Oil Break on West Coast of Korea

 

Regret and Reflection: The Subtle Difference

Regretting is dwelling in the irreversible past. Reflecting is getting ready for the future. 

You should regret only for a moment. You should reflect for all your life.

Regret is a loss. Reflection is a re-match.

There’s No Place Like Home

There’s No Place Like Home

The Great Wizard of OZ was bored. As he sat on his jade throne he gazed with stupor the blinding sight of endless, pacifying green. No more did luscious cuisine, voluptuous dancers or the luxurious palace pleased him. Seeing everything in green initially had made his heart at ease, his muscles relaxed and his sadness disappear. Now he was sick and tired of it.

The wizard’s only task was to hallucinate them with projector beams which he had used to make dough back in Texas. Texans enjoyed watching hilarious projected images and Ozians enjoyed worshipping giant heads or beautiful women on fire. Texans payed him in cents and Ozians gave Him wealth and fame. They both got a big kick out of neglecting reality. The only difference was that these poor people never got to see was the almighty’s dwarfish physique behind the emerald curtains. They never dared to touch, doubt, or question the illusions lest becoming disillusioned. Anyway, the system was satisfying for both them and the wizard. Everything was fine, let alone the real world. The government had gone corrupt, people became alcoholics, and murder and robbery flourished, but everything was fine. The city was full of irresponsible and happy idiots.

The city forever glowed in nile green. Denizens in lime dresses and pine pajamas indulged night after night in flamboyant festivals. With his telescope, he could see all. Their nose tinkled in citron when drunk. Their naked body shined like unripe apples when they had sex open-street. They bled azure blood when smacked with shattered bottles of liquor or stabbed with razor-sharp fragments of emerald. They shouted drunken, incomprehensible blabbers out of ecstasy or agony. Aloof in his great emerald pinnacle, He gazed down with aristocratic pity. There was nothing he could do to save the happy, miserable mortals out of their Sodom. Their lives are of no more worth, he mused, than brilliant flowers of firework that lasted only seconds up in the dark air and then disappeared into nothingness.

The city of Oz was not green. He knew that. And all his people knew that too, but they didn’t care, and soon forgot that it was the only green glasses that illusioned them and shed a beautiful, hedonistic light of green upon the city, which was no less technicolor than was Texas. But whoever thought of the idea, it was good, the wizard decided. Everybody was happy with it, except for a rare visitor time to time who needed time to get adjusted to believing that everything, in fact, glows in wonderful, happy green.

In a silent night, the Wizard of OZ crouched in his throne to sleep. Alone in the greenish dark, he could hear the distant roars of drunk people and see weak flickers of festive, green lights. His jade throne was cold as stone. In his empty palace, he thought of his life back in Texas. He thought of his brown, rusty house. His son had died of pneumonia there, his face pale blue, while all he and his wife could do was to watch his life diminish by the second. He thought of the whore in orange dress whom he had loved passionately only to realize later that he had wasted his youth on her. He worked restlessly to make enough money, first to win the heart of the prostitute, then to get his son a doctor, and when they both left him, to buy a luxurious mansion in a verdant tropical island where the sea sparkles in emerald light and tall trees throw dark-green shades upon the grassy plain, where he could forget everything and live happily ever after. Having realized that he had achieved his dream by a misfortunate tornado, and that he was simply lost of where to go now, the Great Wizard of OZ sobbed silently in the dark.

And he whispered to himself the magical spell that would send him home that was neither Texas nor Oz. There’s No Place Like Home. There’s No Place Like Home. There’s No Place Like Home, the wizard murmured through tears a thousand times but saw no magic happen. He needed wisdom, courage and a heart to do so but didn’t have any. In fact, he wasn’t even sure if there was a home for him. There’s No Place Like Home. No Place, is like Home. Home is No Place. Utopia, said Thomas More, means No Place.

And as he suddenly recalled his high school reading, the childish, feverish dream the book had once provoked in him as a teenager, and the disappointment and humiliation he felt as an adult in his dusty brown cabin with his fainted wife and dead son, He broke uncontrollably into a violent cry, shedding emerald tears, gasping for breath under his green blanket, covering his mouth lest anyone hear his desperate groan of despair which already cacophonously vibrated throughout his great, void palace, and still unable to repress his emotions from flooding out.

But the Wizard of OZ never realized that, through the moving picture in her palace, the dignified Empress of OZ was omnipresently observing him with a knowing smile. She was at home, through a long, painful, yet rewarding journey she had gone through as a girl. But despite her empathy for that poor Texan, that helpless wizard, she decided to help him by not helping him, for she always kept in heart the invaluable lesson which time, her greatest master, had given her: The answer must be found by oneself.

Rapunzel

Rapunzel

                   One day a swarm of pitch black hair came storming through the hallway and chocked my throat. It smelled good. It smelled of that girl in the next class whose name I did not remember. As I was suffocating in the great sea of hair, my vision completely blinded by the wiggling hair and my nose paralyzed by the erotic aroma of shampoo that girl was using, I thought about that girl for once.

                  What did she look like? She was short and not very pretty, but charming. She seldom spoke to her peers. She wore a pink bag. She read books. The sounds she made when she drank milk were, come to think of it, adorable. I did not notice the amiability of her in PE uniforms until then. When I was sitting sick in classroom and gazed out to see her also sick and sitting in the shade, I felt empathy for her weak, burnt legs and wanted to open the window and shout to her but somehow couldn’t. The shampoo smells so good. What was her name?

                  Then I realized I was moving at a great speed. As though with will, the sea of hair was transporting me. It was calling me. I acquiesced to the will of hair and swam across the black ocean with all my might to get wherever it was calling me as fast as I can. As I progressed through the blinding sea I felt the scent getting stronger.

                  The tide had brought me to a classroom door. The hair lifted me gently up in the air and laid me facing the doorknob, as though urging me to open it. The classroom, from the outside view, was packed with massive pile of hair with life. As though suppressing its uncontrollable energy from crashing out, the hair kept swarming out of the already smashed windows and was violently banging the doors. I was afraid to turn the doorknob, but the smell was so seductive and I can say positively that someone was calling inside. So I opened the door expecting to meet an another billow of hair and was surprised when the sea of hair diverted into two directions and made a path for me, like that of Moses’, which led to that girl who was sobbing on her desk, her fragile shoulder helplessly shaking with tears.

                  Then I knew what had called me. I hesitated for a moment, for I am a person of passion, to touch her and caress her and hug her from behind and whisper that she’s okay and I’m here and take her by the shoulder and lift her and walk out of the door in triumph as if I were a knight in silver armor. But I am also a person of reason, so I took out my pocket knife, marched towards the weeping beauty and shaved her bald.

                  As soon as I cur out her hair clean, the ocean of hair which derived from her head rested in peace. The violent roar of tides of hair had disappeared. And slowly the girl stood, gazing me through her wet eyes, her bald head reflecting the crimson sunset as if creating a halo. And she smelled of something else. Was it her skin? Was it her tears? Was it her dry lips? But she smelled good, better. And I repressed the urge to hug her as she spoke to me in the most lovely, hoarse voice.

                  “Why didn’t you help me?” And she walked away.

                  “I helped you because I love you.” I wanted to say.

                  And this is the truest thing I’ve meant to say in my life. But I am not sure if my true love had done her truth. As I watched her back, her so little, helpless, vulnerable, and little body walking sleepily to the door, and opened it as if she were using all her might, and walked out, forever in my loving sight, I thought: Will she be able to go on? What shall protect her now? Have I done justice or crime? What will become of that hypnotizing aroma, and that irresistible might of hair? Where would she, so bare, so tiny, and so weak, be able to cry now? You can call me irresponsible, but I don’t have the answer. All I can do is to hope that my love will save her.

Reunion

 

        When I was seven, I was spending a few days in Donghaean with my parents. One night, when I was sleeping in the tent, the heat had grown unbearable and interrupted my sleep. When I opened my eyes I realized I had been sleeping alone without my parents or my younger brother. For some minutes I was bewildered, sat straight up and looked around. When my eyes became adapted to the dark, I clearly realized that my family was gone and left the tent to find them.

        I wandered around the dark, silent beach. I searched through tents but could not find anyone, so I went farther away. For one or two hours I walked around, and when I found that I could no longer see the group of tents, I was all alone in the midnight beach, and I had yet to find my family, I began to get scared.

        I remember seeing the dark ocean. The cobalt plain, the massive playground, full of children with tubes, women in bathing suits, dizzy music, and ice creams, had turned into a pitch black monster that emptied all of its noisiness and joy, only inhaling slow, distant breaths. The absolute emptiness  made the beach seem infinite and me feel isolated. I was walking in a world so silent, so dead, and so abandoned. When my feet could no longer support the upper part of my body, I decided to go back to the tent.

        By retracing my footsteps I made my way back to my tent, which was still deserted. As I was sitting in front of the tent, my panic and loneliness started posing questions: how could they leave me? How could they have fun without me? I was angry and determined to stay that way until they return so that they would feel guilty and I would take my revenge. I waited and waited, thinking of words to blame them, and imagining the sorry look on their face.

        And when I saw my parents, with my asleep little brother, coming to me, surprised to find me still awake, I ran to them, tried to blow a faint punch in my father’s belly, but fell into his arms and sobbed  like a baby instead. The words I had thought of to punish them were long gone from my head.

        Among many jigsaw pieces of my childhood memory, this is one big piece that allows me to imagine the whole picture. I shared this anecdote with my mother one time, and we laughed about how exactly we remember the moment; that they just couldn’t wake me up, how much I cried, and that she made it up to me by buying me a comic book. She said sorry, again, that she should never have left the little me alone. I said it was okay. I can’t be mad at her forever; we’re a family, after all.

Getting Ready…. Girls are helping out

My mother and I came up with an idea that I should formally announce in my blog that kids in this foster house are adoptable to foreigners. Small chance that anybody’s going to drop by and find their right kid to adopt, but who knows? They are simply adorable kids, and I’ll be shortly writing about adoption, for someone who might be concerned.

Foster House Wall Painting 2007 - Prologue

 

 

Prologue

        Hooseng Foster House sits upon a hill in Daejeon, Korea. It nurtures about fifty kids, usually around elementary school age, with about dozen teachers. Kids are brought here because their parents are dead, missing, or poor. Its gray brown building once used as a school, the visual atmosphere of the campus is grim and colorless. To its left there is a Buddhist temple, to its left a church, creating an ironic scene at every Sunday when Buddhist chants and Christian songs are played simultaneously.

        During last year’s winter vacation, I worked as a voluntary English teacher in Hooseng. As I climbed up the hill and first saw the foster house, a poor replication of Rodin’s sculpture greeted me beside the gate. As I looked up the red brick building, I could not help to think if I had come to a right place. The place had an ambience more like a temple or a church rather than a home for dozens of children. The kids were sweet and cheerful, and the teachers were friendly as well. But I have to say that my first impression of Hooseng’s external features were not as good.

        So my mother and I thought that this place could use a hint of artistic touch. My mother graduated from Art school, and I enjoy painting as a hobby. When my summer vacation was near, we had come up with the idea to paint pictures on the walls surrounding the gray playground, giving the building a more colorful atmosphere. Because my final exam had already ended and this plan seemed obviously better than watching movies in class, I received permission from my teacher for extracurricular absence and left school, a week earlier from the summer vacation.

        In the bus to Daejeon, I drew a mental blueprint of what goal will this activity aim and how it will be obtained. The prime objective of wall-painting Hooseng was to give the children an artistic and recreational experience. I intended to encourage the kids to participate as much as they can in the process of painting. I am not a professional painter, and I have never painted on walls before, and my mother’s experience as an artist is not that great. But this was not a professional attempt to create a professional painting, but to provide the children a chance to paint their own house, express their artistic individuality, and mostly, have fun.

The walls, unpainted.

 

 

Beauty of Woman

I am thankful that I have come to realizing such an important truth in my teenager years. I understand now that true beauty of woman comes from the heart.

I once thought that even if we hesistate to say that physical beauty determines everything, it is still far more important than internal beauty. But the two cannot be seperated, for physical beauty actually generates from a woman’s mind.

I notice the beauty in everyday life, effusing from the woman around me, not like noisy music generating from a big stereo, but rather like a gentle aroma effusing from a shy, hubmle flower. The sunburned, red skin of a young girl, thrusting herself with all her might in a soccer game; the glowing eyes of students, fiercely participating in an academic debate in a search for truth and justice; the joy on a girl’s face, covered with dust and sweat, engaging in a volunteer job to help the poor; or the generous smile on an old woman’s face which reveals her wisdom gained throught her life. I cannot possibly list out all the beauties I encounter, for each and every one of people I’ve met, when looking closely into their hearts, had different, inimitable charm.

 Why are they beautiful? Because their body has a meaning. A girl’s true, natural smile tells me that this girl is positive-minded, trying to live at her best at all times, and cares for other peple. A woman’s hard, cornificated hand makes me imagine the years of her harsh, devoted life. We have the ability to read out the meanings of icons, gestures, and metaphors. We’re creatures that imagine, brainstorm, and associate. When we see a sign of a heart, we do not simply see a geometrical diagram. What suddenly comes into our mind is the emotion of love, benevolence, and peace.

That is why if you look closely, you can notice the beauty that generates from the hearts. Anyone with truly active and positive life looks more beautiful than anything, because her or his soul gives meaning to the smile, the sparking eyes, and the sunburned skin.

That is why I think most models are, at least in my terms of beauty, not beautiful. Sure, they’re sexy. When I see their naked legs, slim body, big breasts, and fake smile, my body automatically effuses hormone and I stop and turn to see them closer. I like women in bikini, for they allow me to feast on my animal instinct. But that’s all there is to it. I do not sense true beauty, natural yet holy, which I sense from people who live a true life. I do not mean to condemn models for not living a true life. It’s just that the pictures and movies I see is a poor replication of their self. The smiles I see is not a smile generated from heart, but a smile to the camera, a fake smile to attract many instinctive men and sell cars and beers. And when I see a sexy woman in a picture, I see nothing more than a female body dressed in near-naked costume. I cannot feel and interact with her soul, which I think is the essence of beauty and love.

And I do not exclude men from these standard of beauty. A man can work out and make a great, sexy body, and he will attract woman. But what of that woman will he get? The woman loves his body, not his self, and in return, he will never get to interact with her self, too.

So I advise to women(as well as men), of any cultures and any age. If you want to become beautiful, be yourself, and do your best at it. Do not be decived by what mass media tells you what is beautiful, for they can only see your body. Do not go on a diet until your skin reveals your white bones. Do not fix your face with a scalpel. Do not buy cloths and makeup with your fortune. And use that time, money, and effort, to read a book, play sports, draw a painting, climb mountains, donate to the poor, think, and love. Because there’s nothing in the world more beautiful than the activeness of human.

Racism In Korean English Institutes

Racism In Korean English Institutes (Dong-A Ilbo) -An English Institue in Kangnam, Seoul

 ”The company is looking for only white people. Korea is a racist country and always will be so you shouldn’t take it personal, and not to feel bad because, the blacks have it worse here.”

  It says Korean institues are exclusively hiring European-Americans, probably because most Korean students are extremely biased towards African-Americans. The image most Koreans have on them is brutal, uneducated, and short on proper English. They think European-Americans are gentle, nice, and sort of superior.

 *Sigh* I’d have to rethink about Hollywood movies not being a bad influence. Will Koreans ever realize the absurdity of white hero fantasy?

Korean faces