Sunday, March 12, 2006

Sleepwalker

Blogger and I are through. The new site.

For the past six weeks I've been talking in my sleep. Yesterday I actually got out of bed and talked to my roommate's boyfriend.

"You wanted to go out," he said, laughing. "You kept talking about a place called Caesar's."

"But I don't know Caesar's," I said. Then, softly, "Was I wearing pants?"

M is very sensitive to the cold, so she's been turning the heater up--way up. In turn I've been sleeping in my underwear. Fortunately I'd fallen into bed after Taekwondo class without removing my clothes.

Sometimes I'm completely aware of what I do in my sleep. Last week I used the bathroom, returned, and gave a lecture while sitting in the middle of my bed. All I could think was "Christ, I didn't make a lesson plan. I am sooooo fired."

Often I can't recall anything--my friends will have a good chuckle over it during breakfast.

"I'm a little worried about it," I told my mother over the phone yesterday morning.

"You should be. You haven't been getting enough sleep. Why are you so busy all the time? What if you wander out of your apartment and fall down the stairs? Or you end up naked in the street? Let yourself have one full day of rest, and don't feel guilty about doing nothing."

Needless to say, I won't be sleeping in the buff anymore.

Pia at 4:19 PM

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Splitsville

Blogger and I are through. The new site.

After it messed up the order of my past few posts ("Sleepwalker" was written yesterday but for some reason it's listed under March 12th; "All You Need Is Love" is also posted under the wrong date now), I officially hate Blogger.

Once I find a proper (and free) publishing platform, I'm packing my bags.

Pia at 4:19 PM

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Full Moon, Part Four

Blogger and I are through. The new site.

My roommate M was lighting a cigarette as I slid the glass door shut. I stood on the balcony, stamping my feet and shivering under my blanket. "How was your weekend?" I asked, my words released in whisps of white.

"Got laid twice," she said with a chuckle. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah. Why?"

"You've been playing Mariah for the past three hours."

"Aw, shit. I didn't think it was so loud."

"It wasn't. The walls are thinner than we think, that's all." She sat back and laughed. "If I knew it was so easy to get laid here, I would have left for Korea a long time ago."

It was the first time we'd spoken candidly in weeks. Spending 24 hours a day together had taken its toll on our relationship, and usually we locked ourselves in our bedrooms and waited for the other to leave. We didn't even acknowledge each other at work.

"I'm happy for you," I said, and I really wasn't. All I could feel was envy and alienation. I just wanted the apartment to myself so I could play shitty love ballads without embarrassing myself.

She pressed her Marbolo into her ashtray and leaned back in her lawnchair. "I could have sworn you were going to hook up with that guy from New York. You two looked so . . ." She rolled her eyes in thought before taking out another cig. "Intimate."

"Yeah, well, tell that to the women he's been fucking since he stepped in Seoul."

"That's no surprise. He's gorgeous." As she said this, she sighed to herself and took a long drag. "But do they know him as well as you do?"

"What makes you think I know him more than the others?"

"You two were in your own little world that night. Even when you left to talk to the girls, he waited for you. The way you two watched each other . . . I could have sworn it was going to happen."

Pia at 4:19 PM

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All You Need Is Love

What does one do after a night of alcohol, karaoke, nachos, dancing and pointy two-inch heels?

Two hours of Taekwondo, of course!

Prior to class I inspected my feet. Bruised, yellow and cracked. That's what two hours a day, six days a week will do to you.

After our kicking drills we slid the windows open and thrust our heads and chests outside. The bitter chill dried the sweat and steadied the manic beatings of my heart.

I looked at the teenage boys to my right, saw their wide, toothy grins and thought of how young they were. So carefree and innocent. Not so different from the monks I met months ago.

I remembered how it was for me at fourteen, the great romance I felt for this sport. How I learned something new about my body everyday, how I thought I was capable of great things, how large and muscular I felt.

"What do you do here for fun?" I asked a Korean last night in Hongdae.

"See friends," she said, self-consciously. "Dance, drink, have dinner."

Westerners aren't so different, I thought. "Do you have any hobbies?"

"No. No time. And you?"

"I take Korean language classes, study Buddhism and do Taekwondo."

"Wow . . . You're so small and beautiful," she said, looking over my scrawny arms. "I don't know any women who do Taekwondo. Yoga, yes. Martial arts, no."

"You should try it. It's very relaxing."

"Maybe. It's not ladylike, is it?" We stared at each other for a moment before she meekly added, "Men don't like strong women."

I sighed and finished my drink.

Edited to add that the final two chapters of "Full Moon" should come out by the end of the week. Also, I swept my floor. Boy, did it look nasty.

Pia at 4:19 PM

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Friday, March 10, 2006

Full Moon, Part Three

The Lunar New Year had come and gone, but its shadow remained. I'd chosen to overlook K's past offenses as alcohol-influenced flukes in an otherwise carefree friendship. I was in constant fear of losing people. I needed people to latch onto. Even those I feared and resented were a source of comfort.

Of course, I still felt awkward about what had happened. Two weeks later, I made a point of ignoring him while the gang guzzled Long Island ice teas in a hip hop club in Itaewon. The New Yorker and I burrowed ourselves in a booth, sipped overpriced, imported beer and watched nervous bartenders shoot down lovelorn foreigners.

"Could an artist be inspired if he's happy?" he asked, his long, lovely fingers shredding his beer label.

"I think so," I said, thinking of how long it'd been since I'd tinkered with my scripts. "Why? Do you think you can only work when you're sad?"

"I felt my most creative during college. Before I graduated, I was so depressed. I was worried about finding a job there. That fear drove me to do my best work."

"Well, I think it's awesome that you worked in New York," I said. "The big city would probably devour a dumb hick like me."

"Don't say that. You've traveled more than anyone I know. And I grew up in an small agricultural area. I've only lived in the city for the past five years. I'm a redneck, too."

I stared at the table. "Well, if you haven't come up with any new ideas, that must mean you're happy, right?"

"And so are you." Our eyes locked.

"Well, I was depressed in high school, and all that came out of that period was really shitty poetry," I drawled.

"High school poetry. Can't think of anything worse."

"I was a communist."

"Never mind."

We laughed as I leaned towards him, jerking at a paper napkin with both hands. "I would think getting laid would help you in the creativity department."

"What are you saying . . .?"

"K told me you had sex last night?"

He looked past me and shook his head. "I don't want to think about it."

"K said she was hot. And Korean."

"I called her this morning. Her English was excellent, but it was difficult to talk with her. We don't have anything in common."

"Did you at least make her breakfast?" He nodded. "Good boy."

We watched as K tried to swoop down and kiss T, just a few tables away. The latest addition to our band of expats turned her face away, her lips tight in disgust. "The guy just got over you and he's already hitting on your new best friend," NYer said.

"I hope he doesn't scare her off. I really like her."

"He's not dangerous."

"You don't remember how he treated me on Lunar New Year?"

"His aggressiveness embarrasses me sometimes. But if you felt threatened, you should have told me."

"I can take care of myself."

"Pia, you're 80 pounds. I'd hate to fight the guy--he's built like a tank. But I would have helped you."

As K leaned in for another kiss, NYer and I finished our beers and ordered another round. I blinked the smoke out of my eyes, thinking of how pleasant it was to just be near him--someone so pretty and kind and easy to talk to. Even our moments of silence felt comfortable and safe.

I only wanted to curl up in his shoulder and shut my eyes for awhile . . .

"What's it like to have a one-night stand?" I suddenly asked.

"Honestly? It's great--for a moment. Then I start to want something more." He shook his head. "I'm exhausted. I should go."

"I'll walk you out."

We stood up and headed out. He placed his hand on the small of my back. I shivered involuntarily.

Once we were outside he stopped and turned to face me. I stood on the front steps and sighed, hugging my bare shoulders and gazing out at him without shame or restraint.

"It's late," he said. "You could spend the night at my place."

"I shouldn't ditch my girlfriends."

He laughed, stepped forward and wrapped his arms around me, pressing me close.

Then he was gone. And I haven't seen him since.

Pia at 12:37 AM

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Thursday, March 09, 2006

Entrance at Sunset

"Words are not the highest reality, nor what is expressed in words the highest reality.

Why? Because the highest reality is an experience which cannot be entered into by means of statements regarding it.

The mind must be in a state of wistom to understand wisdom."

--Buddhist passage

Entrance to Hwa Gye Sa Temple on Sam Gak Mountain

Pia at 7:50 AM

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Tuesday, March 07, 2006

Bull's-eye

Healthy Levels
Level 1 (At Their Best): Profoundly creative, expressing the personal and the universal, possibly in a work of art. Inspired, self-renewing and regenerating: able to transform all their experiences into something valuable: self-creative.
Level 2: Self-aware, introspective, on the "search for self," aware of feelings and inner impulses. Sensitive and intuitive both to self and others: gentle, tactful, compassionate.
Level 3: Highly personal, individualistic, "true to self." Self-revealing, emotionally honest, humane. Ironic view of self and life: can be serious and funny, vulnerable and emotionally strong.

Average Levels
Level 4: Take an artistic, romantic orientation to life, creating a beautiful, aesthetic environment to cultivate and prolong personal feelings. Heighten reality through fantasy, passionate feelings, and the imagination.
Level 5: To stay in touch with feelings, they interiorize everything, taking everything personally, but become self-absorbed and introverted, moody and hypersensitive, shy and self-conscious, unable to be spontaneous or to "get out of themselves." Stay withdrawn to protect their self-image and to buy time to sort out feelings.
Level 6: Gradually think that they are different from others, and feel that they are exempt from living as everyone else does. They become melancholy dreamers, disdainful, decadent, and sensual, living in a fantasy world. Self-pity and envy of others leads to self-indulgence, and to becoming increasingly impractical, unproductive, effete, and precious.

Unhealthy Levels
Level 7: When dreams fail, become self-inhibiting and angry at self, depressed and alienated from self and others, blocked and emotionally paralyzed. Ashamed of self, fatigued and unable to function.
Level 8: Tormented by delusional self-contempt, self-reproaches, self-hatred, and morbid thoughts: everything is a source of torment. Blaming others, they drive away anyone who tries to help them.
Level 9: Despairing, feel hopeless and become self-destructive, possibly abusing alcohol or drugs to escape. In the extreme: emotional breakdown or suicide is likely. Generally corresponds to the Avoidant, Depressive, and Narcissistic personality disorders.

Key Motivations: Want to express themselves and their individuality, to create and surround themselves with beauty, to maintain certain moods and feelings, to withdraw to protect their self-image, to take care of emotional needs before attending to anything else, to attract a "rescuer."

Pia at 12:16 AM

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Saturday, March 04, 2006

Full Moon, Part Two

On the morning of the Lunar New Year, I stirred awake as light hit my eyes with a snap. K was pulling back the curtains. Birds were chirping, the smell of eggs filled my nostrils and my head felt as if it was filled with lead.

I swung my legs over the side of the bed and watched him as he shuffled back to the stove. "How do you like your eggs?" he murmured, his voice as thick as clotted cream.

"Scrambled." He handed me a cup of tea, his eyes lowered. Did he remember what happened last night? Did he feel guilty? And, most important, could things be different between us?

I was so relieved to know nothing physical had happened--but at the same time, angry because of his words. No one had ever spoken to me that way before. I was also disappointed in myself for going home with him. When did I become this doormat?

We ate and watched television in silence for two hours. I purposely left my glasses on and didn't brush my teeth. Finally, just as I was going to make up an excuse about my roommate getting kidnapped by North Koreans, his phone rang.

"The New Yorker wants to go to this traditional Korean--"

"I'll go," I said, reaching for my backpack and pulling out my toothbrush.

"Wait, you don't even know what it is. It's--"

"I'll be ready in twenty minutes!"

I'd met NYer on New Year's Eve and again last night. He was tall, with a bird's nest of brown hair and eyes as clear as glass. A former freelance photographer, he was teaching in Seoul to raise money so he could attend grad school in California. I was smitten from the moment we'd discussed Hemingway over cheap champagne and chocolate chip pancakes.

He was pulling on a pair of patched jeans when K and I entered his room. "How was last night?" he asked as K left to talk to a woman in the hall.

I stared at my sneakers. "How was yours?"

"This girl tried to hook me up with her gay friend. When they found out I was straight, she began hitting on me." He grinned sheepishly. I melted.

"Anyway," he added, "thanks for going to this museum with us. K will probably sit in a corner and fall asleep. He's not interested in cultural stuff like you."

He leaned in, whispering. "Most westerners only want to hit the bars and pick up women. It gets boring after a while, you know?"

"Yeah," I whispered back. "But you're different."

A blonde in a red teddy wandered in, shaking out her hair. She briefly took me in before throwing herself on the bed and smirking at him. He gave her a small smile and shook his head before pouring her a cup of coffee.

"So you and K are together?" she asked, watching NYer over her cup as she sipped.

"No, but she molested me last night," K said, joining us. He threw an arm over my shoulder. I ducked and edged towards the door. "Don't let her mousy appearance fool you. She's a wildcat in the sack."

NYer threw me a wry look. "Happy Lunar New Year," he said.

Pia at 10:10 AM

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Thursday, March 02, 2006

Kick Penis!

A girlfriend of mine left me her copy of "Making Out in Korean," and it quickly replaced the dictionary in my handbag. This slender little guide contains useful phrases for parties, dining, fighting and screwing.

Thanks to this book, I found my new favorite word: Chokka! It literally means "Kick penis" and I can use it when I want to tell someone to fuck off or threaten to kick his privates.

The girls and I had a ball with this book last night. There's a whole chapter on what to say when you're getting laid--as if a foreigner could speak in Korean during sex!--and N, one of our Korean friends, wanted to learn some dirty English phrases.

"'I wan-na see your poo-shi.' Poo-shi? What is this word?" she asked.

"Pussy," E corrected as we fought to contain our laughter. N whipped out her electronic dictionary.

"'Cat.' I don't understand. Why would my boyfriend want to see my cat?"

"It has two meanings," I said, pointing to my own kitty.

"English is difficult!" N shrieked, covering her face with both hands.

The next day I tried to impress a coworker with my newfound knowledge. "Yochum bapoyo," I sighed as we sorted through files in the office. Things are busy.

When she shrugged, confused, I repeated myself.

"Yochum ba-bba-yo," she urged. "Be careful. You sound like you're saying you're an idiot."

Korean is difficult . . . but fun.

"My instructor wants me to have dinner with him," I told M when I returned home from Taekwondo practice a few hours ago.

"He probably wants you to kick his penis," she said.

Pia at 10:50 PM

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Monday, February 27, 2006

Hope Springs Eternal

The Instructor gently takes my elbow and steers me into the corner of the dojang. "End of class . . . Dodgeball?"

For the past two weeks, my whole life has revolved around the kids' graduation ceremony. Last week I skipped Taekwondo class altogether. I don't know why--being here makes me forget I have a job. Every ounce of anxiety slips off my shoulders. I feel younger, invulnerable, untouchable.

But never immortal.

Watching my martial arts classmates, I can't help but envy them. Oh, I remember how I was at their age. Quicker, stronger, more flexible. My skin was as rough and dark as bark, my muscles were more pronounced and my bones could take a pounding.

When I leapt forward, I didn't worry about where I would land--twisted ankles and pulled hamstrings were faraway places. I wore purpling bruises with pride, cut my nails to the flesh and sported Bengay like perfume.

Now I can't make a jump without feeling it all the way up to my knees. When I wake up, I can feel last night's tumbling along my spine. When I rotate my hips for a roundhouse kick, I feel it--oh boy, do I feel it. At 24, my limbs protest. I'm too old to start over.

But when I put on my dobok and look in the mirror, the giddiness spreads from my chest to my toes and fingertips. For these two hours, I am a kid again--and although I can't take the beatings as well as I used to, at least I'm still willing to take them.

I laugh. Dodgeball, okay. "Haven't played that since fifth grade," I drawl. He doesn't understand my words, but he senses my reluctance. He rolls his eyes and tugs me to the mat.

Squaring off against a tall, lithe high adolescent, I grin sheepishly. Look at the little old woman playing with the kids. He looks me over, and his face sets in battle.

For a moment, I'm startled by his solemnity. Until I realize that he has found a worthy opponent.

Pia at 10:58 PM

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