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.