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.