Having a temper tantrum in a candlelit bathtub while trying to shave my legs at the same time.
From my friend Mark Pickstone:
Using some software I found on the web, you may find some of these interesting.
Rearranging the letters of 'elizabeth briel' gives:
"The lazier bible."
"Hail! Bizet rebel."
"I blaze, Hitler be."
"I.e. the zebra bill."
"Billet haze bier."
"I be the ill zebra."
"Bite heel Brazil."
"I rib the zee ball."
Mine yields some terrible things such as:
"I'm top knackers."
"Map to knickers."
"Taken sick romp."
"OK metric spank."
"Knock primates."
"Conk spit maker."
"Kept sick Roman."
"Mock pink tears."
"Pint makes rock."
"Map skin rocket."
"Pink arm socket."
"Trick snake mop."
Friday, February 27, 2004
Thursday, February 26, 2004
Reminiscences
Mulled over other places on the ferry back to Busan yesterday.
The following is more about wheres than whats...from a chronic traveller.
Most (ob)noxious pigeons:
London
Least:
Fukuoka
Most sheep encountered en route to the knife:
Fes, Morocco, during the Eid el Fitr
Most disappointing tourist attractions:
Inverness [Loch Ness] and Pisa, leaning tower of
Nicest and greatest number of prostitutes per capita in a small touristy town:
Siem Reap, Cambodia
Best pickup lines received in English:
New York (any borough)
Best in any other language:
Santo Domingo
Worst in English:
England (anywhere)
Worst in any other language:
Marrakech
Most revolting outdoor toilet:
Squat outhouse, Andong, Korea
Indoor:
"Turkish" variety, German bus stops
Deadliest liquid intoxicant:
Absinthe, Prague
Best intoxicant of any kind:
Chicagoan Ecstasy
Friendliest drunks:
New Orleans, off Bourbon St.
Worst-tempered:
Belfast
Most "man-purses" ever viewed at once:
Seomyeon subway station, Busan
Best venue for urban outdoor activities, from disco rollerblading to free concerts to muggings:
Central Park
Most electric festival:
Edinburgh Fringe
Most ingenuous use of discarded human bones:
Kutna Hora, Czech Republic
Most creative assemblage of refuse:
Voodoo sculptures, Haiti (in the slums of Cite Soleil)
Best version of Rodin's "Gates of Hell" (setting):
Stanford University, Palo Alto, CA
Best lavender oil for painting (a turpentine substitute):
From Aix en Provence (around $175/Liter)
Most affordable:
Hvar, Croatia (around $30/Liter)
Friendliest accommodation:
Chez Miguel, Baracoa, Cuba
Most miserable:
Delapidated buildings during an entire summer in Liverpool
Coldest night:
In a Saharan tent mid-winter. Merzouga dunes, Morocco
Most painful sensation from any creature:
Sea urchin sting, Croatian Adriatic
Worst sunburn:
Free facial peel received at Angkor temples, Cambodia
City with least interesting architecture:
Busan
City with loveliest mountains in its midst:
Busan
Most ethereal landscapes:
Isle of Skye (Scotland) and Tuscan countryside
Most beautiful city, in every aspect:
Firenze
Most livable, culturally eccentric city, with inhabitants to match:
Montreal
Most relaxed to the point of banality:
San Diego
Furthest faded from its former glory:
Vienna. It has ghosts at every corner
Worst garlic bread:
Wales. Sharp orange cheddar slathered with butter on stale bread
Best waffles ever:
Brussels. And chocolate, too
Best food, period:
Tuscany's 10+ course meals
Most motos and cars seen driving backwards:
Naples
Most people wearing T-shirts in 40F weather:
Minneapolis
Country with most use of hair dye by older men:
Korea
Most undesirable flesh exposed by Speedos:
Aged Germans anywhere in the world, particularly at Lake Balaton, Hungary
The "People as Meat" section:
Most luscious men:
Cuba
Loveliest women:
Italy
Style:
Chic men:
Milan
Women:
Paris
Sensuously languid, half-unbuttoned style:
Men:
Paris, Rive Gauche
Women:
East Village, Manhattan
Post Script:
Had sent an email to the BF from Japan, letting his friend J know about the lack of hotel rooms. For some reason, there was only one word legible in English: "Please..."
The rest of the email was in Japanese.
Yeah, he was worried I'd gotten into trouble again.
Me? Never.
The following is more about wheres than whats...from a chronic traveller.
Most (ob)noxious pigeons:
London
Least:
Fukuoka
Most sheep encountered en route to the knife:
Fes, Morocco, during the Eid el Fitr
Most disappointing tourist attractions:
Inverness [Loch Ness] and Pisa, leaning tower of
Nicest and greatest number of prostitutes per capita in a small touristy town:
Siem Reap, Cambodia
Best pickup lines received in English:
New York (any borough)
Best in any other language:
Santo Domingo
Worst in English:
England (anywhere)
Worst in any other language:
Marrakech
Most revolting outdoor toilet:
Squat outhouse, Andong, Korea
Indoor:
"Turkish" variety, German bus stops
Deadliest liquid intoxicant:
Absinthe, Prague
Best intoxicant of any kind:
Chicagoan Ecstasy
Friendliest drunks:
New Orleans, off Bourbon St.
Worst-tempered:
Belfast
Most "man-purses" ever viewed at once:
Seomyeon subway station, Busan
Best venue for urban outdoor activities, from disco rollerblading to free concerts to muggings:
Central Park
Most electric festival:
Edinburgh Fringe
Most ingenuous use of discarded human bones:
Kutna Hora, Czech Republic
Most creative assemblage of refuse:
Voodoo sculptures, Haiti (in the slums of Cite Soleil)
Best version of Rodin's "Gates of Hell" (setting):
Stanford University, Palo Alto, CA
Best lavender oil for painting (a turpentine substitute):
From Aix en Provence (around $175/Liter)
Most affordable:
Hvar, Croatia (around $30/Liter)
Friendliest accommodation:
Chez Miguel, Baracoa, Cuba
Most miserable:
Delapidated buildings during an entire summer in Liverpool
Coldest night:
In a Saharan tent mid-winter. Merzouga dunes, Morocco
Most painful sensation from any creature:
Sea urchin sting, Croatian Adriatic
Worst sunburn:
Free facial peel received at Angkor temples, Cambodia
City with least interesting architecture:
Busan
City with loveliest mountains in its midst:
Busan
Most ethereal landscapes:
Isle of Skye (Scotland) and Tuscan countryside
Most beautiful city, in every aspect:
Firenze
Most livable, culturally eccentric city, with inhabitants to match:
Montreal
Most relaxed to the point of banality:
San Diego
Furthest faded from its former glory:
Vienna. It has ghosts at every corner
Worst garlic bread:
Wales. Sharp orange cheddar slathered with butter on stale bread
Best waffles ever:
Brussels. And chocolate, too
Best food, period:
Tuscany's 10+ course meals
Most motos and cars seen driving backwards:
Naples
Most people wearing T-shirts in 40F weather:
Minneapolis
Country with most use of hair dye by older men:
Korea
Most undesirable flesh exposed by Speedos:
Aged Germans anywhere in the world, particularly at Lake Balaton, Hungary
The "People as Meat" section:
Most luscious men:
Cuba
Loveliest women:
Italy
Style:
Chic men:
Milan
Women:
Paris
Sensuously languid, half-unbuttoned style:
Men:
Paris, Rive Gauche
Women:
East Village, Manhattan
Post Script:
Had sent an email to the BF from Japan, letting his friend J know about the lack of hotel rooms. For some reason, there was only one word legible in English: "Please..."
The rest of the email was in Japanese.
Yeah, he was worried I'd gotten into trouble again.
Me? Never.
Wednesday, February 25, 2004
Why
is it always a trial, however sleep-filled, every time I go to Japan?
It seems there are college entrance exams in Fukuoka this week, and most hotels in the sleepy town are filled.
Of course I hadn't checked on any of this before I left, nor did I have a list of alternate hotels and rates.
I entered the ryokan in anticipation of warm green tea and leisurely temple explorations.
The dame at reception crossed her arms in a sorrowful negative to my enquiry.
There were no rooms at the ryokan down the street. Or at a dozen hotels near Hakata station. Had I been dressed as a man, I might've scored a luxurious spot at a particular capsule hotel.
Two hours later, I sat on a bench in the midst of a dingy playground.
Eyed the sake served from shacks on the scrubby grass, but decided against it, as I'd probably elicit even more "no"s than before.
Sighed the last of a cigarette and headed to the next hotel on blistered toes.
Shook my head thinking I'd misheard, but they did indeed have rooms available at the Reisenkaku Hotel. It was rather dreary yet warmer than the train station would've been.
The bathroom was one taupe-colored solid plastic unit with a drain in the floor, but beds had down-filled duvets and pillows.
Reminiscent of my grandmother's apartment: muted traffic sounds and over-warm air perfumed with a hint of rose.
From the Reisenkaku's "Rules on Accommodation Utilization"
"To maintain the generality and reliability of the hotel, the guests of this hotel are requested to observe the following rules...
- Not to use any burner for heating and for cooking in the room or the hall-way.
- Not to smoke in bed or other places where the fire is easily caused.
- Not to give annoyance to others by making a loud noise or disgusting behavior.
- Not to bring the following items into the room or the hall-way:
A. Animals, Birds, etc.
B. Things with loathsome smell.
C. Unusually large quantities of items.
D. Explosive items such as powder, gasoline, etc.
E. Illegally-owned guns and swords.
- Not to gamble or behave in bemoralizing manner in this hotel.
- Not to use the room or the lobby as business offices.
- Not to hang up such items at the windows which will spoil the view of this hotel."
Imagined all sorts of lurid tableaux the first time I read it.
On the return ferry to Busan - passport stamped with a fresh teaching visa - my 50-something neighbor began our conversation as follows: "Are you a student?" Knowing I look every one of my 29 years, I smiled at what most consider to be flattery and said that no, I was a teacher.
"Ah, so is my daughter. She teaches hostesses," he said.
As I tried to puzzle out exactly what she taught them, he asked me if I wanted anything for lunch.
No, I said, I'd already eaten.
Coffee? No thanks.
A beer? He pointed at a man drinking one in case I hadn't understood him. It was 2:45pm.
No, thank you. Then realized all these "no"s were impolite.
When he asked me again if I'd like a beer, I said "Maybe later," and he rose straight away to get one for me.
It seems there are college entrance exams in Fukuoka this week, and most hotels in the sleepy town are filled.
Of course I hadn't checked on any of this before I left, nor did I have a list of alternate hotels and rates.
I entered the ryokan in anticipation of warm green tea and leisurely temple explorations.
The dame at reception crossed her arms in a sorrowful negative to my enquiry.
There were no rooms at the ryokan down the street. Or at a dozen hotels near Hakata station. Had I been dressed as a man, I might've scored a luxurious spot at a particular capsule hotel.
Two hours later, I sat on a bench in the midst of a dingy playground.
Eyed the sake served from shacks on the scrubby grass, but decided against it, as I'd probably elicit even more "no"s than before.
Sighed the last of a cigarette and headed to the next hotel on blistered toes.
Shook my head thinking I'd misheard, but they did indeed have rooms available at the Reisenkaku Hotel. It was rather dreary yet warmer than the train station would've been.
The bathroom was one taupe-colored solid plastic unit with a drain in the floor, but beds had down-filled duvets and pillows.
Reminiscent of my grandmother's apartment: muted traffic sounds and over-warm air perfumed with a hint of rose.
From the Reisenkaku's "Rules on Accommodation Utilization"
"To maintain the generality and reliability of the hotel, the guests of this hotel are requested to observe the following rules...
- Not to use any burner for heating and for cooking in the room or the hall-way.
- Not to smoke in bed or other places where the fire is easily caused.
- Not to give annoyance to others by making a loud noise or disgusting behavior.
- Not to bring the following items into the room or the hall-way:
A. Animals, Birds, etc.
B. Things with loathsome smell.
C. Unusually large quantities of items.
D. Explosive items such as powder, gasoline, etc.
E. Illegally-owned guns and swords.
- Not to gamble or behave in bemoralizing manner in this hotel.
- Not to use the room or the lobby as business offices.
- Not to hang up such items at the windows which will spoil the view of this hotel."
Imagined all sorts of lurid tableaux the first time I read it.
On the return ferry to Busan - passport stamped with a fresh teaching visa - my 50-something neighbor began our conversation as follows: "Are you a student?" Knowing I look every one of my 29 years, I smiled at what most consider to be flattery and said that no, I was a teacher.
"Ah, so is my daughter. She teaches hostesses," he said.
As I tried to puzzle out exactly what she taught them, he asked me if I wanted anything for lunch.
No, I said, I'd already eaten.
Coffee? No thanks.
A beer? He pointed at a man drinking one in case I hadn't understood him. It was 2:45pm.
No, thank you. Then realized all these "no"s were impolite.
When he asked me again if I'd like a beer, I said "Maybe later," and he rose straight away to get one for me.
Monday, February 23, 2004
Haunting music in minor key
often echoes from somewhere outside as I relax in my bathtub. Sounds like a slow-moving carousel.
When the BF is at my place, I try to get his attention whenever I hear it, but the music has always stopped by the time I've opened the window.
He's been kind enough not to insinuate that I may have developed early symptoms of schitzophrenia.
Every morning at 11:40, my television turns itself on and static sound fills my room. Without fail.
Probably the result of radio waves, though it's enough to make one believe in ghosts. Every rickety motel room must have a lifetime of stories within its walls.
Last night, another discovery: not only does my switch turn on a fluorescent light, but there's an option for what I suppose is meant to be "sexy" lighting: a dim, orangeish/pinkish tint that fills the room.
All the better to release inhibitions, my dear, if the soju didn't take care of them first.
Saturday night began early with a writers' meeting at a microbrewery in Seomyeon.
Ran into an acquaintance en route to the subway. Told her where I'd been, and where I was headed: a going-away party for a friend at "the dongdongju place".
"You sure you should have dongdongju after all that beer?" she asked skeptically. She's new to Korea.
No problem, I responded...then realized what a lush I've become since moving here seven months ago.
For many of us here, it seems to be a prolonged post-adolescence: typically childless and with few responsibilities (save perhaps to student loans), beer and cigarettes and late-night socializing are cheap vices shared by most of us.
Generally, a friendly community of dysfunctionals with the same complaints and raves, shared over many, many glasses of numbing intoxicants.
After several bowls of dongdongju, the gaggle of girls decided to head downtown to a nightclub. The BF bowed out to nurse his cold, but I decided to join them.
Several hours of dancing in toilet bilge that had dripped downstairs and water hurled by Irish boys at one another. Returned home well after 6am, and slept through much of the rainy afternoon.
Last week as I met some friends at the PNU subway station, we saw a man sporting interesting attire.
A red sweatshirt with a large portrait of Osama bin Laden.
He'd taped a newspaper page onto his rear end, and another (with a girl's picture) over his face.
He stood in the midst of the busy station, arms outstretched, martyr-esque.
University students giggled and took photos with their cell phones.
When the BF is at my place, I try to get his attention whenever I hear it, but the music has always stopped by the time I've opened the window.
He's been kind enough not to insinuate that I may have developed early symptoms of schitzophrenia.
Every morning at 11:40, my television turns itself on and static sound fills my room. Without fail.
Probably the result of radio waves, though it's enough to make one believe in ghosts. Every rickety motel room must have a lifetime of stories within its walls.
Last night, another discovery: not only does my switch turn on a fluorescent light, but there's an option for what I suppose is meant to be "sexy" lighting: a dim, orangeish/pinkish tint that fills the room.
All the better to release inhibitions, my dear, if the soju didn't take care of them first.
Saturday night began early with a writers' meeting at a microbrewery in Seomyeon.
Ran into an acquaintance en route to the subway. Told her where I'd been, and where I was headed: a going-away party for a friend at "the dongdongju place".
"You sure you should have dongdongju after all that beer?" she asked skeptically. She's new to Korea.
No problem, I responded...then realized what a lush I've become since moving here seven months ago.
For many of us here, it seems to be a prolonged post-adolescence: typically childless and with few responsibilities (save perhaps to student loans), beer and cigarettes and late-night socializing are cheap vices shared by most of us.
Generally, a friendly community of dysfunctionals with the same complaints and raves, shared over many, many glasses of numbing intoxicants.
After several bowls of dongdongju, the gaggle of girls decided to head downtown to a nightclub. The BF bowed out to nurse his cold, but I decided to join them.
Several hours of dancing in toilet bilge that had dripped downstairs and water hurled by Irish boys at one another. Returned home well after 6am, and slept through much of the rainy afternoon.
Last week as I met some friends at the PNU subway station, we saw a man sporting interesting attire.
A red sweatshirt with a large portrait of Osama bin Laden.
He'd taped a newspaper page onto his rear end, and another (with a girl's picture) over his face.
He stood in the midst of the busy station, arms outstretched, martyr-esque.
University students giggled and took photos with their cell phones.
Friday, February 20, 2004
Impromptu Painting
Always the best kind.
W called yesterday as I was reserving a spot on the Fukuoka ferry for next week.
"I need your advice!" he moaned into the phone. "My painting doesn't look so good."
Vaguely remembered an inebriated promise made the night before to paint at the Basement sometime.
Still, I was in the mood for a collaboration rather than the exhibitionism behind many solo creations.
Had paint and brushes with me at the time, so caught the subway uptown and an hour later descended into his space that smelled like an old ashtray. (Don't get me wrong, I love it there, but it's always smoky...it's just a question of whether it's of fresh or stale smoke.)
His painting looked fine, and much better than I'd expected. Fluid brushstrokes delineated the small craggy face and solid body of a German painter from one of W's art magazines. W had made the image his own, though, and I loved it - his paintings all have a graphic quality I've rarely been able to use.
I brushed highlights on the face, we spattered paint onto the man's shirt, gave some advice on color, made the arms and upper chest three-dimensional, and watched as W pondered the piece, done on paper.
"Why don't you do that wall?" W asked.
What was his favorite color? Blue, he said.
So I washed off a plastic plate, found a (dirty) rag behind the counter, and had the best time on a wall in years. Brought back memories of endless Italian restaurants and homes painted in the states, though this was much more fun because I was painting for beer, not for a living.
On a recent morning, a vague acquaintance waved at me as I walked home.
He's a local Korean barfly. Sometimes his hovering presence disturbes, but we've learned to ignore him.
"Where you going?" Told him.
"Let me walk you there." Refused, tapping my foot as I waited endlessly for the stoplight to change.
He stumbled, and I smelled stale soju on his breath at 10am.
Told him again I didn't want any company, and began to cross the street.
He followed me, and I finally had to raise my voice and tell him to go away rudely (repeatedly) to shake him off. Really, really don't like having to do that to anyone.
For those friends that have recently emailed me wondering rhetorically what "BF" stands for, yes, it DOES mean "Boyfriend"...get your minds out of the sewer!!
The guy next to me sneezes repeatedly into his hand and then examines it - each time. Each of us has our own definition of fastidiousness, I suppose.
Weekend nights are a rare excuse for one to look both shaggable and amazonian here...in public.
W called yesterday as I was reserving a spot on the Fukuoka ferry for next week.
"I need your advice!" he moaned into the phone. "My painting doesn't look so good."
Vaguely remembered an inebriated promise made the night before to paint at the Basement sometime.
Still, I was in the mood for a collaboration rather than the exhibitionism behind many solo creations.
Had paint and brushes with me at the time, so caught the subway uptown and an hour later descended into his space that smelled like an old ashtray. (Don't get me wrong, I love it there, but it's always smoky...it's just a question of whether it's of fresh or stale smoke.)
His painting looked fine, and much better than I'd expected. Fluid brushstrokes delineated the small craggy face and solid body of a German painter from one of W's art magazines. W had made the image his own, though, and I loved it - his paintings all have a graphic quality I've rarely been able to use.
I brushed highlights on the face, we spattered paint onto the man's shirt, gave some advice on color, made the arms and upper chest three-dimensional, and watched as W pondered the piece, done on paper.
"Why don't you do that wall?" W asked.
What was his favorite color? Blue, he said.
So I washed off a plastic plate, found a (dirty) rag behind the counter, and had the best time on a wall in years. Brought back memories of endless Italian restaurants and homes painted in the states, though this was much more fun because I was painting for beer, not for a living.
On a recent morning, a vague acquaintance waved at me as I walked home.
He's a local Korean barfly. Sometimes his hovering presence disturbes, but we've learned to ignore him.
"Where you going?" Told him.
"Let me walk you there." Refused, tapping my foot as I waited endlessly for the stoplight to change.
He stumbled, and I smelled stale soju on his breath at 10am.
Told him again I didn't want any company, and began to cross the street.
He followed me, and I finally had to raise my voice and tell him to go away rudely (repeatedly) to shake him off. Really, really don't like having to do that to anyone.
For those friends that have recently emailed me wondering rhetorically what "BF" stands for, yes, it DOES mean "Boyfriend"...get your minds out of the sewer!!
The guy next to me sneezes repeatedly into his hand and then examines it - each time. Each of us has our own definition of fastidiousness, I suppose.
Weekend nights are a rare excuse for one to look both shaggable and amazonian here...in public.
Thursday, February 19, 2004
Now I'm truly female...
...because Immigration has changed the gender on my "Application for Visa" form from "M" to "F".
Wednesday, February 18, 2004
Watched
Today for the first time I realized that the webcams at this PC Bang are ON constantly!!
Other PC-bangers can watch one another as they type away at games or emails....it's CREEPY! I'm speechless, because I've been coming here for months.
How did I finally find this out?
A pair of teenage girls were in hysterics as they spied on a guy at the other end of the room - one girl almost fell out of her chair. He grinned at the same time we did.
One of the girls smoothes her hair and preens for the camera.
I have no idea what to do except drape my scarf over the lens.
At least the place gives you free coffee while you're being watched.
Other PC-bangers can watch one another as they type away at games or emails....it's CREEPY! I'm speechless, because I've been coming here for months.
How did I finally find this out?
A pair of teenage girls were in hysterics as they spied on a guy at the other end of the room - one girl almost fell out of her chair. He grinned at the same time we did.
One of the girls smoothes her hair and preens for the camera.
I have no idea what to do except drape my scarf over the lens.
At least the place gives you free coffee while you're being watched.
Tuesday, February 17, 2004
Chocolate and red wine-filled weekend
...well, of course. A rare year where I didn't break up with a special friend right before the Hallmark-ed holiday.
"In Korea," I told the BF last week, "women buy men chocolate, and men buy women something special on White Day, in March."
"But I'll be travelling in March!" he protested.
"Well bring me back something silky from Southeast Asia or wherever you end up." He hasn't yet bought a ticket, and may stay in Korea for all we know...
I looked forward to buying him lots of chocolate, and consuming at least half of it.
At midnight on Friday, I handed him a box of "orange"-covered cocoa Pocky sticks. (Pockys are so popular that they have their own mass-marketed holiday on Nov 11th...11/11.)
We were at Crossroads at the time, and shared them with anyone who was adventurous enough to try the vile-looking things, which tasted vaguely of orange-laced wax. I thought they were palatable with Cass beer, though I'll eat anything as anju, including entire bowls of stuff that looks like green worms and tastes like kids' oversugared breakfast cereal.
For breakfast we had chocolate croissants from Carrefour.
Over noontime coffee at the Haeundae Starbucks, we opened a box of luscious Belgian chocolates and shared them with a nice girl from Daegu named Sky - who'd arrived the night before for the Mariah Carey concert - and left for a nearby Indian restaurant, loaded with chocolates, a rose (for me from Sky) and a euphoric sugar high.
That night, we went to a wine and cheese tasting at a new wine bar in Dongnae, and of course I had so much wine that all I wanted to do when we returned to my motel was fall asleep, so he still hasn't gotten his final chocolate present, but there should still be some left...I think!
Sunday afternoon, still groggy from the night before, I met a group of Korean english speakers and a nice pair of Canadian twins at a local teashop. We then took off for an orphanage where we played English flashcard games with the kids and I jumped out of my hangover while singing huskily and hopping around with the little creatures. They were adorable, and I'm looking forward to hanging out with them again. It was a disorganized, surreal, good time.
We'd brought along snacks and drinks for the kids, but what the orphanage really needed was:
"Oil," the organizer told us. Huh? "Heating oil. They hardly have any left." We'd noticed it was cold inside, and the floors weren't heated at all that day.
So we'll bring money next time (April) for oil, though they probably won't use it till next winter.
Sunday night was free food and cooking at the Basement. A potluck of delicate, delicious curries. I'm going to cook something next week....what dish, I've no idea....will head to Carrefour after tasting my Thai spices and load up a grocery cart with whatever catches my eye.
Plans with the girls to spend a long, vodka-drenched weekend on Texas street - pretending we're in Russia because our New Year's plans in Vladivostok were foiled by a half-dozen happenings - have again been postponed, in part because I may be up to something...interesting? Will write about it here if it happens.
"In Korea," I told the BF last week, "women buy men chocolate, and men buy women something special on White Day, in March."
"But I'll be travelling in March!" he protested.
"Well bring me back something silky from Southeast Asia or wherever you end up." He hasn't yet bought a ticket, and may stay in Korea for all we know...
I looked forward to buying him lots of chocolate, and consuming at least half of it.
At midnight on Friday, I handed him a box of "orange"-covered cocoa Pocky sticks. (Pockys are so popular that they have their own mass-marketed holiday on Nov 11th...11/11.)
We were at Crossroads at the time, and shared them with anyone who was adventurous enough to try the vile-looking things, which tasted vaguely of orange-laced wax. I thought they were palatable with Cass beer, though I'll eat anything as anju, including entire bowls of stuff that looks like green worms and tastes like kids' oversugared breakfast cereal.
For breakfast we had chocolate croissants from Carrefour.
Over noontime coffee at the Haeundae Starbucks, we opened a box of luscious Belgian chocolates and shared them with a nice girl from Daegu named Sky - who'd arrived the night before for the Mariah Carey concert - and left for a nearby Indian restaurant, loaded with chocolates, a rose (for me from Sky) and a euphoric sugar high.
That night, we went to a wine and cheese tasting at a new wine bar in Dongnae, and of course I had so much wine that all I wanted to do when we returned to my motel was fall asleep, so he still hasn't gotten his final chocolate present, but there should still be some left...I think!
Sunday afternoon, still groggy from the night before, I met a group of Korean english speakers and a nice pair of Canadian twins at a local teashop. We then took off for an orphanage where we played English flashcard games with the kids and I jumped out of my hangover while singing huskily and hopping around with the little creatures. They were adorable, and I'm looking forward to hanging out with them again. It was a disorganized, surreal, good time.
We'd brought along snacks and drinks for the kids, but what the orphanage really needed was:
"Oil," the organizer told us. Huh? "Heating oil. They hardly have any left." We'd noticed it was cold inside, and the floors weren't heated at all that day.
So we'll bring money next time (April) for oil, though they probably won't use it till next winter.
Sunday night was free food and cooking at the Basement. A potluck of delicate, delicious curries. I'm going to cook something next week....what dish, I've no idea....will head to Carrefour after tasting my Thai spices and load up a grocery cart with whatever catches my eye.
Plans with the girls to spend a long, vodka-drenched weekend on Texas street - pretending we're in Russia because our New Year's plans in Vladivostok were foiled by a half-dozen happenings - have again been postponed, in part because I may be up to something...interesting? Will write about it here if it happens.
Thursday, February 12, 2004
A minor tragedy and Korean Idioms
Oh no!
Pulled my handphone from my purse today only to find that the phone's blue fuzzy accessory had been lost somewhere in the depths of my giant red bag.
She's naked now, the pale poor thing, and I don't know what to slip onto her now.
Have discovered some new blogs recently, through random perusal of others who post at the same odd times that I do...Newly added, and definitely worth checking out, is Saudimized, David's tales of world travel and living in Saudi Arabia. Pensees on relations and lovers, all well-written and (gasp!) many with a rare sensitivity. Also a link to his last art and education project in Nepal.
Today I discovered another, Wandering in Wulai, written by Yugan in English and Chinese, about his life "rambling physically and mentally in Wulai, a Tayal aborigine village in the mountains an hour's drive south of Taipei; various and sundry comments, criticisms, analyses, and snide remarks." That says it all: it's a really entertaining read.
The following Korean idioms have been culled from a GREAT book, How Koreans Talk, written by Sang-Hun Choe and Christopher Torchia (I'll include more in later posts). Packed with Korean Idioms and insights on Korean culture and history, I have the pleasure to use it in class tomorrow with another teacher. My students snickered at the few I showed them today.
When will I have a chance to eat your noodles?
(When are you getting married?)
I ate water!
(I lost out.)
Did you boil and eat the locomotive's smokestack?
(You sound like a foghorn.)
The other man's rice cake always looks bigger.
(Grass is always greener, etc.)
I am cold rice.
(I get the cold shoulder from everybody.)
You wouldn't notice even if your friend at the same table dies.
(Praise for a good meal.)
Is a beggar squatting in your stomach?
(You eat too much, too quickly.)
Just because you fear maggots doesn't mean you should give up making soybean sauce.
(Don't let obstacles deter you.)
Until your hair turns into leek roots.
(Till death do you part. Leek roots are white and sparse.)
Your lips remind me of a cat that just ate a rat.
(You're wearing too much lipstick.)
His tongue curled up.
(He was so drunk that he was difficult to understand.)
His words have bones.
(His comments harbor hidden meaning or criticism.)
Pulled my handphone from my purse today only to find that the phone's blue fuzzy accessory had been lost somewhere in the depths of my giant red bag.
She's naked now, the pale poor thing, and I don't know what to slip onto her now.
Have discovered some new blogs recently, through random perusal of others who post at the same odd times that I do...Newly added, and definitely worth checking out, is Saudimized, David's tales of world travel and living in Saudi Arabia. Pensees on relations and lovers, all well-written and (gasp!) many with a rare sensitivity. Also a link to his last art and education project in Nepal.
Today I discovered another, Wandering in Wulai, written by Yugan in English and Chinese, about his life "rambling physically and mentally in Wulai, a Tayal aborigine village in the mountains an hour's drive south of Taipei; various and sundry comments, criticisms, analyses, and snide remarks." That says it all: it's a really entertaining read.
The following Korean idioms have been culled from a GREAT book, How Koreans Talk, written by Sang-Hun Choe and Christopher Torchia (I'll include more in later posts). Packed with Korean Idioms and insights on Korean culture and history, I have the pleasure to use it in class tomorrow with another teacher. My students snickered at the few I showed them today.
When will I have a chance to eat your noodles?
(When are you getting married?)
I ate water!
(I lost out.)
Did you boil and eat the locomotive's smokestack?
(You sound like a foghorn.)
The other man's rice cake always looks bigger.
(Grass is always greener, etc.)
I am cold rice.
(I get the cold shoulder from everybody.)
You wouldn't notice even if your friend at the same table dies.
(Praise for a good meal.)
Is a beggar squatting in your stomach?
(You eat too much, too quickly.)
Just because you fear maggots doesn't mean you should give up making soybean sauce.
(Don't let obstacles deter you.)
Until your hair turns into leek roots.
(Till death do you part. Leek roots are white and sparse.)
Your lips remind me of a cat that just ate a rat.
(You're wearing too much lipstick.)
His tongue curled up.
(He was so drunk that he was difficult to understand.)
His words have bones.
(His comments harbor hidden meaning or criticism.)
Wednesday, February 11, 2004
"He, who is leaving, looks beautiful from behind"
~ don't get excited or disappointed, I'm not leaving Korea - yet.
The above is a quote from Reverend Popjung, who is retiring "to free himself from worldly involvement," from Gilsangsa Temple.
From Harper's, Oct 2003
"Amount, in inches, by which the average North Korean 7-year-old is shorter than the average South Korean 7-year-old: 2.9."
According to research by Pak Sunyoung, Seoul National University
In the Tongmyong Times (from a local IT university), we are admonished against pushing the "close door" button in elevators:
"Give up your chronic habit! ...Every time you push he button, you are going against the spirit of cost reduction."
And finally:
"Soldiers get nice new beds...The military has started to replace wooden floors bedecked with blankets at camp barracks with individual beds...in line with Korea's rapidly improving living standards."
Boots, boots, I love my new boots.
Have searched vainly for a pair since I moved here nearly 7 months ago.
The other day I passed a store and spotted a pair with substantial-looking high heels....they looked solid enough to keep me from tripping over your common rickety sewers and "ramyeon flowers" (ramen-laced vomit).
A friendly proprieter looked at my shoes and wrote "240". Nearly right...I'm about 243. I grinned, and he chose a pair for me.
The knee-high black leather had a nice sheen and was smooth and durable, if not silky to the touch as in Italy.
"Oh, please," I thought as I tried them on, "Please, I've been looking for something like you for so long now." But my feet are wider than Korean ladies' dainty appendages, though I could - almost - zip the leather over my calves.
Disappointed, I took the boots off and handed them back.
"Wait," the man said, "I will fix them." I liked that....there was nothing wrong with my clumsy megook feet. The problem was with the shoes: a brilliant marketing ploy.
"Handmade," he said, and went to a back room, where he smoked a cigarette and I heard mysterious tapping noises for a few minutes as I watched Gladiator on his TV. He returned, and I zipped up the heated, expanded leather with no problem. It fit like a second skin over my ankles and calves. The toes were still tight, but, he assured me, "You walk. It will fit."
OK, I thought, these boots are mine.
I've been breaking them in since, and have found that they're much more comfortable after two beers than none, but there's something to be said for the sensation of one's feet bound tightly and uplifted at the same time, like a pair of corsets.
Discovered last night that my coverlet is a haven for static electricity.
My bed looked like fireworks behind an ice palace at 4am.
The above is a quote from Reverend Popjung, who is retiring "to free himself from worldly involvement," from Gilsangsa Temple.
From Harper's, Oct 2003
"Amount, in inches, by which the average North Korean 7-year-old is shorter than the average South Korean 7-year-old: 2.9."
According to research by Pak Sunyoung, Seoul National University
In the Tongmyong Times (from a local IT university), we are admonished against pushing the "close door" button in elevators:
"Give up your chronic habit! ...Every time you push he button, you are going against the spirit of cost reduction."
And finally:
"Soldiers get nice new beds...The military has started to replace wooden floors bedecked with blankets at camp barracks with individual beds...in line with Korea's rapidly improving living standards."
Boots, boots, I love my new boots.
Have searched vainly for a pair since I moved here nearly 7 months ago.
The other day I passed a store and spotted a pair with substantial-looking high heels....they looked solid enough to keep me from tripping over your common rickety sewers and "ramyeon flowers" (ramen-laced vomit).
A friendly proprieter looked at my shoes and wrote "240". Nearly right...I'm about 243. I grinned, and he chose a pair for me.
The knee-high black leather had a nice sheen and was smooth and durable, if not silky to the touch as in Italy.
"Oh, please," I thought as I tried them on, "Please, I've been looking for something like you for so long now." But my feet are wider than Korean ladies' dainty appendages, though I could - almost - zip the leather over my calves.
Disappointed, I took the boots off and handed them back.
"Wait," the man said, "I will fix them." I liked that....there was nothing wrong with my clumsy megook feet. The problem was with the shoes: a brilliant marketing ploy.
"Handmade," he said, and went to a back room, where he smoked a cigarette and I heard mysterious tapping noises for a few minutes as I watched Gladiator on his TV. He returned, and I zipped up the heated, expanded leather with no problem. It fit like a second skin over my ankles and calves. The toes were still tight, but, he assured me, "You walk. It will fit."
OK, I thought, these boots are mine.
I've been breaking them in since, and have found that they're much more comfortable after two beers than none, but there's something to be said for the sensation of one's feet bound tightly and uplifted at the same time, like a pair of corsets.
Discovered last night that my coverlet is a haven for static electricity.
My bed looked like fireworks behind an ice palace at 4am.
Sunday, February 08, 2004
My Love Motel room features:
~ a frosted peephole into the bathroom, surrounded by an arcane arrangement of glow-in-the-dark stars
~ Half-filled bottles of shampoo and conditioner, a used bar of soap, and a nearly-finished tube of toothpaste
~ Two thin Korean-sized bathtowels (we'd call them "hand towels" in the west)
~ A red scrubbing towel, like those used in bath houses. I think they retain more skin cells than your average towel, so will abstain and have bought my own
~ Two pairs of orange rubber shoes for the bathroom
~ A large box of matches advertising a club near Haeundae beach where "Dirty Girls await you," as it was translated for me today. The matches feature a photo of two westerners sharing a glass of champagne on one side, and an Asian woman - wearing a sheer drape of nothing - on the other
~ Vinyl flooring with a dozen cigarette burns. Korean men often forget to use the ashtray when spitting or extinguishing cigarettes
~ On the bed: A Chinese satin coverlet of white and pale sage with a strip of hot pink. An electric blanket, made of plastic. A shock to sleep on the first night. I'll be off to buy some sheets this week, as Koreans don't use them.
~ Frosted windows with traditional wooden designs
On the front steps, someone's carefully placed two "calling cards" of available girls. They've been changed daily. As long as the card-girls are shown with their clothes on, I'll walk past them with a smile....
Friday night, the BF and I headed to the western end of town, Hwamyeon-dong, to visit his friend J. J. is a rare American like me in a sea of Canadians, many of them from remote areas of Ontario. He's a painter, self-taught, and has done many local murals. Seems to prefer surreal, snakily dark motifs, like hollow-eyed faces with spiky hair.
"Hey, you feel like painting on Friday?" he asked last week. Absolutely.
So the BF and I arrived around midnightish. Knew that it'd be an all-night affair, whatever would happen.
J's girlfriend drove us to a convenience store where we grabbed some wine, soju for J, Doritos for everyone, and tuna kimbap for me.
We dumped dozens of tubes of paint onto his bed, and put a mat on the floor.
I'd brought a 1 x 2 meter length of primed canvas, and ripped it into lengths for all of us.
The BF began with purple - of course - and used J's palette knife to scratch designs into impasto-heavy paint.
J's began with colors that echoed Monet's water lilies, and he groaned when I compared them. He then coated the canvas with shades of gorgeous blue (Carrie, you'd LOVE it).
J's girlfriend was hesitant at first, but I got her started, and J showed her some painting techniques...she seemed to enjoy it eventually.
I began with a typical dark layer: carmine at the center and pthalo at the canvas edges, turning the rectangle into a visually oval-shaped surface. Had no idea what I'd place on it. It turned into a stretched wing-like shape, then expanded into something else. It was liberating to have no care of what happened on the canvas. Worked purely with form and brush and paint-layers.
At 5am, J and I exchanged paintings and I woke the BF up from his nap on the floor.
"...he's unfortunate enough to live in Petersburg, the most abstract and premeditated city on earth (there are premeditated and unpremeditated cities)."
~Dostoyevsky, Notes from Underground
I expect to end up in a relatively un-premeditated city eventually, if even a city: a place that has grown organically from one or many villages into something alive and unpredictable.
~ Half-filled bottles of shampoo and conditioner, a used bar of soap, and a nearly-finished tube of toothpaste
~ Two thin Korean-sized bathtowels (we'd call them "hand towels" in the west)
~ A red scrubbing towel, like those used in bath houses. I think they retain more skin cells than your average towel, so will abstain and have bought my own
~ Two pairs of orange rubber shoes for the bathroom
~ A large box of matches advertising a club near Haeundae beach where "Dirty Girls await you," as it was translated for me today. The matches feature a photo of two westerners sharing a glass of champagne on one side, and an Asian woman - wearing a sheer drape of nothing - on the other
~ Vinyl flooring with a dozen cigarette burns. Korean men often forget to use the ashtray when spitting or extinguishing cigarettes
~ On the bed: A Chinese satin coverlet of white and pale sage with a strip of hot pink. An electric blanket, made of plastic. A shock to sleep on the first night. I'll be off to buy some sheets this week, as Koreans don't use them.
~ Frosted windows with traditional wooden designs
On the front steps, someone's carefully placed two "calling cards" of available girls. They've been changed daily. As long as the card-girls are shown with their clothes on, I'll walk past them with a smile....
Friday night, the BF and I headed to the western end of town, Hwamyeon-dong, to visit his friend J. J. is a rare American like me in a sea of Canadians, many of them from remote areas of Ontario. He's a painter, self-taught, and has done many local murals. Seems to prefer surreal, snakily dark motifs, like hollow-eyed faces with spiky hair.
"Hey, you feel like painting on Friday?" he asked last week. Absolutely.
So the BF and I arrived around midnightish. Knew that it'd be an all-night affair, whatever would happen.
J's girlfriend drove us to a convenience store where we grabbed some wine, soju for J, Doritos for everyone, and tuna kimbap for me.
We dumped dozens of tubes of paint onto his bed, and put a mat on the floor.
I'd brought a 1 x 2 meter length of primed canvas, and ripped it into lengths for all of us.
The BF began with purple - of course - and used J's palette knife to scratch designs into impasto-heavy paint.
J's began with colors that echoed Monet's water lilies, and he groaned when I compared them. He then coated the canvas with shades of gorgeous blue (Carrie, you'd LOVE it).
J's girlfriend was hesitant at first, but I got her started, and J showed her some painting techniques...she seemed to enjoy it eventually.
I began with a typical dark layer: carmine at the center and pthalo at the canvas edges, turning the rectangle into a visually oval-shaped surface. Had no idea what I'd place on it. It turned into a stretched wing-like shape, then expanded into something else. It was liberating to have no care of what happened on the canvas. Worked purely with form and brush and paint-layers.
At 5am, J and I exchanged paintings and I woke the BF up from his nap on the floor.
"...he's unfortunate enough to live in Petersburg, the most abstract and premeditated city on earth (there are premeditated and unpremeditated cities)."
~Dostoyevsky, Notes from Underground
I expect to end up in a relatively un-premeditated city eventually, if even a city: a place that has grown organically from one or many villages into something alive and unpredictable.
Friday, February 06, 2004
Multitasking...
...a favorite American ethic that reeks of Calvinism.
Applied blood-red polish as I waited for my computer to reset. Slick and highly pigmented with a glistening patent-leather finish.
Downloaded a baby picture my mom had sent (of us somewhere in France with a friend of hers) as I waited to get paid this morning.
Tonight I move into a long-term yeogwan near where I've been staying for the past month or so. It's actually one of those infamous "love motels," with the trademark neon logo that reminds me of a steaming bowl of soup....a smoky heart? flaming desire? one of the heart-shaped bathtubs I was offered with a grin? It's a small family-owned place, and my laundry will be done by the matriarch who runs it all.
There's a norebang (singing room) next door, in case any of us feel like an impromptu session at 3am.
It's a reasonably large room with double bed (!), dorm fridge, and a normal bathtub!! I'm so excited for heated luxurious soaks in it...and the water's hot 24 hours a day, too...a rarity, I'm told.
The fee's on par with my housing allowance at the high school. If I planned to stay here for several more years, I might invest in an apartment, but the "key money" ranges from $5,000-$20,000 US.
So I plan, tentatively, to stay there until the end of March, when I may move to a yeogwan nearer the school on the other end of town.
"She talks very loudly, the three men listen and smile. I think she is explaining the mysteries of the universe to them. That's the nice thing about a language you don't understand - it is possible to believe the conversation is so much more elevated than it probably is."
~Tennessee Williams, "Amor Perdida"
Applied blood-red polish as I waited for my computer to reset. Slick and highly pigmented with a glistening patent-leather finish.
Downloaded a baby picture my mom had sent (of us somewhere in France with a friend of hers) as I waited to get paid this morning.
Tonight I move into a long-term yeogwan near where I've been staying for the past month or so. It's actually one of those infamous "love motels," with the trademark neon logo that reminds me of a steaming bowl of soup....a smoky heart? flaming desire? one of the heart-shaped bathtubs I was offered with a grin? It's a small family-owned place, and my laundry will be done by the matriarch who runs it all.
There's a norebang (singing room) next door, in case any of us feel like an impromptu session at 3am.
It's a reasonably large room with double bed (!), dorm fridge, and a normal bathtub!! I'm so excited for heated luxurious soaks in it...and the water's hot 24 hours a day, too...a rarity, I'm told.
The fee's on par with my housing allowance at the high school. If I planned to stay here for several more years, I might invest in an apartment, but the "key money" ranges from $5,000-$20,000 US.
So I plan, tentatively, to stay there until the end of March, when I may move to a yeogwan nearer the school on the other end of town.
"She talks very loudly, the three men listen and smile. I think she is explaining the mysteries of the universe to them. That's the nice thing about a language you don't understand - it is possible to believe the conversation is so much more elevated than it probably is."
~Tennessee Williams, "Amor Perdida"
Thursday, February 05, 2004
"Snow transforms everything"
I texted to a few friends this morning.
Walked out of the not-too-cold apartment today and there it was, blown hard and fast and furious into all of us bent into the wind.
Grinned, ran up the stairs to Dusil subway and realized how much I've missed perfect, dry, temporary snow. (Perhaps someday I won't settle in a warm climate.) The kind that dusts dark clothing with giant flakes that melt in an instant's heat.
A man in the PC room sings along in English to some catchy pop song drenched in 80s synth, Laura Branigan-style. He's a damned good singer. I shut off The Verve to listen. Think he's honing his karaoke chops.
This morning in the elementary-age class, the girls decided to draw me during their final five minutes.
"Tierer," reads one from Cookie. Teacher. A woman with big grin and impudent hair and sexy attire (though I've never worn a miniskirt like that one to class).
In several others, I had glistening anime eyes and winked.
The drawing by Candy (a lovely, socially-troubled girl who likes to cling to my legs and bury her face in me) was the most accurate. Dishevelled, straw-like, straightish black hair, big forehead, bow-shaped eyebrows. Waving to everyone, wearing a miniature necklace.
All of them less romanticized than the ones drawn by the Cambodian girls at Angkor.
Took H out to dinner at Pizza Hut several nights ago. Pizza: a cure-all for bad tempers and hangovers, too. We were objects of curiosity for all the other diners. Most of the time, I'm able to tune it out, but the incessant staring - particularly from a father and his two girls - wore on us.
"Oh, man, there's another old man who can't take his eyes off of us," I moaned.
"Who?" H asked.
"The guy at the salad bar scooping out croutons with his bare hands."
A gaggle of high school girls waved and giggled "Hi," took pictures of us (without asking...they might've been too shy, but still....) with their handphones, and showed them to one another.
H tends to get more of it because she's blonde.
It's interesting in the abstract, because eye contact is indirect between Koreans (and most Asians, for that matter), but they've no qualms about staring at a westerner, giving us the up-and-down for such extended periods of time that it'd be considered extremely impolite in the west.
We're "the other," and it's a reminder of our alien status here. Alien in many ways.
Yesterday, a friend called from MN, as I was getting the eye from a man and more polite side-glances from his wife on the subway. I left the train to babble for a while about my current events, and complained about the staring. She'd lived in Japan for three years, so she knew the sensation exactly.
"So your Korean adventure has turned into..." she began.
I really have no idea what to make of it. It's been excruciating and rewarding so far, this trip, and most likely it's not halfway finished yet (if all goes well at the high school).
I've travelled more than is good for the pocketbook, one half from desire and the other from necessity.
Have found people and ideas, and lost others. There's the story of most any year from my 20s, I suppose.
Walked out of the not-too-cold apartment today and there it was, blown hard and fast and furious into all of us bent into the wind.
Grinned, ran up the stairs to Dusil subway and realized how much I've missed perfect, dry, temporary snow. (Perhaps someday I won't settle in a warm climate.) The kind that dusts dark clothing with giant flakes that melt in an instant's heat.
A man in the PC room sings along in English to some catchy pop song drenched in 80s synth, Laura Branigan-style. He's a damned good singer. I shut off The Verve to listen. Think he's honing his karaoke chops.
This morning in the elementary-age class, the girls decided to draw me during their final five minutes.
"Tierer," reads one from Cookie. Teacher. A woman with big grin and impudent hair and sexy attire (though I've never worn a miniskirt like that one to class).
In several others, I had glistening anime eyes and winked.
The drawing by Candy (a lovely, socially-troubled girl who likes to cling to my legs and bury her face in me) was the most accurate. Dishevelled, straw-like, straightish black hair, big forehead, bow-shaped eyebrows. Waving to everyone, wearing a miniature necklace.
All of them less romanticized than the ones drawn by the Cambodian girls at Angkor.
Took H out to dinner at Pizza Hut several nights ago. Pizza: a cure-all for bad tempers and hangovers, too. We were objects of curiosity for all the other diners. Most of the time, I'm able to tune it out, but the incessant staring - particularly from a father and his two girls - wore on us.
"Oh, man, there's another old man who can't take his eyes off of us," I moaned.
"Who?" H asked.
"The guy at the salad bar scooping out croutons with his bare hands."
A gaggle of high school girls waved and giggled "Hi," took pictures of us (without asking...they might've been too shy, but still....) with their handphones, and showed them to one another.
H tends to get more of it because she's blonde.
It's interesting in the abstract, because eye contact is indirect between Koreans (and most Asians, for that matter), but they've no qualms about staring at a westerner, giving us the up-and-down for such extended periods of time that it'd be considered extremely impolite in the west.
We're "the other," and it's a reminder of our alien status here. Alien in many ways.
Yesterday, a friend called from MN, as I was getting the eye from a man and more polite side-glances from his wife on the subway. I left the train to babble for a while about my current events, and complained about the staring. She'd lived in Japan for three years, so she knew the sensation exactly.
"So your Korean adventure has turned into..." she began.
I really have no idea what to make of it. It's been excruciating and rewarding so far, this trip, and most likely it's not halfway finished yet (if all goes well at the high school).
I've travelled more than is good for the pocketbook, one half from desire and the other from necessity.
Have found people and ideas, and lost others. There's the story of most any year from my 20s, I suppose.
Tuesday, February 03, 2004
Too much free time?
Never possible, I've always thought.
But I've never had an excess as long as there was a place to paint or spend uninterrupted time alone when I needed it. So in the past month, I've had plenty of time - just nowhere to spend it quite as I'd like!
At the moment I'm in a PC room in the no-man's land of Pusan, somewhere between the Dusil and Namsan-dong subway stops. My roommates are teaching, and I've no key...so till I meet them later, I'll be typing away. My brushes are locked inside...ah, itchy fingers.
Last night over curry and beer at Camel, "the Traveller's bar", a Korean man remarked that he'd seen my half-finished painting at a local club.
"Very beautiful, very sensitive," he said. "The owner is kind of like, 'I'm not so sure,' but I really like it," he smiled. There's nothing like Korean frankness. I appreciate it even while cringing.
It's been a struggle to work with the space and against my leanings towards the juxtaposition of beauty and ugliness. So far, the window's turned out beautifully, and the female's coming along well, though it does have that romantic quality I can rarely escape. Have so far decided to keep the paint to thin washes, watercolor-like, rather than paint straight from the tube.
As for the right third of the painting, I'm undecided as to what to represent. Have juggled several disturbing ideas for a male figure: Korean masks, mythological figures. Months after I've finished a painting, I can typically read the undercurrents of my life at the time, whether I wanted them in the imagery or not.
Last weekend, Fukuoka was a quiet time. Had been up most of Friday night, and slept for sixteen hours in the warm embrace of a much larger ryokan room. Alcoves, architectural quirks like strangely-angled plaster and slanting wood; solid slender tree trunks as supports for a chestnut-stained ceiling. Some of the bamboo molding was genuine, some of it plastic.
The garden outside my mulberry-papered windows had a small red house-shrine with tin roof, perched on a weathered grey rock. Graceful trees with upward-facing leaves and angular branches.
On the wall they'd hung a well-worn golden silk scroll on a paper backing: two birds hand-painted in a delicate technique.
But I've never had an excess as long as there was a place to paint or spend uninterrupted time alone when I needed it. So in the past month, I've had plenty of time - just nowhere to spend it quite as I'd like!
At the moment I'm in a PC room in the no-man's land of Pusan, somewhere between the Dusil and Namsan-dong subway stops. My roommates are teaching, and I've no key...so till I meet them later, I'll be typing away. My brushes are locked inside...ah, itchy fingers.
Last night over curry and beer at Camel, "the Traveller's bar", a Korean man remarked that he'd seen my half-finished painting at a local club.
"Very beautiful, very sensitive," he said. "The owner is kind of like, 'I'm not so sure,' but I really like it," he smiled. There's nothing like Korean frankness. I appreciate it even while cringing.
It's been a struggle to work with the space and against my leanings towards the juxtaposition of beauty and ugliness. So far, the window's turned out beautifully, and the female's coming along well, though it does have that romantic quality I can rarely escape. Have so far decided to keep the paint to thin washes, watercolor-like, rather than paint straight from the tube.
As for the right third of the painting, I'm undecided as to what to represent. Have juggled several disturbing ideas for a male figure: Korean masks, mythological figures. Months after I've finished a painting, I can typically read the undercurrents of my life at the time, whether I wanted them in the imagery or not.
Last weekend, Fukuoka was a quiet time. Had been up most of Friday night, and slept for sixteen hours in the warm embrace of a much larger ryokan room. Alcoves, architectural quirks like strangely-angled plaster and slanting wood; solid slender tree trunks as supports for a chestnut-stained ceiling. Some of the bamboo molding was genuine, some of it plastic.
The garden outside my mulberry-papered windows had a small red house-shrine with tin roof, perched on a weathered grey rock. Graceful trees with upward-facing leaves and angular branches.
On the wall they'd hung a well-worn golden silk scroll on a paper backing: two birds hand-painted in a delicate technique.
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