimes and I occasionally wake up bruised.

I dreamt that we were all at the house in Bolton Centre. It was summer and we were out sitting on the balcony, which for those who've seen it wasn't particularly high though it would still be unpleasant to fall from. It looked the way it always had: orangey-brown stiff outdoor carpet covering splintery wood (with the odd nail sticking out) painted deep brown and forest green. White plastic lawn-chairs circled a table littered with books and magazines. I don't know how old anyone is, but I at least seem to be my present age, or close. We were all at home—Maya, Sacha, Mom and I. We were waiting for Stephanie Masse (formerly "Tootsie"), an old babysitter/friend of my sister's to come and visit for the first time in years. It was kind of like most situations of these kinds in my house: Maya and Sacha were outside, excitedly jumping up every time the dog (was it Ramses? Brutus?) barked. Mom was inside, purposely searching for something else to do, trying to look busy. I was inside, not in the mood to be social, annoyed that I'd have to pretend to have missed not seeing our guest the last eight or nine years. It's similar to the way most of our "reunions" are. I often get accused of pretending to be "cool," when really I don't care to conveniently fabricate better memories than I actually have for the purpose of a pleasant visit. Absence really doesn't make my heart grow fonder.

Anyway, we hear the familiar "crunch" of gravel and muffler bumping against a massive pothole in our rained-out drive-way. Maya and Sacha hurry out to meet her, laughing and acting unnecessarily giddy and ridiculous. I feel tense. Suddenly, it's well into the visit and they've all been on the balcony awhile with our guest when I eventually decide to come out and say "hello." I bring my book with me. I'm reading Faust (I like Marlowe's version better than Goethe's). I sit down cross-legged on the itchy carpet. I'm wearing shorts and it feels very hot outside. My legs are covered in scabs and calamine lotion. I scratch hard to make myself bleed. Looking about, I see Maya's and my latest concoction of Dandelion soup, little slivers of stem curled along the edge of a scissors or butter knife floating in a little tin bowl filled halfway with dirty water the dog's been drinking from. It's on the bench near Danny's window. Little fruit flies land and make the water ripple. I look away. Stephanie is trying to get me into the conversation. I'm the only one who hasn't spoken. I tell her I like to read. I show her Faust. I tell her I have just finished reading Machiavelli's The Prince. Maya sniffs and tells me not to lie. Without saying a word, Stephanie (from herein, I will call her Tootsie) grabs my book and throws it off the balcony. I run over to look but it has disappeared. When I turn back to look at Tootsie, she has a whole stack of old books, all hardcover classics. She tells me to watch what she does next. She throws the top book over the balcony. Instead of disappearing, like Faust had, it lands and expands to an enormous size. Suddenly the balcony is much higher than before. I feel we must be at least 200 ft up. Tootsie throws another book down. I watch it grow as before. The print is large and the page edged look very sharp, precise. She continues throwing down her stack of growing books so that they pile one on top of the next, opened face up, like a sort of spiral staircase. They are all classics and I spot a corner of something by Edgar Allen Poe, page 38. But, no Faust. Maya is leaning over the balcony. She decides it would be fun to try to jump off onto the books, which are actually at quite a distance, horizontally speaking, from the ledge. She jumps, and is if floating, makes it to the first open-book without a problem, smack in the middle. Suddenly, Mom comes outside and decides to try too. Everyone is pressuring her to try. I am quiet. I feel very confused. So, in ballet dancer form, leg extended, she leaps, unsuccessfully, but simply falls straight down in ultra-slow motion. We watch wordlessly. Maya has ample time to climb down the books to the ground and catch Mom before she hits the ground. Everyone cheers. I am silent. Meanwhile, I am still looking for my book, hoping it may have returned to the balcony. Suddenly, I fall over the edge. I am terrified. I cannot hear or see. I kick the bed furiously and suddenly I jolt awake.

I am told I was talking in my sleep for awhile, though it was utterly undecipherable. "I mutter", I joke. In any case, we managed to leave the hotel before the mandatory check-out time, which might just be a first.

We walked around, adjusting to the sunlight, trying to figure out what to do. I wasn't feeling very well. I'd woken up with a pounding headache and still felt very tired. We suddenly saw the bus bound for Korean Folk Village so we squeezed on, right in the front, standing crouched (head space was limited) in front of an elderly couple who kept exclaiming about how pretty I was ("eepoyo"). Another woman in the aisle leaned over and touched my face. I felt very uncomfortable, but I played it up that it was my neck that was in an awkward position and not just me, in my entirety.

The night before, we'd come across a man sitting in the street by a heater trying to sell baby rabbits (I think he called them "tokki-tokki"). They were adorable and tiny and wearing little sweaters. He put one in my hand and I played with it awhile while the man went on (and on) about my round eyes, closing his thumb and forefinger to make a circle shape, and putting it up against my face. Perhaps Suwon doesn't have as many foreigners as Seoul does. It seemed a little strange to me that the people in this region of Korea don't look entirely Korean (as I've come to know them in Seoul). They are generally darker; many look Indian and even Middle Eastern to me. On the way home on the subway, a group of guys who'd been staring at me asked me where I was from. I wasn't really in the mood for conversation, but thankfully mine was the next stop. They told me they were from Sri Lanka. I think many people in Suwon might come from this country and that they made lots of money. I smiled, and nodded and stepped out the door.

Anyway, my point is that in Suwon, I could feel more people than usual staring at me, and I generally felt uncomfortable most of my time there.

Sometimes, for whatever reason, like today, walking around SaveZone before work, I felt extremely paranoid and panicked, like every laugh was aimed at me, like people were well aware that I am unable to really understand Hangeul and so were using it to their advantage. Slightly frantic, I abandoned what I'd come for on a random shelf and nearly ran out into the crisp, bright February afternoon. I breathed in deeply and returned home through alleys rather than by using the main street. Sometimes, when people start to recognise me, like the vendors I pass everyday who sometimes nod at me, I feel strangely. I don't like it very much. Sometimes I think I'd rather remain inconspicuous, able to slink around entirely unnoticed. Familiarity does, in fact breed contempt, I suppose.

Last night I had just finished work and was walking home when this tall white guy who admittedly looked vaguely familiar at a distance, stopped short in front of me. I looked up quickly and strained to place him among all the foreigners I've met since I've been here. He asked me if I knew him and then it clicked—He had been one of my TESOL trainers in Ottawa who'd come back to Canada after five years abroad. Apparently, Canada had been too much of a disappointment, so he felt it necessary to return to teaching. I was caught extremely off-guard. It's a little hard to lose yourself on the other side of the world when people you used to bump into now and then in Ottawa's Byward Market are lurking about. Paranoia has mounted by this point and as I type his, I'm looking out the window suspicious of nothing in particular but everything at once.

I take my pill religiously now. Before I leave for work everyday, the last thing I do is dig into the giant bottle that never quite seems to empty and deposit a gelcap in my mouth and swallow in what seems like one robotic, fluid movement. I don't think it's doing my much good. I'm often tempted to measure the passing days for posterity by counting as I take my pills—like someone trapped in a mental institution without the convenience of a wall calendar…thumbtacks are too much of a risk, you see…Instead, I use my purple marker and mark off each completed workday with a little checkmark. Over and done. It's not that I'm counting the days—don't get the wrong impression; it's just that sometimes it's really hard for me to believe that I'm on the other side of the world. I mean I don't see my family or "friends" any less than before; I still have all the same habits and hobbies. I'm just sort of working a different, better paying job in some alternate universe where I wish I had a Babel fish. That's all…really.

Anyway, so last weekend we went to Korean Folk Village in Suwon, which is a massive sort of "traditional theme-park" for lack of anything better to call it. All the buildings were essentially thatched huts, complete with urine buckets (vendors sold mini reproductions of said urine buckets, of course), traditional tools for farming, potting and kimchi making. Not only the employees, but nearly everyone else there as well, were wearing traditional outfits—those colourful silky hanboks which are basically long, decorative tunics cinched at the waist and worn over loose silky pants. Sometimes they wear tassels or pointed (or straw) shoes, as well as the pointed woven bamboo (?) hat. It's pretty cool to see so many people dressed up. I doubt such enthusiasm can be mustered anywhere in Canada. There were people parading and playing traditional drums like we heard on January 1^st, (though with somewhat less enthusiasm, I should add), as well as an open-area where adults and children alike practiced jumping rope and balancing on see-saws (Skipping is a very bid thing here. My students often show me how well they can do it and both boys and girls are really very impressive).

There was a Buddhist temple with fruit and various kinds of rice (mostly those long, thick, glutinous strands that expand in soup, like tofu) placed upon an altar. I would assume it was an offering. There was a woman chanting something in a sort of distant, tinny, sing-songy voice. Later, we speculated that it may have been a traditional Korean exorcism (or preventive exorcising, as is more likely the case) as suggested by a map we'd grabbed on our way in. Yesterday, one of my students told me that every Lunar New Year, families perform rites for the dead in their family. I think the performance we witnessed must have probably had something to do with this.

We saw a very impressive equestrian show where the riders did some really daredevil tricks with their horse, like handstands in full gallop, keeping pace running alongside, and retrieving a dropped handkerchief before it hit the ground. The crowd "oohed" and "ahhed." The riders ate it up. They were all pretty young and made these incredible feats of strength and skill look seamless.

I had heard about something called "seesaw ladies" on a Discovery Channel program a few months back, so I was excited to get a chance to see some in real life. Essentially, there's a low to the ground, spring-loaded teeter-totter. One girl stands on each end and the initially elevated girl starts the performance by jumping. The girl on the ground, back straight as an arrow, shoots straight up into the air. They do this back and forth for quite some time and I'm sure they must exceed 20 ft. They do flips, tricks with hula hoops, colourful streamers, etc. It's very mesmerizing. None of these girls looks to be more than 20 years old. Earlier, we'd seen them playing hacky sack while the crowd waited for them to begin.

Right after this, we saw a tightrope walker. He was a rather old man, maybe in his late 50s, with what looked like bound feet—They were really short and wide, wrapped in a thick, white sort of sock. He was perfect on the rope, at first waving a fan around for balance he pretended he needed to gain, then literally bouncing across the rope on his knees, crotch, heels and everything else…He spoke to the crowd and was quite the showman…They laughed so he must have been entertaining.

We ate soybean paste soup and rice at a really crowded eating area. It was okay, but the overwhelming disgustingly sour smell of people and meat was making me sicker than I already was. We went across the river on stepping stones after checking out a very mild "haunted" house and walking through a fairground complete with an old-fashioned carousel, a sort of tea-cup-cum—strawberry spinning ride, a little Ferris wheel and a large roller coaster (not in use). The lines were long; the children were squealing, bouncing their novelty helium balloons and wheeling their toy noisemakers (the ones that look like mini vacuums or lawnmowers with balls that "clack" when the wheels turn) around the muddy ground, just like at any other amusement park. I thought it was kind of a weird thing to have in a traditional folk village…

We passed a massive food court where highly unsanitary, open-air food (un-refrigerated meat, etc.) was being served up and gulped down. I was frozen by this point. We walked quickly through a sculpture park, bypassed climbing a massive hill to check out the little dormant volcano field, and briefly stopped to watch a sledding hill full of artificial snow (it hasn't really snowed here this winter) where kids were having fun tobogganing. It looked kind of fun, but I was shivering and entirely unable to breathe through my nose.

Finally, we came upon something called World Folk Museum, a bunch of buildings housing the folk customs (food, dress, art, etc.) of all the major countries. Canada wasn't represented of course, though at least they found some Native American art and clothing to represent America. Thankfully, McDonald's wasn't mentioned as an American folk tradition, though I was a little disappointed. It would have made a funny picture. Overall, I thought the African, South American and Mongolian rooms were the most beautiful, but I didn't pay as much attention as I might have, had I been at all well.

Before leaving, we went for tea (the ordering process was confusing). I decided to go home that night instead of staying an extra day. But first, I had a chance to briefly see what a U.S. Military base looks like. I was mildly freaked out. I'm not used to seeing so many non-Asian, English speaking people anymore. It was weird mostly because even though I didn't particularly stand out here, I felt even more strange and alien among military personnel than I do among average, everyday Korean people. I kind of wanted to leave as soon as possible. I don't really like the concept of "Military" (sorry) and I certainly don't enjoy the snarky sort of pseudo-authority guys feel they have when they're holding a big gun…

On the weekends we see undeniably military people (crew cuts, high and tights, southern drawls, etc.), drunk as hell or with Korean "girlfriends" who can't speak a word of English. Friends have told me what certain military guys get up to in their seemingly ample time, and I generally have difficulty respecting the lifestyle--though I know the majority are probably good, decent people (so I don't mean to generalize).

A while back there was an incident in Hong Dae (the main bar area where foreign teachers usually go on weekends) where a woman in her sixties was repeatedly raped to blindness by some drunk, crazy military guy. I hope he gets sentenced in Korea. Anyway, no military people are allowed in Hong Dae after 8 or 9 PM, which I think sucks for those who don't go on violent rampages, but yeah, "army of one," I suppose…(also, I'm sure lots of young Korean men are more than willing to throw a few fists at some U.S soldiers caught off guard).

Anyway, this week went by quickly at least (I had Monday off), though I've been pretty robotic. I've been relying on sleeping medication to put me out and coffee to keep me going. I feel very tired and a bit nostalgic. I've been contacting old friends online and I guess it is fun to reminisce but too easy to get caught up in it.

I hate that my actions and my thoughts contradict each other; I actively seek out familiarity when the "familiar" is across the ocean, tucked away neatly in the west, but when I contemplate it throughout the day-to-day, I become thoroughly anxious and unwell.

Wish

I am becoming older. There is something about my birthday that distresses me entirely. I re-read an awful poem that I wrote last year when I turned 22 when I think I may have been at my most depressive point. I may post it eventually (for self-deprecating laughs or comparisons), but not today…

Every year people ask me how it feels to be another year older. I've always just given the same response: that I don't feel as though I've changed or grown or improved or even become worse; just maintained an awful sort of status quo (my personal little plateau), and another year of practicing my sarcastic smirk and eye-roll. Last year on my birthday, I read Mad Magazines and took sleeping pills so I could go to sleep at 10pm. I recall feeing very lonely and forgotten. I also recall detesting myself for wallowing in self-pity, as well as hating Hallmark for de-gorifying the human heart. The year before was probably quite similar. I don't remember, but I do know the last time I actually celebrated was the year I turned 12.

I had invited the girls from my 6^th grade class, half of whom irritated me. I had felt compelled to invite them all for fear of social isolation, or more than I was accustomed to, in any case (if I was friends with one girl, I had to invite all her friends too since they come in sets at that age…and every age, I guess). My father had made grocery store pepperoni pizza and zucchini-raisin cake shaped like a lumpy heart, drippy with white icing. We went ice skating in Austin near the depanneur and then came home to play hide-and-seek in the snow. It's hard to believe that this was over a decade ago.

I guess a lot has happened in the last 11 years, but then I guess a lot happens all the time that no one's really aware of. Through the years, I've let friends grow distant, considered the choices of my peers, and worried incessantly. People have died, moved away, or have simply faded from my thoughts, as I'm sure I have in the minds of others. I've watched people age and grow bitter, choosing to stay alive simply because they already exist. I guess it's much easier to observe changes in others than it is in oneself. But then, I suppose writing this may all just be a sort of guessing-game, filling in the blanks with scraps of memory.

I don't feel like an adult, though I don't feel particularly childish either. I can't remember ever feeling typically that way, like the quintessential 'carefree kid,' that is. I mostly remember being upset, angry or bored.

The young 'me' spent a lot of time reading in her room, or drawing. She climbed trees because she knew no one else in her family was able to venture after her, unlike the refuge of her closet-sized bedroom, which had a very breakable hook-lock. Paradoxically, she thrived on attention, living up to the expectations of her siblings by exploding in furious rages and generally being as different as she could manage, which meant drinking grape juice with a tea-spoon, shrieking upon passing under dark tunnels on the auto-route (she knew it to be highly annoying, but thought it to be endearingly so), and nibbling Twix bars sideways, like she was playing a chocolate harmonica.

She liked tight spaces and under the stairs she'd set up a sort of cave, dragging her pancake-flat pillows and gilt-covered tulip lamp with her.

She excelled at hide-and-seek (who knew her talent for disappearing would prove ever so useful to her later in life!) with the unique ability to cram her body into laundry hampers full of dirty clothes, or the upper shelves of closets.

She loved Garfield, but grew out of him years before she'd ever admit it. Her obsession with the comic had defined her for too long to drop it, and she was afraid no one would know anything about her.

Her mother called her a "hoarder." She saved everything and had hundreds of collections ranging from unicorn ornaments to postcards to horror stories. She knew they'd come in handy someday.

She resented being patronized, treated like a child, that is, and was all too aware that she was in the middle, not only of her two siblings, but of a lot of complicated shit, as well. At night, as her parents watched TV, the only thing separating her from them was a thin wall her father had built when he'd decided to give them each their own room: 3 tiny cubby-holes in a row, flanked by a narrow hallway with a blue-grey carpet. She rarely went fell asleep before midnight, reading to pass the time. Sometimes her mother would let her stay up an extra hour or so provided she agreed to hide behind the piss-green armchair should her brother get up suspecting something to be amiss.

The "Lily" I was, was sick often and every morning she would wake up drenched by the moisture from the black and grey humidifier she'd used since she was six and had to have her tonsils and adenoids removed in one shot. She was always pale and un-athletic and prone to sinus infections. Her favourite medicine was a banana flavoured syrup and she was depressed when she got big enough for the doctor to give her pills to swallow instead.

Her mother tried to get her to exercise, so she rode her bike on gravel-covered dirt roads covered with pot-holes. She was slow, and like everything else in life, she considered the bike-ride a competition. She rarely finished and would often stop half-way and sit on the side of the road waiting for her siblings and mother to turn around. She felt highly inadequate and hated herself for it. Back then, she was often frustrated or scared or angry. She cried often, but looked upon her tears as proof of her malleability. They were odious to her, but thinking about them usually made her weep more.

Though she would have denied it, this girl was ever hopeful and in the course of her childhood had made innumerable wishes. Her mother had taught her to find the North -star on clear nights and how to recite "Star-light, Star-bright," but as a young sceptic, this girl preferred sparklers from the corner store, or those neon flashlights made to look like lighters. Nevertheless, she put star-shaped glow-in-the-dark stickers on her ceiling just in case.

She wished for all the usual things, like being the smartest girl in the world or having millions of dollars, because that's what everyone else seemed to want. In any case, these were the desires she'd admit to when her mother asked her what she'd come up with, or what she was thinking about, because secretly she didn't care or expect them to come true. Though she wasn't superstitious, she kept her own true wants to herself, hoping her silence about them would make these desires especially valid.

In bed at night, when she was really desperate, she would beg a God she never quite believed existed, but only as a last resort; she was not above resorting to passive-blackmail, promising to 'believe' if only one wish would come true…One night, God was the crack in her ceiling, the one between the two large glow-in-the-dark stickers she'd gotten on a school field-trip to a science museum. And, as she tried to sleep, listening to the humidifier drone, her head buried suffocatingly beneath her pillow, she imagined it mocked her like the smirk it resembled. Once, her brother killed a spider for her on it with his slipper, and its blood-stain changed the way it looked forever.

Later, God was the giant moth keeping her up, flapping its heavy wings against the window pane at night, more of a nuisance than anything. But eventually, as she became more aware of the fantastic and wholly unrealistic nature of wish-fulfilment, the notion of "God" entered her mental lexicon of imaginary bonfire creatures, falling well after "Bakkru" and a bit before "Juumbi."

As the years passed, parts of some of my wishes have been granted, but they've had nothing to do with any God or monster. Just me. And I'm not as terrible or frightening or wise as either. Sometimes I wish I'd never made these wishes at all, because now there is nothing left to feel about them but exhaustion and ultimately regret.

It's sometimes easier to imagine younger incarnations of myself as various different people. It makes assigning blame a much easier endeavour, especially when the burden is measured out in small doses. Every me gets a piece of this bitter dessert.

So, every year on my birthday, when people ask me how it feels to be another year older, I tell them it doesn't feel like anything, no noticeable change. But, every year I've been different because for every year I've aged, in my mind, the gift I give myself becomes heavier, and it makes my shoulders ache and my head drop a little lower.

For the first time in over a decade, I will have a 'good' birthday this year with many nice diversions. I am commemorating the end of my 22^nd year and the beginning of my 23^rd on the other side of the world in Seoul, South Korea. I will be distracted and I won't be alone. On Wednesday, my coworkers will probably sing me a really butchered version (in English) of "Happy Birthday," as they have for everyone else (who've coincidentally all already had birthdays since I've been here) over a sugary cake that they'll carefully watch to see if I manage to choke down. I'll have to show my teeth and look all appreciative. I really hope they don't acknowledge it though, as it may just be the longest, most uncomfortable 15 consecutive minutes we spend in each other's company since I've been here.

Anyway, hopefully all my friends at home have a "super" (yes, this is sarcasm) Valentine's Day (or VD, as I prefer to call it) and are spending it with someone nice (or willing). Don't let the greeting card companies get you down…

Paradox

Tonight I've considered the paradox of my personality. While I have long considered subscribing to the general-consensus-mob-mentality of popular culture an odious waste of time, being 'different' is often easier in theory. Subsequently, although being in a state of constant misery keeps me in said state, feelings of happiness and euphoria (either in me or others) tends to confuse and irritate me at once, which leads to feelings of guilt for having such negative reactions to something potentially wonderful. At certain moments of my life I've even thought that I've consciously been restraining myself, filtering out any good that might come to me and instead, saving all the grit. In my head I've got this image of trying to pass broken bits of glass through a window screen. Any attempt to ease the process may result in bloody fingertips, so there's no point in trying.

I hate this attitude in others, and as this is so very identifiably 'me,' or it is as I've allowed myself to be seen by others the majority of my life, I've (un?)consciously made myself into a hypocritical, unapproachably sharp, guilt-wracked ball of tension. I really need a vacation or at least a major diversion to escape the thoughts in my head…

Today in one of my classes, I decided to do something a bit different and photocopied a poem by Nadine Stair called "If I Had My Life to Live Over." Whether I inspired them to think independently or if they even understood the point is, of course, questionable, but in any case it got me thinking a bit about my own life and the moves I've made to get to where I am at present.

If I am entirely honest with myself, I regret a lot. Unfortunately, being as stubborn as I am, I probably won't even try to correct the mistakes I've made in the past—you know, like all that stuff about learning from the past in order to prevent making the same mistakes in the future…that. Maybe the fact that I am aware of where I've gone wrong yet remain unwilling to change dooms me to self-destruction, as I cannot seem to absorb information, good advice or prescribed gel-capsule programming…Damn it, right? Or worse, that I have yet to reach my 23^rd year and still feel responsible for errors in judgement or behaviour made a decade earlier. I think I have a protruding guilt complex. I wonder if it shows.

What bothers me most though is that for my entire life, even when I was young, as events would occur, I'd be aware of their repercussions. Like, I'd be doing something and all the while I'd be thinking about how it would most definitely boomerang to hit me in the face on its way back. Maybe I've been consciously making myself unhappy for my entire life, as some people like to suggest. Or, maybe it's just a warped sense of personal truth—like if I'd acted differently, I could have potentially enjoyed myself a lot more, but at the same time I'd not have been at all sincere regarding my sense of self. I'd have succeeded in nothing more than making myself uncomfortable in going against my gut reactions to life's ironic little freak-show.

The weird part is that I've only recently come to the understanding that life is just random, mostly nonsensical little events, generally having some sort of flimsy connection to each other, though not necessarily. Sometimes my days are so easy to anticipate, while others, such unpredictable things occur which seriously cause me to question the logic and/or sanity of a universe that would have all my deadlines and responsibilities due on the same day and time…How about some fucking space?

Sometimes I wish I wouldn't think about anything but the task at hand. I was up really late last night despite having taken sleeping pills (they don't always work for me), thinking about all the people I've come into contact with in life and how they may have changed me or I them. I like to think that there are a few people on this planet who still know me really well, well enough to know why I might be who I am or do the things I do, why I have a tendency to catastrophize everything, resent others and clench myself (to the point of exhaustion) against blows that might never come. Even I don't have specific reasons 'why' which I am able to articulate, but according to some, I've created a lot of tension in my time. But, though we live in an age where very little elicits surprise or explanation, where we hardly even bother to question anymore, I maintain that there are reasons for nearly everything and they should be sought out, despite the mess.

Some seem to think our current era is very privileged, but I have my doubts. Though we are undeniably more technologically advanced and have essentially instant access to any information we might possibly desire, I think we live in a time where personal enlightenment, actually understanding ourselves and others within our species, is sorely lacking…When else have people had as many crises of self? The fact that we hear about so many psychological problems on a daily basis and spend so much time trying to get to the root of the problem, trying to pinpoint that quintessential tragic moment back in childhood where everything turned sour, is proof that generally as a society—at least in the West—we are sick and sort of want to stay that way (though we'll never admit it).

I think there's some sort of romantic fascination with 'disturbance' of some kind. Not able to handle the mundane, expected occurrences of life, we seek out melodramatic problems whether in search of pity or to convince ourselves we've got it harder than others, that though we've merely accomplished the same thing as our peers, we are more impressive because of having "overcome adversity"… I know I really shouldn't generalize and say Western culture (and me, by extension) are absolutely this way—I know there are always exceptions…Not to say that it isn't this way at all in Korea; Western influence (and "democracy") will make drama queens of us all…

However, most people here in South Korea spend all their time working and seem happy to do so. Everyday I leave my apartment, generally feeling not at all enthused about another day at work and having to "interact" (ha!) with people (my coworkers) who seem for the most part to prefer keeping communication with me at an uncomfortable minimum, as I am still the anomaly, a Westerner, true, but also just generally socially awkward. And everyday, walking the same route to work, I see the same people working their vegetable stands, shouting out the specials of the day which I cannot understand, but certainly can appreciate at least for the sake of atmosphere. They huddle by their electric space heaters on frigid days and wear those awful, rather sterile-looking SARS face-masks in lieu of scarves, to keep their noses from running. I see old women peddling ankle socks with K-pop stars cheaply stamped on them, and terrible, hastily put-together jewellery—tacky pink scrunchies with dangling knock-off "Hello-Kitties", though I never see then with customers. Their faces are weathered from spending countless hours out in the cold and their backs are hunched from carrying the weight of their babies so many years before strollers finally became the norm. And, outside Sognae Station, where I catch the subway, there are always these ancient looking old women selling garlic or ginger or herbs which are all simply laid out on a blanket at their feet. It's not as if these particular herbs are especially hard to get—they're available every few feet at large vegetable stands, not to mention grocery store and whole food markets, so I sometimes wonder why they even try and not just admit to themselves that they are essentially begging for change. But, their faces speak of patience and moderation, of dealing with life's unpleasantness as it comes, and this seems to me to be a special sort of quality that I respect entirely, though I have trouble summoning it within myself.

What is really striking is the dual nature of this country, the intermingling of old and new. It's the clash of the innumerable neon lights from nightclubs blaring ghetto hip hop against palaces and temples that have stood ground for over a thousand years. From what I know of history and what I can tell just by observing the old and young and the differences in their behaviour, it seems to me that most of the major changes in culture and way of life have, like all other places on Earth, occurred here in the last half-century after the Korean War (the one the United States were involved with—Korea has been in a lot of wars…). Needless to say, I occasionally wonder what these old people think of the current generation of young people, fascinated with the latest cell phones, MP3 players and American pop culture. In any case, there seems to me to be a very significant divide between the Deep-rooted and the Pristine in this culture, and the fact that they are able to coexist might elicit a variety of impressions. I of course, generally tend to think it's asymptomatic of America's tendency to dominate culture by spreading money around to eager foreign markets, but I'm sure very few Koreans would agree with me. Koreans seem to be very proud of their heritage: They've been careful about keeping their traditions alive and preserving the long-standing palaces by building modern cities like Seoul all around them. In fact, despite the clash of old and new, a situation that might cause problems in other, less balanced societies, Koreans for the most part, just seem to have a really positive mental attitude about life.

However, teaching teenagers, I've come to be much more aware of the other side, the newer side—a side that seems to me to ring less true of the far-east and instead laud the grandeur of the west. Essentially, this attitude contradicts much of the values the traditional side extols.

Aside from the importance placed on learning English in this country, young Koreans, particularly the girls, are obsessed with having a certain look—namely that of their pop stars, who have all whitened their skin by avoiding sunlight and buying special cosmetics (skin whiteners are available at stores like "Skin Food" and the "Body Shop" for well-under 20,000 won, or $20), gotten the much-desired double-eyelid surgery, and gone for rhinoplasties to lift and narrow their noses. A disturbing number of my female students constantly tell me how they hate how they look, how they wish they could have smaller faces, thinner bodies, higher noses, curlier hair. They are generally fascinated with my "wide eyes" and eyelashes and often ask whether they're natural…It's making me all a little self-conscious how thoroughly I am examined. Anyway, my point is, were I to badmouth Korea (hypothetically), I'd be verbally attacked by defensive students, their level of patriotic pride is that high, yet at the same time there's this paradox wherein they seem to detest all their typically Korean physical attributes (which are beautiful) and do whatever they can to appear more Western. Like my mind, Korea is full of little hypocrisies, and while I don't devalue the people for them, as with my own conflicting dual nature, I can't help but question why.

There's something weird about the whole nature of hypocrisy, however. An idea generally has to be straight, abstract that is, in order to be warped or countered, right? Yet, it is always people we blame for committing hypocrisies. People. Excuse me, but have you ever met an abstract person, someone who never wavered, never crumbled, never doubted or defensively denied out of a sense of self-protection? Theories are abstract, I think, but that is why they remain theories; it is a rare occasion when they are actually put to practice. And the human mind, as filled with bias and emotion and memory as we all know it to be? I think it is absolutely incapable of representing one singular part of any spectrum, it is unable to serve as a constant, concrete, figurative force, be it political, emotional or otherwise. But maybe I am being hypocritical by being presumptuous enough to speculate…

Anyway, this weekend was pretty good for the most part. We went to the National Museum of Korea and wandered around the Exhibition Hall where we saw mostly artefacts from the Joseon Period—lots of pots and tea cups made of celadon or white porcelain, as well as scrolls and the old letter blocks used in early printing presses (at least I hope there were presses and not done entirely by hand, though I might be wrong). There was also a lot of military history to be seen, particularly documentation in the form of extremely precise illustrations of envoys encroaching upon Japan (or other countries). I honestly wasn't that fascinated by the Joseon Period, but I did particularly enjoy seeing the 19 story pagoda in the center of the hall.

The pagoda is extremely awe-inspiring, not for its grandeur particularly, but rather for its intricacy and precision to detail. A lot of the motifs were really very difficult to make out, but I did see lions and birds carved along the base. Winding upwards towards the top, the pagoda is decorated mostly with people, and according to the little blurb in English on the sign in front of the "Do Not Climb Fence" notice, these carved-out people are meant to tell the history of a dynasty, which is amazingly ambitious considering how long most Asian dynasties seem to last.

We saw calligraphy, the preserved handwriting of kings, and it made me think about the importance of writing and how computers have all but destroyed the sincere, simple act of putting pen to paper. The handwriting styles of the emperors were so respected that the people would be compelled to learn how to write in the same fashion (An interesting fact: Apparently, there is 100% literacy in South Korea!). I think maybe this could have had something to do with the development of Hangeul—slight changes over the years and dynasties, which were based on the inclinations and brush-strokes of Kings (?).

We saw all manner of masks, portraits, figurines, incense holders, parasol rims, jewellery, mirrors, hairpins and combs (many of which belonged to royal concubines), as well as many landscape drawings and sculptures highlighting the difference in art styles in Asian countries. I was particularly impressed with the art from Nepal, which was markedly less vibrant but seemed to have a fierce sort of intensity to it which seemed almost hostile, angry. The masks from this country were unpainted and carved to show angry, slit-eyed visages baring teeth in small rough mouths while the masks from other countries generally had mirthful or idiotic expressions, and were colourful and decorative.

My favourite rooms contained the giant statues of the Buddhist and Hindu gods. The giant Buddhas looked sublime, though they weren't exactly what I was expecting. I always have this image of the fat-stomached bald monk, laughing or looking intense, smiling mystically. Instead, we mostly saw the spiky headed version of Buddha, lithe and beautiful with a hole (or bindi mark?) in his forehead (for a third eye?), seated in a meditative pose, holding his hands in one of the many yogic postures meant for contemplation. I think the majority of these statues were from Singapore and Indonesia.

Particularly amazing were some of the extremely massive scroll paintings (sometimes done on silk) which must have been terrible to transport (one can see the lines where the painting was rolled or folded in its move). There was an incredible painting of a Bodhivista surrounded by Lotus flowers, holding a rose up for contemplation. The painting is especially famous for the man's expression—the mysterious and highly enigmatic sort of half smile as he looks upon the flower. It is extremely colourful and I can only imagine how much strain must have been exerted in its completion. I think it takes a particular sort of vision to paint on such a large scale. One has to back up at least 30 feet to properly take it all in. I was very impressed.

In the Hindu-deities room, which wasn't nearly as large, there were statues of Ganesa, Shiva, and various other gods and goddesses. I did not see Vishnu (the destroyer if memory serves), but I guess it makes sense that there wouldn't be many altars to worship destruction (but I could be wrong). All in all, we spent about 4 hours walking around the 3 floors of the Exhibition Hall, which is a large part of an even more massive museum (apparently, it is the 6^th largest in the world). The gift stores weren't very good—mostly just books and overpriced plastic figurines. I bought 2 postcards of especially nice golden Buddha statues in reflective poses, but virtually nothing else was very appealing to me.

That night, we went to Hong Dae again and managed to find another really comfortable Arabian/Indian style place called "Six Bar." I really liked how it was decorated. There was this lush purple silk draped to hang from the ceiling. It was pinned in place by the chandelier, which thankfully, was very dim. There were cool paintings (done in a sort of African art style) of people on the walls, and all the patrons seemd very relaxed. Like at "India Style Café," we removed our shoes and put them in hemp bags so we could hang out on floor cushions and sip on really strong Long Island Ice Teas. These types of bars are really cool, but it's a bit easy to get too comfortable and maybe take a little nap considering the whole place is made up of blankets and pillows. Overall, except for supper at a Chinese food restaurant, which I found disgusting and really couldn't eat after I'd realized that the awful chewy bit I'd spat into my napkin wasn't in fact a mushroom, but an octopus tentacle, it was a really good night. J

On Sunday, we woke up late and decided to go to Namdaemoon Market because the weather was really mild for once. There's so much to see there! This was my second time there and although it can get repetitive and it's really hard to move as the alleys are jammed with people and carts and vendors and garbage, I still maintain that there's a special sort of cacophony (despite the pig heads in saran-wrap and the repulsive squid smells on the wind making me nauseous) about the place that a person can just lose themselves in, and I think that's wonderful.

We managed to find a real art store called "Alpha," which is extremely well-stocked. I picked up some acrylic paints and some small brushes, as well as some (expensive) grey-toned markers. But the best find of the day were these plaster-of-Paris (ready to paint) faces and body parts and busts taken from Classic Roman art. I bought a large mould of an eye (I think it's the eye from the statue of Michelangelo's "David") as well as a really sublime-looking Asian faced with closed eyes. I'm going to start painting them this week, I think. It should serve as a good sort of distraction (better than obsessing over boring jigsaw puzzles or other equally pointless endeavours), and I really want to get back into painting anyway.

The upstairs of the "Alpha" building had a small art gallery featuring contemporary works form artists mostly from Asia (though there was one from France and one from Jordan, I think). There were a few paintings by a Filipino artist (I can't remember her name, unfortunately) that I thought were very good, although many of the others seemed kind of amateurish. It was good for a quick look anyway.

My weekends seem to go by extremely quickly; there never seems to be enough time to do everything I'd like to do. In our very drawn-out search for a western bathroom—a lot of toilets (not all, of course) here are squatters with no toilet paper, soaked-floors and a terrible wreak, as Koreans (for whatever reason), don't flush their toilet paper, but instead deposit everything in the open-air waste-baskets below flushers that often don't work—we came across the Seoul Museum of Contemporary Art, which was closing, but the gift store kind of gave us a preview of the cool Surreal, Dada and Abstract works within. I was flipping through posters of prints of paintings by Dali, Picasso and Magritte, and I think I'd really like to go to the Magritte exhibit. Also, if the collection on loan from the Louvre is still available at the National Museum of Korea in the coming weeks, I'd like to check it out. I'm a sucker for the classics.

I took the subway train home at about 9. The subways here are never creepy or lonely places, like the way they sometimes felt late at night in Montreal. Always packed with people, many of whom are sleeping, the last trains usually run a bit after 11pm. On the rare occasion I actually manage to get a seat, there is something very soothing about the train's motion on the tracks, and this, in conjunction with the heat coming directly at the back of my legs, usually makes me pass out along with everyone else.

After transferring at Guro Station, and waving goodbye from inside the train, I settled up against the wall for my ride, which was rather entertaining. I was standing near the section reserved for the old and disabled and there were 4 ajumas (old Korean women) with no teeth laughing like maniacs at some joke an old man was telling them. They all looked kind of drunk (soju for breakfast, lunch and dinner...lol), but happy. Until then, I'd never seen an old woman sit sprawled out on her friends' laps before, but I guess it was kind of cute. At their feet, a little boy of about five was playing with a K'nex sort of puzzle and becoming increasingly frustrated, tossing the pieces back into the plastic container between his knees. The image made me consider my earlier thought about the divide between old and new, young and old in this country (and really, all countries). Maybe it's not so much unfortunate that ancient culture is sort of being brushed aside by a generation that favours the flash and influence of other nations. I guess it's just something that happens.

Though there really does seem to me to be a fascination with American culture here, I don't exactly consider it to be an overwhelming one. Instead, the clash of the ancient and modern actually makes Korea more interesting. Maybe Korea can serve figuratively as proof that change is possible, and while the differences aren't always necessarily good, they aren't always necessarily bad either…Instead, for a country or a person subject to such influence, things will no longer be the way they used to be…And there's no hypocrisy in that.