Psyche's Walls

Since Sunday afternoon, one of the most beautiful days I've known, I've felt very unconscious, a mixture of dizzy and tired and mildly nauseous, feelings tied together with a general sense of life out of focus; scattered. My thoughts, like the eyelashes on a resting man, are impossible to count; they flicker as though in dream; they are thick and mottled and overlap, heavy with sleep.

At the moment, I am at work, waiting for my classes to start. I've closed my eyes and have kept them shut these last ten minutes without paranoia of being caught asleep. I am the only teacher now; Miss Kim has quit, the second of two since I've been here (the third if you count the original secretary). I've been taking over extra classes and feel very uncomfortable in my present situation because as the only teacher, everything I do is under closer scrutiny, I'd imagine. I will not continue here next year. I don't know what I'll do, actually. I like teaching and being overseas but I need a vacation, something I'm not likely to get (though 10 days were promised in my contract) here at this place.

In any case, I often have mixed feelings here in Korea. Sometimes, I wake up and know I am sad; I force myself to the Language Institute clutching my coffee cup for moral support. Other days are better, despite all the uncertainty of my hours (they still change on a daily basis).

On the sad days, the weight I feel is bone-crushing. I sometimes think of the warning Dr. Paidra gave me about my pills—how sometimes they can make people depressed to the point of suicidal if the dosage is wrong. I never had the time for them to make any adjustments to my prescription before leaving the country, so who can say if I'm even supposed to be on Prozac anyway. I sometimes feel worse than I ever did without them. Other times, I feel emotionally the same as always, but physically just a little number. Walking around like a dream exiled to the waking world, I am unsure if anything is even real; I worry that the last five and a half months have been an elaborate hallucination, the by-product of a nervous breakdown or a coma-dream from a hospital room. Sometimes, I'll jolt awake in the middle of the night and look around my room, certain that I recognize the familiar shapes from my place on Elgin Street. And sometimes, I feel small, like the bed has grown, or I have shrunken; and I'm sure that if I look closely enough (were I able, through the Nyquil haze to open my eyes widely, that is) I'd be able to make out the stuffed animals, the ramshackle closet with the broken door (it always fell off its runners) and the ugly peach-coloured jip-rock, peeling and flecked with thumbtack holes. When I see my little cubby-hole room, I am not alarmed.

Most of the dreams I have and consider to be the thoughts of my "present-day memory," pertain to childhood, when everything was more concrete, emotional. I've been taking sleeping pills every night now and so, when I do awake in the night, it's only for several seconds; my eyes are groggy and unclear; my eyelids are defective, unable to remain open—a missing spring, you see. When I "wake up" and wander numbly through the day, perhaps those are my hallucinations, or at least I feel less clear in these transparent hours that sometimes drag, like the feet of a bored child, shuffling along, unenthused about weekend visits with 'dad' or long nights with cruel babysitters.

Sometimes, in bed at night, I am struck with strange notions; I have been doing a lot of thinking waiting for pills to kick in, it seems. Last night, wide awake and restless, I sought out a blanket to drape over the lace curtain thumb-tacked in front of the window looking out into the hallway. The light was a bit too abrasive and I require pitch-black to fool my eyes into thinking they're closed. There was still a tiny sliver of light where the blanket stretched, unable to reach—I thought of it like a sort of porthole, a glimpse into the fog of my dreams (or waking life, whichever it is). There, in the near-black, it was quiet, almost strangely so; a primeval silence. For a full five minutes, I was a bit afraid that the elaborate dream-world I've built were about to implode; these silent moments were the final, eerie few before utter destruction—like how birds stop singing and animals disappear when a threat enters the forest. Finally, the perfect, terrifying soundlessness was broken by high-heel clicks in the hall, fading gradually as the owner of said feet made her way down the hall, trampling thorough my dream like she owned the place. That's the last thing I remember before I fell asleep.

I cannot quite remember my dreams, but I know I was in Bolton Centre yet again, which is somewhat irritating, as certain parts (not all, though) of those thirteen long years would be better off forgotten.

In a dream once, several years ago, I had a conversation about what I couldn't see, what wasn't there that is, and why it was missing. I remember asking whether there was anything but what could be seen or touched, or viscerally discerned. I don't think I was in any natural surroundings, unless "nothingness" qualifies as something, anything at all. Something (or nothing) told me there was nothing but what we see and hear, not in words though. I think it must have been my own mind, but within the dream, if that makes any sense. I woke up feeling very nauseous and proceeded with my day. Later, that same afternoon, I was reading a book about the Metaphysical poets and was struck with their concept of the "Body and Soul" and how there is a constant struggle or discourse between the two, even though they blend together like a sort of psychic/corporeal smoothie.

I remember becoming very interested in the concept of the soul, sure that if I couldn't see it or control it as I might my body, it either didn't exist, was merely an optimistic invention on the part of ancient philosophers, or that it, figuring so elusively in the monstrous unknown, wasn't worth my time worrying over. Now that I've thought about it and have had a little time truly being on my own, I believe differently. I am not by any means a spiritual person—I still only feel faith in the physical, an old standby. Despite this, I understand what poets like Donne were trying to convey—that if there is a soul, it desires something entirely different form the body, the mound of shape-shifting, aging flesh that selfishly, greedily "needs," and generally triumphs over its more invisible counterpart.

The soul desires (or seems to) purity, forever in search of that sought for higher state, an alchemic refinement. In our minds, we think that to please the soul, we must make our bodies follow suit, and rid ourselves of the extraneous, superfluous weight that is dragging us down. But maybe these are the thoughts of a convoluted, obsessed mind that believes somehow, unsure of where the idea came from, that when the body is well, the soul is not. Contrarily, a healthy soul makes for a sick body, since the two together have essentially no business with each other, both pulling viciously away, one facing east, the other west, a lethal game of bi-polar tug and war that some would call unjustly matched. And, if to the victor goes not the spoils (for what is left?), then what?

I really shouldn't think about these kinds of things; I know it doesn't help. Sometimes I feel as if over-thinking has made my problems worse than they might have been otherwise. At the same time, despite the thoughts I have had these last few months, in addition to all the information I've managed to gather from books throughout the years, I still feel I do not know enough about the world, about people, and that frustrates me. What I'd like, more than anything is to "know" without doubt or second-guessing myself. Sometimes, I feel like all I need is an intellect, just a thought-producing entity devoid of a body. I'd be much less self-conscious at the very least.

I'd like very much to stop being in a daze and having to constantly shake myself aware, reminding myself that my surroundings are in fact real, or as real as my mind can make them. Maybe holding on to a warm arm as I manoeuvre through busy streets and past thousands of faces will help. It feels very solid to me at least, so I guess for now, I too will remain firm, sure of my existence, and won't vanish into the smoky atmosphere, a zillion tiny particles dissipating in as many different directions.

I've been re-reading the story of Psyche the past few days and perhaps the myth has inspired my recent thoughts. For those of you unfamiliar with the story, it takes place in the Pre-Christian world (some call it Barbarian) when sacrifice was common and Gods were not only real, but thirsty for both wine and blood.

The story starts like most fairy tales, "once upon a time" when the world was new and kings and queens had children in sets of three, seven or twelve—mythic numbers, you know. Psyche was born third, the youngest of two other daughters, and grew up to become the kindest and most beautiful princess that ever lived (go figure). She was so loved by her father's subjects that they honoured her above the city's principal goddess, believing that she possessed sacred powers to heal the sick and bring light to the darkness endemic of the age.

Like most goddesses, Talapal, who was the city's primary deity, was a diva, grew jealous and made life generally miserable for the kingdom until the king finally agreed to a human sacrifice, a gift for the "brute," a monster in the mountains. The only obvious choice for the sacrifice was Psyche of course, being the choicest daughter of the king. However, before the slaughter could occur, Telapal's son. Cupid (or Ialim, depending on who's telling the story and where) rescued her and made Psyche his wife.

Though Cupid was the most beautiful of gods, he refused to let Psyche see his face and only came to her in the dark. For many months, Psyche was happy; Cupid built her a beautiful palace in the woods and she had all she ever wanted or needed on the condition that she never ask to see his face or bring a lamp into their home.

One day, Psyche's sisters went to the mountain to search for her remains and to mourn her fate at the mount of the brute. Instead of finding her bones however, Psyche appeared before them in the forest looking slightly raggedy but nonetheless happy and healthy. She explained to them how she'd been made a wife to a mysterious god who she'd never seen and how she lived in the most gorgeous palace and wore the loveliest of clothing. Her sisters, of course, thought she was delusional, that she'd been driven mad after somehow managing to escape from the vicious monster. They wondered how she'd managed to survive the elements for so long by herself.

When Psyche brought them to her 'palace' the sisters were unmoved in their resolve to rescue their sister. To Psyche, her palace was brilliant and her robes of the finest silk. To her sisters however, Psyche pointed to nothing but trees and sky and wore only the simple dress, now dirty and ragged, in which she had been dressed for her sacrifice to the monster.

Though she refused to return home with her sisters, Psyche was finally convinced to accept an oil lap; her sisters felt that her husband must be a terrible man if he was too ashamed to even show her his face. Once Psyche saw him, they hoped, she would return to a state of sanity, her perfect illusion shattered. Psyche listened and though she had her apprehensions, lit the lamp to look upon her lover's face as he slept. Instead of an awful, ugly man, Psyche was horrified to realize that she had betrayed her husband, who had in fact, the most beautiful face she'd ever seen. Instantly, the walls of her palace came down around her; in the forest, to those who didn't realize what it really was, mountains would have been seen to crumble to dust, and trees fall to the earth like so many dominoes.

Psyche was sorry, but Cupid could no longer help her. By creating this palace—that some would say was all in her mind—he'd been protecting her from the cruel and jealous eyes of his mother, who was now free to torment her as she pleased.

As the story goes, Psyche was sent to wander the earth alone, an archetype similar to others before and after her, like the Wandering Jew or Coleridge's Ancient Mariner. In her lifetime, which would be difficult, the goddess would give her near impossible tasks to fulfil. When (and if) she ever completed them all successfully, she'd be allowed to be reunited with her husband and become a goddess (albeit a minor one), herself.

It's a sad story, I think, and really not very optimistic. Thinking about it, however, I believe I realize the point; about how we can create images in our minds to protect ourselves from what is really there, like building closet doors (no matter how ramshackle) to hold back the monsters that torment us at night. I think it's mostly about self-protection, propping ourselves up enough to protect ourselves from the general consensus' perception of reality. The problem however, is that if we somehow manage to live in our heads long enough to believe something 'true,' it becomes so much harder to eventually accept another person's perspective on the issue. We stubbornly grasp our biases, our truths, until our figurative knuckles pale, turn white.

Being forced to lift one finger at a time is a terrible process, typical of most tortures, but one I've come to realize I might have no choice but to succumb to eventually. The question is of course, is whether I'm willing to suffer more to become "better" in someone else's opinion. I don't know. I remain not entirely convinced that my walls are shaky, like on extremely hot days when everything takes on that wavy-lined, dreamy look. I am not denying that they are in fact walls, however. I am saying that they make me feel safer, like though I may wander in the real world, or in the one my mind fabricates, like Psyche, I'll always be protected as long as the walls stay up, entirely untouchable. They are very reliable obstructions, if I do say so myself. The only difference is, I have seen the face of my master, and it isn't pretty.

Who the architects of these walls are is hard to say, but there have been many contributors over the years. And I continue to lay the bricks—it's hard to stop a pattern once I've started; I am slightly obsessive. I've layered them thickly. They sometimes seem soundproof. The walls are rounded like a spiralling tower and as I lay them down, I keep moving in circles, my space to move becoming increasingly limited. I am an imperfect wall-builder, however. Without corners, my walls (or wall), has gaps in it. Like my apartment's hallway window, light shines through. It is bright and piercing and I can tell immediately when it's going to be a beautiful day when the sunshine lets me wake up warm. But, when my shoddy craftsmanship leaves me prone to the colder, crueller elements, I too become colder and crueller. I work harder to patch up the holes and though I save myself from freezing, I also black out the respite of those rare sunny days. If I continue, I guess I may just be alone in the dark, devoid of warm or cold, unable to be either happy or sad. Yes, my amazing wall will shelter me from everything.

Last weekend was very good. We went to Hong Dae again. We saw a punk show. It's getting to the point, I think, where it really doesn't matter where we go, as long as we go together. If the place is fun or interesting, it's just an added bonus. I am frightened sometimes by my comfort-level with this situation. I've never experienced anything quite like it. I find myself at a loss for words often with you, but that's okay; I don't scour my brain searching for boring things to talk about just to fill the void. Sometimes it's just nicer to lean into you and close my eyes and ignore the din of the subway car, the metal upon metal of the tracks, the foreign (to me) language I can't understand, and listen to you breathe underneath all the layers of winter clothing. And for a moment, my walls don't matter. I don't measure the light or the darkness, the happy or the sad. I don't think about laying bricks or how I might die if they come crashing down on top of me, I just let you hug me tighter and try to sync my breath with yours. That is all.

Just Another Patron

Lately, I've been contemplating art and the variety of forms in which it is able to manifest. While 'conventional' art is generally more frequently regarded, I've become enthralled—for lack of a better word—with motion and people. Perhaps being in a country where there is very little ethnic diversity (if you live in Korea, more often than not, you are Korean) has sort of awakened within me an interest in people-watching, in studying faces, shapes, kinetic energy. It's not that it didn't interest me at all before, but here it's different; I am more likely to look at Koreans since I am more than aware that they're staring at me.

I've come to regard 'the human-being' as perhaps the most versatile of art projects, adaptable, ever-changing, often disturbing. The human as art is not a new concept. In fact, I'm sure it's one of those notions that has become stale, entered the realm of the cliché: "The body is a temple," etc. People understand this—we decorate, add instalments, and chip away, investing much time and money, like any good art patrons might. We tattoo, pierce, insert; we scratch, pluck, tweeze; we tighten, build up, polish; we plasticize, cut off, suck out.

I lay in bed last night waiting for the sleeping pill to take control. I smoked a cigarette wondering when I'd finally be overcome, when I'd feel a sort of jolt, like the gel cap suddenly popping inside me, and I'd be granted the beautiful gift of being able to vanish in the soft smoke, my butt gradually extinguishing in the ashtray beside me. I watched the smoke rise, floating upwards and tried to distinguish shapes to pass the time. Smoke shapes have always been infinitely interesting to me. The whorls and swirls are like spinning dust in a sunbeam, finding good from bad; ironically optimistic. I focused my eyes, their lids growing increasingly heavy, on one twirling shape, like a fairy dancer, limbs extended, the spinning arms of a nebula in the heavens, as it made its way to my bedroom ceiling, committing suicide in a crush of gathered cloud. Deep breath. My cigarette out, I turned off the light, got under the covers and closed my eyes.

While it's no surprise (given my "sleep issues") that I've tried many sleeping pills over the last few years, sometimes, rather than losing mental consciousness, my ultimate goal at the end of the day, I become physically incapacitated. Many sleeping pills are merely muscle-relaxants, you see. My arms and legs become awash with the sensation of "being asleep," a feeling I hate. They tingle, become revoltingly heavy, molten. My neck against the pillow becomes too weak to support what feels like a suddenly awkward, bulbous head. This happened last night, and instead of keeping my eyes closed and ignoring the drippy, molasses feeling I dread, I was suddenly struck with what people do to themselves for the purpose of scheduling. As the phenomenon grew more pronounced (I'm sure I was in a state of sleep paralysis, which has happened to me before), I imagined myself petrifying, turning to stone, a sort of Kafka-esque Metamorphosis befitting my personality. After an anxiety-riddled hour or so, I finally closed my eyes, un-furrowed my brow, and tried to assume a pleasant expression, just in case I woke up (or didn't, that is) as a statue.

Perhaps it is ironic, or appropriate, that in a week where I've been obsessed with watching motion, I imagine myself as a piece of stone, stoic inertia plopped down amidst a shape-shifting, transfiguring mass of human-flesh. The feelings of awkwardness aren't alien to me of course, but perhaps it's my recent frustration, feelings of invisibility and helplessness which have triggered my recent thoughts.

My boss has changed my schedule yet again. Everyone's been running around, making things different, moving. I wait for my classes to begin, unaware that they're all different now. No one tells me anything. When I confront my boss, asking calmly, "How am I supposed to know if I'm not informed?" (Every class this week has been at strange times I've never taught at before), he looks surprised and bewildered that Miss Kim hasn't told me.

Basically, I've just decided to show up for work, sit there for 8 hrs and teach when they tell me I'm on. It's very frustrating. I feel like I'm some sort of burden. If I stay overseas another year, I'll work someplace where there are other foreign teachers to help me…I hate the feeling like they're all talking about me, the big joke.

Also somewhat distressing this week is that once again, my fingers have magically become covered with cuts and tears. I wake up with them, suddenly aware that my digits are raw, dry, peeling. Sometimes they bleed. I honestly have no idea why. Perhaps it's the cold weather that has suddenly gripped the area, with the frigid wind, rain and snow, which is insufferable to walk to and from work in (or, maybe I gnaw at them in my sleep, I really can't say). Sometimes, as I write in my notebook, I become aware of the bones in my wrist, in my fingers under my skin. They move, contort, like something fluid. Sometimes, I can see the veins beneath. I wonder how thick my skin is, both figuratively and literally. It seems very fragile to me, pocked with old scars and burns.

I'd be lying if I said I had no interest in human flesh; in fact, it is one of my many obsessions, if not the focal point of my life. Both in myself and in others, I am captivated, delighted and disgusted, often all at once, with the extensive range of the human form. That it's able to grow expansive, burdensome, no longer able to fit the frame it's hung on, is both amazing and alarming to me. It all looks like so much overflow. I imagine elastics, stretched to capacity, since I guess that's all skin is, really, a sort of flimsy covering, a container for the more precious material within. Sometimes, sadist that I am, in my mind, the elastic snaps—painful; red welts against tender skin. Other times, the rubber just falls apart in my hands, finito.

Last weekend, I was captivated by traditional Korean dancers at a fancy Buddhist/Vegetarian temple cooking restaurant called Sanchon. The girl dancers were hypnotic, light on their feet, with frozen perma-smiles (which I found a little unsettling, actually). They twirled in their hanboks, gracefully weightlessly, effortlessly. My favourite performance was perhaps a toss-up between the frantic spinning dance of a man with a long length of ribbon tied to his hat (ones eyes were inclined to follow the spinning of the silk as the dancer violently tossed his head back and around), and the black-robed, long-sleeved spectre (who looked like the classical personification of Death) who drummed and danced in a very finite, eerie sort of way. The food was very good, if a little too plentiful, but it was definitely the performance and its energy that remains in my thoughts.

It's a rather new line of thought for me, this consideration of movement. My art, if it might be called as such, has always been rather two-dimensional, dark, a moment captured rather than a moment lived. I have been very embarrassed in the past about motion; its honesty and utilitarianism had seemed a little too naked to me. I remember high school, how I walked slowly--shoulder dragging against the wall-- from class to class, avoiding contact with the other moving beings: Their superior mastery of their own skin intimidated me and I felt it unwise to alert more attention to my corporeal short-comings than were already apparent. Up against the white concrete, I tried to blend in, be more wall than student; it made my skin cold.

In the past few weeks, I've imagined a sort of "art" that is grown, not crafted. That is, finding beauty or at the very least, interest, in what already exists rather than in what has been carefully, meticulously constructed. The most obvious answer to this problem is of course, the human being, a controversial topic if ever there was one.

While believers of Adam and Eve might very well quote Genesis to me, telling me all about the dust and the rib bone that figure so significantly in their notion of the elaborate development of human beings, I am entirely more interested in the fact that despite witnessing much to the contrary, Christian theology continues to suggest that humans are more "constructed" than "grown." Despite my disbelief of religion of Creationism, I am still an avid reader of old Creation stories. One in particular which stands out in my mind is the story of Adam's first wife—He had two, actually, before Eve.

We've heard of Lilith, the 2^nd; she figures in popular mythology as an evil, succubus-like figure, fond of controlling men. In the Pre-Raphaelite era, Dante Gabriel Rossetti grew obsessed with her and represented her often, with long, flowing hair, the source of her power and femininity—a sure-fire way to strangle or suffocate her mate. In the Old Testament, Lilith was written as a very sexual being. In the end, the Creator destroyed her because Adam experienced discomfort at her desire to dominate; she wanted to be "on top" in coitus, you see.

As unfair as Lilith's fate might seem to the modern female; that of Adam's first wife has always fascinated me most. In the story of Eve, we read that God created her from Adam's rib while he slept. In the morning, Adam woke up to a perfect, complete woman. For Adam's first wife, however, who never lived long enough to have a name, God put her together in front of a very conscious Adam, piecing together bones, flesh, bodily organs, blood and skin, bit by bit. This honest display proved too much for Adam, and though his wife was indeed beautiful upon completion, he could feel nothing but repulsion towards her; every time he looked at her, he recalled her blood and flesh; he was thoroughly disgusted and essentially ungrateful towards his (and her) creator. God exterminated her after only one day of life. If anything, she remains alive as a legacy to the hatred and dissatisfaction society often hurls at the female form. It's a hatred of the fleshy bits, as I understand it, and I do (understand it, that is).

I of course know the obvious answer of where my interest with the human form stems—I do not need the therapist's couch to unearth this intelligence. I am however, slightly undecided and hesitant to say what has awakened my newfound consideration of movement in the human form. I watch people walk. I imagine their hip bones shuffling upwards and down; I wonder if they protrude. I look at high-heeled feet balanced on twig-legs made to look thinner with the added height. I contemplate my own feet, sneaker clad, and how I'll walk crooked regardless. I am a bit jealous and wonder if the owners of said feet bleed as mine would. I check out collar bones and remark to myself how nice they look uncovered, no necklaces. I stop myself, knowing my comparisons are unhealthy, counterproductive, but why should I deny them; they are very real.

Though I spend much time examining the flesh of others, when it comes to my own, I shrink away (read that as you will). When my skin is grazed, ever-so-lightly with soft fingers, brushing the inevitable strand of hair from my eyes or my mouth, I am both delighted and confused. I am afraid of sensory overload but thrilled with the attention. I don't enjoy the unanticipated, the uncontrolled variable, which is often myself or my skin's reaction to outside forces. Upon contact, my eyes clamp shut inevitably, whether out of feeling or terror, or the logical combination of the two.

The unprovoked cuts on my fingers have often made me think my skin is dead, ready to peel away. Though it hurts, I optimistically think that maybe it's a sign that it needs replacing (and that it's even a possibility). Perhaps once shed, in whatever dramatic, bloody, painful gesture is necessary for such an occurrence, I will be different, revitalized. Perhaps I can reinvent myself; disguise the run of my skin; make myself my greatest piece of art by absorbing a new personality through virgin pores. On the other hand, maybe I am more reptilian than I once imagined, and like a snake whose scales dry up and crumple off, flaky like old rice paper, my new skin will only be temporary, it too subject to an expiration date.

Given my history, as flecked with temporary moments of happiness (giddy little pockmarks), and punctuated by long bouts of discontent (ugly, blotchy blemishes) as it's been, I am more prone to imagine the second, less optimistic fate of my flesh, which I am grateful for nonetheless, as even a plateau is preferable to a downward spike; a single moment of elation more tolerable than consistent indifference. In any case, this week I've considered my tendency to question my humanity and as I sit here writing this, I wonder if resuscitation (a veritable art revival!) is possible in one whose pulse remains undetectable—my blood crawls, caterpillar slow--as yet.

Cuts

I am looking for something from which to draw inspiration. Some days are easier than others, which feel undeniably stale, limp. Other days, walking around Bucheon, or Seoul on the weekends, I am struck with just how fantastic everything is; I love the alleyways, the random stores and offices piled one on top of the next, easy to miss, harder to find a second time. Sometimes, on nice, clear days, I can't help but smile; the garbage everywhere gives the city character; the impossibly long traffic lights give one a chance to truly look around; the buttery sour smell of squid frying at street vendors' stalls still nauseates me, but at least I am glad that I am certain now of what it is.

It's hard to say exactly that I am particularly inspired by Korean cities. I think it's something else. Maybe I feel inspired by the concept of myself in a new environment. What aspects of my mentality and attitude are acceptable here, and what parts will change? Maybe I'm already different. I guess I'll never really know though, since recognizing change in oneself, as I've often said, is damn near impossible, like adding a single extra page to a book and expecting the difference to be noticeable.

Last summer, I was in group therapy at Carleton. For the most part, for me and my issues (which were rather weightier and more convoluted than the other participants'), it proved generally unhelpful, though I sometimes relished the ease with which I was able to speak of everything, blunt, unsympathetic and unmoved…love me or hate me, I didn't care. While the others, struggling to admit to their "social problems" or their "stress at school" looked at me with pity, surprise, discomfort or a mixture of all three. I liked these people. I felt for their trouble, but they couldn't understand me. I went anyway though, participated in the generally corny sort of "soul-searching" meditative activities, and commented often.

I remember not particularly enjoying the meditation exercises, where we were told to be aware of our bodies, how our clothing felt against them, and to listen to our breath. The two facilitators told us that closing our eyes was optional. Well, what can I say—not being aware of my body isn't my problem…It's that I'm all too aware. It is uncomfortable. It doesn't fit and never has. Sometimes, if I pay too much attention to it, I become irritatingly aware of my aching neck, how awful my spine feels against the backs of chairs, the bruises on my legs, the stinging, peeling dry skin on my face and hands, and the continuous mildly sick feeling in my stomach. Thinking about my body repulses me. Suddenly feeling my clothes against my skin, I feel itchy, my pants become too long, the waist too large, the pockets too stiff. I've learned that I mustn't dwell on my body, as it brings me very little peace and potentially more upset than I started with.

During these meditation exercises, I opted to keep my eyes open. I decided to not focus on myself, but the others around me, sitting in their chairs, eyes closed, mouths slightly agape, breathing deeply, hands in their laps. They all reported feeling relaxed, enjoying the silence and the calm. Meanwhile, after 3 minutes, I wanted nothing more than to scream. I left feeling like I'd been poked at with something (unpleasantly) sharp and spent the rest of the day avoiding having to think, putting myself on autopilot…left, right, forward: March.

In fact, the only inspiring thing I gleaned from group therapy was the suggestion that our lives were essentially blank books and every change or memorable event signified a new chapter. I've heard this analogy before. It seems cliché and a bit lame, but I'd never really thought about it in the context of myself. The facilitators went around the circle, asking us what the title of our book would be called, what chapter we'd reached, and how it would be written.

When they came to me, I told them that though there may have been many memorable occasions in my life, I did not see the point in dividing them into chapters. It all felt like one long, seamless, unchanging, never-ending melodrama, where the main character never quite evolved and rarely elicited sympathy from the readers. I told them I'd call my book "Paper Cuts," an irony I think only I understood at the time.

I had thought about life and the stinging sensation a lot of it causes. I thought about how sometimes we do it to ourselves and we relish the quick, tolerable little pain; how we sometimes can put a split finger to our collective mouths to taste the blood, reassurance that we can still bleed and feel anything at all. No matter what else is happening in life, this is something we can do to escape the tension of the mind, cluttered and messy, like crumpled paper that gets left behind, a product of indecision, writer's block. I thought about my miserable job at the time, and how I spent my nights photocopying, bundling and moving reams of paper. Thousands of pounds. I thought about how much we cut out when we write, unable to capture every moment with pen and paper, only writing what seems important and what we're comfortable revealing to others. I thought about how much easier it is to write things out rather than speak; how I can express myself with an actual semblance of ease and even calm, in ink, rather than with my scratchy, cracked voice. I thought about paper dolls, and how I used to cut out people attached at the arms, a paper chain. They were always perfect and exactly the same. Not one was prettier, shorter, or thicker than the others; all just blank little bodies connected at the wrist, multiple Siamese twins who'd never be alone. I used to hang them on my window.

I told the group that my story would be circular, like a Joycian novel because, at the root, I'd always be the same. If I ever improve, I'll still be very aware of how easy it is to stumble back to the beginning and mull through all the words and clumsy sentences and oppressive punctuation marks all over again.

They looked at me like I was the weirdo, the fucked up one at group therapy. It made me smile, because sometimes, I like to be the variable. If people are going to be uncomfortable around me, I'd rather give them a good reason. So yeah, on contemplating the notion that my life is like a book, I guess now that I'm writing more, it just may be. What has inspired me to do this wasn't group therapy, however. Rather, it's been my uneasiness at the possibility of reading my story in circles over and over again, making myself dizzy and sick (not only physically but figuratively as well) without ever being able to stop; a nightmarish merry-go-round. I need for people to know who I am and what I'm about. I also need to find division in life, cut things up in smaller, more bite-size bits so they are easier to chew and less painful to bring up. Essentially, I need to view myself as a test-subject, so that everything I write is like a lab-report, still mine in essence, but somehow edited for clarity, easier to comprehend.

Anyway, this weekend was excellent. We went to Hong Dae again, near Hongik University, which is known to be a very fashionable, youth-oriented area. We wandered around Picasso Street, which is full of art galleries and cool outdoor wall murals and statues. Then, we spent a while in the Street of Try to Walk, a narrow sort of alley packed with people, the occasional car, and roadside vendors selling ultra-hip fashion clothes. We stopped in vintage shops, bought a few things and pretty much laughed ourselves silly with some of the hideousness on display.

Most of the T-shirts in vintage shops in Korea are from American summer camps, sports teams, companies and universities, which is slightly annoying. But, in general, I've decided to embrace the "cutesiness" of Korean fashion and start buying some of the sort of pinafore empire-waist dresses girls here seem to wear so often, if only I can find one that doesn't make me look like an art-deco potato.

Anyway, I've noticed that there's a really cool sort of Japanese vibe about this area of Hong Dae. Lots of kids wander around with Mohawks and piercings, dressed like punks or little gothic Lolitas, with massive, clunky boots. I was thoroughly infatuated. This area also seems to have a lot of cool concerts which I'd like to check out at some point. I'm up for dressing the part. We came across a piercing/henna tattoo shop as well as a punk clothing store which was sort of similar to Trivium (in Ottawa) or Hot Topic (everywhere else), something I didn't quite expect to find in Korea. We even found a store called "Gacha," which is made up of gumball-type machines where you put in coins and get a toy. For 2000W (4 500W pieces), I got a tin coffin with "Vampire Teddy" from Tim Burton's "Nightmare before Christmas". I was very pleased. I like Kitsch things. It was all so random and colourful.

That night, we managed to find a few cool bars. We started at an amazing little Indie pub full of random decorations and graffiti. We drank apple tea, Vodka Rains and Cubalibres. Then, after an ordeal with a cabdriver who didn't know where a hotel was and couldn't find one until we got fed up and randomly yelled "yogi!," we lightened our loads, left our stuff in the room and went to Halibuji, a Korean dance club with annoying hip-hop blasting. Afterwards, we managed to find the cool Moroccan place we'd gone to with Pam on January 1^st. We smoked a hookah and I had my first decent tasting bloody Mary (I put so much Tabasco in it) since coming here. We didn't make it to sleep until about 5am, but I had lots of fun.

The next day, we got a late start, walked around more and ate samyetang (Korean ginseng chicken and rice soup) for lunch/supper. We managed to find some cool bookstores and I bought a book called "Territory" that highlights contemporary "gothic/dark" art. Before heading back to the subway station, we went to a DVD room (these are mini theatres where for about 12000W, people can rent a small private room furnished with a couch and pillows, and privately watch a movie of their choice. They're very popular here) and watched a film called "Gloomy Sunday," based on the famous song with the same name written by the Hungarian composer, Aradi during WWII. I've heard this song many times before and one reason why it's so interesting (apart from the fact that it's haunting and beautiful) is that it's linked to both tragedy and happiness all at once. The movie is mostly based on real events.

After the song became famous, though it had no lyrics, people throughout the world were killing themselves to the tune of "Gloomy Sunday." People thought the song was cursed. Unable to handle the guilt and his own heartbreak, the composer eventually committed suicide as well. Bleak as it all was already, Nazis were encroaching upon Europe. The film suggested that many people were committing suicide because they knew death in concentration camps was imminent anyway, and they'd preferred to die with dignity and for their own respective causes (which could be anything since the lyric-less song spoke to everyone differently). The fact that they chose to listen to something beautiful only made their bitter final moment slightly more palatable.

When I first heard the story of "Gloomy Sunday," I was in CEGEP at Dawson and became struck with the notion of "influence." How wonderful and terrible at once for an artist to be able to alter the direction of someone else's state of mind! I had been reading Goethe's "The Sorrows of Young Werther," another work famous for inspiring suicide throughout Europe. Werther was a sort of Byronic hero driven only by his extreme emotionality rather than by the logic fashionable in the 'age of Reason,' often succumbing to bouts of sickness, malaise, spinelessness. In the end, his love, like so many before his, remains unrequited and he ends his life in a fit of passion (after at least one other unsuccessful attempt, I should add). I think Goethe's intention was for the reader to not feel entirely sympathetic for his hero, but instead, even dislike him or feel annoyed with his seeming inability to evolve with age, his utter incapacity to accept defeat and "suck it up," as it were. The actions of Goethe's character inspired similar actions particularly among Europe's emotional young men. The novel grew popular, was adapted for the stage, translated to the major languages, turned into an opera. Eventually, enough people had died for the novel to be restricted.

Generally, I find it amazing that an artist's work can illicit so profound a reaction in any one person's life. I admit to being very stricken, left in a state of awe or confusion by certain books or art, but perhaps I lack the emotional fervour to ever lose my resolve to stay in control, to present myself in a certain light, or to be different than others expect me to be. I wish I could "wear my heart on my sleeve," tell people my deepest thoughts without feeling fear, paranoia and embarrassment, but I really can't. There's a sort of blockage, I guess, and though I've tried and tried to angrily claw my way through, using all the force that remains to me, I still feel hesitant, even with the few people I actually trust. Some things in my life will just have to remain with me, all mine, I guess. I'll leave myself open to everyone else's interpretation, though, I suppose.

Despite my continuous self-doubt and all 'the rest', for the first time in my life, I actually feel like a part of something more complex and enigmatic than myself, even. Like readers of Goethe or listeners of Aradi, my state of mind has shifted. This weekend I had a conversation about the need to be independent, self-reliant. I said it was very important to me. What I have noticed more and more the past few years however, is that my self-reliance is more of a way to distance myself from others, which ultimately makes me feel badly and unwanted when I am given more than enough space. Independence, I was told, can be very selfish. While I don't consider myself to be entirely self-involved, I guess I can see how some might interpret it that way.

This weekend I felt "close" instead of "closed." I have a lot of trouble verbalizing what I mean exactly, but the sadness didn't weigh so heavily and time seemed to go by far too quickly. I imagined how much more tolerable life would be if everyday weren't such a nauseating ordeal filled with boredom, routine, uncomfortable silences that I strain to babble through, and length. If I could savour life instead of merely consuming it (or allowing it to consume me), if I could feel anything positive at all and manage to smile without feeling foolish, I might be better or different at least. But, despite all these hopeful 'ifs,' I honestly don't believe I'll ever be entirely well. Some cuts leave scars as reminders--lessons learned—while others never quite close, gradually leaving blood-drop stains along our respective paper-trails.