What she really meant is that the long distance sucks, but we're really very happy to be dating. But seriously, everybody else knew before us? Before me, at least. But her too?

I'm not really sure what I'm doing here, and because when I think of this thing (I don't even want to say blog because I hate blogs--I don't even like the word blog), I imagine my arms firmly, nervously open and holding an old, dear friend that I've neglected for too long simply because I'm a big jerk. It's 5 03 AM and I simply decided just a little while ago that sleep wasn't going to happen. And let me tell you, realizing this was a huge relief. I feel more awake now than I have in days. So here I am, thinking of all the people--some of the people I love the most in the world--that have trouble sleeping at night, turning this way and that, feeling trapped under their sheets.

I'm here, old friend, because I'm unhappy. Happy is boring. Happy writing is boring. Even happy movies often begin with something awful. The set-up: a disaster; a divorce; a man who loves a woman but the woman is dating another man, a richer man, and she has a smile on her face and is wearing a fancy dress and the first man is in jail anyway. Things like that. So let's try this.

A boy is awake at 5 in the morning and whenever he looks at the person sitting across from him, whenever he remembers the person on the other end of the phone, whenever he drafts up an email, he can't think of a single thing that he actually wants to say. So his conversations dance lightly upon frivolities, rehearsals of actual conversations until his partner says something colored with truth that they can build on. His phone calls end quickly and uncomfortably. His emails go unwritten. A voice is a wonderful privilege, he knows. Like having enough money to give away, it's something that most everybody actually has, but few actually carry out. And anyway, a professor once said in a lecture, most of us get by with grunts and moans. Lately, he feels doesn't even have that.

His head aches slightly, from lack of sleep or dehydration or caffeine withdrawal, he doesn't know. In the school where he taught English Conversation, mostly to students that were just as old as he was, the students would claim a visit to the hospital because of a headache or a cough. They would miss entire weeks of classes, validated with a wrinkly stack of medication receipts stamped with red, official ink. He saw the vendors for these seals and crests in the city, where he and his colleagues would explore for dinner and the pleasant glow of neon lights and the buzz of beer. Two months in to the semester, he simply stopped logging attendance. He used the papers they brought in as scratch paper, feeding them into his printer for carrying hard copies of online articles to read in the courtyard, where he often took his breaks. When he was through, he would leave them in random lockers, empty classrooms, bathroom stalls, benches, and next to the coffee machines so as to encourage his students.

His head aches slightly and he wants a cigarette, but has quit. And anyway, if he would be at all relieved from an intake of nicotine, he'd be startled with himself. So, this is better.

But he wants better than not being addicted to nicotine.

The students are dropping like flies. Though it's warmer today, the weather brought a sudden cold recently. Adam and I went to the city and wore our quick purchases: hats, sweaters, cardigans. We looked like jerks, but it was so cold. This evening, after classes and grading a few folders of assignments, I went to my apartment, took a nap, woke up with a fever and a sore throat. Elijah said that's not supposed to happen, but I'm just thankful that it came at the end of the week. I opened the door to my apartment and smelled snow in the air. Lovely, I tell you the truth. Bundled up, I went out to search for dinner.

A tiger is more wild than a dog.

Lemons are more sour than oranges.

Red is more intense than yellow.

Sharks are bigger than goldfish.

Light is faster than humans.

A rose is more beautiful than weeds.

Ice is colder than fire.

The skin is warmer than nylon.

Honey is sweeter than medicine.

America is wider than Japan.

Jewel is more expensive than candy.

-Pierro

I like cats less than dogs.

I spend more time watching TV than playing computer.

I spend less time reading books than watching TV.

I like Zerg more than Protoss because I'm always playing Zerg! But I don't use the Protoss much.

-Jetty

I do more sleeping than exercising.

I make more girlfriends than boyfriends because I'm just a woman.

I wear shirt more than blouse because I'm not becoming in blouses.

I like humorous boys better than handsome boys because when I meet boyfriend, I always want to laugh.

I hear pop music more than jazz music because I don't know jazz music.

-Eileen

I hate cats more than snakes because I hate cats and snakes but cats are better than snakes.

I cook more kimchi fried rice than egg fry because I make kimchi fried rice taste good and difficult but egg fry is so easy.

-Jay

I like thin man less than a little fat man because a little fat man is so cute.

-Rebecca

19. This novel is out of sight better than that novel.

20. Apples better than pears.

-Moon

I don't have a mantra, and am somewhat wary of people who do. I can't imagine having one phrase upon which I quietly (or not so much) chant or mutter through all the events of my life. Sounds restricting, no? One all-encompassing phrase? I don't think I could. At the same time, I envy them. I assume qualities about them, qualities that I lack myself: that they more diligently practice what I fail to. In my mind, not only do they possess an admirable amount of focus and self-discipline, they have also managed to simplify their interests so as to capitalize on what they love the most.

(If you're tempted at this point, or any point in skimming through this post, to offer up your mantra in the comment section, please make sure first that it's a good one; this may well be the internet, but I can still read what you're saying.)

I believe a lot of things, and dwell on them as often as I can in the course of my days. Subsequently, I love and am troubled by many things. It's harrowing to feel, however, that the most I do is think about such things to myself and act like a normal human being otherwise. And many people have expressed concern that I think too much, which I never really understood. Perhaps if I had a mantra to delineate my every response, they wouldn't worry about me so much. Perhaps if I had a mantra upon which to delineate my every response, then my worrying would be suppressed. Perhaps, instead, I should be faithful. I'm trying.

One of questions I asked my Intermediate students this week is What do you wish you could change? As they consider this, I like to expand the question to How would you change your life? and How should the world be different? I realize these questions are, for many reasons, somewhat unfair to ask, but teaching has to be fun somehow, sometimes, doesn't it? (I'm just kidding; teaching is already always fun.) I ask these questions not only to allow them to demonstrate various tenses and key phrases we practiced in class, but to allow them to talk about something that they care about. Perhaps they'll share their mantras, and briefly forget the anxiety and restrictions of learning a new language. Perhaps they will want to share what they dwell on only when they're alone and would love to talk about, am suppressed to talk about, but are so busy acting like normal human beings.

When can a professor be angry at students?

The students' answer, invariably, is never. "A professor doesn't have to angry at students." over and over again on the first unit quiz. And so, I'm trying. It's mid-term week at Kosin, which is really illogical if you think about it; why subject the students to examinations in all of their classes in the same week? Why, it makes them tough! Adam, Elijah, Ashley and I have schedules full of conducting interviews with our students and my question is: if a student comes in from the weekend, shaking from nerves and the crippling anxiety to perform and produce good grades and can't utter a complete sentence (in their case, from practicing their answers to the list of example questions provided the week before)... if all of this, and they admit that they did not study, or studied for ten minutes, do you get angry and promptly kick them out of the office? Do you laugh quietly, nod your head, and watch them squirm through an uncomfortable four minutes?

Question: How are you?

Answer: ... ...

Question: Nervous?

Answer: ... (nods head)

Q: Did you study?

A: ... ... (shakes head)

What I'm saying is, if you have the sheet of questions beforehand, you have absolutely no excuse to falter. (I'd go so far as to say you have no excuse to lose any points.) There's a space that Adam and I have provided before the exam to calm the students down and quell any debilitating nerves (hopefully), but again: if the student is unable to glance back into our eyes and speak at an audible volume at the end of the semester, who can say that they should pass the class?

I remember a professor begging our class to actually read all of the assigned material, to think through our individual response and struggle with the content. His concession to this outrageous request was that reading questions/prompts were not assigned. Oh, do you remember? I remember complaining to several of you of this--that the professor felt he actually had to ask his students to do the reading for the class.

Party Down has taught me many things--one of which is that you can't really be good at something you don't care about. This is fine. I don't think every Korean student really needs to learn English, as much as I love the language. (Perhaps they do, if what I'm being told is correct; that any college-grad needs English qualifications to even hope for a "good job.") I teach four Global English classes, which are for non-English majors to fulfill Kosin's mandate for English immersion, or exposure at the very least. It's been made clear by an amount of students in each class that they don't care. I think that's OK. They're old enough to think through their decisions, but not caring means accepting that a bad grade will be administered, maybe a failing grade, if one doesn't practice the language. The gall of these kids, I tell you. But back the question: When can a professor be angry at students?

It's trickier than it seems--to say that adverbs give more detail regarding how or why something is done (and add an -ly to the end) isn't easy, but the students practice persistently. And then I come across this gem:

I really don't like my sister, because she treats me sillily sometimes.

Hmm. Darn.

More:

I hate to eat pumpkin gruel because I ate it in childhood but I brought up it. (vomit) -K

You really hate bugs--kind of like spiders, moths, grigs because they're crawly. -Peach

My friends hate me so much because I'm more beautiful than they. -Esther

My boyfriend dislikes taller people than himself. Because he has a lot of greed for height. -Hani

Hahahahahah!

This post is a reprise, or a "That's what he said," of Elijah's a few days ago. Except for the drunken fight, everybody seemed to be in good spirits. And who wouldn't be?

--Blogspot is terrible for viewing images. Click for more better.

A lot of foreigner jerks take their table at a cafe for hours and hours to watch people and sip their much-too-expensive coffee (who do they think is impressed?) and--this is the good part--occasionally scribble something in a notebook with a thoughtful look molded on their faces. Even if I confidently spit out a few Korean phrases in a timbre that has been described "like a voice actor's" every once in a while, make no mistake: I am one of those foreigner jerks. And the coffee usually really is very expensive.

There are no binding rules in the journal(s). A dry exchange with interesting rhythm, a description of something or someone intriguing, or--most often--a prompt that may or may not be expanded and explore further if revisited.

And then you read something on the internet and wonder how to proceed because this jerk basically already did it, and did it better than you would have. The persistence and anger is equivalent to hating the new Christopher Nolan movie because you basically had that same idea a few years ago whenever. (Hahaha.)

Dispatches from Adjunct Faculty at a Large State University. (McSweeney's)

"One reason we're funny is, we keep tryin' and tryin', meeting infrequently for just an hour at a time, to profess something of value to a diverse and often large audience, who may not have had enough interest in the subject to look into it on their own, and who, over the previous 12 to 16 years of their educational lives, may have developed an antipathy to schedules, textbooks, the English language, teachers who remind them of their plumber fathers, and the screech of chalk on slate." --Oronte Churm

So without shame, I spake: I will be wise, and just, and free, and mild, if in me lies such power, for I grow weary to behold the selfish and the strong still tyrannise without reproach or check. I then controuled my tears, my heart grew calm, and I was meek and bold.

Percy Bysshe Shelley from the dedication to Laon and Cythna.

I wrote this on the board today in my Intermediate English Conversation class--my most advanced class because the unit in the book that we would have covered today was in regards to what we want to do, how we want to be different. My most confident students, the outspoken ones, the ones that have lived abroad, asked me, "Why are we doing this? It's too hard. I can't think through this." and I felt at home, struggling through a passage from literature class. "You wrote spake instead of spoke... and you spelled controlled wrong."

And then we explored what was there: why the quotation begins with so, and what it means to respond; what it means to be just, and mild; what powers lie within our own selves, and when they are revealed; when and why we grow weary; who the selfish and strong are, and what they are tasked to do; that controlling tears means to stop crying and be at peace in conviction. Perhaps this passage was too difficult, but we worked through it as a class and within groups and as a class again, and struggling to understand is not exactly discouraged in a classroom.

And we talked about tyranny, and its many forms, and how we respond to it. How, then, do we respond to goodness and beauty?

Larger themes, sure, than "If I had ______, then I would/could _______ ." but I thought, every once in a while, that I should allow the conversation to wander towards something not incessant and benign. I don't really mean this. My primary argument for putting my students through the a glimpse of the glory that is Mr. Shelley was that I firmly believe good teachers show why they love what they're teaching, and why it's worth toiling through.

We got off the train and stepped on to Seoul's wet floor. There had been worry and warning about some serious flooding, overtaking bridges and closing main roads, upon our departure from Busan and it had ended up with that smell of the city after a muchly-needed rain and a sad stack of sand bags guarding the door of the market. Adam and I wearily, and happily, trudged through the buzzing lights and I picked up some gifts for the matriarchs of our family tree.
We are here, as the rest of the nation is, to take the week--or the middle three days of the week--off and visit with family. I thought of my parents as we acted out the ritual of the nation, and how they would have been doing what we were doing had they not moved to the States at our age to pursue studies and start a family. I am their son here. I can't say that I am back, as I am a stranger in this land and to these people. The nurse checking my blood pressure, the lady selling us dumplings, the cabdriver taking us downtown, they all assure and scold me in the same way. You should speak Korean because you are Korean. And I hold back my inclination to correct them: No. I'm American.
But here I am on a journey, or family pilgrimmage, to present myself to my family. I am their son. This is who I am. This is my friend. We are your family.
In preparation for the week of visiting, and out of necessity and convenience, we are spending the night at a jimjilbang, or spa. This building is 6 floors high and occupied, from the bottom up, as spa, bath, and lockers; lounge and meeting room; cafe, pc room (my current location), and gym; and sleeping rooms. The guests are given a set of shorts and t shirts to change into, and lockers in which to store shoes and clothes. The men and women have separate facilities for the baths and lockers only, and the night occupants sleep on floor mats. I like the idea of thoroughly cleansing one self through the night, even though the cafe sells grossly unhealthy food and there are two dudes behind me playing Starcraft. Our stay here is a fitting start to our journey, taking part in this ritual.
And now, dear friends and readers, know that I am thankful for you and wish that we could collectively take work off and visit together. But we can't. 'Cause ya'll live elsewhere. So have fun at work/school, and know that you are missed.

At the last quiz of this week, I answered any questions before handing out the sheets. The loud students finished first, then the smart ones, then the quiet ones. I walk around trying to look like a calm professor instead of the anxious, excited recent college grad that I am. This is their first quiz with me--this week has been full of first quizzes. The ones that raise their hands for clarification gain instant ranking as my new favorite student ever and I hope that they learned when to use said instead of told. I hope that their mind processes the difference in English until they are not differences anymore, but just two words that they are fully capable of using. I hope that they have not merely thought to look for an object as an indication, to pluck the rule from their minds later. I am thankful for the ones that put themselves in their Have you ever questions, hopeful for the ones that try, and exhausted from the ones that left blank spaces.

When I returned from my office, after quietly thanking them as they filed out and wishing them a happy Chuseok, I was handed a brick of cash--our first month's pay--and instructed to count it. We had been notified of this beforehand. We had only recently applied for our resident/immigration cards, and can't apply for a bank account until we receive them. Still, it seemed odd. Not that it was in cash, but that we were getting paid at all.

I have students stop me in the hall to ask questions, give reasons why they missed class, and/or beg of me to accept their late homework (without docking points). It is still odd, and something I feel is necessary to document on the blog.

I love my students, and hope that I am encouraging to them. I love them as they are just starting to raise their hands when they don't understand something, not caring that they might embarrass themselves in front of their peers. I love them when they stop after class to clarify a grammar concept, or ask if "part away" is a common phrasal in English conversation, and why it is not. I love them when they cry and moan about getting homework, and beam with pride when they turn it in and I tell them that it must have been easy because they did so well. I love them when they ask why I keep saying "Boom." as an exclamation. I love them for writing things like, "In the wilderness, I shall wrestle with him." and "Today was sad. Tomorrow will be better." I love them when they realize how to say the word "realize." I love them when they volunteer to pray at the end of class, and pull out a piece of paper to read from. I love when they translate for each other, and I love them when they refuse to do so.

Yes. This is my cheesy teacher post, inspired by the great Ms. Dekens, wherever she may be.

I love teaching. I love it in my bones. I love the drudgery of staying up late to grade homework, and urging them to ask me if they have any questions.

But if I could do this in Los Angeles, with these students, I would. I would rather be there. Even if I could work on getting into grad. school, read, write, and be employed, thankfully, at a coffee shop, I would. I guess I could, if not for this contract.

Yes. This is also my cheesy Happy Anniversary post. Yikes. Who is this guy? Happy Anniversary to Hani and me.

For the last couple days, I've been feeling sick. I lost a weekend to it--recently I was talking to some students about what we did this weekend, and I had a moment that I looked to Adam and said, "Whoa... that was Friday?" completely forgetting that I had stayed in my cubicle of an apartment for all of Saturday and Sunday. On Tuesday, I felt dramatic as I normally do when ill, and absolutely convinced that my body was deteriorating. I'll spare you the details for fear of sounding as if I intend to garner any pity (I'm better now), so just take my word for it because when you're healthy, you often forget what it is to be sick. And being sick is a full-time occupation--lying in full attention to the pain coursing through your arteries and spreading over the rest of your body.

But what I wanted to say was: On Tuesday, I was walking up to my apartment after my two shortened classes and took a rest to lean against the wall after the first flight of stairs. The wind rushed up the staircase and I felt God tousle my hair. You have to understand that Busan has been hot and muggy since we got here, and with the typhoon in the area, and the ships out from the harbor at a safe distance, the rain and winds have been a gift.

And also: Dude. Teaching English is difficult because English is difficult. I'm often tempted to distribute copies of the The Berenstein Bears and having a policy for no questions on grammar allowed until we get through the entire series.

I yelled at two students so far, but neither incidents involved a volume that would register as yelling. At the most, I was stern.

The first was a student in my Intermediate English Conversation class. Previous instructors left notes on various students--skilled, but needs work on pronunciation; needs lots of gentle encouragement; etc. They were very clear that this student was a chronic skipper, but he was smart. I asked around some more and received confirmation on this guy who had lived abroad for several years. "He's very quick and intelligent, and he'll pass easily if he just shows up in class." I asked him to stay behind in class to relay this information. He was old enough, and smart enough, that I could be straight with him so I was. "If you don't show up, I have no qualms failing your ass." The image: two young Korean kids--one in a shirt and tie, the other in a Polo with his collar popped, and a sea of other students swirling around them. I didn't use those exact words, I didn't say ass but he laughed and nodded.

The second was in a Global class. After selecting a random name from the attendance sheet, he tried to read his homework in front of the class--a short paragraph about his favorite movie Salt. I took a quick glance at his paper and was impressed at its legibility and three-syllable words. When he struggled for fifteen full seconds to say "everyday" and gradually mumbled into silence and embarrassment, I asked him to stay after class also. I took another look at his paper--words like assassination and transvestite. I asked him what those words meant. He didn't know. I asked him to read the last sentence, and he could not. I asked him who wrote the essay and he apologized. I asked him who wrote the essay and he apologized again. I slammed the paper on the desk and asked him who wrote the essay. He said he took it off the internet, and he apologized again. I took my red pen out and wrote "PLAGIARISM" over his essay and told him to look it up. I told him that if I reported this, he would be kicked out of school. (I don't know what Kosin's policy on plagiarism is.) Given his grasp on the English language, I'm not so sure that he understood, but he nodded and I left.

When my dad would talk about students that were acting up, not attending, or putting themselves in trouble, I would try my best to let him finish the story before saying he should 1) kick them out 2) fail them 3) chew them out in front of class or 4) all of the above. It's harder to do than I thought. I hope I don't get that angry, though I still believe that option 4 is necessary. Some of my favorite professors were the ones who were clear and placid about college students taking responsibility for their own grades; why should they care if we attend class or not? I have found that I am not that professor.

Dang.

The best of class is when we deviate from the loosely-drawn plans for the day and organically engage in a discussion. We are the most awake, attentive, and enthusiastic at these times. And I often ask questions, as the running question has been Who is the Kosin University student? What do my students care about? What do they do in between the spaces of class? This is hindered by, of course, the language barrier, and how entertaining it is to witness them earnestly trying to speak English. Don't get me wrong, we love them and we love that they try so hard. Don't get me wrong, it is hilarious each time. While writing this post, a student of Adam's came in to the office to ask for clarification about an assignment. Students, know that professors LOVE when this happens--I mean, asking a question that was answered in class is better than doing the assignment incorrectly. This student hesitated and thought more than she spoke, carefully calculating her syntax and rifling through her mental vocabulary. Again, we love this. We love when students try, because--too many times!-- we see students simply give up and look down at their desk.

Here's an extract from an essay about a favorite film character: In this story, Chul Soo is a construction site's foreman who [is] also aiming to become an architect. Chul Soo may appear like a rough and dirty construction worker initially, but he exudes sheer masculinity in its most basic physical form and is pretty handy when it comes to carpentry or house repair. It's also agonise while watching the wife he loved dearly forget who he even is.

A few mistakes, sure. But absolutely stunning work.

Our office has a coffee pot. It is surprisingly comforting and exciting to have hot coffee again. For a little more than a week, we've subsisted on instant, iced (canned), and tea. Oh, I forgot. There are so many things to tell you. The church that Elijah and Ashley have been attending, the church that I've been twice and Adam once, is enormous, and has a cafe on the top floor with moderately priced delicious espresso drinks and I've been frequenting an Americano and Cappuccino while we wait for the English service to start. The cafe is pretty busy, and Ashley usually meets with her Korean teacher to go over their weekly lesson and I've enjoyed reading, and watching the bustling around with Adam.

What else.

Our office is huge, and my trusty assistant Wilson found us a couch on the internet for 20,000w or a rough equivalent of $20. He says that it will be delivered tomorrow (Wed.) before noon. We (Adam and I) are learning more of this teaching thing each day--I firmly believe we're at an advantage, that we are so close to the age of our students, that he is a tall, skinny, and white guy and I'm basically a Korean guy that speaks English. Because of these things, these novelties, our students are interested in us and our English phrases. We use this to our favor in and out of the classroom. Out of the classroom: walking down the street, Elijah, Ashley, Adam and myself (whitey, whitey, whitey, and me) and seeing people turn and comment on their height allows me to slip under the radar for the most part; I've had an intent to be mistaken for a local for most of my travels and it shouldn't be a surprise that this is easiest to do in Korea.

What else.

I'm learning Korean, or I mistakingly like to believe that I'm re-learning it. I remember it was my first language, along with the first fleeting images I remember of my life in Grand Rapids before school, which means, before I learned English. I would explore Seminary Housing (my brothers can attest to more detailed stories) and have adventures and run crying home to mom, screaming in Korean, and I feel envy towards that child--his Korean is very good, and here I am--22-years old with a college degree and I feel less than that kid before he started pre-school. Don't get me wrong--I'm happy to ask directions and questions of people, (Do you know where Home Plus is? How much is the camera? Do you sell film? How much is the fish stick? What kind of meat is this, that my friend just bought from you? What do you recommend for four people?) but you'll see me quietly muttering to myself afterwards, repeating their answers, trying my question in different ways, trying to instill that understanding in my brain again. Currently, I'm chatting with my mom and practicing Korean, which is even more of a process when you are learning to type on a new alphabet. She laughs, but says she is proud, and quietly corrects my spelling mistakes. She's a great teacher, and has always been--telling me that I'm probably basing my spelling on oral understanding rather than from how it's written... and seeing as I read phonetically, based on sound, that totally makes sense and I must get a hold of some books. (Note to self: Get assistant to find some easy Korean books.)

Oh, and yes--I am in Busan, South Korea. I landed safely. I'm teaching English (six classes) at Kosin University. It is hot here.

A year ago, I wrote about a border patrol guy asking Paul, Christina, and I where we were all from and, after we answered, what we were all doing together. While I want to keep from exploring this topic very much further for danger of giving away the working draft of my toast for their wedding (What a strange journey it's been for us and all that...), I've been gauging the dependent levels of excitement and anxiety. Both skyrocket at such times and here's another: Paul's bratty little sister greeted me with a smirk and, "Don't you live in Iowa?" (Translation: I'm sixteen and I was born in Los Angeles.) I responded to this with no pride. "Actually, I don't anymore."

There's not a lot to say that can be better said than this: AUGH!

I'm on the tail end of my stay in Los Angeles and I'm still aware that I try, and hope, to keep from looking like an out-of-towner. What I have learned is that while I thought carrying a backpack around would make me look like a student, it actually makes me look more like a hobo. Not like a hobo--more like a hobo. I'm just saying that if I could grow a beard, I'd look like a guy that might sleep during the day at bus stops.

Are there any legitimate (read: good) Asian performers working in the US? Actors, comedians, musicians, etc.

Hugh friggin' Grant can say, "My wife is a member of PETA; I have been meaning to join," to a bear, and I cackle like a seven-year-old girl.

When did people start taking Amanda Seyfried seriously?

Every time I think, or am told, about living in Korea, I get excited. Tonight, I am reading about Lebron's decision to join Wade and Bosh in Miami (How American of me, yeah? Dan Gilbert is a tool.) and my aunt is watching a Korean show on KBS World--apparently, the most popular show--called Happy Together. The biggest celebrities get on to chat and laugh and do ridiculous things. When I say ridiculous things, I mean... like American Game show stuff. It's crazy, and I'm trying to imagine if American celebrities were this silly but the point is:

Watching this show makes me bummed about living in Korea.

If you've seen Lost in Translation, think back to the game show that Bob Harris agrees to go on; the spastic host with the technicolor suit and the flashy titles and the general feeling of ingesting something too sugary and obnoxious. I largely digress--my aunt, uncle, and cousin are kind of watching. My parents watch this show with vigor. A lot of people that I (at least) really, really like enjoy this show that I can't stand. I kind of grew up with this in the background, so I recognize some of the hosts (there seem to be several) with fondness... and by fondness, I mean I also grew up watching movies and stuff with Whoopie Goldberg in it. Whoopie Goldberg is on The View now (I know that because of Entourage) and I hate The View like I hate Happy Together, and for similar reasons. My cousins think I'll learn to like it.

You're all a bunch of mooches.

In less than three weeks, I'll have packed up my bags in preparation to move to Los Angeles, a visit to Washington, and an eventual placement in Busan. Joining the cavalcade of students graduating on to become something else, I'll fly away and my room in this house will likely end up being an extra study for the girls.

In slow preparation for this transition, I've dug out my books from their boxes, stacks, and bags and set about diligently sorting through which to keep, which to give away, which to sell, and which to leave behind at home.

A book of lyric and poetry is marked to a recently forgotten friend in Hamilton, for the memories.

A novel I recently finished promised to a friend, along with two collections by Andrea Barrett, who seamlessly weaves fact and data with human intimacy--all three books reminding me of her whimsy.

Flannery O'Connor and Anne Bogart are coming with me.

Next to my desk sit two stacks of books I've read or hadn't bothered to read--either way, they are were all listed on Amazon (all fifty or so of them) for a few dollars apiece. Immediately, notifications for shipment began. It's almost surprising that somebody in San Antonio purchased 1984, that a Texan bought an old anthology of short stories, or that somebody in Arkansas wants to learn How to Read Literature Like a Professor. All right: I purchased 1984 too. I enjoyed those short stories, noted its authors, and wanted to see how Professors read literature.

I suppose it is greed that piled these books in my possession, trolling through the library's tent sales and quietly pining through used bookstores; it is greed again that brings me to hesitate wrapping, addressing, and sending them off to various corners of the U.S. There are a few that I am ready to part with after having read through them; I wouldn't read them again and I know it, beautiful as they are. But most of the sixteen that I've sent so far are accompanied with a packing slip on which I have scribbled a note to their new owners: "Thanks for the purchase. Please enjoy this terrifying and wonderful novel, this small collection of poetry. If it is anything less than you expected, please don't hesitate to contact me for a refund; I'll take it back. Enjoy the smell." I hesitate leaving instruction to let me know what they think.

Anyway--does anybody out there want some books? Say yes, and I'll send you something that fits.

I once read an article by Seth Godin, whom many claim to be a marketing genius. At the time, my brother--the one who quickly and quietly did well in school, impassively so--had just graduated with a degree in finance from Michigan State's business school. The economy was on its initial descent and even those graduating in the practical sciences were struggling to find placement after receiving their degrees. So it was with my brother, and we all held our breath for him as his interviewing skill sharpened to a numbing point. Much like he does now, well into his current job at 5/3 Bank in Grand Rapids and recently promoted to a less entry-level and less boring position, his enthusiasm was, as usual, impassive. The article I'm talking about was brief, and the bulk of its content was a quick list of ideas for what the unemployed can do in their "spare time" in order to fortify their resume--volunteer, take a course, organize, learn a language (Spanish, html, Illustrator, or otherwise), and so forth. What would it be like to get up of your own accord at 8 AM every morning to diligently continue learning? I've always thought this "work ethic," or curiosity, was something to take note of--something to consciously strive towards. And while this mentality can very easily overlap with restlessness--perhaps even frenzy--I don't know that the absolute alternative would be any better. "Onward and upward," some people once said, though there are better arguments than that.

My mom and I realized earlier today that all the kids of the family, all three of her sons, are done being students. (And for the moment, please disregard that all three of us are enormously likely to pursue higher education; that's another good thought, but it detracts from this one.) I'm sitting in a hotel room outside of Chicago. We're on our way back from Grand Rapids and Paul's graduating from Calvin Seminary. Between that and my graduating from Dordt a week ago (it seems like it happened the day before), the family went through a gauntlet of social graces and the more festive side on the spectrum of emotions. We enjoy being with people--our friends of various capacities--but there have been more and more moments lately where we'd look at each other while preparing for the next activity and you could see in our eyes and slumped shoulders that we just want to sit down and pass the day together. I guess that's why we're in a hotel instead of staying with friends as we did on our way in. We want to continue our lives: Dad has faculty meetings to attend, Mom has the girls to take care of, Paul has two interviews in the next week or so, David has, and has had, work, and I have documents to fill out, introductory essays to write, and summer jobs to pursue. One more day to be under the same roof, please but no obligations--socially, or otherwise--this time. No? We concede; life intervenes and carries on.

Just a few minutes ago, I physically strained to hold in my laughter because I was reading Shit My Dad Says. My abs hurt. They shot a pilot with William Shatner playing, I assume, the dad and I'm astounded that they didn't get Alan Arkin to do it. Not that he needs the work, but that I heard his voice as I read these lines--Alan Arkin's and my own father's, but that would be too hilarious. Anyway, the pilot got picked up and I sincerely hope Shatner does well, but I can't imagine him saying "fuck" and "shit" without a huge, dopey grin on his face.

I received this image when our team was visiting Hani and Danielle's team on our last shooting days. Our teams were sharing vans and drivers and I remember our groups were processing the end of our respective trips in different ways: Kelly, Pete, and I were exhausted--further exacerbated with the bumpy ride to the outskirts of the city, and wondering what would happen to all the people we got to know. We arrived, pulled ourselves out of the van and stood in front of a block of makeshift shelters; our friends were working busily somewhere in that maze. These two fine gentlemen fought through the language barrier and led us to them.

This was shot at a wildlife sanctuary. You can't see it, but all the tourists with their prosumer cameras, pleated khakis, and carefully protected skin are straining to get a good look at the baby elephants. Michelle and I grew weary of the spectacle, and found that observing the fellow tourists was much more interesting. I love the posture of the woman at the center, carefully and politely trying to get around for a better view.

His name is Peru. His interest is comedy. He told us this on the first day, surrounded by his brothers and using English when we were advised that they would be too embarrassed to try. No excuses; play like a champion. That is correct.

I don't know what to say about this man toiling in the street as I never shook his hand and learned his name. I want to say that he's resilient and, here, fighting through the economic turmoil that Kenyans were struggling to endure. Perhaps he was a victim of the matatu* strike that was in place during our visit. (That, and the New Years holiday gave us clear streets in the heart of Nairobi for a few days.) The irony was, of course, that in their efforts to quell police harassment and unfair regulations, the working man couldn't get to work. The streets were lined with pedestrians in commute, having to leave home hours earlier, and returning home hours later. Resilience is a necessity.

More.

*Matatu: minibus transportation. We couldn't find whether these were state regulated or not, but that's largely irrelevant. Policy enforcement was, as we saw, almost nonexistent. Some issues that were being contested were passenger limit and safety measures. Many Kenyans are unable to afford Matatu transportation; our driver was repeatedly hounded for a ride to the other side of town.

[Poetry] may make us from time to time a little more aware of the deeper, unarmed feelings which form the substratum of our being, to which we rarely penetrate; for our lives are mostly a constant evasion of ourselves, and an evasion of the visible and sensible world. But to say all this is only to say what you know already, if you have felt poetry and thought about your feelings.

-T. S. Eliot. The Use of Poetry and the Use of Criticism.

You say you lost your faith, but that's not where it's at; you have no faith to lose and you know it.

-Bob Dylan. Positively 4th Street.

Laura wishes to lie down, she is tired of her hairpins and the feel of her long tight sleeves, but she says to him, "Have you a new song for me this evening?" If he says yes, she asks him to sing it. If he says no, she remembers his favorite one, and asks him to sing it again.

-Katherine Anne Porter. Flowering Judas.

Thoughts from Spring Break.

The view is Escondido or, more specifically, the "backyard" of the Veldkamps' house. Vineyard, pool, hot tub, mountains, palm trees, sun, breeze, birds and so forth. Birds of paradise is right; they're everywhere. We will pack up and head back east tomorrow morning, amidst a flutter of arguments, protests and bickering on who will sit where, and in which car. I've been told the snow has all but melted back in Sioux Center--a town I've come to love and defend--and even that recent dusting (that, reportedly, hasn't stuck to the ground) is of no significance. Leaving California's steadily bronzing sun will be unpleasant, but there is no journey or location without the varying levels of individual context.

For example, in reading through Eugene O'Neill's play Long Day's Journey into Night, one suggestion is that being in love is not the same as being happy. The state, or condition, of one should not imply the other... though having both is assumed in how we've grown... in how I've grown to understand it... thus far.

This theme casts a light upon everyone I see. It's enough to occupy my mind though, in many ways and for many reasons, I wish it weren't.

My heart swelled with emotion during various individual images and words of the Academy Awards tonight. Now, I'm listening to Lady Gaga's Bad Romance. Would you like to fight about it?

I dreamt that I had a snowball fight with Dave and Jeri Schelhaas as we were leaving a dinner party.

I dreamt that Bailey, Val and I were in an expensive room, dressed to the nines as they used to say. Caviar on the table. I've never had caviar, and Bailey and I indulged until we saw Val wasn't eating, her mouth set to a stern pout and her arms crossed against her gown. Our gentle pleading escalated to anger and throwing china. The crystal chandelier shattered and blood spilled.

It's been ten days since I actualized a desire for a change in course. As a result, I've been approaching moments (mine or otherwise) through the question of ability. Much of this is a result of analyzing Naturalism in Dengler's American Lit. (Kate Chopin, Henry James, Edith Wharton), no doubt. The outcome of my prideful dissatisfaction and, you could say, shaking my fist at the heavens--what am I capable of? At the least, and dastardly ambitious at the same time, I'll learn to accept my insufficiencies and keep from making excuses. The short of it could be... I am in control of very little; the fault is mine. The emphasis is on the latter, I assure you. This is unacceptable still (and more terrible than confusing), but this is a crude translation of my restless constitution. I wonder what I'll say in a year, when I pull this page up and read it over again.

If you're reading this, I'm sure you come to these words armed and braced to encounter a level of unbridled melodrama. If I may continue perpetuating this tone, if I may be so asinine and ridiculous:

There are a few times every year that I desire to introduce a turning point in my life. This desire is often large, and sometimes quiet like a whispered affirmation about a time of deliberation. And who can tell what prompts them? An image of snow, building up softly and pervasively across the fields, even blocking out the sun and one hopes that it comes to such a degree that not only would roads, work places and schools concede to its quiet tenacity, but electricity and heat as well. Those living in the Midwest have a few stories of such times, I'm sure, when the snow/ice/freezing rain/hail was so bad that year and we just didn't bother trying to do anything outside of our doors -- physically or digitally -- for a few days, until it passed through and we could assess the damage. Thank God for the wood-burning fireplace and all that. My story involves being blessed with that fireplace (as well as lots of peanut butter and beef jerky and the brothers returning home with a month of groceries just after the electricity went out.) I want that debilitation again, to shock the hourly/daily/weekly regressions of academia and established community and humble us to the point where, instead of working around nature, we are stilled to bear it.

And yesterday, the stories, notes, essays, pens, pencils and emails sat quietly in my bag and read through the pages of food blogs, the Momofuku cookbook, organized a series of spices next to a bowl of salt, quartered and cleaned a turkey, seasoned it and let it refrigerate for a few hours to let the juices draw toward the surface. I spent the day anticipating and preparing for a meal, excited in the overwhelming volume of food that a whole turkey brings and how will my roommates be fed? I spent the day preparing, consuming and reveling in that meal and the quiet slurping it brought. Oddly, this was one of the few suggestions for post-grad endeavors, offered in partial jest, that my parents were legitimately excited about.

Compilation

He: You can't trust a thing girls say because it's all conditional; there's no way to tell what they mean to say, or even what they want to say.

She: You don't need to know.
---

Alice Haskett -- Alice Varick -- Alice Waythorn -- she had been each in turn, and had left hanging to each name a little of her privacy, a little of her personality, a little of the inmost self where the unknown god abides.
---

She burst into tears, and he saw that she expected him to regard her as a victim.
---

But the young man was conscious at the same moment that it had ceased to be a matter of serious regret to him that the little American flirt should be "talked about" by low-minded menials.
---

It struck him, with a curious pang, that she was very happy in being with him, so happy that she found a childish pleasure in rehearsing the trivial incidents of her day.
---

He kept looking at her; she seemed not in the least embarrassed. Winterbourne said nothing; Daisy chattered about the beauty of the place.
---

Then he asked her if she would not be more comfortable in sitting upon the bench which he had just quitted. She answered that she liked standing up and walking about; but she presently sat down.
---

In class, we spoke about the value in that response for our creative actions and how in presenting something, we're attempting to make others experience at least a glimpse of something so powerful and intangible. By placing an object on display, we're grabbing passers-by and saying, Look at this!
David Sedaris wrote about how he would type up passages from his favorite authors on his typewriter before he left town on the off-chance that, should someone break in, they might read it and mistakenly assume that he was the one who wrote it.
There's a short story called The King of Sentences where a couple find unbridled stimulating passion in beautiful sentences -- even when taken out of context. The cadence and meticulous construction enthrall the ear that cares to listen.

When I was in high school, my family moved from Grand Rapids, Michigan to Sioux Center, Iowa. My two older brothers, Paul and David, had already begun their college years then -- something I envied -- and, after making that first-of-several twelve-hour drives with us, they returned home to the winding roads and rapidly-developing properties that I hope to always remember, and fear that, very quickly, I will have to. I went back (not home) to visit in the fall, during the first break we had and stayed at Paul's apartment. David was away at Michigan State, but managed to come back for the weekend as he would often do. I was sixteen years old. I made myself very aware of this as I lay in a sleeping bag on the floor next to Paul's bed, trying to still my nerves from the conscious reality of my life, "Iowa... are you kidding?" It will be beneficial for you to know that I was born in Grand Rapids and haven't lived anywhere else before the move, and also that, yes, I realize how dramatic I was being and, of course, I am very embarrassed to even be telling this story. Sixteen years old -- what can I say? I lay awake in the middle of the night and asked my older brother of twenty-one years (my current age) if life got any easier. The panic he must have felt, no? I remember his hesitating before trying the words out loud, "Not really... no. But it sometimes helps to realize how it gets harder, and you get better at that." I don't know that I found comfort in it at the time; I still haven't decided, I guess. Neither can I say what I wish I would have heard instead, but I have become used to that inability to sleep for fear, anxiety and an overwhelming volume for thoughts of the like. Every night requires a solid and deliberate time of processing down from the day and I've found that the most effective avenue of doing so is in reading a piece of fiction, watching a movie or talking to someone about their day. Perhaps there's an element of escapism in this; I remain unapologetic if there is. I am hesitant, however, if I begin to use others and what they offer up of themselves for my own benefit of alleviation. What they offer up, and what "works best" is conflict (like in every short story or film) and it's clear that a part of my inclination to listen is in consuming that very real sense of struggle. I become invested in it then; it enthralls me and, somehow because of it, I can rest.

It's later in the afternoon on Thursday. The sun has been out today, and the wind isn't swirling so all the cold is blamed on just that -- the cold. At the table next to mine in the Bean, a Rook lesson is taking place. Three girls play a demonstration round. Two students listen attentively to one as she explains different strategies and understandings. Perhaps this will be put to good use in their next planned social event. Young American girls, no? Behind them, a professor and student sit with coffee and a legal pad. They laugh often. Steve Buscemi lies with his coat still on. A younger crowd enters warily and is greeted by the barista, ordering drinks to go. Sticking yellow notes into her book, a student of Marie Antoinette solidifies her productivity. On the table sits the Norton Anthology of American Literature, a worn copy of Steinbeck's The Winter of Our Discontent and a partially completed list of activities from the summer that I rescued just a few minutes ago, from the wrinkled recesses of my bag. Chase bats. Drink beer with Dad. Recite poetry. Eat cherries, spit pits, attempt to plant. Eat waffles with Carmela. Eat something with leeks in it. Play with dog. Outside the window, the light declines as the casual noises erupts and falters from our wandering thoughts.


"And instead of feeling miserable, you'd be jolly. So jolly," she repeated and smiled, for all the puzzled anxiety in her eyes, with what was meant to be an inviting and voluptuous cajolery.
He looked at her in silence, his face unresponsive and very grave -- looked at her intently. After a few seconds Lenina's eyes flinched away; she uttered a nervous little laugh, tried to think of something to say and couldn't. The silence prolonged itself.

-Huxley, Aldous. Brave New World. Harper Perennial. 2006.

My being is a finite, frail, temporal, conditional and vulnerable one. A state of susceptibility would wisely, and humbly, prelude that selfishly cathartic act of creation. Indulge, then. Why don't you? Not only is our collective prerogative disposed to suffering, there is also neglect and apathy. If only for sanity's sake, for a fleeting time of peace (as if there is a need to define the specific motive), indulge in manipulations, contortions and abstractions; laugh at the thought of accurate documentation. Why bother? Why bother to repeat the song of the sparrow back to the sparrow? Not only has the sparrow perfected what it was created to do, there is no shortage of song in its seemingly similarly finite entity.

I wonder of the correlation between how 'good' we consider something to be -- whether, and how much, we love something -- and to what degree said object, idea, piece or person affects us. These are sprawling questions, I know, but it's difficult for a novel to be written if the protagonist is forgettable. David Foster Wallace wrote that every piece of fiction is a lie. I agree and, more significantly, am intrigued with his claim. Aren't we enthralled anyway? Don't we find ourselves captivated in the realm of what could fairly be described as make-believe? The ideas and characters that linger with us -- isn't that what beauty is, even if terrifying and challenging?

While I was walking around this morning, a car pulled up right next to me. An old man was driving and wasted no time or pleasantries. "Direct me to the gymnasium." If it were a less beautiful morning, if I had less sleep in my bones, if he looked anything less like Walter Kronkite, I would have been a total jerk to him. "Direct me to the gymnasium," as if I were dressed in some shiny, rented vest and sharing weed with some talentless actor-hopeful outside while the rich and famous eat some overpriced, glitzy cuts of beef inside. If only he had known, of course, that I am a very big deal around these parts. The man smiled at me without smiling at me, before nodding imperceptibly and making his way with conviction. The next party I met, young pedestrians stood and hesitated before addressing me. I had my back to them, trying to focus on the top of a tree set upon a brilliant blue sky when I heard a mouse ask, "Um. Excuse me, sir?" I turned around to a frightened girl and two cowardly guys behind her. They all looked to be my age. "Sir," -- my goodness. The next was in the park, enjoying the hush of Iowa blanketed in January and allowing the sun to warm my face for a moment when a curly black dog came sniffing furiously. Her owner, a friend and a member of my parents' church (Faith CRC) came up with a smile and a camera of her own. She knew of me, had heard of me -- something about Dordt and so forth -- and I, her. The odd comfort was that, in our supposed familiarity but actual state of strangers, I found a calm security in her questions concerning all those big things: senior year, post-grad ambitions, Kenya. What we discussed wasn't advice as much as tangential themes and anecdotes. And after, she took a glove off so we could shake and I found myself placing my left hand over my right arm in doing so. She smirked in noticing this. I think I shrugged a little, apologizing.

Best American Short Stories 2009, edited by Alice Sebold and the Norton Anthology of American Lit. (7th Ed. Volumes C, D and E) sit atop my library desk, towering next to the tiny one-use toothbrush that the bookstore is giving out like a more public institution might hand out condoms, except that I can't pump hand lotion into my disposable toothbrush and leave on my roommate's pillow. Well, I suppose I could. Anyway, the books feel like Christmas here. The short stories are not for a class I am taking -- they were under the Fiction Writing course that, though I completed two years ago, I sat in last night to decide on an independent study to round out my graduation requirements.

I've said that we don't know yet that we've been changed (but we can hope) and we don't know yet how we've been changed, but there are indications. I walk around saying asante instead of thank you, my hair is much shorter, my skin is a little more dark and my knees buckled in fatigue by eight last night. Jet lag... having me fall asleep catching up with old friends, greedily staying in while the room goes out bowling and waking at six the next morning, hesitating to play music for the shower for fear of disturbing the roommates. I still laugh, but I don't know the answer to how Kenya went... yet. Instead, I emit a gaggle of gibberish and hesitant indecision. "Uhhhhyyyyeaaahhh.... ummm..." Yep. Like an idiot, with my arms flailing about.