Easy relationship

Michael insists, “Relationships should be easy. If it's not, you're doing it wrong.” Maybe he is right—but partly true and partly untrue depending on situations, I think. Anyway, according to his logic, I'm doing it wrong all the time because my relationships are usually—almost always— not easy. I don’t like the word “easy” in this case except when “easy” means comfortable—especially in man-woman relationship, “easy” often means light and temporal like just a physical enjoying.

Michael’s words seem so much American. I suddenly realise that he is a real American, no more, no less, like my P is. Probably there is a certain unstoppable gap among us—between them and me, which is remarkable difference in thought and emotion. It may be why I’m frequently hurt. Mightn’t the American emotion fit me? I’m saying this in spite of the fallacy of generalisation. All Americans are not that, yet mostly perhaps.

I think a serious/sincere relationship at least cannot be easy unless the word means comfortable. Now and then, and just now, so many “I”s, bustling inside me, torment with one another.

Do I have to break my fantasy which might be just an illusion or self-delusion and from which I’m making a fairy-tale? The knight of the fairy-tale constantly encourages my amnesia, but my self-consciousness often interferes in. I can’t help it. I don’t know what to do then. In fact, it is not important which one is stronger, in both I’m already lost. I would not delve anything from this fairy-tale land—probably. Even if so, I cannot give it away, I can’t. I’ve thought that love is blind and usually foolish. In that sense, I am not in love because I can see all things I can’t understand, though often emotionally foolish I am. I don't like to come into his basket despite those all. I don’t embrace them. Dreaming of romanticism becomes more and more exhausting thing as adding years.

Brit…

(Paradoxically, sometimes I also maybe want easy relationships, though. . . . I'm not good at relationships and they are always difficult for me.)

Rain, Snow, Love, and Chance

It’s raining all day like a summer day. It must snow at this time of the season, but we often have rain in the far south-eastern part of Korea. If I lived in the northern part of the country, I could see snow more frequently!

My hometown was a snow land in the winter even though it didn’t resemble Yoko’s snow country (in Snow Country by Kawabata Yasunari) or Lara’s snow plains (in Doctor Zhivago by Boris Pasternak). In my youth, I would think of Yoko whenever it snowed windy. Like her I used to have sung in bathroom (the habit is still going on now) and I would replace myself into her in my bathroom. When morning came after heavily snowy night, I would go out for first treading on the snow piles in the playground of my school. At then, I would think of Lara, her pathological appearance of desperate love. Yes, I was a precocious child. There lies so much memory with snow in my mind. Today, I was rather provoked to long for snow by the rain.

Love . . . the cruellest name which elevates us up to Heaven and simultaneously drags us down to Hell. I’m afraid of falling in love as much as I’m afraid of losing it.

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At short outing in the morning, I came across professor K. (our vice-Dean) around the front gate of our campus. What a coincidence! I was thinking of him then, because we are to meet together on Thursday with the New-letter business for our college. I saw the sparkling light in his eyes and he might see mine. We stopped and talked a while as if we were old lovers. :)

Professor K. used to have been a good hand for me and my editing work on the news-letter would be tough without his help. He is humorous—witty man and always works well with his literary competence (he majors in German literature). Very tall he is. Now and then his slim height overwhelms me, a short woman. Maybe he is the tallest professor in the College of Humanities of P.N.U. Most of professors in our university—especially in our college— are not tall. So his tallness would be special merit or attractiveness. Suddenly I found a few grey hairs on him and they are adding him with romantic vision.

Brit…

I don’t care?!

Do you think I really didn’t care about it? Well. . . What can I say? I did or didn’t? Ridiculous it is! That’s absolutely not that, you know. Don’t you know the ironic? That was not some metaphor you couldn’t understand. It’s just a sarcastic irony.

Yes, waiting is not my nature. Is there anyone who has waiting-nature? One just waits when there’s no alternative. From my youth I used to wait for no man except in particular cases, because it would often give miserable feeling in most cases. I didn’t wait for any man before it was requested and there’s no man who dared to make me do it without my consent. It meant good-by for me.

Do you know how much time I've wasted on vain waiting in my life? I would wait for someone/something I mustn't wait or couldn’t be waited for. I cannot repeat those follies, I must not. Nevertheless, I’ve waited for you all the summer. That’s not all. I spent the whole autumn compromising the miserable with the bluff. I had to stand the hurting cruelty of the situation, which consumed my soul. What on earth can you imagine? What on earth do I have to do more?

Brit…

The Knight of Shadow

His “Her majesty” is frequently disturbed between self-consciousness and amnesia. The self-consciousness, harshly cold and merciless on her state, tries to keep her world in order by the convention, but the delusive amnesia shadowed and protected by her knight often wins and rules her world. Very short order and much longer illusionary chaos! Keeping balance between the two is far away from her world. It seems like another planet’s efficiency anyway.

In the heart of the chaos then, she felt that something went wrong. She thought that there had been a certain misperception or misunderstanding. Or, insensible mistakes might have lied there. She was scared and trembled. The problem was that she absolutely didn’t catch the situation, knowing nothing. The only comfort was that, however, whatever it was, it’s not between them or didn’t do with them. Yet all the stressful pressed her down and she felt like standing alone in the wilderness at the moment.

A guard, whose bosom wide, was the knight of shadow. Though nothing known or explained, all the concerned melted away within the shadow of the knight and it wasn’t her problem anymore in his arms, which always give her tender and warm easiness.

Brit…
(Written on 8 Dec. 2010)

Now I'm pondering . . . whether I would go on story-telling or stop it. I'm stumbling on this fairy-tale.

Along the riverside

She walked and walked and walked . . . thinking deep, as if the road was endless. She didn’t know where to stop and return.

Maybe she was lonely, regarding to her unnecessary night prattle. Sometimes she does, when feeling indescribably lonely. Prattling is a way for hiding her negative feeling from herself and others. It is like a strategy to struggle against some helplessness that even she herself often cannot catch the reason why she feels lonely at the moment.

Of course, he mightn’t know, never he, that she eagerly wanted him to hold her then. She said nothing as always, though, just smiling and pretending natural. Men usually don’t know anything about women. Men just delude themselves about their ladies without sensing their unsaid bottomless sorrow. Her knight . . . so does he.

Wish he knew her wavering, or someday he would lose her.

Brit…

The Game

I’m afraid that I cannot go on this game. I’ve held on to it for a long time as if it’s my final destination. It has consumed much of me and now I feel fainted, that is, a kind of nausea about me and this world. I cannot separate myself from it—the game. I cannot distinguish mine from others’ in it and vice versa. Moreover, I myself have been probably lost already. Like straying a labyrinth, indiscernible shadows frequently haunt in my way, and I’m overwhelmed by fear of loss. Where am I? I wonder whether this is I or that is I. At some time I seem to be neither this nor that. Have I here ever been me?

All the pastiche of the world makes us blurred into one another. Make-believe or fake displaces the real that I doubt its existence, nevertheless, pursue. I’m disappearing more and more and the distorted something in me has revealed many beings I don’t know, which soon branches out. Every time in my life I’ve searched for me myself performing perfect strangers and somehow I’ve been barely getting along. Then my space of the stage gets narrower and I think I’d have to down. I’m scared and I don’t think the time has come. I even don’t want to think about it. The time is not mine, however. It is I, not the time, to be subjected.

Brit…

Crossing

1. Fake Reality or Inaccessible Fantasy

Now and then in front of P, I feel like talking to the wall. He gives no answer and no temper, absolutely no reaction to my grumbling—often sarcastic. He would be angry or depressed, because I would purposely do such things—to provoke his temper, but he totally controls it all the time. It is always I who first get sulky. Soon I become exhausted with so many thoughts which torture my mind. I might be a helpless idiot or dummy, really I am a fool. At then, I remind of Echo, one of tragic figures in Greek mythology, who never get a reply except her own voice. The poor Echo, I feel like her. Can’t the reality be grabbed by me, which lies between P and me? Maybe he is not my reality and I delude myself he is. Perhaps he is a man whom my imagination created. I think I’ll have to say good-bye to him. I can’t/mustn’t love him.

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2. Diversion: A part of real life today

Hun phoned me after about three months. He said he wanted to buy me decent lunch, but I didn't want expensive one. We had seafood spaghetti and vegetable salad, talking incessantly. The topic was mostly about me, my dissertation and my tough days, and also about music and literature. I often become talkative when I talk about my favourites. Thankfully Hun usually likes listening to me and even he encourages my talkativeness.

After lunch we’ve been to Karaoke because I’d eagerly like to sing. I thought that singing could reduce my increased stress. I urged him to come together and he was willing to do. For more than three hours I’ve sung, calling out my old repertoires. Hun, with smile on his face, patiently listened to my singing—he sang only three songs. Walking our beautiful campus together in the evening was a bonus. Thank him so much! He assumed the very company at the very moment I needed one. Finally I gave my today away to diversion and robbed a day from him.

Brit…

Distraction, the Chronic

I’m troubled with indescribable distraction now. Been at work for more than eight hours, nevertheless, I’ve done nothing. I could not concentrate on my work at all. If you ask what makes me so, I cannot tell. Maybe I know it, maybe don’t. Now and then, distraction from various reasons interrupts my work and it has been usually psychological kind. If not the kind, I would deal with it somehow. The heartless foe of my mind, though, I cannot help. These days, distraction seems to become a chronic symptom upon my mind and it drives me feel like insane. Save. . .

Brit…
(Don't stick to anything, just let it be and flow!)

The Pathetic of November

Getting cold it is! We are stepping on winter days indeed. This morning I wore my new long boots with leggings in it and the GO-CCE brand boots were very comfortable. I think the boots was good choice, and I like it.

Cold wind slapped on my skin, but the smell of early winter air touched my feeling. I like the smell of November with its frequent darkness, its dreary winds, and the rolling fallen leaves on the ground. I suddenly realise that November, my dearest month which often reminds me of Wuthering Heights and Heathcliff, is about to leave. Though it provokes some grievous pathology in me now and then, I dearly love the season of November. To my sorry, I could not be fully immersed in this pathetic season, however. My current life doesn’t let me deep inside it and I don’t know whether it’s good or bad.

Time is constantly passing as ever, adding years on me. It makes me sad that I’m no longer someone’s romantic object, though I always dream of it. Of course, I know it would be a fantasy (even a delusion?) or emotional cupidity to think romanticism at my age, but I cannot easily give of my dream (even if it’s just an illusion) to the years till I die. I would be still dreaming when I become a grandmother. Is it really absurd that I want to be myself as a certain romantic being? Is it impossible for P to look at me such a way? If I want it, am I greedy? Sometimes P and I are talking at cross-purposes, that is, I talk of chalk and P talks of cheese. It makes me sadder.

Brit…

In Relation to My Dissertation

I didn't tremble before the judges at the examination and my heart didn't drum at all. Just been sceptical, for a moment I thought I wanted to stop here.

I know my voice is very distinct/resolute and eloquent as they say. 'The strong subjective I' is my merit as well as my defect and I recognise it. My writing is sometimes so stubborn that I cannot accept any modification against my will. Maybe it's a kind of undeniable bigotry and knowing it is that makes me concede others’ advices/comments at times.

My writing style is always much different from the conventional which used to be demanded by our academic atmosphere. In many cases, I tread on the line between the required and the rejected. Now and then it becomes a sly strategy by me. The conventional or the stereotyped is absolutely not my style, but I've enough compromised with the convention till now, I think. ‘The more’ is really hard for me, almost impossible. I cannot change my attitude anymore, rather properly speaking, I don't want to.

(Written on 18 November, 2010)
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I think I confront with deadlock. I tried to modify my dissertation as a whole according to the judges' comments and all day long I've been digging into it, but I couldn't make head or tail of it. I even didn’t know where I start. My own structure seemed to be so firm that anything could not interrupt in it. I myself could not break any corner of it and I really wanted to stop here. From in the afternoon I started to cry. I couldn’t control my tears. Sobbed my eyes out, they became bloody tumid and inflamed. I think my pride is too tenacious to concede easily.

(Written on 19 November, 2010)
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Not only my eyes but also my face was swollen due to long sobbing and I could not go out for a couple of days.

Away from work, I needed time to think if I can compromise with the conventional writing. How can I do it, the thing I don’t want to do? Anyway, I have to make something out in three weeks, which something harmonise judges' demands with mine. Or, I'd give up, even though it would be terrible sorry for me. I don't want to let myself—my writing, my shadow in it and my style fade away, even if it's wrong.

(Written on 21 November, 2010)
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Now I’m trying again.

Brit…

The First Exam on my Diss.

In the afternoon—some moments later, I’ll have my dissertation examined by five judges. It is the first of the processing, the scheduled three times’ examinations. I've prepared much and done my best in writing it and so have confidence in me and my work. Nevertheless, I’m slyly strained because I know all the judges usually try to find probable fault or defect somehow, whatever it appears. My judging professors consist of one woman from the department of English Education and four men including my supervisor—our college’s Dean. Two of them are separately from other universities, one of whom is from Sookmyung Women’s University in Seoul. I don't know much about the two guest judges and maybe that’s one of the reasons which make me feel particular nervousness.

This morning I played the child to P in a mail, making a fuss about my emotional state. Perhaps he chuckled at my exaggeration, but I needed nerves-soothing even though with flattery. It seemed to me that some sweet talk from P could help me relax. Of course, I could/can deal with it myself without a soother and definitely P would know it, too. I want him pat me on the back tenderly with smiling greenish eyes, though. I know it’s totally impossible thing now! Today he would not come here till evening, and I would go out for dinner with the judges after the examination.

Brit. . .

Consuming Emotion

(Written on 14 Nov. in the early afternoon)

I’m trying to elevate my mood but not easy as always, especially for today. Meddling in Michael’s work, the more I struggle to be jolly, the wider vacuum I feel in my heart as ever. My emotion has consumed too much and I wonder how much it remains. Uncountable error set my life on fire into ashes and now I’m too tired to defend myself any longer.

What can I say and what shall I do? Where do I have to draw a line between all the two—between life/dream or reality/fantasy, or us? Once I thought I did somewhere, soon it blurred. I repeatedly draw it following after blurring. I’m constantly doing the useless thing. How far can my dream—maybe fantasy or imagination penetrate into my reality? Even can it be done? Though getting older, still I often stick to impossibility, which is any kind of. Perhaps more and more I become insane.

I think I’ll have to efface all of my history, particularly about relationships. It seems that I didn’t remove any of them yet. The eraser in my head is always working wrong on confusing its stuffs, must-be-erased and must-not-be-erased. It pushes me at a loss perplexed between remembering and forgetting.

Brit…

Pushkin's Nonsense

I’ve struggled with slyly wicked evils of life all the year round. This year has particularly demanded my deadly fighting. I’ve been repeatedly disappointed with so many things/situation of mine as well as of others. Whenever I confronted with such a deadlock, I had to deal with all by myself and for myself. I know the human is originally alone but, nevertheless, I used to expect someone for sharing my emotion, not my burden but just emotion. I shouldn’t have assumed such an attitude, but was it so wrong? I doubt I have to still stand upon the Pushkin’s nonsense.


What though life conspire to cheat you,
Do not sorrow or complain.
Lie still on the day of pain,
And the day of joy will greet you.

Hearts live in the coming day.
There’s an end to passing sorrow.
Suddenly all flies away,
And delight returns tomorrow.


Brit…

Exhaustion

It suddenly came up her mind that it was not the matter of “difficulty”. It just means "beyond concern", that is, "didn’t want to do". She shouldn’t have asked that way. ('not-liked', 'not-cared about', I absolutely do not like it. That's not my way.)

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Yesterday’s seminar was good. I did my work well. Prepared much and ready to be criticised, but there’s no criticisms, instead, encouragement and some comments. I’ll go further on my way. The first examination day is 18th November.

Today, I came to office and feel some exhausted. I should have rest, but I had lunch appointment. Wrote to Wallace in the morning and have suffered from sickness caused by headache.

Now I’m watching Grand Prix figure-skating competition in China on the internet. Beautiful ice-dancing performances and Vasily’s commentary [from Russian N-TV] with his uniquely cynical voice ease my mind. I wish Tomáš Verner do his best in Men-singles competition. Tomáš is the only one I’m both of whose fan and whose friend. It’ll start at 18:25 in Beijing time after Ladies-singles competition. It’s hard for me to watch carefully Tomáš’s competition and I have to hold my breath with storm-like heartbeats because I like him so much.

Brit…

Diverted day

1. Lovely Maria dropped by for lunch. This morning, I was about to skip my lunch with some snacks, but willing to go out with Maria since I’ve wanted to buy her lunch. Maria looked more composed and confident than before. I love it. I want her to feel comfortable in this foreign country. May happy memory only be in her heart! She looks younger than her age (twenty-years-younger-than-I), and I think it is due to her delicacy and sincerity. I like her and I’m happy to have known her.

2. Tomáš wrote back to me, though I didn’t expect it. He gave me friendly reaction. It’s fantastic indeed. I’ve ever posted some dear comments about him on my blog since I liked his skating and was impressed with his personality. Really he is the boy I’ve recognised, he didn’t make me disappointed. Even if he wouldn’t request me, I would still love his skating, but he made more, being might-be-himself.

3. Is there any meaning in the questions unanswered? I don’t know (maybe I don’t want to know). It might depend on persons or situations. Sticking to them itself is ridiculous (looks insane). Forgetting is the first solution at any case, I know. Nevertheless, I am often unduly depressed. Absurd I am! The problem is that I myself don’t know my mind.

Brit…

Doubt or Misunderstanding

Is it a difficult question to answer? I don’t know, but I don’t think so.

Every question has its reason and every answer does. The reasons between question and answer may not match or concern with each other, but you can express any of your own. Being accepted or rejected is the second matter. The important thing is that there should be a reaction in the form of answering as far as it is waited for, even though the answer doesn’t seem to be desirable--or it would be a disappointing one. Every question expects to be answered. If you are avoiding it, you might be a coward.

Sometimes ‘not to react’ is likely to be a solution to escape from embarrassing/troubled situation, but simultaneously--and definitely, the ignoring would hurt someone whom it may concern. Silence begets numerous misunderstanding, as eloquent excuse considerably does doubt. Doubt is usually simple, while misunderstanding is often complicated. They have similar effect, though, making situation worse. Do you know that? Doubt or misunderstanding can be easily taken off, but we need to make us palpable for that. Once internalised in one’s mind, doubt or misunderstanding roots and grows down there inside and transforms the original nature from which it derived, and you’ll find an absolute stranger in it. The stranger would be an irresistible agony through your life. I know what it is like.

Ambiguity follows you in nine cases out of ten even when you try to be palpable all the time, and so you don’t have to be purposely ambiguous.

Brit…

Standing in need of

There is no friend in need. I think I’ve lived wrong.

I don’t want to be an alternative or a second choice at any case. If I am, I’ll be disconnected. The second choice is not my nature. If I am the second choice of someone, I don't need anyone as true friend or lover (especially as for lover). That was why I left him long time ago. I thought I was offended and hurt my pride with all his excuses. I could not stand the situation in which I thought I didn’t deserve. No matter whether it was true or not, the most important thing was that I felt so. I’ve always wanted sincerity and consistency. Even if the virtues would not be fulfilled, there would have to be perseverance in efforts for them. Recognised or not, he frustrated my trust and I could not accept it. I am/have been usually tolerant and considerate for others—their mistakes or their feelings, but I, too, have limits. When something or someone goes beyond my limits, I cannot but renounce the link with. . .

Brit…

P.S)

I just needed a friend in need. That’s all. You’re not there whenever I really needed you. I thought we’ve shared a kind of connection. Now I find that it’s totally my misunderstanding. I’ve committed the fallacy of interpretation.

An Anticipated Thing

Though anticipated, it’s very tough to deal with in my mind. I’ve often trapped myself and all the mistakes were that I could have not-committed, but I didn’t, so I deserve it. Nevertheless, I need consolation impudently. I always want a shoulder to cry on. For me, this wretched world is too big to handle. Living in this world is so often beyond my capacity.

Brit…

Children, do not marry if you don't earnestly love one and never have a child!

Dave Wong(王傑): 孤星

Dave Wang (王傑)

Dave Wang(or Wong, 王傑, Wang Chieh)’s 孤星 (aka. 人在風雨中)

There’s some indescribable bitterness in Dave’s voice. Its pathetic romanticism involves silent but passionate violence of emotion. I’ve liked him for a long time. I liked his awkward and humble features, too. He had unique attractiveness. We are of same age and Tony Leung(梁朝偉, Leung Chiu-Wai), too. Now Dave and Tony are changed and so am I, but still my favourites.

*

Brit...

*

P.S) I've shared Dave's "今生無悔" on my Facebook.

(It's my most favourite song of his.)

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Dilemma

These days I’ve been overpowered by total confusion. Being harassed with the anxiety of consequences, I’m caught between Scylla and Charybdis. Regardless to say, I myself called for it, and so deserve it. No one would be blamed but me. Sometimes I deplorably forget my pride about work and to people as if being possessed by terrible amnesia. Maybe the worsening situation inflates my psychological degeneration.

I thought I gave up all things which I desired but could not take. Naturally they must have been abandoned, but at some moments I find myself again within the rubbish as before. Their horrible stink contaminates my soul and consequently deteriorates my psyche, so that I feel wretched more and more. There’s no capacity in me to deal with the wretchedness. Continually staggering, I’m getting bogged down in an abyss of despair. Miserable I am! What am I supposed to do?

The sun rises again but not the same one as yesterday. I completely lost yesterday’s light and today’s rising sun has wider shadow overwhelming my brightness. I feel I’m getting darkened and becoming blind day after day. There's no start and no end. Even if any, it cannot be perceived. Everything goes into nothingness, even though I hope to stick to something or somethingness.

Brit…

July's Diary

She told him, “Never miss me and totally forget about me when you’re there, and I’ll do.” On her saying of forgetting about him, he added, “but not completely,” so she went on, “you can wake me up when you’re back.” He smiled instead of answering.

Of course, it’s just absolute bluff. She thought she would miss him, his gazing and his touching, his smiling green eyes and his arms around her. Her inside wants the opposites, his deadly longing for her, his missing her smile, her smell, her feel and touch, and her voice with hesitant words. Maybe he would do or not. He might notice her paradoxical irony because he is not a boy but a man. The time they’re totally out of touch would help to reduce their flames.

The fact that he is no more near makes her easy and simultaneously empty. He may be in the air.

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Even though she clearly knows his absence, she doesn’t pass his door without halting. There glitter two green lights noting that he is not in. She realises that it’s hard to stand his absence. Already she misses him. Who on earth is he? He is the man, who says she’s hot and sexy (even at her age), whose eyes are glowing on her presence, whose hands want to feel whole her body, and who eagerly desires to come inside her. She tried to get away all thoughts about him but she couldn’t. Before he is back, she has to be composed somehow. She must get out of him as soon as possible, but her body constantly wants his touch.

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She’s been busy all day long. His absence reminds her of being alone now and then, but manageable. She has been harassed with tasks both official and personal. Deadlines are on the way. She knows that he wouldn’t think of her at all, so she has to do the same, really, totally forget about him for the time being. She must stop writing the diary to do so, though. Writing and thinking of him is the same thing for her now. She’ll have to find an alternative object, and if she would write about him on, she‘ll never take him away. He, who is not around, is nothing to her.

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Absurd! For so many years--almost for ten years, she has lived without it. It’s an old story, in fact older than the last ten years, hardly necessary to feel something new in her. Endured well, then why can’t she do suddenly? It’s driving her up the wall. He woke up her sleeping instinct, kindled a long-dried charcoal, and made her inflamed.

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She thinks she would not release him. He is a special and unique person to her, in that she can talk with him openly or straightforwardly about instinctive matters, even the basic instinct without reserve. She thinks that she [can] reveal the bold fact inside her in all its nakedness to him. Probably she would be so to him as well, at least, they are such persons for each other. The most important thing is that they do all this naturally. By not-bound with each other, they can enjoy freedom.

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What does make her stick to him? ‘Stick’ is a proper word? Probably it isn’t. Maybe she wants to be immersed in him with some reasons, though the reasons she wouldn’t like to specify. She seems to want not to be perceived them, even by her own self. It seems for her the ninth year of every decade has its fatal points. The ninth for her in Korean way has been the lasts of decades. In 2000, she confronted with deadly inner conflict. It was a kind of turning point as well as a kind of fallen moments in life (I cannot explain what meaning is in the word “fallen”). Anyway it was so. Her last decade indeed felts momentary and there was her General in the moment. Is now another chance to turn or to be fallen? She doesn’t want to make same mistakes, but her situation resembles the past. She is waiting for. . .

July, 2010
Brit…

Upset

I’m totally upset. No mood for work though being chased by time. All things with which I’ve confronted this year betrayed my expectation―appraisal & achievement in work, potentiality for job, invested money, and people. Even the depression of last summer repeated with the same cause. I’m just blown up, being crushed flat. I feel like falling and eagerly need a consolation, but I don’t want to talk about them. I realised that I have no friend in need and therefore I’ve lived wrong. Nobody was beside me when I acutely needed one. Friends in the distance are no friends at all.

I need no one, I just need crying.

Brit…

Checkmate!

1. He doesn't call her name (heartily and dearly).
2. He doesn't want to kiss her lips (the French kiss).
3. He doesn't give her his private number.

Checkmate!
I can definitely advise her that he doesn't love/care for her.
And, to her sorry, that even he is not interested in her.

Brit...

The shadow of his back

** Yesterday’s note **

Heavy raining went on throughout the afternoon. Still I’ve been deadly blue. I know I must forget about it. Forget about It! Watching raining through the window, I hoped the shower swept my gloom away, and I felt odd catharsis, rather I tried to do so. I needed some consolation, whatever kind it was. But it’s sad that nothing can work for it except. . .

In the evening, I happened to catch sight of his back over the window. He seemed to go out for supper or home, who comparatively tall, stood in a halting way. The sight gave me a twist in my heart. I cannot exactly describe my mind of the moment. It was as if struck by something. I almost made a noisy for him.

His reserve always makes me embarrassed and I don’t feel comfortable about too much moderation that he shows. That time, however, my heart was filled with indescribable emotion. I thought I found some weakness in him, which was so fragile that he might not want to reveal to others. I saw the shadow of his back, impenetrable solitude.

Brit…

(On 26 June, 2010)

Distraction

Joseph Kaiser’s Lensky Aria “Kuda kuda…” makes me move to tears. Sometimes it does, and this time, Kaiser’s voice stabs my heart like a sharpened blade. Why? Maybe I know or maybe not. I recalled some of my friends, though I don’t like to put out their names. I’m in the mood of nothing. Absolutely for nothing!

Dimitri. . . I thought I knew him so well, but now I don’t have any confidence in it. Perhaps I don’t have known him at all. I regarded him as the person who would receive my note left behind after my death. I used to write to him whenever the death came up my mind, though I’ve never sent it. He deserved to it because he was the most intelligent and warmest one of my friends. He tolerated everything from me, he really did. I cannot imagine another. The very act of writing supported me to overcome deadly thoughts, so I could survive. From some time ago, I could have lived for myself and became not to write the dead note anymore. Dimitri has remained as ever been beside me, though. But no more he does.

I’m all of confusion. Kaiser’s Lensky makes me cry. It seems not Lensky but me who would die soon.

Brit…

Graeme's Urban Imagination

Professor Graeme Gilloch’s seminar-series came to the end today. Six weeks’ journey seemed to be long at first, but now I feet it as a moment. Graeme has been an ardent and sincere lecturer throughout the seminars, though we (Korean attendees) did not actively participate in discussion. It might be hard for him to lead those silent participators. Nevertheless, he seemed to enjoy his work and I was impressed with it. Actually, I enjoyed his seminars, too. It was a great experience that I could come together with him.

Today, we talked about Michel Augé’s text on Casablanca. The English translation of Augé’s is considerably good and the text is rhythmical and poetic, in which Augé is almost revitalised. It seems to me that Graeme, who is a Bejamin specialist, indeed likes Augé. Casablanca made me recall several things. I saw the movie long time ago, and I have its DVD in my selves. The movie is not one of my most favourites, but doubtlessly a good movie. Humphrey Bogart makes an American man contemplative and intriguing. The solitude which he exposes has some uniqueness. It is deadly attractive, though I don’t like the American as a whole. Casablanca, the Moroccan city, is living and will live forever mythologically in the movie.

After the seminar, we (Graeme and attendees) went to a café (Angel-in-Us) and Graeme gave us drinks and cakes. We’ve freely talked with one another without reserve for about two hours. I could see Graeme’s passion on his work once again and I liked it. In some parts, we have some common interest and zeal. I am happy to make friends with such an enthusiast. He’ll go back to Lancaster next week. As we departed, he said to me, “Carry on emailing me, Brit.” Of course, I’ll do because I want to keep contact with him. He is a good friend as well as an earnest replier.

Brit…

Nostalgia

London, my old beloved and my dream!

Yesterday, as I listened to Graeme (I’m happy I can call him with his first name), I was mapping my constellation. Graeme’s is different from mine, though it is also in London. Mine is around western and southern districts, while his eastern and northern. I remember the summer of 2008 in London. It was the happiest moment in my life when I was there. I could have been to Paris or any other city of Europe, but ignored others. They would be my second option. Only London (including short visit to Margate and Oxford) was my longing option, then.

Two weeks were too short for all over London. I recall Hounslow, Hammersmith, Clapham Common, Bermonsey, and so on. I miss H91 bus and its announcing voice of guidance, which the bus oscillating between Hounslow West and Hammersmith. I also miss Osterley underground station in the twilight. London makes me feel home with just two weeks, yet in fact, I’ve felt home in England since my childhood, and I’ve dearly loved London and several English provinces, so I think I might be a Londoner/Englander before life. Perhaps I was brainwashed by English writers from early childhood. What an education!

It doesn’t mean that I don’t like French, German or Russian writers. I was equally fascinated with the Russian and German writing, yet the Latin was not that much. I’ve read Flaubert’s, Balzac’s, Dumas’s and others’, but I’ve never been in love with them. I don’t know why, maybe it depends on my taste or disposition [or because of some indescribable feeling]. Sagan’s modern works were popular in a time in Korea and they were interesting, but I hardly sympathised with the French feeling. It’d have been due to that I was too young then or the translations didn’t revitalise them. Anyway, my experience of them was of decades ago, and now I wonder how they would appeal to me if I re-read them as an adult.

Now I’m looking at the map of Paris’s Metro & Bus which Graeme gave me (Kindly of him!). The net of close texture of the map provokes something roving inside me. Suddenly I want to see Paris, all of it, the Seine, the Louvre, the Versailles, the Eiffel Tower, Arc de Triomph, Montmartre, etc. I imagine Ravic and Joan drinking Calvados in a pub. Dimitri said to me that Calvados was not a delicious drink, not of quality, but Remarque made the name aurally romantic. For me, Paris is not more intriguing than London, so I don’t regret that I didn’t spare time for her in 2008. I hope I can take a roam over the Europe someday, however. Before that, I’d like to journey whole Britain including Wales and Scotland.

Brit…

Been to Jerry's

I’d returned from my brother’s house in Gimpo yesterday. ‘Up and back’ of two days took 13 hours by car. Sunny, my sister, drove the car and my father was sitting in the back seat. I was totally exhausted, and Sunny and Dad might be more tired than I. The driver and the back-seated! I slept till late in the morning today. The sad thing is that years cannot lie and nothing cheats years. I’m not young anymore, though I always assert that years are just less than numbers. Nevertheless, it cannot take dreams away from me. I’ll dream like I’ve done till now. God bless me!

My brother-Jerry’s pastoral house was fabulous. It was two storeys white building with five rooms, two bathrooms, one large living room, one dining, and beautiful green garden. The house was considerable big for his family and he looked so comfortable and happy there with Gyeong-A (my sister-in-law) and Hae-An (my niece). I’m not a good elder sister but I constantly love them. Thank God we’re family! Their decision of choosing a pastoral house was preferable to maintaining their apartment in a city. The apartment in the city was more expensive but smaller and stuffy. By selling it, they got spaciousness and surplus values. I’m proud that Jerry and Gyeong-A are definitely good teachers with their excellent sense of values. It would be no problem if all teachers in Korea are like them!

At first, I was about to visit Seoul as well, dropping by Insa-dong and National Central Museum or Seoul Arts Centre. Insa-dong is my regular visiting place in Seoul. I didn’t go anywhere, however, since Sunny wanted to get back early for home and father and I were not well. We started for Busan early in the morning yesterday after staying only one night at Jerry’s. It was gloomy in the morning and gradually rainy as we’re southward bound. In Busan it rained heavily from the morning, they said.

The rain kept till today like there’s a big hole in the sky, but I loved it. The drum-beat sound of the raindrops gives me a certain feeling of release and the rhythm of the falling rain feels me excitement. Rain is moody at some time or absolutely reverse now and then, and this time I particularly feel free and happy with it. I cannot tell why, though. Now it stops and the night air smells so fresh.

Brit…

Asthma

These days I have struggled against my old complaint asthma, which finally returned after long-sustained cough. I could hardly breathe and my voice has been horse for about a month (It seemed not mine!). I could barely utter a voice due to hacking dry cough. Bad condition lasted on me several weeks, but a few days ago, suddenly became better. It was helped by the wet days as well as my doctor’s prescription (I really like my doctor, Dr. Kim), I think. Lovable English weather has put down yellow sand in the air.

Though I cannot sing because my singing voice is not stable yet, my talking is not so irritated. Finally, I can speak freely after the lapse of a month. I’m happy for that. Asthma, known to only those who know!

Brit…

Prof. Gilloch’s seminar

Yesterday, attended a seminar hosted by Professor Graeme Gilloch from Lancaster University. His seminars will be held six times every Tuesday from yesterday (except 25 May). The subject of the seminars can be defined in a word, “Urban”. The first one is titled “The Return of the Flaneur” (v., the second is “Seductive Strangers”; the third, Urban Rhythms; the fourth, Orpheus in Paris Ⅰ: Maps and Memories; the fifth, Orpheus in Paris Ⅱ: Images and Others; the sixth, ‘You must remember this . . .’).

The text of yesterday was Michel de Certeau’s one chapter, ‘Walking in the City’, from his work, The Practice of Everyday Life. I’ve ever read Certeau’s The Writing of History, and it was an excellent work. I could know Certeau was deft in writing (his thinking as well) though the text I read was a translation, so he became one of my favourite French thinkers including Michel Foucault. Both of them are based on History.

Professor Gilloch’s British accent was familiar to me, and I felt comfortable on listening to him. Besides, he purposely spoke slowly and clearly for auditors, all of whom were Koreans, so I understood every word of him. In fact, my taste in English has inclined toward British not American since childhood, and I often listen to BBC radio through the internet, not watching CNN, yet cannot wholly understand what the radio says, but just listen.

Professor Gilloch showed us Michel de Certeau’s photo with several theorists’. About Foucault, Benjamin and others, I’ve ever seen their photos, but never Certeau’s, which it was the first time I saw Certeau’s appearance. He is good-looking as Foucault. Foucault’s handsomeness as well as his remarkable works has captured my mind since I first read Foucault. Certeau is definitely different from Foucault in and out, but has attractiveness of his own. Certeau’s side face from the photo reminded me of Jeremy Irons, a little bit.

Yesterday’s subject “Walking in the city” made me imagine listening to one of my favourite song “Walking in the air”, which singing I prefer Aled Jones’s voice to anyone. I was further led to imagine various things such as Dickensian London, Mrs. Gaskell’s Victorian Manchester, Joyce’s Dublin, and so on. And I recalled Conrad’s “damp” and “fluorescent’ night of London in his The Secret Agent. My imagination doesn’t mean that I diverted myself listening to Prof. Gilloch, and I just recalled urban images represented in novels. Therefore, ‘two hours’ was not long to me.

Brit…

Art of refusal: Michael's advice

How can I decline someone (sometimes, something) with good intentions without hurting his/her pride and feeling when I'm not in the mood to accept? Sometimes I become irresolute when a decision is need. I know being refused is a heart-breaking thing, and it naturally hurts one’s feeling. Everyone resumes in their own ways of reacting to rejection, and the effect of being refused varies on each of them. Of course, it depends on situations and personalities, someone easily forget, and someone doesn’t.

I’m not a kind of person who easily requests anything at all, in fact, I rarely request (sometimes, offer) something to others, whatever it is, even if s/he is my friend. It’s because I’m prone to be easily hurt. If I feel requesting easy, I would not mind its consequences, but I cannot. Since I hate/fear to be hurt my pride or feeling, I’m reluctant to present my hands to others before they do. Therefore, I don’t want others’ heart to be hurt as well.

Michael gave advice for me. He said, “If they have enough pride to ask, they should have enough pride to handle whichever answer they're given. You don't have to feel responsible for their feelings. If you were responsible for their feelings, you would have stopped them before they asked in the first place.” He added, “People just don't confront each other and don't like to say ‘no’ when they really want to. I understand why it's difficult, but I would never want to agree to something I oppose. It's important to be true to yourself first and foremost.”

He’s right and the most important thing is that I must be true to myself. I am as I am and I should do as I do.

Brit…

A friend

I think I was frivolous with being stirred up by indescribable feeling. Flippant in old sense and flighty, I disdain, yet I was. I can’t tell why. Often forgetting myself, I miss the very moment to walk the line. I cannot define that I didn’t behaviour properly, but “too much is as bad as too little” (過猶不及). The matter is that I feel I talked too much, just trivial things of mine. People usually don’t want to hear about insignificant others. My own story is nothing to them.

I just got a web-friend yesterday. He is not only my generation but also on a par with me as far as I concern. At least, more than one point of view let us come to a mutual understanding, I think. I know people are naturally different after all, even though they share opinion and interest, and I don’t expect sameness. No one totally matches, and sometimes even I myself discord with me. So many selves in me!

To talk of the new friend, I barely know about him, yet I don’t think his capacity would be as much as Dimitri’s. Dimitri lives on absolutely another horizon, the only one who can chat with me about music, cinema, fine arts, literature, etc, though his literature is mostly Korean, while mine is Western. Our understanding communicates, perspectives levels, and romanticism matches. Thank God I’m always his Violetta! I’ve never met a man like him, but never thought him as a man. He has been good to me all the time, above all, his tolerance and embracement for me compare with none, but just a [male] friend not a boy friend to me. I cannot decide his feeling for me, whereas mine is definite. I miss him, but I won’t. . .

A web-friend is just a web-friend, no more, no less. Nevertheless, he reminds me of Dimitri because we are all of same age and he seems to be a communicable person after a long vacuum. Maybe so, I couldn’t exercise moderation. Hope I wasn’t light.

Brit…

Still not well

After unusual illness in April, I felt better for a moment. Last week I went to school on Wednesday and Thursday. Damn intervallic dry cough remained however, and it didn’t go down. Sometimes a hacking cough held my breath and words. Then the cough has become more and more frequent since weekend and became so severe that I even vomited during coughing, so I couldn‘t go to school again.

My professor/supervisor phoned me this morning, saying he called up at his office. Nowadays I usually study at his office and he calls me up at his office whenever he has something to tell me. After appointed to the Dean of the College of Humanities, he moved to Dean’s office, so his personal/professorial office is vacant for two years. Then he let me, whom his assistant, use his personal office as my own. His office is full of books that I have to (and want to) read for my doctorial thesis. I know I’m endowed with some privilege, because he is not a man who easily shares privacy with others. I am the first person/assistant whom he gave the security key of his office and I deeply appreciate his thoughtful consideration to help me on studying.

Now I can hardly talk since a hacking cough beats me every time I utter a voice. My voice sank down and I feel my throat swollen. I begin to worry about losing my voice. I think I must see the doctor again.

Brit…

Sang a Song

I’ve been deadly ill with flu for three days and nights. Fever, sick and all my body ached. Much worried about that I could not sing at Professor Chung’s retirement reception, which he eagerly wanted me to. I almost recovered by Saturday afternoon, but cough remained and became husky. Anyhow I could sing for him, though it did not meet my satisfaction. In good condition, I could show much more, give more impression to the audience.

I sang “You light up my life”, Debby Boone’s old song without accompaniment. In fact, “You light up my life” is a song that I shared for my professor Bae. I wanted to sing the song for him, because he has really backed me up. His retirement leaves ten years more, however, at then I’ll count on my sixties. Perhaps I’ll have no chance to sing for him. Ridiculous it’ll be if a woman of almost sixties would sing such a song for a man?!

Yesterday I thought it was my last chance for such singing, so sang the song. I think it’s a reasonable song at teachers’ retirement reception, since teachers guide students like a lighthouse and professors are teachers. Professor Chung is also my guide though not my thesis supervisor. I appreciate him for his concern and affection. I know he cares for me. Thank God I’m beloved.

Brit…

PS.)

A song of reserved for the reception! What a super woman I was! It was a very short interval of amazing revitalisation, nobody knew I was ill, but soonest I fell down on bed after that. Going on lying in sickbed with Ringer’s solution till today, I’m almost recovering now and tomorrow may go to school again. (Added on 27 April)

Exhausted Day

I took nosebleed for snivelling.

Everything which irritates me depends on my management. It’s all up to me, and no one can replace me. Frequently I feel some emotional oscillation between uplift and downcast. When suffering from swinging unstableness of mind, I wonder if I’m a manic-depressive psychosis.

Life often seems to go beyond my will and expectation. It is so arbitrary that it may look sporting over me. The life-devil, the dark and negative face of life, uses depression as one of its playing tools, which the tools are its arms to fight against me. Depression produces all the unexpected or haphazard illness. I know all that, nevertheless, can’t help it now and then. I cannot be knelt down to it, however. Even though it is deadly hard to overcome it, I can’t lose. Avec ma solitude, I’ll stand tall.

Wilful it is, yet I must be happy. When feeling like crying, I’ll cry loudly under my pillow, and then regain smile.

Brit…