For its own Sake

I think today must mark the beginning of monsoon season. I'm sitting here at Bicycle Academy in front of the portable heater attempting to dry my soaking-wet sneakers and pant-legs. The ten-minute walk to work has never been so unpleasant, and struggling against the wind on my way here, my umbrella turned inside out, splaying its chintzy metal skeleton in eight different directions, mockingly making its escape from its vinyl sheath while drenching me in the process. Right now I am watching the teabag in my glass cup seep. It's a gradual, wavy descent, much like cigarette smoke making its way to the ceiling. My life, like everyone's, has been reduced to this—waiting for the flavour to peak, watching the effervescence die down, patiently allowing it to go tepid before sipping, ever-so-cautiously.

I've felt remarkably depressed this week. I don't know how or why it started, but it seems worse than it's been in some time.

My exhaustion is terrible. I fall asleep at my desk at work and wake up, head nodding like a spring-loaded ping-pong ball. If I squint my eyes a certain way, open just a third or a quarter, I think I see things that aren't quite there. I make out shapes in the pattern of the wood, arrows, faces, shadows. In the dreams I have at night, no one speaks, but lately I've been seeing words, like in books I've read, open to certain pages. I start reading these seemingly giant books within my dreams and try to make sense of them there. I read sentences over and over again until the dreaming me becomes very tired and decides to lie down, at which point, my actual physical self inevitably becomes obligated to swat the piercingly loud alarm clock off her night table… Generally, I guess I'm feeling worn out and lonely and oddly philosophical.

Somewhere, it must have been in a book, I got the idea that people don't live for the sake of life, but rather to enrich themselves. Basically, it's the glimmer of optimism at the end of a dark hallway that makes people brave enough to keep walking. We expect all these rewards out of existence: "If I work hard at school, I'll go to university and get a great job and earn lots of money. If I'm kind and truthful, I'll have lots of friends and everyone will like me, If I slave away at a job I find (at least) mildly distasteful for the next forty years, I can retire and sit in the sun and let the UV rays deepen my wrinkles. If I'm a decent person until the day I die and follow my conscience, I'll go to Heaven." Generally, it seems like a really selfish reason to keep on breathing, this anticipation of some reward, divine or otherwise. To do something, anything, really, for its own sake seems both redundant and complex at the same time. It almost verges on the impossible or questionable, like counting blades of grass because you can, or putting together an all-black five-thousand piece puzzle.

Pater once talked about creating "art for art's sake." And whether or not anyone can actually appreciate something for its intrinsic value, for the process and the head-scratching and all the unpleasant moments in-between, is something I feel is both idealistic and doubtable. Many people consider me to be a very cynical person, but if that's what realism comes down to, what does it say about the state of our day-to-day lives, really? Pater's suggestion can imply deriving joy and peace from splattering paint, delicate brush-strokes, or from sliding one's finger's through clay. It doesn't matter, really. The end-result has nothing to do, ultimately, with the respective concepts behind this sort of art.

And, like the art we are all so capable of producing as humans, our own end results are pretty much predictable, not really worthy of honourable mention, maybe discussed briefly over drinks, a morbid little gallery gathering: "Yes, she was very beautiful." All this, before the spectators of our lives' events move on to more interesting, lively "pieces," those that make them question themselves, their motives, their previous perceptions of their respective emotional ranges and ability to feel anything at all.

What I'm getting at is difficult to articulate, I suppose. It's not that I'm genuinely unhappy at the moment. I know I am very lucky to be here, doing what I'm doing, but some days are extremely difficult for me. If I had no one to see on the weekends and nothing to look forward to, I'd be very sad and lonely and without much purpose. I can't (at this point) fathom life for life's sake and were things worse, I may have already thrown in that figurative towel, only slightly damp, since my relatively shallow life has been anything but invigoratingly, dangerously colourful. Think wading-pool versus the hope for some amazing coral reef: basically you can find a way to drown in either, but when it comes down to it, which is more pathetic, really?

Basically, I've come to understand that if anything, most people's harsh biases and prejudices concern themselves rather than other people. And when we finally manage to escape ourselves when we fall asleep and let our personalities crumble away, our sharp edges rounding off in the blurriness of most dreamscapes, then I guess we can finally perceive things like a newborn in a strange world, a clean chalkboard; and all our emotional precedents and fears cease to exist, because falling over the edge here, in the land of sleep, doesn't necessarily mean death.

How can I write about how I feel lately? Other than by stepping outside myself as the writer of my life and thoughts, and writing about someone who is slightly more difficult to recognize (the thoughts she has the audacity to have!), I simply do not know.

She feels the word forming on her lips; her tongue goes into position, raised behind her front teeth, as it moves downwards and in. "Love." She is amused with herself for uttering such…such…what? In a crowded bar, music playing, people sprawled on floor cushions sipping expensive drinks, laughing, a little intoxicated by tobacco, incense and their own taste of temporary unreality, she cups her hands over an ear made recently more accessible by a very short haircut, and quite audibly, she speaks. She knows herself, realizes that she is often dismissive of most emotionality, that she regards outward shows of anything too strong to be part contrivance, part 'telling them what they want to hear.' But tonight, her face is calm, her heart beats normally (which for her means a little faster than the usual molasses way). In fact, despite the peopled setting, the red-tied waiters zipping around with Mojitos and Margaritas, she is all alone, uttering a sot of monologue, a bit breathy, but never doubting what she says. For the girl, though it's the first time she's said it to someone, the word escapes from her mouth smoothly, no strangulated tightness, no death of sound on the third and fourth letters. Later, she hardly even thinks about it, it's become so ingrained in her new sense of reality. Later in bed, when he asks her if what she said before was true; she simply says "yeah," because what else is there to say, really?

'Love' is one of those concepts that have generally assumed a sort of backseat in my cynical little mind. So many people have tried to define it that it's almost become corrupted, very lame and embarrassing for one such as myself to admit to feeling. I remember when I was young and sitting in the car with my mother-- a generally rather bitter woman with a tight mouth when I was growing up-- how, if we'd pass a church where a wedding was taking place, or go by a procession of car antennas bedecked with dollar-store crepe streamers and paper pompoms, she'd click her tongue and laugh, shaking her head. "Fools…" she'd mutter as we drove by, "They'll see." I know my mother's marriage was anything but happy, but I can't help but shake the feeling that her attitude about the nature of genuine affection sort of set a negative tone concerning relationship expectations, as well as a general sense of shame about happiness for me.

I realize some might say that I'm not old enough or experienced enough to know what I'm talking about, that I will, in fact, "see." It's just that 'love' to me is one of those words that people throw about like money, buying cigarettes at one store, groceries at another, and being frivolous on the weekends, never worrying about their impulsive or unnecessary shopping until they're broke or have become addicted to something, be it a certain delicacy, brand of alcohol, or tobacco. And then there are the fun bits you regret after you're in too deep: lung cancer, obesity, alcoholism, and anything else rehab might not be able to cure.

I think maybe that 'love' should be un-definable, that there shouldn't even be a word, because attaching something as simplistic, as shallow, as letters to something so inexplicably difficult to understand or express, robs the feeling of its intrinsic meaning. And people who actively search for it, the feeling they've head people call 'love', wanting to have love for love's sake 'just because,' all seems rather consumerist and crass to me.

Essentially, there are no rulebooks or courtship etiquette manuals (sorry Ovid…) that can make anyone feel more strongly or compassionately toward another human being. It's just there, in concept, I think, waiting patiently in a sort of soap-bubble above two heads. Sometimes it pops and falls to Earth like a virus, (or a blessing if you're an optimistic, "the glass is half-full" sort of person) and like a delicacy that can give you a stomach-ache at times, but keeps you wanting more, is greedily consumed. Other times, the pseudo-bubble rises and burns up in the atmosphere and disappears forever, simple as that, the moment having passed.

Basically, though it may seem hypocritical of me given my current writing on the subject, it is my opinion that while 'love' is nice and all, the more people worry about the status of the word, the less time there is to actually put it into practice (like obeying the letter, but not the law).

The past few years, I've told many people about my view of existence, the constantly fluctuating states of entropy—the breakdown of organic material—and optimism—an elevated state of mind that makes one able to get up and continue on in the morning. That is all I believe. That is all I know to be true. It's something that's true not only for the planet and for nations—after wars, when large areas of earth have been destroyed, it's the potential to start again, a sort of hope that makes rebuilding, regeneration, possible—but for people too, since as the metaphysical poets once suggested, man, made of the same elements as his planet, is a microcosm of the universe.

As individual beings, we become weak, we fade away. Our flesh begins to die. We are not built to last, and we know it, yet, holding tightly, desperately, some might say, to that 'hope', the one virtue Pandora was able to regain for humanity, we seem to accept that we are part of a morbid sort of duality—nihilism on the one hand, and the inclining of the heart toward love (for the sake of love, sometimes) on the other. And, I've always been hesitant, because I thought, 'Why should I hope?" when I know that 'love' is like a sort of sympathetic embrace of that which is doomed to decay, either in body or in mind. It makes me very sad, but that's just me, I guess, far too concerned and afraid about my flesh and its consumption, either by entropy or by love.

The Abridged Version

A few years back I took a course at Carleton called "Myth and Symbol." Like most university courses, given the heavy assignment-loads and the number of other courses to juggle, only a little bit of what was taught remains in my mind. One particular idea we were constantly reminded of was Joseph Campbell's "Hero Cycle" which essentially shows the circular pattern in any protagonist's life—usually he or she is born, grows up under difficult circumstances, overcomes some adversity or other, then is called away on some journey of sorts, whether literal or figurative. The hero is forced to struggle, battling monsters and those who would wish to see him fail; he or she prevails in doing so until the story's climax when the hero descends into an Underworld of sorts—for Odysseus it was the Land of the Dead, Hades' Realm, as it was for the majority of Classical Greek heroes; for the hobbit, Bilbo Baggins it was the dark caves on his way to find Smog, the dragon; for more modern writers, however, those who wrote of existential crises and emotional hell, Sartre, Hesse, Joyce, their Underworlds are within themselves, those deep murky pools of depression in which a person may easily perish.

Emerging from the Underworld is the hero's biggest challenge. Sometimes it takes years. Often, he barely makes it out alive and lives the rest of his life recounting his darkest moments, unable to escape them, though he is lauded at home or honoured among the Gods or figure-heads of his respective country. In his nightmares, he still struggles; like one who has overcome a disease, he is humbled and wiser; maybe he thinks things through longer, moves a little slower. In short, he is changed. A bona-fide hero, though somehow a more static-y, cautious version of his former self. The golden sheen has dulled. And, unsure of how to end, the Classical writers suggest "Happy Ever After" endings, while modernists come full-circle, implying multiple heroic cycles, ups and downs, in any one person's life. The golden sheen, then, is replaced by the bedraggled look of exhaustion, finality.

I think it suggests that we die and are reborn many times in life, like the mythical phoenix, which perishes in a self-induced ball of fire every 500 years and proceeds to rise form its ashes more beautiful than ever. It is important of course, as a requirement to fulfil Joseph Campbell's notion of the hero, which was influenced by Jung, especially as modern man's psyche is concerned.

In another course I took at Carleton the year before, "Children's Literature," where we learned a bit about Fairy Tales, one of my favourite subjects on this earth, it was implied that the darkest, most terrifying monsters that figured within, as well as the most beautiful, ethereal and ridiculous creatures, were all representative of the deepest fantasies and anxieties of young children. Fear of abandonment, for instance, is a problem that comes up a lot, as does being despised by one's parents, being sent out into a harsh world, or being betrayed by a trusted friend. Cast out to starve in a dark forest wherein dwelt a cannibalistic witch (who conveniently turns out to be their awful, antagonistic stepmother), Hansel and Gretel are a perfect example of one of childhood's greatest fears realized. As they wandered, wind howling, stomachs turning, ready to drop where they stood; as the tree's shadows loomed heavily overhead, blocking out any ray of moonlight, they were living every child's worst nightmare, while serving some might say, as a rather harsh warning to the children reading this original, un-bowlderized Grimm Brothers' version, to be filial, obedient, good little children…or else.

Essentially, Fairy Tales were initially exaggerated threats to terrify children. And, in the unfortunate child's mind, the wicked witches, awful ogres, big bad wolves and whole scores of artful robbers and tricksters, took on the forms and assumed the faces of those who were familiar to them. A cruel father could be a "fee-fi-fo-fumming" giant set to destroy, or perhaps a selfish, restrictive king locking his daughter up in a tower or turning her to gold or stone. An unkind, jealous mother, on the other hand, could most definitely be one of the many representative female demons, witches or fiends who devoured little children, the most satisfying of sweet-breads, a constant threat as the most deceptive of horrors, unlike male monsters whose evilness was never masked. Remember how the wicked witch offered the hungry children candy, how the big bad wolf dressed up as Red Robin Hood's sweet, sickly old grandmother, and how Snow White's jealous Queen offered up a delicious-looking red apple, the color of blood, urgency and rubies, all at once evil masked with beauty.

This notion, the fear that is, of being 'devoured,' consumed, is one I understand very well. It's like being used up, a pawn on one parent's side. And mostly, I think, it's a fear of authority and the unknown, both of which figure so predominately in the minds of children. I think it's also a sort of inability to understand the adult world, this land of giants who rarely reveal themselves as weak, scared, on the same level as their cloudy eyed (though troubled) little offspring.

As a child, and even now as an adult, I was (and am) told many things I did not (and still do not) believe. Little tricks, magic beans, I guess, to lead me happy on my way. As a child, I knew a lot about lies and I was frustrated that I'd never be able to consider my parents on my level, low or middling as it may have been. At a certain point, convinced that nothing said to me could be considered entirely truthful, I grew tired. I am a very precise person and I find worrying over half-truths to be an exhausting past-time. I would lose sleep trying to make myself understand the abridged version of what had been told to me, bit by bit, but like my childhood jigsaw puzzles, bought at flea-markets or jumble-sales, the most vital pieces were always missing, like a giant hole where one's face should be. As I grew older, the blank spaces were filled, mostly by hearsay, the secrets whispered to me by my older sister as I tried to sleep on her green-carpeted bedroom floor, searching for monsters under her bed, attempting to shut out the sounds of the furnace and the breathing below us in the basement, a terrifying place, unlit, creaking, nearly alive or almost dead—I still don't know which frightens me more.

Downstairs was a place to tiptoe. The clank of metal weights, the eerie pumping, breathing sound of the 'stair-master,' stains on the yellow carpet of the 'gym.' I always liked the large mirror with the crack grinning up its side.

My mother's room was blue and cold with no lights save a yellow-brown Tiffany lamp with a chained wire plugged into the wall. The door was made of pressed wood/plywood and had a hook lock that broke every few days with just a little bit of force. Many things were said in this room that I never knew about and which I often speculate on, even today. Sometimes, ear to the vent in my bedroom, I tried to listen in-between the gusts of warmish air and the hum of my humidifier. The words were usually skewed, muffled, though other sounds were clearer and more obvious.

Down the blue-painted steps from my mother's room, were the depths of our house, its figurative intestinal tract, full of cat litter boxes, the overwhelming smell of urine, and spiders brought in with the wood stacked up against the wall. Opening the furnace doors, the red hot embers glowed as the room filled with thick, choking smoke that greyed the white walls. Later, my parents painted them grey-blue, like the steps. I hated being here and I usually only passed through during the daytime or in the summer to get outside through the door leading under the porch where my swing and the little trampoline were kept. I remember the crumbly jip-rock walls under the porch step and how I used to use the fallen bits as chalk to draw pictures on the splintery brown wood.

Occasionally, I'd sit on the box-freezer (my father kept a lot of zucchini here) in the basement as my mother did laundry. Looking for attention, I'd try to impress her with my reading ability, but reciting, some would say, in a highly monotonous voice, it was clear she never listened, always something else to think about. "Mm-hhmm," she'd say, "uh huh." It bothered me.

The most forbidden (and therefore appealing) room in our house was just off this awful dark furnace space. Housing African statues, knives, strange ornaments and drums, it smelled of pouch tobacco, incense and something I've never quite smelled again. Perhaps it was a combination of everything it housed together that produced such a strange odour, like fog, excitement and the unknown. We weren't supposed to go in unless we were told to get something, or to wake up the inevitably sleeping giant within, my father, as he puffed and snored loudly, practically impossible to rouse. A thick red curtain hung over the tiny window that I loved trying to scramble through during summer games of tag or hide-and-seek, and the carpet was a similar shade of burgundy flecked with black. I don't remember ever seeing light in this place. We all called it the 'red-carpet-room' with a general air of solemnity, like it was a place of secrets, Pandora's box, or a terrible cave, wherein dwelt something truly fearful. It was of course, my father's room. He slept there during the day, or when he and my mother were fighting or repulsed by each other, which I suppose was often.

One thing I remember well was the wall beside his bed, which was white stucco, flecked with shimmering pieces of what I always thought looked like glitter. I would try to pick them out, unsuccessfully, whenever my father let me in. It must be a magic room, I thought, which is why it was so shut off, something special that I wasn't good enough for. When I think about it now, of course, it was probably just a place for him to sleep (the walls were relatively thicker than those of the rest of the house, I think, as part of the foundation—at least I never heard anything from above, as it was directly under the bathroom and Danny's room) and probably smoke pot or beadies or whatever else.

In the life of my childhood, this house is representative, as we lived here until I was 13 years old. In life, we are all the protagonists of our own stories and most of us experience many deaths and rebirths, trips to the Underworld and tired, quiet victories. I stopped feeling like a child (not that I ever thought about what it felt like to be a child while I actually was one) early on, but it was close enough to this time to be applicable. When my childhood fizzled out, like flat grape crush, my favourite, the last hint of effervescence gone, I was reborn as a quieter, angrier, more apathetic and infinitely tougher version of the girl who loved little porcelain unicorn statues and dressing her kitten up in doll's clothing. The child who used to cry at the drop of a hat realized that to the giant, it made her weak, pliable. It was used against her. Other times, her tears of frustration were ignored behind a door held closed with the weight of her back, superhuman strength at those times.

I haven't died and I haven't been reborn since then, which is troubling. I still find that I remember everything so clearly, like I'm still in that life, though everything from my body to my heart has changed, if only slightly. I have struggled and continue to do so with many demons. I am terrified of the descent that may potentially come, and whatever changes will occur to make me more cautious, different.

When I was a child, the basement where my parents slept and loved (in their own twisted fashion) and fought, was my Underworld, a place of monsters, both frightening and indifferent. I was always terrified of it and its secrets, yet was so frequently compelled to descend. On my last night in the house in Bolton Centre, I looked into the red carpet room, empty, the curtain gone as sun shone in, twirling bits of dust and cat hair sporadically. The carpet had vacuum marks in it where my mother had cleaned; the white wall was yellowed, stained with rusty water leaks and cigarette smoke. It was no longer a fearful place. It was actually very calm, no ghosts left. Though I was angry that we'd be returning to my childhood monster (boogie-man, bakru and joombie rolled up into one greasy package), a step backwards, I thought, I still had this feeling like I was victorious, that I'd conquered the Underworld and become a heroine, armed with the knowledge to avoid ever being consumed again. When I saw this beast next, I'd have the advantage, and in later years, reminiscent of how easy I used to be to mold, how compliant, how quickly my eyes would fill with apologetic tears, he would tell me that I'd changed, that I'd become very controlling, that I caused tension and misery to everyone in the house with my silence and absence. I'd nod and return to whatever I was doing, as he'd go on about what a sweet child I'd been, how I'd been his favourite, once.

I never cried in front of him again, and the last time I ever saw him, he was blubbering, toothless (a disarmed monster), like a pathetic child as I sat there, repulsed and stoic, slightly confused at seeing this, one of my monsters, as human for the first time. Here, he revealed to me his version of all those secrets I had wished to know for so long, and for the first time in my life, at 18, I felt like part of that monster's adult-world. I barely listened to his revelations. In truth, for the first time, I really didn't care. It had all entered the realm of make-believe. Instead, my thoughts were centered about the idea that I was half my father's daughter, which quite frankly made me venomously sick.

It's like realizing we can't choose our families and the idea that the blood of a being I hated so severely flowed in my veins, left me with very mixed feeling. Like Antigone, I struggle with my origins. Considering them, and all the information I'll never hear is very overwhelming to me. You know how expert liars tell stories so well that they make them real, even to themselves, to the point where the truth has become so indecipherable, so impossible to decode that it's not worth even trying? Well, it feels sort of like that to me, like an undeniable, discouraging, stamped out sense of finality, like a cigarette butt under an especially sharp heel.

Anyway, I am especially exhausted this week. Today, I felt the need to stay in bed until an hour before work. This week, I've written 2 paragraph commentaries on all my students and submitted 2 months worth of lesson plans (and syllabi for the books I use) for each of my classes. The only thing I'd like to do is shut my eyes and keep them closed, sometimes.

I've been here exactly 6 months today. I really need a vacation. I wonder if I'll be allowed to take a week off in June. Right now, I'm getting over another cold. All my students are coughing and sniffling and so, I'm sure it will be impossible for me to ever get entirely better before they all do. Also, last week, there was a report of yellow dust (it comes from China, apparently) that blows into Korea on the wind and can do serious damage to one's throat and lungs, just what I need…Most people here wear SARS face masks outside because they'd rather not get infected, or come down with pneumonia. Personally, I think I was just worn out before I even came here, and right now, I'm close to tearing (were I a figurative piece of fabric).

In any case, I'm attempting to keep a grasp, however slippery, of my current plateau, at least until I leave Korea I another 6 months. I'll decide what to do next, then. That is all.

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.