Psyche's Walls

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just Another Patron

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cuts

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.