I thought I'd try something new. My first effort to embed a linked video. It's brutal, unkind, over-the-top satire. But it made me laugh.
[Noted added 2010-08-11: The embed is dead. It's really annoying to come back to my blog years later and see the links broken to things like this. I think this is why trying to add embedded materials is a fraught undertaking. I can't find where the original embedded vid went. Oh well. Sorry.]
I was surfing some French websites earlier – don’t ask me why I do these things, it’s part of being an unrepentant language geek, I guess. I followed a broken link, and saw the following very un-french announcement: oups! So much for French language purity and all that. They let McDonalds into the country, and look what happens.
I was walking home with Basil and we were going to stop and buy some chicken-on-a-stick (kkochi), and I saw this decimated kkochistick, with its tiny napkin-banner blowing in the wind, stuck into a tree like the spear of some insane tribesman, leaving a warning to unwary travelers.
I took a picture with my cellphone.
Today was “first snow,” although there wasn’t much… and it kept turning back to rain, so of course nothing stuck. It sure is beautiful, invigorating weather, though. I really love it.
Koreans view “first snow” as a significant event. The kids celebrate it with excitement, and one of our coworkers ran out and bought treats for everyone. I think it’s a fabulous tradition.
I came home and had some rice with spicy instant soup for dinner, and made some ginger tea.
I’ve been thinking about respect.
In the West, respect is something that’s earned. And it can be easily lost.
In the East, I think, respect is something each person is due based on his or her position in the social hierarchy (basically matters of age and, in employment, the chain-of-command). Thus, no one can “lose” respect, ever. Perhaps it could be summed up with a phrase such as, “I have been utterly shamed [or hurt, wounded, etc.] by you, but I still must respect you.”
I think that misunderstandings of how respect works differently may be one of the main causes of disillusionment on the part of Westerners working in Korea, and may be one of the main reasons why Korean bosses view Western employees as impudent, rude, or downright lazy, too. I have never seen my boss more confused and at a loss as when I was trying to explain to him the idea of “earned respect.” And he’s someone who has, in fact, spent time in the U.S. How must it be for Koreans who have never had that experience?
Suddenly, it's winter. The high temperature today was around zero (32F) with strong winds. The golden leaves on the trees have all dropped to the ground in a very short span. And a snow flurry is forcast for the morning – I'm skeptical, as forecast snow rarely seems to actually materialize in this part of the world. But we shall see.
I stayed at work until 1am last night, entering grades into the really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really bad computer database system that LBridge uses. Note that it is really bad, in my opinion. What a monumental waste of time. Jeez. I could build a better database system. And I'm not really a very good applications designer. And by the way I'm not volunteering.
Jenny writes, "Being happy is the most important thing, so I will be happy forever." This may be a grammatical mistake, but it may be entirely accurate, and simply a demonstration of the extreme cultural gap I face here. But if it is accurate, it is also an appealing life-philosophy, especially compelling coming from a 5th grader. Essentially, the idea that the best reason to be happy is precisely because it is important to be happy. And nothing more than that. How could life be more simple?
Then again, Ryan writes, in answer to the same question, "My ideal job is going around the world and earn money with various job." I can definitely relate to that – and it's pretty rare for a Korean kid to come up with such a radical idea as being a vaguely bohemian world vagabond.
좀비천사 (jom-bi-cheon-sa=Zombie Angel Jared) battles 타락천사 (ta-rak-cheon-sa=Corrupted Angel Tommy) in singular combat, while 강도 (the “robber” Jessica, a student) is referee (심판) from her futuristic skeleton skateboard (note her long pony tail and vicious grin). As interpreted by James, in grade 3.
Who will emerge victorious? Tune in next week…
Actually, Tommy is one of my colleagues whom I get along with better than most. He’s a very laid-back dude. Still, he bears a striking resemblance to his angelic alter-ego as portrayed here. Note the slathery slobber and scary horns. Or…
OK, just kidding. ㅋㅋㅋ
I sat and watched Brandon being disciplined by Pi Seon-u (our principal). I felt dirty, watching it. I always do. It's not really that bad, I tell myself. It's the way things are done here. Mr Pi makes Brandon hold a ream of photocopy paper on his hands, outstretched.
What I'm seeing is identical to the sorts of hazing exercises that were so common in basic training, in the US Army. You hold out your arms, palms downward, straight in front of you. Your M16 sits on top. It's not really that heavy, you tell yourself. And it's not. But holding it there for more than half a minute or so is incredibly difficult. Try it sometime. It takes discipline, and it hurts the outstretched muscles in the arms and in the back of your hands.
Brandon holds it. Drops it. Picks it up and holds it again. Mr Pi lectures him in soft tones. I don't understand what's being said, but it's easy to imagine. Behave. Self-discipline. Don't disappoint. Work hard. What would your parents think? Do you want to end up a failure?
Brandon is such an intelligent and bright-spirited boy. A fifth-grader, I think… he was at LinguaForum, before coming to Hellbridge. But he's the kind of boy that gives the term "bouncing off the walls" literal resonance. In the US, he would be labeled ADHD and would be strung out on ritalin. Anyway… it's easy for me to imagine what he might have done to antagonize his teacher – I sent him out of my classroom more than once, myself, back when I had him at LF.
And I wonder. Is it possible to learn discipline, for me, at this late age in life? I had a singularly undisciplined childhood, and despite that, I still play the same sorts of lecture scripts in my head. Not that they're successful. Not that they impart any kind of self-discipline. But they're there.
Can I, now, learn discipline? I feel guilty that I don't have it, when I watch someone like Brandon being disciplined. Disciplined.
Discipline.
Can I look at it from a Foucauldian perspective, theoretically, and still continue to believe that it has value for the individual? Can I see the cruelty of it, with children, and still believe that it could have value, for me? It seems so.
I think it might be the case that I'm sticking it out at Hellbridge because of this burning quest for discipline. Those piles of papers to correct… they impart discipline. I've enrolled myself in a new sort of psychic boot camp.
Discipline.
Korean culture approaches almost all collective cultural pursuits (schooling, work, even social gatherings) in a way that Americans reserve for boot camp: social spaces provide a means to impart the collective discipline on the individual. And the individual is there to soak it up.
Falling down is common. And the response is supposed to be: pick yourself up, brush yourself off, and soldier on. Push hard, fail hard, push some more.
Not everyone picks up and soldiers on. And the shame of failing… of not picking up… is excruciating for the individual. The suicide rate is very high in Korea, especially among students. A 10-year-old boy was in the news, recently; he committed suicide over academic pressures. A 10-year-old! Kids like Brandon.
Koreans shake their heads, feeling sadness and sympathy. Even empathy, I'm sure. But they never question the basic premise: the failure belongs to the individual, the success, to the collective. Not one Korean whom I overheard discussing it thought to question if the boy's parents might not have been doing a perfectly adequate job, in placing such pressures on him, or thought to wonder if the academic system here bears some responsibility.
If Brandon turns up dead tomorrow, what will people say? What will they believe? What will I feel?Would I be complicit, because I've watched Mr Pi disciplining him from the corner of my eye, with a disturbing mixture of distaste and envy? Yes, envy: that I had such strength of spirit. To fall down, pick up, and soldier on.
Discipline.
The following is a fairy tale.
He parked the maroon Pontiac on the side of of highway one just north of Ragged Point, California, facing the setting sun and the vast, swarming, grey Pacific. He'd driven it down slightly into the bushes, so it wasn't entirely visible from the highway. He'd bought 100 tablets of diphenhydramine and a liter of vodka. He began swallowing the pills with swigs of vodka, and watched the sun sink into the banks of fog rolling off the sea.
He managed to swallow more than half the tablets. He went lightly with the vodka, because he didn't want to throw it all up, like that other time. This was meant to be the end.
There was a very quiet period. There was crying. Impotent anger at the world.
Then it was dark, and he felt his heart accelerating. Had minutes passed? Hours? "This is it," he muttered.
He perceived his heart beating very strongly, he began to black out, feel dizzy. Nauseated. "Shit."
He felt his lungs laboring. He was burning up. He saw nothing but blackness, he heard a buzzing. And his banging, angry heart, leaping in his chest.
He started to scream. Or would have been screaming, but his lungs were out of his control. Was he even breathing? This really was it. Death. Such a vivid experience. But… oh, and there's the white light. Let's analyze this, he thought. Let's think this through. The heart has stopped. It has? It really has. The chest is tight. He felt numbness creeping up his limbs. Shit, no heart. Really.
So what's the white light? Perfectly logical, he reflected. The brain is losing oxygen, right? So… the part of the brain farthest from the heart shuts down first, right? And that's at the back… the visual cortex. The center of the field of vision is processed at the part of the brain farthest back, farthest from the oxygen-supplying blood.
And, so… what if, logically, the "default" signal is "whiteness"–light–not darkness? Then, as the brain "died," the whiteness would spread out in a circle from the center of the field of vision, as the neurons in the visual cortex went "offline." The white light, the tunnel with the light at the end, approaching the white light… these are merely the brain trying to make sense of the fact that the visual cortex "dies" from the center outward.
Yes, he was really thinking exactly these things, as he lay dying, in the driver's seat of the maroon Pontiac parked in the bushes off of Highway One at Ragged Point.
And then he felt some kind of seizure… it was remote from his "self," because all his limbs and body felt numb. But some kind of banging. And the heart still not beating. Hasn't it been an awfully long time? The white light is so big. His brain was dying.
Always a fan of black sarcasm, he decided on his last words, to himself, as a committed agnostic. "Unto you I commend my spirit," he quipped, to a god who'd never once answered him. And only a stunning silence, at that moment, was the reply, too. But he himself spoke the next words, instead. He himself answered, "aww, fuck this. You're not done yet!"
And he felt his heart start beating wildly, and he felt his lungs gulping air, and he somehow managed to pop the door open, and roll out of the seat of the car and onto the damp, dewy grass outside and bang his head on the gravel.
And time passed. And stars were whirling overhead. And the journey began. It was the night of November 17th. He was… nowhere. On Earth. Alive? He began to walk away from Ragged Point.
Maybe not alive. He walked through a tree. He saw bench, but could not sit on it.
"I'm a ghost," he decided.
He saw some approaching headlights on the highway, and so he went down and stood in the middle of the road. The car went through him.
Definitely a ghost. Like Pedro Paramo, in Juan Rulfo's tale, he meditated. Pedro went down into Comala, and didn't know he was a ghost. He talked to the spirits he met there, including his dead father.
The man climbed a hill, passing through brambles that he didn't notice, and noticing the spirits of other dead people around him. Spirits? "Are we all dead here, together?"
Somewhere in among some trees on a hillside, he found a spaceship. And down the steps of that spaceship, he saw his uncle.
"So you're dead too?" he asked. His uncle shrugged. Said nothing. Offered nothing. Walked away down toward the highway again. He followed. It was an arduous journey. Just a month ago, he'd been on his uncle's land in Alaska, but that hadn't been the right thing to do. The wilderness was very lonely, and loneliness… oh, loneliness.
He walked for a long time.
The stars whirled in the sky. Cars and trucks passed through him. He was a ghost.
He found some other ghosts, living in a hole beside the highway. They did not talk. They were ghosts. He did not talk, either. He lay on the cold pavement and waited for something to happen. He watched the sky, and began to wonder about the voice that had spoken, so angrily, in response to his hubristic sarcasm. "You're not done yet." Done? It had been his own voice. Full of strength.
It was at this moment that he realized it was true. There was no god. It was all illusion. Wishful thinking. Having become a ghost, he ceased being agnostic, for there was no longer any need to hedge bets. A nihilistic certitude gripped him. It was a warm, comforting nihilism, such as he'd never felt before.
He remembered he'd been following his uncle. But… where had that man gone? It was hard to stand up. Hard to peel himself off of the cool pavement.
The stars whirled in the sky.
He fell down and felt a moment of pain. A moment of doubt, about his ghosthood. Ghost.
He cried, for a long time. He couldn't find his uncle.
He was a ghost.
The stars whirled in the sky.
But… the sky in the east was turning pale green, the hills of the California coast. Was he going to spend his eternity here, on the edge of the world, as an atheistic ghost?
He sat on some gravel beside the road, but no cars came by. The sun was rising. He felt cold, but not terribly.
He saw a convenience store. Because he was a ghost, he decided to go through the wall. But the wall… was solid. He sat down on his butt, and laughed. Not a ghost, after all?
Then what? Where was he? He sat on the curb in front of the convenience store, which appeared abandoned, now, in the clear morning light. There were no more spirits wandering the empty highway. A truck barreled past.
"Shit," he muttered. Still alive. Not done yet.
He stood up, and brushed dirt off his shirt. He stood beside the road, and stuck his thumb out at the next car that went by. Several cars later, a pickup truck stopped and a man asked if he was OK.
"No," he answered. "I need to get into town." He didn't make too much conversation after that, but alluded to an imaginary car problem.
The pickup truck driver dropped the man off in Cambria. He realized he'd somehow covered more than 30 miles from where he'd parked his maroon Pontiac at Ragged Point, but only 5 or so of those miles had been in the man's pickup truck. Had he walked 20-something miles among the ghosts in the night?
He called his father collect, and explained what had happened, elliptically. He bought a bus ticket to San Luis Obispo, with the last of his cash, and his father collected him there. His father took the man to the emergency room to make sure he'd survived his ordeal more or less intact. Then the father had the man committed to a "mental health facility" in Alhambra.
The man descended into a catatonic depression, then. He kept dreaming he was back at Ragged Point. But he wasn't done, yet. The November air in Southern California always smells of honeysuckle and asphalt. That's the smell of… not being done, yet.
A series of ECT sessions broke the catatonic depression. Six years of therapy and antidepressants mostly banished the darknesses that had always haunted him to the corners of his mind. He had a semi-successful career, even. But he was restless. He kept wandering.
Ten years later, he dreams about Ragged Point. About the stars whirling in the sky. Sometimes, he speculates that he is, in fact, a ghost. Still, he's not done yet.
Postscript.
I think he managed to swallow about 60 tablets. That would make well over a 1000 mg of diphenhydramine. Doses above around 800 mg are generally considered potentially fatal, and combining it with another CNS depressant such as alcohol increases risk considerably. It was not, perhaps, the simplest or most painless way to try to go, but it had been well-thought-out. A previous attempt, at a motel in Maryland, had been ill-considered and unsuccessful… too much alcohol, and not enough sleeping pills, had led to vomiting and unconsciousness, but had never had much of an actual risk of death.
The wikipedia article on diphenhydramine points out, regarding the "recreational" use of the drug, that "people who consume a high recreational dose can possibly find themselves in a hallucination which places them in a familiar situation with people and friends and rooms they know, while in reality being in a totally different setting." This correlates well with the man's experience at Ragged Point. Regarding the actual potential of death… high overdoses are generally accompanied by symptoms such as tachycardia, hyperpyrexia, and seizures, all of which the man remembers vividly.
Speculation on the part of the hospital intake staff the next day was that he'd induced a minor heart attack in himself. Whether his memory of his heart actually stopping was a hallucination or a real experience is anyone's guess, but it does match well with the expected profile of an overdose at the level he attempted; wikipedia says, "considerable overdosage can lead to myocardial infarction (heart attack)."
I got home and found myself craving macaroni and cheese. Like, the kind you make from a box, with that weird radioactive orange powder, that’s so delicious. Well, it’s impossible to buy that in Korea, I think. But I was inspired to attempt to make it anyway. I boiled some macaroni pasta that I had on hand, and drained it and added milk, and then I melted some slices of orange presliced Korean american-style cheese into it.
It didn’t quite work out. It was edible, but it lacked that tangy flavor I associate with boxed mac n cheese. It was an effort, anyway.
In other news: can I commit myself to staying cheery and positive at work? I don’t know. I should try. If I can fool my students into thinking I’m always happy, surely it can’t be such a huge leap to make my coworkers think likewise? What do I get out of them thinking I’m a grouch and a humbug, after all?
One other recent insight: things like joy and sadness and anger are actually amazingly superficial. Right on the surface. They don’t define us, not even in the moment. The deep part, that defines us, doesn’t have those things.
The picture is of a quilt made by my mother. She explains that it is “a copy (interpretation / based on) an illustration by William T. Cooper from Visions of a Rainforest by Stanley Breeden, I suspect you need to attribute it to him.”
So there’s the attribution. I like it… and it shows she’s pretty talented, too; it’s hard to imagine that that is a quilt, from the picture. Pretty cool.
I don't necessarily feel comfortable when in-class chit-chat wanders in the direction of my opinion about other teachers or staff at LBridge. I don't encourage it, but on the other hand, since I am such a firm believer in the core importance of communication in language teaching and learning, I don't always steer conversation away from it, either–especially if the kids seem really interested or engaged in the question at hand.
Anyway, the kids were discussing some of the merits and drawbacks of various of their teachers. I remained non-commital as to what my personal opinions were. But one of my students, Ally, made a remarkably insightful observation in not-so-perfect English about one of my colleagues, who shall remain nameless. She said, "He can only see inside himself." Basically, this fifth-grade Korean EFL student managed to capture, in English, the fact that the man in question is sometimes disturbingly narcissistic and eerily peculiar in his affective relationships with others – a touch of Asperger Syndrome, perhaps. "Plus, he's rude," Ally added, almost as an afterthought.
Of course, I'd hate to hear what they say about me behind my back. But as always – and contrary to what many of my peer teachers believe – I suspect that in some ways kids are more sincere judges of character than most adults, and whatever they say behind my back, I'd be inclined to take it to heart.
November 11 is Pepero Day. It's a silly, contrived holiday that makes Valentine's look laden with tradition and seriousness. But a lot of kids gave me Pepero cookies as gifts.
In other news, my boss basically had a tantrum at me today. He was very angry. I've seen him very angry before, but never directly at me. It was very unpleasant. The basis for his complaint was legitimate, but hardly grounds for a tantrum. Then again, it was basically in response to the inappropriate way in which I deal with my anger and frustrations–which is to write nastly little passive-aggressive letters explaining what is bothering me.
The original problem: the fact that CD-players in the school have a rather annoyingly high "failure" rate. It's very depressing and frustrating to go into class with a CD that needs to be played and a player, and have it not work. So I wrote a note about how it seemed like it would be a good idea to invest in more reliable equipment, especially since the students today commented to me about the problem, to the effect of, "this really makes it seem like my parents are wasting their money here." Which is a pretty astute observation from a 6th grader. Yet pretty typical for a snipy pre-adolescent. But I'm betting the fact that I conveyed this student observation to my boss, 피선우, is what set him off. Nothing is worse in the hagwon biz than looking bad to the students or their parents. But he really didn't manage his anger well.
I'm not naive enough to think that boss-tantrums are rare in Korea – I watch too much Korean television for that. But it certainly seems excessive and inappropriate to my American sensibilities. I would go so far as to say, this is the first time in life that I've had a supervisor yell so directly and angrily at me. And how should I deal with this?
Psychologically, I'm in a terrible place right now, and I'm struggling not to go off the deep end. But something is pushing me. It's related, at least in part, to a rather significant upcoming 10th-year-anniversary. Let's call it Ragged Point Day, November 17, 1998. Those who know me well know what this day is. And I'm pushing myself very, very hard to not do anything rash or regrettable, specifically because of the need to feel that I've "grown past" the mental issues that led me to Ragged Point in the first place. It's why I haven't quit LBridge. Why I'm putting up with the shit. Why I'm terrified of backing off a cliff, yet feeling cornered.
I like the cool weather. I like tromping through leaves on the sidewalk, walking home. I like the instant ginger tea I bought.
After having what felt like a productive day, yesterday… today went badly. Loss of momentum.
I worked for about 4 hours today. I walked to work amid the crisp air and fall leaves, and took this picture on the path amid the apartment blocks where typically go. When I was walking home, I stopped at a stand and bought some 떡볶이. This particular variety included the basic sliced tubular-shaped rice-cakes, in a slightly sweet red chili pepper sauce with 오뎅 (sliced fish cake, a kind of fish sausagy thing, same as 어묵?). I took it home and ate it with some real cheese I’d bought the other day. Unconventional combination, but delicious.
I then went off to surf comedy web videos. I witnessed the following scene, in which Governor Palin is played by none other than that spiffy satarist, ObamaGirl. I realize that now that the election has occurred, this is old news. But after the little clip ended, I laughed for a long time. Not sure why.
Putin: I’ve come to take Alaska back, for Mother Russia.
Palin: Not on my watch! [She does brutal judo moves on his ass, giving him a bloody nose – this is ironic, given that Putin holds a black belt in judo]
Putin: [grinning] You have strooong thighs, like Russian bear.
I've been reading a book entitled Pure Immanence by Gilles Deleuze. I may have mentioned it before: a repackaging of essays from other sources, translatated into English. Basically, two essays, on Hume and Nietzsche.
It’s a rare foggy night in Ilsan. And somewhere along the way, it suddenly became deep autumn: the trees are all turning yellow and gold fast, and leaves are piling up on the sidewalks.
I dreamed about my cat (ex-cat?) Bernie, last night. It was sad, as yesterday I’d gotten an email from my brother (who shares partial custody of her, I guess you might say, with my father), saying that she was seeming sick, and so he’s taking her to the vet.
In my dream, I was visiting some people (unspecified people), and they had cats. The cats were all very friendly with me. But then I noticed that Bernie was there, too. But she wasn’t being friendly. She was sitting very quietly, looking at me in the distrusting way cats have of looking at you. A fairly transparent dream – my guilt over having left her when I came to Korea, right?
“ra-i-peu-i-jeu-gut-ppam-ppam” = “life is good [konglish] bam bam” this is some kind of a song lyric, which I saw as a text-message on a student’s cell phone.
And the students in the same class declared, “Oh, she should be your daughter!” I was surprised, “Really? Why?” “Because she is always happy.” Does this mean they see me as “always happy”? That’s another triumph for my ability to forget my frustrations at the doorway to the classroom, and be on my best for the students.
Meanwhile, Obama took one step closer to his ultimate destiny: to be Space Emperor. Here is an electoral map I found, valid as of 11 pm Korea Standard Time:
On Friday, my “Indigo” students (2nd and 3rd graders) taught me the game called “수건돌리기” (su-geon-dol-li-gi which is translated in naver’s dictionary as “drop the handkerchief”). We played it during the last 5 minutes of class, because we had extra time because I’d cancelled a vocabulary quiz. They were very hyper because of the halloween candy in circulation, so it seemed best to let them work off energy. It’s a bit like musical chairs… with lots of screaming and running around. It was fun.
Peggy Noonan (former Reagan staffer), writing for the Wall Street Journal (a decidedly right-leaning newspaper if ever there was one) about Barack Obama: “One wonders if in the presidency he’ll be like the dog that chased the car and caught it: What’s he supposed to do now?”
This actually very concisely sums up some of my own misgivings about Obama. But… the alternative is worse. I keep repeating that to myself, like a little mantra. I believe that. McCain is erratic, and he has no chance of (or seeming interest in) behaving moderately in the realm of foreign policy. Further, his age and health combined with the Republican’s choice of Palin for the vice-presidency is utterly terrifying, and actually calls to mind Heinlein’s prediction that the U.S. would become a religious dictatorship sometime in the early 21st century. Anybody willing to concede the possibility that a rapture-believing yet undeniably charismatic Christian fundamentalist Sarah Palin in the White House would work to accelerate America’s move toward an undemocratic, imperial presidency with an inflexible, Bible-prophecy-driven agenda?
Therefore, with Noonan’s caveat firmly in mind, I nevertheless reiterate my endorsement of Obama. For what it’s worth. So, at the risk of seeming vaguely partisan, here are some supporting quotes. Or… are they?
Jon Stewart, a few nights back (and this is totally a paraphrase, since I didn’t see the transcript): “Update from the Future: Space Emperor Obama has now successfully spread communism to the Zykon Galaxy.”
And, in an interview Obama had with Stewart, after his infomercial on Wednesday night, Obama said, melancholically: “it’s not very funny: cooperation.” Why does Barack remind me of my father? He’s more my age, than my father’s. But his manner, his cool affect (and/or eerie lack thereof) definitely remind me of my dad, sometimes.
Obama’s accent is my dad’s, too: generic Western American (as befits a man raised in Hawaii, right?). The very complex vowel clusters of westcoast English, but none of the southern and britishish diphthongs that make my mother’s accent so distinctive, for example, nor the upper midwestern level vowels that have tinged my own accent at least somewhat (although I still probably sound more western than midwestern). Obama can “talk black” if he needs to, kind of the way I can talk Minnesotan if I want to: years of immersion can give one a facility for switching accent-codes. But his fallback accent is very western and profoundly “white,” and that’s probably partly why this black man may soon be our next president.
Lastly, while cruising Second Life the other day, I found a political “lawn sign” that I thought was subtle and hilarious – see picture at right. It was attributed to Comedy Central (which is what sent me fishing around Comedy Central’s website in the first place and led me to the Jon Stewart quotes above), but a bit of googling yielded zero results for phrases like “vote fossil” or “dirt first.” So I will have to settle for a screenshot of the sign, since I can’t find/verify the source for a proper attribution.
It’s a funny moment, too, when Bill Kristol (editor of the very conservative Weekly Standard) channels Jesse Jackson (“Keep hope alive!”) in support of John McCain. A bit earlier, Kristol said (again, I’m paraphrasing), “If you’re a liberal, vote for Obama. If you’re conservative, vote McCain. It’s not a psychodrama, it’s an election.” I would basically agree with that… except, does that make me a liberal? Am I comfortable with that label? Seems like, only sometimes.
Speaking of the Comedy Central website, I also enjoyed the tiny informational message at the top of the page – see the center of the screenshot below:
In unrelated news, I think this is very interesting. It is now possible to get the Chinese Internet Experience (i.e. censored) outside of China [UPDATE 2020-03-27: link does not work]. I’m not sure what this would be for, but it seems to fit with the tagline of one of the people who commented on the article: Hack the Planet. I like it, though I doubt I have any use for it whatsoever.
Today is Halloween. It wasn't the big deal it was at the Tomorrow School last year, when we had two days of activities and parties and special events for the kids. And I got to do face painting, since, somehow someone decided I was the "artistic one" among the foreigners.
No, at LBridge it was just another day, but with a large amount of candy in circulation, and some of the staff had orange plastic pumpkins. And one boy, Jin, brought a plastic scythe to class… like the kind a grim reaper might use. But I'm not sure he was going with the principle of Halloween specifically, or whether it was more of just a general mayhem type thing. Of course, the same doubts might be harbored with respect to how US residents approach it.
Yesterday I saw a former LF student in the stairway, and he seemed overjoyed to see me. I guess he's abandoned whatever other activity or hagwon he'd been involved in and is starting at LBridge. I don't think I'll have him in any class, though.
I'm trying to write a longer composition, which includes arguments about why I'm feeling so compelled to stick this thing out, despite the problems. When I get enough written, I'll put it up here. Tentative title: "My Korean Childhood."
I keep trying to learn songs I don’t particularly like. It doesn’t progress well.
Here is a youtube of a popular song I genuinely like a lot. But there’s no way I can imagine singing it… it’s very operatic in its original presentation, not the sort of thing suited by my untrained and lousy singing voice. But I’m working on the lyrics simply because it’s on heavy rotation on my MP3 player, so I like to try to follow along.
The singer, 임형주, is what’s called a “popera star.” So I assume the style is Korean popera. Which is sort of what it sounds like. I’m not sure if it’s really a seperate genre. I found the song attached to a drama I watched.
Here are the lyrics, with translation, that I fished off the interwebs.
Title: 행복하길 바래
Singer: 임형주
그 눈속에서 너는 또 다른 곳을 보며 울었어..
그러는 니가 너무 미워서 나도 따라 울었어..
그리워 난 니가 너무 찢기도록 나 아파도
나 죽어서도 내 사랑으로 너 행복하길 바래..
힘이들어 돌아보면 나 거기에 늘 있는걸
그 곳에다 남겨두고 온 니 눈물 때문에..
나 떠난 자리에 너 혼자 둘수 없어..
있었던게.. 이제는 널 너무 사랑해..
갈수 없는 이율 댔어..
그리워 난 니가 너무 찢기도록 나 아파도..
나 죽어서도 내 사랑으로 너 행복하길 바래..
너 행복하길 바래.. 행복하길 바래..
Translation:
You turn your head and crying
I hate you being like this, that’s why I’m crying too
I’m missing you, missing you so much that I’m hurt
Hope you’ll be happy with my love even if I’m dead
Haaa…..
Turn your head if you’re tired, I’ll be there
Because I left your tears behind
I left you first because I don’t want to see you alone…
Since now I can’t love you anymore
I’m missing you so much that I’m hurt
I hope you’ll be happy with my love even if I’m dead
I Hope you’ll be happy….hope you’ll be happy
Sometimes I log into Second Life and mindlessly drift around. It’s a virtual universe, often mistakenly called a “game” but in fact more like a shopping mall for everyone’s id–there’s no plot, no objective, no theme. Just everyone’s craziness touching up against one another, kind of like in real life, but without the social risk, maybe.
I’ve adopted a “skeleton” avatar. See picture. I go to virtual nightclubs and learn about new Industrial / Gothic music, which perhaps appeals to me because of the predominance of minor chords. My skeleton dances to the music. See picture. Sometimes I take note of music I like, and go searching for it in a torrent (the latest way to download things for free, basically). I’ve found a new band I like, with the stunningly fabulous name of Apoptygma Berzerk. I’m stuck on a song called “Kathy’s Song.” I’ve embedded a youtube of it, below.
A lot of gothic/industrial stuff is European–especially German and Nordic. One group I rather like is Cephalgy, and their song “Hass Mich” (I couldn’t find a youtube of it). I’ve never quite puzzled out the relationship between Goth/House music and German culture, though I suppose the overlap is related to the Weltschmerz they share. Then again, I’ve got my own dukkha going, at the moment. The Koreans call it 고 (苦).
Then you hear something old, like Joy Division’s “Love will tear us apart.”
I’m hating work, but I really feel that quitting short of contract would leave me feeling more depressed than just putting up with it. I don’t deal well with feelings of failure. The weather has turned deliciously cool and fall-like. Leaves are turning color and swimming around in clear air. The clouds are no longer hazy, but fractally bounded complex objects adrift in simpsonian skies. So, at least walking to work is pleasant.
I’m gaining weight–probably related to how cortisol (stress hormone) alters my metabolism, as I’ve not changed my eating habits at all.
My stock portfolio is now officially down more than 50%. Yay capitalism!
The Korean won is now down 50% relative to where it was when I came here. Yay capitalism!
This is a post with zero.
I awoke from a strange dream this morning. I wasn't going to write it down, but it's stuck with me. I was running from zombies. Where is this coming from? I think I had a strange conversation with one of my classes about zombie movies late last week, which planted the seed of the idea in my subconscious. And the dream world last night did crazy things with it. I don't have much of a clear idea of what was happening, but I was running around Ilsan trying to keep away from zombies.
I got an email from a former coworker at ARAMARK. The CIO, my erstwhile nemesis, is finally gone. And the giant multi-million-dollar project that I participated (at a low level) in the initial stages of, "customer connect initiative" or CCI, is dead. After millions of dollars, and who-knows-how-many promises from vendors such as Oracle, the thing is… dead. Failed? I don't know the details, but I'm capable of imagining how it all turned out. I wonder if that means they're still using my infamous "reportomatic" to track national accounts? Should I be flattered or dismayed that such a poorly built piece of software is still in use?
My student Kelly, 2nd grade, showed me a picture she drew of me, the other day–at left. The label says “Jared Teacher” so I assumed the middle person was me. Striking resemblance, and all. But I said, “Who are those girls?”
“Those are your girlfriends,” she explained confidently. Girlfriends? I have two?
It turns out… I don’t have girlfriends. But if I did, I’d be happy with those girlfriends, I think–they look very cheerful and pleasant. And the one on my right is so tall!
She’s a pretty good artist for a 2nd grader, don’t you think? I also like the Aztec-lookin thing at the bottom. It’s pretty cool.
Well, I kind of gave my boss an ultimatum yesterday, after last weekend's depressing, discouraging experience (which was, admittedly, entirely subjective).
I told him that I wasn't very happy, and that I would like to negotiate an early end to my contract, but that I was uncomfortable with just cutting and running, as another foreign teacher at Hugok did only two weeks ago (he simply disappeared, cleared out of his apartment and sent an email, "bye"). This is not uncommon among some of the lower echelon foreign workers who come to Korea and end up disillusioned or frustrated by one aspect or another of the experience. But I don't want to be like that, I said.
We talked for a while. And here's where things stand. I will not take work home with me, ever. That's clearly not good for my personality type and for my ability to survive. I must get better at making clear when things I "must do" will not, realistically, get done in the time I have to spend on them at work–especially correcting student papers. In exchange, when I do have such unfinishable piles, I can count on him or someone to help me try to work through them somehow.
And, if that doesn't make things survivable over the contract term, he will give me a "letter of release" if I still want to leave at the end of a term–as long as I give sufficient notice and as long as it's at a good boundary between student terms. The first such stopping place is near the beginning of December. The "letter of release" will mean I cannot be "blacklisted" by Korean Immigration and thus I will be free to remain in Korea, seek another job here, etc., per whatever I might choose to do.
This seems like a very fair and reasonable basis upon which to proceed. And in good faith, I will probably be working exactly the full open hours of the academy for at least a while. Which means 11:30 to 11:30, roughly.
Friday, 10:45 pm. I'm finished with work. I have about 250 papers I should correct this weekend. I'm exhausted by the long week, feeling overwhelmed.
Saturday, 10:30 am. I slept restlessly. I still have 250 papers I should correct. I call my friend Curt and tell him I don't want to meet, I'm tired. My stomach hurts. So, I read a book, but I'm feeling depressed.
Saturday, 1 pm. I finally begin to correct some papers.
Saturday, 2:50 pm. I get a text message from my boss on my cellphone–he tells me I should enjoy the day. What the hell does this mean? I now have about 230 papers I should correct. I'm working too slowly. I'm feeling discouraged.
Saturday, 7 pm. I lost momentum completely, earlier. I can't concentrate. I spend more time feeling angry about my situation than I do correcting papers. What's wrong with me? I'm a failure.
Sunday, 3 am. I can't sleep. I'm restless. Angry. I try to correct some papers, but I still can't focus.
Sunday, 11 am. I finally focus, and begin to seriously correct some papers. But I'm just TOO SLOW. I'm still only managing maybe 10 in an hour. My mind wanders.
Sunday, 1 pm. I go into Seoul and spend some time at the bookstore. But then I decide I shouldn't buy any book–what's the point? When am I going to find time to read an interesting book? I should be correcting papers. Why can't I just correct these damn papers?! I still have 190 papers to correct.
Sunday, 6 pm. I have definitely made some progress correcting papers. I'm down to around 160. I do some more on the subway, coming home. But I'm thinking to myself, what a horrible weekend. And it's my own fault–if I would quit worrying about all these papers to correct, and just DO IT, I wouldn't be so unhappy, would I? I'm a failure. I just can't handle this kind of work hanging over me. It stresses me out and makes me anxious and miserable and angry and depressed and resentful. I feel like I'm going to quit my damn job–which will only make me feel more of all those things.
Monday, 6 am. I can't sleep. I just corrected exactly 5 more papers. Now I'm down to… let me see, about 140 left to correct? This is wrong. I won't make any deadlines, this way. I feel so GUILTY. Last week, I handed over more than half my correcting load to Sarah, and here I am, fucking up and not managing to complete the half I kept. So I'm sure it's wrong to want to hand over more. What it comes down to, is that I'm just a lousy teacher. I might be doing fine in the classroom, but I'm incapable of managing my time appropriately to get all this correcting done. The irony is that a year ago at this time, I was all stressed out because I was worried I was doing badly in the classroom. Now, I look back on those times with nostalgia. This inability of mine to deal well with the stress of "homework" goes back a long way. I failed to finish my Ph.D. because of it. I can often do pretty well with situations where I have to show up on a regular schedule and get work done. My years at ARAMARK proved that. But if I get into a situation where I have work "hanging over me"–unfinished work that I carry around with me and that I feel guilty about not getting done–that seems to eat away very quickly at my soul. And it leaves me a hypocrite, beside: what right do I have to demand of my students that they complete their work in a timely manner, when I can't do so myself? Being a hypocrite doesn't sit well with me. Not well at all.
Monday, 7:15 am. So much for "Zen with a Red Pen." Eh?
Not a great state of mind to start a weekend, is it?
Sometimes I download music without really even being sure what it is. And it sits around on my computer without me knowing anything about it, until at some point it comes around on my infinite shuffle (well, nearly infinite–last I checked, I had approximately 5000 tracks, maybe 20000 minutes of music on my computer). Anyway, a Korean pop song came around. I don’t actually like it that much… just another sappy love ballad, from the soundtrack of a drama that was popular a few years back.
But I was excited when I found myself understanding significant parts of it… whole sentences, even. That felt like a milestone. And I thought… I could learn this song. Maybe I should try. Koreans put great store in a person’s ability to sing a song or two from memory. I could really get points if I could sing something besides a few Dylan tunes in my off-key manner. Especially something in Korean–even if I don’t particularly like the song, right? I might as well try to learn something that I can more-or-less understand.
Here are the lyrics of this song, “Dangshineun naneun babo ipnida” (you [and] I are both idiots). It’s a sentiment, anyway, that I could concur with–without even knowing who you are. The artist goes by the typically monosyllabic and slightly meaningless English name of “Stay.” Here is a youtube of it.
당신은 나는 바보 입니다 / Stay
난 바보였었죠. 내가 바보였었죠.
후회해도 늦었죠 알죠 돌이킬 순 없죠
그댈 볼 수 없어요 나도 알고 있어요
내가 정말 잘못했어요 정말 미안해요
그땐 얘기하지 못했죠 너무 어리석었죠
이제와서 이렇게 애태우며 난 용서를 빌어요
당신은 나는 바보입니다
자존심 때문에
술과 쓴 담배연기로 망가지고 있죠
당신은 나는 바보입니다
아직 사랑하기에 하루 종일 펑펑 울고만 있죠
그대도 나도 모두 바보처럼
그러진 말아요 다시 생각해봐요
우리 어떻게 여기까지 힘들게 왔는데
다시 생각해봐요 후회하실꺼예요
내가 정말 잘못했어요 정말미안해요
그땐 얘기하지 못했죠 너무 어리석었죠
이제 와서 이렇게 애태우며 난 용서를 빌어요
당신은 나는 바보입니다
자존심 때문에
술과 쓴 담배연기로 망가지고 있죠
당신은 나는 바보입니다
아직 사랑하기에 하루 종일 펑펑 울고만 있죠
그대도 나도 모두 바보처럼
그대 없인 나 한순간도 살 수 없어요
머릴 잘라도 술을 마셔도 눈물만 흐르죠
당신은 나는 바보입니다
자존심 때문에
술과 쓴 담배연기로 망가지고 있죠
당신은 나는 바보입니다
아직 사랑하기에 하루종일 펑펑 울고만있죠
그대도 나도 모두 바보처럼
이제 더 이상 망가지지 마요………
[link above is broken, but here’s an embed of the same song, edited/added 2012-02-18 – this song is therefore referenced/embedded twice in this blog now, though] [further update 2013-06-29: broken link fixed again – ! %$@ copyright police.]
Stay, “당신은 나는 바보입니다.”
I awoke from a transparently symbolic yet overwhelmingly simple dream this morning. Most everything in the dream was the same as in "real life," except that my name was Job, not Jared. There were a few moments in the dream when I was reading an article on wikipedia about Steinbeck's The Grapes of Wrath. There was another moment when I stood in the classroom, and the students were asking me something, addressing me as "Job-teacher," with a long, pure, Minnesota-inflected /o/.
Upon awakening, I looked up The Grapes of Wrath on wikipedia, but the article wasn't the same. The novel wasn't even the same as in the dream–not that I remember quite how it was different, there. Somehow the dream version of the novel was less Steinbeck, more Melville. Waking up with echoes of Job left me with neurons firing associated Northrop Frye and Harold Bloom. I looked those authors up as well, and then wondered if it were possible to be a gnostic atheist. How would that work? It seems like it would lead one down a path toward one or another of those crazed conspiracy theories. Bloom, in turn, lead me, via David Lindsay's A Voyage to Arcturus, back to Alasdair Gray, whom I've mentioned before, here, I think.
The pun that is central to the dream is embarrassingly obvious, given my unhappiness with my job. I'm very glad that Freud is dead, as I'd not appreciate his making a case-study out of it.
“What thoughts I have of you tonight, Walt Whitman, for I walked down the sidestreets under the trees with a headache self-conscious looking at the full moon. / In my hungry fatigue, and shopping for images, I went into the neon fruit supermarket, dreaming of your enumerations!” – Alan Ginsberg, in his poem “A Supermarket in California,” 1956.
Completely unrelated to that, here is a picture of some people at Bukhansan National Park that I saw yesterday, doing things on ropes that I don’t know that I would have the courage to do.
