I didn’t leave Korea … I just adapted.

I’ve been in Ulsan for seven months, and while there are plenty of hilarious observations that I should be making, the scenery and everyday occurrences have started to meld together. I have become complacent with my life in Korea. With a few glitches here and there, I am able to communicate what I need and go where I want. If something doesn’t work out, I shrug my shoulders, accept, and move on. My request for a double latte that came out as a doppio is hardly worth noting.

Sooo … after two months and only one thing that prompted me to write a blog post, I’ve settled on posting a random list of occurrences and observations.

OCCURRENCE ONE: Please, can I have … your boyfriend?

After nearly seven months of writing “Please, can I have ____?” on the board, in an attempt to steer my students away from saying “Give me …” which feels rude in English, I finally taped some laminated cards with the question in all of the classrooms.

In one class, this prompted all the students to start making requests. They started out as normal, but quickly escalated to ridiculous, quick-fire requests.

Joel, “Please, can I have one dollar?”

Peter, “Please, can I have a million dollars?!”

Hellen, “Please, can I have your hair?”

Amy, “Please, can I have your body?”

Hellen, “Please can I have your boyfriend?”

“Please can I have your husband?”

Perhaps it was the look of shock on my face or some other reaction that prompted the escalation, but in the end I was blushing and shut it down.

OBSERVATION ONE: In Korea I have yet to see a spot of untouched, untamed wilderness.

OBSERVATION TWO: When teaching kindergarteners, sometimes children will just want to climb on you and will call you mom.

OCCURRENCE TWO: A social experiment with a hammock.

Here are the facts:

1) A casual Easter picnic.

2) Conveniently far enough away that the hammock did not seem associated with our group.

3) Accidental. Definite happenstance.

4) Hilarious to observe Koreans interact with something that was not theirs and something some had obviously never interacted with before.

5) Interesting to note that the use of a hammock is fairly intuitive.

OBSERVATION THREE: A country the size of Kentucky with more than 10 times as many people.

Overall life in Korea is comfortable, which gives foreigners room and time to complain. What’s the number one thing, aside from squat toilets, the price of vegetables and fruit, and the lack of whole wheat bread, foreigners (especially from the Western United States) like to complain about? The lack of give and take with personal space.

OBSERVATION FOUR: Dogs are not to be left off the list of things that Koreans have made “cuter.”As if they weren’t cute enough on their own, in Ulsan, they wear dresses on Easter and get pruned and manicured like the landscape, only with dye (purple, blue, green, you name it).

a crowd of women < one man

A bus stop in old downtown, Ulsan, South Korea around 7 o’clock in the evening.

The curtain opens to a young foreign woman running to try and catch a bus. She soon gives up, takes out her iPod, puts her ear buds in, and shuffles through music while looking down the street for another bus. The following scene takes place with muffled dialog, clouded by Tom Petty.

As she waits for a bus, older Korean women join her at the bus stop. Most women unintentionally keep their distance from her. She is not phased.

Some time passes. There are nearly 15 women at the stop, mostly older than her, but some younger.

Suddenly a short, rounded, stumbling drunk Korean man with a shit-eating grin wanders up to the group. He exudes a wanton air. The group visibly tenses. The man says something he thinks is clever, and the women, not wanting to be rude, half smile, but back away from him. They have forgotten about the foreigner.

Despite his smile, the man’s presence puts all the women on edge. Each woman senses danger and worries she will be the target of the inevitable, crude comments, but he has picked his target: a stylish ajuma (the Korean word for older woman) wearing black and a lovely silk scarf. He compliments her and while she half smiles because of flattery, she politely gestures for him to back off. He doesn’t. Instead, he gently grabs her arm. She twists and strains in reaction, but he continues his proposition. She shakes off his grasp and flat out refuses, probably telling him to go away, and attempts to back into the crowd, but he refuses to give up his pursuit.

The other women, there are even more now, do not interfere. They stand by and watch, shrinking into the safety of the crowd. The man attempts to get closer to the woman, who is practically in the street by now. A backless bench separates him from the woman, and in an attempt to hurdle the bench, he falls. The woman makes her escape to the other side of a telephone pole. The crowd of women watch. No one stoops to help him. No one gives him a lecture or shakes her finger. It feels as if no one has the power. It’s a crowd. Maybe someone else will step in.

The drunken man rolls a bit on the ground and then raises himself just enough to sit on the bench. He is drunkenly brushing dirt off his trousers. The group of women watch, waiting to see what will happen next.

A few minutes pass, and another, taller, more authoritative man walks up, with a woman on his arm. He says something condescending and the drunk laughs. The group of women suddenly relaxes, and a bus arrives. The women all scurry past the drunk, hoping to avoid incident, and get on the bus.

The curtain closes.

Korean Independence Day and some beach garbage ... I mean treasure

I awoke this morning to the sound of wet roads and grey skies. Disappointed in myself for sleeping in, and disappointed in the weather for not cooperating with my plan to head to Haeundae Beach, I decided to head out to Haeundae's distant, neglected, and abused cousin, Ilsan Beach. Possessing all the finer points of a beach -- fine, golden sand, a narrow inlet which creates a protected cove, and beautiful, golden rocks to climb -- Ilsan Beach should be a haven for foreign shipyard workers, foreign English teachers and Koreans, alike.

Unfortunately, the lack of upkeep and the variety of debris left on the beach by beach-goers or washed on shore from freighters and other big ships, create a situation in which the beach is respected by none and enjoyed only by those who have not seen the ocean for a while, have selective vision or ... are kids.

My first encounter with Ilsan met all of these requirements, and it was not until I had glorious Haeundae Beach as a comparison that I realized the magnitude of Ilsan's neglect and abuse.

Yet, like all things, in life, if you dress it up in your best sense of humor, put on your rose-tinted glasses, cock your creative thinking cap to the side, and squint a little ... Ilsan Beach has some treasures to behold.

I have intentionally left these photos without caption. Please feel free to contribute your own narrative as a comment ... Additionally, the sequence of events is merely a suggestion, feel free to rearrange.

Dying to play: online gaming kills?

The first time I heard of someone dying in a PC bong (Internet Café) in Korea, I was shocked.

How could this happen?

I clicked the headline which informed me that after nearly 12 straight hours of gaming, a 19 year old university student died in a PC bong in Ulsan. After reading the details, I didn’t even think to look and see if anyone else had ever died in a PC bong from over-gaming. This seemed to be an exception. An exhausted university student collapsed from exhaustion.

Gaming alone didn’t kill him.

Did it?

I decided to talk to my teens about it, who seemed to shrug at the occurrence.

Teaching English abroad I have found, usually the things that are most shocking to me are everyday occurrences for my students. See especially Comparing attitudes toward cheating in Korea and Russia.

Despite the reactions, or lack of reactions, from my students, I maintained my assumption.

Death from online gaming can’t occur that often.

Can it?

This was back in December.

I later found out that my students didn’t react much to the news because computer addiction is something they are much too familiar with.

Today BBC news reminded me of what I had written off as a freak occurrence. Opening their homepage, I read “Chinese online gamer dies after three-day session.” After clicking the link and looking at the headlines for related articles, including “South Korean children face gaming curfew.” I realized this is a huge problem.

The problem is not isolated to Korea.

It is by no means a recent development.

AND it happens relatively often.

In fact, it happens so often that BBC only covers the most extreme cases. A google search of “Korean gamer dies” did not immediately pull up the case I had read about in December.

In a culture where perfection and overwork is highly valued at academies, in schools, and at work, I guess it shouldn’t come as a surprise that the same is true for gaming.

Aronofsky does not create for the casual viewer

I was reminded of this essay and the catharsis I experienced, when I watched Aronofsky's latest film, Black Swan. His technique remains basically the same, gut-wrenching moments, a memorable overture, and shock.

Written in 2003.

Take a book. Internalize it. Add perspective. Personalize it. Shake. Visualize it. The essence of Requiem for a Dream on the screen becomes reality.

I had no idea what I would experience that night: the trauma my mind would be put through, the roller coaster of emotions I would feel. It was a sad movie, people repeatedly told me, a really sad movie, but what was I to do? It sounded enthralling, and I had heard it was good, really good. No one could put his finger on the right word. No one could explain. I had no clue.

Hit play.

A look and I broke down. After five minutes of staring at credits rolling, shocked, not being able to think, breathe, cry, speak, I broke down. I curled up into fetal position and cried. I cried for the world, for the addicted, for the abused, for the misled, for myself. I cried because there was nothing else I could do. I cried because words seemed wrong at that moment.

Few words were uttered, and I began to read. I read out of wonder, awe, and curiosity. I could not comprehend what had just taken place in my mind, what had happened. I read for answers. I read for freedom. I read because words seemed wrong at that moment. I read because I was addicted and couldn’t speak.

The reading added thoughts, themes, love. I went from being distressed and unnerved to elated and euphoric; then back again. Laughing, crying, sobbing, staring, I comprehended. I connected. I loved. I hated.

A road block. I stopped reading. I didn’t want to. I wanted to quit school. I wanted to read and read, to read not only Requiem (as I had so affectionately termed it), but all of Selby’s work. I wanted to read until the sky turned red. Addicted, I carried the book around until I could read again. I was irritable. I hated work. I hated school. I hated Thomas Hardy. I hated anything that kept me from reading.

Relief.

Finally! I could read again. I had to read. The reading sustained me. It gave me reprieve during my breaks. Requiem helped me to survive those long nights. Then it ended.

It just ended. I had finished, but I didn’t feel an ending. I was in shock. I couldn’t cry; although I wanted to. I couldn’t read; there was no more. I had to let it soak in before I watched the movie again.

I waited.

That was Thursday night. I worked on Friday. By Saturday the book still hadn’t sunk in. There was no end. There was a conclusion but no end. The last section was forced. It couldn’t end.

Hit play.

Notes: The first lines are the same. They used actual lines quite frequently. The satisfaction. Flash through the first half of the book and then delve, connect, appreciate. Love. Marion and Harry really love each other, it is visible in their faces, eyes, body language. Amazing screenplay, cinematography, acting: intense, piquant, horrific. I wanted to stop watching. I’d seen it before. I knew what was to happen.

Watch.

Write.

The book and movie compliment each other. I understand. I heard the same story from two different people. Different tools. Pictures versus words. Music versus language. Sight versus imagination. Different ways of telling the same story.

Selby used writing. His form of communication; a unique style that acquaints the reader and then immerses him into dialog and setting. Both are connected so closely that the reader feels present. Not as if the scene were being described, but more realistic, like he is there internalizing the scene. The reader becomes involved.

But where the book involves the reader, the movie imprisons the watcher. Impulse. Addiction. It enables an unknown world to be comprehended. Relate. Not one piece on the set or one action or thought of the actors is random. Every unpainted wall, every movement, every thought, every spec of dust has meaning. The actors are no longer actors, they have become Harry or Marion or Sara. Thoughts can be seen in their gestures, on their faces.

Details from the book are left out while others are added, but the viewer knows it is the same story. Nothing is upsetting about the adjustments and adaptations. There is no room for scrutiny. There is no room for independent thought. Deciphering Requiem’s themes are the viewer’s sole purpose; Aronofsky maintains complete control.

Control of emotions. Controlled chaos. Control through flashing cinematography and heartfelt music. Pushing the viewer right to the edge. Forcing her to look down. The pit. The empty darkness of a life not lived. The sorrow of a life dreamed away. This outer limit doesn’t inspire the viewer (that’s the wrong word), but demands her to remain under the control of two perspectives, two men: the Selby and the Aronofsky.

The release.

And the message must be decoded. Live life. Don’t dream life. Love the intangible. The overture runs on, continuing in the viewers mind. Reminding her to live, to have vision. Reminding her to experience, to not sit around letting life pass her by. The major theme of the book was not lost. The adaptation remains a success, more then a success, a masterpiece, a work of art.

Requiem for a Dream must be pondered, loved, hated, and internalized. Aronofksy does not create for the casual viewer.