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.

Now

Tuesday, I finished work at 8:00PM and decided to walk around the city for an hour or so. I stopped into a cheap, little variety store, and like all stores of this type, the junk was compelling in all its useless glory. A lot of stuff at dollar stores in Korea have English print on them for whatever reason. I purchased an insanely grammatically incorrect folder with psychotic babbling about vitamins and best friends or some other such cutesy drek. The rabbit on the folder had big westernized eyes and the electric nature of the sugar-fiend who designed it was clearly palpable in the "artwork."

Anyway, I came across some seashells that were kind of nice and decorative, so I bought them as I am forever in search of objects to spruce up my rather sedate-looking apartment. Upon examination, most of these seashells have little concentric lines and bumps running through them. It's easy to forget sometimes that something used to live inside, and that my recent dollar-store purchase used to be something's home. I guess that's just like the irony of most true-life situations: People value things for the wrong reasons. We live in a society that worships the tasteless, tacky and innate…we admire objects for their aesthetic appeal rather than their actual purpose, if in fact there even is one to find. But, I guess I shouldn't criticize, since I can barely find a use for most individuals, myself included.

Lately, as far as the issue of purpose is concerned, I've been considering my own quite a lot. It is amazing to me that someone as shiftless as me has managed to successfully become an adult, if not an adult who is entirely successful. It's annoying that I still suffer from teenage existential angst and dissatisfaction at my age. This makes me neglectful, I think, not only of my ever-growing responsibilities, but of finding means to my ends that I actually support unwaveringly. ..As far as reaching this realization and actually getting the thoughts down in print, I am generally uncertain. Furthermore, were it not for my life-long habit of procrastination, I may have made said discovery a decade earlier and now be a very self-aware person. Unfortunately, no.

I have always had trouble approaching the ends of things. I am terrible about putting things off and very few of my projects reach their end-stages. Maybe it has to do with the fact that much of what I would like to do ideally, is too lofty, ambitious (I am a girl with big plans, though I've learned throughout my time on Earth that disappointment affects me too dramatically, that the regular pitfalls of life may floor me, demoralized, inward, hopes crushed like a paper-cup in a zealous hand.

I am sure I come off this way to people also, like a girl who looks a little unsure, unprofessional, unfocused. I have to concentrate really hard to blink away the cloudiness ever-present in my eyes, but often I don't bother…My face always looks exhausted and my shaking coffee-cup hand gives away the truth. I am also a terrible liar, though I often find myself wishing I were more gullible.

I am getting used to my job, if 'used' is an expression I can actually be justified in using given that a steady routine, a schedule, and the acceptance of said schedule tend to play a requisite part in being 'used' to anything, situational or otherwise. In any case, I have entered a sort of groove at work— the days just sort of bleed together. My boss no longer criticizes my teaching style, my students attend class regularly, I correct journal entries, and I drone on about how to write proper thesis statements. My life has reached this weird state of pseudo normalcy, of expectation, which I'm not entirely sure I'm fond of, but can definitely get 'used' to. ..Though it's exhausting me and potentially using me (and my remaining resources) up.

Sometimes I am hard pressed with the feeling that there's only so much time in life and that one ought to (as they say) "make the most of it." I know I am young, (though I am approaching yet another birthday), but as I often say, some days I just feel incredibly, decrepitly old. It makes me reluctant and terrified to think of what 30 will feel like and I am certain I will not see 40. I'll have just become too accustomed to life, or rather, too 'used' to life by then, or maybe, in some weird cosmic megalomania-driven twist; life will have become too used to me and all my melodramatic whining. And finally, desperate for some fresh air, I will be thrown upon the scrap heap with all the other empty shells. And maybe some will think of me, the absent person, as valuable and worthwhile (for their own reasons), while others will consider the things I leave behind, my paper-trail, messy like cut up bits of confetti paper, as representative of my legacy, proof of my significance.

So, I've decided that if the world ever deems me a worthwhile person, I'd rather it not be a posthumous realization. I'm just going to live (if that's the correct term to use) for each day and discover that I've yet again managed to somehow wake up for another day of work or school, or whatever the case may be. And when I am all used up, I hope I can just vanish from all memory, my paper-trail burning up behind me like a lit fuse.

I haven't had much time to write these last few weeks, but I suppose time is still moving very quickly. So quickly in fact, that days and memories get confused in my mind. It makes me think of Salvador Dali's The Persistence of Memory, that all too famous, verging upon the cliché painting of clocks hung out on a mindscape, lingering, gradually dripping like slices of melting cheese. It makes me hope that most minds are in as disarranged a state as my own, that different moments are hung out to dry all at once and are slowly becoming less solid as time progresses. With all this lack of clarity, of certainty existent within most human minds, or at least within minds that consider such matters, who can even account for what they did earlier that day? Is it not reasonable to assume that quite likely if one wished to remember morning, they'd have countless near identical memories from which to draw.

Maybe the "Now" moment, which so many people claim is of the utmost importance, is not actually "now," but just some celestial trick on the (mind's) eye; smoke and mirrors; a parlour game…It would certainly account for the many creepy déjà vu experiences, or those strange times in cities on the other side of the world when you see someone you've never met, who despite their race, looks identical to someone you know at home. Maybe it can all be traced back to the elusive melting clocks…or that great mystery of the divide between time and space…

So, yeah. Purpose. Maybe the point is to see how much a human can actually remember in life. If that's the case, the school system would make sense I guess (history class was worth it, maybe?), and perhaps then, we'd have very fulfilling, purpose-driven societies. On the other hand, it could instead be that the point is to remember to forget, or to forget to remember, whichever makes the most sense. If one were truly to "live in the moment," memory would serve no purpose, it would in fact, be entirely against the theory of 'now.'

Someone, somewhere (I can't recall, ironically enough) once told me that goldfish have a memory of only 10 seconds. So, they are literally forced to just live when they are alive and nothing more. As they swim around their little domes, the last 10 seconds of swimming is all they remember. I suppose this is why they never appear to be bored out of their tiny little minds—they've only been trapped in this dull little enclosure for 10 seconds. When they die though, the only thought they'll have left is of the previous 10 seconds, which is unfortunate since this means that their only memory of life will be those final 10 potentially unpleasant seconds while expiring. I suppose it cuts the messiness of life into more palatable bits, but it does seem just as pointless as the alternative—producing a million or so new thoughts a day, which many humans suffer to keep in check.

Sometimes these thoughts melt right away, like how we often only remember dreams for a moment, then can never recall them again as they soak into our individual subconscious realms (what a scary place mine must be!). Others stay, hauntingly, stubbornly with you for always, like a stubborn birthmark…on the surface, an item of disdain and reluctant acceptance, something we try to hide. Make-up helps to mask these types of blemishes only slightly. Some tell me that the goal of life is to interact with people, to make connections. If they're right, I am in trouble. In my next life, I'll be back as a goldfish.

I have been getting better in the area of human connections, I guess, but sometimes I just feel so hollow, vacant. Other times I find myself missing the company of particular individuals. And while this sentiment makes me smile, the memory of select moments, the very notion that I, girl that I am, could possibly desire, perhaps even need someone I don't know entirely (how could anyone ever succeed here, at a rate of a million or so new thoughts a day?), terrifies the hell out of me. Perhaps it has to do with the previously discussed issue of control. If I can control nothing else, at least I should be able to control my body and its actions. Being involved with another individual, there is sometimes that fear of a loss of self, somehow. Even if one is particularly fond of said individual…I don't know, but upon letting a new person into one's life (for me, this is not often), there is always this strange sense of self-division in an attempt to sort out the reality of one's self and how to best present it to another person. Maybe we're all just show-pieces. That would explain a lot about modern culture, I suppose.

Essentially, given that I fear the uncertainty and spontaneity of my own thoughts so often, when I am with another person, and can't remember to forget to remember that I shouldn't be thinking of such things, I am terrified…There beside me, so physically close, is a body (warmer than mine), with a mind I won't ever be entirely aware of. It is distressing, but the fact that I am currently willing to accept it gives me an odd sense of peace and has made me contemplative, which is a distraction for less pleasant pastimes, I suppose.

Anyway, in recent weeks, I've been to Coex Aquarium in an area that is rather far from the now familiar Insa Dong. This Coex Mall is extremely crowded and though it wasn't a lot of walking, we were exhausted from the tiresome shuffling of moving at a snail's pace and manoeuvring through throngs of people, mostly squealing, hyperactive, smelly children. Fish sort of freak me out, but I must admit that some were pretty beautiful, hypnotic even, to watch. I thought the jellyfish (the ones in the aquarium lit with a purplish sort of light) were gorgeous. We watched them for about 5 minutes. They were translucent and had a way of moving that seemed to me to be very precise, leisurely almost. They reminded me of ballet-dancers, bobbing up and down in ultra-slow-motion, their appendages (?) like gorgeous skirts blessed with kinetic energy.

I was induced to pick up a starfish. I was a little wary about it, but it was incredible, if a little slimy, to feel its breathing on the palm of my hand. It's wonderful that something so…decorative (?)…could have life. The axolotls (essentially fish with the beginnings of tiny legs) were really amazing to see. They must be a link in that evolutionary chain Darwin dreamed up over a century and a half ago—one of those creatures who pulled itself up out of the swamp waters (how, um, inspiring!) and learned how to move around on land too.

The seahorses (or sea-dragons, as they are called here) were so brilliant. I'd only ever seen fossils before, so I was very intrigued. They have these amazing tails that coil around each other and plants, and they just float in the water, heads bobbing up and down, tails ever coiling, always graceful. They look like they don't belong on this world, but would be better found in a fairy tale or off some hidden isle veiled in fog and mist, the inspiration for fantasy stories, the offspring of a more magic and more ancient time.

Essentially, even if it was an ordeal to walk, and the aquarium was sorely lacking in big fish like whales and dolphins, I'm glad to have gone. I'm sure that if it is ever quiet there, it would be a beautiful thing to silently walk around, listening to your footsteps and surrounded by water and the movement of so many other strange creatures…There was of course, a tacky gift shop (nothing is complete without one). I bought a keychain flashlight sort of thing that lights up in (red, blue, orange, yellow, green) the shape of different sea creatures. It's kind of a pretty, if a bit tacky sort of souvenir, but sometimes those are the best kind.

We also managed to get to Seoul Tower, which is on Mount Namsan ('Nam' means 'North,' apparently. There's also a mountain on the southern edge of Seoul, so the city is essentially enclosed, or so I've been told). We caught the cable car up and this experience was thankfully, briefer than I'd anticipated, as the volume of people along for the ride made me feel much like a canned sardine, a feeling I've experienced often since landing in Korea… Unfortunately, the most vivid memory I have of this place is of being freezing. Upon consideration, it probably wasn't the wisest choice to visit the top of the mountain on one of Korea's colder winter days. It was nearly 5pm by the time we got there and nothing was really open except for restaurants, ice cream shops and the observatory. I wanted to go to the zoo (I haven't been to one in so long!) and the botanical garden (apparently there's one somewhere, as well as some sort of art museum housing ancient Korean artifacts), but according to the woman at the info booth, who put up her arms to form an X, nothing was open. The only thing of actual interest was the old towers where they used to light signal fires to alert the next post that danger was near. We took a picture. Overall though, it was kind of disappointing. I wondered why so many people had come to visit the tower on this day and why it was an important enough outing to wait awhile in line for the opportunity to do so.

The weekend before was spent going out to a myriad of bars and clubs, including one in Hong Dae called "S" bar, which I've decided I don't really like very much. It was a typical club, awful hip hop music and eager young people using social lubrication as an excuse for their behaviour. It wasn't our first choice, particularly, but Pam, the Irishwoman, who we met on New Year's, was out and we thought we'd say hello.

These sorts of clubs have always irritated me. No one acts this way in real life, the way they would act in a club, I mean. But I guess the table-dancing, ass-shaking, essentially unreal personality of this kind of place is what gives its appeal to so many people. Maybe people don't want to think about anything but the "now" either. It makes me doubt my convictions when I consent to go to these places…But yeah, like my Coex souvenir, bars like these are basically tasteless little distractions one can hardly help but be compelled toward (ooh…shiny). And "Now," ironically (and slightly hypocritically), I am writing this blog about past weekends, writing now, but on subjects entirely divorced from the current time, proving that being who I am, it is with difficulty that I remember to forget even the foggiest of experiences.

Blur

Memory is sometimes a touchy issue. How much of what we remember about our lives is a product of what we desire to recall, how much complete and utter fabrication? There's an old expression I've always been rather curious about: Something about how the body remembers what the mind forgets…Is the implication here then that the two are separate parts of individual wholes? If the mind forgets something and the body innately stores the experience in its skin, its shell, hasn't the mind maybe just sort of stored it away for awhile…for safekeeping…or protection? Isn't the mind the body's control center? Can one really function without the other? Is the body really able to handle change better than the mind?

I realize that this issue as long been much discussed, especially in metaphysical circles (or rather, the soul vs. body debate—but for the sake of argument, mind and soul are one and part of the same enigma)…I can indeed understand how consideration of all the moral implications could drive a person (body and mind) to madness. If people think often about doing terrible things, but never act on them, are they just as bad as people who act impulsively, never considering their actions?

Or maybe it's all just skin receptors, really. Like, the way someone can touch you to make you remember a whole bunch of distant, unrelated stuff. Like, how an unshaved face brushed up against the skin can send you back, make you remember vividly, the awkward hugging rituals of youth…And how the fact that you consider it left behind, part of that old, childhood life, makes you contemplate your age and you marvel at how many hours have been wasted, how much you have already forgotten, how much more you will forget. How, in relative terms, being as young as I am, with experiences limited to certain things, mostly cerebral, how much can my body already have forgotten?

Lots of people know I am frozen. Some construe this as unfeeling, unemotional. Others try, often on vain, to warm me up. Descartes once wrote, famously, "I think therefore I am," suggesting that a functioning mind was all you really needed to will yourself into existence. I think in old Creation stories, East Indian ones in particular, the creator came into being because he willed himself to exist (don't ask me how…). By Descartes'

theory therefore, the physical self holds very little sway.

Yes, I used to really like this theory, an expression I hardly understood…I used to want to be the girl who'd shatter if touched, made of crooked icicles maybe…A girl supported by her own very questionable thoughts—not a weak mind, to be sure, though some would say slightly off balance…The lightest graze of another's fingers would surely break my concentration and make me no longer able to 'be.' I used to hate the idea of being trapped in a hideous, cumbersome, freezing shell, a shell I had to take into consideration: feed it, was it, allow others to sometimes see and touch it. Thinking that this body of mine would sometimes be examined by others, I became overcome with the desire to make myself as inconspicuous as possible. This meant, the less time spent in the company of others, the better. The smaller, paler and less remarkable I became, the more at ease I would be.

This tactic might have worked if my thoughts were more disciplined, actually able to assume some form of direction. But being of a highly dual mindset most times, some days I needed to be disruptive, whether out of a very justifiable sense of rage (which they wished to repress) or the very simple need t be noticed for once, for someone to offer real help, love, before I sought it out…which will never happen. The shinier the better, the more outspoken, the more hostile, the more relief I felt. I'd yell louder because I knew that's what they expected. They'd instigate until I'd crack. I'd become sullen and antisocial because I knew that's also what they anticipated of me…And they'd always have someone to blame for making everyone miserable, but no one really questioned my motives…And now, this trend of mind, of assuming characters, makes me wonder how much of my current confusion is a result of not knowing quite what is a result of truth (regardless of my honesty and/or bluntness) and what is construction—Think: "the Lego blocks of mind."

I guess my problem is I don't quite know what there is to think anymore and sometimes in that blank state of dreamless sleep, I'm sure I'll disappear if I didn't have someone to assure me otherwise, that I convulse in my sleep or mumble confusedly…

Yesterday, I was sure I was feverish. I went to bed as soon as I got home from my new, miserable 12 hour a day schedule (today, my boss tried to add an extra hour and I nearly started to cry I was so exhausted. He's promised to cut one…He admitted he was being greedy and trying to cut costs by having as few teachers as possible…I also confronted him about the fact that he unprofessionally keeps changing my hours and not telling me, making me look like a moron, when I am late…I raised my voice…I still have to be there all day tomorrow though…) I thought I just might die…One minute I felt just so cold, the next like I might suffocate. I went to the little convenience store off my building to buy some water and I've never felt so nauseous, warm and generally strangled in my entire life…I paid as quickly as possible because I can generally feel a pass-out coming and wanted to avoid more embarrassment (than I feel on a daily basis) than necessary. I tend to recognize oncoming fainting spells by those miserable little red and yellow dots I get inside the corners of my eyes. I ran to the steps, sat down with my head between my knees (the 2 L water bottle was so heavy) and felt this awful surge of blood rush to my face. I'm sure I was red as hell. I pulled my scarf and hood off, opened my coat and tried not to hyperventilate. If Descartes' mind/body theory has any validity at all, maybe it means I am overwhelmed generally, with my life or that, back to old habits and feeling too warm, I am trying desperately to cool myself down.

Back upstairs, I gulped down the cold Jeju Island water like I'd never drink again along with my pill (I think I should take it again—perhaps the general shittiness and light-headedness I've been feeling lately is some form of withdrawal—or daily manic/panic attacks), and smothered myself in blankets, though I barely slept. I got up at 6:30 AM. It has been such a long, long day. It'll be like this until the end of February, unless it gets worse. The students are on winter break now and so I am currently teaching 19 and 20 year olds, which is a bit awkward, considering I'm about their age.

I am, however glad to report that the holidays were actually survivable—good in fact—for the first time in my life…It was very cold out though…I will never get over my cold, or spend thousands (of won) in tissue a week. A lot of our Christmas plans fell through, but we saw a really strange, surreal take on Lewis Carroll's Alice in Wonderland play called Shocking Alice. Though it was entirely in Korean (the dormouse occasionally interjected with some terribly sarcastic Konglish—"America Number One", etc), I loved it. Especially the sheep...hehe… I might have simply eaten the oddity of this play up if I hadn't begun to drowse off in the last half hour (We'd done a lot of walking in the Insa Dong area). We stayed at relatively decent, cheap motels, some of which were difficult to secure because of our having not taken the holiday tourism rush into consideration beforehand.

In our seemingly never-ending search for a place to stay one night, I noticed a "Hotel" sign in an alley (which just so happened to be filled with messed up, soju drinking homeless guys). We checked it out very briefly, but for W4500 (about $4), and a dirty looking blanket (most likely on a floor that was far from sanitary), surprise-surprise, we never made our way entirely up the staircase (I feared they might collapse, as held together with dirt as they were)…On our beeline out of what I'll guess I'll refer to as a local crashpad for squatters unable to brave the cold (or economically-strapped desperate men too drunk to go home), we nearly stepped on a scurrying, disgusting rat…Needless to say, we gladly paid the advance Xmas rate of W60000 for a decent place, a very wise move…

As for New Years, it was much more planned out, though scheduling delays and yet more crap with my boss never allow me to start my weekend quite as early as I'd like to—or stay away as long. We returned yet again to Insa Dong, a place I'm sure I'll never lose interest in, though which I am sure we may begin to know a little too well (When we start frequenting regular, unremarkable little teashops and restaurants, it could be a problem…J)

Christmas weekend I guess, I was a little more into shopping…I bought a present for Sacha, a picture of a traditional Korean classroom, a really very amazingly cool (and heavy!) brass statue of an old Korean man laying on a raft with a stick in his hand, as well as a reproduction (made in China…lol) of a long opium/tobacco pipe based off a folktale of a smoking tiger (in Art Galleries, especially around the more traditional areas, we see this image everywhere).

We returned to the gallery celebrating Warhol and Pop Art, though the crowd was maddening. We painted our own designs on some mugs—I spilled paint-water on my jeans because I had no elbow room and I'm sure mine turned out terribly, though I'm hoping by some miracle, the glaze and the kiln makes it some sort of gorgeous piece of art which I won't have to plant a flower in and hide under a curtain…We get to pick them up on the 13^th of January I think.

This holiday season, the streets were so packed…The littlest restaurants had wait times. We tried Mokkoli along with dinner one night (which is strong rice wine that comes in a massive bowl (a small size)—we barely dented it). The movement everywhere made me dizzy and rather claustrophobic a lot. We drank at various places throughout the weekend, including some cool rock/metal bars in Hong Dae (notably, one called JUDAS OR SABBATH and another called 52^ND STREET, where I got some good pictures of a very memorable performance…). We also went to City Hall on Christmas Eve and would have tried to go ice skating if the line for the rink didn't look about 5 hours long…

On New Years, we went to a lot of different places, including the old belfry at Jogyesa, which was packed with people from all over the world, traditional dancers, going madly around in circles (an pulling me in ) to the beat of echoing drums. I held a roman candle for the first time, which was cool, although in my case, a nice safe sparkler may have been smarter…People were also selling balloon animals and golden piggy banks (2007 is the year of the pig—another reason for excess consumption of pork, I guess)…It felt like a real carnival…A reason to actually care about New Years for once.

The only shitty part of the night is that we'd 'sort of' been pressured into soju and I ended up dropping my wallet and spending the night freaking out about it until we backtracked the next day and found it behind the bench I had been sitting at (clearly they don't sweep…). Nothing was missing—Koreans are remarkably honest… Otherwise, most of the night I'd been feeling pretty good for once, sociable, and fancied meeting people, so I struck up a conversation with some cool older Irish school teachers. We ended up tagging along with them to Hong Dae where we went to a cool place with a really sort of psychedelic atmosphere, cushions on the floor, etc…Very chill. It reminded me slightly of India Style Café (though not as cool, admittedly), a place we'd been the day before where we smoked a hookah, drank long Island Ice teas, and relaxed on gilt coloured cushions in a venue lit entirely by candles beside a fountain with floating wax lotus flowers. Interpretation was a bit hard (as it usually is, despite the phrasebooks which all seem to have different interpretations of the Korean language), but we met a cool guy named 'Charles, 'whose English was pretty good.

Anyway, we're planning to go out with my new Irish friends next weekend in celebration of a 41^st (!) birthday…I'm sure it may be another potentially action packed weekend. I'll try to write everything down sooner this time around, instead of waiting a whole two weeks, not that I've got the time—I'm about to go to bed—so tired!....I'll try to dream vividly and so remind myself that I still exist, though I remember little, and most days blur like street signs in a foreign language…

Ice

Despite the seeming monotony of existence, life is never stationary. Time keeps moving forward along with our hopes, dreams and relationships with people. What is ironic, perhaps, is that disintegration is also a form of forward movement.

Someone once showed me a series of photos documenting a bird that had died in his yard. Everyday at 5pm when he got home from work, he would take a picture of it, which is either morbid as hell and slightly degrading to the memory (or lack thereof) of this blameless creature, or complementary—proof that something compelling can most certainly come of death and rot, that even in death, there is purpose—a sort of reluctant martyrdom.

This weekend was good. I had a lot of happy moments and I didn't feel entirely alone for the first time in awhile. Sometimes I think it is better for me to be independent, that I don't need anyone, that becoming close to someone else will lead to more sadness, which these days, I no longer believe I can handle. I am not a clingy person. In fact, I am the opposite. I am sure people often become annoyed with having to pursue me, attract my attention. Hope for the clouds to leave my eyes and make me focus on theirs. I wish I were more accepting of affection, but I think I sometimes fear losing the beautiful numbness to which I've become so accustomed.

I am always cold. Frozen, in fact. This weekend, for a moment, I became so warm I thought I might suffocate. But perhaps asphyxiation isn't really such a terrible way to melt the ice lodged in my eyes.

One of my favourite fairy tales is an old, Norwegian story about a magic mirror made of ice. The images one saw in this mirror caused everything, despite its goodness, to appear ugly, repellent. This pessimistic mirror existed in a realm unknown to humans, in a time well before mankind's characteristic bitterness and cynicism. It was owned by a terrible little goblin who in a fit of rage cast the mirror from his home in the sky. The looking-glass shattered into billions of tiny, icy slivers, invisible to the naked eye, but terribly affecting.

Down below on Earth in a small village, a little boy and a little girl—beautiful, simplistic children, who despite their poverty, enjoyed every aspect of life and had been best friends since birth—were playing. The little boy, looking upwards to catch sight of the birds in the sky, did not feel it when the shard of ice pierced his eye and by extension, his very soul…(we all know the old adage…don't make me get cliché..). He finished watching the birds until they flew out of view, then continued his game rather robotically.

Though he'd always been a very joyful, sensitive boy, he now felt very little, if anything at all. But, because of the shard's magic properties, he was unaware that anything had changed at all. His blue eyes, once the color of the sky on the balmiest of sunny summer days, eyes flecked with radiant, warm light, were now the color of a frozen over pond in the bitterest of January cold. When he closed his eyes partway, his blonde eyelashes resembled icicles, unmoved by the temperate wind that blew through the countryside where he had lived his entire life.

Gradually, as the weeks and months passed and he grew, he became cruel, uncaring for the feelings of others, unable to show remorse for the bitterness he now unjustly felt towards those closest to them.

If memory recalls, the story goes on about all of the boy's many misdeeds, how he finally leaves home and breaks his best friend's heart in so doing. Though he had been unkind to her, she had always believed in his innate goodness and had sought to melt the ice enveloping his soul, though in vain. As the tale continues onward, the little village girl decides to go in search of her lost friend and travels throughout Norway's most northern, frozen land, suffering many hardships and nearly losing her life to the frost and the cruel creatures who thrive off it. She finally finds the boy within the palace of the Ice Queen, where the mirror's magic was strongest (it had been created within) and the boy had lost all memory of sunlight and happiness. He was hopelessly devoted to his new queen as a slave would be to his master, and blinked dumbly at the sight of the wretched, ragged, shivering creature that stood before him, imploring him to come home.

I don't remember how the story ends, but I expect in the children's version, the boy is able to recognize the girl, sheds tears of shame and repentance (his first in a decade) and in so doing, melts the terrible ice which had gripped his life in a stranglehold for so very long. If there is an original, un-bowdlerized version of the story somewhere still in existence, I expect that it ended badly for the girl, most likely in her tragic, hopeless demise after realizing the scourge the mirror had released upon the world, the irreversible plague which had affected so many. Still in possession of a delicate heart, she is overcome by the extremity of the cold and perishes. I simply cannot recall.

Perhaps, though I am not so hopeful, the ice has begun to thaw for me too. I must be one of the mirror's unhappy recipients. I got an email from my mother this weekend. It seemed final, like actual effort was applied in its writing. She is tired of me. She is bored of my self-indulgence and lies and unwillingness to be a different person for her. Strange, because I don't know why she thinks the situation with us is any different now, or that it's all my fault. I wrote her back. Twice. She probably hates me more, though she will never admit it.

I had spent Friday night in Seoul after an evening in Hong Dae. I was sitting in a PC room reading her cutting words when I felt the unfamiliar welling up of tears in my eyes. Silently, I typed while a friend watched and brought me tissue. The PC room was cheap. A mere 1000 won for five minutes of misery and empathy. I've never experienced anything quite like it. It was almost surreal. I tried to disregard it, but we walked to the subway in utter silence. The rest of the weekend had a sad tone to it, but I decided to stay in Seoul, keeping busy.

Saturday, I returned to Hong Dae. I wandered around alleys with piercing parlours, bought something for my sister in an Indian man's store, and ate Vietnamese food, which was really quite good. We went to several bars, though we didn't drink too much this time. One bar, I think it was called 'Jamiroquai' (after the singer) was pretty laid back, though the stools were literally falling apart and the menus were written on the backs of cut-up Heineken boxes. Upon attempting to use the washroom, my friend broke the key in the lock. We decided it would be wise to leave shortly after…

We also went to a tiny place called 'Las Vegas Western Bar', which I really wasn't too fond of. It was really eclectically decorated with odd bits of this and that from around the world—oddly enough, the collection, trapped under the bar's glass and strewn around the window panes had nothing to do with Western culture or Las Vegas at all…African statues with erections, filthy old coins from Vietnam, random playing cards, a stuffed bear with a pair of children's panties on its head…the usual. (ha…) The waitresses were a little too chatty and wouldn't leave us alone. It was the first time I've seen a white girl (a tall blonde Russian) working anywhere other than as a teacher or in the military…Just a girl with a regular job…They gave me a free shot of a much too sweet Vodka mudslide (basically chocolate milk with a tiny bit of instant coffee flavouring and a drop of alcohol), which was nice, but I was feeling a little claustrophobic with the attention.

When we emerged outside, it was snowing heavily. I was amused at the overall fascination with snow. I was just trying not to get hypothermia…Instead, I have no voice currently (I haven't smoked a damn cigarette since Friday), have been coughing heavily, and been doing my trademark sniffing (I, of the deviated septum, yes). I promised a real snowball fight when I felt better and had mittens on…

We ended the evening in a very empty little bar where really terrible music was playing. Luckily, there was an Ipod with decent music on hand and the waitress was willing to take requests…We ended up chatting to a man who came in later, who taught us a bit about Korea and invited us to come to Daegu, which I am very interested in doing. The rest of the evening was a blur of neon and swirling snow and taxis.

Sunday was much of the same. I bought a good friend a beautiful mother of pearl mirror in Insa Dong. We ate sundubu and drank soju, despite some major ordering problems—we had no desire for soju, but were actually in search of juice or tea or some (very needed) coffee. I tried Jujube tea and listened to music that made me think of childhood—screechy Indian music with potentially obscene words in them (though who could ever really be sure)—at a tea shop called Little India Café. Bollywood stars just may be worse than their American counterparts (I learned much while flipping through some culturally appropriate magazines…), though not by much, admittedly…

I've been so sick and so cold all week at school. I have a new class on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays for gifted students who want to learn how to write essays. It seems like it could have potential, but now I have to stay at work until 10:30PM. Monday was unpleasant and I was so exhausted. I kept my coat on all day and sat so close to the little space heater in my classroom. My boss is giving me his humidifier, as I've been sick on and off since getting here.

Perhaps it is ironic that Korea's first real snow occurred on a weekend when I felt I was beginning to thaw.