The Home Unit
~
2004.06.24 22:11 KST (EST + 13 hrs): Suwon, Republic of Korea
Since I'd flown home for a short thirteen-day stay, two weeks ago, a friend asked if I'd write about my first 24-hours there and describe my perceptions -- cultural or otherwise, my shock, my joys and sadnesses lived while back in the large land of Canadia in my place among many, it's capital: Ottawa. In the end, I managed to chisel out a sketch of the larger psychology of being home.
It was interesting, eye-opening, scary, relaxing, warming and refreshing to be home, even if it is now a shell of an old likeness thereof. It was nice to see my family and friends at the airport (I've never flown into receiving arms before -- revealing and embarassing, given my travels), it was great to be tremendously stoned for most of those two weeks, it was great to be completely demolished by the astounding power of heterogeneous crowds, beautiful women, good music, public deceipt, religion, creative food, good wine and the traditions and rituals as I know them proper. I was also relieved to know that proper energetic flows and an inherent rhythms still line the walls of my favourite staircases, red brick façades, wetted walkways and leafy crowns. Unsurprisingly, from a combination of living overseas and having visited -- albeit briefly -- many global destinations, I have come to realize that Canada is truly an incredible state of mind.
The mere presence of diversity (if something so socially monumental can be introduced as "mere") speaks volumes in and of itself. Not only is everyone literally freelancing their own lives, no one seems to flinch at the very differences that consitute the whole. The big picture of Canadiana is like staring at art on speed -- bleeding both with the intense parts of a Basquiat collage and the anonymous, chaotic slashes of a Pollock. The trick is that you'd think that so many people doing so many different things in a massive space like that would have a disastrous and complicated image (sort of a 'too many cooks' catch) but it's that very mix that swirls so many colours into one simultaneous palette of them all. A walking museum, a human exhibit, a sidewalk sale, a fresh peach dripping summer sugar, a baby smiling. Pure, underappreciated beauty. Pure, honest reflections of a place called home.
And when I felt complicated and confused walking into a shopping mall though, I realized that there lies something embarrasingly evil about the evolution (or corruption?) of architecture that has permitted the engineering of modern buying spaces -- the bazaar come full, rotten circle, I suppose. When I first walked through the beautiful glass doors -- shining steel splitting for me -- I knew that every curve, every light, every angle, colour, sound and refraction geared me to do one thing. Each height measured, each scent articulated to a science, the shape of tables presenting me their wares ... each worked over in focus groups very much focussed to produce the ultimate answer to modern society's ultimate question: "How To Sell?". Yes, and since I had happened into this space after a few hours of strolling through markets of fresh flowers, butcheries, bakeries and other honest shops, the impact was huge. As expected, I spent.
On the subject of design, the point of my visit (my friend's wedding) brought me to a Catholic church and I was again left speechless at a building rife with symbols and symbolism so intent on the pursuance of belief, of pennance, of celebration. It was incredible to be in a church again, if only to understand its marking presence in the earlier years of my life and to understand that although I believe in the principles of good and right behaviour, I subscribe to the subservience of the individual parts of its ritualistic message with great difficulty. In the end, I felt warmed and humbled to feel the realization of dormant thoughts come to light, to articulate fruition.
So I was home and knew it. Yes, and it was good to be there and to know that a properly-poured pint lay steps from my door and the smell of big trees, clean soil, healthy air and crisp, wet rain were the first to reach my sinuses outside the terminal, bags in hand. Refreshing, too, to know that friends would sacrifice a Saturday night to greet me in style, refreshing that people were easy to talk to, traffic was friendly, roads were safe and that I could see stars at night and the pale disc of moon in a leftover morning sky as the sun rose opposite, smiling, to meet it.
I spent the week running errands, celebrating lunches and re-bridging gaps, some, luckily, still open from when I left. I watched movies, smoked joints, and talked into the night with souls that I missed. I reconnected with friends, watched them wed, played games with them and talked to their children, rode in their cars and investigated their homes. It was good to have territory both new and old to sniff, to discover, to know again -- to re-fire the synapses layed dormant from time away.
For now, I will not return for a while. And I am saddened to write this. I suspect the road becoming more and more travelled -- i.e., Korea -- will keep me satisied for another short while, but where and when this path will deviate, I cannot tell. I have Buenos Aires and Beirut on the brain, but I'd settle for Montréal in a contest of geographical atonement any day.
From a temporary place called here to one forever in my heart dubbed there,
Czech it,
S*
P.S. If anyone can find a Mandala Vision colouring book, please let me know; I'd love to have one sent here. I'll gladly pay for goods and services rendered. You know how to reach me.
Fave current albums(s): "Very Mercenary" - The Herbalizer, "Pet Sounds" - The Beach Boys, "Since I Left You" - The Avalanches
Current read(s) in progress: "The Crying of Lot 49" - Thomas Pynchon, "Wax Poetics" magazine
2004.06.24 22:11 KST (EST + 13 hrs): Suwon, Republic of Korea
Since I'd flown home for a short thirteen-day stay, two weeks ago, a friend asked if I'd write about my first 24-hours there and describe my perceptions -- cultural or otherwise, my shock, my joys and sadnesses lived while back in the large land of Canadia in my place among many, it's capital: Ottawa. In the end, I managed to chisel out a sketch of the larger psychology of being home.
It was interesting, eye-opening, scary, relaxing, warming and refreshing to be home, even if it is now a shell of an old likeness thereof. It was nice to see my family and friends at the airport (I've never flown into receiving arms before -- revealing and embarassing, given my travels), it was great to be tremendously stoned for most of those two weeks, it was great to be completely demolished by the astounding power of heterogeneous crowds, beautiful women, good music, public deceipt, religion, creative food, good wine and the traditions and rituals as I know them proper. I was also relieved to know that proper energetic flows and an inherent rhythms still line the walls of my favourite staircases, red brick façades, wetted walkways and leafy crowns. Unsurprisingly, from a combination of living overseas and having visited -- albeit briefly -- many global destinations, I have come to realize that Canada is truly an incredible state of mind.
The mere presence of diversity (if something so socially monumental can be introduced as "mere") speaks volumes in and of itself. Not only is everyone literally freelancing their own lives, no one seems to flinch at the very differences that consitute the whole. The big picture of Canadiana is like staring at art on speed -- bleeding both with the intense parts of a Basquiat collage and the anonymous, chaotic slashes of a Pollock. The trick is that you'd think that so many people doing so many different things in a massive space like that would have a disastrous and complicated image (sort of a 'too many cooks' catch) but it's that very mix that swirls so many colours into one simultaneous palette of them all. A walking museum, a human exhibit, a sidewalk sale, a fresh peach dripping summer sugar, a baby smiling. Pure, underappreciated beauty. Pure, honest reflections of a place called home.
And when I felt complicated and confused walking into a shopping mall though, I realized that there lies something embarrasingly evil about the evolution (or corruption?) of architecture that has permitted the engineering of modern buying spaces -- the bazaar come full, rotten circle, I suppose. When I first walked through the beautiful glass doors -- shining steel splitting for me -- I knew that every curve, every light, every angle, colour, sound and refraction geared me to do one thing. Each height measured, each scent articulated to a science, the shape of tables presenting me their wares ... each worked over in focus groups very much focussed to produce the ultimate answer to modern society's ultimate question: "How To Sell?". Yes, and since I had happened into this space after a few hours of strolling through markets of fresh flowers, butcheries, bakeries and other honest shops, the impact was huge. As expected, I spent.
On the subject of design, the point of my visit (my friend's wedding) brought me to a Catholic church and I was again left speechless at a building rife with symbols and symbolism so intent on the pursuance of belief, of pennance, of celebration. It was incredible to be in a church again, if only to understand its marking presence in the earlier years of my life and to understand that although I believe in the principles of good and right behaviour, I subscribe to the subservience of the individual parts of its ritualistic message with great difficulty. In the end, I felt warmed and humbled to feel the realization of dormant thoughts come to light, to articulate fruition.
So I was home and knew it. Yes, and it was good to be there and to know that a properly-poured pint lay steps from my door and the smell of big trees, clean soil, healthy air and crisp, wet rain were the first to reach my sinuses outside the terminal, bags in hand. Refreshing, too, to know that friends would sacrifice a Saturday night to greet me in style, refreshing that people were easy to talk to, traffic was friendly, roads were safe and that I could see stars at night and the pale disc of moon in a leftover morning sky as the sun rose opposite, smiling, to meet it.
I spent the week running errands, celebrating lunches and re-bridging gaps, some, luckily, still open from when I left. I watched movies, smoked joints, and talked into the night with souls that I missed. I reconnected with friends, watched them wed, played games with them and talked to their children, rode in their cars and investigated their homes. It was good to have territory both new and old to sniff, to discover, to know again -- to re-fire the synapses layed dormant from time away.
For now, I will not return for a while. And I am saddened to write this. I suspect the road becoming more and more travelled -- i.e., Korea -- will keep me satisied for another short while, but where and when this path will deviate, I cannot tell. I have Buenos Aires and Beirut on the brain, but I'd settle for Montréal in a contest of geographical atonement any day.
From a temporary place called here to one forever in my heart dubbed there,
Czech it,
S*
P.S. If anyone can find a Mandala Vision colouring book, please let me know; I'd love to have one sent here. I'll gladly pay for goods and services rendered. You know how to reach me.
Fave current albums(s): "Very Mercenary" - The Herbalizer, "Pet Sounds" - The Beach Boys, "Since I Left You" - The Avalanches
Current read(s) in progress: "The Crying of Lot 49" - Thomas Pynchon, "Wax Poetics" magazine
free hit counter
