Memories of Chicago, 1933

Here we go around the world
Our little lives like a dream of carousels
And on that island we spin around
In circles traced through the hours spent in ourselves

All the lights are sighing their last breath
How did we end up here?
There’s still some wrong
And if only we awake we can make it right
Away we’ll go so please don’t sleep too long

Tell me all about it, then
When we meet among the laughter of the crowds
Light and silver as rain
We shall then fall together from the clouds

Where are all the young and glad
Whose hearts are full of the deepest creations?
Don’t forget, you’re not the only one
As we fold by the wayside and way stations

Don’t forget that it’s not everyone
So take us upwards to your star
And there’s still some wrong
If only we awake then we can make it right
Away we’ll go so please don’t sleep too long

Now we are in caravan
And I move around among the dreamers who create
Here we are, all once again
A million miles from the turnstiles we animate

Ego revolts against nature

A lot of it was growing up.
The tension of one person finding his voice.
There just wasn't enough room in the house for a new ego.
I mean, when you're a kid,
you don't realize sometimes
how much room your ego takes up,
'cause you've only just discovered it.
So you don't have a clue what the normal size is.

You blumber around,
saying this and that,
and don't realize
that other people's egos have adjusted to the headspace.
Which is why so many people with huge egos
need to speak to stadiums
because those are the only places with enough headspace.

And you know,
I'm not knocking ego:
there is a difference between ego and pride.
But a young person's ego,
when he first discovers it,
is like his first car, and
he wants to see what it can do.
And it can do a lot:
of damage or of good.

If it's true,
that pride is what we think of ourselves,
vanity is what is we would like others to think of us,
then ego is simply
what we would like to think of ourselves.

And that's a lot.

ruoF traP, esreveR ni anihC ni serutnevdA

This is my final entry in the China travelogue. I'm quite embarrassed actually: It has been several weeks since I went, and only now am I approaching a conclusion to my story (in reverse, desimorp sa). The sadder part is that I have yet to post my remaining blogs on my trip to Malaysia. No doubt I will, long after your interest has waned to an inestimable smallness.

So now I come to it, to the first day I spent in Beijing. These memories are dated January 24 and 25.

The sun was just eclipsing the corners of the tallest buildings in our neighborhood when I woke up on the 24th. It was a calm but stiff morning, and to my delight and dismay the snow had piled up neatly during the wee small hours. Ankle-deep, it was the most snow I'd seen during my time in Korea. And it only fell on the day I was leaving!

Luke was just a bit pessimistic, anticipatory of something bad always.

"Luke, nothing is going to go wrong. This trip will be good, everything will be good and happy," reassured Loren. Luke shrugged a little, winced nonchalantly and looked the other way. The airport bus to Gimpo was just pulling up. But we were not bound for Gimpo; we were bound for Incheon.

I stood on the curb, trampling the snow underneath my feet, feeling my jeans getting soaked up to shin-level, with my back to the road. My backpack felt strange because it was full: I had plundered every available inch of space in it, and then forced three books on top of the pile. Luke later looked at the books, and shrugged disinterestedly. "Joel -- c'mon. Sartre? Really?"

The snow had stopped by the time we reached the airport. We ate first, then boarded a little 727. I had a window seat, and so began snapping pictures of the snow outside the plane. "When I finally post these pictures online, I can show what it was like when we left, and what it was like when we arrived in Beijing." That was my answer to Loren's inquiring glances, which are always of the characteristic of scrunched eyebrows, half-open mouth, and dazed eyes.

The only way I could manage to sleep on the plane was to lay my head on the meal tray. Halfway through the flight, I put on Panda Bear's Person Pitch and went to sleep. While sleeping, I managed to annoy the surrounding passengers with the incessant dull thump dub on "Good Girl/Carrots" -- my assumption that the sound of the plane's engines would drown out my music was obviously ill-founded.

We landed, were whisked through customs, and in a whirlwind found ourselves in a cab driving away from the airport. All along the road were the signs of what had been the Beijing Olympics. The streets had Beijing 2008 painted on them, there were banners hanging from the streetlights. Among the more amusing signs was for a hotel called Olympic Hotel.

Once in our hotel, bags tossed off, jackets loosened, and facilities used, we prepared to figure out where the hell we were. We knew this much -- or at least Loren did: We were only a couple blocks away from the Forbidden City. We decided to scope the land. Our only required action that night was to sign up for the hike of the Simatai portion of the Great Wall.

Our first encounter of the trip was with a lady who taught us how to say "Happy New Year" in Chinese. This was important considering that we were visiting on the Chinese New Year. Here it is, spelled phonetically: "Shin yay qua loo."

It turns out scams were everywhere. No sooner had the lady taught us how to say Happy New Year in Mandarin than she invited us to an art exhibit. We decided to go. Of course they wanted to sell us stuff -- and, despite initial resistance, we bought some. Fortunately, it was cheap: $15 for an unspectacular but pretty painting.

Dinner became our next priority. We found a duck restaurant not too far away. It was expensive, but perfectly worth it, as it was one of the more memorable meals I've ever had. Duck is not particularly amazing, but it is sweet, and the way it is eaten is very nice.

But back to the quirky observations. A couple hours later, I decided I needed to stop by an ATM. While there, an armored car pulled up, and out piled a half-dozen well-armed security guards. A couple of them went into the bank. I watched, commenting idly to Luke that I wanted to take a picture but wasn't sure I should. Luke said I shouldn't, and I agreed: After all, you don't want to use a flash in the face of 5 guys carrying shotguns and assault rifles. Yes, shotguns and assault rifles. Somehow I bet the success rate of armored car robberies in China is very low.

Around 8:30 or so, we finally found our destination. The hostel we were seeking was down an alley filled with pubs and clothing stores. There were fireworks and firecrackers going off like tangents down every other side street. We paid for our tickets and left, avoiding cars and traffic in a general effort to relax for the evening. The firecrackers did not make it easy.

As the hour approached 11, we found a convenience store and bought snacks and drinks for our hike. We bought bread, peanut butter, and jelly. Back at the hotel, devoid of knives, we used the hotel's complimentary combs to make our sandwiches. The table was covered in crumbs, and the combs were covered in jelly.

A little before midnight, Loren went to her own room. Luke and I clambered into our own beds, not particularly weary but knowing we needed to sleep. The firecrackers continued to go off, never really stopping. To my delight, the government-owned television network was showing a series of old Charlie Chaplin short films. I watched them for a while, smiling, and wondering if they were aware that Chaplin hated authoritarian governments. And then I drifted off to sleep.

The next day would be the real adventure, as we awoke to the sun's creeping glance over the horizon. With jackets, hats, and gloves on, we made for the Great Wall, for what was truly one of the best experiences of my life. In the blustery cold that read in the teens, and with the wind swirling like dust devils on the towers, Simatai stood, crumbling in portions, like a vein across the low, winterish-bare mountains, which were golden brown against the morning's light. We hiked for a long time.

Dinner that night was delicious. Our legs all ached, but none of us complained. Long before the hour had reached midnight, we slept, our anticipation high for the Forbidden City.

The one with all the conclusions: part 3

The trip to Japan is nearing an end, and it's ending on a more positive note than it began. Why? No particular reason.

When I came, I planned for a 4-day trip. That morphed into a 6-day trip. After panicking, I regained my head. I stayed at the cheapest "hotel" I could find. I ate Subway every day, and had simple snacks from Japanese convenience stores. And on that note, the chicken here doesn't taste very good. It's kind of sticky, and moist, and a little skimpy on the meat. But it's cheap, at a buck a pop. And it goes well with that tangy cider they serve, which tastes like a hyperactive Sprite.

Today, finally, I went to the Korean consulate and applied for my visa. It was a long wait, which began on Thursday. I had received my visa number on Friday evening, too late to apply, thus being forced to wait till today.

The lovely lady whom I had seen at the consulate's reception desk was not there today. I had wanted to see her face again, for it was soft and sweet-looking. She had eyes as deep as a lake, with her hair pinned back, tight, the skin on her face taut and her cheeks aglow in red, like puddles flowing out of her dimples.

Instead I was greeted professionally by a man, a blue blazer on, a bald spot lurking under the crown of his head. He told me all I needed to do, and I did it. There was another lady, with a mole just above her lip, who helped me finalize all the paperwork, and who told me to come tomorrow to pick up my visa and passport.

So I left, to wander again. Everything seems too far away from here, not worth the effort to travel to it. And the cost of a taxi is very high, enough to make me stay put. Which means this trip will not furnish many photographs -- though I have to admit that Japan is quite stunningly wonderful.

The one truly happy memory I take away from this trip, is the purchase of my first-ever vinyl record. I purchased Music From the Unrealized Film Script, Dusk at Cubist Castle, by the Olivia Tremor Control. I was hoping to find also some vinyl of Neutral Milk Hotel, Forever Changes and Blonde on Blonde -- but no such luck awaited me.

Now, even without a vinyl record player, I have begun my collection. And it will be great.

Tomorrow, then, I go back to Korea, land that I love. And life will begin in its usual way. Oh boy, I can't wait to see my students again.

I unlock my body and move msyelf to dance: part 2

Day 2 in Japan started with the unwelcome sight of the time. It was almost 10:00 a.m. as I pulled up the curtain of my cube, unveiling the soft lights of a dozen 30-watt bulbs scattered down the hall; and directly across from me an empty hole, which another, smarter man had vacated -- and surely with enough time to avoid the penalty for staying past check-out time.

Despite that I was going to be staying in the same hotel every night, I still had to check out. The hotel works like that, see. Other hotels might let you just stay a second night, but this place didn't cater to that style. Check in, sleep, check out. 4 hours after check-out, come back and check in again. It's a bit vicious.

My first stop was the embassy. The computer there welcomed me. I checked my e-mail, and to my dismay found that my visa number still had not arrived. Worse, according to my boss, I would not receive it in time on Friday to apply. So I would instead have to apply on Monday, perhaps not to get my visa till Tuesday, and then not to leave until Wednesday, if all worst-case scenarios panned out. I had brought 3 days worth of clothes, 4 days worth of cash. How to stretch that into 6 days? I proceeded to bitch.

And then worse news arrived. My coworker, Courtney, who was on a similar adventure -- but was supposed to have gotten back to Korea the night before -- was missing. She had not been at the airport when my boss went to pick her up. Now I was faced with the prospect of trying to find her: in a city that was altogether foreign, without much sense of direction, I was going to have to look for another person. I looked for an hour or so, but the hotels I checked showed no one by that name.

Having nothing to do, I went back to my hotel, and checked in again. Emotionally exhausted, I went back to sleep, fearing that staying awake would only bring more bad news.

The night came quick. I ventured out again around 8 o'clock, refreshed and feeling optimistic again. I now had an idea of my surroundings, and was determined not to sit on my ass for 4 more days and do nothing.

There was a record store near my hotel. It was called Time Bomb, and it promised "Rare & Used Vinyl" -- an exciting prospect. I bounded down the steps to the sub-ground level store, and tremulously took it all in. There was 60s electric blues playing over the loudspeakers. I nodded discreetly to the Japanese girl behind the counter, then walked in. The next hour cannot be described, for I was transported out of my body and vicariously lived through every album in the store. I desperately searched for a handful of albums, the things I would definitely buy, but they weren't there. But that didn't stop me from holding up LP after LP and staring at it lovingly: the Housemartins, Daniel Johnston, Dinosaur Jr., the Stooges, Television, Bob Dylan, Todd Rundgren, Frank Zappa, Morrissey, the Animals, David Bowie, Atlas Sound, Pavement, B.B. King, the Birthday Party, Captain Beefheart, the Beatles, Nirvana, and so on.

I grabbed a bite to eat before venturing back to my hotel. The warm air in the lobby greeted me, as well as a couple girls who were on a sightseeing tour.

"We're in Osaka for one day."

"Oh, yeah? Any good sights to see? I'm only here for a visa run, so I haven't much to do."

Etc.

Around 3:30 a.m., after a chat with Miranda, I went to take a bath. The hotel didn't have showers, but it had a sauna and a bath. The prospect was daunting, being around a bunch of ugly naked men, sharing the same bathwater. But I needed to wash. And it turned out not to be so bad. The real problem was more that if anyone tried to say something to me, I could not talk to them because I did not have my hearing aids on.

Sleep still did not come easy. It was 4 a.m., and I went into the lounge, pulled up a chair, and began writing. The lounge was mostly empty, but sporadically being occupied by comers and goers. I pulled out a notebook, and began writing. 1,500 words escaped my pen before a yawn escaped my mouth. And so, putting away the notebook, I went upstairs to my cube, to rest, and then perhaps to repeat the day over again.

Japan, chicken, and vinyl record players: part 1

I am sitting in an internet cafe right now, contemplating my course of action over the next few days.

On 90 minutes sleep, I woke up on Thursday morning, mostly packed and with an hour to get ready to leave. I finished packing, showered, and made it out to the bus stop, catching the airport bus and arriving at the airport 45 minutes before takeoff. The flight was only an hour and a half.

I arrived in Osaka, which is Japan's second largest city, at noon, on a blustery cold day. I swam through the crowds of people exiting and hurried to customs, filling in my immigration card on the way. I received a 90-day visa from the lovely lady at the counter, who was also kind enough to take a photograph of my face, and fingerprint me (she thought well enough of me, at least, to skip the anal cavity search).

After spending an hour wandering into various shops and looking for signs of my varied destinations, I finally found the Korean embassy. The flag hung limply in the wind, two guards in front of the stairs, like the flag, relaxed. I slipped past them with a nod. Inside there was a woman who spoke very good English, and my first thought was that I wondered why she was sent to Korea's Japanese consulate branch.

As I sat down at the computer there and checked my e-mail, hoping that my visa number had arrived from the Seoul Immigration Office, I glanced at the clock. It was only 3:00 p.m. I was already exhausted. I clicked away, confused momentarily by the keyboards, and discovered that no, my visa number had not arrived. I left the consulate a few minutes later to get a bite to eat.

I spent the next several hours in search of a) an internet cafe; and b) a decently-priced hotel. Neither were in great supply, it seemed. In my quest for the latter, I stumbled into a place called Hotel For You, which promised a 5,000 Yen room (about $50), which, while not cheap, seemed reasonable. Except it turned out to be a brothel, evidenced by the flyers inside which promised a girl -- admittedly they were quite cute, some of them -- for a low price. Sheepishly, I walked out, smiling serenely, forgetful at the moment of my exhaustion.

It took me 3 hours to find a hotel for the night. There were other places, but they were already booked, and they were prohibitively expensive, too, if I was to stay in Japan for more than two days. The place I found was a capsule hotel, which reminded me, strangely, of the movie The Fifth Element.

I decided enough was enough, that I was staying in. My feet ached. My backpack felt like a ton of bricks. I kicked off my pants and lay down gently on the pillow. The instructions for the alarm were all in Japanese, but fiddling around I figured it out. I figured out, too, how to turn on the television, and change the channels. The last two channels were only Japanese porn, which, I discovered, is censored, making it hilarious to watch all the movements, and not actually see much. The censoring, though, was poor -- The Jerry Springer Show does a better job obscuring things -- so I could actually tell what was happening, for the most part ("Is he using one finger, or two?") which only made the fact that somebody decided to censor it more hilarious.

Only a few seconds later, and I decided to turn off the TV. I grabbed about for my book, which I had started on the plane: Jesus' Son, by Denis Johnson. After finishing a good 30 pages, I laid back again, turned out the light, and went to sleep, not to wake for 12 hours.

Lost in multiple translations

In two hours I am supposed to wake up, take a shower, get dressed, and leave my apartment. My destination is Japan.

The trials in Korea are almost all relatively small. You learn how to order food, because you can affect an accent, and because practicing your order a lot means you're eventually going to be understood -- and that's the whole point. You're hungry, dammit.

Transportation is so easy in these parts of Korea that it's almost laughable to consider bus and railway systems back in the States. The Seoul Metropolitan Subway has something like 700 stops, spread across 9 lines. Buses run every few minutes to and from Seoul, with local buses just as plentiful and busy. Taxis are everywhere, too. More importantly, they're very cheap, and fast, and nice.

While Korea may not have quite stumbled upon the idea of 24 hour diners, they do have convenience stores. And while they may not have figured out that gas stations and convenience really do belong together, at least they have not skimped on the latter: Buy the Way, GS 25, Intro Mart, Family Mart, Mini Stop, etc., etc., etc. Need batteries? Walk 5 minutes or less to the nearest convenience store. Need Kleenex? Walk 5 minutes or less to the nearest convenience store. Need coffee? Noodles? Bleach? How 'bout canned fruit, or cooking oil? Walk 5 minutes blah blah blah.

Do you get the idea? Life is so consistently easy here in Korea that being sent to Japan to get a new visa seems to me a hassle. True, it will cost me some money for food and miscillaneous expenses (fortunately my flight is paid for). But I am essentially getting a free trip to Japan, for 4 days. My trip to China was also for 4 days. There is almost no way to describe this without invoking some happy-sounding predicate nominative, with an adjective form of the F word preceding it.

So as I sit in my orange overstuffed leather chair, in my new apartment in Bundang, and stare alternately at this computer screen and my mostly-full backpack at the end of my bed, I have to say that even when the bureacracy throws me a curveball, and under some ridiculously complicated wording of an arcane law I am to be sent out of the country, at least I can stop and consider the serendipity that even the big trials here have their rewards.

Balloon

For I am a balloon and I'm blowing up
Through each level climbing till reaching the sky
And the white that's around me has made me so dizzy
That when I start to fall, I don't even think I can die

She looks like melting, as she comes through the window
Fleeing herself and the warm shower spray
And as she comes close, I can tell by her mirror
She's leaving her home for all those new endless days

Out in the ocean is a ship, and it's sinking
It buries the engine upon sand and waves
Until all that's left is a captain with a liferaft
For he is too tired from all the years of being brave

Deep underground in the sewers and pipelines
The walls all around keep us calm and safe
And when there's an earthquake, nothing's left fighting
Still every building's as tall as the ceiling it raised

And if as they say there's a taste so inviting
It could make up our minds and forget us all
Those babies so bruised and so bathed delighting
Will wander the earth and then they will crawl away

In answer to those questions I'm sure you have

Are you wondering:

a) Where the hell has Joel been?
b) What the hell has Joel been doing?
c) Why the hell haven't I talked to Joel lately?

If so, I have some answers, albeit brief and not very detailed. And if you have other questions, you're screwed, because those questions are not what this post is about.

I have moved. Yes, my school in Korea which I had taught at for approximately 6 months, went out of business. I'm currently sickling (not really a word, but you get the point) through the bullshit known as immigration. See, my visa was for my old school, and now I have to get one for my new school. Usually, this is pretty simple, just a transfer of the visa, no (or very few) questions asked. But since a) I only completed half my contract, and b) my school is closing, this process has gotten infinitely more confusing.

How confusing? Enough that I have no idea what exactly I will need to do to get my visa corrected for my new school. And I've been trying for a week. Today I learned I might have to go to Japan -- just for one day -- while they process the visa. This would be a pain in the ass, as it's not cheap and is wholly inconvenient. The simplest solution to my dilemma is that the immigration office only needs a form from the tax office that shows my school closed, and then they can transfer my visa to a new school.

Sorry for all the swearing. Believe me, this is less than I was using when I learned all this information.

Oh, and yes, there is a new school. I work in Bundang now, just three subway stops from my previous job. Things are hectic. Monday was the beginning of a new school year, and the school is, for the moment, one teacher short (he's coming later this week) -- so all of us were rushing frantically from one class to the next, covering each other's classes and pretending as if we had a grip on the requirements of the textbooks. We also had to remember all the new students' names.

But it will get better. I'm positive. In the meantime, I can delight in my new apartment -- which is awesome. And I can delight that there is a food shop just down the street from my building that serves Western style sandwiches. Yes, that is indeed a hard thing to find here.

As for other news, I just finished reading a book by Jean-Paul Sartre. That was fascinating. I have to say Sartre was kind of half-assed, though. He couldn't see anything beyond his own ideas. On the surface, I agree with him. He would say there is only a surface, and anything below that is an illusion. Maybe. But then what is the illusion?

That is not a good critique. In fact, it's laughable. And Sartre would probably surprise me with a few things. In fact, I have to say there was a whole lot I agreed with. Sometimes it's easy to forget that the only way a philosopher can never get anything wrong is never to speak. Which I think says more about the futility of words than about the fallibility of rational discussion.

I digress. I have shit to do. Goodbye.

owT traP fo owT traP

Resumed from owT traP, esreveR ni anihC ni serutnevdA...

As I brought my camera into perfect alignment with the Monument, the sun about to reach high noon, the sky as clear as a paradisaical lagoon, I heard English. Not unusual, surely, in this tourist hotbed, but searching English, an inquiry in the form of a greeting. Damn that I'd heard this. My eyes looked about and finally settled on two men to my left, slightly behind me and just under ten feet away.

"Hi," I said in reply, annoyed that they'd got me just before I could take a picture.

"Where are you from?" was their first real question, and I was already suspicious. On my guard, which is admittedly weak anyway, I carefully replied that I was from Florida. They asked my name, and I told them. They introduced themselves as a teacher and student, practicing their English. My wariness relaxed finally: In Korea it is not unusual for students who are practicing their English to engage foreigners in conversation; usually, nothing comes of it but 10 strained yet polite minutes of basic chitchat, punctuated by departure once the subway arrives at its destination, and the occupants scram for the exits.

Tony was a tall man, looking roughly 25 years old, shaved as smooth as marble, with a Yankees hat concealing his jet black crew cut. He wore a black Gore-Tex jacket, its puffy squares shiny as though they'd been spitshined just minutes earlier. He also had glasses -- though probably the better description would be spectacles. He spoke fluently, easily, and with enough suave to disarm a paranoid heroin addict undergoing withdrawal. Naturally I should've been more suspicious of the dupe, but -- goddamn, he was good. I suppose all cons must be, else they'd need to find new work.

The teacher was nondescript, nearing the half-century mark, wearing a soft but worn grey jacket stuffed underneath with multiple layers, and with a bile-green scarf wafting out of the neckhole. He spoke evenly, and with the greater skill of the two. His face was friendship, though his eyes were plotting.

They invited me to walk through the open areas of the square, and to walk with them through another portion of the great tourism milieu, Old Beijing, a thick slough of thin alleys, penetrated widely by Dazhilan Street, with its spanning gateway arch and corndog stands bookending it. Here the hubbub was substantial, and we took a sidestreet off Dazhilan.

Every building was gray, but no sign or design on or in any of the buildings utilized that color. We ducked into a teahouse. I resisted at first, thinking it an unnecessary diversion from the walk. (Fool I was, not to walk away.) Their entreaty won me over, and we proceeded to drink tea, samples of everything from green tea to jasmine tea, to some other concoctions that burned my mouth. They offered me a glass of wine, which I drank only reluctantly.

My discomfiture was at a zenith when they finally agreed it was time to go. I prepared to pay, thinking it would be a measly pittance, perhaps in the range of 100 Yuan (roughly $15). But instead the lady stuck a preposterous bill of 940 Yuan in front of me. I'll let you figure how much that is in dollars.

"It is a sign of friendship in China if you pay for this," Tony said, now seeming much larger than before. My eyes were wide as fuck; I was aware that my jaw had clenched, that my teeth were so tightly clenched I risked chipping one of them. I looked from Tony to his teacher, and the old man, ever the pro, looked at me with that same friendly face as before. But I could see the plot in his eyes now, the dastard. I quickly weighed my options, which were as follows: Pay now, leave later; or leave now, pay never. The latter was certainly the more appealing, but with the old man blocking my way to the exit, and the charming crackerjack to my left on the alert, I figured I had no chance. So in reality my options were these: Pay now, leave later; or attempt to leave, risk life. Perhaps an exaggeration, and certainly a hyperbole, but -- no one ever said I was brave.

I paid, putting it on my card. I wasn't a total buffoon during this whole escapade. When I realized I would have to pay, I was already planning to cancel the transaction, if possible, upon my arrival at my hotel.

At the moment my signature touched the receipt, which, though I didn't know it then, was the death knell of my hopes to cancel the bill, I began inventing new curses and swears for these two gentlemen. When I say new, I mean new to me: I had never bestowed these dubious titles on anyone, at least not in seriousness. So, if you'll allow me, I will list some of them here, in order of their appearance:

1. Scatmunchers
2. Suckers of Satan's scrotum
3. Pitlickers

By the way, the second one also doubles as a tongue twister.

Anyway, I felt the last one too weak, especially following the others, so I stopped. The men walked me back as far as Tiananmen Square. I walked briskly back to the hotel, told Luke what had happened, and then prepared to forget the whole incident. It didn't take too long, fortunately, as I was back in Tiananmen Square again only 4 hours later. This time Luke and Loren were with me. I took in the obelisk one more time. And this time I got a picture, a damn good one....

From a wormhole-in-the-wall

That picture can tell you something of my life now. I live in Yongin-si, in the province of Gyegonggi-do, South Korea. And though I will be moving soon, either to Seoul or to Bundang, Korea will remain my home for a while longer. Yes, I am quite amazed to be here; that I live here amazes me still. I cannot think of another place I'd rather be.

Some time nearly a year ago, I was sitting in the Tax & Treasury department of Publix Supermarkets, trough-ing my way through a monotonous pile of illegal -- at best suspicious -- wire transfers. At my back there was a mountainous pile of storage boxes, stacked in piles of 8 and stretching for 15 feet. There was a big cart around the corner, too, waiting for me to finish so the boxes could be returned to their place in the warehouse, which was just a short walk beyond the steel door at the end of the hall.

I saw out that door a few times, though I never ventured through it. The light emanating from the place beyond was orange, the glow of a thousand 1000-watt bulbs hanging from the vaulted ceilings of the aluminum-walled belly that housed everything that might pass through a Publix store.

And the days would never have been tolerable if they hadn't left me alone. They did, and they let me listen to music or whatever the hell I wished. That was how I managed to last in that job. I spent most of my days there listening again and again to comedy albums and On Avery Island (which I had just discovered).

Everyone in that tedious office was twice my age, half of them bald(ing) -- those with hair looked like it hadn't changed since the 80s -- and wearing loose-fitting sweatshirts with stains that had been faded by years of washing. Their smiles were like plasticine. I don't mean to sound bitter, or like I am criticizing these people. Most of them were nice, and they were friendly to an extent. It's just that I felt like a kid out of Neverland, and might as well have been playing jacks with my marbles. Even now I still wonder whether I was the anachronism, or they were.

This entry doesn't seem to have a purpose. I don't know what compelled me to write it. Perhaps it is because this Valentine's Day, I was briefly reflecting on what I would have been doing a year ago today. And I realize how much my life has changed during that year. The only constant is that I am still single. Ladies?

We are, together, the same, you and I, on this plane

It's an amazing thing if you realize the odds of love, the odds of life -- how strange it is even to be anything. And then on top of that, there is the confounding sense of emptiness, a longing for some great thing to fill in the cracks of your heart. I don't understand love, beyond its value as an abstract. God seems more tangible in a lot of ways. All I know is that it subsists deep within me, its object nonreciprocating, waiting for a new apparition to glance off me and stir it again to the same tired emotions.

Every thought I've ever held of you must be renounced if I am to carry on. It is a very true thing that your baggage follows you wherever you go. That is what's changed, or should. I moved but did not move on. Now I will stay, but I must leave you behind. Still I don't understand my own soul, nor its terrifying fascination with yours.

The truth is that such certainty in my actions is not comforting. Forever I have traveled a broad path, cutting a swath through nearly every ideology upon which I was raised. Now, though, I tempt myself into excision, into a pain so deep and perpetual that it will be simultaneously quixotic and cynical. Then let me say that whatever immense pain existed was not because of the hardship of life, but rather the sometimes overwhelming sense of melancholic joy that accompanied loss and epiphany.

This I composed for you:

There is no sorry to be sorry for
All of this little craziness
will pass away in time
And when the afternoon has come
we'll be ever sound and soft
We will yet swallow all those dreams
and every brittle breath and cough
and when the day has come too full
every breath we have we will have to pull
as into ourselves once again we roll

If you're reading this, if you understand, this is the branch I grew for you in my heart; I turn it to you now. Burn it, and let the purity of its ashes grow something else, for I will love you now as I should've from the first -- as my friend.

owT traP, esreveR ni anihC ni serutnevdA

And as the day began, the streets were still littered with the remains of firecrackers, which had gone off incessantly throughout the night and into the early morning. Little red ashes were scattered everywhere; and all about were old men and women, wearing red vests, sweeping up the debris into indiscreet piles at intermittent distances. A smell of lingering smoke hung in the air, which was dry and windy, and very cold.

In my (half-)deafness, I had managed a good sleep, despite at one point being awoken by the chaos of the night's celebrations. You see, it was the Chinese New Year, and what had just passed was the Eve. Unlike back home, laws are not in existence in China to limit how people use fireworks, at least not on this holiday. And the people took full advantage. Randomly, bursts would sound, from afar and from nearby, loud as a shotgun, sometimes right in the middle of the bike paths which framed almost every road throughout Beijing.

When we were all ready, our shoes on, our gloves in our pockets, and our jackets zipped, Loren, Luke and I walked out of the comfort of the hotel, and began to walk down the street. Today's trip would take us to the Forbidden City, which was a conveniently short distance from our lodgings.

The walk led us initially into the beautiful Forbidden Park, where we puzzled over a map and took pictures. Before long we found ourselves staring effusively at the great red walls of the old palatial complex, and at the huge portrait of Mao which overhung its facade. The scope of this structure cannot be overstated: It consists of more than 8,700 rooms, and nearly 1,000 buildings. Its size as an imperial palace is mind-boggling. And today it is a museum, open from 8:30-4:30. Whereas before the penalty of being within its borders without permission meant instant death, today a fee of roughly $10 for a ticket will do the trick.

Our first misfortune, and one of many that would follow that morning, was that, due to the Chinese New Year, the Forbidden City would remain closed, or so we were told. So we wandered around the courtyard just inside the gates, staring wistfully at the towers, and at the fence behind which the massive doors to the Outer Court stood, stolidly closed and glowing in the sunrise that had just eclipsed the outermost walls. Shops distracted us -- or Loren, rather. Luke and I wandered apathetically about in search of a diversion.

Here our second misfortune occurred. We became separated from Loren, amidst the heavy traffic of some thousands of tourists in the courtyard. After a brief search, Luke and I departed the courtyard, and headed back to the hotel. On our way, however, I decided to see Tiananmen Square, but Luke, his knee still in pain from hiking the Great Wall yesterday, decided to go back to the hotel and take a nap (what having slept only a few hours with all that racket in the night).

Throughout this area of Beijing, in addition to the subway stations, there are several underground crosswalks. Tiananmen Square, while untouched by them, is flanked by several on the surrounding streets. After leaving Luke, I made my way down the stairs into the compressed air of the nearest walk, glancing obliquely at every direction in which the tunnel veered: Escalators going down on the left; a wide branch going ahead and to the right; immediately to my right, separated by a partition, another entrance; and ahead, the light of the exit to where I was headed. I smiled at a relaxed guard on my way, and he returned my smile quickly before resuming his placid but expressionless post.

In the air again, I walked, uncertain where to cross to get to the square itself. To the east, immediately to my left, a long building stretched. Later I learned it was the National Museum of China. On the far right, the Great Hall of the People, which functions as the Chinese Parliament, loomed behind the imposing Monument to the People's Heroes, an obelisk with a large base structure that rippled outward in a series of platforms and stairs from the monument.

Eventually, I found a street crosswalk. I realized then, after spotting a tent, that I would be checked before entering the square. But once finally through, a strange thought occurred to me, and was confirmed in a quick reappraisal of my surroundings. Apart from the security checkpoint, the layout of this whole area was not unlike Washington, D.C., where the National Mall unfolds down the road toward the Capitol Building, flanked on all sides by memorials and museums. There's even an obelisk there, too: The Washington Monument. And at the far end, there was the Mausoleum of Mao Zedong, perhaps a little like the Lincoln Memorial.

I was taken in by the location, by whatever history lurked beneath the stones and cement there in the square. Unspoken history, bloody, revolutionary, and celebratory, weighed lightly on my mind. I smiled as I took out my camera and prepared to take a picture of the Monument. But before I could do so, my third misfortune struck.

To be continued in Part Two of Part Two....

enO traP, esreveR ni anihC ni serutnevdA

It was about 4:15 A.M. when I awoke this morning, the night still perfectly dark, the streets empty upon all views, and with Luke standing over me, wearing a wifebeater and some boxer briefs. "Joel, get up. We've got to leave in about" -- he glanced at his phone for the time -- "half an hour." I grunted and made some various sounds. "Now's a good time if you're going to take a shower," he added.

I got up out of my bed, grabbed my watch. I pressed the glow button; my watch face lit up in a nauseous green, showing it was 15 minutes after 5 -- no matter since I had not set my watch one hour back to reflect the change in time zones from Korea to China. Yes, it was nearly time to leave, and the sun had not even risen.

The water in the shower was warm. No, it was hot, the hottest I'd had since before I left Lakeland. I stood under it absently, my right hand relaxingly clutching my left behind my back, as the water ran down in columns between my forearm and my spine. The muscles there were soothed, and my feet felt light in the pooling heat beneath, the weariness of hiking the Simatai portion of the Great Wall no longer in me. I forgot myself.

When I emerged, clean but still unshaven -- you see, I'd brought no razor -- I got dressed and brushed my teeth, and finished packing my things: The t-shirt I'd purchased; the postcards to send home; the painting for which I'd paid too much; and the fan which would be for my mom. The dirty clothes were included, too, and as payment for the additions I'd made to my bag while in China, I had to carry my iPod and books in my jacket.

No cabs waited for us when we got downstairs. No cabs stopped for us. Loren complained of the stale cold, Luke of the quietness, all while I shuddered and propped the neckline of my jacket up to the lowest strands of my hair. I commented how unfortunate it was that the hotel's security guard had to stand out here and call our cab for us, because we would be unable to tell the driver how to take us to the airport.

Soon enough, a driver showed up who could take us. We threw our bags in the trunk and piled in, with Luke and Loren in the back. I sat up front for the first time. The driver smiled weakly at me, uncomfortable at my broad smile back at him. He drove slow at first, oblivious to our exigent requests that he get to the airport fast. But it didn't matter: So early in the morning, traffic was such that we arrived in 30 minutes, with plenty of time, enough to shop at the duty-free stores, to chat amiably with fellow travelers over the scams we'd each befallen -- and to sleep, intermittently, at our gate. Sleep: It was just about the only thing we felt we hadn't done in Beijing.

We're just two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl

At this time tomorrow, I will be in Beijing, China.

My snarky comment: Yes, be very jealous.

My sentimental comment: I wish you could be with me.

January 13

The canning jars upon your sill
no flowers yet partial to their touch
they're cold as ice come every night
as they reflect the glow of your television
while you lie in slumber
and those visions around your head
enfold me into your creases

And I felt your shadow shrink
into my chest
as you offered up your climb
to show me all your paper airplanes
against the light of your lampshades

The window crawled open
to the sundown
and the light outside was a small, intractable beam
as it cast your silhouette
and talked you into bed
moving you
like a whisper in the tall grass

And when I woke up, the world was old

News, fish, and meaningful messages

The long-promised updates will arrive shortly, I assure you. If I gave you a snapshot of the various tasks currently nagging for my attention, it might help you understand the delay.

1. It seems that with my move to Korea, I've started a migration out of Lakeland, perhaps even all of Florida. In the past couple weeks I've received a lot of e-mails asking for information on Korea, on teaching, and how to get out here (or at least out of Florida). So it's taking a while to answer these. Those of you who've received replies know how much information there is to give, and even on overload, some minds still have more questions.

Why am I so helpful?

2. I am working on new photo albums, complete with witty captions, ellipses, and prearranged, non-chronological orders (so as to achieve full impact). These will include highlights from my vacation in Singapore and Malaysia, a new entry in my Korea by Digital Proxy series -- you'll get to see my apartment -- and photos of most of my students, for you to adore and be envious of. All these will appear on my facebook.

3. I have spent too much time watching the NFL and NBA. No excuses, I'm just a fan, and a bigger one than I thought.

4. I haven't been sleeping well since my return from vacation. Perhaps it was the time zone change, or just the change in environment, but I have been waking up frequently every night. So I am tired, and not in any shape to be writing well into the night.

5. This will contradict some of what I just said, but I've also been writing lots of other things. My journal has seen pages many blank pages filled lately, and there is the matter of that series of blogs on economics I've been writing for the Campaign For Liberty website.

Nonetheless, I will write more, and with greater substance. Perhaps it was the scope of the trip, or its nature, but I've felt a relaxing of my shoulders, as whatever invisible weight I toiled under fell. I feel fresh in my perspective, and awake to the world again.

As a teaser, I offer this: my next story concerning my vacation will be about how my life was saved by a Malaysian prostitute. "Saved" may be an exaggeration. Maybe.

The premise of a promise

Today I got into a (very) brief discussion about my dislike for making promises. Specifically, I don't ever like to make hasty promises, and most of the time I refuse to offer my word unless I know I will keep it. But why? Why not just say what is easiest to say, and consider later whether it is practical to keep one's word?

Here is my opinion, cut and (very) dry.

Never make a hasty promise, for such promises are only made to satisfy one's ego. And such satisfaction should only come from the fulfillment of a promise.

When a promise is made, one's pride is risked, or should be. Too often, though, people make a commitment without risking anything: they deem their oath fulfilled simply by taking it. The motivation to make a promise should be pride. The man who makes a hasty promise really has no pride at all. If he did, he wouldn't be so quick to risk it.

The wise man has considered all the risks and makes promises accordingly. And so when a promise is fulfilled, his ego is properly satiated. Since the hasty promise is made without thought of one's pride, the breaking of it will not mean anything to its breaker. Thus the breaker has no pride: he is a thief, borrowing trust from others as if it was capital, to ameliorate his starving ego, and then never repaying the debt by keeping his end of the agreement.

A promise should not be made to satisfy one's own ego, then, but rather to test it -- to see if his pride really matters to him.

Inanimate irony

In front of the trash can:


Meanwhile, behind it:

Border Crossing: Malaysian Edition, Part 2

The train was jolting awkwardly, and with alarming frequency. It was 11:30 p.m., and we were bound for the Malaysian capital of Kuala Lumpur. I had the luxury of having two seats all to myself, but try as I might I could not get any sleep.

Oh, jesus.

In front of me were a pair of raggedy foreigners. The man was wearing green and white checkerboard shorts and sporting a beige snap brim fedora on his head. He was musclebound under his white shirt. The woman had dirty blond hair in dreads and was wearing a multi-colored striped poncho. Her face was tanned to the point of outshining her eyes.

I was near the front of my car, in the second row back. On the wall at the front there was a large flat-panel television (about 42") playing soap operas and cartoons. At one point it played the movie Poseidon, regrettably. God, what an awful movie. I swear I'd've enjoyed an Ernest flick more.

As the train rumbled, and my interest in my books waned (and since I could not write, what with all the swaying), I focused on the family sitting across the aisle from me. I have no idea whether they were Singaporean or Malaysian. They were a man, his wife, and their three children: a girl, about 16; a boy, 9; and another boy, 4. Their skin was the brown of a varnished dresser, their hair black as the wiring of a screen door, looking tattered. They were quite beautiful.

The girl had my attention the most. She was gorgeously simple: a red turtleneck and blue jeans, with light sandals. All her skin looked sweet. Her hair was in a bun, and she had a smile white and full. Her fingernails were sharp, and she had a precious, fragile neck. I had her in my mind.

A few minutes later, we arrived at the last stop before entering Malaysia. We disembarked and headed mindlessly past relaxed guards into the spacy hall of the customs check point. It was dimly lit, cavernous, and all concrete: whispers and sounds hurtled across the open areas before being absorbed by the only things there to absorb it: people's clothes. In a family of 4, a boy was playing with a yo-yo; a woman, traveling with her husband and parents, chatted intensely with her mother while waiting in line; and a solitary man in front of me stumbled through the clear plastic gates that headed the queue. I had my passport handy, and was ready to use the bathroom as soon as I got through the tangles of this bureaucratic process here.

I was officially out of Singapore a few minutes later. Unable to sleep, I turned over in my mind the thoughts of the adventure, of the rush and fracas to accomplish what little might have been done in what had barely been a full day there. I thought kindly on the couple who graciously offered a seat at their table, so I could eat before leaving the zoo. I remembered awkwardly the accents of the people, wishing how I was not deaf so that their speech did not necessitate repetition. I blandly recalled the hours spent lost in search of my hostel, always taking the poor advice of well-meaning strangers that my destination was a long walk away -- when really it was just two blocks over, past the motorcycle shop and the night market.

There were 7-11s everywhere, all over the place. I snapped pictures with humor, thinking up witticisms to be used as captions when I posted the pictures online. Trees could not be found, except in richer areas, or in the wilds of the city. The streets and sidewalks were amazingly clean, desert of litter and trash. The public transportation system was crowded always, but nevertheless easy to navigate.

And I saw a beautiful girl at the zoo, who smiled at me as I walked through the jungle-themed archway of the entrance. She was tearing the stub from tickets, and handing the remainder back to patrons, like myself. I blushed at her, and thought to make sure to see her again as I left. I wanted to say hello to her, to walk up to her and simply tell her how beautiful she was, and to make her blush. But when the time came for me to leave, she was not there. No matter. I had a train to catch, to Malaysia, to the next stage of my journey.

More than machinery, we need humanity

I am not given to the use of the words and thoughts of others to express my own feelings. But tonight I witnessed nothing short of a grand poem, an unfolded monologue of passion, in part of a film so bitterly funny, and so bold, that I felt the need to share it, unblemished by my perception.

Here, for your refreshment, is the closing soliloquy by Charlie Chaplin in the movie The Great Dictator:



Apart from its context, this speech loses none of its potency. The film, however, remains strongly recommended. The wonderful fact is that this ending follows nearly two hours of sharp commentary, and hilarious antics, on the bribery of tyranny, and the hard blanket of despair. I laughed, and applauded, and felt whole the grasp of its arm, as it plunged me into itself, to relate, and to feel as Chaplin felt. It is one of the best films I've ever seen.