As I exited the subway turnstiles last night, a couple argued.
She pushed his wheelchair away from her onto the polished floor.
The child on her back cried, and had soiled its blankets.
Exhausted, the mother sat outside and the man waved his fists at her, his head bent sideways as though against his will. He couldn't turn the wheelchair around to face her, so he shouted at the empty space in front of him.
I walked past her and started shaking. Couldn't forget his withered legs and tiny stockinged feet, curled into commas.
Time for some projections disguised as microfiction.
Wednesday, March 31, 2004
Tuesday, March 30, 2004
New links
Naked Translations is the weblog of Celine Graciet, a French translator residing in Brighton. Its focused "on the bridge from the English to the French language." For those aspiring copywriters with an interest in either tongue, this one's for you.
The Historic Tale Construction kit takes a while to load, but is worth it. Brings me back to cool dim rooms at a number of muesums, polite conversations muffled by tapestries....
I'll include this wicked Nebraskan living in NYC, because she's hysterical. Que Sera Sera features a photo of pale hands holding a cup of tea. On them she's written "READ/WEEP," gangsta-style. You will.
The Historic Tale Construction kit takes a while to load, but is worth it. Brings me back to cool dim rooms at a number of muesums, polite conversations muffled by tapestries....
I'll include this wicked Nebraskan living in NYC, because she's hysterical. Que Sera Sera features a photo of pale hands holding a cup of tea. On them she's written "READ/WEEP," gangsta-style. You will.
Monday, March 29, 2004
First evening lesson with a pathologically shy 8-year-old girl who'll be moving to Buffalo, NY, later this year. I could only get monosyllabic answers from her every five minutes or so.
We drew a bit, wrote names in English and Korean, and she laughed at the picture on my drivers license.
Knew, from my many years of crippling shyness, that it helps to look at something besides the other person's eyes. Especially in this culture. So I pulled out a picture storybook and read to her of a man who traps a "heavenly maiden wearing flying clothes."
She was entranced and relieved at once.
Walked home with her mother, a doctor at a local Catholic hospital.
Received the usual batch of questions: age, hometown, education, etc.
"Marriage is like a tomb," the mother said, when she heard that I wasn't.
The girl was raised mainly by a grandmother-figure who now lives in Toronto. They hope to see her during their tenure in NY.
I'll be dragging out every story book I can find this week.
Especially those featuring flying maidens and princesses.
We drew a bit, wrote names in English and Korean, and she laughed at the picture on my drivers license.
Knew, from my many years of crippling shyness, that it helps to look at something besides the other person's eyes. Especially in this culture. So I pulled out a picture storybook and read to her of a man who traps a "heavenly maiden wearing flying clothes."
She was entranced and relieved at once.
Walked home with her mother, a doctor at a local Catholic hospital.
Received the usual batch of questions: age, hometown, education, etc.
"Marriage is like a tomb," the mother said, when she heard that I wasn't.
The girl was raised mainly by a grandmother-figure who now lives in Toronto. They hope to see her during their tenure in NY.
I'll be dragging out every story book I can find this week.
Especially those featuring flying maidens and princesses.
Her Corset
pulled me to the stage.
The Australian Chamber Made Opera's Recital was demented and glorious. The dead prima donna - all powdered face and black brows - looked like a Dangerous Liasons character gone senile from egotism.
She swooned into the spotlight as her panicked pianist scampered over from stage right.
Covered completely in white in an 18th-century floured wig, translucent veils, and a fantastically stiff pleated skirt made of pliable cardboard.
We craned to look under the veil, waiting, hoping she'd take it off.
She lifted it gently, stretching minutes into hours as one does the first time with a new lover.
Admired her for turning a great voice - not strong enough (anymore?) for the competitive international opera scene - into an unconventional performance, a combination of acting and vocal ability. The actress, Helen Noonan (Australian with a very English face: long and dominated by the nose), had first trained in drama, and afterwards studied voice.
The show was subtitled in simplified English and Korean. She'd throw in the odd Korean word to connect with the audience. It always worked, provoking an immediate ripple of laughter.
Reminded me of my childhood porcelain dolls: frayed, faded, stained with tears and age.
I smelled venetian turpentine and wax, then dust and dried roses. Attic scents. Past her prime, visually and vocally.
Pale distorted reflections in the glossy black piano looked like a Degas pastel: stiff white skirts and whirling legs. At times she moved like a marionette, reminiscent of the mimes one sees all over Europe in the summertime.
High-strung and neurotically narcissistic, wicked and endearing all at once.
She sang an aria from Carmen, and, in such a simple, colorless setting, attention focused more on her than it does during a full-scale opera production.
Cackling western women behind us made me hope for a similar humorous menopausal attitude someday.
A voice of soft, threadbare wool. Sporadic streams of smoke gave depth to what would have been a stark black contrast.
Wheels of memory whirred in sound effects and the actress turned with them.
Monologues of lost diamond bracelets, thirteen fat opera singers making love, flights to Stuttgart "- Or was it Munich?" she wondered. "Zurich?"
Glamor and grief.
Disconcerting: her red tongue through expressive black lips.
Tales embellished beyond belief. Illusions of divinity: "I am very, very famous - if I had been one of them [outside her hotel balcony], I would have wanted to see me, too."
Holes in her memory exposed by brief pauses and stutters.
"If I did have to play a piece of furniture, I'd have to be a chiffoniere."
Her eyes opened hugely, thickly lined and shadowed in black. Her body stretched, taut, arched, tension waiting for release.
Finale: she removed her white skirts, wig, then the corset. [Was reminded more than ever of Nicole Blackman....though there was no faux blood here.] The actress's simple black dress and pale hair were revealed; makeup had aged her. All that was left was her voice as the spotlight faded.
A litany of statistics sums up a life lived melodramatically:
~ 23,491 kisses given and received
~ 85,432 swoons onstage
~ 112,765 times applauded
~1,867,143 performances total
Later, spotted at the entrance to a Korean club called, of all things, the "JIGGY GUARANTEED bar and party club":
"We are sincerely sorry for that you are not allowed to enter this club unless you Korean."
Busan is a cultural desert, friends remarked yesterday.
Though not without its interesting characters.
The Australian Chamber Made Opera's Recital was demented and glorious. The dead prima donna - all powdered face and black brows - looked like a Dangerous Liasons character gone senile from egotism.
She swooned into the spotlight as her panicked pianist scampered over from stage right.
Covered completely in white in an 18th-century floured wig, translucent veils, and a fantastically stiff pleated skirt made of pliable cardboard.
We craned to look under the veil, waiting, hoping she'd take it off.
She lifted it gently, stretching minutes into hours as one does the first time with a new lover.
Admired her for turning a great voice - not strong enough (anymore?) for the competitive international opera scene - into an unconventional performance, a combination of acting and vocal ability. The actress, Helen Noonan (Australian with a very English face: long and dominated by the nose), had first trained in drama, and afterwards studied voice.
The show was subtitled in simplified English and Korean. She'd throw in the odd Korean word to connect with the audience. It always worked, provoking an immediate ripple of laughter.
Reminded me of my childhood porcelain dolls: frayed, faded, stained with tears and age.
I smelled venetian turpentine and wax, then dust and dried roses. Attic scents. Past her prime, visually and vocally.
Pale distorted reflections in the glossy black piano looked like a Degas pastel: stiff white skirts and whirling legs. At times she moved like a marionette, reminiscent of the mimes one sees all over Europe in the summertime.
High-strung and neurotically narcissistic, wicked and endearing all at once.
She sang an aria from Carmen, and, in such a simple, colorless setting, attention focused more on her than it does during a full-scale opera production.
Cackling western women behind us made me hope for a similar humorous menopausal attitude someday.
A voice of soft, threadbare wool. Sporadic streams of smoke gave depth to what would have been a stark black contrast.
Wheels of memory whirred in sound effects and the actress turned with them.
Monologues of lost diamond bracelets, thirteen fat opera singers making love, flights to Stuttgart "- Or was it Munich?" she wondered. "Zurich?"
Glamor and grief.
Disconcerting: her red tongue through expressive black lips.
Tales embellished beyond belief. Illusions of divinity: "I am very, very famous - if I had been one of them [outside her hotel balcony], I would have wanted to see me, too."
Holes in her memory exposed by brief pauses and stutters.
"If I did have to play a piece of furniture, I'd have to be a chiffoniere."
Her eyes opened hugely, thickly lined and shadowed in black. Her body stretched, taut, arched, tension waiting for release.
Finale: she removed her white skirts, wig, then the corset. [Was reminded more than ever of Nicole Blackman....though there was no faux blood here.] The actress's simple black dress and pale hair were revealed; makeup had aged her. All that was left was her voice as the spotlight faded.
A litany of statistics sums up a life lived melodramatically:
~ 23,491 kisses given and received
~ 85,432 swoons onstage
~ 112,765 times applauded
~1,867,143 performances total
Later, spotted at the entrance to a Korean club called, of all things, the "JIGGY GUARANTEED bar and party club":
"We are sincerely sorry for that you are not allowed to enter this club unless you Korean."
Busan is a cultural desert, friends remarked yesterday.
Though not without its interesting characters.
Saturday, March 27, 2004
"Gimme a..."
Bad
Ugly
Silly
Hook
A selection of adjectives that the English club slapped on Bush today. Read Dan in China's recent posts about anti-Bush sentiment on his campus. My students have demonstrated unswerving anti-Japanese (personified of course by Koizumi, which they often write as "Go is me") resentment, as well.
Today also featured other teachers and various celebrities. And of course they wrote one about me:
haEundae
Looks like Britney Spears [huh?]
Impression
Z
Attractive
Beautiful
Elegance
Teacher
Honest
Time to get some street food, have a walk on the beach, and put some base coats on the grenade before the writer's meeting tonight.
Hope the weekend finds everyone well.
Ugly
Silly
Hook
A selection of adjectives that the English club slapped on Bush today. Read Dan in China's recent posts about anti-Bush sentiment on his campus. My students have demonstrated unswerving anti-Japanese (personified of course by Koizumi, which they often write as "Go is me") resentment, as well.
Today also featured other teachers and various celebrities. And of course they wrote one about me:
haEundae
Looks like Britney Spears [huh?]
Impression
Z
Attractive
Beautiful
Elegance
Teacher
Honest
Time to get some street food, have a walk on the beach, and put some base coats on the grenade before the writer's meeting tonight.
Hope the weekend finds everyone well.
Friday, March 26, 2004
Test Day
Time drags his heels.
Boys pick their noses and cough. A chorus of sniffling.
Ties thrown over shoulders. Students in grey and black and white scratch silver pencils over grey paper.
Algebraic formulae and geometry I haven't seen in years.
Their bodies twitch as pens jiggle nervously.
An eraser falls to the floor and the boy waits for my permission to pick it up.
The teacher I replaced had been snoozing in his chair, in the same listless position as in the teachers' room.
They sigh and shuffle their rubber sandals and shoes.
The air is close and heavy with the scent of freshly-laundered uniforms spiced with sweat.
Sunlight streams through half-open windows.
Students count on fingers and crack their knuckles. Too many of them wear glasses.
They have for the most part lost the "Dumbo ears" of childhood.
Acne is common. Rings are not.
One student tugs a pale green pillow from his desk, and rests his head on it.
Brows wrinkle. Now curtains block out the distraction of a sunlit landscape.
Boys pick their noses and cough. A chorus of sniffling.
Ties thrown over shoulders. Students in grey and black and white scratch silver pencils over grey paper.
Algebraic formulae and geometry I haven't seen in years.
Their bodies twitch as pens jiggle nervously.
An eraser falls to the floor and the boy waits for my permission to pick it up.
The teacher I replaced had been snoozing in his chair, in the same listless position as in the teachers' room.
They sigh and shuffle their rubber sandals and shoes.
The air is close and heavy with the scent of freshly-laundered uniforms spiced with sweat.
Sunlight streams through half-open windows.
Students count on fingers and crack their knuckles. Too many of them wear glasses.
They have for the most part lost the "Dumbo ears" of childhood.
Acne is common. Rings are not.
One student tugs a pale green pillow from his desk, and rests his head on it.
Brows wrinkle. Now curtains block out the distraction of a sunlit landscape.
Thursday, March 25, 2004
Corporal punishment just administered in the teachers' room next to ours.
I flinched and looked at the door while others snickered nervously.
I'm never having kids...not unless I run into someone - an adept at hypnosis or a kind & patient Pavlovian - who can take care of them for me.
I flinched and looked at the door while others snickered nervously.
I'm never having kids...not unless I run into someone - an adept at hypnosis or a kind & patient Pavlovian - who can take care of them for me.
On-cheon-jang (온 천 장)
is the name of my current neighborhood (in case any of you feel like stopping by).
And it's a virtual village of love motels; the "motel" symbol is even noted on highway signs that lead to it.
In my side street, an unevenly paved concrete hodgepodge of teetering buildings, we have everything your standard salaryman desires:
* A galbi [Korean beef barbeque] restaurant that makes my mouth water every time I walk by. Not quite as macho as a dog restaurant, but it's close: red-blooded and expensive.
* At least one norebang, for soju- or beer-induced self-expression. When the wind blows in the right direction, the singers - their treble voices amplified and reverberating off plaster walls and buildings - sound like lost banshees.
* Any level of love motel he'd like, with a selection of girls' cards taped to the doorsteps.
Yesterday, a shiny black SUV honked at me as I walked home. The passenger window descended.
After a fraction of confusion ("No one I know here owns a car!....Oh, it's D." I'd recently painted a mural at one of his clubs), I walked over to him and said "Hi, how're you doing?"
Instead, a 30-something salaryman grinned at me, and said "Hello?"
He motioned me into the car. I dashed home instead.
H. has bought me a pair of green ankle socks that have "DUMP" written on them.
We had a good time explaining to our Korean friends all the uses we have for that word in English.
And it's a virtual village of love motels; the "motel" symbol is even noted on highway signs that lead to it.
In my side street, an unevenly paved concrete hodgepodge of teetering buildings, we have everything your standard salaryman desires:
* A galbi [Korean beef barbeque] restaurant that makes my mouth water every time I walk by. Not quite as macho as a dog restaurant, but it's close: red-blooded and expensive.
* At least one norebang, for soju- or beer-induced self-expression. When the wind blows in the right direction, the singers - their treble voices amplified and reverberating off plaster walls and buildings - sound like lost banshees.
* Any level of love motel he'd like, with a selection of girls' cards taped to the doorsteps.
Yesterday, a shiny black SUV honked at me as I walked home. The passenger window descended.
After a fraction of confusion ("No one I know here owns a car!....Oh, it's D." I'd recently painted a mural at one of his clubs), I walked over to him and said "Hi, how're you doing?"
Instead, a 30-something salaryman grinned at me, and said "Hello?"
He motioned me into the car. I dashed home instead.
H. has bought me a pair of green ankle socks that have "DUMP" written on them.
We had a good time explaining to our Korean friends all the uses we have for that word in English.
Tuesday, March 23, 2004
Thoughtful
writing on backpackers' travel whims in Cambodia, at World Hum.
I've been given the go-ahead for the grenade, and what a small pale objet d'art it is. Feel honored to paint it.
Last night I sketched Justice onto a rust-covered canvas.
Gorgeous and free-spirited: the beginnings of a painting, like a new vocation, or learning the machinations of another. Have recently realized my paintings are visually heavier than I'd like. It's something to work on later, but weight is what Jeff's looking for, so I'll proceed with this in my usual fashion.
Time to catch Subway line 2 during rush hour and learn some new letters.
I've been given the go-ahead for the grenade, and what a small pale objet d'art it is. Feel honored to paint it.
Last night I sketched Justice onto a rust-covered canvas.
Gorgeous and free-spirited: the beginnings of a painting, like a new vocation, or learning the machinations of another. Have recently realized my paintings are visually heavier than I'd like. It's something to work on later, but weight is what Jeff's looking for, so I'll proceed with this in my usual fashion.
Time to catch Subway line 2 during rush hour and learn some new letters.
Monday, March 22, 2004
Glam...
...ah. That'd be the way the BF pronounces "glamor".
It's great to begin the week with purple glitter around pale eyes.
A counterpoint to feet torn to bits by a new pair of red Japanese shoes.
A weekend filled with girlfriends, both Korean and western. Yesterday in particular I savored them, once I'd recovered from Sosa Club's Saturday sangria (excellent dance music there, too).
Last night I returned home from an evening of coffee, shopping, and very feminine chatter and tried to sleep.
Never before had I been so aware of the chasm in meaning between the phrases of "missing someone," and the strange desolation of acute, if temporary, "loneliness".
From a Korean tissue packet:
"It's great to spend the morning together.
I'm proud of being tidy.
We'd better thank for my life style."
Have practiced reading Hangeul on rare wakeful mornings.
What great mental acrobatics it is to read English words written in hangeul, then turn them back into English again, with inevitable transformations.
For example, "Dunkin' Donuts" would look something like: "Donken Donutch".
At the end of the day, Korean approximations come surprisingly close to the original words.
Remember one late night with my old-old roommate, a norebang owner serenaded us with his heartfelt version of "Besame Mucho."
"Wow," I thought at the time - how patronizing of me - "he's sounding out Spanish using Korean characters." Forgetting of course that I did the same every time I read a Korean word in Roman script.
In other news, I have a real grenade in my bedroom.
A Japanese WWII ceramic sphere that was once filled with wax and gunpowder, one of hundreds of thousands stashed in caves. For use in hand-to-hand combat against the Americans. I'm due to paint some designs on it during the next week or two.
Tonight: off to buy some acrylic paints for "Justice".
It's great to begin the week with purple glitter around pale eyes.
A counterpoint to feet torn to bits by a new pair of red Japanese shoes.
A weekend filled with girlfriends, both Korean and western. Yesterday in particular I savored them, once I'd recovered from Sosa Club's Saturday sangria (excellent dance music there, too).
Last night I returned home from an evening of coffee, shopping, and very feminine chatter and tried to sleep.
Never before had I been so aware of the chasm in meaning between the phrases of "missing someone," and the strange desolation of acute, if temporary, "loneliness".
From a Korean tissue packet:
"It's great to spend the morning together.
I'm proud of being tidy.
We'd better thank for my life style."
Have practiced reading Hangeul on rare wakeful mornings.
What great mental acrobatics it is to read English words written in hangeul, then turn them back into English again, with inevitable transformations.
For example, "Dunkin' Donuts" would look something like: "Donken Donutch".
At the end of the day, Korean approximations come surprisingly close to the original words.
Remember one late night with my old-old roommate, a norebang owner serenaded us with his heartfelt version of "Besame Mucho."
"Wow," I thought at the time - how patronizing of me - "he's sounding out Spanish using Korean characters." Forgetting of course that I did the same every time I read a Korean word in Roman script.
In other news, I have a real grenade in my bedroom.
A Japanese WWII ceramic sphere that was once filled with wax and gunpowder, one of hundreds of thousands stashed in caves. For use in hand-to-hand combat against the Americans. I'm due to paint some designs on it during the next week or two.
Tonight: off to buy some acrylic paints for "Justice".
Friday, March 19, 2004
"Their skepticism was so deep it saved them from disillusion"
Andrew Sullivan,
in Time Asia,
on people misquoted in the Jayson Blair scandal
from the article: "The Year of Living Erroneously"
From the Saudimized (?) David.
On being a highly paranoid, narcissistic, moderately antisocial and histrionic chick with little dependency:
"In other words, you are fun."
in Time Asia,
on people misquoted in the Jayson Blair scandal
from the article: "The Year of Living Erroneously"
From the Saudimized (?) David.
On being a highly paranoid, narcissistic, moderately antisocial and histrionic chick with little dependency:
"In other words, you are fun."
Thursday, March 18, 2004
I can read
~a little. In Korean, that is.
It's a sad but veritable fact that many westerners here - and that's included me - can't read the name of the city and country in which we've lived for months...years, even.
How does one learn? new teachers-of-anything (should) ask themselves often.
I was reminded again last night. Learning another language - especially while living in that culture - is like a second infancy, stumbles and all. First ears begin to make sense of a foreign language, then palate and lips and tongue are able to reproduce some of the sounds, then finally eyes decipher two-dimensional marks and imbue black-and-white abstractions with meaning.
Hangeul (Korean) is the most rational writing system I've encountered. I'm no linguist (and am still bleary from our St. Patrick's green underwear celebration last night) so will defer to an expert. I'll say this much: it's easy to learn, everyone says, and they're right. But I learned French by living in France, and knew I wouldn't learn any Korean till I'd become familiar with some of the sounds of the language.
Yesterday the history teacher took the Chinese teacher and me out for samgyepsal ("three layers of fat"...a crispy barbeque of fatty pork strips....my blood's still sluggish today), and then drove us to my neighborhood.
On the way there, my eyes were drawn to road signs, trying to decipher the names in hangeul, perhaps to escape the implications of gently asked questions like: "How is your life in Korea? What do you think is necessary for happiness? Will you marry your boyfriend?"
[Note to all: Never ask me questions like that on a rainy weekday evening.]
Instead of thinking about trite matters like the differing definitions of happiness in occidental/oriental cultures and how to translate them into simplified english, I'd become preoccupied with the many shapes of hangeul.
Perhaps my interest was spurred by the reading I'd done the night before, where Steven Pinker mentioned that "letters revolve in the mind at a rate of 56RPM," and, later, that "visual thinking uses not language but a mental graphics system, with operations that rotate, scan, zoom, pan, displace, and fill in patterns of contours."
The history teacher dropped me off at Jangjeon-dong subway station, and I stared at the sign, then at the clock. A plan occurred to me, born of leisure time and curiosity, as most ideas are. "Why not? I've two hours before I need to be anywhere," I thought.
So I took the subway to the end of the line and back. Yes, really. I copied the hangeul and english versions of each subway stop, my lips moving occasionally, probably looking like yet another western lunatic. Stops were perfectly timed with the rate at which my mind absorbed new letters. I was hungry enough to want more as we approached each station. All told, I learned a dozen letters - about half of the alphabet.
The world around me began to make sense in a way it never has before.
I looked at a subway map: "Oh my god!" I thought. "That says Busan Chiacheol!" [subway]
Hangeul signs are plastered over buildings and subways and socks. It had all been, visually, white noise to me until yesterday.
Now, even if I don't understand the meaning of what I'm reading, it's all practice.
A rapturous state, revelation. Particularly when it lasts for hours on end, only to be quenched by beer and familiar company.
It's a sad but veritable fact that many westerners here - and that's included me - can't read the name of the city and country in which we've lived for months...years, even.
How does one learn? new teachers-of-anything (should) ask themselves often.
I was reminded again last night. Learning another language - especially while living in that culture - is like a second infancy, stumbles and all. First ears begin to make sense of a foreign language, then palate and lips and tongue are able to reproduce some of the sounds, then finally eyes decipher two-dimensional marks and imbue black-and-white abstractions with meaning.
Hangeul (Korean) is the most rational writing system I've encountered. I'm no linguist (and am still bleary from our St. Patrick's green underwear celebration last night) so will defer to an expert. I'll say this much: it's easy to learn, everyone says, and they're right. But I learned French by living in France, and knew I wouldn't learn any Korean till I'd become familiar with some of the sounds of the language.
Yesterday the history teacher took the Chinese teacher and me out for samgyepsal ("three layers of fat"...a crispy barbeque of fatty pork strips....my blood's still sluggish today), and then drove us to my neighborhood.
On the way there, my eyes were drawn to road signs, trying to decipher the names in hangeul, perhaps to escape the implications of gently asked questions like: "How is your life in Korea? What do you think is necessary for happiness? Will you marry your boyfriend?"
[Note to all: Never ask me questions like that on a rainy weekday evening.]
Instead of thinking about trite matters like the differing definitions of happiness in occidental/oriental cultures and how to translate them into simplified english, I'd become preoccupied with the many shapes of hangeul.
Perhaps my interest was spurred by the reading I'd done the night before, where Steven Pinker mentioned that "letters revolve in the mind at a rate of 56RPM," and, later, that "visual thinking uses not language but a mental graphics system, with operations that rotate, scan, zoom, pan, displace, and fill in patterns of contours."
The history teacher dropped me off at Jangjeon-dong subway station, and I stared at the sign, then at the clock. A plan occurred to me, born of leisure time and curiosity, as most ideas are. "Why not? I've two hours before I need to be anywhere," I thought.
So I took the subway to the end of the line and back. Yes, really. I copied the hangeul and english versions of each subway stop, my lips moving occasionally, probably looking like yet another western lunatic. Stops were perfectly timed with the rate at which my mind absorbed new letters. I was hungry enough to want more as we approached each station. All told, I learned a dozen letters - about half of the alphabet.
The world around me began to make sense in a way it never has before.
I looked at a subway map: "Oh my god!" I thought. "That says Busan Chiacheol!" [subway]
Hangeul signs are plastered over buildings and subways and socks. It had all been, visually, white noise to me until yesterday.
Now, even if I don't understand the meaning of what I'm reading, it's all practice.
A rapturous state, revelation. Particularly when it lasts for hours on end, only to be quenched by beer and familiar company.
Wednesday, March 17, 2004
Creole:
"The language that results when children make a pidgin their native tongue...creoles have standard word orders...and, aside from the sounds of words, not taken from the language of the colonizers."
~Steven Pinker, The Language Instinct
So I take back my earlier comments about "creole", now able to think about it from a linguistic rather than colonial viewpoint.
Humid sea air buffets us all today, laden with rain and spring. I want to laugh as blood rushes faster with it. Strong scents of asphalt and seaweed.
There are more blossoms and green around us every day.
Pusan is crawling with Navy men...on Texas Street, signs welcome pale boys with clear eyes and closely-cropped hair. We Americans have - literally - a wide-eyed innocence that's nigh-impossible to shake. All of Haeundae is crawling with navymen, just in time for 2-for-1 beers at Bennigan's.
My damp Liverpudlian jacket made a man sneeze on the bus this morning. I bought it years ago from a moldy thrift shop and took it to my moldy apartment. Then wore it to a dusty warehouse every day where spores choked our breathing as I called artists around the UK and invited them to participate in the Liverpool Biennial. It's about time to retire the poor thing.
May soon be painting a faux hand grenade. And just when I thought things were about to slow down!
~Steven Pinker, The Language Instinct
So I take back my earlier comments about "creole", now able to think about it from a linguistic rather than colonial viewpoint.
Humid sea air buffets us all today, laden with rain and spring. I want to laugh as blood rushes faster with it. Strong scents of asphalt and seaweed.
There are more blossoms and green around us every day.
Pusan is crawling with Navy men...on Texas Street, signs welcome pale boys with clear eyes and closely-cropped hair. We Americans have - literally - a wide-eyed innocence that's nigh-impossible to shake. All of Haeundae is crawling with navymen, just in time for 2-for-1 beers at Bennigan's.
My damp Liverpudlian jacket made a man sneeze on the bus this morning. I bought it years ago from a moldy thrift shop and took it to my moldy apartment. Then wore it to a dusty warehouse every day where spores choked our breathing as I called artists around the UK and invited them to participate in the Liverpool Biennial. It's about time to retire the poor thing.
May soon be painting a faux hand grenade. And just when I thought things were about to slow down!
Tuesday, March 16, 2004
Pusan Nat'l University
campus is a haven in the midst of a hectic quarter of crumbling cement sidewalks and neon signs. There's an abundance of trees, grass, open spaces. There you can wander through swathes of green with fewer bobbing heads, a world away from surging crowds.
Around the art building is a clearing that looks like a building site: the uneven ground is lined with pale gravel. Boys play hide-and-seek in a giant rusted box, larger than two Korean studio apartments. A raw granite torso, armless, hollow and split in two lengthwise; a gigantic, gaunt woman, three times lifesize, with serene plaster face and hands sits stiffly, draped in gesso-covered plastic.
To the side, what looks like sculptural refuse: wire strung with fabric; granite heads with broken noses; a giant hand, its veins not yet filed down; a foot-long disembodied ear next to marble slabs, clumsily glued together; jagged pieces of slate cemented to an iron brace. Nearby, a wrapped present carved from stone and a faux fish fossil embedded in grey rock; an emotional little sculpture, typical of many university art majors (and I've been no exception): a man with no visible imperfections (but isn't the artist a fickle creature) with his head buried between his knees, arms crossed over them. A ram's head, polished and broken, and a headless man's bust wearing traditional Korean hanbok, pitted from months of sporadic rains.
This detrius of abandoned and neglected projects, half-buried in the grass, reminded me of what I stumbled across recently:
"The recipe for becoming a good novelist [or a "good" anything]...is easy to give, but to carry it out presupposes qualities one is accustomed to overlook when one says 'I don't have enough talent.'
One has only to make a hundred or so sketches for novels, none longer than two pages but of such distinctness that every word in them is necessary; one should write down anecdotes every day until one has learned how to give them the most pregnant and effective form; one should be tireless in collecting and describing human types and characters; one should above all relate things to others and listen to others relate, keeping one's eyes and ears open for the effect produced on those present, one should travel like a landscape painter or costume designer...one should, finally, reflect on the motives of human actions, disdain no signpost for instruction about them and be a collector of these things by day and night.
One should continue in this many-sided exercise for some ten years; what is then created in the workshop....will be fit to go out into the world."
~Human, all too Human, Nietzsche
Around the art building is a clearing that looks like a building site: the uneven ground is lined with pale gravel. Boys play hide-and-seek in a giant rusted box, larger than two Korean studio apartments. A raw granite torso, armless, hollow and split in two lengthwise; a gigantic, gaunt woman, three times lifesize, with serene plaster face and hands sits stiffly, draped in gesso-covered plastic.
To the side, what looks like sculptural refuse: wire strung with fabric; granite heads with broken noses; a giant hand, its veins not yet filed down; a foot-long disembodied ear next to marble slabs, clumsily glued together; jagged pieces of slate cemented to an iron brace. Nearby, a wrapped present carved from stone and a faux fish fossil embedded in grey rock; an emotional little sculpture, typical of many university art majors (and I've been no exception): a man with no visible imperfections (but isn't the artist a fickle creature) with his head buried between his knees, arms crossed over them. A ram's head, polished and broken, and a headless man's bust wearing traditional Korean hanbok, pitted from months of sporadic rains.
This detrius of abandoned and neglected projects, half-buried in the grass, reminded me of what I stumbled across recently:
"The recipe for becoming a good novelist [or a "good" anything]...is easy to give, but to carry it out presupposes qualities one is accustomed to overlook when one says 'I don't have enough talent.'
One has only to make a hundred or so sketches for novels, none longer than two pages but of such distinctness that every word in them is necessary; one should write down anecdotes every day until one has learned how to give them the most pregnant and effective form; one should be tireless in collecting and describing human types and characters; one should above all relate things to others and listen to others relate, keeping one's eyes and ears open for the effect produced on those present, one should travel like a landscape painter or costume designer...one should, finally, reflect on the motives of human actions, disdain no signpost for instruction about them and be a collector of these things by day and night.
One should continue in this many-sided exercise for some ten years; what is then created in the workshop....will be fit to go out into the world."
~Human, all too Human, Nietzsche
Monday, March 15, 2004
engrish.com
Go there.
For any of you familiar with NE Asian english (whether from any Chinatown in the world, or firsthand experience of Asia) it'll bring a smile - or wince - of recognition to your face.
It's not poking fun at people, only at misappropriations of another language.
I see similar things every day.
For any of you familiar with NE Asian english (whether from any Chinatown in the world, or firsthand experience of Asia) it'll bring a smile - or wince - of recognition to your face.
It's not poking fun at people, only at misappropriations of another language.
I see similar things every day.
President-less
Korean president Roh Moo-hyun will soon be impeached.
The repercussions: political, financial, and otherwise, have been immediate (temporary, we hope) chaos.
I won't rehash anything (politics are beyond me these days, till I start reading daily papers of good quality again), but will simply direct you to a few other sites, with people who know what they're talking about:
The Marmot's Hole has a rational account of these going-on
The Korea Herald
The Korea Times
A long announcement this afternoon about air raid drills at school, complete with sirens. "You know the peninsula was divided," another teacher began, "so we have a special situation." Oh, yeah, I've heard of something like that happening around here.
Last year I was continually reminded of it last by the blank looks on peoples' faces in Boston when I told them where I planned to move. "Aren't they communist in Korea?" more than one person asked.
"Um, which Korea are you talking about? We can't even visit North Korea as Americans."
The South often feels more capitalist than my own country...but it's really just materialism and small-scale capitalism. Chaebols (giant dynastic businesses, ex: Samsung, Hyundai) still run a majority of Korea's economy.
Yesterday was White Day, so I was escorted to a raw fish restaurant by 4 Korean girls....
Oh, might as well start the weekend-rehashing with Friday night.
K. invited a half-dozen of us to another performance of the Busan Philharmonic: Dvorak and Mozart this time. Enjoyable yet again. Hopefully Pusanweb will soon have information about the Phil's schedule.
Then off to J's birthday party at Camel. Plenty of the usual Friday evening entertainment: same people, different venue. Glad to see Nan-hee getting some business, and she handed me a deadly shot of tequila. She "dis-invited" S to dinner on Sunday after hearing about what an idiot he'd been.
Slouched and laughed and danced poorly at Soul Trane till 530am. Wondered, as I always do when I end up there: "Why did I bother?" Still, there were melodramatic incidents that kept things lively.
Dazed for much of Saturday, I still managed to pick up a giant canvas at the art store. Walked home and miraculously didn't run into a lollipop-toting couple or elderly woman with a cardboard-laden cart, so it's still undented and in one piece. Tonight I'll stroke on the first acrylic layer.
"You comin' or not?" Heidi asked that morning, pert as always. "Where?" I mumbled, convinced I still reeked of tequila.
"Texas Street, of course!"
So after a lively meeting with a pair of writers - where we honed ideas for our restaurant reviewing format: food and dating...let your imagination take it from there...I headed down to Busan Station, trying to imagine that we were indeed in Vladivostok.
The rules:
We couldn't leave the main street until at least noon the next day.
We could only drink vodka, preferably straight.
And I knew I'd have to break them both, after the previous night.
We were overcharged (or would that be "overserved, therefore overcharged"?) at a chicken shop - though given free hand towels - then decided to head to a "vodka tent" we'd seen down the street.
There we encountered several military guys (not your typical "GI"s, but older, more experienced and laid back) named Ike, "Apples", and Eric, who introduced us to "Oscar" sparkling wine...a strangely sweet swill flavored with ginseng. Ike's "Korean friends" (men at the next table guzzling soju) all wanted to have their pictures taken with me and the guys - with Eric's camera - so we humored them for several shots.
They could, they said, introduce us to a bevy of Russian, Filipina, and Korean women if H wanted to ask them about their rates. H waved away the idea, though I think she was still curious, and we walked over to the "New York" bar, where we were the only patrons. We chatted with a Ukranian girl, and were stared at by a shy Korean girl/doll who'd silently pressured Ike to buy her a drink. Later we went on to different joint, then still another. Suddenly (?) it was 5am, and I'd planned to go home at midnight.
Sunday was filled with raw fish and candy.
In honor of White Day, all Korean male patrons at Camel had brought bonbons for the women. I shared nail polish at the bar and girls grew competitive over who had the most beautiful hands. Knew that I didn't even qualify for the quarterfinals, so kept mine on my lap.
They stroked my hair and skirt affectionately after their first drink. The women, that is.
I've had raw fish here before, and the first course looked typical. Until I saw it moving.
"Chew really hard," Nan-hee said. Grey dismembered tentacles squirmed on ceramic dishes and wrapped themselves around my steel chopsticks. The technique: scoop, dip into sesame oil and sea salt, and eat immediately. Salty and rubbery and delicious.
"San Nakji," said a teacher today. "'San' means 'alive', and 'nakji' is a kind of small octopus." I've wanted to try it since I moved here.
H says she'll bring me along to a dog restaurant in a few weeks with some of her students. But it's all talk till we're at the table.
Here's what I do with valuable free time at school.
A personality test I took today - and all of you who know me well will probably agree:
Knew already I had touches of narcissism and paranoia, along with plenty of other things...
Speaking of which:
Nan-hee mentioned the other night: "Y'know, people say that you're--" and she hesitated, searching for the right word. "Stuck up?" I ventured.
"Yeah," she smiled. "But I tell them you're a nice person."
I've no small dose of misanthropism...it takes a while before I can tell if I'll like someone or not. Then I relax.
Today is the Ides of March: RIP, Caesar.
Just realized that Wednesday is Green Beer Day.
Will have to get lots of painting and sleeping in before then.
The repercussions: political, financial, and otherwise, have been immediate (temporary, we hope) chaos.
I won't rehash anything (politics are beyond me these days, till I start reading daily papers of good quality again), but will simply direct you to a few other sites, with people who know what they're talking about:
The Marmot's Hole has a rational account of these going-on
The Korea Herald
The Korea Times
A long announcement this afternoon about air raid drills at school, complete with sirens. "You know the peninsula was divided," another teacher began, "so we have a special situation." Oh, yeah, I've heard of something like that happening around here.
Last year I was continually reminded of it last by the blank looks on peoples' faces in Boston when I told them where I planned to move. "Aren't they communist in Korea?" more than one person asked.
"Um, which Korea are you talking about? We can't even visit North Korea as Americans."
The South often feels more capitalist than my own country...but it's really just materialism and small-scale capitalism. Chaebols (giant dynastic businesses, ex: Samsung, Hyundai) still run a majority of Korea's economy.
Yesterday was White Day, so I was escorted to a raw fish restaurant by 4 Korean girls....
Oh, might as well start the weekend-rehashing with Friday night.
K. invited a half-dozen of us to another performance of the Busan Philharmonic: Dvorak and Mozart this time. Enjoyable yet again. Hopefully Pusanweb will soon have information about the Phil's schedule.
Then off to J's birthday party at Camel. Plenty of the usual Friday evening entertainment: same people, different venue. Glad to see Nan-hee getting some business, and she handed me a deadly shot of tequila. She "dis-invited" S to dinner on Sunday after hearing about what an idiot he'd been.
Slouched and laughed and danced poorly at Soul Trane till 530am. Wondered, as I always do when I end up there: "Why did I bother?" Still, there were melodramatic incidents that kept things lively.
Dazed for much of Saturday, I still managed to pick up a giant canvas at the art store. Walked home and miraculously didn't run into a lollipop-toting couple or elderly woman with a cardboard-laden cart, so it's still undented and in one piece. Tonight I'll stroke on the first acrylic layer.
"You comin' or not?" Heidi asked that morning, pert as always. "Where?" I mumbled, convinced I still reeked of tequila.
"Texas Street, of course!"
So after a lively meeting with a pair of writers - where we honed ideas for our restaurant reviewing format: food and dating...let your imagination take it from there...I headed down to Busan Station, trying to imagine that we were indeed in Vladivostok.
The rules:
We couldn't leave the main street until at least noon the next day.
We could only drink vodka, preferably straight.
And I knew I'd have to break them both, after the previous night.
We were overcharged (or would that be "overserved, therefore overcharged"?) at a chicken shop - though given free hand towels - then decided to head to a "vodka tent" we'd seen down the street.
There we encountered several military guys (not your typical "GI"s, but older, more experienced and laid back) named Ike, "Apples", and Eric, who introduced us to "Oscar" sparkling wine...a strangely sweet swill flavored with ginseng. Ike's "Korean friends" (men at the next table guzzling soju) all wanted to have their pictures taken with me and the guys - with Eric's camera - so we humored them for several shots.
They could, they said, introduce us to a bevy of Russian, Filipina, and Korean women if H wanted to ask them about their rates. H waved away the idea, though I think she was still curious, and we walked over to the "New York" bar, where we were the only patrons. We chatted with a Ukranian girl, and were stared at by a shy Korean girl/doll who'd silently pressured Ike to buy her a drink. Later we went on to different joint, then still another. Suddenly (?) it was 5am, and I'd planned to go home at midnight.
Sunday was filled with raw fish and candy.
In honor of White Day, all Korean male patrons at Camel had brought bonbons for the women. I shared nail polish at the bar and girls grew competitive over who had the most beautiful hands. Knew that I didn't even qualify for the quarterfinals, so kept mine on my lap.
They stroked my hair and skirt affectionately after their first drink. The women, that is.
I've had raw fish here before, and the first course looked typical. Until I saw it moving.
"Chew really hard," Nan-hee said. Grey dismembered tentacles squirmed on ceramic dishes and wrapped themselves around my steel chopsticks. The technique: scoop, dip into sesame oil and sea salt, and eat immediately. Salty and rubbery and delicious.
"San Nakji," said a teacher today. "'San' means 'alive', and 'nakji' is a kind of small octopus." I've wanted to try it since I moved here.
H says she'll bring me along to a dog restaurant in a few weeks with some of her students. But it's all talk till we're at the table.
Here's what I do with valuable free time at school.
A personality test I took today - and all of you who know me well will probably agree:
| Disorder | Rating |
| Paranoid: | High |
| Schizoid: | Moderate |
| Schizotypal: | Moderate |
| Antisocial: | Moderate |
| Borderline: | Moderate |
| Histrionic: | Moderate |
| Narcissistic: | High |
| Avoidant: | Low |
| Dependent: | Low |
| Obsessive-Compulsive: | Low |
-- Personality Disorder Test - Take It! -- | |
Knew already I had touches of narcissism and paranoia, along with plenty of other things...
Speaking of which:
Nan-hee mentioned the other night: "Y'know, people say that you're--" and she hesitated, searching for the right word. "Stuck up?" I ventured.
"Yeah," she smiled. "But I tell them you're a nice person."
I've no small dose of misanthropism...it takes a while before I can tell if I'll like someone or not. Then I relax.
Today is the Ides of March: RIP, Caesar.
Just realized that Wednesday is Green Beer Day.
Will have to get lots of painting and sleeping in before then.
Thursday, March 11, 2004
Cherry blossoms
have opened in the past few springlike days.
Fragile and gnarled.
"Reassurance can be the cruelest antidote to anxiety."
De Botton, The Consolations of Philosophy
Any book with a chapter called "Consolation for Unpopularity" is worth holding between your fingers for a while.
Fragile and gnarled.
"Reassurance can be the cruelest antidote to anxiety."
De Botton, The Consolations of Philosophy
Any book with a chapter called "Consolation for Unpopularity" is worth holding between your fingers for a while.
Wednesday, March 10, 2004
As the only "native speaker," teachers often ask me for advice on grammar, idioms, etc.
Their questions can sometimes have a tinge of the surreal, for example:
One teacher, perhaps 60 years old, came over, holding a sheaf of papers in his hand. He pointed at a sentence and asked me if I could read it with the correct pronunciation.
I glanced at the sentence, took a breath, and paused.
Read it out loud, trying not to laugh:
"How much wood would a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck..."
The teacher then read it back to me so I could check his pronunciation.
Today I've been compared to "Lord of the Rings girl" and "Julia Roberts" and "Julie a Tae Kwon Do character." It must be because they're first-years.
Counted them all up the other day: I have about 500 students a week! That's 30-something per class, and 17 classes/week, including Saturdays. It involves very little preparation outside of exams.
Recently spotted:
~ Printed on a student's pencil case yesterday: "Look at me! SEXY LION"
~ On an evening stroll: a youngish couple wearing matching masks...looks like they're sharing everything, colds and all.
From Jan Morris's review of Alain de Botton's The Art of Travel:
Wherever you go, pretend to yourself that you have never been there before.
Remember that any experience, of any sort, even going to the dentist or losing a passport, is grist to the proper traveller's mill.
Keep in mind E M Forster's advice about the best way to see Alexandria - "to wander aimlessly about" - or Lord Salisbury's theory of an ideal foreign policy - "to float lazily downstream, occasionally putting out a diplomatic boat-hook to avoid collisions".
Don't set out to see what other people see.
Take a sketchbook, not a camera.
Don't be ashamed to go on a bus tour.
Travel alone
Their questions can sometimes have a tinge of the surreal, for example:
One teacher, perhaps 60 years old, came over, holding a sheaf of papers in his hand. He pointed at a sentence and asked me if I could read it with the correct pronunciation.
I glanced at the sentence, took a breath, and paused.
Read it out loud, trying not to laugh:
"How much wood would a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck..."
The teacher then read it back to me so I could check his pronunciation.
Today I've been compared to "Lord of the Rings girl" and "Julia Roberts" and "Julie a Tae Kwon Do character." It must be because they're first-years.
Counted them all up the other day: I have about 500 students a week! That's 30-something per class, and 17 classes/week, including Saturdays. It involves very little preparation outside of exams.
Recently spotted:
~ Printed on a student's pencil case yesterday: "Look at me! SEXY LION"
~ On an evening stroll: a youngish couple wearing matching masks...looks like they're sharing everything, colds and all.
From Jan Morris's review of Alain de Botton's The Art of Travel:
Wherever you go, pretend to yourself that you have never been there before.
Remember that any experience, of any sort, even going to the dentist or losing a passport, is grist to the proper traveller's mill.
Keep in mind E M Forster's advice about the best way to see Alexandria - "to wander aimlessly about" - or Lord Salisbury's theory of an ideal foreign policy - "to float lazily downstream, occasionally putting out a diplomatic boat-hook to avoid collisions".
Don't set out to see what other people see.
Take a sketchbook, not a camera.
Don't be ashamed to go on a bus tour.
Travel alone
Tuesday, March 09, 2004
"Questions?"
I asked yesterday, and had the boys write them down anonymously: questions for me or for them. They passed them to me, some with laughter, others with something like trepidation.
A sampling:
~ How old are you?
~ Do you have a boyfriend? How many boyfriend do you have? Are you married?
~ Do you have an E-mail? I'd like to know your email.
~ Tell me reason why are you came to Korea
~ What's your cell phone number? What is your self-phone number? What your phone number?
~ Do you have lunch?
~ Would you like playing game?
~ Do you think you are handsome yourself?
~ Can you use Korean slang?
~ Where you hometown?
~ What season do you like best?
~ How long lived in Korea?
~ What kind of man do you like?
~ Can you play the piano?
~ Have you ever kissed with your boy friend? and where.
~ How many sex do you have? [wonder if the kid meant how many "genders"...hmm....tossed that one away]
~ I want to know your three size!! [found out "three size" means "measurements"....ditto...in the trash]
~ Would you give me your phone number? Would you be lured by boy? [the subversive questions were all from 2nd-years...]
~ Do you like apple?
~ How many your rings? (I think very many)
~ Do you like sports? especially tennis?
~ What was your dream on childhood?
~ What's your favorite Korea food?
~ What was your job in American?
~ Do you love me?
~ Do you think about Korea? [Didn't give them the truth: that on several recent mornings, I've had a refrain running through my head and can't stop it: "Korea, in Korea we do this, yes I'm in Korea, Korean, Koreana..." I've no desire to be anywhere in particular, but am perhaps sick of writing about being here!]
~ How much is that dictionary you have?? I want to buy a dictionary like yours...the Oxford Dictionary...!! cause I heard that the Oxford dictionary is the most expensive, good and fine.
~ Please give me advices as sinior in life.
~ How to become English teacher? I'm so wonder.
~ Can you eat 'Korean food'? x Korean food is kind of hot.
~ How many Korean words can you speak?
~ Can you borrow me some money?
~ Can you drink alcohol? How much alcohol can you drink? What kind of alcohol do you like? (whiskey, wine--) What is your habit?
After the 2nd-year class, I had students write their names and tell them I wanted no more "crazy" questions..."Crazy" in Korea means something closer to "insane", so knew I'd get their attention.
One student seemed upset that I translated the name of the Korean country flag as "Korean flag" rather than "Taegukki". "You don't call America's national flag 'American flag'," he wrote. "Then, why do you call my country's national flag 'Korean flag'? It has its own name." So I'll write a response to him explaining that for clarity, in the kind of generalized/formal/international English that I teach, one doesn't really use "flag names" but refers to flags by their nationality.
"Stars and Stripes," and "Old Glory," etc., I've always seen as more affectionate, "domestic" terms than international ones. When looking at a world map with flags of the world, it's always listed as "American flag."
Last night had curry with Jeff (finally found that Indian restaurant in Nampo-dong!) and we went over what he'd like for the painting. Am looking forward to it: "Justice" - all scales and sword and blindfold, she'll be dark and monumental. He also reassured me that no, my hair doesn't make me look ghastly.
From a different administrator at the high school today (no, not the one who wants to show me my chakras and yogic breathing, who wouldn't listen when I told him that the BF has studied much of that for years):
"I like you very much, and want to talk to you all the time."
I've received lots of comments here that would be completely inappropriate in North America, but am not certain at times how much of it is linguistic or cultural miscommunication. So I give (what I think is) a polite, dismissive half-smile and turn my attention elsewhere.
Also suspect that I'll need to go shopping next payday for more conservative clothes.
"He questions everything and ends up more exhausted than satisfied."
AP Drama Critic Michael Kuchwara (in 1996) on actor Spalding Gray - 1941-2004
A sampling:
~ How old are you?
~ Do you have a boyfriend? How many boyfriend do you have? Are you married?
~ Do you have an E-mail? I'd like to know your email.
~ Tell me reason why are you came to Korea
~ What's your cell phone number? What is your self-phone number? What your phone number?
~ Do you have lunch?
~ Would you like playing game?
~ Do you think you are handsome yourself?
~ Can you use Korean slang?
~ Where you hometown?
~ What season do you like best?
~ How long lived in Korea?
~ What kind of man do you like?
~ Can you play the piano?
~ Have you ever kissed with your boy friend? and where.
~ How many sex do you have? [wonder if the kid meant how many "genders"...hmm....tossed that one away]
~ I want to know your three size!! [found out "three size" means "measurements"....ditto...in the trash]
~ Would you give me your phone number? Would you be lured by boy? [the subversive questions were all from 2nd-years...]
~ Do you like apple?
~ How many your rings? (I think very many)
~ Do you like sports? especially tennis?
~ What was your dream on childhood?
~ What's your favorite Korea food?
~ What was your job in American?
~ Do you love me?
~ Do you think about Korea? [Didn't give them the truth: that on several recent mornings, I've had a refrain running through my head and can't stop it: "Korea, in Korea we do this, yes I'm in Korea, Korean, Koreana..." I've no desire to be anywhere in particular, but am perhaps sick of writing about being here!]
~ How much is that dictionary you have?? I want to buy a dictionary like yours...the Oxford Dictionary...!! cause I heard that the Oxford dictionary is the most expensive, good and fine.
~ Please give me advices as sinior in life.
~ How to become English teacher? I'm so wonder.
~ Can you eat 'Korean food'? x Korean food is kind of hot.
~ How many Korean words can you speak?
~ Can you borrow me some money?
~ Can you drink alcohol? How much alcohol can you drink? What kind of alcohol do you like? (whiskey, wine--) What is your habit?
After the 2nd-year class, I had students write their names and tell them I wanted no more "crazy" questions..."Crazy" in Korea means something closer to "insane", so knew I'd get their attention.
One student seemed upset that I translated the name of the Korean country flag as "Korean flag" rather than "Taegukki". "You don't call America's national flag 'American flag'," he wrote. "Then, why do you call my country's national flag 'Korean flag'? It has its own name." So I'll write a response to him explaining that for clarity, in the kind of generalized/formal/international English that I teach, one doesn't really use "flag names" but refers to flags by their nationality.
"Stars and Stripes," and "Old Glory," etc., I've always seen as more affectionate, "domestic" terms than international ones. When looking at a world map with flags of the world, it's always listed as "American flag."
Last night had curry with Jeff (finally found that Indian restaurant in Nampo-dong!) and we went over what he'd like for the painting. Am looking forward to it: "Justice" - all scales and sword and blindfold, she'll be dark and monumental. He also reassured me that no, my hair doesn't make me look ghastly.
From a different administrator at the high school today (no, not the one who wants to show me my chakras and yogic breathing, who wouldn't listen when I told him that the BF has studied much of that for years):
"I like you very much, and want to talk to you all the time."
I've received lots of comments here that would be completely inappropriate in North America, but am not certain at times how much of it is linguistic or cultural miscommunication. So I give (what I think is) a polite, dismissive half-smile and turn my attention elsewhere.
Also suspect that I'll need to go shopping next payday for more conservative clothes.
"He questions everything and ends up more exhausted than satisfied."
AP Drama Critic Michael Kuchwara (in 1996) on actor Spalding Gray - 1941-2004
Monday, March 08, 2004
Napoleon vs. Helen Keller, Harry Potter vs. Osama bin Laden
It seems that my Mondays will be filled with first-year students, at least this semester.
Am having my 2nd-year students interview one another in front of the class. They've chosen famous people that they'd like to be for three minutes. For example, we'll have dialogues between:
Harry Potter and Osama bin Laden,
Napoleon and Helen Keller,
Saddam Hussein and Bush,
Mariah Carey and Colin Powell,
Koizumi (Japanese PM) and Hitler,
Jim Carey and Pedro Martinez,
Kenny G and TBD,
Britney Spears and Avril Lavigne,
Keanu Reeves and Vince Carter,
Ronaldo and Tiger Woods,
The Rock and Crash,
Linkin Park and Richard F. Burton,
Ron and Malfoy and Harry Potter,
Tom Hanks and Eminem,
and
N'Sync and bin Laden [he was a very popular choice].
This should prove to be an entertaining week.
This morning, we attended two meetings. First, with the other teachers.
"You must come even though you do not understand anything we say," said another English teacher frankly. True. There were many long-winded speeches of which I understood nothing.
On my desk, students had scrawled:
"Danger, L.O.V.E., Havard [sic], Oxford University, 39 x B2 = ?, Great."
There you have a glimpse into the mathematical and English-speaking side of these boys' brains.
Then a ceremony in the gymnasium with more speakers. The principal reproved the boys "for moving their hands and bodies while he was speaking," as another teacher translated for me. The students looked appropriately ashamed - for about three minutes.
Teachers wandered through the rows of boys, keeping them in line and knocking students' legs into correct positions.
And speaking of discipline, I discovered a flat rod made of bamboo in my desk drawer today. It is smooth and well-polished from teachers' fingers. "Yes, it's for scaring the students," another teacher said. "See?" She tapped it against the desk. "It's strong...it would hurt them, they can tell."
She smiled. My eyes opened wide and I imagined the possibilities.
Decided that I'd leave it in the desk...for now.
Grumbled resentfully when I found out that the "English Club," which I'm in charge of, will be held every Saturday, not just "some" Saturdays, as I was told when I signed the contract. Vagueness is a common point of contention between westerners and Koreans, as ambiguity inevitably leads to a sense of exploitation....typically on the westerner's part. On my part.
"It says here 18 hours a week," said the department head today - as I protested the change from "some" to "every" - and he pointed yet again at my contract.
"When you advertised the job online, you stated - in writing - that there'd be 16 hours with students and 2 hours with teachers," I said. "Not 1 hour with teachers during the week and 1 on Saturdays."
He shrugged, his body saying: "That's the way it's done here. We can't do anything about it now." His mouth said: "I hope this won't be a problem."
Visions of sunning myself at the beach (a mere 20-minute walk away from school) after English Club weren't enough to console me, as it'll be a month or two till that's possible.
I never give up anything that's important to me completely, I thought...And that includes my weekends. In recent years I've become more subversive than confrontational.
Wrote to an ex, B, today:
"Well, am glad to see that you still felt like sending an email even though the last time I saw you I caused a scene and tried to spit in your general direction...I think synthesis is better than silence these days."
This, from Elysia-in-Hungary (let me cross my fingers and try to get to your May wedding!)...
"I leave you now with the wise words of Hemingway:
'You're an expatriate. You've lost touch with the soil. You get precious. Fake
European standards have ruined you. You drink yourself to death. You become
obsessed by sex. You spend all your time talking, not working. You are an
expatriate, see? You hang around caf?.' "
Am having my 2nd-year students interview one another in front of the class. They've chosen famous people that they'd like to be for three minutes. For example, we'll have dialogues between:
Harry Potter and Osama bin Laden,
Napoleon and Helen Keller,
Saddam Hussein and Bush,
Mariah Carey and Colin Powell,
Koizumi (Japanese PM) and Hitler,
Jim Carey and Pedro Martinez,
Kenny G and TBD,
Britney Spears and Avril Lavigne,
Keanu Reeves and Vince Carter,
Ronaldo and Tiger Woods,
The Rock and Crash,
Linkin Park and Richard F. Burton,
Ron and Malfoy and Harry Potter,
Tom Hanks and Eminem,
and
N'Sync and bin Laden [he was a very popular choice].
This should prove to be an entertaining week.
This morning, we attended two meetings. First, with the other teachers.
"You must come even though you do not understand anything we say," said another English teacher frankly. True. There were many long-winded speeches of which I understood nothing.
On my desk, students had scrawled:
"Danger, L.O.V.E., Havard [sic], Oxford University, 39 x B2 = ?, Great."
There you have a glimpse into the mathematical and English-speaking side of these boys' brains.
Then a ceremony in the gymnasium with more speakers. The principal reproved the boys "for moving their hands and bodies while he was speaking," as another teacher translated for me. The students looked appropriately ashamed - for about three minutes.
Teachers wandered through the rows of boys, keeping them in line and knocking students' legs into correct positions.
And speaking of discipline, I discovered a flat rod made of bamboo in my desk drawer today. It is smooth and well-polished from teachers' fingers. "Yes, it's for scaring the students," another teacher said. "See?" She tapped it against the desk. "It's strong...it would hurt them, they can tell."
She smiled. My eyes opened wide and I imagined the possibilities.
Decided that I'd leave it in the desk...for now.
Grumbled resentfully when I found out that the "English Club," which I'm in charge of, will be held every Saturday, not just "some" Saturdays, as I was told when I signed the contract. Vagueness is a common point of contention between westerners and Koreans, as ambiguity inevitably leads to a sense of exploitation....typically on the westerner's part. On my part.
"It says here 18 hours a week," said the department head today - as I protested the change from "some" to "every" - and he pointed yet again at my contract.
"When you advertised the job online, you stated - in writing - that there'd be 16 hours with students and 2 hours with teachers," I said. "Not 1 hour with teachers during the week and 1 on Saturdays."
He shrugged, his body saying: "That's the way it's done here. We can't do anything about it now." His mouth said: "I hope this won't be a problem."
Visions of sunning myself at the beach (a mere 20-minute walk away from school) after English Club weren't enough to console me, as it'll be a month or two till that's possible.
I never give up anything that's important to me completely, I thought...And that includes my weekends. In recent years I've become more subversive than confrontational.
Wrote to an ex, B, today:
"Well, am glad to see that you still felt like sending an email even though the last time I saw you I caused a scene and tried to spit in your general direction...I think synthesis is better than silence these days."
This, from Elysia-in-Hungary (let me cross my fingers and try to get to your May wedding!)...
"I leave you now with the wise words of Hemingway:
'You're an expatriate. You've lost touch with the soil. You get precious. Fake
European standards have ruined you. You drink yourself to death. You become
obsessed by sex. You spend all your time talking, not working. You are an
expatriate, see? You hang around caf?.' "
Sunday, March 07, 2004
Purgatory
Please remind me never to start off an evening with wine and end it the next morning with Woo's sweet concoctions.
Over wine and cheese we discussed everything from livable dusty locales to eventually marketing our articles. Several Korean men tripped over a step as they stared at us on their way out the door. We tried hard not to laugh out loud....covered my mouth as Korean women do. Read a bit culled from the blog on my hospital experience from October, and received helpful ideas on pacing. We plan to review some local restaurants together as a first project.
Then met S. at Lotte - a half-hour late - for what I'd thought would be dinner, but he'd already eaten, so I had pork and vegetables as we shared a pitcher of dark beer.
Our Texas St. adventure was cancelled yet again, so S and I caught a cab uptown to the Basement (where else?) and he introduced himself to everyone in his ingratiating way. We pointed at one another with chopsticks, playing percussion with our Sapporo cans...I chose the beer to remind him of his Japanese girlfriend, who will be here next week.
Then upstairs to Crossroads, a much quieter venue where we could chat without interruption. Soon I craved more stimulation, so we went downstairs...again.
Just glanced at the BF's swarthy photo in my red plastic Korean wallet - all cocked eyebrow and mischievous intelligence - and couldn't help but wish that I could kiss him. Right now.
Over wine and cheese we discussed everything from livable dusty locales to eventually marketing our articles. Several Korean men tripped over a step as they stared at us on their way out the door. We tried hard not to laugh out loud....covered my mouth as Korean women do. Read a bit culled from the blog on my hospital experience from October, and received helpful ideas on pacing. We plan to review some local restaurants together as a first project.
Then met S. at Lotte - a half-hour late - for what I'd thought would be dinner, but he'd already eaten, so I had pork and vegetables as we shared a pitcher of dark beer.
Our Texas St. adventure was cancelled yet again, so S and I caught a cab uptown to the Basement (where else?) and he introduced himself to everyone in his ingratiating way. We pointed at one another with chopsticks, playing percussion with our Sapporo cans...I chose the beer to remind him of his Japanese girlfriend, who will be here next week.
Then upstairs to Crossroads, a much quieter venue where we could chat without interruption. Soon I craved more stimulation, so we went downstairs...again.
Just glanced at the BF's swarthy photo in my red plastic Korean wallet - all cocked eyebrow and mischievous intelligence - and couldn't help but wish that I could kiss him. Right now.
Saturday, March 06, 2004
"Born to be CHICKEN"
spotted on a restaurant sign en route to the PC Bang.
Am here ostensibly to copy some writings for the group...we're to meet at the wine bar where many glasses were shared on Valentine's day.
Thurs was part I of Woo's birthday party. A dozen of his dearest showed up and shared beer, cheap sparkling wine, and chocolate cake for dinner. And of course the inevitable free syrupy soju shots.
Missed part II last night...a week of cramps [a woman's body remonstrating her for not accomplishing what she was made to do] had deprived me of sleep, so I caught up on it last night, and left the phone off.
Today was a blue-hair disaster afternoon.
Saw a box of lovely blue hair dye last night, and thought, "Why not? It'll look great with my eyes." A change from the subtle purple I've used since moving here. Must've been more tired than I realized...the brain simply wasn't working. This school is the most conservative environment I've ever worked in.
As my hair dried, I shrieked in horror: There was nothing subdued about this stuff.
It's the same dull blueish black tint seen on color-blind old men and women here. Absolutely no resemblance whatsoever to the chic-looking girl on the box.
If I had a summer tan, perhaps I could get away with it, but with my winter pallor, I look ghastly. Am covering it up with a purple and silver stocking cap for tonight.
More on Monday, after several hot showers to try and strip some of the color...it's time to enjoy the weekend.
Am here ostensibly to copy some writings for the group...we're to meet at the wine bar where many glasses were shared on Valentine's day.
Thurs was part I of Woo's birthday party. A dozen of his dearest showed up and shared beer, cheap sparkling wine, and chocolate cake for dinner. And of course the inevitable free syrupy soju shots.
Missed part II last night...a week of cramps [a woman's body remonstrating her for not accomplishing what she was made to do] had deprived me of sleep, so I caught up on it last night, and left the phone off.
Today was a blue-hair disaster afternoon.
Saw a box of lovely blue hair dye last night, and thought, "Why not? It'll look great with my eyes." A change from the subtle purple I've used since moving here. Must've been more tired than I realized...the brain simply wasn't working. This school is the most conservative environment I've ever worked in.
As my hair dried, I shrieked in horror: There was nothing subdued about this stuff.
It's the same dull blueish black tint seen on color-blind old men and women here. Absolutely no resemblance whatsoever to the chic-looking girl on the box.
If I had a summer tan, perhaps I could get away with it, but with my winter pallor, I look ghastly. Am covering it up with a purple and silver stocking cap for tonight.
More on Monday, after several hot showers to try and strip some of the color...it's time to enjoy the weekend.
Friday, March 05, 2004
Now
I now have nearly all day at my computer to read and write at school, courtesy of the Korean work ethic that says "keep that derriere in the chair": it doesn't matter what quality your work possesses. You just show up and look like you're doing something productive - for as long as you're told to do so.
As a side note, I was just told that we've a department meeting tonight, at a local restaurant, at 5:30pm. And what if I'd had plans for an early beginning to my Friday night? (I did, actually: painting with W.) That would've been unacceptable.
One of my students told me yesterday that I looked like Michael Jackson.
Oh, yes, this really happened.
My reaction? Smiled at his embarassment and my own as the entire class laughed.
This was after several others had said the usual positive things about my appearance...but what does one remember? The horrifying, unusual, excruciating things said.
And surely there will be more to come.
First lunch yesterday in the school cafeteria.
At 2500 won (about $2US), it's a good deal, though some days I'll surely want a break from clamoring boys as I chew my glutinous rice.
Sat with the Korean teacher who'd taken me to a restaurant the day before. She noted that I should've placed my kimchi to the side of, rather than on top of, my bibimbap, and that I also needed sauce for the dish.
Bibimbap is rice mixed with everything available. A mediocre, unattractive, jumbled dish. It originated as leftovers from ancestor-worshipping ceremonies that frugal families would reuse for dinner. I prefer to pick and choose from a medley of side dishes with my rice, and dislike the syrupy-sweet, chili sauce with metallic aftertaste that Koreans slather on half of their food, including bibimbap.
"But you need sauce on that!" the teacher insisted. "It's so plain without sauce."
I eyed her rice, now a revolting pink color, and the pickled vegetables covered in chili sauce that masked any flavor. Had thought of my lunch as salad-on-rice, a rare occasion of relatively fresh vegetables with diverse flavors and colors.
"You said yesterday that you cooked spaghetti sometimes in America?" she asked. Shook my head. "No - other kinds of pasta," I said. "Different shapes." She didn't understand: she was working her way through an argument, and had no time for trivial distinctions.
"Didn't you put sauce in your pasta when you cooked it? Or did you eat it plain? Wouldn't it be boring if it had no sauce?"
Tried to explain garlic and olive oil as a kind of clear "sauce," but only got the blank look again: in this country, unless something is red, it's not a "sauce."
Written to David Oliver today:
Large-scale wall painting is a great combination of motion and reflexes and vision and aesthetics and more, simultaneously. Variables and resistance. Arms and fingers and eye-muscles strain together. It's my favorite format, because the size is so intimidating and when you're finished, you've conquered emptiness for a while.
"Travel is a vanishing act, a solitary trip down a pinched line of geography to oblivion...[A travel book] is motion given order by its repetition in words. That sort of disappearance is elemental, but few come back silent...
"...It is possible that this sort of movie-fantasy, which is available to the solitary traveller, is one of the chief reasons for travel...We were far from home: we could be anyone we wished. Travel offers great occasions to the amateur actor."
~Paul Theroux, The Old Patagonian Express
As a side note, I was just told that we've a department meeting tonight, at a local restaurant, at 5:30pm. And what if I'd had plans for an early beginning to my Friday night? (I did, actually: painting with W.) That would've been unacceptable.
One of my students told me yesterday that I looked like Michael Jackson.
Oh, yes, this really happened.
My reaction? Smiled at his embarassment and my own as the entire class laughed.
This was after several others had said the usual positive things about my appearance...but what does one remember? The horrifying, unusual, excruciating things said.
And surely there will be more to come.
First lunch yesterday in the school cafeteria.
At 2500 won (about $2US), it's a good deal, though some days I'll surely want a break from clamoring boys as I chew my glutinous rice.
Sat with the Korean teacher who'd taken me to a restaurant the day before. She noted that I should've placed my kimchi to the side of, rather than on top of, my bibimbap, and that I also needed sauce for the dish.
Bibimbap is rice mixed with everything available. A mediocre, unattractive, jumbled dish. It originated as leftovers from ancestor-worshipping ceremonies that frugal families would reuse for dinner. I prefer to pick and choose from a medley of side dishes with my rice, and dislike the syrupy-sweet, chili sauce with metallic aftertaste that Koreans slather on half of their food, including bibimbap.
"But you need sauce on that!" the teacher insisted. "It's so plain without sauce."
I eyed her rice, now a revolting pink color, and the pickled vegetables covered in chili sauce that masked any flavor. Had thought of my lunch as salad-on-rice, a rare occasion of relatively fresh vegetables with diverse flavors and colors.
"You said yesterday that you cooked spaghetti sometimes in America?" she asked. Shook my head. "No - other kinds of pasta," I said. "Different shapes." She didn't understand: she was working her way through an argument, and had no time for trivial distinctions.
"Didn't you put sauce in your pasta when you cooked it? Or did you eat it plain? Wouldn't it be boring if it had no sauce?"
Tried to explain garlic and olive oil as a kind of clear "sauce," but only got the blank look again: in this country, unless something is red, it's not a "sauce."
Written to David Oliver today:
Large-scale wall painting is a great combination of motion and reflexes and vision and aesthetics and more, simultaneously. Variables and resistance. Arms and fingers and eye-muscles strain together. It's my favorite format, because the size is so intimidating and when you're finished, you've conquered emptiness for a while.
"Travel is a vanishing act, a solitary trip down a pinched line of geography to oblivion...[A travel book] is motion given order by its repetition in words. That sort of disappearance is elemental, but few come back silent...
"...It is possible that this sort of movie-fantasy, which is available to the solitary traveller, is one of the chief reasons for travel...We were far from home: we could be anyone we wished. Travel offers great occasions to the amateur actor."
~Paul Theroux, The Old Patagonian Express
Thursday, March 04, 2004
"Emotional blackmail"
a friend wrote to me yesterday, and she was correct about the situation. But what are romantic emotions, anyway, besides the blackmailing of the brain by the body?
Busan Philharmonic Orchestra
Several weeks ago as I painted at the Basement, a lovely Korean woman - with an elegant poise one rarely sees here - walked over to the table where W and I held our paintbrushes.
Her English was supple and easy with a North American accent.
"K.....," she responded to my query. "Sorry, I don't have an English name," she smiled - archly, yet warm at the same time. She asked what we were doing, then thumbed through a paint-splattered art magazine. We soon found out that she played violin for the Busan Philharmonic.
The next evening I introduced her to another acquaintance who plays violin...it's always good to exchange ideas with others of similar inclination, regardless of skill level or style.
That Friday, we drove over the colored lights of Gwangan Bridge, past BEXCO and the art museum, to the Busan Cultural Center: a structure of sloping strange spaces and glittering chandeliers.
After a battle through the crowd to order a ham sandwich (sans ham: they'd run out) and a can of cider that I knocked out of J's hand onto the slick stone floor, we finally sat down breathlessly in velvetine chairs.
A symphony that emphasized my favorite instruments: the string section. Magnetized by dozens of bows that sliced through the air and flashed alternately cream or brown, intermission came too soon.
Have remembered and forgotten countless times the striking posters above cash machines at Kookmin Bank, inside the Beomeosa branch.
A close-up photo taken from behind the Statue of Liberty depicts her artfully cropped diadem and a lock or two of her wavy green "hair"...but the photo's real focus is of the Wall Street area, and, most dramatically, the twin towers that dominated the skyline until several years ago. Several years ago.
Yet these Korean posters can't be more than a year or two old: the plastic is cheap yet sparkling clean.
Remembered spending hours on our Brooklyn roof that afternoon. My neighbor Bonnie shared vapid cynicism as she handed me Valium and whiskey and we stared blankly at the smoking skyline in front of us: "New York's been castrated." She laughed: a sound contrived as everything else about her, smokily sensual with an underlying bitterness at her boyfriend's impending desertion.
In Korea, it seems every Westerner is American till proven innocent.
My spell-checker favors American spelling, as does the school, and so do I. All week, I've been changing cut-and-pasted materials for consistency: realise to realize, transforming car park into parking lot, etc.
Classrooms carry the scent of adolescent boy: complex with undertones of something musky, unmuffled by aftershave. Milder than in the western classrooms where I spent my teenage years. They're energetic and irreverent yet it takes little to make them blush - at least this first week.
"Apocryphal." Say it. Like chewing breakfast cereal....delectably crunchy. Time for lunch.
"...some of [this book] is painful, but travel - its very motion - ought to suggest hope. Despair is the armchair; it is indifference and glazed, incurious eyes. I think travellers are essentially optomists, or else they would never go anywhere."
~Paul Theroux, intro to The Old Patagonian Express
Busan Philharmonic Orchestra
Several weeks ago as I painted at the Basement, a lovely Korean woman - with an elegant poise one rarely sees here - walked over to the table where W and I held our paintbrushes.
Her English was supple and easy with a North American accent.
"K.....," she responded to my query. "Sorry, I don't have an English name," she smiled - archly, yet warm at the same time. She asked what we were doing, then thumbed through a paint-splattered art magazine. We soon found out that she played violin for the Busan Philharmonic.
The next evening I introduced her to another acquaintance who plays violin...it's always good to exchange ideas with others of similar inclination, regardless of skill level or style.
That Friday, we drove over the colored lights of Gwangan Bridge, past BEXCO and the art museum, to the Busan Cultural Center: a structure of sloping strange spaces and glittering chandeliers.
After a battle through the crowd to order a ham sandwich (sans ham: they'd run out) and a can of cider that I knocked out of J's hand onto the slick stone floor, we finally sat down breathlessly in velvetine chairs.
A symphony that emphasized my favorite instruments: the string section. Magnetized by dozens of bows that sliced through the air and flashed alternately cream or brown, intermission came too soon.
Have remembered and forgotten countless times the striking posters above cash machines at Kookmin Bank, inside the Beomeosa branch.
A close-up photo taken from behind the Statue of Liberty depicts her artfully cropped diadem and a lock or two of her wavy green "hair"...but the photo's real focus is of the Wall Street area, and, most dramatically, the twin towers that dominated the skyline until several years ago. Several years ago.
Yet these Korean posters can't be more than a year or two old: the plastic is cheap yet sparkling clean.
Remembered spending hours on our Brooklyn roof that afternoon. My neighbor Bonnie shared vapid cynicism as she handed me Valium and whiskey and we stared blankly at the smoking skyline in front of us: "New York's been castrated." She laughed: a sound contrived as everything else about her, smokily sensual with an underlying bitterness at her boyfriend's impending desertion.
In Korea, it seems every Westerner is American till proven innocent.
My spell-checker favors American spelling, as does the school, and so do I. All week, I've been changing cut-and-pasted materials for consistency: realise to realize, transforming car park into parking lot, etc.
Classrooms carry the scent of adolescent boy: complex with undertones of something musky, unmuffled by aftershave. Milder than in the western classrooms where I spent my teenage years. They're energetic and irreverent yet it takes little to make them blush - at least this first week.
"Apocryphal." Say it. Like chewing breakfast cereal....delectably crunchy. Time for lunch.
"...some of [this book] is painful, but travel - its very motion - ought to suggest hope. Despair is the armchair; it is indifference and glazed, incurious eyes. I think travellers are essentially optomists, or else they would never go anywhere."
~Paul Theroux, intro to The Old Patagonian Express
Wednesday, March 03, 2004
My "Work Allocation in 2004"
is as follows:
"International affairs [hmm], studying abroad [aren't I - in a sense - already? I think they mean taking care of communication with schools where our students will study during summer/winter breaks], translation into English [er, I can't yet read Korean], teachers training [sic], public relations [i.e., have my photo taken, with and without students, on a regular basis, for promotional materials], official proof reading, etc."
Now I'll know what to put on the resume for my next job.
Day one at the high school (yesterday):
Upon arrival, I was told that I'd be introduced to the other teachers. There were several new teachers that day, as it was the beginning of a new school year after winter vacation (why does the school year begin in September in the States anyway?).
Of course the entire introduction was in Korean, and each new teacher stood up and bowed to the others. Thought I'd have to make a speech, but was relieved to find that it wasn't expected of us.
No, that was reserved for the entire student body an hour later.
The new teachers filed in, and we were motioned toward the stage.
Followed the others' motions when sitting, standing, etc., as one old boyfriend did when I brought him to his first Catholic mass with my family...at least there was no kneeling involved with these introductions.
As the only foreign teacher, I wasn't sure what to do when everyone faced the Korean flag and held hands over hearts. Decided to do as the others...I'm a guest here, and for all prior complaints, I have liked Korea enough to stay for another year.
The boys in grey blazers and black trousers stood in even rows - there were no chairs - and a leader (class president?) shouted orders at them. Military-style, they loudly saluted and thanked each speaker in unison.
My name was called last - again - and I walked to the podium. The boys went wild: a chaotic clamor of cheering and whistles.
Tried not to smile, and gave a spontaneous speech - of which I remember nothing, save the last sentence, said with a grin: "I'll see you all in class."
Was very happy that morning to be a non-blonde, in both appearance and demeanor.
The BF and I have photo-booth pix of one another in our wallets - his idea. He seems to think it'll keep us faithful to one another during his absence. I don't think that pictures will do much, one way or the other, but he's convinced.
Have decided I like a different one of him better: he's grinning lopsidedly as he chews rice in Phuket, with laughter and (reluctant - that day) affection in his eyes. It's the side of him I like better than his typical "I know I'll look great in this photo" pose....he does look great in them all, regardless.
I'll keep those for my desk at school, to impress my students...and all the male teachers.
Last night I bought the family who owns my yeogwan a lovely chocolate cake...why? Because they'd done the BF's laundry at 1:30am and had it finished by the time we left at 7am: washed, dried, and neatly folded, too.
Dizzy from 2 hours of sleep, I stumbled along a dark street as cars whizzed by, barely avoiding me (there are few sidewalks here, and that street was no exception).
Pictured a very small headline: "Megook squashed while carrying cake."
"Trifling differences between the dialect of the mainstream and the dialect of other groups, like isn't any versus ain't no, those books versus them books...are dignified as badges of "proper grammar."
But they have no more to do with grammatical sophistication than the fact that people in some regions of the United States refer to a certain insect as a dragonfly and people in other regions refer to it as a darning needle, or that English speakers call canines dogs whereas French speakers call them chiens.
It is even a bit misleading to call Standard English a "language" and these variations "dialects," as if there were some meaningful difference between them. The best definition comes from the linguist Max Weinreich: a language is a dialect with an army and a navy.
~Steven Pinker, The Language Instinct
He admits to having strong opinions....there you have the only way to provoke....anything.
It's snowing: lovely, innocuous, giant flakes that will be gone with the next wind.
"International affairs [hmm], studying abroad [aren't I - in a sense - already? I think they mean taking care of communication with schools where our students will study during summer/winter breaks], translation into English [er, I can't yet read Korean], teachers training [sic], public relations [i.e., have my photo taken, with and without students, on a regular basis, for promotional materials], official proof reading, etc."
Now I'll know what to put on the resume for my next job.
Day one at the high school (yesterday):
Upon arrival, I was told that I'd be introduced to the other teachers. There were several new teachers that day, as it was the beginning of a new school year after winter vacation (why does the school year begin in September in the States anyway?).
Of course the entire introduction was in Korean, and each new teacher stood up and bowed to the others. Thought I'd have to make a speech, but was relieved to find that it wasn't expected of us.
No, that was reserved for the entire student body an hour later.
The new teachers filed in, and we were motioned toward the stage.
Followed the others' motions when sitting, standing, etc., as one old boyfriend did when I brought him to his first Catholic mass with my family...at least there was no kneeling involved with these introductions.
As the only foreign teacher, I wasn't sure what to do when everyone faced the Korean flag and held hands over hearts. Decided to do as the others...I'm a guest here, and for all prior complaints, I have liked Korea enough to stay for another year.
The boys in grey blazers and black trousers stood in even rows - there were no chairs - and a leader (class president?) shouted orders at them. Military-style, they loudly saluted and thanked each speaker in unison.
My name was called last - again - and I walked to the podium. The boys went wild: a chaotic clamor of cheering and whistles.
Tried not to smile, and gave a spontaneous speech - of which I remember nothing, save the last sentence, said with a grin: "I'll see you all in class."
Was very happy that morning to be a non-blonde, in both appearance and demeanor.
The BF and I have photo-booth pix of one another in our wallets - his idea. He seems to think it'll keep us faithful to one another during his absence. I don't think that pictures will do much, one way or the other, but he's convinced.
Have decided I like a different one of him better: he's grinning lopsidedly as he chews rice in Phuket, with laughter and (reluctant - that day) affection in his eyes. It's the side of him I like better than his typical "I know I'll look great in this photo" pose....he does look great in them all, regardless.
I'll keep those for my desk at school, to impress my students...and all the male teachers.
Last night I bought the family who owns my yeogwan a lovely chocolate cake...why? Because they'd done the BF's laundry at 1:30am and had it finished by the time we left at 7am: washed, dried, and neatly folded, too.
Dizzy from 2 hours of sleep, I stumbled along a dark street as cars whizzed by, barely avoiding me (there are few sidewalks here, and that street was no exception).
Pictured a very small headline: "Megook squashed while carrying cake."
"Trifling differences between the dialect of the mainstream and the dialect of other groups, like isn't any versus ain't no, those books versus them books...are dignified as badges of "proper grammar."
But they have no more to do with grammatical sophistication than the fact that people in some regions of the United States refer to a certain insect as a dragonfly and people in other regions refer to it as a darning needle, or that English speakers call canines dogs whereas French speakers call them chiens.
It is even a bit misleading to call Standard English a "language" and these variations "dialects," as if there were some meaningful difference between them. The best definition comes from the linguist Max Weinreich: a language is a dialect with an army and a navy.
~Steven Pinker, The Language Instinct
He admits to having strong opinions....there you have the only way to provoke....anything.
It's snowing: lovely, innocuous, giant flakes that will be gone with the next wind.
Monday, March 01, 2004
One of the most delicious things...
...is being kissed through silk charmeuse.
Passed a van the other day with a loudspeaker on the roof.
Nothing unusual about that: blue vegetable trucks are common, blaring tantalizing slogans about their wares.
This speaker was at a lower, more soothing volume.
On the van's side was a sign. It read cryptically: "Life is Problem. Jesus is Answer."
First day teaching full classes of High School students tomorrow. Am excitedlynervous.
Also, the BF, who may or may not be the BF upon his return, leaves for a month in Thailand tomorrow.
The yeogwan has turned out to be a very convenient place to stay, and I'll be there at least through March. Security there has improved, too. It'd be nice to have a kitchen, but I love the bathtub and high ceilings there. And - now there's hot water in the hallway for my morning "coffee mix" breakfast.
Passed a van the other day with a loudspeaker on the roof.
Nothing unusual about that: blue vegetable trucks are common, blaring tantalizing slogans about their wares.
This speaker was at a lower, more soothing volume.
On the van's side was a sign. It read cryptically: "Life is Problem. Jesus is Answer."
First day teaching full classes of High School students tomorrow. Am excitedlynervous.
Also, the BF, who may or may not be the BF upon his return, leaves for a month in Thailand tomorrow.
The yeogwan has turned out to be a very convenient place to stay, and I'll be there at least through March. Security there has improved, too. It'd be nice to have a kitchen, but I love the bathtub and high ceilings there. And - now there's hot water in the hallway for my morning "coffee mix" breakfast.
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