crayola yellow

Valentine's Day

2012-02-13T18:24:00.000-08:00

I made plans with a friend of mine today, but forgot it was Valentine's Day. I asked her if she needed to meet up with her boyf, but she said they celebrated it last night. I told B about this, and this is the conversation we had:

s: she got the dates confused.
b: wait. why does she have to worry about the dates?
s: because in Korea, Valentine's Day is when the girlfriend does things for the boyfriend.
b: ... dude. are you serious?? why am i over here?? i should be over there, and you'd be cooking me breakfast or something!
s: ...

++edit

And then I got flowers from him.

after work today

2012-02-13T05:16:00.000-08:00

I was walking back home today, and maybe it's the nearness to Valentine's Day, maybe it's because I realized that I still have over half a year left in Korea, but I suddenly got homesick. And just as I was thinking these self-pitying thoughts, I saw a mother and her daughter walking down the street, and I became so envious of them. They had linked arms to battle the brutal cold and shared large smiles on their faces. They were talking to one another in hushed tones, thoroughly enjoying each other's company. It made me miss my own mom, my sisters, my father, and of course, my puppy back at home. It made me miss a feeling of family, of closeness, of feeling cared for.

Of course, I frequently see mothers and daughters walking around. But they're usually young mothers with extremely young daughters that more often I feel like I'm seeing myself in the imminent future rather than seeing an image of my mother and me from the past. Yet this time was different; this time, it was an older mother, walking with an older daughter, and such a deep pang struck me that I forgot that the last time I ate was at noon and that I was extremely hungry.

I told myself I wouldn't be pathetic and start sobbing in the middle of the street. I just kept walking, thinking sad, sorry, woe-is-me-and-my-life thoughts. Even though I chose to come out here, being alone for so long, I've been feeling somewhat orphaned. I tried to swallow those thoughts, at least until I got home so I could weep it out in privacy.

So, I finally got home and saw that I had a package. I was taken aback because I wasn't expecting anything, but I recognized the writing--it was from Jenny, it was from Livingwater.

I'll brush over the next few moments--my ripping open the box and pulling out all the foods and letting tears roll down faster and faster as I saw more and more Hot Cheetos bags, gummied candies, and holiday cards all stuffed into the cardboard box. Who knew that commercial junk food could make a girl cry so hard?

But I realized, reading the cards, seeing the food, wiping my snot away, no matter how far I am, my family, my brothers and sisters are still with me. I feel so loved, and I love the people who thought of me and care enough to do something like this for me. As corny as it sounds, you have made my Valentine's Day in Korea that much more endurable. From the bottom of my heart, thank you, everyone. I was and still am so moved to tears, literally (I already tore open the box of tissues...).

2012-02-06T08:29:00.000-08:00

I keep telling myself that I'm gonna be better with the whole update-my-blog-with-the-events-of-my-life. I've been failing pretty miserably, though. Why? Mostly because I don't go out too often. On top of that, when I do, I feel self-conscious lugging around my camera--I mean, I live here. I shouldn't draw so much attention to myself by pulling out my huge, heavy SLR just to snap a couple pictures I'm going to be uploading onto facebook for a month.

I don't want to draw too much attention to myself while I'm in Korea. It's been nice, being mistaken for a native here, just because I look the part.

But I was reawakened to the fact that I am misplaced here when the other day, my cousin looked at me and said, "You know, I've heard people say that Koreans from America look different and I didn't quite grasp what they meant. But you look completely like a foreigner."

I didn't really know how to swallow that comment.

predictions

2012-01-30T19:37:00.001-08:00

thursday's weather
hi - 19
lo - 6

thursday's mood
hi - sullen
lo - bitter

2012-01-25T04:06:00.000-08:00

"You know they say that, 'Guns don't kill people; people kill people.' But that's like saying, 'Butter knives don't spread butter on bread; people spread butter on bread.' But, you know, I mean, of course that's true. But that isn't a smart thing to say."

-Javier, from Felicity

2012-01-19T06:59:00.000-08:00

b: romney will probably clinch the republican nomination
s: interesting
(Two minutes later...)
b: everyone else kind of sucked
s: omg for a second
s: i thought you were talking about kpop star
s: and i got confused
b: ....
s: a girl can dream.

my (belated) new year's resolutions

2012-01-19T06:38:00.000-08:00

In 2012, I will try to...

Drink more water daily
Read everyday
Stretch and exercise (AKA walk) more
Clean my room and keep it clean more consistently
Cook more and eat out less
Shop less
Practice singing more often
Spend less time on the internet
Keep in better contact with the people across the waters
Be nicer

Wait a second! Technically, these aren't even late because I'm in Korea and Lunar New Year is what counts here. Ha.

2012-01-11T05:28:00.001-08:00

people of the world, i just finished an entire pint of ice cream.

... i didn't even know i was physically capable of doing that...

Creative Writing

2012-01-09T04:41:00.000-08:00

A short story from the New Yorker by Etgar KERET

The first story Maya wrote was about a world in which people split themselves in two instead of reproducing. In that world, every person could, at any given moment, turn into two beings, each one half his/her age. Some chose to do this when they were young; for instance, an eighteen-year-old might split into two nine-year-olds. Others would wait until they’d established themselves professionally and financially and go for it only in middle age. The heroine of Maya’s story was splitless. She had reached the age of eighty and, despite constant social pressure, insisted on not splitting. At the end of the story, she died.

It was a good story, except for the ending. There was something depressing about that part, Aviad thought. Depressing and predictable. But Maya, in the writing workshop she had signed up for, actually got a lot of compliments on the ending. The instructor, who was supposed to be this well-known writer, even though Aviad had never heard of him, told her that there was something soul-piercing about the banality of the ending, or some other piece of crap. Aviad saw how happy that compliment made Maya. She was very excited when she told him about it. She recited what the writer had said to her the way people recite a verse from the Bible. And Aviad, who had originally tried to suggest a different ending, backpedalled and said that it was all a matter of taste and that he really didn’t understand much about it.

It had been her mother’s idea that she should go to a creative-writing workshop. She’d said that a friend’s daughter had attended one and enjoyed it very much. Aviad also thought that it would be good for Maya to get out more, to do something with herself. He could always bury himself in work, but, since the miscarriage, she never left the house. Whenever he came home, he found her in the living room, sitting up straight on the couch. Not reading, not watching TV, not even crying. When Maya hesitated about the course, Aviad knew how to persuade her. “Go once, give it a try,” he said, “the way a kid goes to day camp.” Later, he realized that it had been a little insensitive of him to use a child as an example, after what they’d been through two months before. But Maya actually smiled and said that day camp might be just what she needed.

The second story she wrote was about a world in which you could see only the people you loved. The protagonist was a married man in love with his wife. One day, his wife walked right into him in the hallway and the glass he was holding fell and shattered on the floor. A few days later, she sat down on him as he was dozing in an armchair. Both times, she wriggled out of it with an excuse: she’d had something else on her mind; she hadn’t been looking when she sat down. But the husband started to suspect that she didn’t love him anymore. To test his theory, he decided to do something drastic: he shaved off the left side of his mustache. He came home with half a mustache, clutching a bouquet of anemones. His wife thanked him for the flowers and smiled. He could sense her groping the air as she tried to give him a kiss. Maya called the story “Half a Mustache,” and told Aviad that when she’d read it aloud in the workshop some people had cried. Aviad said, “Wow,” and kissed her on the forehead. That night, they fought about some stupid little thing. She’d forgotten to pass on a message or something like that, and he yelled at her. He was to blame, and in the end he apologized. “I had a hellish day at work,” he said and stroked her leg, trying to make up for his outburst. “Do you forgive me?” She forgave him.

The workshop instructor had published a novel and a collection of short stories. Neither had been much of a success, but they’d had a few good reviews. At least, that’s what the saleswoman at a bookstore near Aviad’s office told him. The novel was very thick, six hundred and twenty-four pages. Aviad bought the book of short stories. He kept it in his desk and tried to read a little during lunch breaks. Each story in the collection took place in a different foreign country. It was a kind of gimmick. The blurb on the back cover said that the writer had worked for years as a tour guide in Cuba and Africa and that his travels had influenced his writing. There was also a small black-and-white photograph of him. In it, he had the kind of smug smile of someone who feels lucky to be who he is. The writer had told Maya, she said to Aviad, that when the workshop was over he’d send her stories to his editor. And, although she shouldn’t get her hopes up, publishers these days were desperate for new talent.

Her third story started out funny. It was about a woman who gave birth to a cat. The hero of the story was the husband, who suspected that the cat wasn’t his. A fat ginger tomcat that slept on the lid of the dumpster right below the window of the couple’s bedroom gave the husband a condescending look every time he went downstairs to throw out the garbage. In the end, there was a violent clash between the husband and the cat. The husband threw a stone at the cat, which countered with bites and scratches. The injured husband, his wife, and the kitten she was breastfeeding went to the clinic for him to get a rabies shot. He was humiliated and in pain but tried not to cry while they were waiting. The kitten, sensing his suffering, uncurled itself from its mother’s embrace, went over to him, and licked his face tenderly, offering a consoling “Meow.” “Did you hear that?” the mother asked emotionally. “He said ‘Daddy.’ ” At that point, the husband could no longer hold back his tears. And, when Aviad read that passage, he had to try hard not to cry, too. Maya said that she’d started writing the story even before she knew she was pregnant again. “Isn’t it weird,” she asked, “how my brain didn’t know yet, but my subconscious did?”

The next Tuesday, when Aviad was supposed to pick her up after the workshop, he arrived half an hour early, parked his car in the lot, and went to find her. Maya was surprised to see him in the classroom, and he insisted that she introduce him to the writer. The writer reeked of body lotion. He shook Aviad’s hand limply and told him that if Maya had chosen him for a husband he must be a very special person.

Three weeks later, Aviad signed up for a beginners’ creative-writing class. He didn’t say anything about it to Maya, and, to be on the safe side, he told his secretary that if he had any calls from home she should say that he was in an important meeting and couldn’t be disturbed. The other members of the class were mostly elderly women, who gave him dirty looks. The thin young instructor wore a head scarf, and the women in the class gossiped about her, saying that she lived in a settlement in the occupied territories and had cancer. She asked everyone to do an exercise in automatic writing. “Write whatever comes into your head,” she said. “Don’t think, just write.” Aviad tried to stop thinking. It was very hard. The old women around him wrote with nervous speed, like students racing to finish an exam before the teacher tells them to put their pens down, and after a few minutes he began writing, too.

The story he wrote was about a fish that was swimming happily along in the sea when a wicked witch turned it into a man. The fish couldn’t come to terms with his transformation and decided to chase down the wicked witch and make her turn him back into a fish. Since he was an especially quick and enterprising fish, he managed to get married while he was pursuing her, and even to establish a small company that imported plastic products from the Far East. With the help of the enormous knowledge he had gained as a fish who had crossed the seven seas, the company began to thrive and even went public. Meanwhile, the wicked witch, who was a little tired after all her years of wickedness, decided to find all the people and creatures she’d cast spells on, apologize to them, and restore them to their natural state. At one point, she even went to see the fish she had turned into a man. The fish’s secretary asked her to wait until he’d finished a satellite meeting with his partners in Taiwan. At that stage in his life, the fish could hardly remember that he was in fact a fish, and his company now controlled half the world. The witch waited several hours, but when she saw that the meeting wouldn’t be ending any time soon she climbed onto her broom and flew off. The fish kept doing better and better, until one day, when he was really old, he looked out the window of one of the dozens of huge shoreline buildings he’d purchased in a smart real-estate deal, and saw the sea. And suddenly he remembered that he was a fish. A very rich fish who controlled many subsidiary companies that were traded on stock markets around the world, but still a fish. A fish who, for years, had not tasted the salt of the sea.

When the instructor saw that Aviad had put down his pen, she gave him an inquiring look. “I don’t have an ending,” he whispered apologetically, keeping his voice down so as not to disturb the old ladies who were still writing. ♦

(Translated, from the Hebrew, by Sondra Silverston.)

man repeller..?

2012-01-06T07:20:00.000-08:00

So this morning, I was on my way to work, waiting for the elevator--you know, just doing something I normally do. I noticed that the elevator totally bypassed my floor (fifth), went to the ninth floor and then came back down. This hardly ever happens. But, you know, every day has its unique glitch.

As the elevator reached my floor and the doors opened, a boy seemed ready to step out. Once he got out, though, he seemed perplexed. He finally realized that he was merely on the wrong floor and got ready to go back into the elevator when, it struck the both of us--this stranger and I, we were dressed alike. Looking the other from top to bottom, it was hard to ignore--charcoal coats, black skinny jeans, and the kicker--bright red shoes. Mortified, we both entered the elevator and rushed to occupy opposite corners. Of course, just as luck would have it, the elevator stopped on the fourth floor, third floor, and second floor, too. The elevator filled with more and more people. This has never happened to me before. An older, fatter man (the first to enter the elevator after myself) seemed to notice that this boy and I had dressed similarly. The rest of the ride down, he kept looking back and forth from corner to corner; I think this man was expecting my look-alike and I to burst out into a fight...

So I tell B about this, and this is how our conversation went:

s: im telling you just from his body language--he wanted to get away from me, didn't want to be associated with me

s: he was at the corner with the buttons

s: i was in the back staring at the ground

. . .

b: it'll probably happen again

s: ???

s: why do you say that?!

b: just knowing your luck...

s: whats that mean!

s: just because i dressed like you once

s: ... twice

Maybe I should stop dressing like a boy...

Kancho

2012-01-04T03:22:00.000-08:00

Today, my student (the one I talk about in all my posts, who sounds a little kooky) brought in some Kancho. I walked over and acted like I was going to steal some (I really wasn't going to!). Anyway, he was one step ahead of my schemes and snatched the tupperware away from me. A toothy, smug grin glowed on his chubby face, as if he had defeated me. But then, he glanced at his tupperware, then up at me, then back at his tupperware, then at my empty hand. Afterwards, he made a weird, high-pitched noise and motioned me to give him my hand. He then stuffed his chubby little fingers into the tupperware, grabbed one Kancho in his right hand and two in his left, and shoved them into my open hand.

I felt so loved.

2012-01-02T06:55:00.000-08:00

On Sunday, there was a baby dedication--rather than baptizing them, the pastor decided to anoint them with oil. The babies were so precious. And as the first baby was anointed, I started to (quietly) weep in my chair. As I kept wiping the tears away, I surprised myself with the amount of tears I had shed. I didn't even expect myself to cry, let alone cry that hard. But the first baby, as she was being anointed, she gave the pastor a huge smile, as if she knew that the moment was special, that she was being sealed into something other than what this small world could possibly offer.

2011-12-30T05:29:00.000-08:00

I live near a train track. Every so often, I hear a train pass by, the sound of its wheels rocking back and forth between the railings, an uneven humming, a monotone yet unequal tune.

I close my eyes as the train passes by me. And I hope, as the darkness evades and light shines through, I'm not here, but somewhere else, somewhere I can speak into without feeling the cold.

But I'm still here.

And I realize. The trains will always pass through here. Even after I'm gone, someone else will be here to hear the trains' heavy metals rumble away, the waves of sound, ebbing and flowing. It will still be here when I am not.

How I Spent My Christmas:

2011-12-26T07:28:00.000-08:00

I spent my Christmas inside a... subway station?

Gangnam station, you were good to me.

conversations with my student, part 3

2011-12-23T07:25:00.000-08:00

After warning him time and again to calm down, my patience starts to wear down.

s: D! now, i am starting to get angry!
student: yes. i angry too!

... wait a second. why is he so worked up?

conversations with my student, part 2

2011-12-21T09:23:00.000-08:00

student: you have six pack?
s: me?? (laughs) yes. i do.
student: why?
s: i just do.
student: (stops to ponder this) your boyfriend have six pack?
s: my boyfriend?! (laughs really hard) no!
student looks very perplexed

+++

student: you mermaid?
s: uh... what?
student: (cackles) you mermaid!
s: okay. yeah. i am a mermaid.
student: ...huh? you... mermaid..?
s: yep. i'm a mermaid. my mom is a mermaid too.
student: your mom... dead?
s: ... what?
student: you say your mom dead! your mom is mermaid! (begins to make zombie-like movements)

It finally dawns on me that he means mummy and not mermaid

s: oooooooooooooooooh. MUMMY!
student: (gives me a dirty look) yes. mermaid.
s: (draws diagram on bored of a mummy and a mermaid) i am (points at mermaid) THIS, not (points at mummy) this!
student is very confused.

I like to play mind games with my student.

2011-12-18T06:16:00.000-08:00

I feel whole again. It's almost as if the artificial voids and cavities that had littered my mind and heart have been filled up with water from a young spring. It's overflowing and cannot be tamed.

I feel ready.

2011-12-14T04:23:00.001-08:00

For some reason, I thought I could go to Union Square in San Francisco today.

... yeah. Not happening.

2011-12-12T07:28:00.001-08:00

Tuesday. 12:27am.

Still not done cleaning out my new place. Still not done unpacking. Gah.

2011-12-09T23:27:00.001-08:00

b: is that a cardigan? sweadigan? cardisweater?

2011-12-09T17:53:00.001-08:00

su: you drugggieee

su: who likes to douggggiieee

sa: . . .

su:he he he he

2011-12-08T07:17:00.001-08:00

made from glass

Someone I recently met invited me to go to Hongik University to attend an art exhibit. It's called, "Ceramic & Glass: Graduation Exhibition and Undergraduate & Master Degree Exhibition." It was my first time at the school, and it felt... odd being back at a campus, especially one that wasn't mine. I felt almost as if I were intruding on another person's territory.

I walked into the building where the show was being held, and the interior strangely reminded me of Wurster, though I'm not entirely sure why because the two buildings looked nothing alike...

2011-12-07T06:52:00.001-08:00

This was from my visit to Korea two years ago. The world is a very different place from then and now.

2011-12-05T19:18:00.001-08:00

my home (for now)

2011-12-04T09:51:00.001-08:00

“The test of a work of art is, in the end, our affection for it, not our ability to explain why it is good.”
— Stanley Kubrick

s: because you always ask me, "why do you like this painting?" "why do you like it?" "why do you like it?" "why do you like it?"
b: well, the question isn't so much to understand the painting. it's to better understand you.

and i blush.

2011-12-04T07:15:00.001-08:00

I remember when I was younger, my parents would occasionally take my sister and me out for dinner, usually to an American family restaurant. For some reason, I remember going to Sizzler the most--partially because when I was younger, I hated eating meat and didn't understand why we went to a restaurant that didn't have a unanimous vote (as you may have guessed, I was only one who made the vote un-unanimous).

My mom still jokes that my family hardly went out to eat because of me. One minute, I'd be sitting at the table with my family. And then the next minute, I'd have slid off of the slippery plastic covered seats, crawled under the table-for-four, and disappeared. Questions would be asked. Panic would strike. And then, my family would immediately begin a search party. In the next ten minutes or so, someone, my mother, my father, or my older sister, would find themselves profusely apologizing to a white family. Why? Because, there I would be, garbling on and on in what I thought was English (but was in fact a made up language, mixing the Korean I borrowed from my parents, Sesame-Street-level English, and words that are still to be invented to capture my precociousness) and eating their food.

I don't remember this happening. The only part I remember about these dinners is the car ride back home. The Toyota humming and mumbling, my parents would be talking about things that are now unremarkable, but may have carried so much gravity and meaning at the time. My older sister would occasionally chime in something mature, which marked her becoming a young adult. And there I would be, again, speaking my own language. My mom and sister would often tell me that they didn't understand.

When we turned left on the street we lived, it would dawn on me that we were approaching our house, and I would quickly feign sleep. As the car would pull up into the driveway, my sister would cross her arms across her chest and say, "Hyun, you're not even sleeping. Wake up!" But I'd remain slumped in the seat. And then, I'd hear it--the car door clicking open on my side. My dad would unbuckle the seatbelt, reach into the car, his head ducked so as not to hit the ceiling, pick me up in his arms, and carry me into the house. I remember as my head leaned against his shoulder, I would feel so much bliss. My arms would hang limply at my side as I continued to "sleep." Occasionally, I'd let a smile slip across my face or open just one eye to take a peek at what was going on around me, at which my sister would protest, "She really isn't sleeping! Look! She's smiling!" But my mom would scold her and said it was bad behavior to wake a sleeping child.

But just as soon as my father placed me on the twin-sized bed that used to my sister's, I'd open my eyes and run around the house, singing the Little Mermaid soundtrack.

I lived for moments to be carried, to be held. I think every child does. The other day, I was eating Vietnamese food with my a few of my coworkers, when I saw a child doing the same exact thing as I did. Lifeless arms and dangling legs, the child had laid a heavy head on his father's shoulder while his eyes were wide open, absorbing every sight that passed before his curious and lively eyes.

I miss days like that. Being small, being wrapped in someone's arms, someone's love and care.

2011-11-28T10:11:00.001-08:00

“Beware the lollipop of mediocrity; lick it once and you’ll suck forever.”

—Brian Wilson

conversations with my student

2011-11-25T05:35:00.001-08:00

I have a student that I teach one-on-one. Honestly, at first, I despised him and dreaded Mondays and Wednesdays because everything he said and did just sounded shrill. He wouldn't stop talking about bombs and guns. He plotted cruel tricks to play on his friends and family. He'd tell these elaborate stories of the conniving things he had schemed, using absolutely no words and just making explosion and screaming noises the entire time. What could I do? I would just zone him out, and frustrated, he'd always shout things like, "UH! Teacher! I angry! Bunny (his pencil case) angry you!" The pure honest truth: I used to carry around Advil around on Mondays and Wednesdays, because he'd make my head hurt so badly.

And it doesn't help that he isn't that cute looking either. You know, you make a lot of exceptions for the cute kids because... well, they're cute. Since they look cute, they automatically inherit a charm that can move even the toughest of hearts. But this kid? He has huge, buck teeth pointed in opposite directions and has these beady eyes behind a pair of glasses. He shuffles his feet around and his hair always looks like he just woke up. He constantly smells like old food. He used to drive me nuts. Key words: used to.

It's amazing how spending time with someone (forced time, in this case) can drastically change your perceptions of people, though. Now the strangities he commits, I just find them hilarious. I mean, it's not his fault his teeth are in desperate need of braces and that his natural cologne is an eau de sausages. So, I've been more accepting of his being a little... eccentric. And on top of that, spending time with him, I've come up with strategies to manage the difficult parts of his personality. I write words that he's not allowed to use in sentences (kick, bombs, Angry Birds, missiles, hit, punch, the name of his frenemies, and Lamborghini--just because he tries to make every sentence we write together about these stupid luxury cars). I make an enormous red circle, write each of the words, and then cross out the words. He always looks very sad, as if I've prohibited him from eating chocolate. After each meeting, I make him promise that he'll behave next time. And he tries hard to keep his end of the bargain up.

But kids are hilarious. I find him very funny. His logic is so... basic? For instance:

student: you like turkey?
s: nope, i don't like turkey. i think it's too dry.
student: (looking very confused like this is the most appalling thing ever) ... huh?
s: i don't like turkey.
student: crispy turkey?
s: nope. that's still turkey. i don't like any kind of turkey.
student: (very abruptly asks) but... but you like chocolate?
s: er... yes..?
student: then why no like turkey??

His logic? If he likes chocolate and turkey, I, too, must like chocolate and turkey.

This was today's conversation:

student: (points at eyebrows) so DARK!
s: (not paying any attention and just looking at his homework papers) huh?
student: (jabs at his own eyebrows to clarify what he means) YOU! so DARK! you color?
s: yeah, i like them dark.
student: why? girls no like dark that!
s: but i like them dark.
student: but girls no like dark that! you no girl??
s: (getting exasperated) of course i'm a girl.
student: (evil snicker) YOU NO GIRL!

Again... such basic logic. Boys. So basic.

and the word is...

2011-11-20T07:42:00.001-08:00

Saturday, at Ilmin Museum, while purchasing a ticket...

(This dialogue has been translated from Korean to English)
girl at desk: would you like to see the exhibit?
s: yes, please.
girl at desk: how many tickets would you like?
s: just one.
girl at desk: okay.
s: and how much is it?
girl at desk: the price is *@$(&≈%).
s: ... ex-excuse me?
girl at desk: *@$(&≈%)..?
s: uh........... *@$(&..... ≈%)..?
boy at desk: (in english) FREE!
s: ooooooooh. (sheepishly) thank you...

Surprisingly, this happens a lot more frequently than I'd like it to... (the word was 무료)

2011-11-19T06:10:00.001-08:00

I told myself that I was too tired to do anything today. So, I promised myself that today, I would just go to work, be a vegetable, go work with another student at Gwanghwamun, again act in catatonic manner, and then go home, speak at a sloth-like pace with Brian, and then nap.

I only ticked off one item off of my to-do list, which was nap, and I'm beginning to regret that I did (a two hours nap from 8:00PM to 10:00PM? Not a good idea...).

The truth of the matter is that this week was extremely difficult for me. I think some people may roll their eyes at me and say, "Sarah, when is it NOT hard for you when you are miles away from home?" Hardly ever. Living in Europe was difficult. Honestly, even living in Berkeley was challenging. Yes, I'm a bird that doesn't fly too far from the nest. My older sister has lived on the east coast, thousands of miles away from home, for about nine years now; my mom always proudly notes how my sister has never complained--the freezing cold weather in New Hampshire, the stress of working in New York, having no family to lean on. There is a pride that parallels my sister's independence.

But I cave in to my weaknesses. A year ago, I was on the phone with my mom, wailing about how I was all alone in a foreign country. There were tears, snot, tissues, sobs, just about the whole set. And yesterday was part two of that entire fiasco--just replace the tissues with toilet paper because Koreans use toilet paper for everything. I know what you might be thinking, because I keep hearing people telling me the same thing: "Sarah, you do realize that your mom left at the end of October and that it's barely been a month since you've really been there on your own, right?"

Yes, I know. I know more than anyone. I wake up counting the days, and when I realize that the hourglass has hardly spilled any sand, my mopey day begins.

So I woke up today, ready to accept defeat, my eyes still puffy from the night before. But honestly, it's hard to be glum when you're teaching even gloomier teenage boys who consider themselves failures because they're not getting 2400s on their SATs. And it's hard to stay pessimistic when your next student comes in, sadly announcing that she has to wait another year to take a test. You push yourself to become more positive, to embrace a more lively, upbeat attitude, even if it's not natural to you, just so you can encourage, motivate, make more determined the people in your lives so that they don't have to be miserable pieces of existence lumped up on the couch and abhore themselves.

I once read that smiling helps promote happiness. Apparently, out of sheer habit built from infancy, the brain associates smiling with happiness. So it's said that if one smiles, even when not truly happy, then there will come an emotion not far from what we experience in moments of contentment. In that moment--as false a smile it may be--life is said to become a little easier to cope with because we presume a state of happiness. All through the simple act of smiling.

Is this true? I don't know. But today, I experienced something similar. The longer I was out, the more upbeat I became, and moreover, the more ready I was to embrace Korea for what it is--a place to explore, a foreign territory for me to scope out each cafe at a time. I didn't want to go home and sulk in my loneliness (which probably wouldn't have helped anyway). I was ready to satisfy the ever-growing wanderlust that has become a part of my life.

I didn't have my camera, so I all I had was my dinky phone camera, but there was so much to see that I couldn't stop taking pictures--the Ilmin Museum of Art (that was free! And, they didn't even mind if you took pictures!), Cheonggyecheon's Lantern Festival, the horses in the tackiest carriages ever, the old historical buildings sadly hidden in between hotels, the yellowing leaves moving in waves across the windy street.

My pastor from Berkeley once preached about what joy meant. I had heard sermons on joy before. Pastors stood before me, maniacally gesticulating, shouting at the tops of their lungs that joy was a happiness unfound anywhere else but in Christ, in the Father, in understanding that I was now a daughter of God, precious, loved, sought after, cared for until eternity passed and time left only the dimmest impression. Joy is available to me, to you!

As true as this was, it was a cloying message of optimism that was unimaginable and impossible because no matter how much joy you may try and swallow, there is confusion, there is chaos, there is misunderstanding, there is disappointment, there is cynicism, there is death. There is the world.

So as I sat there, anticipating another falsely hopeful message, when my pastor had said something much more comprehensible and not far from the unfriendly truth. He said that life will of course have joy; unfortunately, that joy will almost always be, most ironically, paired with sorrow. But it is understanding that no matter how much sorrow dwells in the deepest pits of your stomach, that a light is ready to brighten up the artificial silhouettes of unhappiness that we as humans have made for ourselves in our own self-loathing. It is a light that points to a path that is neither optimistic nor easy. But even in the face of such sadness, the contrite heart stubbornly harbors an irrevocable joy because after the trial and the many, many, many tears (maybe this is only applicable to me...) will come an incomparable joy that goes deeper than any shadow and farther than any dark space that is galaxies wide.

2011-11-12T06:34:00.001-08:00

I think to a certain extent, the excess museum-going I did in France, Spain, Europe in general ruined me for life. Now, I have this helpless addiction to spend (on average) fifteen dollars at a time just to be alone with paintings, pottery, unique architecture, tapestries, and the walls that enclose the building that make the museum what it is.

But the unfortunate thing about museums is that I can never take pictures of the paintings that I like. I tried to sneakily take a shot of one at the Leeum Museum, which I went to today. One lady gave me a stern warning. I thought I had lucked out. But soon enough, another woman walked over and told me that I had to erase it. She even watched as I deleted it to be certain that it was gotten rid of. And of course, it happens to be that the Leeum doesn't even sell hackneyed postcards of their most prized works like most museums usually do. Too high class for something so commercial? Perhaps. Is this a comment on my taste since I absolutely love to collect those postcards? Again, maybe. Regardless, I really loved this one particular painting and I was hoping that they would have some sort of image of it at the museum store, online, in a book somewhere, anywhere for that matter. But, it seems to be an unrecognized work. The largest image I've managed to find is on the museum website and is only 110 pixels wide and 150 pixels long. So, since I can't show this image, you'll have to cope through my confusing writing to understand what it looks like.

The painting is on a rectangular canvas, and the artist had chosen to split it in half horizontally (or, as we learned in elementary school, hamburger style). The first half has variations of blue on a layer of offwhite paint, it also blue in its hue. Thick, horizontal lines of dark blues go across the top. Though the lines all overlap, they hardly merge--rather the different tones isolate them from the surrounding blues. The only unifying factor to these lines is how crooked they are--all imperfect and wild looking. Below this thick margin are waves of blue--all different shades, all different sizes, all different widths, all different angles, all different styles--against the offwhite background. It looks random, senseless, nonsensical and the eye is confused as to where it is supposed to look.

But below it, on the bottom half of the painting, against a plain, colorless background, was an image of a boat. Not a ship (like Columbus may have ridden back in fourteen-hundred-ninety-two when he sailed the ocean blue) but more like a small boat you see older men ride on lakes to go fishing with their sons. It is a whale, beached, leaning against its side, out of its element. The edges are smudged, the image blurry--like when a five-year-old smudges his hand against the colors while finger painting. But because the image is out of focus and, furthermore, faded, it has the feeling of being insignificant, as if it were a part of a dying memory soon to be lost in that eternally deep crevice of forgetfulness.

To me, there was a symbiosis in the painting that made it come alive. One without the other was rather incomprehensible. They were two separate paintings, two completely individual beings, even. And yet, together, they functioned as a single entity (made even truer by the fact that they share one canvas together).

Anyway, my writing doesn't do the painting justice. So I just suggest that you just go and see it yourself. Come join me in Korea and we could go together!

2011-11-11T06:18:00.001-08:00

I had a chance to wander the neighborhood and found this deserted kiddy park.

2011-11-10T06:55:00.001-08:00

Peppero Day in Korea (a Family Mart near the local elementary school). 11.11.11

The Beginning

2011-11-05T08:52:00.000-07:00

Well, to call this the beginning is a misnomer in many ways seeing how 1) I've had this blog for many years now and 2) I've been in Korea for over a month now. But I'm a bit perplexed as to what else I'm supposed to title this, especially seeing how I just baptized this blog to give it a nice, new, clean slate--no old entries (but I think they're still visible in Google Reader..?).

Anyway, I digress. Here are some promises that I'm going to try and keep--this blog is a way to keep track of these promises.

I will not be ashamed to take pictures in public. I mean, why should I be, right? Every girl is waltzing around in a skirt and high heeled shoes, modeling for some unknown clothes website. I should find no humiliation in taking pictures of trees and buildings and other city markers. At least I'm not being vain, right?
I will go out more. Translation: I will wake up earlier and leave my home to see museums, landmarks, parks, different parts of Seoul, etc.
I will update this blog once a week with my stories (there is no guarantee that what I say will be interesting or at all entertaining, but regardless, at least it's a means to remember what I've done in Korea--and hopefully, that is not siting in my room all day and being sulky).

Day one starts tomorrow.