Gratuitous Poem #6

Because I found another one in my notebook:

Lost in my foreign veins microbeasts

attack the unknown walls and capsules

confused in the dark between sleep and wake

when the dark won't fade

the room will never brighten there's

not even a window

the sun I knew so well kept from me

til I scratch my eyes out looking

for the cup I left on the table

I wouldn't go back to those first days if you paid

me a cupful of sunshine

Gratuitous Poem #5

I have no idea where this came from. I am coffee-shop-stoned and this is what happens when my abhorrent room chases me into cafes all over the city looking for some measure of comfort.

afloat on a makeshift

lifeboat in a sea of beer and various coffees

sweet and fattened or bone-dry black

in the belly of the third month

I still can't hear the rain when it falls

whispering about the world

outside my slowly caving skull

the basin to dip into

when I'm too light to remember

that this is not my home

Slavism

I love hanging out with Marina because inevitably, at some point, we will fall into discussions on the essence of Slavism. She is Croatian and I am Polish. She brings the Yugoslavian piece of the puzzle and I chime in with my Soviet-laced early Warsaw memories, and the bits and pieces I can scratch out of the crevices of my mind reserved for "things I learned in a U of M classroom."

It refreshing to be able to talk freely about Poland. To be honest about how much it is a part of me, and also to be honest about how little I feel I know about it. I am not a Poland expert. I don't speak the language like I should. Very few people understand how that is even possible, much less acceptable, given how long I lived there. I have forgotten what it was like to not have to explain myself every time I want to make a reference to my childhood.

I told my father I wanted to come back and live in Poland again. I think he thought I was joking. And my brother's only reaction was "really? why?" Because, Tristan, you haven't had the experience of leaving Poland yet. That isolating, unexpected Slavic withdrawal that generates such powerful patriotism for a country you didn't even know you cared about. It happened to me. God knows I hated everything about Poland when I was there. And what do I do once I leave? Decide to devote half my undergraduate career to studying the damn place. It happened to Sabrina, too. It will happen to you.

It's not a bad thing. Just one more notch in the wood block that will eventually, one day far from here, be a recognizable carving of our identity. Korea makes me miss Poland, to the extent that I came home from Itaewon tonight with a half pitcher of beer burbling in my stomach and I flipped open my computer and pulled up old Dobranocki on Youtube. Koziolek Matolek, Smok Wawelski, Pszczolka Maja. All those terrifying, dearly beloved old cartoons that so defined my perceptions of post-Communist Poland. I never thought I would meet someone who could understand all of that.

A burden has unfurled, and unsurprisingly, it has released more questions into the air like pollen dust. But it's a nice feeling, especially here in this alien land.

Raid

So there I was, doing my teaching thing with an unusual lightness. I had done more prep than usual, had found cute Halloween themed Math worksheets for my kids. I even kind of liked them at that moment. When my boss barrels into my room and announces that he wanted to take all the kids to the library because a crew was here to disinfect the school (because those little swine flu bits like to hide with the spiders and the dust mites and they MUST ALL BE INCINERATED).

Ok, I thought, figuring he meant a couple guys with a heavy duty mop or whatever. Nope. They shut us up in the tiny library - the entire school - and proceeded to hose down our school with disinfectant chemical spray. The kids were coughing, our eyes were watering, my head starting pounding, and no windows were opened. The girls and I could not believe what had just happened. We finally convinced him to take the kids to the park only after he was informed by the crew that they would be taking far longer than he expected. Any time any of us English teachers tried to voice our horror over the fact that he had just sprayed down a schoolful of kids all he would say was "They say it's perfectly safe."

So we went to the park, and lost most of the day in the process. Not that I was complaining. It was a beautiful day, and the kids are at their best when they can run around (which they have tragically few opportunities to do in this uptight, claustrophobic, cutthroat-competitive academic culture). Meanwhile our cramped, windowless school steeped in chemicals. We went back at the end of lunch, and proceeded to be fed food that had been in that building the whole time. Yum, cancer.

The Swine Flu Strikes Again!

The unthinkable has happened. Another child has been claimed by the SWINE FLU. Cue the ominous music, the screaming, praying, explosions etc. It's the end of the world as we know it, armageddon, apocalypse now and so on and so forth.

This kid is fine, by the way, just like the last kid was fine and back in school within a few days. But school will probably be closed for the next few days. Luckily, this time our boss decided to tell us before he told the parents so we were not thrown headfirst into another three weeks of stolen Saturdays. He actually called a meeting with us, took into account our opinions, though I do believe that this is only because he was painfully aware that we were extremely unhappy with the Saturday situation. Even though no one had ever said it explicitly until this morning, he knew we would refuse to work any more Saturdays.

We compromised. It was all very professional and I am proud of us; our little union made up of three fresh-out-of-college idiots and one seasoned teacher in way over her head. We managed to change something around here. Well, before I get ahead of myself I need to wait and see what the verdict is. For the gods that we are not fit to lick the shoes of (aka the parents of our students) will decide how to properly proceed with making up the missed days.

Oh Korea, just when I start liking you you remind me painfully of your flaws. The entire country just needs a big tranquilizer dart in the butt. Let them sleep it off.

Crane Wish

Imagine the darkened interior of a bar. A table littered with beer mugs at varying stages of emptiness, little snack dishes and cell phones. And strewn across this table scores of origami cranes of every size, color and shape. Yes, shape.

Beka, as our school's "art" teacher (she's an art history major...) was assigned an origami class. She spent her break at work today being taught how to make cranes by a student, and spent the evening teaching the rest of us. Our first attempts are clumsy, deformed creatures, but together we generated enough to give out to the "art" classes after the try (and fail) to make their own. These are 4 year-olds we're talking about here. 4 year olds who don't understand a lick of English.

Apparently if you make 100 cranes you get a wish. I only made 4. Well on my way, huh? I named them too. There was Ruby, my poor, flattened first attempt; then Jude, Cornucopia and Bebe. We were the coolest table in there. We added to that coolness by watching Final Fantasy cut scenes on Hyo Jin's DS, and arguing about what the FF7 theme actually is (Heather found the 'theme' on her ipod and had me listen to it. It was the Requiem for a Dream piece - that really recognizable one they use in movie previews all the time. She refused to accept this fact).

Today at random points throughout the day fractions os a familiar tune popped into my head. Finally I started humming it out loud to see if I could carry it through until I recognized it. Turned out, it was that Youtube Nom Nom song that Evan and I used to dance to. And by dance I mean jumping up and down while spinning through the room.

The way this information cleared in my brain was slow and bizarre. First I recognized the full tune, and recognized that I recognized it, but before I could put a name on it I remembered the jumping dance that went with it. I remembered jumping, and I had the vague, nudging notion that when I jumped to it, I didn't jump alone. But I couldn't remember who was jumping with me. The fact that it was Evan trickled down to me from far, far away. In my mind's eye I could see him jumping too, but through a fog. It was like I was trying to remember a dream that had never been all there to begin with. The memory was sharp; I could see the 1st floor of the condo around me, see my computer playing that stupid little video. I could feel the floor, linoleum and carpet. I could even hear the hollow sound that floor made that had me constantly afraid I would jump a hole right through it. But Evan was blurry, and never came into focus.

If I could have my crane wish...I don't know what it would be. The days have started to blend, like the first pastels of a much larger picture. The weeks are picking up speed just a little, but in return they're starting to pile on top of each other as I begin to count months instead. I'm getting used to the schedule, the diet, the area. The day I arrived here I stepped from bright sun into a dark room (or vice versa, if you prefer to see it that way) and it's taken 2 months for my eyes to start adjusting.

If I could have my crane wish it might be to be able to skip to the third or fourth month for every one of my future lives. Wouldn't everything go just swimmingly then.

Metaphorical Squid

Every day as my feet thread the same invisible line in the pavement - back and forth, work and home, home and work, wax on wax off - I try to think my life straight. In the mornings I'm too mind-blocked by the thought of the hours of teaching (or whatever it is) ahead of me. And in the evenings I don't get very far because I get distracted by the squid.

In a two block radius of our apartment there are probably about 10-12 seafood restaurants, identifiable by the massive glass tanks of live seafood prominently on display outside their walls. Big, dirty glass boxes of hose-propelled water roiling on the surface full of fish, eels, crabs, and squid in their final hours. One place on the corner always catches my eye. Whether it's the same squid that has somehow managed to survive a whole week, or it's just a common captive-squid practice, I don't know. But one squid is always, without fail, mercilessly attacked the upper-left corner of it's tank. Thump, thump, thump. A little, tentacled torpedo surging forward and being knocked back by the unrelenting solidness of the tank. It disturbs me every time, but I can't tear my eyes away.

Having never been a squid myself I can do nothing but project myself onto its stupid, small existence. A flurry of intent, purpose. Penetration, liberation, never ending desperation. That's a lot of ations for something I enjoy cut into little rings and deep fat fried. An unfamiliar place, the instinct to flee. If it just accepted its new, tanked life, then at least temporarily the pain would subside. Of course, eventually it will be scooped up in a net, suffocated, cut up, cooked and eaten. But that's beside the point.

Yes, I am using a squid as a metaphor for my Korean life. As you may be able to tell, I am having difficulty defining a lot of things in said life. And, as some of you may know, I am a person who likes to have definitions. The squid will do for now.

Heather, in a fit of drunken wisdom, helped me match a definition to a rather large problem last night. I had fallen into a bar-induced melancholy and in her supportive, girltalk rambles she uttered a phrase that I clamped onto like a life-preserver after a shipwreck. And I realized that I've been sitting here these 2 1/2 months just waiting to be rescued.

Recused literally, metaphorically, metaphysically...whatever. This whole time I've been honestly believing Evan would come and save me from the unknown. That's why it's remained unknown. I won't settle in because I believe it's all temporary. Evan will come here, or he'll ask me to come home (which I would do in a heartbeat), and everything will be better.

I don't know what to do with this now, this label that I pressed against my eyes like a compress, relieving all the tension, cooling the aches. I feel stronger for having it, just one more piece of information in a place where I so often feel clueless. But I'm still not sure what it means, or how to get beyond it. Maybe just knowing will make the difference.

Barring

I think I'm starting to like my children.

I know, I know...it's a shocking turn of events. Take a deep breath, go over the freezer and pull out a box of ice cream. It's ok.

They're starting to make me happy, and they are starting to trump all of the other crap that goes down in that molehill of a school. Yesterday a kid peed his pants while he was giving his show and tell presentation. I had no idea it had even happened until I called the next kid up and she pointed out a strange puddle on the floor. No wonder the poor boy's big smile suddenly faded halfway through talking about the Lion King book he had almost completely memorized. I swooped into the best damage control I have ever put forth on my own and none of the other kids had any idea anything had happened. I spent break time with him in my lap outside the classroom and I think it was a turning point for me. Not that the kid peed on himself...but that I finally felt needed.

There's nothing much like being needed by a child. I can punish my kids all I have and at the end of the day they'll still smile, and wave if they see me outside the classroom, and fall over each other to tell me things. "Teacher, teacher! My tooth moves! Look! Look!"

In other news, the very fact that I've brought my laptop to Woodstock puts into question the level of alcoholism this country/job is pushing me too. Having said that, Woodstock is almost next door to us, while the coffee shop is a good five blocks away. If we want to get out of the house but don't have the energy this is pretty much it.

As I sit here typing Heather and Beka are doodling on the slips of paper they provide for song requests. We're the only ones in the bar, and we got a free coke with our beers because we're the most regular of regulars. We're trying to design a callsign for Beka's new alter ego, Lightning Tealeaf, and rating people (read: making shameless snap judgments about poeple's physical appearances) as they walk by. We haven't found anyone over a 4. Oh, Janghan-pyeong...

3,000

Being the only one in a long distance relationship within a group of friends is, as it turns out, a fine art to be mastered.

Last night Heather and Rebekah and I invited our motley crew of friends over to Woodstock in an attempt to recreate Thursday night without the police, the hospital, the exhaustion and the tears. It worked out surprisingly well. We gathered a great group and the night was a giggly, messy pile of drained beer mugs and pitchers that seemed constantly (and irritatingly) empty. We've become friends with the owner and his buddies, and they joined us once we were all good and drunk and could be managed a little better. And I learned it wasn't just a symptom of my school. A lot of Koreans that I have met seem to love drama. They love to stir it up, ignite it. The night became a game of who likes who, a mix-and-match between my American girlfriends and the Korean guys. One which I sat out, it being common knowledge that I have a boyfriend back home. And my one attached girlfriend? She has the inconceivably good fortune of having found herself a boy who travelled with her to Korea. They live and work together here in Seoul. I'm only a little bit bitter about that...

I love this city. I love it for its parks and its foodstands, it's cafes and it chattery, smiley people. I love it for it's amazing subway system and how safe I feel walking through it no matter how late at night the hour. I love duk bok ki and rice cake and seaweed soup, and the endless cascades of noodles. I love that in my 2 months here I have only laid eyes on two ugly babies. I pretty much want to pack up the rest of them in suitcases and take them home with me.

But (and be warned, here begins the embarrassing babbling of a hopeless romantic) is it worth it if Evan is still in Kalamazoo? I know the arguments. They run on a looping tape in my mind all day every day. They've been doing that for the past year. I'm being adventurous, I'm being mature, I'll become a stronger person and I'll learn too many life lessons to count. If I had decided to just stay in Michigan I would have been miserable. But I'm a hell of a lot more depressed than my roommates. This would be 3,000 times easier if only...

That's right, 3,000. It's a good, random number.

There are no young people in our area. I have discovered that all the young people have been sucked away by college campuses. I had dinner with Tack Youn, a very old friend, near his campus. What a great area! It was bright and exciting, jammed with bars and cafes and people my age who didn't stare. We had a delicious chicken soup-type-thing and he laughed at my inability to navigate Korean food. One of the side dishes they always serve (along with the kimchi) is a plate of lettuce and a couple bright green, raw, hot peppers. Which are actually meant to be eaten raw. Like carrot sticks. Tack Youn laughed when I told him I had thought they were just there to look pretty - garnish the edge of the table - and took a bite of one to prove it.

And now, because I'm distracted by Peter and the Wolf shuffling through my itunes, I'm going to put an end to this long and disjointed entry. That's all, folks!

Shopping Saves

In my self-imposed exile from everyone and everything that I love I have found myself trying to identify, define, and refocus every little thing that comes along that makes me happy. I've been referring to them as my "salvations." These may or may not be similar to the "presidents" my little brother had when he was a kid. They both pop up at night, and they both left an air of mystery in their wake. In the case of my salvations, this mystery is "why didn't I think of this before?" and "what are the chances this should pop up right now?"

An example would be one of the countless times the shuffle on my ipod has read my mind and played a song that, had I been producing the movie of my life, I would have picked to soundtrack that moment.

Or the fact that the Wangsimni mall plays classical Western music on their loudspeakers, and on the last two occasions I've come out of the E-Mart (think Meijer) at that mall - desperately homesick after wading through aisles of shopping that is nothing like Warsaw or Ann Arbor - I've heard that and remembered that people are people and I'm ok.

Or the day that I discovered the itty bitty rice cake bakery right next door to my school, where a square of cake is only 800 won and the lady who owns the plays always has a huge smile for me when I escape from my kids for the 20 odd minutes of breaktime every morning.

Or the first time I lugged my computer over to the dazzlingly comfortable Cafe Bene and realized they have wifi as smoothly accessible as my apartment, where I can watch Battlestar Galactica on Megavideo and not worry about using up the 72 minutes granted my IP address that would mean heather and Rebekah wouldn't be able to watch their TV shows. And the caramel macchiatos are amazing.

My salvations come to me in bits and pieces, like debris from the wreck that is just now making its way over the Pacific toward me. And when I see one I grab it and I hold onto it. They are my cottage evening fireflies and I am the greedy child with the jar full of grass (because all insects eat grass, right?)

Spending my fresh and steaming paycheck on deliciously Western styled shopping in Myeong Dong today was just another salvation. I don't care that it seems ludicrous to move across the world and then spend several hours in Zara and Forever 21, ignoring the awesomeness of the edgy Korean boutiques. I tried the Korean boutiques - well, the lingerie ones anyway. I am just about officially a C-cup now. And those of you who don't get the gravity of the statement should know that 2 months ago I was a DD. Trying to find a bra that was even a decent C almost reduced me to tears. I'd rather stick to my Mangos and my Gaps than try to take on the ludicrously petite world of Korean fashion any day.

Funny thing is, most Korean women aren't anywhere near petite anymore.

Short and Shocking

Evan this is all your fault. As I sit here to write all I can think about is the damn Slender Man. And now that I've let the cat out of the bag everyone who reads this post is going to go google him.

So apparently this Slender Man is a fabricated urban legend with a series of extremely creepy youtube videos attached. It catches you in a Blair Witch-esque horrific fascination. I stopped myself from watching beyond video 5. See if you all can do the same. I really don't need to be freaked out thinking there's a skinny guy in a suit watching me as I sleep in my dark little box of a bedroom.

I could write about my Chusok weekend. There was a big, open, sun-filled museum; a family dinner with an amazing group of people; a day where I couldn't get off the couch until 6pm because I was crying so hard; and, of course, the night I returned home, shaking and hyperventilating at 8am after a police investigation and a hospital visit. This is chronologically backwards, mind you. And in the past. And everyone is fine.

Well, I should go. A day of shopping has been planned, but a morning of talking to my boy has pushed that way, way back. And I have to go back to work tomorrow. And and and and...