A Holiday Hello
~
2003.12.24 22:21 KST (EST + 14 hrs): Suwon, Republic of Korea
Skinny yellow deliverymen on mopeds, in Santa suits, dot the roadscape, a few lights sprinkle the night view, and children holler "Melly Chlistmas" when you pass by. This is Christmas in Suwon.
This season, as I've become fond of remembering it -- and have come to know it -- is much different from a Korean view. From this perspective, although my eyes read "December" on the calendar and my body senses the encroaching cold, the holidays are otherwise pretty unevident in this neck of the woods. Nevertheless, as branches remain bare and scarves come out of hibernation, my brain deciphers the embedded rhythyms of a time called winter solstice, and knows that the Holidays are upon us.
Of course, most years around now, I'm snuggled up in snowy Ottawa, watching the plow's blue lights flicker into my living room, knowing that in a few days, I'll be enjoying the creature comforts of good company, home-cooked meals and the fond memories of seeing so many smiles in one place at one time.
Admittedly, in the past, I've largely taken these things for granted, knowing that another year would come and go like the last, only to be on us again before even the garland and the lights were boxed away. I've seemingly also taken for granted that my family and friends were only seven digits, or blocks, away. Unfortunately this year, I'm a tad further than that. If only in body, my mind is back home, wishing I was closer to someone warm because, after all, these times really only do come once a year.
Having said that, I wish you all the best that comes with the season. Be kind. Share. And remember: if you can't give gifts, lend a helping hand or a caring ear.
From here to there, be good to each other and leave something good for Santa.
S*
Fave current track(s): "The State of the Union" - Thievery Corporation, "Brothers and Sisters" - Blur
Current read(s) in progress: "Esquire Presents: What It Feels Like:*to Walk on the Moon*to Be Gored By a Bull*to Survive An Avalanche *to Swallow Swords*to Go Over Niagara Falls in a Barrel*to Be Shot in the Head*to Win the Lottery" - A. J. Jacobs (ed), "General Knowledge Quiz Book 2: For the Making of Masterminds" - Philip Carter & Ken Russell
2003.12.24 22:21 KST (EST + 14 hrs): Suwon, Republic of Korea
Skinny yellow deliverymen on mopeds, in Santa suits, dot the roadscape, a few lights sprinkle the night view, and children holler "Melly Chlistmas" when you pass by. This is Christmas in Suwon.
This season, as I've become fond of remembering it -- and have come to know it -- is much different from a Korean view. From this perspective, although my eyes read "December" on the calendar and my body senses the encroaching cold, the holidays are otherwise pretty unevident in this neck of the woods. Nevertheless, as branches remain bare and scarves come out of hibernation, my brain deciphers the embedded rhythyms of a time called winter solstice, and knows that the Holidays are upon us.
Of course, most years around now, I'm snuggled up in snowy Ottawa, watching the plow's blue lights flicker into my living room, knowing that in a few days, I'll be enjoying the creature comforts of good company, home-cooked meals and the fond memories of seeing so many smiles in one place at one time.
Admittedly, in the past, I've largely taken these things for granted, knowing that another year would come and go like the last, only to be on us again before even the garland and the lights were boxed away. I've seemingly also taken for granted that my family and friends were only seven digits, or blocks, away. Unfortunately this year, I'm a tad further than that. If only in body, my mind is back home, wishing I was closer to someone warm because, after all, these times really only do come once a year.
Having said that, I wish you all the best that comes with the season. Be kind. Share. And remember: if you can't give gifts, lend a helping hand or a caring ear.
From here to there, be good to each other and leave something good for Santa.
S*
Fave current track(s): "The State of the Union" - Thievery Corporation, "Brothers and Sisters" - Blur
Current read(s) in progress: "Esquire Presents: What It Feels Like:*to Walk on the Moon*to Be Gored By a Bull*to Survive An Avalanche *to Swallow Swords*to Go Over Niagara Falls in a Barrel*to Be Shot in the Head*to Win the Lottery" - A. J. Jacobs (ed), "General Knowledge Quiz Book 2: For the Making of Masterminds" - Philip Carter & Ken Russell
A Slippery Saturday Night
~
2003.12.17 01:01 KST (EST + 14 hrs): Suwon, Republic of Korea
Carter said it wouldn't last long and since this wasn't the first time he was wrong, I'd come to trust him. In the end, we stopped the mess, somewhere around twelve on Sunday; I, collapsing into a subway car that took me to the end. Twice. But I'm getting ahead of myself. Let's turn on the rearview...
Noon. A vile hour to be roaming a hotel lobby, in search of more booze, harassing the lounging tourists whose eyes not so much criticized what trouble we'd been in, but curiously wondered where we'd land next. The lackie-in-training doorman nimbly circled us and with a menacing glare finally tossed us out, but not before we'd rode the elevators and had our fun. Sometime, while dropping below the second or third floor, I asked myself how we'd got into this rotten affair in the first place. Looking at my dilated reflexion, I knew I was far from being poolside at the Bellagio, the memory of midgets in pink coattails bringing silver-plattered mai tais -- with mescal chasers on the side -- vanishing as quickly as I'd stolen it.
Curiously, it had only been fifteen minutes since we left the last place, having been scathed with the most melancholic of confused and rehearsed a.m. insults: "Unfortunately. Sir" he started, surrounding us with daggers, "we don't start serving until noon." What a decrepit heap we were. But there we were: four drunk bodies, roaming the awakening cityscape, in search of more. The past three hours spent hustled by floor-walking whores, crooked barmaids and smiling but oily, wretched owners. (The only consolation a series of comforting sounds over the airwaves).
As we'd first stumbled into this last drinkery -- out of that bastard Sunday morning sunshine, somewhere around eight -- it was clear that Caucasians would be this morning's only salvation. As I recall, "one" turned into "one too many," and as I watched myself put down plastic for another round, I took account that we'd quickly made friends with both the fun and the friendlies, but like piranhas, the leeches had crept up and were slowly sucking at my toes. And they came in all forms.
Of course, prior to that, the night was much simpler, back at the four-thirty to seven place, dancing it up with a good man on the tables, the floor jammed with happy youth, ingrained in places known only to them, careening like mad pilots, over flashing neon nighttime skies. Johnny, the blond behind the wood, said a gin and tonic would do me good, and since I'd always made a point of listening to men, men-enough to wear aprons, I less than ruefully obliged my host. Since it was an underground joint, it thankfully meant no glimpse of hope or light dare ask any question of us. Especially down here. But even if it had, it was still too early for that kind of hellish introspection.
We had just come from a two a.m., third-floor dance place where the locals didn't know how to groove and strange vibes were all around us. Was there no love? Or were we oozing the liquor already...having been hunched over too many poorly diluted, strangely cut-rate and tequila-chased cocktails somewhere after ten and before one? So many questions left unanswered. Either way, I still had the idea that we'd started this thing together, knowing too that nothing short of handcuffs or an uncooperative tap jockey could stop this soaking landslide. And from this side of the globe, neither of those seemed likely.
As the night edged on, I gambled with the possibility that this was all a corrupt dream, fed to me by some belligerent muse. In the end, I was shaken -- but not sobered -- by the lyrical memory of dying dreams being the best I'd ever have. Granted, in my state, although it was tiring to wrap my head around such a heavy notion, it was nice to know that being awake made these dreams that much better.
From here to there,
S*
Fave current track(s): "Satellites" - Doves, "The Browns At Home" - The Greyboy Allstars, "Ambulance" - Blur
Current read(s) in progress: "Introduction to Communication Studies" - John Fiske, "Seoul Classified" magazine
2003.12.17 01:01 KST (EST + 14 hrs): Suwon, Republic of Korea
Carter said it wouldn't last long and since this wasn't the first time he was wrong, I'd come to trust him. In the end, we stopped the mess, somewhere around twelve on Sunday; I, collapsing into a subway car that took me to the end. Twice. But I'm getting ahead of myself. Let's turn on the rearview...
Noon. A vile hour to be roaming a hotel lobby, in search of more booze, harassing the lounging tourists whose eyes not so much criticized what trouble we'd been in, but curiously wondered where we'd land next. The lackie-in-training doorman nimbly circled us and with a menacing glare finally tossed us out, but not before we'd rode the elevators and had our fun. Sometime, while dropping below the second or third floor, I asked myself how we'd got into this rotten affair in the first place. Looking at my dilated reflexion, I knew I was far from being poolside at the Bellagio, the memory of midgets in pink coattails bringing silver-plattered mai tais -- with mescal chasers on the side -- vanishing as quickly as I'd stolen it.
Curiously, it had only been fifteen minutes since we left the last place, having been scathed with the most melancholic of confused and rehearsed a.m. insults: "Unfortunately. Sir" he started, surrounding us with daggers, "we don't start serving until noon." What a decrepit heap we were. But there we were: four drunk bodies, roaming the awakening cityscape, in search of more. The past three hours spent hustled by floor-walking whores, crooked barmaids and smiling but oily, wretched owners. (The only consolation a series of comforting sounds over the airwaves).
As we'd first stumbled into this last drinkery -- out of that bastard Sunday morning sunshine, somewhere around eight -- it was clear that Caucasians would be this morning's only salvation. As I recall, "one" turned into "one too many," and as I watched myself put down plastic for another round, I took account that we'd quickly made friends with both the fun and the friendlies, but like piranhas, the leeches had crept up and were slowly sucking at my toes. And they came in all forms.
Of course, prior to that, the night was much simpler, back at the four-thirty to seven place, dancing it up with a good man on the tables, the floor jammed with happy youth, ingrained in places known only to them, careening like mad pilots, over flashing neon nighttime skies. Johnny, the blond behind the wood, said a gin and tonic would do me good, and since I'd always made a point of listening to men, men-enough to wear aprons, I less than ruefully obliged my host. Since it was an underground joint, it thankfully meant no glimpse of hope or light dare ask any question of us. Especially down here. But even if it had, it was still too early for that kind of hellish introspection.
We had just come from a two a.m., third-floor dance place where the locals didn't know how to groove and strange vibes were all around us. Was there no love? Or were we oozing the liquor already...having been hunched over too many poorly diluted, strangely cut-rate and tequila-chased cocktails somewhere after ten and before one? So many questions left unanswered. Either way, I still had the idea that we'd started this thing together, knowing too that nothing short of handcuffs or an uncooperative tap jockey could stop this soaking landslide. And from this side of the globe, neither of those seemed likely.
As the night edged on, I gambled with the possibility that this was all a corrupt dream, fed to me by some belligerent muse. In the end, I was shaken -- but not sobered -- by the lyrical memory of dying dreams being the best I'd ever have. Granted, in my state, although it was tiring to wrap my head around such a heavy notion, it was nice to know that being awake made these dreams that much better.
From here to there,
S*
Fave current track(s): "Satellites" - Doves, "The Browns At Home" - The Greyboy Allstars, "Ambulance" - Blur
Current read(s) in progress: "Introduction to Communication Studies" - John Fiske, "Seoul Classified" magazine
Blocked and Unoriginal (or Leo's Lament)
~
2003.12.09 01:17 KST (EST + 14 hrs): Suwon, Republic of Korea
It's tricky to write about something that doesn't change. Even a washing tide gets less lovely with every lap. This is the pitfall of routine. I suspect we are all victim to it somehow: work, study, play. And the worst part is not that we do it on a systematic basis but that by definition, we keep at it day after day after day. At the day's end, what mementos can we parade or trophys hold high? Usually few.
A younger, more agile DiCaprio delivered a perfect line back in 1995, saying "It's been hard, the writing, lately. Terrible numbness then suddenly it comes in beautiful fragments or terrible dreams like nods." He made a very good point, because the trouble with writer's block is not so much the lack of something interesting to say, but the eternally initial wrestling with the fact that you're not really a writer. At least not in any traditional sense. You just have these thoughts floating around, which make no sense out loud, but connect beautifully in your head. Swirls of sounds and sticky syllables. Factor in a past prevalent with myriad assistance and the ensuing unachievability of previous abstraction. Factor in several years of academic exposure, drawn to an immediate end. No more being an addled neo-nobody straggling home along darkened curbs. No more listening to evolved Simians dance at the front of the hall. The end of an era.
And what about the muse? Sensing less around you that actually pulls the trigger has an odd, empty effect: maybe it was fragments of dialogue that fuelled your imagination. Maybe familiar sights. Maybe that quiet red-brick house, numbered '55,' seen every walk home poked the right neurons rallying pen to paper. Could it have been something in the air? Or the right temperature of that daily cup? Who will ever know? Not knowing the answer now is only decayed by the realization that you may never know it. At the end of the day, our heads are at best filled with cycles of murmurs.
I guess in the end, the only way to survive is to go with some form of flow. After all "all energies flow according to the whim of the great magnet." Forget being human, forget being logical, because "the shy cheetah moves with total nonchalance, stickin' it to them in his sexy, slow strut." Leo was primitive and said it best: "Me? I play like a cheetah."
Enjoy your routines. I've got mine. From here to there.
S*
Fave current album(s): "Deltron 3030" - Deltron 3030, "The Last Broadcast" - Doves
Current read(s) in progress: Same old paperbacks (Zen and the Art of blah blah blah) Nothing new ... I'm watching too much TV.
2003.12.09 01:17 KST (EST + 14 hrs): Suwon, Republic of Korea
It's tricky to write about something that doesn't change. Even a washing tide gets less lovely with every lap. This is the pitfall of routine. I suspect we are all victim to it somehow: work, study, play. And the worst part is not that we do it on a systematic basis but that by definition, we keep at it day after day after day. At the day's end, what mementos can we parade or trophys hold high? Usually few.
A younger, more agile DiCaprio delivered a perfect line back in 1995, saying "It's been hard, the writing, lately. Terrible numbness then suddenly it comes in beautiful fragments or terrible dreams like nods." He made a very good point, because the trouble with writer's block is not so much the lack of something interesting to say, but the eternally initial wrestling with the fact that you're not really a writer. At least not in any traditional sense. You just have these thoughts floating around, which make no sense out loud, but connect beautifully in your head. Swirls of sounds and sticky syllables. Factor in a past prevalent with myriad assistance and the ensuing unachievability of previous abstraction. Factor in several years of academic exposure, drawn to an immediate end. No more being an addled neo-nobody straggling home along darkened curbs. No more listening to evolved Simians dance at the front of the hall. The end of an era.
And what about the muse? Sensing less around you that actually pulls the trigger has an odd, empty effect: maybe it was fragments of dialogue that fuelled your imagination. Maybe familiar sights. Maybe that quiet red-brick house, numbered '55,' seen every walk home poked the right neurons rallying pen to paper. Could it have been something in the air? Or the right temperature of that daily cup? Who will ever know? Not knowing the answer now is only decayed by the realization that you may never know it. At the end of the day, our heads are at best filled with cycles of murmurs.
I guess in the end, the only way to survive is to go with some form of flow. After all "all energies flow according to the whim of the great magnet." Forget being human, forget being logical, because "the shy cheetah moves with total nonchalance, stickin' it to them in his sexy, slow strut." Leo was primitive and said it best: "Me? I play like a cheetah."
Enjoy your routines. I've got mine. From here to there.
S*
Fave current album(s): "Deltron 3030" - Deltron 3030, "The Last Broadcast" - Doves
Current read(s) in progress: Same old paperbacks (Zen and the Art of blah blah blah) Nothing new ... I'm watching too much TV.
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