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…