The other day I was at the bus stop and there was a college-aged girl waiting next to me. We sat for maybe 5 minutes before I realized what this subtle quiet sound I had been hearing in the background was. It was the camera sound on her cell phone. And then I noticed her posing differently with each camera flash sound that I heard, fixing her hair—behind the ears, pushed forward, bangs pushed aside or laid flat. I decided to keep track of how many photos she would take of herself before the transfer bus showed up. I counted 14 or 16 in steady succession before bus 77 showed up and I could escape her incessant photography and my obsession with it. Keep in mind, this doesn't account for all the pictures she took before I started to keep track in my head. This is not uncommon either. And there was no self-consciousness that there was a person sitting next to her, witness to such overt vanity. Normally I would have been a spectacle, something worthy at least of a covert sidelong glance or nervous laughter, but nope. In her lg hand phone world, she was the only inhabitant. Again, chock it up to cell phone culture.
Last week Erica and I went in pursuit of some culture in the form of "rock musical" playing at the arts center here in suncheon. Same place that I saw madame butterfly in october and some traditional Korean musicians/storytellers a few months ago (both of which had been surprisingly good). I've been to several musical events now in korea, and for the most part, there's never been much of a problem with the fact that they're all in Korean. And once again, this was not a problem. Which is not to say that the performance was without its flaws. We sat for two hours and witnessed a tour de force of Korean stereotypes and cultural aggrandizement, all set to the tune of hollow, soulless and sporadic bastardizations of "rock" music. But hold on, after two hours, that was just the intermission. Good gad. The gist of the musical was this: some chick with a present to give to someone goes to seoul and gets off at the wrong subway stop. Hilarity and hijinks ensue with each stop—whores, agimas, school kids, crippled people, beggars, etc. great. We left at intermission to go get drunk. Consumed copious amounts of makali and beer between the two of us. It was a nice way to redeem what had been a rather disappointing and annoying evening.
In other news, I have my beginner's drama class again tomorrow afternoon. But get this, I now have two helpers, both competing to win the age contest. In prior posts I had nightmarishly envisioned their meeting—no one telling old helper that she was out and new helper was in. this awkward fantasy came to fruition last Monday. It just keeps getting better every week. Anyhoo, they talk and decide they'll both be helpers. So I'm rejoicing in that, thinking "great, one can be disciplinarian, the other can be translator." But that's not exactly how it worked. Instead of having one helper who does nothing, I now have two. I don't need you to teach, I don't need you to offer advice, I don't really need anything of you, except some discipline and some translation. But instead, I'm yelling just as much as I normally do, but with increased frustration as the two people with power to effect any change seem oblivious to their very positions as authority figures. Yikes. yup, I love Mondays. Starting the day sullenly mopping and saying "I'm better than this" ending the day in tears or near tears feeling helpless. And tomorrow I have to eat dinner with the new helper. We did the whole pinky promise thing. Remember your stance on making plans here, Jamie. Good gad I cannot wait until vacation.
In other library news that isn't negative, my co-workers are actually starting to crack jokes with me now (oh, and give me aforementioned books about stereotypes. But that was innocent enough), it only took a mere 8 months. One of the books I read for storytelling is called the very hungry caterpillar (yes, mr. eric carle at my service). It tells the story of a hungry caterpillar eventually becoming a butterfly. With each food that said caterpillar eats there's a hole in the page of this HUGE book that this little stuffed caterpillar crawls through. The kids go apeshit for it. And it's a special commodity in the library that only I have access to. So I'm sposed to take special care of this book and its accompanying critter. The other day my co-worker mi hyang comes up to me with the worm in her hand. Apparently it had fallen off the top of the stack of books en route to the office. So she walks up to me and hands me the worm. Then she says "jamie, you are bad mother." Then she put the worm in my pocket and told me he needed to sleep. Funny shit.
I've had a pretty tame weekend, due in part to killer cramps (sorry to the dudes), but Friday night I did go on a veritable tour de alcohol. It began at around 7 when I had dinner with Erica, fike and some of fike's university students. With samgyupsal and Koreans comes soju and beer. And after samgyupsal, soju and beer with Koreans comes makali. So we drank a lot with dinner and immediately following. Erica and I had told peeps we were going to ladies' night, so we still had that obligation to uphold. Here's where the wine entered the picture. At ladies' night I believe I was drunker than I even knew at the time, as I seduced an apple. So me, Erica and rosie left ladies' night to go shoot off fireworks on the roof of sidae. And here's where the whiskey entered the picture. Roman candles plus lit sparklers thrown off a 20 story building=happy fun time. but I don't think the building super thought so. We sort of got caught as we were descending the stairs, but played up the whole "huh, what language are you speaking" thing.
Yesterday, despite all attempts I'd made at an impending hangover the night before, I felt surprisingly well (previously mentioned girl issues aside). Really, the only thing I have to show for my weekend is that I reread winesburg, ohio. But fuck. What a great book. Uplifting it's not, but I thoroughly enjoy[ed] isolating myself and feeling vulnerable and sad. Reading about the dashed dreams and thwarted loves of fictional characters somehow breathes new life into my own sense of possibility.
"one shudders at the thought of the meaninglessness of life while at the same instant, and if the people of the town are his people, one loves life so intensely that tears come into the eyes.
In the darkness under the roof of the grandstand, george willard sat beside Helen white and felt very keenly his own insignificance in the scheme of existence."
I really could go on about this more, but I would hate to sound sappy. Most people have no idea how truly sappy I am. perhaps that's for the best.
I should note that despite most of my ruminations suggesting otherwise, my time in suncheon is treating me quite well. i'm just generally not inclined to waste words on things that make me happy. people are much more long-winded about things they don't like, sentimentality being more looked down upon than pessimism.
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