Fool's Errand

TFA

2009-10-26T05:49:00.005-06:00

A word on confidentiality: being a writer and keeping good confidences are goals that are not entirely incompatible, but which are very difficult to reconcile. Take, for example, my final days in Germany, which happen to coincide with the beginning signs of neglect of this blog. I was working at a start-up restaurant in Munich, and watching it gradually fail. There was no shortage of stories during that period, but I didn't write them. On a different front, I now work for an English hagwon, and while it is far from failing, there is no shortage of stories to tell...but I don't. I don't because it's important not to betray confidences, but, as a writer, good story-telling involves not shrinking away from the truth, and this may have some little to do with why I don't just churn out work the way I used to. I have to think, sometimes deeply, about what I'm going to say, and I often find that central parts of the story must be left out for reasons of confidentiality. Similar thing this last weekend: I actually flew back to the US for a total of two days to interview for Teach For America, and while the trip and the interview process were fascinating, there's a lot I need to keep out of the story. Suffice to say, as with the CELTA earlier this year, regardless of the outcome, the process was enlightening. I feel I did my best, and made a lot of decisions that should make me an attractive candidate, but I've read too many blogs in which people talked about the process, felt certain they did well, then later updated the blog to report that they'd not been selected. Fact is, I've been thinking a lot about my responses during the interview, and I can think of fifteen reasons why I think I did well, and another fifteen reasons why they'll eventually say no. Most of those reasons, on both sides, probably have to do with styles of leadership. At the end of the process, I simply do not know enough about TFA's preferred style of leadership to even begin to guess as to how they'll ultimately decide. I'll know on November 10th, though, and that's not terribly long to wait.

As to the trip: if the travel arrangements themselves were used as a measure of how well I did in the interview, I should come out great--things couldn't have gone more to plan than they did: all flights on time, all luggage accounted for, all connections made, everything. Plus some extras: on the way to LA, was seated beside an elderly couple who struck up conversation largely because they needed a hand now and again, and I was courteous in giving them one. Turns out, the man is 84 years old, holds a PhD in mechanical engineering, and was born in Shanghai. Think about that. He was born in Shanghai in 1925. Actually moved to Taiwan shortly after WWII, then America seven years later. Landed in Stillwater, OK for college, and then moved to Chicago (this is in '57). At one point, after we'd discovered we'd both spent some time in Oklahoma, the man says, "I'm sorry if this offends you, but a lot of people in Oklahoma weren't very friendly to outsiders back then. Sometimes when I greeted them they'd pretend they hadn't heard anything. The fellow who lived in the dormitory next to mine was like that...when I said "hi" he'd just walk on by. Then there was this one night when I heard a knock on my dormitory door. So I answer it, and he's standing there with a book in his hand, and he says "Excuse me, you wouldn't happen to know anything about calculus, would you?" So I looked at the problem, and of course, it was very simple for me, so I showed him the answer, and after that, he was so nice..."

Beijing--as much as I would have liked to explore--I only got to see the inside of the airport, but already got the sense that China'd be a hard place to adjust to. Often guidebooks will tell you how conservative South Korea is, but I think if a Chinese woman is standing side-to-side with a South Korean woman, the difference is very clear, very quickly. South Korea seems a bastion of liberal thought in comparison. Mind you, I only saw airport workers and a few airplane passengers, but...well, for example, there was an H1N1 PSA on heavy rotation in the Beijing airport that I felt caught a lot of the spirit of the place (I especially appreciated the line "Social morality!"), and might fairly be offered up, in comparison, to a parody of a recently popular South Korean song, also addressing H1N1, as one touchstone of the differences between the two societies. I'm certainly not anti-collectivist, and often think we could benefit, as a species, from a little less adherence to individualist dogma, but I can also see how even someone with an open mind about the matter might find it hard to make the adjustment from one to the other.

In LA...well, first you should probably know that I have a mortal terror of LA. I think it's because when I first get to know a place, I prefer to learn about it by walking around in it, and LA makes that very hard to do. I really wasn't there to check out the sites. For the most part, I did the interview and did some shopping for the girls. Other than that, it was TV, eating, and trying to regulate my sleep schedule so I wasn't too whipped when I got back to Gangneung (well done...it's about 40 minutes from my usual bedtime now, and I'm fading...). Spent more time at the airport than most probably would have, just because I really didn't want to go see the Getty museum or Universal Studios or really anything. While waiting to check in, I ended up nursing a beer at one of the airport bars and watching college football (USC v. Oregon State, I think...) with one eye, and watching a very flirty woman fall in love with the young bartender with the other. The woman was older, maybe late thirties to mid forties, and the bartender mid to late 20's. The bartender was making friendly chat, but the woman...well, it was clear that the woman would have been very happy to have taken the bartender home. As often happens, it became clearer as time went on. The bartender's co-workers were, of course, mildly ribbing him about the situation, but at some point, the whole process came to a head--for whatever legitimate or trumped up reason, the bartender ended up excusing himself from bar duties and going into the kitchen, and the woman, becoming aware of his absence, suddenly stood up from the bar with this terrible lost look on her face. The staff, at her insistence, guided her to where the bartender was, and she issued apologies and kisses and whatnot before taking off. The look on her face was absolutely heartwrenching, and seeing that moment of realization actually triggered in me a real need to record the incident--to write--which I resisted as best I could (you'll note this description has not veered toward the violet end of the spectrum, nor has it toyed with the idea of looking at the situation from either the barkeep or the woman's p.o.v...), and was made the more so for the fact that the woman could not have been gone from the scene for more than thirty seconds, tops, before all the guys central to the drama: the barkeep, the customers at the bar, the two waiters, and the manager, were having some pretty pointed laughs about the whole situation. Not that there wasn't humor in the situation--there certainly was--but I couldn't help thinking that the woman was probably still close enough to hear that laughter, and maybe close enough to see them laughing, and that she was already in bad emotional shape prior to this moment.

Other notes as well. Being away for the weekend, got to slip into that anonymous skin and just watch for a while...once I was done with the interview. Which, to get back to the point I made about confidentiality at the beginning of this post, I cannot talk about. I can, however, say that I did my level best on the work they presented me with, and that this passage Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass, an American Slave, will likely be a factor in the decision that's ultimately made.

Very soon after I went to live with Mr. and Mrs. Auld, she very kindly commenced to teach me the A, B, C. After I had learned this, she assisted me in learning to spell words of three or four letters. Just at this point of my progress, Mr. Auld found out what was going on, and at once forbade Mrs. Auld to instruct me further, telling her, among other things, that it was unlawful, as well as unsafe, to teach a slave to read. To use his own words, further, he said, "If you give a nigger an inch, he will take an ell. A nigger should know nothing but to obey his master--to do as he is told to do. Learning would spoil the best nigger in the world. Now," said he, "if you teach that nigger (speaking of myself) how to read, there would be no keeping him. It would forever unfit him to be a slave. He would at once become unmanageable, and of no value to his master. As to himself, it could do him no good, but a great deal of harm. It would make him discontented and unhappy." These words sank deep into my heart, stirred up sentiments within that lay slumbering, and called into existence an entirely new train of thought. It was a new and special revelation, explaining dark and mysterious things, with which my youthful understanding had struggled, but struggled in vain. I now understood what had been to me a most perplexing difficulty--to wit, the white man's power to enslave the black man. It was a grand achievement, and I prized it highly. From that moment, I understood the pathway from slavery to freedom. It was just what I wanted, and I got it at a time when I the least expected it. Whilst I was saddened by the thought of losing the aid of my kind mistress, I was gladdened by the invaluable instruction which, by the merest accident, I had gained from my master. Though conscious of the difficulty of learning without a teacher, I set out with high hope, and a fixed purpose, at whatever cost of trouble, to learn how to read. The very decided manner with which he spoke, and strove to impress his wife with the evil consequences of giving me instruction, served to convince me that he was deeply sensible of the truths he was uttering. It gave me the best assurance that I might rely with the utmost confidence on the results which, he said, would flow from teaching me to read. What he most dreaded, that I most desired. What he most loved, that I most hated. That which to him was a great evil, to be carefully shunned, was to me a great good, to be diligently sought; and the argument which he so warmly urged, against my learning to read, only served to inspire me with a desire and determination to learn. In learning to read, I owe almost as much to the bitter opposition of my master, as to the kindly aid of my mistress. I acknowledge the benefit of both.

How so? Can't say. But regardless of the outcome, I'm grateful for the application process' having reminded me of this passage, which, I found quite recently, I've held quite close for many years now. Wish me luck...and until next time--tchitch

더 발칙한 한국학

2009-10-20T07:19:00.004-06:00

It's been a hella long time since I wrote on this thing, and while some of that has to do with time, it's also had to do with motivation and with really, really needing a sense of something worth saying. These days, there are a few things afoot that may be worth saying...I'll know a lot more in a couple of weeks, and right now, I'm still pretty swamped in meatspace (I'm actually going to be on a flight to LA in about 36 hours...will explain more about that when I'm not pressed to be doing about 15 other things first), but suffice to say, with a little luck, and a lot of effort, there may be a major shift in life direction in the near future. Or decidedly not. We'll see. Suffice to say, after about 4 years of planning, I'm soon going to see if recent efforts are ready to bear fruit, or still need a year or two's worth of nurturing to get there.

Right now, it's still life in Korea--in my third year in the same hagwon, have good relations with my director and because of this, haven't moved on to more lucrative or prestigious jobs as yet, though I've been trying to get things together so that I can keep developing my own teaching skills with an eye toward positions that may be more satisfying than my current one. I enjoy my work, especially the kids I teach, but I also very much feel that I could be doing more, and I've been rapidly coming to the conclusion that I very much enjoy teaching. Also been working with this friend and that friend making something approaching music, and trying my best not to regret the fact that I didn't pick up a drum in earnest much earlier in my life. And Korean studies, and regular classes in Hapkido (not at black belt yet...but with luck, before I leave Korea...), so I keep busy.

One point of business that I did not mention was a Korean publication--mention of it did show up in a blog comment, but I never really mentioned it. If you remember, during my first year in South Korea, I was fortunate enough to not only encounter a particularly fun, particularly irreverent book on Korean culture (as seen very much with a oegugin eye) by one J. Scott Burgeson entitled "Korea Bug", but also to enjoy a long e-mail exchange with the editor that culminated in an interview over at Triplopia. We ended up meeting later at the Buddha's Birthday celebration--a fine night in which I was treated to Scott in all his grumpy glory: he was then living in a flat and had rooftop access to a view of the Buddhist temple where all the floats were going, and while everyone else was busy celebrating Buddhism in general, Scott was facing down a temple that had been constructing near his apartment, the staff of which he'd had enough confrontations with over the noise that he was essentially persona non grata on the temple grounds. He invited me and one of my friends--who was interested in getting some photos from above the blanket of colored lanterns hanging from the trees above--to come up to the rooftop, but my young friends were so busy playing on the temple grounds that they seemed pretty much oblivious to Scott's discomfort while I nervously hovered between those friends I had daily dealings with and Scott, and the temple staff loomed ever closer. The whole night was one of those marvelous instances of complete social awkwardness that seem always to signal that something really special is going on...and so it was. Scott eventually waited too long, was quietly but pointedly followed off the grounds, I ended up going with him, signaling to my young friend with the camera that he really needed to follow us, Scott consulted with his landlord about having a couple of guests up to the rooftop (a suggestion to which the landlord was clearly opposed) and then Scott snuck us in anyway. The view was a fine one, but, to top the whole thing off, my friend's photos came out poorly, and he ended up dumping them. Aside from a very odd evening's memories, I also came away from the meeting with a set of copies of the original Bug zines to fill out my incomplete collection. Then I served my year and was out, and Scott's books were decidedly among my trophies.

When, as circumstances dictated, I came back 9 months later, Scott approached me about contributing to a new project, a book with the working title of "Incredibly Strange Foreigners." I wasn't in a writing mood, to be honest, but it did feel like something I wanted to contribute to, so, after passing deadline after deadline, and finally being given a final date, I snuck a story in to Scott, and yes, was published in a slim volume with a stark black cover and the title (in white) of "Outlanders: Tales of Korea." I'm not sure where it can be purchased. In fact, I'm not sure if Outlanders was ever actually for sale--although I did get 10 copies for contributing.

Anyway, to cut a long wind-up short, I got a personal e-mail from Scott recently describing his most recent project, along with a link to a video that's actually pretty hilarious if you've ever spent any time seeing Korea from a "foreign" perspective. It's a land of fascinating, often outrageously humorous paradoxes, and the inward realities that are masked by the outward forms of Korean society are fascinating both for the fact that they are hidden and for the relief into which those outward forms thrusts them. You can get depressed about it, you can try to analyze it, or, you can just acknowledge your outsider status and poke gentle fun at it all in the hopes that it will serve as one small chink in the armor of tradition for tradition's sake. For your sanity, that last banner is the best to fly under, and that's where Scott's books land. His most recent book, 더 발칙한 한국학 (yes, in Korean) appears to be making precisely the kind of change described above: a tiny linguistic shift that may, given time, actually serve to break down some of the near impenetrable barriers between Korea's expat community and Koreans themselves.

Scott closes his previous book, "Korea Bug," with a (to my mind) fascinating piece entitled "Outside Country People," in which he uses material from an internet exchange on life in Korea from the point of view of foreigners. The piece is in turns (depending on who is speaking) starkly cynical and heartbreaking in its hopefulness. Scott explains his choice of title as follows:

In English, a oeguk saram (or oegugin) could be described as a "foreigner" "expatriate" or "alien." But none of these translations really fits. The term alien is both narrowly legalistic and suggestive of extraterrestrial difference; "expatriate," reverses and thus glosses over the oppositional nuance of oeguk saram, since the "ex-" prefix defines the individual as simply outside of their own home country, rather than the host nation; as for "foreigner," it is the most commonly used, but also the vaguest, since it fails to convey the essential Koreanness of oeguk saram (for native Korean speakers, "oeguk" implicitly and invariably means "not Korea," which is why, for example, it is technically correct when Koreans abroad refer to locals as oeguk sarams, since they are, indeed, "outside Korea people"). And so I prefer the literal translation "outside country people," because it best preserves the flavor and spirit of the original term, and because it is not a bad example of localized English or Konglish--cute, clunky, familiar and weird all at the same time.

...and "outside country people" is pretty much what I've heard when I hear "oegugin" ever since. But the term "oegugin" is somewhat of a sticky point for English teachers in Korea--many of the countries from which those "oegugin" come have adopted a brand of English that would look very poorly indeed upon any institution that referred to a native teacher of Korean as, not a "Korean teacher," but as a "foreign teacher." Suffice to say, on the ground in South Korea, there are zero qualms about so designating teachers from another country.

This is the chink that Scott aims his weaponry at, and it appears to be gaining a little--just a little--traction. His most recent book has shot up to the 11th spot in Kyobo's Politics and Society section. The book, comprised of Scott's work and of others, includes Scott's note about the preference, amongst those who are not tourists, at least, for the term "expat." And in its quiet way, it's working, as a number of reviews--published in Korean, aimed at a Korean reading public--often make note of this point. It all makes me wish my Korean skills were considerably better than they are, so I could have a good crack at the book. They're getting there, but they've a ways to go. It does suggest itself as a potential suggestion to adult students of English, as it might provide them with an interesting look at their own culture from the eyes of foreigners that are sympathetic, but not uncritical.

Anyway, always happy to hear of the continued success of Triplopia contributors, and, as I'm still on the ground, especially happy to hear of Scott's most recent successes. In language, it's always the small victories that are the most important and the most lasting, even if they're rarely won in a single lifetime.

All right...wrote way later than I meant to, but the good news is, for the first time in a while, it actually felt good to do so. We'll see how I'm feeling in a few weeks, but something tells me that just now, I'm getting tired of sitting in my room clutching my ball, and getting really antsy to get busy playing the game again. Now all I gotta do is find time enough to follow that impulse.

Right. Sleep. Be well, folks. --tchitch

13 Ways of Skinning a Cat

2009-04-20T20:00:00.001-06:00

Apropos of nothing:

Thirteen Ways of Skinning a Cat

(apologies to Mr. Stevens)

I
Among twenty deserted farmhouses,
The only moving thing
Was the whetstone of a redneck.

II
I was of three minds,
Like a boy
With a cat and a Swiss Army Knife.

III
The cat’s carcass twisting in the autumn wind,
Delicate sinews suspended from a meathook.

IV
A cat and a farmer
Are one.
A cat and a farmer and a machete
Are one.

V
I do not know which I prefer,
The sharp tang of heavy spices
Or the mellow coat of cream,
Cat Vindaloo
Or Cat Korma.

VI
Kittens filled the farmer’s house
With incessant mewling.
The shadow of their mother
Crossed them, to and fro.
The mood
Festooned the stale air
With the inevitable conclusion.

VII
O fat men of Georgia,
Why do you imagine obedient cats?
Do you not feel how the cat
Digs its claws into your skin
As you raise it to the butcher’s block?

VIII
I know feline contours
And troublesome sharp bones;
But I know, too,
That the cat will have its measure of skin
Before it yields.

IX
When the cat slinks into shadow,
Its fur is no softer,
But it will do for mittens.

X
At the sight of cats
Moving in great slinking herds,
Even the Texas ranch hands
Would flee in terror.

XI
He rode over Wyoming
In a checkered cab.
Once, a fear prowled through him,
In that he mistook
The local militia
For ASPCA agents.

XII
I’ve opened a can of tuna.
The cat will be by, shortly.

XIII
It was morning all night.
The cat was glowering
And it was going to glower.
It doesn’t know
About my revolver.

Vids: You suck

2009-04-12T09:37:00.002-06:00

I see Whitney's been busy on Youtube: these from last night's show, which was a blast to play and to witness.

Still no Clash/MIA mesh on vid...dang it.

Hmmm...

2009-03-28T10:13:00.002-06:00

Got a new post in the works, but right in the middle of monthly lesson plans (done) and student evaluations (not done), along with a whole slew of other activities, including a hapkido belt test today...think I did well, should know by Wednesday...and the recent news that my application for the CELTA course at the Seoul British Council was successful--I'd promise to blog the experience, but I'm not 100% sure I'll have the time. We'll see. However...

I did find the following news item of interest enough to want to share it with anyone dropping by this blog--especially other South Korean teachers: Foreign Teacher Renews Visa With No Health Check

Seems like a news item worth keeping our eye on.

Busy Friends

2009-03-15T02:17:00.003-06:00

Anyone who likes music of an experimental nature should drop by Jochen's website--he's been a busy guy with his band, Hinterlandt. I remember him for his two boys--among the first children I ever cared for, back in Australia. Neil, his oldest, is responsible for giving me some early, hands-on insight into how kids work through second languages: I cared for him for a year, and he wouldn't even consider using English (his first language was German), and then, one day, in the course of a typical post-nap craft session at the Parents' Co-op, he just sat down with me at a craft table, picked up some paper and a pair of scissors, and proceeded to carry on a conversation with me in full English sentences. He'd been absorbing the whole time. Hinterlandt also has a Youtube channel, if the website doesn't do enough for you.

Comedy: an old friend, Eric Rasmussen whose blog, I think, only exists on MySpace (and is hilarious, so go check it out), has been regularly producing a web-show entitled The Retributioners. Eric I know from high school, when we were both battling the constraints of the town we found ourselves forced to inhabit by virtue of our status as minors. Eric now lives in New York, and I live anywhere that isn't our hometown. Go figure. I especially recommend Oklahoma XMAS Smackdown, which I think a little too accurate in its depiction of those Norman Rockwell holiday dinners we all enjoy in the heartland.

More music: Hugh, co-conspirator from Munich days and subject of at least one post on this blog, is, in addition to celebrating his son's half birthday, working the cello with a group calledThe Balkanics. Some music to be had on myspace, and you can look them up on Facebook, as well. They also have a few videos on Youtube.

And I'm poking through old files on the computer. Can you tell? Best.

Warning: Navel Gazing Initial Post

2009-03-09T09:33:00.003-06:00

Initial post? I know I've not been one for celebrating birthdays/post numbers that end in a run of zeros on this blog, but initial post? I suppose I never went for the birthday because my first "blog" was a journal kept at DeviantArt (yes, I'm sure I could still log in to that account...) and this one was basically started up because I found the DeviantArt setup to be less than optimal. That was how long ago? How many goddamn accounts does one man need in one lifetime, anyway? However, the fact is, there's been a lot afoot, even if much of it has been time rather dragging on in that particular way time can when one is struggling with self-pity/self-deception/self-loathing of a far reaching kind. But here's the trick: why would I subject someone else to that crap? The blog format first appealed to me as a potential literary medium, and I understood it to be a public document (no matter how little the audience), and chose my words accordingly. Instead, I've chosen some (I hope) well spent silence. After all, if you're down on yourself, you're not likely to be much more charitable with anyone else, and you've very probably got a thing or two to learn, so maybe it's a good strategy to shut up and find out what you can.

But...while the monsters may not be entirely put to rest--and why would one want them to be?--there have simply been stirrings of the old familiar feelings that first drove me toward writing in the first place. That's due, no doubt, to the patient words--and the occasional swift kick in the ass-- administered by both old friends and new, but it's also just the hard-earned lessons that come with a severe self-appraisal. I mean digging shit up by the roots appraisal. I mean looking at it all and wondering what the hell I was ever thinking. I'm not at all convinced I know even now, but if past experience is any guide, sometimes, the only answer you can give to an unanswerable question is to adapt a strategy of deferral. And in the meantime, I feel like the old writing muscles...whatever they were worth to begin with...have atrophied somewhat. Perhaps the monsters just need their own little corner, but I suspect just writing will help them express themselves well...which is important to me.

So here's to a little naval gazing, to that process--always longer than it seems like it should need to be--of calculating the distance between the basics you started out with and the life-clutter that invariably seems to occlude them. Because when you're part of a species that is fundamentally social, sometimes it just necessary to sit down and explain why you couldn't bring yourself to say hi when you saw that old friend out at the pub. Which is maybe what I'm trying to do, without getting stupid and dark about it all.

I have this drum...it's a good drum, I like it. I got it for my birthday. Before that, I started playing around with a mouth harp, a couple of spoons, a soju bottle with a handful of garbanzo beans in it, a couple of sticks, and finally, a friend's djembe. I enjoyed all the handmade stuff, and still play around with it from time to time, but the djembe felt right. Maybe it's just lack of skill, but so far, I haven't really taken to sticks. I like to slap the top of that drum, and a good session is when I walk away from it with both my hands stinging from the blood that's been drawn right up to the surface. Anyway, my friend's drum was all right, but it was a small djembe--really had to whack that thing to get the kind of sound out of it that I was looking for--and one night, I was out at one of the local pubs, and there was this girl band in from Seoul, some old friends of a couple of the pub proprietors here in town. They had a full sized djembe, and after they'd played a few songs, and we'd all got acquainted, and a little drunk, they let me sit in on their rendition of the old Bob Marley classic "Get Up, Stand Up." It'd been a few years since I'd enjoyed that song on anything even approaching the level of my enjoyment that night...that full-sized djembe made all the difference. It seemed like all I had to do was brush that drum to get the noises I wanted out of it. Well...the next morning, I was hungover, and the band had moved on, and I still didn't have a djembe. I went out a few weeks later and bought a big old bass thing--Korean traditional--from a local music shop, but this thing is huge--hard to hold, but more to the point, hard to contain--it just straight up dominates unless everyone you're playing with is playing just as loud. Plus I wasn't thrilled with the range...and, although it was possible to play with the hands, sticks were much the better strategy. I still hope one day I can find a way to love that drum, but so far, we haven't connected the way we need to if we're going to make some serious music. Anyway, I puttered around with that one for a while, but never really got into it, and then, on my birthday--this past November, and one of those milestone birthdays that has the capacity to put one into a deep funk if they're not careful to check all that "youth is the end-all be-all" conditioning we're all subjected to in just about every even marginally popular lyric ever written in the past half century--my wife presented me with a djembe that wasn't full-sized, but was bigger than my friends. It suffices, and I can wait until I'm a little more sedentary before I pop for the full sized sucker.

I know...anyone who's reading this is probably wondering what the hell all this has to do with navel-gazing. Believe me, it's all connected, so bear with the stream of conch delivery (right now, I'm thinking it's the only way this blog ever gets regularly updated, because that blank page has been screwing me over for a good two years now...).

So, maybe it wouldn't be completely unreasonable to ask, err, well, on a blog that at one point served basically to a) supplement an online poetry zine that, while still online, is working on 3 years of silence, b) hopefully track down some relevant literary links in (what I would consider) a time of significant political distress, and c) occasionally serve as a promotion point for whatever open mic project I was involved with at the time, what's up with the drums? I mean, the connection between rhythm and poetry seems clear enough, but why all this nonsense about learning to love a drum? Pretty simple, really, though it'll take a little explaining. Basically, through the good efforts of one Dylan--a long-time denizen of Gangneung whose mug, I believe, could be found on this blog's pages if one were predisposed to searching the archives for it--a band, originally conceived as a punk band, but one that has gone, perhaps, in other, quite different directions, was formed. In fact, this is what started the whole exploration for me. I've always loved music, always had my favorites, and have been known to act like a wild man on a dance floor--some nights with more grace than others. But I could count the notes I'd played on my twenty digits, and I really didn't see what I could offer this enterprise of Dylan's. It's entirely possible that my contribution, to this day, is quite negligible. But, Dylan insisted, mostly, I think, because he thought me capable of writing lyrics. That has, to date, not panned out. And for a very simple reason. I had nothing I wanted to say. My mind, my whole outlook, was a nasty tangle of dark emotion, resentment, self-pity, perhaps--I don't know, but I think very probably toward some--hatred, all mixed up into a foul, ropy stew. I struggle with periods like this, because I genuinely feel that hatred, resentment, and self-pity are all absolutely wasteful emotions, and that time spent on them is basically time spent dying. And I suppose, for some, that would be perfectly fertile soil from which to harvest some seriously good lyrics, but it doesn't work for me. I don't feel like what I want from words has to be unrelentingly sunny, but there is that part of me that would like to believe there's at least the possibility of redemption somewhere in there. Perhaps that's delusionary, too. But if it isn't there, I really can't understand the point of writing words at all. In any case, what I started out with, last summer, was a mouth harp--loaned me by the same friend who loaned me the small djembe--and a couple of kitchen spoons. And what I loved about them was that what they said didn't insist on meaning anything. Unlike lyrics. And that was what I needed, right then, right there. So, for the band, I pretty much gravitated toward finding a basic, workable beat, and trying, to whatever level my ability would allow, to work outwards from that point. I can't claim to have learned much, but I feel that bit more confident than when I started...and you know what? The beat still does not demand to mean anything. And I love it for precisely that reason.

But maybe it's time to mean something again. Maybe I've worked far enough around those demons to be able to persuade, conspire, and narrate again. Because what I'm finding, in that drum, is the same sense for foundational things that drew me first to words...because my choice--to pursue words--was initially driven by precisely the same impulse that drew me to the drum: they're fundamental. And it doesn't matter how long I stay away from words on the creative front--I teach them, and I study them, and there's really no better way to get me to talk your ear off than to start probing underneath the surface of words. If I've learned nothing else from this silence, I've learned that I do seek out precisely these fundamentals--that they're crucial to who I understand myself to be. So, maybe, with that understanding in place, I can handle them a little better this time around.

In any case, as my good friend Chris H. once said: "Here goes nothing."

Hollow men

2008-12-26T11:37:00.002-06:00

Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw...

Okay, it's not particularly necessary to further discredit Rush Limbaugh, and I know that, but I just want to make sure I have this one saved somewhere so I can use it later.

By the way, Obama -- I didn't know this. He's left-handed. Did you know that? At least he plays golf left-handed. I think he writes left-handed. I'm not sure. All I know is that people who are left-handed, there's a reason for it. You know how left-handedness happens? Have you ever studied this, because I have. It's the result of poor potty training in the formative years. (interruption) No, it has been proven. I learned this at a pig-iron convention in Kansas City, Missouri, when I lived there, when I was working for the Kansas City Royals.

I'm being told here by someone who cares deeply that Abraham Lincoln was left-handed. That may well be, but that was in the days of outhouses and there wasn't any potty training back in those days. You can't say Lincoln's left-handedness is the result of poor potty training. There weren't any potties. I appreciate all this assistance from my buddies out there.

Seriously?

All I know is I will now be actively on the lookout for the first opportunity that presents itself to say, "No, it has been proven. I learned this at a pig-iron convention in Kansas City, Missouri, when I lived there."

Can't argue with that. No, I mean, you really can't argue with that.

All things ceased; I went out from myself

2008-12-25T04:01:00.015-06:00

So, for the past year and a half, at least, I have been, I think, navigating the dark night of the soul--at least, so far as anyone who has committed themselves to an honest, secular approach to the complex of questions that arise around the assertion of an integral self, much less soul, can be said to experience such things. Given the recent celebration of the completion of my fortieth year in this particular bag of flesh, it seems probable, in this age of clinical definition and neurochemical solutions, that I might seem less an anachronism were I to refer to the same as a midlife crisis, but what little poetic lint I have managed to accrue over those forty years just finds it more pleasant to attach those feelings to the metaphor of night. I can say this: for multiple reasons, some alluded to on this blog, and others I've yet to find adequate means to express (or, in some cases, motivation, really, to do so...), I've found more than adequate cause for reassessment. I seem to be clinging to the conviction that the capacity for reflection is one of humankind's more valuable traits, in spite of enormous pressure from just about every form of media at our disposal to think otherwise. Regrets? Perhaps that's not the right word. But there have been those few moments in the last couple of years when I might have caught a glimpse of the horrifying and paralyzing burden Nietzsche perceived in the notion of "ewige Wiederkunft" :

What, if some day or night a demon were to steal after you into your loneliest loneliness and say to you: 'This life as you now live it and have lived it, you will have to live once more and innumerable times more' ... Would you not throw yourself down and gnash your teeth and curse the demon who spoke thus? Or have you once experienced a tremendous moment when you would have answered him: 'You are a god and never have I heard anything more divine.'

This quote was once offered to me, by one Chris Holderman, as a sort of primary directive...that one should lead one's life in such a fashion as to be able to gladly face that demon, and be joyous at the thought of this life...every minute of it...being your eternity. As moral directives go, it makes a lot more sense to me than the first five books of the Bible. That said, it's not an easy directive to live up to, especially during those long, dark nights. As the facts stand, and without hashing through a bunch of events in my personal life that essentially boil down to an unpleasant gruel of only half-deserved resentments, circumstances have been such that of late I have felt, not so much silenced, as irrelevant. My skills in most areas are middling, and despite overly confident assertions--from all human disciplines, really--of the inherent value of every precious subjective on the face of the planet (all 6,749,392,469 (and counting) of them...), I'm not yet convinced that this particular subjective is really going to contribute all that much by throwing its bucketful into the ocean that is humanity. Not that that's stopped me before, but the point is, for whatever reason, and however well-or-ill founded that reason may be, there's some part of me that can't quite accept the rather thin justification of "Well, you aren't hurting anything, and everyone else is doing it, and if you don't, you won't be heard at all." No, the point was, and still is, I think, to somehow improve something, and if that "dark night of the soul" entails profound doubt, then perhaps the focus of that doubt is my ability--or lack thereof--to do so. So far, about the best I've come up with is that doing so makes me a--dare we say better?--person than not doing so, and thus improves, incrementally, the quality of the world as a whole.

In truth, this is a set of doubts that have always been with me, especially when considering the value of writing. The same sort of crisis occurred when I left university--that cocoon where most students are regularly aided and abetted in their attempts to convince themselves and others that their efforts are somehow much more central than they actually are--to find myself employing both my analytical and creative skills (neither of which, by the standard measures used within the university context, were substandard) in a childcare center. It wasn't that the skills weren't relevant to the work at hand--in all honesty, I can think of few fields where they are more relevant--it was just that they weren't about to be recognized, and I knew that. And I fell silent. For years. I worked through that, and I grew because of it, but I can't say it wasn't painful. The next time I felt that monstrous silence creeping up on me--this time due to a political atmosphere I truly believed to be poisonous--I managed to plow on, due largely to my decision to take refuge in the comedic--to the point that the comedic became almost a form of religion. After all, if you can get a room full of people to laugh, surely you've lessened the suffering in the world by some measure. It's possible that the fact that it was almost a religion is precisely what led to that strategy's failure...or failure, at least, in regards to what I felt I wanted from the words. Whatever the reason, and in spite of several abortive attempts to wrestle my way back to that space I generally refer to as poetry by taking recourse to the strategy of emphasizing the comedy inherent in all human efforts, the strategy hasn't proven effective during this last bout with the demons. Instead, it's been necessary to enter a prolonged silence, the better, I suppose, to figure out just what it is I want from words.

This is, in part, an apology, and in part, an explanation, I suppose, especially to all those who have supported me, in any number of capacities, in the pursuit of this particular fool's errand, but it's also a prelude to a recent event that I found...not compelling...but interesting in its own small way. As most of the people who are likely to read this blog know, I spent five years co-editing an online literary mag, which entailed putting together one interview and one editorial (usually very freewheeling in style) every 3 months. The archives are on the sidebar...given the thesis I'm working with here, there's probably no particularly compelling reason to link to these works in this post. During that five years, and with the help of this blog and any number of forum postings, I made myself enough of a nuisance to get top billing for my name on the standard Google search. I also--and this is important--got my name included on Ron Silliman's blog. Only as one name in the lengthy list that is his blogroll, one that I can imagine a younger and more optimistic Silliman expected to be able to maintain and thus create a definitive resource of working poets the world over, but...enough notice from that quarter to actually be included in that long list. Personally, I highly suspect that if that blogroll were regularly maintained, the last year and a half would have found this blog removed. Fortunately for me, the list is cumbersome, so, although I've yet to make it into one of Silliman's postings--and at this point in my life, suspect myself of being sufficiently unprolific, uninspiring and at odds with L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E poetry in general and Silliman's "School of Quietude" thesis in particular to never make one of those posts--this blog remains there, in spite of a very lengthy silence and only peripheral relevance to anything Silliman is doing, not unlike a distended tick hanging from the testicles of the cur that is contemporary poetry.

Believe me, the snarls are all for myself...I've plenty of respect for Silliman's undertaking, even where I find myself disagreeing, and it's one of the resources I regularly cite to any person who somehow, through my activities, takes interest in the state of contemporary poetry long enough for me to burden them with a url or two. But for all that, being on that blogroll rather seemed an affirmation of precisely that thesis I was advancing when, as a young participant of off-off-Green Mill poetry slams I penned the no doubt monumental lines I am bent / under the weight / of my ancestry, / & I cannot make myself be heard / through this sea of flesh. / I am drowning in it. Angst, sure, but perhaps in the resilience of my age at that time, there was a certain glory, a certain trickster euphoria that came from smashing monuments and flinging open the gates to the great unwashed, even if it was only verbally. There was a small part of me that rather exalted in the process of anonymity, to the point that, to my mind, there was no greater work of art than the one that went unsigned. Amongst my greatest wishes were that they would never find out who wrote Primary Colors, that Thomas Pynchon would be buried in an unmarked grave in an unknown location, and that somewhere in the Bahamas, after having made some astute investments with his initial capital,D. B. Cooper is living a quiet life with no concern for current events. Of those three scenarios, at present, the one that is most likely is also the one that is most blatantly criminal.

That is, in large part, why I found the Issue 1 hoax interesting. An incredible project, really, if you're impressed by big numbers: 3,785 pages of previously unpublished poetry, featuring 3,164 poets. Most contemporary. Some a little more familiar. Some very dead. Silliman made the cut. So did Yoko Ono. So did William Shakespeare. So did a few of the poets from the pages of that lit mag I helped edit. And...so did yours truly. Which was odd...because even given the sheer heft of the volume--almost a guarantee that an anthology, especially of contemporary poetry, is going to be crap--I couldn't quite see myself sharing pages with some of the names on the list of contributors. Moreover, I couldn't remember submitting...which, for me, is odd, as I've submitted about four times, to anything, in the last year and a half, although to be perfectly fair, five days after Issue 1 came out, a submission that I had wholly forgotten I'd made was published. But in this case, there was a simple reason I couldn't remember submitting. I hadn't. Nor, apparently, had anyone else--though a sizeable number of the other contributors noticed their inclusion long before I did. Silliman noticed, and called the anthology "an act of anarcho-flarf vandalism". Others were similarly outraged. Others thought it clever. Others wondered what they should think/feel. The folks at forgodot issued a "polite clarification", and, in an incredibly timely reminder of just how fast word spreads these days, by early December, pretty much everyone had their say on the matter. Short perhaps one or two bloggers who had fallen off the face of the earth and were refusing to check their e-mail with any real consistency.

For me...reactions. First, I was incredibly surprised to be in the anthology at all, even if it was a hoax. Then, I was bemused by the fact that five years of hard work on an online zine had netted both the zine I worked for and myself precisely zero mentions on any page at the Poetry Foundation or on Silliman's blog, but one online hoax found us mentioned on both. There's something troubling about that fact, because, while I'm sure it took some time to put together the algorithm that generated the poems in issue one, not to mention grabbing all those names, cutting and pasting them to the various poems, and formatting it for .pdf, some quiet part of me wants to believe that the interviews and the editorials and the countless e-mails I sent out to the poets and essayists we both accepted and rejected were all considerably more aligned to what many would like to believe poetry can still be. Mind you, I was at no point in this process pissed off with the people who had put this massive display of reverse plagiarism together--in a way, I was pleased to have gained a poem, even if it didn't sound like me (russet? rondeau? I don't think so...). I even read it at one of the local open mics--why not? It's mine, apparently. I can say, however, that it was not as warmly received as that of Fulson, a teenage acquaintance of mine, in his incredibly touching paean to the products of his excretory functions. You can take that assessment for whatever it's worth.

After my initial reaction, other issues rose up to the surface. For example, had my name been attached in similar fashion to hate speech, I probably wouldn't have had so tepid a reaction. So what does that say about the poetry in Issue 1? To me, it says that if there is artistry at work here, it's not at the level of the individual poem--it's both before and after that. If it lies anywhere, it lies first at the level of the algorithm itself...let's face it, folks, it's not a bad bet that more than half of the general population could be presented with this work and not identify it as having been written by a computer, and it's still pretty safe to bet that many of them wouldn't be able to distinguish this work from that of a lot of contemporary poets. Fair enough to argue that this is not due to any failing on the part of contemporary poets, but the fact is, most of those people who couldn't distinguish this from human generated poetry probably have a job to get to, and don't really have time to obsess over Ted Berrigan's Sonnets, no matter how good they are. That's first. If a computer program is capable of replacing you in the eyes of the general public, then, whether you view the development negatively or positively, whether you think the fault/credit lies with either the poets or the audience, something in our aesthetic sense has shifted, fundamentally. It suggests either a seriously good computer program, or a serious disconnection between a lot of poets and a lot of readers.

The Issue 1 project can also be understood as art on the level of the anthology as a whole. It's true--individual poets reacted to "their" poems, so on that sense, the poems got assessed on that level, but in an extremely unsystematic way. I'm not academic enough to slog through 3,785 pages of computer generated poetry in search of some guiding aesthetic principle on the level of the individual poems, and I certainly wouldn't wish that on anyone else (okay...I wouldn't wish it on anyone except for any of the members of the administration of the outgoing United States executive branch of government...), but the point remains: the reaction thus far has been, by and large, driven not by the individual poems--which are, from what I've seen so far, bland--rather, they're driven by the idea of the anthology. Your name, along with 3,163 other poets, bloggers, and writers, is now attached, however whimsically, to a set of words you didn't write. Nothing was stolen from any of you--something was attributed to you. That's not a benign act, by any means, although without further value being given to the act, it could be either positive or negative in effect. Your spouse's friend can tell your spouse that you spend those Saturday afternoons you insist on having to yourself a) at the local soup kitchen, or b) with the lover you've never mentioned, and both assertions could be patently false, but if your spouse believes it, one of those assertions is much more likely to get you divorced than the other one is. The question is, what's really at stake with Issue 1's assertion that you wrote these words? How believable is that assertion, and how likely is that assertion to damage your good standing in the world of poetry? Given the paper thin facade this hoax came wrapped in, the answer to the first part of that question seems to be a pretty solid "not very," and I guess the second part of the question depends largely on just how good your standing is. There are those who have invested so much in this particular brand of illusion-making that, by all appearances, it matters barely less than, say, nuclear security in Georgia. Then again, there are others to whom it matters not one whit.

I'm interested in this project, first, because I'm interested in hoaxes generally--after all, if the greatest work of art goes unsigned, entirely divorced from the individual ego, then an undiscovered hoax would be prime material--and second, because it raises some interesting questions in its presentation. To be honest, though, the most compelling part of the whole project, for me was that title page, with all those microprinted names. Make no mistake--a fair few of those names are attached to poets who are writing today. That's just poems. That title page clears up the whole question of what it means to publish on the web, for anyone who was harboring any illusions: you are, in effect, at the world's largest poetry reading, only the poets are not taking turns. They're all reading their work at the same time. And the only audience, aside from those other poets, are either indulgent friends who have agreed to come to this monstrosity for your sake, or poor hapless souls who wandered through the wrong door and haven't managed to get out yet.

I don't know about any of you, but I'm thinking I should just take up drums, and have done with this nonsense. But hey...maybe that's just the remnants of that long, dark night of the soul clinging to me.

Peace, guys. Hope to post more often soon.

--tchitch

We're back

2007-08-08T20:58:00.000-06:00

...in the saddle again. Join if you can. Anyone got a digicam for video?

Who the hell are you, kid?

2007-09-16T10:04:00.000-06:00

Still nursing the cultural hangover, still trying to figure out what it is I'm doing. And Dave Smith's poem,The Roundhouse Voices, still rocks. Looking to pair it up with the music of Delerium, as was done oh so many years ago during the stint at KSUA. Funny thing, the pairing was an off-the-cuff accident that just happened to work. I was in the production studios, still trying to stumble my way through a Session 8 system--god it seemed flash...and probably was, given the year--well, there was lots of room for playing around, but this one just presented itself to us, holus bolus--we played the music, I read the poem, and they simply meshed. I think I had to make two tiny edits on a poem that reads, straight through, at around five minutes, and a song that tops 8 minutes. So now, I'm listening to the music, and reading the poem, and trying to intentionally achieve the same effect. Somehow, I remember it being easier the first time around.

Live on Friday. Come if you're in the vicinity.

The game's afoot.

2007-10-05T11:15:00.000-06:00

Big announcement...for me, anyway...forthcoming. In the meantime, another show in Gangneung. Come if you can.

A wish for safe passage

2008-09-13T22:26:00.003-06:00

Quote pulled from Gawker:

[L]earning how to think really means learning how to exercise some control over how and what you think. It means being conscious and aware enough to choose what you pay attention to and to choose how you construct meaning from experience. Because if you cannot exercise this kind of choice in adult life, you will be totally hosed. Think of the old cliché about quote the mind being an excellent servant but a terrible master.

This, like many clichés, so lame and unexciting on the surface, actually expresses a great and terrible truth. It is not the least bit coincidental that adults who commit suicide with firearms almost always shoot themselves in: the head. They shoot the terrible master. And the truth is that most of these suicides are actually dead long before they pull the trigger.

David Foster Wallace, February 21, 1962 - September 12, 2008.

"She had the kind of body that made a man want to have sex with her."

2008-08-16T19:20:00.002-06:00

Yes, that's right...it's time to read the results of most everyone's favorite literary contest, the annual Bulwer-Lytton fiction contest, in which aspiring wordsmiths vie with each other to see who can produce the most malodorous opening line for a novel. Personally, I like the unadorned directness of Barry J. Drucker's offering, which also serves as the title of this entry.

Enjoy!

Sometimes I forget

2008-08-01T08:48:00.002-06:00

...why I feel like giving up on talking to anyone, and especially on talking to anyone over the internet. And then, an article like this comes along and reminds me:

Does free speech tend to move toward the truth or away from it? When does it evolve into a better collective understanding? When does it collapse into the Babel of trolling, the pointless and eristic game of talking the other guy into crying “uncle”? Is the effort to control what’s said always a form of censorship, or might certain rules be compatible with our notions of free speech?

There are whole months when I can't see past the sense of impending doom. We are screwed. We are sick. Our brains have taken us to a place we may actually not have the capacity to understand. And there is nothing--nothing--a feeble art like poetry can do about it.

Believe it or not, the writing's been jogging loose in the past couple of months. But...in a spiral notebook.

New Poetry and Notes on Being Blocked

2008-04-05T04:42:00.004-06:00

Casting about for a sense of audience. Semi-permanently funked. Folks, the next time a writer type tells you they're blocked but they're still writing, call bullshit. Block means that you don't know what to write or why you were writing. Block means that you do not understand the underpinnings of writing itself. From inside, it feels permanent, and if you're really invested at all, it affects everything you do. The world changes.

But enough about that. The good news is this: I've had four poems picked up in the last few months--three at poeticdiversity, where my cohort Marie Lecrivain has hosted work by yours truly before (to access, look at the sidebar of the Fool's Errand blog under Heading "Work," subheading "Online Publications". For the month of April 2008, she's picked up the poems The Far Shore , All We Can Do, and Tonto Shrugs it Off. In addition to those, another poem...one I'm particularly pleased with, as it has the right feeling for those poems in which the composition truly touches something essential in myself...is being hosted in the current issue of Babel Fruit. The poem being hosted there, The Giftbearers, is the product of a very specific event, and is very much associated with my current place of residence, Gangneung, South Korea. There is a real story behind this one...one that continues to resonate with myself, and that I hope you find some pleasure in as well.

So, some newly published work. Still working on how to generate some NEW work...but newly published is some sort of start, I suppose.

How 'bout y'all? How's the hope/inspiration gig treating you these days?

Enjoy--tchitch

Generation Gap

2007-12-28T08:53:00.000-06:00

Given that I only have about 26 years left before I face the same milestone, I probably shouldn't laugh too hard at this--but you know what? I just can't help myself.

Worth wasting some time over

2007-12-19T01:44:00.000-06:00

Strange Maps: a blog.

In defense of the Facebook "is":

2007-12-02T00:52:00.000-06:00

Love it. And agree, wholeheartedly.

Facebook drops "is" status updates, poetry dies

Making Heads or Tails out of an Animalistic Situation

2007-11-13T09:40:00.000-06:00

I mistrust found poems. They seem too easy, most of the time. But sometimes, one just walks purring into your lap...and what can you do, really, at that point, but pet it?

I teach English. Or I try to. Sometimes, the text gets in the way. I teach at ECC. The prescribed text for teaching children who are just beginning to study English is a series of books called Wake Up!--a series of books, I remain convinced, that constitutes an elaborate and monstrous hoax upon the Korean people.

I submit, for your consideration, the following found poem, comprised entirely of lines gleaned--and presented here, in their unretouched glory--from the teacher's guide to this set of books.

Making Heads or Tails out of an Animalistic Situation
or
55 Reasons Why My Primary English Text is not Adequate.

1. Making heads or tails out of an animalistic situation.
2. Stop crying, baby!
3. Do you know what you are?
4. Rome was not built in a day.
5. Let’s act out!
6. The younger, the faster.
7. Monty, what’s behind the curtain?
8. Black eyes and fat lips.
9. I know what they’re saying.
10. Randy is between the police officers.
11. We share the same brain.
12. I wash my hands of you.
13. Roman Polanski presents.
14. I want some Academy awards.
15. The new deal paid off.
16. Even the nights are better.
17. The student is under the fire engine.
18. Randy is writing on the boat.
19. Look what’s become of me.
20. Give me my legs.
21. Zen and the art of sandwich making.
22. Colonel, some dessert please.
23. The walls of fruit are closing in on me.
24. Holy roller
25. Matisse’s madness.
26. Watermelon balloons in strawberry fields.
27. Onion rings are flying through the sky.
28. I want your pizza.
29. I could wallpaper my bathroom with these rejection notices.
30. I did that on purpose.
31. Look ma, no warts!
32. Want to see my robot?
33. Mine is fast.
34. Guess what, boy or girl?
35. Find my body part.
36. Move along, son.
37. Carmichael, I love what you’ve done to the place.
38. Sandy is in the closet.
39. Don’t throw garbage in my yard!
40. The Maytag guy does get lonely.
41. Baby, you can drive my car.
42. Kitchen rhymes with chicken.
43. Farmer’s roulette.
44. The duck is laughing.
45. Showdown at some flipped-out corral.
46. What are the animals doing?
47. Love is blind, but favourites are blindfolded.
48. It’s my house, designs are my choice.
49. Who has the bomb?
50. The raincoat is quicker than the eye.
51. I want a new job.
52. Another spinster?
53. Who’s the man?
54. These are my marbles. Those are my balls.
55. Forcefeed the fat boy!

An Open Letter to my Younger Brother

2007-10-21T09:29:00.000-06:00

Rueben,

In the course of juggling the dual tasks of editing a zine and maintaining a blog over the past three years, I fear I've become somewhat cagey. Believing that were I to write my real feelings about some of the events that I have witnessed over the last two years, some of the people close to me might feel attacked, exposed, and quite possibly betrayed, I've opted for discretion. There's something to be said for doing so, but the fact is, of late, I've come to a greater awareness of just how much my voice has been reined in as a result. I often feel like I am not at liberty to speak my true mind. As a father, and a teacher, and yes, even a friend, I do believe there is a time for a certain politic silence to be maintained. With that, however, comes a time for plain words. I have to confess, with the direction my ramblings have taken over the past few months, I was a little surprised to read your words of encouragement regarding recent topics I've broached...they are close to your heart, as mine, and I have to confess, I worried that my words would be seen as attacks on both people and institutions that are probably much closer to both of our hearts than either of us would typically admit. I've learned that I can be quite acid in my observations, and believe it or not, I wish no harm or ill will upon any human being, and take special pains not to wish such harm on those who have wished it upon me. Life's too short to be wasting one's energies on such things. But I do try to temper my feelings so as to take others' feelings into account, where possible.

I wish I could find the words necessary to convey precisely what I learned on my last stay in the United States. Perhaps one day I will. I always seem to be just short of really communicating it, though. What I will say is that my criticism, though it may at times be misguided (and what person doesn't have a thing or two left to learn?), is never motivated by ill will. Rather, it's been my experience that, as a rule, human beings abhor change of any kind--even change that is beneficial to them. So when bad habits are pointed out to them, rather than understanding the messenger to be someone who wishes to bring about positive change, that person is often seen to be the real problem. I'm sure, with your experience in leading construction crews, you've seen this phenomenon yourself. Correcting someone's technique is rarely seen as a gift--rather, when the boss does it, it's usually understood as a petty attempt to assert one's limited power. The person being corrected regards it as meddlesome, and comes to resent the suggestion, with the end result being that the technique remains unfixed out of sheer spite. I could tell you stories...as I'm sure you could tell me...but I'll limit it to one: a certain mutual acquaintance of ours has, during the entire course of their life, always found it difficult to bake good homemade biscuits. As you may know, early in my working life, I did a considerable amount of time in a commercial bakery. This gave me the necessary knowledge to immediately pinpoint the problem: the person in question, out of a desire to simplify the process, ignored the recipe's call for solid fat, and substituted cooking oil. I do not expect everyone to know why this will result in poor biscuits (it has to do with the fact that the rising process is aided by the steam produced when the solid fat is melted), but I fear that when I encounter a human being who refuses to change their technique when this information is conveyed to them, my hope for the continued viability of the human species takes an incremental tick downward.

Sometimes, those incremental ticks build up to a serious downturn, and I'm afraid my recent return to the states--after a seven and a half year absence, during which America suffered a number of traumas that--horribly--appear to have bruised her psyche beyond recognition (this, itself, not exactly a testament to the continued resilience of the sense of nation "shared" by her citizens), has left me rather reeling. The primary feelings I have battled, over the last year--and especially since my--I have only one viable word for it--escape from my hometown, have been resentment, bitterness, and anger. None of these are particularly noble emotions, and so I have found myself desperately trying to think around them, trying to find my way back to expressing what I really feel. I was aware, upon leaving, that this process would take some time: as we left my best friend in that town--who cried upon our departure--I said as much to Kari, "It's likely to be two solid months before I even manage to figure out what the hell that was about." Well, it's been four, and typing this letter is as close as I've come to actually expressing my understanding of those events. All I can say about the mythical ignorance and laziness of the typical American is that I am one, and I don't regard myself to be either. If experience is any source of knowledge on the matter, I expect they're working you like a dog in your current occupation. They certainly did me. And as far as I can see, the better portion of the mechanisms of that particular system of economics are designed to keep those who have money rich, and those who don't poor. I've had to put myself into a very nearly unworkable position to obtain what education I have, and there's every likelihood that I will spend the rest of my life trying to dig myself out from under that particular burden. That is, short the new American dream: a lottery win, or, perhaps more realistically, a multi-million dollar lawsuit settlement. I think the present system conspires, wittingly or no, to lull most humans into a state of laziness and ignorance. Those in power want you that way. If you don't know, and don't want to do anything about it, you're easier to govern. Excellence is reserved for those who can afford a top notch publicity agent. That or the dead, who are the easiest of all to govern. Look what they've done to Jesus, after all.

You can see, my turn of mind reaches for the nearest icon, and tends to think the best cleanser a healthy dose of sulphuric acid. I don't wish to let myself go off on a rant, however, as I'd like to offer at least a tentative identification of a root problem. When I was very young, in the year and a half I lived in New Orleans, I remember once being approached by a middle aged woman while I stood outside the T-shirt shop where I was working, and the woman saying that I looked bored out of my mind, and giving me her business card and asking me to come see her about a possible business opportunity. I did. I took a chance, visited her, and it was one of the oddest encounters I've ever had in my life. The business end of her proposal was that she had some resort properties, and she was looking for a young manager, and asking if I would be interested. The trouble was, my own instincts suggested that there was far more than business afoot--at some point in the conversation, she asked if I'd ever brought a woman to climax...not exactly business school fodder, and highly suggestive of very different motivations on her part. I walked away from that. It's but one of many of my encounters that have left me wondering, occasionally, where my life might have gone had I made a different decision. I do remember one thing she said as I left, though, "You Americans are all suspicious to the bone. If someone offers you free food, you think it's poisoned."

Perhaps, on that occasion, I was right to suspect. However--and this especially after this latest visit to my hometown--I also suspect that for most Americans, she was absolutely right. My entire time in the United States was marked by nothing so much as a sense of deep suspicion, on the part of all but three people--all close friends--regarding my motives. There was nothing I could do to in any way allay this suspicion. Nobody but those good friends trusted me in any way, shape or form. So I bent myself to the task of keeping my word where others did not. And I think for the most part I did so. But the message was lost in the noise--I wasn't a victim, and therefore, I wasn't worthy of attention. I'm certain I would have done much better just to have developed a limp and complained about how I'd been wronged. This is true not only on the home front, but also in every dealing I had with job interviewers, every attempt at a business conversation. Obviously, I was up to something, and it wasn't likely to be anything good.

I'm told, by friends who watch this from the outside, that I'm not the only one who feels this. Multiply that by over 325 million citizens, and you begin to see the bare scope of the problem. Paranoia is the watchword. Freedom is absolute security. The very dirt we walk on is lethal. We have nothing to fear but everything we come in contact with. And as for this dreamer, who once not only hoped, but actively preached hope, the situation is beyond any hope of redemption. When everyone is looking out for number one, and convinced that number two through six billion has a gun pointed at their head, there's not a chance in hell we're gonna pull through this one.

I'd just like to say a couple of things about living abroad: first, the college degree helps--it gives one an immediate leg up, so if you've ever the mind to, you might think about that. Second, getting jobs is easier when you get one before you leave. You're not likely to get one on the ground...unless you're gunning for a job teaching English in Asia, and even then, maybe better to do at least some forward planning. My guess is there are ways, but moving around generally entails convincing the border guards that you're at least nominally financially viable. Living outside of one's nation of birth is not for every one, and certainly not for every American--it requires a level of flexibility, and the ability to admit that some things--even in the question of government--may be better managed in other nations, that not all humans possess. And in a place like Korea, it helps if your different colored skin is quite thick when it comes to racial stereotypes. All that said, I will say that seeing the beast from outside is very helpful in noting its identifying markings. Short living somewhere else, there's always the option of visiting, oh, say, a close relative with a couch and a good sense of direction that's on the ground when you come. How else are you going to spend your vacation? Fixing your Myspace profile?

Anyway, I don't know if that clarifies anything to you, but your comment was reason for me reflecting upon my recent thoughts and writing (which amount to a hill of shite, anyway...), and I'd like to thank you for that. I'm hard pressed for focal points right now, fearing, at times, that the only possible source of comfort left us is to admit that the bastards have beaten us, and to commence planning how best to inhabit the peace that's been thrust upon us. I'm cool. I've weathered far worse than this. I'm just getting old enough that it takes me that little bit longer to recuperate. But I think being given the opportunity to express myself on the matter--and actually acting upon it--may do a little to help speed the process along.

Stay well, kid, and I seriously hope that one day, we'll have the opportunity to get shitfaced on soju together.

--your bro--g

Standard Myths

2007-10-18T08:44:00.000-06:00

Filed in the "anyone can grow up to be president" file:

"The fee to be considered for the Democratic ballot is $2,500, while it’s a hefty $35,000 to gain admittance into the Republican primary."

More here. Go Stephen, go.

Meanwhile, on the question of writing--this, to a friend, in regards to recent crises on the writing front, I mentioned, among other concerns, that I had a strong suspicion that writers were accidentally "teaching our tyrants how better to swindle us and make us like it." To which he responded, "THEY'VE WON ALREADY! Jazus..that's no reason not to do something."

It may be exactly that--reaching for that nasty comfort that comes with realizing the struggle's been well and truly lost. I mean, obviously, our tyrants don't know much about handling peace. At least, not if we accept the labels they stick on things--wherein we've been at peace for a solid three years now. There's something to declaring the war over, and letting them call themselves winners. But it does seem cold comfort.

Regardless. I gotta find a way to get writing, again. I'm starting to bug the living shit out of myself at this point.

With that in mind...

--tchitch.

Untranquil Reflections

2007-08-26T20:35:00.000-06:00

Quietly working things out, though at a pace much slower than I'd hoped. I did say, as we drove out of my hometown, that I expected it to take at least two months for me to process what had gone on there. It's been a little over that, and I've of course had to process my semi-new surroundings, as well. Never mind the interior landscape, which is a bit of a shambles. I think I'm accepting, more than ever, the limited sphere I'm able to exert any influence over whatsoever.

I have shunned using this blog, which, no matter how few come by to read it, remains a public forum, to comment too thoroughly on the more negative aspects of my experiences over the last few years. Besides, there's been plenty of value during those years as well, and focusing on what could have gone better is a very good way to lose sight of what could have gone much worse. That said, I feel the need to address some recent developments, from a personal vantage point, and though I'm not about to name names, what I have to say is germaine to some local events. So.

First and foremost, however, I think the central observation, of late, is that in writing, I need to concede the fact that the primary motivational force, from a personal perspective, is simply a love for and fascination with language. I remain convinced, as science gains a stronger foothold on many areas until recently left to the humanities, that if human consciousness ever proves to be thoroughly explainable with statements that are objectively arrived at, it will be through the thorough and systematic exploration of the medium of language. The infinite variations language is capable of, and the complexity couched in even so simple a sentence as "I don't think I've ever seen anything like it"--the latter thoroughly hammered home in the course of teaching English as a second language and getting a real feel for just how many months it takes to work up to the above sentence--seem to me to present the cognitive sciences with a puzzle that is more complex than chess by several orders of magnitude...and they're still working on chess. Further, my own readings lead me to believe that our "reality" is thoroughly saturated with the limitations and potentials of that language we use to describe it, and may in fact be, in large part, determined by those limitations and potentials, and how thoroughly we bend to the former, or reach for the latter.

That said, see premise one of this post. I'm aware that all of this is contingent, but the "truth," or lack thereof, is not the point--rather, the point, from my perspective, is that for whatever reason, this particular aspect of being human is of endless fascination to me. Further, that this is the only point to continuing. This is a shift, if not in fact, in having become conscious of the fact--in the past, the ostensible focus of the work was to reach out, to engage in dialogue, on the premise that dialogue is itself a good, particularly in respect to the founding principles behind democracy and self-governance. But this premise is no longer sufficient. While my own belief in those principles may still be strong, my belief in the ability for those principles to function in the present context--in which a certain key resignation, while welcome, rings hollow in the realization that, as with every other member of our fundamentally corrupt ruling class, this is quite likely the full extent of the punishment that will be meted out for a series of crimes I regard to be deserving of much, much more punitive measures. We've seen this before, again and again. When a member of this class falls on their own sword, they must be rewarded, not punished. The only thing that's going to suffer under this schematic is the very democracy all of the above men claimed to serve and to love. And it's suffered plenty, and I've seen nobody--least of all myself--much able to turn that tide. And while I could spend the next few years deluding myself into believing that I'm copping out by not taking up that particular banner, I think maybe I could do more, and better, by simply acknowledging that the reason I continue to write is because I love language. And that's all.

So. About two weeks ago, we held the first of (hopefully) a series of open mics, organized, by and large, by Dylan, who finds himself having to function as point man for the venture because...well, because of a lot of things, though I do try to help out where I can. That show went well enough, and there are those, locally, who appreciate the efforts behind it and seem to genuinely enjoy the chance to gather for something other than just a night out on the piss. Dylan anchored the show brilliantly, and I got some excellent feedback on a poem I've been trying to puzzle my way through for the past few weeks, so that's all to the good. We've made plans for a second, and while I'm looking forward to it, I have to admit, after this last weekend, the wind in my sails has died down to a very gentle breeze that's likely to carry me with a little less haste toward that destination. Mostly, I think, second guessing amongst what is, of necessity, a fairly closed society of waeguks, who, for reasons of their own, are a little fearful of what might be said at such open mics. Fair enough. I've no good grounds upon which to project my own relatively high insensitivity to criticism upon others, and plenty of past experience to tell me that even well-meant criticism often wounds far deeper than the object of that criticism lets on. I have my own take on all that, but it's not really central to my concerns. What is central, however, is the fact that I was told (for the second time by the same person, interestingly enough) that I'm not aware enough of the particulars behind local waeguk politics to have a valuable opinion on the matter.

I admit, I'm not aware of those particulars. Further, I hereby admit that I'm not interested in becoming aware of them. What is striking, however, is that every time I go out, I hear of bad blood passing between another two humans, both of which I respect--at the very least, as humans--and I'm not sure how to operate under such conditions. I know, again, from my own experience, that there are those amongst us humans who are opposed to "unity"--under any banner--on principle, and I can't say I find those principles completely lacking in persuasiveness (though the actual principle is rarely enough communicated, in explicit fashion, as to make it almost unassailable for the fact that the bearer often refuses to acknowledge that it is even held). But the level of fractiousness I encounter, in the common course of any given day, closes up an already bleak vista in which no triumph seems great enough to be called progress. I fear for this future. I don't relish biding another forty odd years celebrating every small step that appears to make things "less bad," and trying to convince myself that those steps really are a way forward. I think we've been thoroughly hornswaggled, as a people, as a species, into believing that our selves are of such high value that we should commit them to no cause, no ideal, no love that might entail the sacrifice of even the smallest scrap of that self. Our leaders have divided us by convincing us that division is a virtue, when it's as likely that we're all blind dust groping in a vast universe that will one day swallow all our works and ways like so much detritus down a bottom-feeder's gullet. It's as stark as that, and the funny thing is, if all us little turds got together with a purpose, we could thoroughly kick ass.

Then again, in the immortal words of Steve Martin, "Naaaaah".

As for myself, I'll keep on not giving up, but I have to admit, I'm getting a thorough sense of just why it was that my younger self understood writing to be an endurance sport. It ain't easy, and let's face it, cynicism pays better. But cynicism's the man's game, and anyone who doesn't believe in the man after the last 6 years of American politics would be doing us a great service if they crawled the rest of the way up their colon and disappeared entirely up there.

Yeah. It's that dark in here. I'm still receptive to the light, but I'm gonna be hell to convince from this point forward.

Taking Stock

2007-08-12T20:05:00.000-06:00

Hm.

My thoughts run this way: in the past few months, I've dealt with a nasty piece of reverse culture shock that may very well have left me permanently embittered toward a hometown that I already had a tenuous relationship with, and, by extension, I have to look somewhat askance at the nation that houses such a place--and will not only tolerate, but actively defend the actions of an administration that has made it a public policy to a) torture, b) spy on its own people, and c) base government employment on political affiliation rather than merit or ability. For a few years I've found myself engaged in multiple conversations defending this nation against charges that it is in serious and pretty much irreversible decline, and doing so against arguments that frankly, I found more than a little convincing. While I generally tend to defer in such matters, I will say I'm past defending it. From a personal vantage point, I find myself battling the sense of being a colonial French teacher at just about that point in history when la lengua franca was being supplanted by the universal language. The pay isn't bad, but I feel a bit of an anachronism, on several fronts. Of late, my main concern is to wrestle back my mojo as a poet, but even that's feeling somewhat difficult for the fact that so much of my work has been toward either community or online literature, and I'm feeling more than usually antisocial and technophobic. I watch the division into schools, of an art that, even were it to present a unified front, appears to most to be an antiquated mode of expression that is rarely relevant, generally ineffective, and equated, for the most part, with lace tatting. My sole consolation in this last regard is that I think it obsolete for reasons that have to do with a poorly educated public's capacity for reasoned discourse, the sound bite having supplanted substantive thinking in most realms some decades ago. What I do not understand, however, is why poets insist upon what I can only regard as glorified sissy-fights as their misguided means to promoting the arts.

A friend from the Munich days once put it to me this way, after a show: "I like poetry--I studied it, like everyone, in school, and always enjoyed it--but I hate poets."

Maybe so. Maybe that's where I need to be, as well. All I know is that I desperately need, not things to write about, but reasons to write about them.

Far from shocked

2007-08-07T20:12:00.001-06:00

Ganked from Books, Inq.:

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