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…