Here is a post I wrote last year for advent.
Back then, almost nobody read my blog; it's a long post, but I'm also more proud of this one than most of the other writing on this blog. Thought I'd draw attention to it, now that I have readers other than my grandma.
It was written for a friend's blog, for advent, and it's a bit more personal than the expat musings and pictures of my awesome weekend. . . but it is what it is, and during the holidays, it seems like a good time for reflection. It's about my search for meaning during one of the most difficult times of my life.
Part one:
http://roboseyo.blogspot.com/2007/12/i-wrote-this-for-tamies-blog-but-ill.html
Part two:
http://roboseyo.blogspot.com/2007/12/part-two-advent-of-meaning-at-least-for.html
one expat's life in Korea
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Thursday, December 25, 2008
Tuesday, February 05, 2008
I did it, I did it, I diiiIIIIId it!
The White Stripes - There's No Home For You Here -- their best song so far, in my opinion. Ignore the slideshow -- scroll past. Just hit play and listen.
To commemorate my completion of DRAFT FOUR of my Violinist novella, I am finally posting. That's right, draft four. The draft where I'm proud enough of what I've written that I'll actually show it to people. One (maybe two) draft(s) away from what I'm going to start shopping to publishers.
Melissa tagged me with one of those goofy viral "Tag" thingies that goes around blogs.
I don't mind this one, because it's about writing.
The question was: give three tips for writing, and pass the baton to three of your blogger/readers, to answer the same question on their blogs.
Maybe it was supposed to be "how to write for a blog" but I'm going to take it as "how to work toward writing professionally"
Tip 1 (courtesy of the time I met Timothy Findley)
Write.
Just do it. Don't dream about it. Don't wish you had time to, don't think about the fame and glory that will come after you sell your first bestseller. . . just write. And if you're meant to be a writer, sez Mr. Findley, "You'll know."
Tip 2
While Mel pointed out that it's important not to make writing a chore or an obligation (at least not until you're a professional writer with deadlines and things), I say, don't make it a chore, but if writing's important to you, arrange your life so as to be conducive to more writing.
-Sometimes that means you have to make choices. If your job takes away the time and energy you used to have for writing, well, by keeping that job, you're tacitly voting with your timetable. There's nothing wrong with that, but be aware of it.
-Find a job where you have free time during your most creative time of the day.
-Surround yourself with people who help clear a space in your life to write, and who support you in doing so, communicate to people close to you how this IS a priority for you, and you appreciate their support.
-Disconnect your home internet if it's stealing time from your writing.
-Stop watching movies, sell your television.
-Live more cheaply, so you can take the lower paying job with MORE FREE TIME to write.
-Create a comfortable writing space in your home. Keep it clean, and use it.
-Get a really beautiful journal with quality paper, that's a pleasure to hold, and a comfortable pen that writes well for you, that makes a satisfying scratching sound when you write with it, so that you enjoy, and look forward to opening up the journal and writing in it.
-Get an ultraportable laptop, or a word processor, or a handheld tape recorder, and carry it with you all the time, so that you can write while waiting for your friend to arrive, instead of just staring into space. Fill your life with opportunities to write, see every spare moment as an opportunity to write, and carry with you the equipment necessary to TAKE those opportunities, and actually write!
3. Learn your own process, and be patient with it.
(bonus, 'cause Mel gave four)
4. Live as much as you can, and notice as much as you can, and take notes and internalize as much as you can. Travel, talk to people, don't wear an MP3 player -- listen to the world. Go out and do stuff, instead of staying inside when it's cold or rainy or too hot. Make friends with people who get you to do things you wouldn't normally do. Get wet sometimes, or sick. Remember what it's like. Pay attention to how things smell, feel, taste, all that little stuff. Do things that are out of the ordinary, to see how people around you react -- you might learn something. Get your hands dirty, and keep your eyes open.
Then. . .
(see #1)
I tag. . . I dunno. I don't have many readers. Dan? Deb? uhh. . .Cheryl? You still reading?
Facebook-related Mini-rant: once people FINALLY got smart enough to stop forwarding junk to their friends' e-mail inbox, facebook comes along, and suddenly ALL the garbage that it took me six years to wean my friends from forwarding to me on E-mail, has returned, like the killer in a bad horror movie, to clutter and litter my facebook profile and inbox. AAAAAAAAAAAAUGGGGGHHHHHH!!! It's even easier to forward things on Facebook (damn virals) and sometimes you even forward stuff without meaning to. well. . . it's just like e-mail, folks. If you forward the superstitious "forward to everyone on your list or you'll die at midnight" e-mail, you're a chump (and worse). If you forward it on facebook. . . YOU'RE STILL A CHUMP!
Sigh.
But I'm happy today. Happy as a rainbow banana.
When I finished writing my English Honours Thesis, I walked around TWU's campus for most of the morning showing my fifty page thesis to people around me, bubbling, "Look what I can do!" before I handed it in. That's how I feel now. I wish you could hold my fourth draft in your hands and share a glass of happy with me.
love:
Roboseyo
To commemorate my completion of DRAFT FOUR of my Violinist novella, I am finally posting. That's right, draft four. The draft where I'm proud enough of what I've written that I'll actually show it to people. One (maybe two) draft(s) away from what I'm going to start shopping to publishers.
Melissa tagged me with one of those goofy viral "Tag" thingies that goes around blogs.
I don't mind this one, because it's about writing.
The question was: give three tips for writing, and pass the baton to three of your blogger/readers, to answer the same question on their blogs.
Maybe it was supposed to be "how to write for a blog" but I'm going to take it as "how to work toward writing professionally"
Tip 1 (courtesy of the time I met Timothy Findley)
Write.
Just do it. Don't dream about it. Don't wish you had time to, don't think about the fame and glory that will come after you sell your first bestseller. . . just write. And if you're meant to be a writer, sez Mr. Findley, "You'll know."
Tip 2
While Mel pointed out that it's important not to make writing a chore or an obligation (at least not until you're a professional writer with deadlines and things), I say, don't make it a chore, but if writing's important to you, arrange your life so as to be conducive to more writing.
-Sometimes that means you have to make choices. If your job takes away the time and energy you used to have for writing, well, by keeping that job, you're tacitly voting with your timetable. There's nothing wrong with that, but be aware of it.
-Find a job where you have free time during your most creative time of the day.
-Surround yourself with people who help clear a space in your life to write, and who support you in doing so, communicate to people close to you how this IS a priority for you, and you appreciate their support.
-Disconnect your home internet if it's stealing time from your writing.
-Stop watching movies, sell your television.
-Live more cheaply, so you can take the lower paying job with MORE FREE TIME to write.
-Create a comfortable writing space in your home. Keep it clean, and use it.
-Get a really beautiful journal with quality paper, that's a pleasure to hold, and a comfortable pen that writes well for you, that makes a satisfying scratching sound when you write with it, so that you enjoy, and look forward to opening up the journal and writing in it.
-Get an ultraportable laptop, or a word processor, or a handheld tape recorder, and carry it with you all the time, so that you can write while waiting for your friend to arrive, instead of just staring into space. Fill your life with opportunities to write, see every spare moment as an opportunity to write, and carry with you the equipment necessary to TAKE those opportunities, and actually write!
3. Learn your own process, and be patient with it.
(bonus, 'cause Mel gave four)
4. Live as much as you can, and notice as much as you can, and take notes and internalize as much as you can. Travel, talk to people, don't wear an MP3 player -- listen to the world. Go out and do stuff, instead of staying inside when it's cold or rainy or too hot. Make friends with people who get you to do things you wouldn't normally do. Get wet sometimes, or sick. Remember what it's like. Pay attention to how things smell, feel, taste, all that little stuff. Do things that are out of the ordinary, to see how people around you react -- you might learn something. Get your hands dirty, and keep your eyes open.
Then. . .
(see #1)
I tag. . . I dunno. I don't have many readers. Dan? Deb? uhh. . .Cheryl? You still reading?
Facebook-related Mini-rant: once people FINALLY got smart enough to stop forwarding junk to their friends' e-mail inbox, facebook comes along, and suddenly ALL the garbage that it took me six years to wean my friends from forwarding to me on E-mail, has returned, like the killer in a bad horror movie, to clutter and litter my facebook profile and inbox. AAAAAAAAAAAAUGGGGGHHHHHH!!! It's even easier to forward things on Facebook (damn virals) and sometimes you even forward stuff without meaning to. well. . . it's just like e-mail, folks. If you forward the superstitious "forward to everyone on your list or you'll die at midnight" e-mail, you're a chump (and worse). If you forward it on facebook. . . YOU'RE STILL A CHUMP!
Sigh.
But I'm happy today. Happy as a rainbow banana.
When I finished writing my English Honours Thesis, I walked around TWU's campus for most of the morning showing my fifty page thesis to people around me, bubbling, "Look what I can do!" before I handed it in. That's how I feel now. I wish you could hold my fourth draft in your hands and share a glass of happy with me.
love:
Roboseyo
Thursday, January 31, 2008
Got in the paper again.
There's a new section in the Korea Herald (the paper my school receives) called "Expat Living". I sent a letter in about something I care about, and they published it today.
You can see it at www.koreaherald.com, if you click on the box that says, "ExPat Living", or just trust me that it's there, and read it here.
I'm posting it as it was published in the Herald -- the version I originally submitted had been edited for length, with the first paragraph deleted and some the crucial information from Paragraph 1 adapted into other parts of the letter.
Of course, it's fun seeing my name in print; more gratifying, though, was when one of my students looked at me after reading the article in a conversation class and said, "I never thought of that before, but you changed the way I think." This was the same student I mentioned earlier, in another post. She's great, always ready to talk about stuff head-on, but it was really satisfying to hear her say, "You've convinced me."
I'm still all shiny from that.
here's my article, then:
***
Special
[Letter to the editor] The word foreigner as an agent of exclusion
As Korea aims to become a true global hub, it is time to think how the word waygukin, or "foreigner" is used. The word seems harmless: We are foreigners, aren`t we? But looking closer, just as the word "businessman" hinted that women didn`t really belong in the office, the word waygukin, literally "outside-country person," draws a circle called "Korea," and sets expatriates on the outside, looking in.
It is a small step from saying: "You`re not from here" outright, to implying "and you don`t belong here, either." The words waygukin and foreigner don`t mean to marginalize people, but neither did the word businessman, before it became politically correct to say businessperson, instead. Intentionally or not, it did -- and they do.
These words are so common that we foreigners even use them when talking about ourselves. Rather than just being marginalized by someone else, we are even excluding ourselves from Korean society. If I call myself an outsider, I will also think like one. I may hesitate to invest my full energy and passion in Korea, since even the word used to describe me implies: "You don`t really belong here."
The word waygukin says what we are not, but it`s time for a word that describes what we are, instead. "International," and "expatriate" have positive meanings. This small name change recognizes that we are more than outsiders; we are a growing part of Korea`s new, globalizing society.
Some of us have lived here for a long time, and we can contribute a lot if we, and our efforts, are welcomed and appreciated. It may just be fussing about language, and it`s only one step in the long journey of globalization, but a little change in word-choice still opens doors for women in business, and another little change might encourage expatriates to invest more in Korean society.
It might also help Koreans to see us not as outsiders, but as capable, energetic people ready and willing to participate.
Koreans and internationals alike: Let`s find inclusive words that remind us we`re working together to help Korea grow, and let`s leave old, exclusive words like "foreigner" and "waygukin" in the "hermit kingdom" past, where they belong.
Robert Ouwehand, Seoul
2008.01.31
You can see it at www.koreaherald.com, if you click on the box that says, "ExPat Living", or just trust me that it's there, and read it here.
I'm posting it as it was published in the Herald -- the version I originally submitted had been edited for length, with the first paragraph deleted and some the crucial information from Paragraph 1 adapted into other parts of the letter.
Of course, it's fun seeing my name in print; more gratifying, though, was when one of my students looked at me after reading the article in a conversation class and said, "I never thought of that before, but you changed the way I think." This was the same student I mentioned earlier, in another post. She's great, always ready to talk about stuff head-on, but it was really satisfying to hear her say, "You've convinced me."
I'm still all shiny from that.
here's my article, then:
***
Special
[Letter to the editor] The word foreigner as an agent of exclusion
As Korea aims to become a true global hub, it is time to think how the word waygukin, or "foreigner" is used. The word seems harmless: We are foreigners, aren`t we? But looking closer, just as the word "businessman" hinted that women didn`t really belong in the office, the word waygukin, literally "outside-country person," draws a circle called "Korea," and sets expatriates on the outside, looking in.
It is a small step from saying: "You`re not from here" outright, to implying "and you don`t belong here, either." The words waygukin and foreigner don`t mean to marginalize people, but neither did the word businessman, before it became politically correct to say businessperson, instead. Intentionally or not, it did -- and they do.
These words are so common that we foreigners even use them when talking about ourselves. Rather than just being marginalized by someone else, we are even excluding ourselves from Korean society. If I call myself an outsider, I will also think like one. I may hesitate to invest my full energy and passion in Korea, since even the word used to describe me implies: "You don`t really belong here."
The word waygukin says what we are not, but it`s time for a word that describes what we are, instead. "International," and "expatriate" have positive meanings. This small name change recognizes that we are more than outsiders; we are a growing part of Korea`s new, globalizing society.
Some of us have lived here for a long time, and we can contribute a lot if we, and our efforts, are welcomed and appreciated. It may just be fussing about language, and it`s only one step in the long journey of globalization, but a little change in word-choice still opens doors for women in business, and another little change might encourage expatriates to invest more in Korean society.
It might also help Koreans to see us not as outsiders, but as capable, energetic people ready and willing to participate.
Koreans and internationals alike: Let`s find inclusive words that remind us we`re working together to help Korea grow, and let`s leave old, exclusive words like "foreigner" and "waygukin" in the "hermit kingdom" past, where they belong.
Robert Ouwehand, Seoul
2008.01.31
Tuesday, January 01, 2008
I guess everybody's doing one of these.
For me, in the words of my old Creative Writing bud, Sparkey, 2007 has been kickdonkey awesomepants, friends.
A rundown of reasons for the spring in my step:
1. Girlfriendoseyo: we met in April, we hit it off almost right away, and it just keeps getting better and better. You've heard guarded hints roundabout allusions about her on the blog, but friends, I'm crazy about this woman. We like all the same things, and (______________ insert your own mushy cliche here__________________). It's pretty great.
2. Teaching adults. No more pee fights, tattle-tales, crocodile tears, or insane mothers. Instead, I learn from my students: there are areas where they actually know MORE than me. A lot of areas! I'm actually kind of dumb, except in a few fields.
3. Words - I've written more in this year than probably any three years previously. Seeing as writing professionally is my stated life goal, that's pretty significant.
4. Living downtown - every day living in the downtown is like a people-watcher's festival. And I get to be a tour-guide when my friends come into the downtown.
5. My Colleague/Friends -- I have some friends here who are really cool, including one gentleman who has invited me to his family's house, and who's opened up, despite big differences in age and culture, and really made me feel welcomed and appreciated as a westerner living in Korea.
6. Rosetta Stone - an amazing language study program that's building my vocabulary, my spoken Korean, and (most importantly) my confidence in speaking Korean. It's been a real boon, and I'm really enjoying the noticeable improvement in my Korean ability.
7. Moving into an apartment with no TV. TV sucks.
8. Downtownucopia: the variety and quality of restaurants in the downtown make eating a joyous practice over here in downtown Seoul. discovering that good food is one of my main pleasures in my life was also good -- putting one's finger on the things that makes one happy, sure helps one REMAIN happy. In no particular order, I really love:
-Indian in Jonggak -Blood and Cow Stomach Soup -the Oktoberfest microbrewery -spicy beef-bone stew -california rolls and sushi -beef bone soup (with AMAZING kimchi) -world class dumplings -okonomiyaki -the Moroccan place I just discovered -the funny old lady who's been making pickled garnishes and organic side dishes her entire life -the fat, old Chinese ladies who make dumplings and never smile
(If any of you readers lives in Korea and wants to know where to find these places. . . let me know in the comments section. We'll figure something out.)
9. Living closer to Matt, hiking more often, and generally getting healthier, in large part because of his influence.
10. Blogging as a new, more enlightened, more frequent way of keeping in touch with my loved ones in Canada (and elsewhere), and being able to share a little more detail than you can fit into a bi-monthly, text-only e-mail update.
11. Almost all of the friends I've kept close tabs on back in Canada are doing better now than they were last year -- you know who you are. Yay for you! I'm all squirming with happy for you.
12. Going to Canada in July to see my Dad's wedding, Matt's brother (and my surrogate older brother) Joely's wedding, and all the other people I saw then, too.
13. A MILLION BABIES -- like, everybody I know is having a baby. Except me. It's awesome, and overwhelming, and awesome, and exciting, and awesome.
14. Is a luckier number than thirteen.
the bummers:
Myspace, Facebook, Internet, Blog, Youtube, Collegehumor.com et. al = New Years resolution 1: waste less time on the internet.
With all that good eatin', it's easy to get fat, fast.
I didn't call home enough: I have no landline anymore, so all phones home must be cellulexpensive, plus, I'm a bad son/brother/friend/uncle/grandson/stalker. I just don't do my duty enough.
Thanks God, and everybody else involved, for a fantastic year. I'm glad to be alive, and really happy with my situation these days.
I love you all!
Take care.
Love:
roboseyo
A rundown of reasons for the spring in my step:
1. Girlfriendoseyo: we met in April, we hit it off almost right away, and it just keeps getting better and better. You've heard guarded hints roundabout allusions about her on the blog, but friends, I'm crazy about this woman. We like all the same things, and (______________ insert your own mushy cliche here__________________). It's pretty great.
2. Teaching adults. No more pee fights, tattle-tales, crocodile tears, or insane mothers. Instead, I learn from my students: there are areas where they actually know MORE than me. A lot of areas! I'm actually kind of dumb, except in a few fields.
3. Words - I've written more in this year than probably any three years previously. Seeing as writing professionally is my stated life goal, that's pretty significant.
4. Living downtown - every day living in the downtown is like a people-watcher's festival. And I get to be a tour-guide when my friends come into the downtown.
5. My Colleague/Friends -- I have some friends here who are really cool, including one gentleman who has invited me to his family's house, and who's opened up, despite big differences in age and culture, and really made me feel welcomed and appreciated as a westerner living in Korea.
6. Rosetta Stone - an amazing language study program that's building my vocabulary, my spoken Korean, and (most importantly) my confidence in speaking Korean. It's been a real boon, and I'm really enjoying the noticeable improvement in my Korean ability.
7. Moving into an apartment with no TV. TV sucks.
8. Downtownucopia: the variety and quality of restaurants in the downtown make eating a joyous practice over here in downtown Seoul. discovering that good food is one of my main pleasures in my life was also good -- putting one's finger on the things that makes one happy, sure helps one REMAIN happy. In no particular order, I really love:
-Indian in Jonggak -Blood and Cow Stomach Soup -the Oktoberfest microbrewery -spicy beef-bone stew -california rolls and sushi -beef bone soup (with AMAZING kimchi) -world class dumplings -okonomiyaki -the Moroccan place I just discovered -the funny old lady who's been making pickled garnishes and organic side dishes her entire life -the fat, old Chinese ladies who make dumplings and never smile
(If any of you readers lives in Korea and wants to know where to find these places. . . let me know in the comments section. We'll figure something out.)
9. Living closer to Matt, hiking more often, and generally getting healthier, in large part because of his influence.
10. Blogging as a new, more enlightened, more frequent way of keeping in touch with my loved ones in Canada (and elsewhere), and being able to share a little more detail than you can fit into a bi-monthly, text-only e-mail update.
11. Almost all of the friends I've kept close tabs on back in Canada are doing better now than they were last year -- you know who you are. Yay for you! I'm all squirming with happy for you.
12. Going to Canada in July to see my Dad's wedding, Matt's brother (and my surrogate older brother) Joely's wedding, and all the other people I saw then, too.
13. A MILLION BABIES -- like, everybody I know is having a baby. Except me. It's awesome, and overwhelming, and awesome, and exciting, and awesome.
14. Is a luckier number than thirteen.
the bummers:
Myspace, Facebook, Internet, Blog, Youtube, Collegehumor.com et. al = New Years resolution 1: waste less time on the internet.
With all that good eatin', it's easy to get fat, fast.
I didn't call home enough: I have no landline anymore, so all phones home must be cellulexpensive, plus, I'm a bad son/brother/friend/uncle/grandson/stalker. I just don't do my duty enough.
Thanks God, and everybody else involved, for a fantastic year. I'm glad to be alive, and really happy with my situation these days.
I love you all!
Take care.
Love:
roboseyo
Friday, December 28, 2007
The full text of the article, plus my letter to the editor.
I claim no copyright for Mr. Kim's article; I'm simply reprinting it here for my personal use, in order to show my friends and family the full context of my letter to the editor. Normally, I really enjoy his column, but this one required a response.
[Kaleidoscope]An end to naivety: No more dark ages
by Kim Seong-kon
2007.12.26
My response:
[A READER'S VIEW] The pot calls the kettle black
by Robert Ouwehand
Normally, I look forward to Kim Seong-kon's "Kaleidoscope" column on The Korea Herald's opinion page. As an adult English conversation teacher, I have often used his ideas and insights in class. He usually looks seriously at relevant topics, and clearly communicates fresh thoughts, instead of offering the same, stale party lines.
[Kaleidoscope]An end to naivety: No more dark ages
by Kim Seong-kon
The medieval Dark Ages was a period of tumultuous conflict between Christianity and Islam, or Catholics and "heresy." It was also a time of Catholic corruption, witch trials, and the Inquisition. Unfortunately, our age is no less dark, and the age-old struggle between two adversaries still continues. South Korea, too, has been devastated lately by the struggle between two radically different, antagonistic groups, deliberately instigated by our belligerent leftist politicians.
During the military dictatorship, Koreans lived in a "Dark Age." Generals wearing black shades ruthlessly ruled the country with bayonets and iron boots for nearly three decades. During that Dark Age, people suffered in a grim, relentless reality, while weak intellectuals had to combat a sense of futility and impotence. Due to the military fashion of the time, South Korea was hopelessly degenerated into a country of uniformity. Oftentimes, however, the dictators felt a sense of guilt and illegitimacy as they usurped the throne, and realized that they were nothing but amateurs, especially in economics and diplomacy. As a result, they respected public opinion and listened to professional advice, when necessary. They also tried their best to boost the nation's economy, thereby achieving the so-called miracle of the Han River.
A decade ago, the Korean people witnessed the advent of the age of democracy at last. As the generals retreated backstage and permanently disappeared behind the curtain, the monochromatic military culture was replaced by colorful diversity. Soon after, however, leftist politicians and activists seized political power, calling for a socialist paradise on the Korean Peninsula. We naively believed in them; after all, they were the dissidents who valiantly fought against the military dictatorship. Unfortunately, that is what clouded our judgment. Few people realized at that time that we were marching into another type of Dark Age.
Soon, people began to be disillusioned by the leftist politicians' unbearable amateurism, intolerable vulgarity, and impudent self-righteousness. Enraged with personal grudges, they were hostile, resentful, and revengeful. These pseudo-Marxists, who never shared their fortunes with the poor, but fully enjoyed the benefits of a capitalist society, rapidly began tearing the serene country apart with their crude leftist ideology. In their eyes, bourgeois intellectual labor such as writing or lecturing was nothing but a luxury that deserved a heavy tax. Owning real estate was another unpardonable sin to be punished. So they dropped tax bombs indiscriminately upon home owners, and wasted astronomical amounts of tax money on numerous failed projects such as building the administrative capital city in a local province. Instead of creating jobs, they extorted the middle class, and constantly blamed big business corporations such as Samsung as the root of social evil.
To make matters worse, the radical politicians mocked intellectuals by dubbing manual laborers such as Chinese food delivery boys as the "New Intellectuals." Once again, intellectuals in our society had to fight a sense of defeat and despair. Our leftist politicians were not good at diplomacy, either. Seriously lacking diplomatic skills and international sensibility, they frequently jeopardized Korea's diplomatic relationships with allies and other countries with their rude, sloppy, and amateurish approaches. Consequently, they seriously degraded the image of Korea in the international community by garrulous, vulgar language and embarrassingly unrefined expressions.
Meanwhile, the Korean economy stagnated, while other countries enjoyed economic prosperity. South Korea could have truly advanced, if only we had elected the right person as our leader. Alas! We have wasted 10 precious years, and it seems too late to catch up now. Yet our self-righteous politicians did not listen to anybody, for they thought they were always right, while all others were invariably wrong. The so-called social reform they futilely attempted, which mostly stemmed from their personal grudges and resentments, turned out to be a complete failure, only turning the nation upside down, making it into a planet of the apes. Equally corrupt and ruthless as their predecessors, they even placed a gag on the press. As a result, we have been through another Dark Age for the past ten years, and there seems to be no way to restore the lost time.
Some people say that it was an inevitable process we had to go through in order to achieve democracy. Nevertheless, the price we have to pay is much too high. It will take many years to heal the psychological wounds of the people, and restore the damaged relationships with our allies. We once made an irrevocable mistake by foolishly voting for the Leftist politicians who ruined the economy and tore the peaceful nation apart. From now on, we cannot afford to make another mistake, for it will be fatal to the future of Korea.
At the presidential election last week, we have chosen wisely. It was judgment day for the Roh administration. No longer will we be deceived by the anachronistic leftists who still cling to obsolete Marxist ideology. We should put an end to naivety, and open our eyes to the new world and new era. Then we can transcend the gravity of all the dogmatic ideologies, and reach the gorgeous rainbow coalition. O Lord: please no more ideological warfare in this land! No more Dark Ages! We need illumination!
2007.12.26
My response:
[A READER'S VIEW] The pot calls the kettle black
by Robert Ouwehand
Normally, I look forward to Kim Seong-kon's "Kaleidoscope" column on The Korea Herald's opinion page. As an adult English conversation teacher, I have often used his ideas and insights in class. He usually looks seriously at relevant topics, and clearly communicates fresh thoughts, instead of offering the same, stale party lines.
Because of my high expectations, I was especially disappointed with his Dec. 26 article "An end to naivety: No more dark ages". His closing words: "We need to put an end to naivety. . . [and] transcend the gravity of all the dogmatic ideologies," call out for a "rainbow coalition" free of polarized ideologies, yet the eight hundred words preceding it completely undermine his conclusion by viciously attacking the left.
Whether his claims about the last two socialist governments are correct is beside the point, when Kim's rightist polemic, loaded with inflammatory language, shows all the one-sidedness and self-righteousness for which he attacks Presidents Roh and Kim.
Many of the last two administrations' shortcomings had nothing to do with ideology: Kim himself often blames their failures in diplomacy and policy on a lack of experience, vision, or political savvy. Yet in his summary, Kim seems to imply that the new Lee Myung-Bak government will solve the country's woes, not because of his group's superior political ability, but by the mere fact they are conservatives. Such a simplistic, and, yes, naive, view, simply rehashes the blindly partisan ideological dogmatism which Kim speaks against in his own article's conclusion.
Models of moral life have come from a rainbow of religious and philosophical backgrounds. Likewise, excellent leaders have come from every point on the political spectrum. If President Lee solves Korea's problems, it will be because he is conscientious, focused, and sensitive to Korea's needs in a rapidly changing world; it will be because he judiciously places the best people, instead of his own allies, in key positions; it will be because he puts the needs of his country above the needs of his party's biggest contributors and old business associates.
Though Kim calls for an end to ideological dogmatism in his conclusion, his rhetoric gives the impression that the only way to achieve the "rainbow coalition" he wishes for, is for everyone to become conservatives like himself, and join in attacking socialists in a rainbow of diverse ways. Whether he is right or wrong, such inflammatory language is further polarizing, and, for a widely read columnist seeking a more enlightened dialogue, it is unhelpful and even irresponsible, betraying his stated ideal.
If nothing else, such simpleminded, black-and-white, left-and-right ideology-stumping is far below Kim's usually high standard of thought and expression.
Robert Ouwehand, Seoul
2007.12.28
Roboseyo lays a verbal smack-down!
There's this columnist in the Korea Herald (the English newspaper my school subscribes to.) I don't always agree with him, but he usually expresses himself very well and brings up worthwhile conversation topics. However, on Wednesday, he let all his conservative prejudices fly, clouding his normally sound expression. Here's a link to his column from Korea Herald online. He contradicts his own conclusion, and comes off as the same kind of knee-jerk ideologue that he criticizes in other of his articles.
Not that I'm personally invested too deeply in Korea's new president elect, nor the previous two administrations, but I was bothered by the hypocrisy of slagging the opposing party, and then calling for a more open dialogue in the conclusion. So I fired off a letter to the editor, basically calling him out for his self-contradiction. . . and they printed my response in today's Herald.
I'm pleased as punch. I bought an extra copy of the paper for posterity, and it's sure fun seeing my name in print!
I rock.
By the way: this is one of the funniest things I've ever seen.
Not that I'm personally invested too deeply in Korea's new president elect, nor the previous two administrations, but I was bothered by the hypocrisy of slagging the opposing party, and then calling for a more open dialogue in the conclusion. So I fired off a letter to the editor, basically calling him out for his self-contradiction. . . and they printed my response in today's Herald.
I'm pleased as punch. I bought an extra copy of the paper for posterity, and it's sure fun seeing my name in print!
I rock.
By the way: this is one of the funniest things I've ever seen.
Thursday, December 20, 2007
Christmas in the Rye
It's a common writing exercise to rewrite a story you've written in the style of some other author. It's actually good practice and a good discipline. Here's something that happened to me yesterday, told in the style of Holden Caulfield, the protagonist from The Catcher In The Rye (one of the best, funniest, most heart-breaking, and most often misunderstood books I've ever read). If you don't like words like hell and damn, maybe skip this one and read another post instead.
Christmas in Korea
by Holden Caulfieldoseyo
I guess if you ask me I'd say I didn't sleep enough or something like that. Sometimes you get some guy who says he needs like ten hours of sleep every night and it just makes you depressed as hell, as sad as when you hear lousy Christmas music in shops before Thanksgiving is even finished. I think about that guy sleeping ten hours a night, like he hates being awake or something, but I'm exactly the opposite. I'm the kind of guy who hates sleeping sometimes, so instead of laying in bed, I just do useless stuff like reading phony articles on the internet from some guy who uses the word "delineate" instead of "explain" to show off his hot-shot writing style, and you just know he makes quotation marks with his fingers during conversations. But, it's better than staring up at the ceiling when you can't sleep, because when you turn on the humidifier your mom sent you last November, that little hum gets you thinking about your mother and it just makes you lonely as hell.
So maybe it's on account of I don't always sleep enough, but sometimes it seems like the whole world is full of phonies. They're all over, but for example, today I stood next to this girl at the crosswalk who smelled like some kind of boutique shop green tea and avocado shampoo, and she talked on the phone like something special, and when I looked over at her, her scarf was messy but perfect as if she spent half an hour by the mirror tossing her scarf over her shoulder so it looked like she didn't care how it looked. Even when she knew I was looking at her, she didn't look over at me, even to smile or say "hi," so I looked at her perfect phony hair, thought some other girl in her office probably feels ugly or fat because this girl spends thirty phony minutes tossing her goddamn scarf over her shoulder in the morning, and the other girl has to wash her hair at night because her family's poor and maybe her mother has cancer and her dad lost his job in the economic crisis and they sleep on the floor and fold up the mattresses and put them in the goddamn closet every morning. Sometimes it makes you depressed as hell, these girls with perfect scarves and perfect smelling green-tea herbal scented hair and stuff.
So I crossed the street like a madman when the light changed, but everywhere I looked there was some other phony girl with perfect hair, or some hot-shot guy with the same haircut as his friends, wearing a sweater-vest or a zipper tie or something, and saying things like, "a little contrived, but well-meant, to be sure." And every shop played some lousy Christmas music that was all drippy and slow, or cheery and chippy, and it didn't feel like Christmas, more like some sweaty red-faced old man smiling so you'd buy more stuff from his deli, asking you to pay an extra quarter for "festive wrapping" instead of the usual pink butcher paper.
So I went into the subway station trying not to look at the hot-shots and phonies in the street, and looked up and down the platform for something that'd make Allie grin if he was with me, like a couple who really loved each other but they were just holding hands and looking at something together instead of making baby talk and poking each other's dimples, or some kids playing some kind of game, and their mom saying "quiet, boys, everybody can hear you" and them not caring anyway, with their hair messy instead of licked and stuck down with cruddy kids' hair gel. I get a kick out of watching kids playing on subway platforms like that, when they act like kids, and not just little adults trained by their moms to shake your hand and say, "charmed". Kids who are too quiet on subway platforms, with expensive coats and stuck down gelly hair make me feel depressed as a madman.
But there weren't any kids with messy hair playing on the subway platform. They just had their hands in their pockets waiting for the train. You take a kid, and you put her hands in her pockets and make her wait for a train, and I can't decide if I should go talk to her like she's a grown up and say "pleasure to meet you, little miss," or stick out my tongue and try to make her laugh so that she looks like a kid again. I'm quite childish that way, especially around kids much younger than me. Sometimes I make faces at little kids and I don't even care if their moms get upset. I'm not kidding.
Everybody at the subway station just walked up and down the platform like their spot on the platform was extremely important to find, and no other door or car would be right, and not even looking at other people, or only checking to see whose coat and scarf looked more expensive, and then I saw this old man leaning on the wall outside the elevator, with a cane stuck out at the floor so far away from his body he couldn't lean on it. Sometimes an old guy like that will just make you sad as hell, leaning against the wall like he can't stand, looking around, especially if he has a scarf that isn't tied up right, so that he looks cold, or if he has bifocals and you can see his big eyes looking around, or if his coat's open and his adam's apple jumps up and down like a madman when he swallows. But believe me, this guy was a great old man. He wasn't looking around for somebody to feel sorry for him at all. He had an okay coat and no scarf or sad bifocals, and he just needed to get over to the platform to get on the subway, but everybody was walking too fast to notice him wave his cane at them. He shuffled along the wall to the corner and waited all quiet for some help, without shouting or anything. Nobody noticed him except me, and finally I went over to him before I could start to feel sorry for him, and I put my arm out and said, "Do you need an elbow?" and he looked up at my face, but not into my eyes, like that might be too much.
I don't care about school or tests so much, but I can be pretty smart sometimes when I want to, and I knew right away that he didn't know any English, so he couldn't understand what I said. Instead of asking if he wanted help again, I just put my arm out so he could grab my forearm and get over to the subway platform. That old guy never even looked at my face, but he put his hand up like he'd been expecting me, and I swear instead of grabbing my forearm and putting his hand on my coat, he went along and grabbed right onto my hand. Then quick as hell, once his hand was on mine he started shuffling his cane and feet along the ground toward the spot where the subway door would open. I moved along with him and we got to the spot, but the subway was slow, so we stood there for about three minutes, me holding hands with this old guy who seemed proud, not in a phony way, like "I'll let you help me here because I'm a great old guy," but in an old, strong way, like a city tree that doesn't even know it's smaller than trees in the forest, because it's never been out there, and it's the best tree on the street.
He moved his fingers around a few times to get a better grip, and I lowered my hand so it was easier for him to hold on to it, and I felt kind of sorry for him, but at the same time I felt happy that he had somebody to help him keep his balance while he got on the subway. You take a guy who's feeling sad because there aren't any kids playing on the subway platform, and sometimes all he really needs is some nice old guy who'll hold his hand and wait for a train together, and that'll make him feel better more than some book or a song or a gift set of green tea herbal essence shampoo.
When the subway came, we shuffled into the subway and the old guy let go after he was in one of the special seats for seniors, and he gave me a crazy old Korean bow to say thanks, like I was a government official or something, and he finally looked at my face just the one time. Then I had to get off at the next stop, but I still think about him, like maybe he would have waited for twenty minutes and three trains before somebody else came to help him. Or, sometimes I think about all the other people on the platform saying, "charmed" and trading business cards, or not talking to each other at all, and how they didn't get to stand by an old guy who still took the subway, even though he couldn't even lift his feet off the ground very much, and he only had a lousy cane, not even a walker. For a minute, waiting for the train, I wondered what he was thinking, but now I hope he was just thinking something like, "the train'll come soon" and not something phony like "what a nice young man." I don't want to be a nice young man; sometimes it's just good to stand by some old guy and wait for a train together, that's all.
Christmas in Korea
by Holden Caulfieldoseyo
I guess if you ask me I'd say I didn't sleep enough or something like that. Sometimes you get some guy who says he needs like ten hours of sleep every night and it just makes you depressed as hell, as sad as when you hear lousy Christmas music in shops before Thanksgiving is even finished. I think about that guy sleeping ten hours a night, like he hates being awake or something, but I'm exactly the opposite. I'm the kind of guy who hates sleeping sometimes, so instead of laying in bed, I just do useless stuff like reading phony articles on the internet from some guy who uses the word "delineate" instead of "explain" to show off his hot-shot writing style, and you just know he makes quotation marks with his fingers during conversations. But, it's better than staring up at the ceiling when you can't sleep, because when you turn on the humidifier your mom sent you last November, that little hum gets you thinking about your mother and it just makes you lonely as hell.
So maybe it's on account of I don't always sleep enough, but sometimes it seems like the whole world is full of phonies. They're all over, but for example, today I stood next to this girl at the crosswalk who smelled like some kind of boutique shop green tea and avocado shampoo, and she talked on the phone like something special, and when I looked over at her, her scarf was messy but perfect as if she spent half an hour by the mirror tossing her scarf over her shoulder so it looked like she didn't care how it looked. Even when she knew I was looking at her, she didn't look over at me, even to smile or say "hi," so I looked at her perfect phony hair, thought some other girl in her office probably feels ugly or fat because this girl spends thirty phony minutes tossing her goddamn scarf over her shoulder in the morning, and the other girl has to wash her hair at night because her family's poor and maybe her mother has cancer and her dad lost his job in the economic crisis and they sleep on the floor and fold up the mattresses and put them in the goddamn closet every morning. Sometimes it makes you depressed as hell, these girls with perfect scarves and perfect smelling green-tea herbal scented hair and stuff.
So I crossed the street like a madman when the light changed, but everywhere I looked there was some other phony girl with perfect hair, or some hot-shot guy with the same haircut as his friends, wearing a sweater-vest or a zipper tie or something, and saying things like, "a little contrived, but well-meant, to be sure." And every shop played some lousy Christmas music that was all drippy and slow, or cheery and chippy, and it didn't feel like Christmas, more like some sweaty red-faced old man smiling so you'd buy more stuff from his deli, asking you to pay an extra quarter for "festive wrapping" instead of the usual pink butcher paper.
So I went into the subway station trying not to look at the hot-shots and phonies in the street, and looked up and down the platform for something that'd make Allie grin if he was with me, like a couple who really loved each other but they were just holding hands and looking at something together instead of making baby talk and poking each other's dimples, or some kids playing some kind of game, and their mom saying "quiet, boys, everybody can hear you" and them not caring anyway, with their hair messy instead of licked and stuck down with cruddy kids' hair gel. I get a kick out of watching kids playing on subway platforms like that, when they act like kids, and not just little adults trained by their moms to shake your hand and say, "charmed". Kids who are too quiet on subway platforms, with expensive coats and stuck down gelly hair make me feel depressed as a madman.
But there weren't any kids with messy hair playing on the subway platform. They just had their hands in their pockets waiting for the train. You take a kid, and you put her hands in her pockets and make her wait for a train, and I can't decide if I should go talk to her like she's a grown up and say "pleasure to meet you, little miss," or stick out my tongue and try to make her laugh so that she looks like a kid again. I'm quite childish that way, especially around kids much younger than me. Sometimes I make faces at little kids and I don't even care if their moms get upset. I'm not kidding.
Everybody at the subway station just walked up and down the platform like their spot on the platform was extremely important to find, and no other door or car would be right, and not even looking at other people, or only checking to see whose coat and scarf looked more expensive, and then I saw this old man leaning on the wall outside the elevator, with a cane stuck out at the floor so far away from his body he couldn't lean on it. Sometimes an old guy like that will just make you sad as hell, leaning against the wall like he can't stand, looking around, especially if he has a scarf that isn't tied up right, so that he looks cold, or if he has bifocals and you can see his big eyes looking around, or if his coat's open and his adam's apple jumps up and down like a madman when he swallows. But believe me, this guy was a great old man. He wasn't looking around for somebody to feel sorry for him at all. He had an okay coat and no scarf or sad bifocals, and he just needed to get over to the platform to get on the subway, but everybody was walking too fast to notice him wave his cane at them. He shuffled along the wall to the corner and waited all quiet for some help, without shouting or anything. Nobody noticed him except me, and finally I went over to him before I could start to feel sorry for him, and I put my arm out and said, "Do you need an elbow?" and he looked up at my face, but not into my eyes, like that might be too much.
I don't care about school or tests so much, but I can be pretty smart sometimes when I want to, and I knew right away that he didn't know any English, so he couldn't understand what I said. Instead of asking if he wanted help again, I just put my arm out so he could grab my forearm and get over to the subway platform. That old guy never even looked at my face, but he put his hand up like he'd been expecting me, and I swear instead of grabbing my forearm and putting his hand on my coat, he went along and grabbed right onto my hand. Then quick as hell, once his hand was on mine he started shuffling his cane and feet along the ground toward the spot where the subway door would open. I moved along with him and we got to the spot, but the subway was slow, so we stood there for about three minutes, me holding hands with this old guy who seemed proud, not in a phony way, like "I'll let you help me here because I'm a great old guy," but in an old, strong way, like a city tree that doesn't even know it's smaller than trees in the forest, because it's never been out there, and it's the best tree on the street.
He moved his fingers around a few times to get a better grip, and I lowered my hand so it was easier for him to hold on to it, and I felt kind of sorry for him, but at the same time I felt happy that he had somebody to help him keep his balance while he got on the subway. You take a guy who's feeling sad because there aren't any kids playing on the subway platform, and sometimes all he really needs is some nice old guy who'll hold his hand and wait for a train together, and that'll make him feel better more than some book or a song or a gift set of green tea herbal essence shampoo.
When the subway came, we shuffled into the subway and the old guy let go after he was in one of the special seats for seniors, and he gave me a crazy old Korean bow to say thanks, like I was a government official or something, and he finally looked at my face just the one time. Then I had to get off at the next stop, but I still think about him, like maybe he would have waited for twenty minutes and three trains before somebody else came to help him. Or, sometimes I think about all the other people on the platform saying, "charmed" and trading business cards, or not talking to each other at all, and how they didn't get to stand by an old guy who still took the subway, even though he couldn't even lift his feet off the ground very much, and he only had a lousy cane, not even a walker. For a minute, waiting for the train, I wondered what he was thinking, but now I hope he was just thinking something like, "the train'll come soon" and not something phony like "what a nice young man." I don't want to be a nice young man; sometimes it's just good to stand by some old guy and wait for a train together, that's all.
Thursday, November 29, 2007
Bud, holy cow!
I just went to the Seoul Museum of Art, and saw Vincent Van Gogh. This guy...
you know the difference between looking at pictures of your friend, and actually sitting down and chatting -- you know the way NOBODY gets your vacation photos the way you do, just because bud, the food looks great in the picture, but they didn't get to eat it, and you did.
Well, dear readers, art is like that too. I didn't actually see Vincent VanGogh. He died. Quite a while ago, now. But if you think these pictures are impressive -- wow! You really gotta see them in person. The paint on the canvas, the little knots of colour, the texture that jumps out at you -- it's like the difference between a photo album and a person (which makes sense, but still didn't really click until I saw these in person).
This one was there. Girlfriendoseyo disagrees with me, but I think Van Gogh was overwhelmed by the sun. The sun seems so close here -- it strikes me even as being accusing. The sun almost totally dominates just about every painting where it appears in Van Gogh's work. The field is so mundane next to that glaring eye. You can barely even see the birds eating the sower's seeds -- they're totally irrelevant next to that sun.
I stared at this one for about three minutes without blinking. I don't know how, but Vincent got to me, like a fisher with his hook, he got a hold of something in me.
This next one wasn't in the exhibit, but you can see here, too, Van Gogh's feeling about the sky. I said to Girlfriendoseyo today -- Raphael's or Vermeer's paintings are so perfect, so realistic, it's like they're just seeing. Picasso's paintings are so intuitive, so emotional, it's like they're just feeling. Van Gogh sees and feels. It's amazing how raw and visceral these paintings are in person.
This one WAS in the exhibit, and Girlfriendoseyo and I were both totally gobsmacked. I just can not convey to you how powerful this painting is in person. I really can't. Even if you eat the computer screen where the painting is displayed, you won't be as deeply impressed by it as we were. Go, seek it out, and see it yourself.
This next painting was there too, the only of his self portraits (I think).
This one broke my heart, and also caught hold of me for several minutes: every line said, "dude, I've lived a f***ing rough life." He died at age 37, but this, one of his early paintings, already looks about fifty.
Everybody loves these next three. . . they weren't at the exhibit, but they might have been too much for me if they were. My old roomie Anthony once told me the story of his buddy, the self-proclaimed "biggest Bjork fan in the world", who, when he got the chance to see Bjork perform live, ended up having to leave the auditorium after the first few songs, completely overwhelmed with the power of his experience. I scoffed at the story then, and called dude an idiot for flinching away from a potential high-point in his life. . . but now I think I might understand a bit.
Considering how these three are still amazing, gorgeous, and fresh to me, even though they pop up of every tea room wall, on every Starbucks mug, in every poster-shop window. . . to actually see them in person, to have their impact amplified that much -- I might have to look away for a while, too, before staring into the sun like that.
Dear Lord, the man's night skies were breathtaking!
This one WAS there. In person, it's almost a different painting entirely.
And I wish I could explain what he does with flowers. . . but there's just no way. (This is why people write poems, I suppose.)
This wasn't at the exhibit, but again, look how he just lays his soul bare in the skies. The indoor still life paintings' backgrounds were totally flat and dull, but this Vincent fellow, he had some kind of a thing about skies.
Thanks to him, now I do, too.
Wasn't at the exhibit, but just -- wow. Just wow.
I love painters.
The German poet Rilke (my personal poetry hero) wrote, in the First Duino Elegy
"already the knowing animals are aware
that we are not really at home in our interpreted world"
And this is why artists draw -- because there doesn't have to be a story, or a meaning, or anything but a field and a sky. . . but that field, and that sky -- WOW!
Here it is! Be amazed!
We're right back to that again, aren't we? Can't that sometimes be enough? Can't that sometimes be the entire end and purpose of some art? As John Keats said,
"Beauty is truth, truth beauty,--that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know."
But with words, Keats had to say beauty is truth. These painters just show something beautiful, and they don't even have to add a single layer of interpretation if they don't want to, and they can just leave it at "here it is. be amazed."
(Girl With a Pearl Earring, by another Dutch guy who was pretty good: Vermeer. Here it is. It's beautiful. Be amazed.)
Yeah, sometimes there's other stuff in there, too. . . but there doesn't have to be. With writing, it's almost impossible not to add in a little pontification, a little theme or interpretation or explanation -- it's why I get bummed every time I read Wordsworth's Tintern Abbey -- he starts off with a "here it is. be amazed" and then starts adding other stuff. Sometimes in other poems, he got it right, got it pure, but often he was so busy explaining the perfection of his moments, or describing his own feelings, that he clouds the beauty with too many traces of his own voice -- kind of like an amazing photograph with a text line across the middle of the composition saying, "taken on a fuji finepix E550"
For your benefit, I've created a visual representation of what I mean. Which of these pictures would you rather have on your wall?
Here's a Picasso painting I talked about in a previous post.
I love about Picasso that he stripped away everything in his paintings except the things he decided were important for that particular painting.
Form? Not needed.
Proportion? Why?
Perspective? Does it serve the painting's main theme?
Conventional Placement Of Body Parts? Let's talk about that again later.
But what he DID keep in his painting, distorted, exaggerated, or rearranged for proper emphasis, maintained the exact emotional content of his subject, even when the recognizable form was long gone, and so, even though you wouldn't recognize her to pass her on the street, you FEEL this woman crying (the painting is named "La Femme Qui Pleure" - the woman who cries), more (or at least as) clearly and authentically than/as a hundred photos of women actually crying.
The other thing I love love love about Picasso is his face. Look at his eyes. Those are eyes that have been trained, for an entire lifetime, to see into the heart of things, and find wonder there. "It took me four years to paint like Raphael, but a lifetime to paint like a child." That he not only learned how to SEE the world that way, but was also skilled or intuitive enough to translate what he saw onto canvas is as much a miracle as the way Mozart heard the music perfectly in his head, or the way Beethoven composed the Ninth Symphony while stone-deaf, or the way John Lennon, Paul McCartney, and George Harrison managed to be born in the same city, in the same era, and meet each other.
Even when he's very old, you still see a child in his eyes. You see a mind still open. Still dancing.
That kind of wise simplicity appears from time to time, in somebody's eyes. . . not even in every artist, though. My favourite poet, Rainer Maria Rilke, has a sharper edge in his eyes.
but it doesn't surprise me that someone who uses words (which are basically boxes, categories, and judgements impressed upon the things that actually reach one's senses) would have a sharper edge than someone who uses colours and shapes to lay bare his soul.
Would you believe that behind those eyes lies one of the finest religious-scholarly minds on the planet?
I hope, when I'm an old man, I have eyes as encompassing, innocent, and simple, as that.
But more than that, I hope they look that way because I've worked my whole life to see the world simply and wonderfully (wonderful meaning full of wonder, of course), and maybe even that I've been clever enough to transmit some of that tight-packed wonder into some books that other people can read.
How long does it take to write a poem like Rilke, or paint a painting like Picasso, or a story like JD Salinger?
A few hours, or a few days, or a few months. . . and an entire lifetime, of course.
you know the difference between looking at pictures of your friend, and actually sitting down and chatting -- you know the way NOBODY gets your vacation photos the way you do, just because bud, the food looks great in the picture, but they didn't get to eat it, and you did.
Well, dear readers, art is like that too. I didn't actually see Vincent VanGogh. He died. Quite a while ago, now. But if you think these pictures are impressive -- wow! You really gotta see them in person. The paint on the canvas, the little knots of colour, the texture that jumps out at you -- it's like the difference between a photo album and a person (which makes sense, but still didn't really click until I saw these in person).
This one was there. Girlfriendoseyo disagrees with me, but I think Van Gogh was overwhelmed by the sun. The sun seems so close here -- it strikes me even as being accusing. The sun almost totally dominates just about every painting where it appears in Van Gogh's work. The field is so mundane next to that glaring eye. You can barely even see the birds eating the sower's seeds -- they're totally irrelevant next to that sun.
I stared at this one for about three minutes without blinking. I don't know how, but Vincent got to me, like a fisher with his hook, he got a hold of something in me.
This next one wasn't in the exhibit, but you can see here, too, Van Gogh's feeling about the sky. I said to Girlfriendoseyo today -- Raphael's or Vermeer's paintings are so perfect, so realistic, it's like they're just seeing. Picasso's paintings are so intuitive, so emotional, it's like they're just feeling. Van Gogh sees and feels. It's amazing how raw and visceral these paintings are in person.
This one WAS in the exhibit, and Girlfriendoseyo and I were both totally gobsmacked. I just can not convey to you how powerful this painting is in person. I really can't. Even if you eat the computer screen where the painting is displayed, you won't be as deeply impressed by it as we were. Go, seek it out, and see it yourself.
This next painting was there too, the only of his self portraits (I think).
This one broke my heart, and also caught hold of me for several minutes: every line said, "dude, I've lived a f***ing rough life." He died at age 37, but this, one of his early paintings, already looks about fifty.
Everybody loves these next three. . . they weren't at the exhibit, but they might have been too much for me if they were. My old roomie Anthony once told me the story of his buddy, the self-proclaimed "biggest Bjork fan in the world", who, when he got the chance to see Bjork perform live, ended up having to leave the auditorium after the first few songs, completely overwhelmed with the power of his experience. I scoffed at the story then, and called dude an idiot for flinching away from a potential high-point in his life. . . but now I think I might understand a bit.
Considering how these three are still amazing, gorgeous, and fresh to me, even though they pop up of every tea room wall, on every Starbucks mug, in every poster-shop window. . . to actually see them in person, to have their impact amplified that much -- I might have to look away for a while, too, before staring into the sun like that.
Dear Lord, the man's night skies were breathtaking!This one WAS there. In person, it's almost a different painting entirely.
And I wish I could explain what he does with flowers. . . but there's just no way. (This is why people write poems, I suppose.)
This wasn't at the exhibit, but again, look how he just lays his soul bare in the skies. The indoor still life paintings' backgrounds were totally flat and dull, but this Vincent fellow, he had some kind of a thing about skies.
Thanks to him, now I do, too.
Wasn't at the exhibit, but just -- wow. Just wow.
I love painters.
The German poet Rilke (my personal poetry hero) wrote, in the First Duino Elegy
"already the knowing animals are aware
that we are not really at home in our interpreted world"
And this is why artists draw -- because there doesn't have to be a story, or a meaning, or anything but a field and a sky. . . but that field, and that sky -- WOW!
Here it is! Be amazed!
We're right back to that again, aren't we? Can't that sometimes be enough? Can't that sometimes be the entire end and purpose of some art? As John Keats said,
"Beauty is truth, truth beauty,--that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know."
But with words, Keats had to say beauty is truth. These painters just show something beautiful, and they don't even have to add a single layer of interpretation if they don't want to, and they can just leave it at "here it is. be amazed."
(Girl With a Pearl Earring, by another Dutch guy who was pretty good: Vermeer. Here it is. It's beautiful. Be amazed.)Yeah, sometimes there's other stuff in there, too. . . but there doesn't have to be. With writing, it's almost impossible not to add in a little pontification, a little theme or interpretation or explanation -- it's why I get bummed every time I read Wordsworth's Tintern Abbey -- he starts off with a "here it is. be amazed" and then starts adding other stuff. Sometimes in other poems, he got it right, got it pure, but often he was so busy explaining the perfection of his moments, or describing his own feelings, that he clouds the beauty with too many traces of his own voice -- kind of like an amazing photograph with a text line across the middle of the composition saying, "taken on a fuji finepix E550"
For your benefit, I've created a visual representation of what I mean. Which of these pictures would you rather have on your wall?
Here's a Picasso painting I talked about in a previous post.
I love about Picasso that he stripped away everything in his paintings except the things he decided were important for that particular painting.
Form? Not needed.
Proportion? Why?
Perspective? Does it serve the painting's main theme?
Conventional Placement Of Body Parts? Let's talk about that again later.
But what he DID keep in his painting, distorted, exaggerated, or rearranged for proper emphasis, maintained the exact emotional content of his subject, even when the recognizable form was long gone, and so, even though you wouldn't recognize her to pass her on the street, you FEEL this woman crying (the painting is named "La Femme Qui Pleure" - the woman who cries), more (or at least as) clearly and authentically than/as a hundred photos of women actually crying.
The other thing I love love love about Picasso is his face. Look at his eyes. Those are eyes that have been trained, for an entire lifetime, to see into the heart of things, and find wonder there. "It took me four years to paint like Raphael, but a lifetime to paint like a child." That he not only learned how to SEE the world that way, but was also skilled or intuitive enough to translate what he saw onto canvas is as much a miracle as the way Mozart heard the music perfectly in his head, or the way Beethoven composed the Ninth Symphony while stone-deaf, or the way John Lennon, Paul McCartney, and George Harrison managed to be born in the same city, in the same era, and meet each other.
Even when he's very old, you still see a child in his eyes. You see a mind still open. Still dancing.
That kind of wise simplicity appears from time to time, in somebody's eyes. . . not even in every artist, though. My favourite poet, Rainer Maria Rilke, has a sharper edge in his eyes.
but it doesn't surprise me that someone who uses words (which are basically boxes, categories, and judgements impressed upon the things that actually reach one's senses) would have a sharper edge than someone who uses colours and shapes to lay bare his soul.
Would you believe that behind those eyes lies one of the finest religious-scholarly minds on the planet?I hope, when I'm an old man, I have eyes as encompassing, innocent, and simple, as that.
But more than that, I hope they look that way because I've worked my whole life to see the world simply and wonderfully (wonderful meaning full of wonder, of course), and maybe even that I've been clever enough to transmit some of that tight-packed wonder into some books that other people can read.
How long does it take to write a poem like Rilke, or paint a painting like Picasso, or a story like JD Salinger?
A few hours, or a few days, or a few months. . . and an entire lifetime, of course.
Thursday, October 25, 2007
I know, why don't you write about why you love to write/why you write, and what you like about literature? Your own philosophy of your art.
Just hit play and start reading. Soundtrack!
I said in the comments of my books post that the person who found my intentional error got to pick my next topic,
Mel won the contest, finding the intentional error and being kind enough not to mention the numerous typos. That’s right: Hamlet was written by William Shakespeare, not Victor Hugo.
Mel’s question was “Why do you write?”
Why SOME people write:
For legacy. Nobody remembers England’s top swordsman in the year 1603, but everybody remembers Billy Shakespeare was writin’ him some plays. Some pretty good ones, too.
It’s validating, even gratifying to see one’s name in print – if you go to the TWU Library, you can look up and read my honours thesis: something I wrote is in a library! That’s pretty cool, isn’t it? It proves that I exist, in a way.
But here’s my real answer: why do I write?
In my second year of university, I bought a bunch of pocket-sized notebooks, and began carrying a notebook and two pens everywhere I went. Still now, nine years later, I always carry pens and pocketbook. The book catches phone numbers and appointments and, more importantly, little things that I notice around me.
You see, if waking up early helps a person feel (and thus BE) more productive, and having regular quiet time helps a person feel (and so become) more spiritually centered, and keeping a dream journal helps a person remember more of their dreams, then journaling helps me feel like I’m paying more attention to the details of life, and inevitably, I DO notice more, simply from the habit of writing down what I see.
It’s not for posterity, that’s for sure: having all those notebooks cluttering my shelf was never the goal -- and going over old journals has rarely borne fruit in the idea department – maybe two grains of wheat in a pile of chaff. In fact, during my second year in Korea, I lost the journal of my entire first year in Korea, in a food court. It was gone forever, but I wasn’t really upset:
The greatest benefit of keeping a journal, I realized then, is simply being the kind of person who is in the habit of noticing, and who respects his own thoughts and observations enough to write them down. The habit of noticing may lead to realizations, and even self-knowledge; it may not lead anywhere except to wonder, and that’s OK, too, but by conditioning myself to be receptive, I become more of the person I want to be – one who sees the world like a child, as a place spilling out wonder from hundreds of tiny cracks that nobody notices, or that everybody else also notices, but promptly forgets (I don’t actually think I’m that special – I just think I entertain thoughts and observations that other people dismiss – my filter’s on different settings, is all).
The little details? They can fill a life up, I’m convinced, with wonder and texture, differentiating one day from the next, or, if unnoticed, their absence can leave a life blank and indistinguishable from day to day. I love my day-to-day existence. Ask anybody who sees me every day.
In summary: I write because it makes me into. . . I won’t say a better person, but it makes me more and more of a person I’d like to be around.
Then, once it’s enriched my own life, why do I write about it and share it? Well, if you see a beautiful rainbow, you point it out to your friends, don’t you? I hope to publish. . . maybe this would be like sending a picture of a really great rainbow to a photography magazine, or putting it on your wall, so even more people can go “well goldurn, that’s a purty rainbow.”
I have another conviction: that every human has a deep desire to know and be known. We yearn for connection. Whether it’s because we long for the closeness we had with God in the Garden of Eden, or because our transcendent soul reaches through dharma to pull us back toward harmony with the true nature of things, or because we’ve been genetically imprinted to be social creatures by aeons of natural selection favouring the humans that work better as a unit, the fact remains that communion with others is a fundamental desire for almost everyone.
Writing is a way to know and be known.
I can know myself by writing – the directions stories take reveal something about myself, and the important things in my life. It’s a common phenomenon for people to discover that the simple act of talking, or writing a problem out often gets them over the hump of solving, or coming to terms with it. In my own life it has certainly been true that the communications I have with friends near and far have helped shape my self-knowledge. I can also share, and connect, and maybe we won’t feel so lonely, if we know that we were both deeply touched by a John Keats poem, or a Salinger novel.
Next question: why stories, then, Roboseyo, Rob, Roboseyo? Wanting to tell a story has little to do with noticing life’s details and trying to be as awake and aware and mindful as possible. Wouldn’t poetry do nicely for that?
Ah, that’s true. Poetry does nicely for little details and textures in life, and poetry was an important outlet for me all through my schooling. But. . .
Arthur Lee and Love: Alone Again Or -- again, hit play and read on.
First of all, I love stories. Love, love, love, LOVE stories. It’s my conviction that stories are the most powerful way to learn something – that’s why cultural values are transmitted through folk tales, myths, fables and morality tales (if you don’t believe me, read a book of Korean folk tales notice how the different values praised in Korean vs. Western folk tales exactly parallel many significant cultural differences.) People understand nihilism better after reading “A Clean, Well-Lighted Place” than after reading a hundred pages of Nietzche. Holy texts use stories: every place you go searching for meanings, you find stories, for better and for worse.
The same way humans crave connection, I believe humans crave narrative – narrative gives MEANING, a purpose to the connections. A quotation from the Jewish Theological Seminary says, “A human life is like a single letter in the alphabet. It can be meaningless. Or it can be part of a great meaning.” We all want our lives to be part of a greater meaning. We want the random events of our lives to be part of a greater meaning, too. The story of us can be part of a great metanarrative like
“The Victory of Reason over Superstition”
“Humanity Careens Toward Ecological Disaster”
“Preparing for the Second Coming”
“Rising From The Ashes Of The Korean War”;
we also fit our lives into smaller narratives like
“The Courtship of Deb and Brad,”
“The Rude Guy at Work”,
"How I Learned to Stop Grieving and Love My Life"
and we even remember and define events and relationships with micronarratives like
“That Crazy Night Piper Tricked Me Into Drinking Bacardi 151,” or
“My Failed Attempt to Become a Tea Expert"
“The Rise and Fall of My Friendship With X”.
Scientists say the universe is made of atoms. My old Professor Szabo once said the world is made of stories, and I say the universe is made of meanings. Sometimes the meaning is as simple as "It is what it is", but reaching for meanings is our greatness. We're the only onese who could imagine ourselves improving our lot (another kind of narrative) rather than resigning ourselves to a life of hunting and being hunted.
So, Roboseyo, what are you trying to accomplish when you write?
I’m fascinated by stories, and by people, and the choices people make. Choices don’t appear in a poem, nor do characters (a poem is too focussed to ever catch more than a single gesture, a single facet) – you need a story for more than that. And if I can add some of the wonder of life’s little details and the poignancy of a person making an important choice, and the honesty of a character who seems to really breathe . . . well, that sounds like the makings of a pretty good story, doesn’t it?
I also believe that writing is an act of hope: hope that it IS possible to connect with another person, to write and be understood, to read and understand, to find a way for two minds to (partially) be one. It is an act of faith in humanity, that we CAN reach each other, and maybe even improve each other’s lives. Sometimes it takes a bit of courage to believe that, but I think writers must.
Of poetry, John Keats said once that “I feel assured I should write from the mere yearning and fondness I have for the beautiful, even if my night’s labours should be burnt every morning and no eye ever shine upon them” – John Keats, letter to Richard Woodhouse, 17/10/1818
He didn’t write to have people pat him on the back and say, “You’re a great writer” – he was given over to the beauty of the world he saw, and the best way he could express it was to write, regardless of who read it later.
Those moments of beauty and insight, those moments of choice and truth, are the ones we live for.
Sometimes, I think the job of a writer at its purest, is to get the hell out of the way – characters and images and stories come, and a humble writer, committed to serving the story, will interfere as little as possible as the story takes its most perfect form. This requires a self-critical eye, or, I prefer saying, the ability to listen to one’s own writing, and encourage it (like a parent to a child) to become its best self. If I try to control it too much (like a protective parent), the story will never be bigger than my own limited abilities, but if I can get lost in the wonders of the moments and characters I want to create, maybe I’ll move out of the way enough that they can take the step from my mind and/or senses, onto the page, without getting cluttered by my own ego.
(For a great example of a humble storyteller, watch Million Dollar Baby or Unforgiven – Clint Eastwood is a very humble filmmaker, willing to step out of the way and let a story tell itself; exactly the opposite of Martin Scorsese, whose films are great, but always seem to be saying “Hey, look at this guy! He sure is a great filmmaker!”)
Here’s a long quote from Flannery O’Connor, the subject of my University Honours Thesis, and one of the most influential writers in my life:
”People are always complaining that the modern novelist has no hope and that the picture he paints of the world is unbearable. The only answer to this is that people without hope do not write novels. Writing a novel is a terrible experience, during which the hair often falls out and the teeth decay. I'm always highly irritated by people who imply that writing fiction is an escape from reality. It is a plunge into reality and it's very shocking to the system. If the novelist is not sustained by a hope of money, then he must be sustained by a hope of salvation, or he simply won't survive the ordeal.
"People without hope not only don't write novels, but what is more to the point, they don't read them. They don't take long looks at anything, because they lack the courage. The way to despair is to refuse to have any kind of experience, and the novel, of course, is a way to have experience. The lady who only read books that improved her mind was taking a safe course--and a hopeless one. She'll never know whether her mind is improved or not, but should she ever, by some mistake, read a great novel, she'll know mighty well that something is happening to her.
Any questions?
I said in the comments of my books post that the person who found my intentional error got to pick my next topic,
Mel won the contest, finding the intentional error and being kind enough not to mention the numerous typos. That’s right: Hamlet was written by William Shakespeare, not Victor Hugo.
Mel’s question was “Why do you write?”
Why SOME people write:
For legacy. Nobody remembers England’s top swordsman in the year 1603, but everybody remembers Billy Shakespeare was writin’ him some plays. Some pretty good ones, too.
It’s validating, even gratifying to see one’s name in print – if you go to the TWU Library, you can look up and read my honours thesis: something I wrote is in a library! That’s pretty cool, isn’t it? It proves that I exist, in a way.
But here’s my real answer: why do I write?
In my second year of university, I bought a bunch of pocket-sized notebooks, and began carrying a notebook and two pens everywhere I went. Still now, nine years later, I always carry pens and pocketbook. The book catches phone numbers and appointments and, more importantly, little things that I notice around me.
You see, if waking up early helps a person feel (and thus BE) more productive, and having regular quiet time helps a person feel (and so become) more spiritually centered, and keeping a dream journal helps a person remember more of their dreams, then journaling helps me feel like I’m paying more attention to the details of life, and inevitably, I DO notice more, simply from the habit of writing down what I see.
It’s not for posterity, that’s for sure: having all those notebooks cluttering my shelf was never the goal -- and going over old journals has rarely borne fruit in the idea department – maybe two grains of wheat in a pile of chaff. In fact, during my second year in Korea, I lost the journal of my entire first year in Korea, in a food court. It was gone forever, but I wasn’t really upset:
The greatest benefit of keeping a journal, I realized then, is simply being the kind of person who is in the habit of noticing, and who respects his own thoughts and observations enough to write them down. The habit of noticing may lead to realizations, and even self-knowledge; it may not lead anywhere except to wonder, and that’s OK, too, but by conditioning myself to be receptive, I become more of the person I want to be – one who sees the world like a child, as a place spilling out wonder from hundreds of tiny cracks that nobody notices, or that everybody else also notices, but promptly forgets (I don’t actually think I’m that special – I just think I entertain thoughts and observations that other people dismiss – my filter’s on different settings, is all).
The little details? They can fill a life up, I’m convinced, with wonder and texture, differentiating one day from the next, or, if unnoticed, their absence can leave a life blank and indistinguishable from day to day. I love my day-to-day existence. Ask anybody who sees me every day.
In summary: I write because it makes me into. . . I won’t say a better person, but it makes me more and more of a person I’d like to be around.
Then, once it’s enriched my own life, why do I write about it and share it? Well, if you see a beautiful rainbow, you point it out to your friends, don’t you? I hope to publish. . . maybe this would be like sending a picture of a really great rainbow to a photography magazine, or putting it on your wall, so even more people can go “well goldurn, that’s a purty rainbow.”
I have another conviction: that every human has a deep desire to know and be known. We yearn for connection. Whether it’s because we long for the closeness we had with God in the Garden of Eden, or because our transcendent soul reaches through dharma to pull us back toward harmony with the true nature of things, or because we’ve been genetically imprinted to be social creatures by aeons of natural selection favouring the humans that work better as a unit, the fact remains that communion with others is a fundamental desire for almost everyone.
Writing is a way to know and be known.
I can know myself by writing – the directions stories take reveal something about myself, and the important things in my life. It’s a common phenomenon for people to discover that the simple act of talking, or writing a problem out often gets them over the hump of solving, or coming to terms with it. In my own life it has certainly been true that the communications I have with friends near and far have helped shape my self-knowledge. I can also share, and connect, and maybe we won’t feel so lonely, if we know that we were both deeply touched by a John Keats poem, or a Salinger novel.
Next question: why stories, then, Roboseyo, Rob, Roboseyo? Wanting to tell a story has little to do with noticing life’s details and trying to be as awake and aware and mindful as possible. Wouldn’t poetry do nicely for that?
Ah, that’s true. Poetry does nicely for little details and textures in life, and poetry was an important outlet for me all through my schooling. But. . .
Arthur Lee and Love: Alone Again Or -- again, hit play and read on.
First of all, I love stories. Love, love, love, LOVE stories. It’s my conviction that stories are the most powerful way to learn something – that’s why cultural values are transmitted through folk tales, myths, fables and morality tales (if you don’t believe me, read a book of Korean folk tales notice how the different values praised in Korean vs. Western folk tales exactly parallel many significant cultural differences.) People understand nihilism better after reading “A Clean, Well-Lighted Place” than after reading a hundred pages of Nietzche. Holy texts use stories: every place you go searching for meanings, you find stories, for better and for worse.
The same way humans crave connection, I believe humans crave narrative – narrative gives MEANING, a purpose to the connections. A quotation from the Jewish Theological Seminary says, “A human life is like a single letter in the alphabet. It can be meaningless. Or it can be part of a great meaning.” We all want our lives to be part of a greater meaning. We want the random events of our lives to be part of a greater meaning, too. The story of us can be part of a great metanarrative like
“The Victory of Reason over Superstition”
“Humanity Careens Toward Ecological Disaster”
“Preparing for the Second Coming”
“Rising From The Ashes Of The Korean War”;
we also fit our lives into smaller narratives like
“The Courtship of Deb and Brad,”
“The Rude Guy at Work”,
"How I Learned to Stop Grieving and Love My Life"
and we even remember and define events and relationships with micronarratives like
“That Crazy Night Piper Tricked Me Into Drinking Bacardi 151,” or
“My Failed Attempt to Become a Tea Expert"
“The Rise and Fall of My Friendship With X”.
Scientists say the universe is made of atoms. My old Professor Szabo once said the world is made of stories, and I say the universe is made of meanings. Sometimes the meaning is as simple as "It is what it is", but reaching for meanings is our greatness. We're the only onese who could imagine ourselves improving our lot (another kind of narrative) rather than resigning ourselves to a life of hunting and being hunted.
So, Roboseyo, what are you trying to accomplish when you write?
I’m fascinated by stories, and by people, and the choices people make. Choices don’t appear in a poem, nor do characters (a poem is too focussed to ever catch more than a single gesture, a single facet) – you need a story for more than that. And if I can add some of the wonder of life’s little details and the poignancy of a person making an important choice, and the honesty of a character who seems to really breathe . . . well, that sounds like the makings of a pretty good story, doesn’t it?
I also believe that writing is an act of hope: hope that it IS possible to connect with another person, to write and be understood, to read and understand, to find a way for two minds to (partially) be one. It is an act of faith in humanity, that we CAN reach each other, and maybe even improve each other’s lives. Sometimes it takes a bit of courage to believe that, but I think writers must.
Of poetry, John Keats said once that “I feel assured I should write from the mere yearning and fondness I have for the beautiful, even if my night’s labours should be burnt every morning and no eye ever shine upon them” – John Keats, letter to Richard Woodhouse, 17/10/1818
He didn’t write to have people pat him on the back and say, “You’re a great writer” – he was given over to the beauty of the world he saw, and the best way he could express it was to write, regardless of who read it later.
Those moments of beauty and insight, those moments of choice and truth, are the ones we live for.
Sometimes, I think the job of a writer at its purest, is to get the hell out of the way – characters and images and stories come, and a humble writer, committed to serving the story, will interfere as little as possible as the story takes its most perfect form. This requires a self-critical eye, or, I prefer saying, the ability to listen to one’s own writing, and encourage it (like a parent to a child) to become its best self. If I try to control it too much (like a protective parent), the story will never be bigger than my own limited abilities, but if I can get lost in the wonders of the moments and characters I want to create, maybe I’ll move out of the way enough that they can take the step from my mind and/or senses, onto the page, without getting cluttered by my own ego.
(For a great example of a humble storyteller, watch Million Dollar Baby or Unforgiven – Clint Eastwood is a very humble filmmaker, willing to step out of the way and let a story tell itself; exactly the opposite of Martin Scorsese, whose films are great, but always seem to be saying “Hey, look at this guy! He sure is a great filmmaker!”)
Here’s a long quote from Flannery O’Connor, the subject of my University Honours Thesis, and one of the most influential writers in my life:
”People are always complaining that the modern novelist has no hope and that the picture he paints of the world is unbearable. The only answer to this is that people without hope do not write novels. Writing a novel is a terrible experience, during which the hair often falls out and the teeth decay. I'm always highly irritated by people who imply that writing fiction is an escape from reality. It is a plunge into reality and it's very shocking to the system. If the novelist is not sustained by a hope of money, then he must be sustained by a hope of salvation, or he simply won't survive the ordeal.
"People without hope not only don't write novels, but what is more to the point, they don't read them. They don't take long looks at anything, because they lack the courage. The way to despair is to refuse to have any kind of experience, and the novel, of course, is a way to have experience. The lady who only read books that improved her mind was taking a safe course--and a hopeless one. She'll never know whether her mind is improved or not, but should she ever, by some mistake, read a great novel, she'll know mighty well that something is happening to her.
Any questions?
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
At the dentist.
So on Saturday, I climbed a mountain by myself. Since starting a job with less pressure and less stress, I've found myself leaning toward activities that I actually want to do, that actually make me feel better, and less inclined toward activities that are basically my various ways of responding to stress. This, of course, is a positive thing. Instead of wanting to veg out and watch a movie, I feel like reading, or writing, or getting some exercise. Or buying a calling card and trying to get in touch with people back home (nobody was home).
Today I went to the dentist, and got the first of three steps in a root canal treatment. Root canals are covered by medical insurance here, so they're fantastically cheap! (I paid 80000 won, which is about ninety dollars Canadian. . . depending on how strong the won is this week.) In other dentistry news, I now have a gold half-crown I've been running around and showing everybody I know.
Also, by being nice, and funny, and polite, I've won the affection of the entire dentist's office staff; they gave me a "nice guy discount" -- from 250-200 for the crown, and from 110-80 for the root canal. Nice.
I finished the first draft of my first novel last week, which means now I'm editing (and developing other projects). This makes me really happy.
I just watched a guy who might have been drunk, and had definitely just had his clock completely cleaned -- he was out of his mind and had bruises on his face -- get shooed off the bench in front of a restaurant. It was one of those funny situations with two loud ladies and a broom against a man who 1. didn't even know where he was, and 2. might just be extremely dangerous, if push came to shove. Fortunately, he eventually wandered off, making a butterfly-line (as opposed to a beeline) for the next nearest bench. Good thing there was a bench nearby: he was so out of his mind I wondered if he would wander right into traffic.
I opened up my old "Seoul Food Finder" food guide which, despite very poorly drawn maps, has all kinds of reccommendations for restaurants that serve up good stuff. The main drawback is simply that, as it was published in 2002, a good quarter of those restaurants have closed or moved since then. Oh well, it still has lots of great locations.
Still happy: this weekend, I just started feeling more alive again, despite never having noticed exactly when I stopped feeling alive all the time. Oh well: I'm glad it's back.
Be alive!
Have a vivid day.
love:
Rob
Today I went to the dentist, and got the first of three steps in a root canal treatment. Root canals are covered by medical insurance here, so they're fantastically cheap! (I paid 80000 won, which is about ninety dollars Canadian. . . depending on how strong the won is this week.) In other dentistry news, I now have a gold half-crown I've been running around and showing everybody I know.
Also, by being nice, and funny, and polite, I've won the affection of the entire dentist's office staff; they gave me a "nice guy discount" -- from 250-200 for the crown, and from 110-80 for the root canal. Nice.
I finished the first draft of my first novel last week, which means now I'm editing (and developing other projects). This makes me really happy.
I just watched a guy who might have been drunk, and had definitely just had his clock completely cleaned -- he was out of his mind and had bruises on his face -- get shooed off the bench in front of a restaurant. It was one of those funny situations with two loud ladies and a broom against a man who 1. didn't even know where he was, and 2. might just be extremely dangerous, if push came to shove. Fortunately, he eventually wandered off, making a butterfly-line (as opposed to a beeline) for the next nearest bench. Good thing there was a bench nearby: he was so out of his mind I wondered if he would wander right into traffic.
I opened up my old "Seoul Food Finder" food guide which, despite very poorly drawn maps, has all kinds of reccommendations for restaurants that serve up good stuff. The main drawback is simply that, as it was published in 2002, a good quarter of those restaurants have closed or moved since then. Oh well, it still has lots of great locations.
Still happy: this weekend, I just started feeling more alive again, despite never having noticed exactly when I stopped feeling alive all the time. Oh well: I'm glad it's back.
Be alive!
Have a vivid day.
love:
Rob
Sunday, March 25, 2007
So I started this new job yesterday. . .
After stomping around jongno and myeongdong to find a pc room where you're actually allowed to log onto blogger (some places won't let me log on -- nature of their networks or something, I guess), I've finally found a spot, and the time, to fill you in, my loved ones.
(Yes, I do still love you all. You've been on my mind. Really.)
Well, for the first time, I don't have any cute kid stories. Instead, I have cool grown-up stories.
I'm teaching at a school right in the middle of downtown Seoul, near the city hall where all the insane soccer-game-watched-by-a-million-people kind of stuff happened during the world cup (you can check my post about the world cup: I added some pictures.)
This is really great for me, because I'm realizing that one of my great pleasures in life is eating out in restaurants. Discovering the best chicken soup, or the best california roll, in my neighbourhood makes me really happy, and gives me something to share next time a friend comes by. So, I've been systematically trying new restaurants all month at lunch time (my split shift means dinner is usually something light), to find the best of certain dishes, and just to find more good eats.
To get my visa, I travelled to Osaka.
I'll do a separate post on Osaka when I have another free three hours, except to say it was fantastic: miles better than last time I went there.
But here's the great thing.
Yes, I love my area -- I live a block over from an "old korea" souvenir market, a block the other way from a quiet shrine that's also one of three "UNESCO World Culture Sites" (that's an interesting thing to read up on, world culture sites -- check which famous places made it and which didn't -- my favorite world culture site was "head smashed in buffalo jump" in Alberta. I'm also a block from a restaurant that serves one of the most delicious foods I've ever eaten, right next to two movie theaters, all of which can be accessed through a network of winding little back alleys in the old traditional Korean style, with cobblestones and elaborate doors and just enough width to push a cart. I do need to stock my fridge yet, and I also need to find a clothing repair shop to fix two pairs of pants I own, but I still love my area.
However, the thing that's made me most happy is this:
a 530am wakeup call. Yes, that sounds counterintuitive, but here's how it works:
To get to work before 7am (and pick up a McDonalds coffee on the way), I have to set my alarm at 530 -- time to wake up, shower, and dress. Then, I start walking at 630, with Sonober, my cool coworker.
To wake up at 530am with enough sleep to make it through the day, one must go to bed early. I usually shoot for 1030 or 1100, with 1130 as my MUST HAVE LIGHTS OUT BY cutoff. The things I used to do between eleven and one AM (my previous lights out cutoff) were almost never productive: drinking a beer with Anthony (as nice as he is) never got me closer to achieving my life goals. Nor did chatting on MSN, visiting humour websites, or watching movies. These days, because of my split shift (yay teaching adults!), most of my free time is between 1pm and 7pm, which are much more productive hours than 11-1. I think I wrote about a hundred pages in the last month, in different short stories, poems, and a few plays. I've finally finished a notebook I was working on for more than a year. This is immensely satisfying, and as I accomplish more writing, I WANT to write more. This, unlike MSN and the rest, is getting me closer to my life goals, and so, between living in a really fun neighbourhood, eating great food, and writing every day, I'm kicking butt!
I hope all of you have had equally satisfying months!
Sorry it's been so long since I posted, but once I have internet in my house I'll be more consistent again.
Love you all!
Next time: Osaka!
(Yes, I do still love you all. You've been on my mind. Really.)
Well, for the first time, I don't have any cute kid stories. Instead, I have cool grown-up stories.
I'm teaching at a school right in the middle of downtown Seoul, near the city hall where all the insane soccer-game-watched-by-a-million-people kind of stuff happened during the world cup (you can check my post about the world cup: I added some pictures.)
This is really great for me, because I'm realizing that one of my great pleasures in life is eating out in restaurants. Discovering the best chicken soup, or the best california roll, in my neighbourhood makes me really happy, and gives me something to share next time a friend comes by. So, I've been systematically trying new restaurants all month at lunch time (my split shift means dinner is usually something light), to find the best of certain dishes, and just to find more good eats.
To get my visa, I travelled to Osaka.
I'll do a separate post on Osaka when I have another free three hours, except to say it was fantastic: miles better than last time I went there.
But here's the great thing.
Yes, I love my area -- I live a block over from an "old korea" souvenir market, a block the other way from a quiet shrine that's also one of three "UNESCO World Culture Sites" (that's an interesting thing to read up on, world culture sites -- check which famous places made it and which didn't -- my favorite world culture site was "head smashed in buffalo jump" in Alberta. I'm also a block from a restaurant that serves one of the most delicious foods I've ever eaten, right next to two movie theaters, all of which can be accessed through a network of winding little back alleys in the old traditional Korean style, with cobblestones and elaborate doors and just enough width to push a cart. I do need to stock my fridge yet, and I also need to find a clothing repair shop to fix two pairs of pants I own, but I still love my area.
However, the thing that's made me most happy is this:
a 530am wakeup call. Yes, that sounds counterintuitive, but here's how it works:
To get to work before 7am (and pick up a McDonalds coffee on the way), I have to set my alarm at 530 -- time to wake up, shower, and dress. Then, I start walking at 630, with Sonober, my cool coworker.
To wake up at 530am with enough sleep to make it through the day, one must go to bed early. I usually shoot for 1030 or 1100, with 1130 as my MUST HAVE LIGHTS OUT BY cutoff. The things I used to do between eleven and one AM (my previous lights out cutoff) were almost never productive: drinking a beer with Anthony (as nice as he is) never got me closer to achieving my life goals. Nor did chatting on MSN, visiting humour websites, or watching movies. These days, because of my split shift (yay teaching adults!), most of my free time is between 1pm and 7pm, which are much more productive hours than 11-1. I think I wrote about a hundred pages in the last month, in different short stories, poems, and a few plays. I've finally finished a notebook I was working on for more than a year. This is immensely satisfying, and as I accomplish more writing, I WANT to write more. This, unlike MSN and the rest, is getting me closer to my life goals, and so, between living in a really fun neighbourhood, eating great food, and writing every day, I'm kicking butt!
I hope all of you have had equally satisfying months!
Sorry it's been so long since I posted, but once I have internet in my house I'll be more consistent again.
Love you all!
Next time: Osaka!
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