In teaching research, I find it sometimes helpful to bring it to a simple level of the act of noticing. Researchers are often people trained to notice certain things, and more recently we have opened that idea to noticing without the bias of certain things limiting our "gaze." Sometimes we just want to cast our net over the side and pull things up which we notice in some particular way, sometimes systematic, sometimes not. Intentionally intending the world is an acknowledgement of otherness.
So for me, noticing has been a metaphor for discovery. It is a special way of knowing. Now that I have coupled this with my new passion for fiction, I find that writers are a special breed of noticers. They notice for me. So do poets. Such noticings are like flash points of consciousness. They are incandescent. Illuminating. Because of them I also notice. Now we have new poets in filmmakers who also notice the world and conscious awareness through intense acts of imagination.
But from the wonderful details that these noticers have discerned in the reconstructions of their imaginations, I am learning that I too, need to stay more consciously alert to the moment. Now I watch instances with new intentional intensity. Such noticing seems to demand a way of capturing the essence of the noticed. Today this has become almost routine to the vocabulary of film where the continuum of Time is shaped in instances of discovery that are of the past and the present, and are shaped as much by a creative sensibility as by historical accuracy. The things we notice create new instances for noticing.
This has transformed my own engagement with Time. Every detail of every second is the rich content of experience. Nothing we do, see, taste, smell, hear, feel, or say is trivial. Somehow all is the substance of existence and serves to define what we are and what we are becoming. Sharing our noticing increases the substance of what is real for us, expands the universe. Even in our increasing understanding of the cosmos, we learn because we notice more and more. We create special instruments for noticing time and space with many different mechanical eyes, ears, noses, tongues, and hands, with many different filters---all recorded as "data."
Maybe that is what we are: noticers of time as infinite manifestations, recording the dimensions of the cosmos as conscious awareness. It comes down to ourselves as distinct distillations of awareness, eloquently articulating multiple universes in our myriad noticing of details of being and time.
Sunday, March 04, 2007
Friday, February 23, 2007
Lost New York
I like walking the streets of New York. I can feel the presence of the past, and now the New York that has disappeared into Time seems even more vivid. I think I was first inspired by Stuyvesant Street, a little street that lingers from the days when Peter Stuyvesant was governor and located his estate there. St Mark's Place and Church were part of this estate, and Stuyvesant Street is still there--- the only remaining street running true east and west. To get to his estate you took the Bouwrie road which a few miles later became the road to Boston as you entered the wilderness that then began below 14th street.
Beneath my feet as I walk the streets of lower Manhattan, the past has been buried in the debris of time. Looking at the devastation of the World Trade Center area, I reflect that this exact same ground was the scene of the Great Fire of 1776 (the work of arsonists sympathetic to the revolution) and later the Great Fire of 1835 with almost the same area of destruction. During the first 40-50 years of the colony New Amsterdam, the city stopped at Wall Street, named for the wall that protected the city from the northern wilderness. That was where the settlement ended. Beyond lay forests, ponds, and lakes and a few farms near the North River (Hudson River).
When early settlers approached the shore, they remarked about the fresh sweet air that was unlike any they could remember. It was a magical wilderness, full of excitement and promise. I walk around Centre Street and look for the remnants of Five Points (just to the southeast of the current courthouses), a melting pot where five streets converged (Baxter, Worth, Park, Mulberry and the now non-existent Little Water Street). Little Water ran into a little cul de sac bay for the Collect Pond, which was a 48 acre fresh water lake, and the source of city drinking water until it became so fouled with pollution that it had to be drained through a canal emptying into the Hudson River, establishing Canal Street. In about a century and a half, the fragrant wilderness was inundated with a flood of immigrants who lived in competitive squalor while the city struggled with the northward advance of slums and dynamic economic neighborhoods populated by the influx of gifted tradesmen and entrepreneurs. Embedded in this erupting chaos was the vision and energy of a world of new opportunities and hope for the future. It became a city of motion and luminous lights, a new constellation swirling and whirling through the universe drawing the dreams of an entire world into the vortex of its irresistible force.
Now as I walk the city, I feel the energy gleaming like a perpetual motion dynamo, and I feel the past humming all around me and under my feet. Above me is the glowing parameter of the future that stretches past the sun... beyond the galaxy, a filament of the cosmos formed of the stuff that dreams are made of.
Beneath my feet as I walk the streets of lower Manhattan, the past has been buried in the debris of time. Looking at the devastation of the World Trade Center area, I reflect that this exact same ground was the scene of the Great Fire of 1776 (the work of arsonists sympathetic to the revolution) and later the Great Fire of 1835 with almost the same area of destruction. During the first 40-50 years of the colony New Amsterdam, the city stopped at Wall Street, named for the wall that protected the city from the northern wilderness. That was where the settlement ended. Beyond lay forests, ponds, and lakes and a few farms near the North River (Hudson River).
When early settlers approached the shore, they remarked about the fresh sweet air that was unlike any they could remember. It was a magical wilderness, full of excitement and promise. I walk around Centre Street and look for the remnants of Five Points (just to the southeast of the current courthouses), a melting pot where five streets converged (Baxter, Worth, Park, Mulberry and the now non-existent Little Water Street). Little Water ran into a little cul de sac bay for the Collect Pond, which was a 48 acre fresh water lake, and the source of city drinking water until it became so fouled with pollution that it had to be drained through a canal emptying into the Hudson River, establishing Canal Street. In about a century and a half, the fragrant wilderness was inundated with a flood of immigrants who lived in competitive squalor while the city struggled with the northward advance of slums and dynamic economic neighborhoods populated by the influx of gifted tradesmen and entrepreneurs. Embedded in this erupting chaos was the vision and energy of a world of new opportunities and hope for the future. It became a city of motion and luminous lights, a new constellation swirling and whirling through the universe drawing the dreams of an entire world into the vortex of its irresistible force.
Now as I walk the city, I feel the energy gleaming like a perpetual motion dynamo, and I feel the past humming all around me and under my feet. Above me is the glowing parameter of the future that stretches past the sun... beyond the galaxy, a filament of the cosmos formed of the stuff that dreams are made of.
Sunday, February 18, 2007
Book Making
In this day of eBooks and Audio Books many have argued that the book of paper and covers will eventually disappear. This was predicted with the advent of the computer. But I have noticed that books have continued to multiply and pile up on tables, forests continue to be decimated, and book emporiums like Borders and Barnes and Noble, to name just two, have evolved into friendly environments compatible with the Web 2.0 philosophy of sharing, and you can sit leisurely browsing for hours over a cup of coffee while also scouring the "interverse" with your laptop.Once, long ago, in a dimension now confined to memory, I was taught by a shop teacher how make a book. It was a technical process, one of choosing cover material, paper, sewing the paper in sections and connecting them to the spine. All books have a spine, and a g
utter, which secures the paper to the cover. Sewing and gluing are the principal techniques in creating a book. Book Makers are often called Binderies, and most libraries either operate a bindery or secure the services of a bindery. Manuscripts of dissertations are transformed into books, and books destroyed by the age of Time are reborn in the bindery.In shop, we learned to make a hardcover or case binding, the classic cover that preserves books and gives them long lives no matter how often you flip through their pages. That is the true appeal of the bound book of paper: it is flippable and provides random and immediate access to any page or line in the book. There is also something durable about a book; it is picturesque, a great home decorating tool that also lets your visitors know who you are by what you read (or usually what you hope to read sometime when you can get around to it!). My first book was of blank pages, a diary, if you will. Then, inspired by This Is My Beloved, I bound a book of my poems for a distant, clandestined beloved.
Father had a severe love affair with books. In fact he built a little house in the backyard that was just for books. He loved to buy up books of estates, series of books, especially histories, for history was one of his passions. He would disappear in the evening back to his little house where he lay on a bed surrounded by books, devouring them like a starving man feeding a voracious appetite. He was really a man for today, for a Barnes and Noble with its piles of books and easy chairs where one could while away the afternoon or evening with tea or coffee, and legions of books. The likes of him and those who follow populating these book spas are the real book makers... books made for those who discover worlds waiting in words.
In my new-found love of fiction, I relish reading in the environment created by these new book sellers. A certain spirit of the printed word, a reverence that borders on religiosity pervades the space. In the silence there are many readers, and the energy of so many converting words to consciousness is exhilarating. It is quiet, but there are inner detonations of imagination transforming silence into a vivid universe of unfolding experiences. It is more exciting than going to the movies, and the price of admission is your imagination.
Saturday, February 17, 2007
Father Knew Best
I have just discovered a new art form: fiction.
I know that fiction, per se, is really old hat, but for some reason my reading has centered around two domains: poetry and non-fiction. The fiction that I read was usually in the context of assigned reading in school, hardly an inspired context. For me, poetry was always the rich domain of imagery that explosively erupted as insightful discovery.
In addition, from very early on, my main outlet for creative consumption and creative output was music. This really flew in the face of a love affair with journalism that began around the third grade and shaped much of what I did for at least a decade. My father introduced me to publishing the printed word. I started writing a paper for my elementary school, and my father had an hectograph at work, in which you placed a prepared master on a gelatin bed and then put a blank sheet of paper on this sticky goo and after smoothing it out, pulled up the transferred print or image to the page. With luck we could print about 50 copies. You prepared a blue master and printed blue copies of typed text or hand-drawn images.
This publishing venture, small-time as it was, hooked me on the power of the printed word. After my near-death bout with an illness, my father bought me a used mimeograph. Now I had no limit
to the number of copies (except expenses) I could print, since this machine printed copies from ink in a drum that had a stencil made of wax-like paper attached. The typewriter cut type images through the stencil and special styli could be used to draw all manner of lines, including images that were the forerunner of clip art. My first major paper was The Weekly Laff, with more than 1000 subscribers, and almost simultaneously The 205 Home Rumour and a newspaper for my scout troop whose name I can't remember (the paper, not the troop). The Weekly Laff's front page was filled with jokes. The news began on the second page and focused on the Korean "hot war," and local neighborhood news.
Such a long aside from my discovery of fiction! My adventure began a few months ago when I decided I was interested in writing styles. So I started visiting Borders or Barnes and Noble to find the new fiction table, where I would systematically read about ten pages from one book, and then ten from another, and so on until I had read about 70-80 pages. Everything at first was about style, but after a few months I've fallen in love with the substance of the unfolding narrative, the very stuff of life.
I suppose this love goes back to my father, since before I could speak, my father had decided that I should be a writer. After going through his things when he died, I discovered he had many snatches of writings that trailed off unfinished, more than likely because he had to put food on the table through very difficult times. Yet. his support of my journalistic career was a gentle nudge along the path he would have liked to follow. Journalism seemed to flow through me like an elixir. After printing my own publications, I was named editor for our newspaper in Junior High and
graduated to the offset printing process, but had to prepare copy and dummies for the printer just like the big boys. In High School I started as the sports writer, then editor, and then went on to be the editor-in chief of the newspaper and the yearbook. One additional perk came with my high school profession as an editor: I learned to be a printer. I ran the high school print shop which boasted a hand-fed printer in which a roller went over an ink platen and then inked the hard handset type that was locked into a frame. One could use all kinds of paper stock, and I loved to print greeting cards, especially Christmas cards. Operating the printer required a bit of courage and dexterity since the paper had to be manually placed in the right position instantly and the hand withdrawn before the inked type frame slammed down on the paper.
All during that time, I was composing music and shows, and the lure of music was just too great and won out in college, even though I had won the Columbia University Award for excellence in journalism and editorial writing while in high school.
Throughout it all, my father kept insisting that one day I would return to the written word. In many ways, I never left it. I have continued to write poetry throughout my life. But suddenly I have discovered fiction. Something happens to the brain when you read fiction, and it is more than just the mind creating imagery from the prose. It is difficult to explain, but for me it is positively electric. It also underscores an idea my Father instilled in me...that the laboratory for writers is life itself...nothing is trivial...everything has meaning and will emerge in your story, which in some ways is the narrative of yourself reconstructed from your personal journey.
I know that fiction, per se, is really old hat, but for some reason my reading has centered around two domains: poetry and non-fiction. The fiction that I read was usually in the context of assigned reading in school, hardly an inspired context. For me, poetry was always the rich domain of imagery that explosively erupted as insightful discovery.
In addition, from very early on, my main outlet for creative consumption and creative output was music. This really flew in the face of a love affair with journalism that began around the third grade and shaped much of what I did for at least a decade. My father introduced me to publishing the printed word. I started writing a paper for my elementary school, and my father had an hectograph at work, in which you placed a prepared master on a gelatin bed and then put a blank sheet of paper on this sticky goo and after smoothing it out, pulled up the transferred print or image to the page. With luck we could print about 50 copies. You prepared a blue master and printed blue copies of typed text or hand-drawn images.
This publishing venture, small-time as it was, hooked me on the power of the printed word. After my near-death bout with an illness, my father bought me a used mimeograph. Now I had no limit
to the number of copies (except expenses) I could print, since this machine printed copies from ink in a drum that had a stencil made of wax-like paper attached. The typewriter cut type images through the stencil and special styli could be used to draw all manner of lines, including images that were the forerunner of clip art. My first major paper was The Weekly Laff, with more than 1000 subscribers, and almost simultaneously The 205 Home Rumour and a newspaper for my scout troop whose name I can't remember (the paper, not the troop). The Weekly Laff's front page was filled with jokes. The news began on the second page and focused on the Korean "hot war," and local neighborhood news.Such a long aside from my discovery of fiction! My adventure began a few months ago when I decided I was interested in writing styles. So I started visiting Borders or Barnes and Noble to find the new fiction table, where I would systematically read about ten pages from one book, and then ten from another, and so on until I had read about 70-80 pages. Everything at first was about style, but after a few months I've fallen in love with the substance of the unfolding narrative, the very stuff of life.
I suppose this love goes back to my father, since before I could speak, my father had decided that I should be a writer. After going through his things when he died, I discovered he had many snatches of writings that trailed off unfinished, more than likely because he had to put food on the table through very difficult times. Yet. his support of my journalistic career was a gentle nudge along the path he would have liked to follow. Journalism seemed to flow through me like an elixir. After printing my own publications, I was named editor for our newspaper in Junior High and
graduated to the offset printing process, but had to prepare copy and dummies for the printer just like the big boys. In High School I started as the sports writer, then editor, and then went on to be the editor-in chief of the newspaper and the yearbook. One additional perk came with my high school profession as an editor: I learned to be a printer. I ran the high school print shop which boasted a hand-fed printer in which a roller went over an ink platen and then inked the hard handset type that was locked into a frame. One could use all kinds of paper stock, and I loved to print greeting cards, especially Christmas cards. Operating the printer required a bit of courage and dexterity since the paper had to be manually placed in the right position instantly and the hand withdrawn before the inked type frame slammed down on the paper.All during that time, I was composing music and shows, and the lure of music was just too great and won out in college, even though I had won the Columbia University Award for excellence in journalism and editorial writing while in high school.
Throughout it all, my father kept insisting that one day I would return to the written word. In many ways, I never left it. I have continued to write poetry throughout my life. But suddenly I have discovered fiction. Something happens to the brain when you read fiction, and it is more than just the mind creating imagery from the prose. It is difficult to explain, but for me it is positively electric. It also underscores an idea my Father instilled in me...that the laboratory for writers is life itself...nothing is trivial...everything has meaning and will emerge in your story, which in some ways is the narrative of yourself reconstructed from your personal journey.
Saturday, December 30, 2006
Year's End
The end is the beginning. Suddenly I discover a new perception of Time and Being. Being is Time and repetition of cycles is an illusion. The circle as a symbol of infinity is a fiction, because the "circle" is constantly moving, revolving and evolving through time and space. Our dimensional worlds are like cylinders and filaments in never-ending change or vibration. It might well be that consciousness is the collision of membranes oscillating and making parallel universes as they go along, appearing and reappearing in a vast infinitude of realities and universes.
Tuesday, October 31, 2006
Time Loss
All this time since the last entry...lost.
Why?
My inertia compounds the loss. Time looming large is more daunting than an empty page, an empty canvas, an empty space inviting, enticing... Time is the very stuff of existence, the essence of Being, more palpable than space. Being stuck in Time is like disappearing into a blackhole. That is where I have been... past the Event Horizon... into the jowls of the Time Grinder.
My Browser was set to open on this blog. Every time I opened it, this black hole of Jet Lag came up as a grim reminder of my stalled condition. It should have been Time Lag because my paralysis extended way beyond the conventions of travel disadvantages from point to point on our globe.
So now I open a new era. Somehow I have gone through an evolution from early enthusiasm, through the trying times of working through patches with no inspiration, to the recognition of my limits and a growing vision. Maybe this era will be open new insights and energies. I know I have lost the few readers I may have had, so now I write to the empty space, the empty page, the emptiness of an existential ennui that smiles as it advances for the kill.
Why?
My inertia compounds the loss. Time looming large is more daunting than an empty page, an empty canvas, an empty space inviting, enticing... Time is the very stuff of existence, the essence of Being, more palpable than space. Being stuck in Time is like disappearing into a blackhole. That is where I have been... past the Event Horizon... into the jowls of the Time Grinder.
My Browser was set to open on this blog. Every time I opened it, this black hole of Jet Lag came up as a grim reminder of my stalled condition. It should have been Time Lag because my paralysis extended way beyond the conventions of travel disadvantages from point to point on our globe.
So now I open a new era. Somehow I have gone through an evolution from early enthusiasm, through the trying times of working through patches with no inspiration, to the recognition of my limits and a growing vision. Maybe this era will be open new insights and energies. I know I have lost the few readers I may have had, so now I write to the empty space, the empty page, the emptiness of an existential ennui that smiles as it advances for the kill.
Monday, August 28, 2006
Jet Lag
In my travels I have experienced what I thought was jet lag, a kind of sluggishness and fatigue that is somewhat annoying and is over in a few days. When I heard others who travel more than I complain of jet lag, I assumed they were speaking of this minor nuisance and I wondered about the basis of their difficulty.
However, the jet lag I experienced this time after returning from Korea was totally disabling, a major impediment to routine functioning. This was not something that I could ignore, since my energy was totally drained and I was thoroughly disoriented. Each day I would manage to get out of bed and get through the morning routine, but when I tried to leave the apartment, I would feel as though someone had hit me with a sledge hammer as I was trying to walk while dragging a three hundred pound weight. Each day I would try to return to work, I would be beaten back by a ruthless fatigue that resembled a drug-induced state. I would lay delirious in bed, voices on the radio blending with my fantasies in some bizarre narrative of intrigue and deception. Somehow I would find myself back in Korea in some back street pursuing some vague adventure that left me helpless and alone...descending into unconsciousness.
One friend advised me to "stay with the sun" and I thought he merely meant to adjust my sleeping habits to the local daylight hours. But I have since learned that the remedy is to absorb as much sunlight as possible as it creates a chemical response that counteracts the jet lag and enables you to adjust quickly. Alas! I learned this too late since I am now in the final stages of recovery. Yet, I have a new respect for those world travelers who seem to thrive in the changing zones of time and days perhaps creating a new species equipped for time travel.
However, the jet lag I experienced this time after returning from Korea was totally disabling, a major impediment to routine functioning. This was not something that I could ignore, since my energy was totally drained and I was thoroughly disoriented. Each day I would manage to get out of bed and get through the morning routine, but when I tried to leave the apartment, I would feel as though someone had hit me with a sledge hammer as I was trying to walk while dragging a three hundred pound weight. Each day I would try to return to work, I would be beaten back by a ruthless fatigue that resembled a drug-induced state. I would lay delirious in bed, voices on the radio blending with my fantasies in some bizarre narrative of intrigue and deception. Somehow I would find myself back in Korea in some back street pursuing some vague adventure that left me helpless and alone...descending into unconsciousness.
One friend advised me to "stay with the sun" and I thought he merely meant to adjust my sleeping habits to the local daylight hours. But I have since learned that the remedy is to absorb as much sunlight as possible as it creates a chemical response that counteracts the jet lag and enables you to adjust quickly. Alas! I learned this too late since I am now in the final stages of recovery. Yet, I have a new respect for those world travelers who seem to thrive in the changing zones of time and days perhaps creating a new species equipped for time travel.
Wednesday, August 16, 2006
Namsadang
When I travel, I always think there will be more free time than actually materializes. I thought I would have time for long, leisurely blogging about my visit to Korea. I have many notes and many thoughts, few of which have made it through my fingers to this Blog. It's okay. Right now I am trying to relish the moments and the people. Some of these experiences will eventually make their way to words, but others may slumber for another time.
One discovery that I cherish is Namsadang and the newly sculpted figures in Anseong that celebrate this entertainment and art genre. Apparently the film The King and the Clown (Wang-eui Nam-ja) is narrated through the context of Namsadang, so I look forward to seeing that film which apparently has had lasting impact on Koreans. It seems clear that effotrs such this are awakening many to the rich heritage and past of a country that is distinctively different from its Asian neighbors despite some obvious practices they share through interaction over centuries.
Namsadang (Namsadang Nori) represents a traveling group of entertainers much in the spirit of Commedia dell'arte that flourished as a traveling troupe of acrobats, dancers, and actors in Italy in the 1500s. The sculpted figures at Anseong convey the spontaneity and energy of this practice that has as its primary aim to entertain, and through the invention and imagination of its makers has risen to the status of a national art. These figures were installed this past July, so they have been a public fixture for about a month. They make an exciting contribution to Anseong and performance heritage of Namsadang.
One discovery that I cherish is Namsadang and the newly sculpted figures in Anseong that celebrate this entertainment and art genre. Apparently the film The King and the Clown (Wang-eui Nam-ja) is narrated through the context of Namsadang, so I look forward to seeing that film which apparently has had lasting impact on Koreans. It seems clear that effotrs such this are awakening many to the rich heritage and past of a country that is distinctively different from its Asian neighbors despite some obvious practices they share through interaction over centuries.
Namsadang (Namsadang Nori) represents a traveling group of entertainers much in the spirit of Commedia dell'arte that flourished as a traveling troupe of acrobats, dancers, and actors in Italy in the 1500s. The sculpted figures at Anseong convey the spontaneity and energy of this practice that has as its primary aim to entertain, and through the invention and imagination of its makers has risen to the status of a national art. These figures were installed this past July, so they have been a public fixture for about a month. They make an exciting contribution to Anseong and performance heritage of Namsadang.
Tuesday, August 15, 2006
Itaewon: Pul Hyanggi and the Grand Hyatt Terrace
Finally, Sang-chuel Choe and I made contact and arranged to get together on this day of Korean Independence. I had already had met for lunch with Professor Doo-jin Han, and with Youngju and Han went to the new National Museum of Korea, so the day had been rather full. Youngju shared some time as I waited for Sang-chuel in the lounge of the Seoul Plaza. (The day had brought one minor disaster: I lost my camera in a taxi without much hope of recovering it.)
As we waited in the lounge, Youngju pointed out a match-making date in progress, which I learned is a very common event in hotel lounges. Korea is filled with such elegant and fanciful lounges, so it seems a great ritual for seeking and finding the mate of your dreams.
Sang-chuel finally fought his way through the notorious Seoul traffic jams arriving slightly after 7 p.m. He drove to a restaurant just beside the Itaewon area, Pul Hyanggi, which he explained means the scent or fragrance of grasses. This was a traditional Korean restaurant and I am not sure exactly what Sang-chuel ordered, but the food kept coming for an hour and twenty minutes with delectable dishes I had never seen or tasted before. It was a fest for royalty and a truly unforgettable experience. The woman dressed in traditional Korean fashion who served as our host orchestrated the meal with grace and devotion, making each dish resonate with its own special meaning and aura.
Sang-chuel telephoned Insook and arranged for her to meet us at the Grand Hyatt Hotel in nearby (very nearby) Itaewon, a cosmopolitan, upscale district appealing to international travelers and Koreans seeking a more multicultural setting. We drove along the main street of Itaewon and I felt as though we were in another country. I had read about this thriving Itaewon section in the Korean Airline's magazine, Morning Calm, and in this brief sojourn it more than lived up to the promise of the article.
The Grand Hyatt was a blast. The moment you entered, you felt like you had entered a different world. It was pulsing with energy. The lounge was filled with young people bent on romance and celebration, aided and abetted by a piano player who pulled the essence of Korean dreamy pop from the ivories with an appropriate rubato spirit of wanderlust.
We went to Sang-chuel's favorite Hyatt hangout, The Terrace. I can only say that the view from the terrace was spectacular, a panoramic view of Seoul and the Han river. We looked south from Mount Namsan across the river to the new city, and I thought I had a sense of where COEX and Chungang University might be located in that distant view. While we waited for Insook a waiter walked around the restaurant with a sign that had little bells ringing. Sang- chuel explained it was another meeting of strangers hoping to meet their dreammate.
Insook joined us shortly and we invested some calories in the desserts and coffee. I had the Mango Cup which totally destroyed any hope I had of trying to stay within range of my diet. But what the heck...it's Korea, after all.
As we waited in the lounge, Youngju pointed out a match-making date in progress, which I learned is a very common event in hotel lounges. Korea is filled with such elegant and fanciful lounges, so it seems a great ritual for seeking and finding the mate of your dreams.
Sang-chuel finally fought his way through the notorious Seoul traffic jams arriving slightly after 7 p.m. He drove to a restaurant just beside the Itaewon area, Pul Hyanggi, which he explained means the scent or fragrance of grasses. This was a traditional Korean restaurant and I am not sure exactly what Sang-chuel ordered, but the food kept coming for an hour and twenty minutes with delectable dishes I had never seen or tasted before. It was a fest for royalty and a truly unforgettable experience. The woman dressed in traditional Korean fashion who served as our host orchestrated the meal with grace and devotion, making each dish resonate with its own special meaning and aura.
Sang-chuel telephoned Insook and arranged for her to meet us at the Grand Hyatt Hotel in nearby (very nearby) Itaewon, a cosmopolitan, upscale district appealing to international travelers and Koreans seeking a more multicultural setting. We drove along the main street of Itaewon and I felt as though we were in another country. I had read about this thriving Itaewon section in the Korean Airline's magazine, Morning Calm, and in this brief sojourn it more than lived up to the promise of the article.
The Grand Hyatt was a blast. The moment you entered, you felt like you had entered a different world. It was pulsing with energy. The lounge was filled with young people bent on romance and celebration, aided and abetted by a piano player who pulled the essence of Korean dreamy pop from the ivories with an appropriate rubato spirit of wanderlust.
We went to Sang-chuel's favorite Hyatt hangout, The Terrace. I can only say that the view from the terrace was spectacular, a panoramic view of Seoul and the Han river. We looked south from Mount Namsan across the river to the new city, and I thought I had a sense of where COEX and Chungang University might be located in that distant view. While we waited for Insook a waiter walked around the restaurant with a sign that had little bells ringing. Sang- chuel explained it was another meeting of strangers hoping to meet their dreammate.
Insook joined us shortly and we invested some calories in the desserts and coffee. I had the Mango Cup which totally destroyed any hope I had of trying to stay within range of my diet. But what the heck...it's Korea, after all.
Sunday, August 13, 2006
Jumping into the Seoul Scene
Sunday, Seoul time was an exhilarating trek through the streets and by-ways of a city bigger than New York that felt somehow more intimate and open. Maybe it was just the charm of my guide, Jungmin (later joined by another charming guide) and her shrewd maneuvering. However, nothing can be done to avoid the traffic jams of Seoul which are growing more and more severe even as I am typing this paragraph. It is one of those things that everyone complains about, but somehow seem to accept as a modern condition of city life. With 44 million people who own at least one car, driving is a challenge and you usually are trying to flee the city and the congestion for points south and the endless shores that outline the peninsula.
We went through some fashionable shopping malls to watch people and the gleaming and timely products, and ended up at Tani for lunch, a fusion eatery designed as an upscale but cozy retreat where conversation and idleness reign. It was difficult to disengage from this quiet oasis, but we were seeking to be in the streets and mingle with people and Korean Culture. It was extremely hot and humid, but nevertheless we headed for a landmark, Myeong Dong Catholic Cathedral, which was about 200 meters away. Our path led us through the street of youth, Myeong Dong, a boulevard without cars, inhabited by thousands of teenagers (and younger) with many shops and carts designed to lure them into sales, but they seemed especially savvy and out for other adventures. Walking this street gave new meaning to the phrase "strolling the boulevard..."
Eventually we came to the church, which because it was Sunday was filled with worshippers and tourists like myself. I took a few pictures but was fiercely attacked and admonished by a girl of about 15 years, who was supported by some man who appeared to be in charge of the back of the church. They were intent in herding people to the sides of the church where no one could see, while keeping the center of the sanctuary vacant.
Our real destination for the day was a martial arts musical show called Jumping that had been running for some time and became extremely popular after being acclaimed by a festival in Edinburgh. As it happened, we were to see the last performance of this show in the Cecil Theatre (a typical off-Broadway style space) before it began a national tour.
Upon leaving the church, we grabbed a taxi, and discovered that the driver did not have the slightest idea how to get to the theatre, even though it is a well-known destination and quite famous because of the hit shows that have played there. It was at this point, Jungmin pulled out her phone and called someone for directions, and then handed the phone to the driver, who despite this assistance seemed very reluctant to accept the directions.
Even though we inched our way through traffic, we made it to the theatre much too early and were told about a nearby cafeteria where we might spend some time and find some refreshment. But the cafeteria was closed for Sunday, so we wandered a long the street and stumbled upon a true national treasure that had been named by an international group of architects as the most impressive and beautiful building in Seoul, the Seoul Anglican Church.
This was an extraordinary discovery, and although the sanctuary was closed, a very kind gentleman unlocked the doors and gave us a personal tour. The architecture is Anglican gothic mixed with Korean, the only such structure of its kind. Even as I write this in the plaza of the Seoul Plaza Hotel, I am looking at this idyllic structure with the deep earthern orange roofs and light brown stone that sits in the center of the city, out of the way but also deeply in the midst of the life of Seoul. Begun in 1924, the church took more than 70 years to complete, and saw Seoul survive some of its most tempestuous times.
After leaving the church, we discovered a gallery maintained by one of Korea's largest newspapers, Chosan. In the gallery we found a very tasteful snackbar where we tried a beverage Clearly Canadian and a mango frappe. This turned out to be a great spot to talk politics, and I discovered that Korea's president is not well thought of (to say the least).
We then headed for the Cecil Theatre and watched a wonderful display of energy and imagination called Jumping, and by the time the show was over the whole place was jumping. A highlight of the event was after the show when the entire cast lined up to give autographs and pose for pictures. Jungmin collected all the autographs as I served as the historian/researcher.
You might think that would be the finish of a wonder-filled day, but we were joined by Youngju and headed for the Samsung Tower and a restaurant/bar known as Top Cloud. There we had impressive French Cuisine and shared ice cream and cake to finish the meal. The manager of the restaurant and our waiter were rather smitten by my guides, so we were treated to a tour and pictures before we finally left and called it a day.
We went through some fashionable shopping malls to watch people and the gleaming and timely products, and ended up at Tani for lunch, a fusion eatery designed as an upscale but cozy retreat where conversation and idleness reign. It was difficult to disengage from this quiet oasis, but we were seeking to be in the streets and mingle with people and Korean Culture. It was extremely hot and humid, but nevertheless we headed for a landmark, Myeong Dong Catholic Cathedral, which was about 200 meters away. Our path led us through the street of youth, Myeong Dong, a boulevard without cars, inhabited by thousands of teenagers (and younger) with many shops and carts designed to lure them into sales, but they seemed especially savvy and out for other adventures. Walking this street gave new meaning to the phrase "strolling the boulevard..."
Eventually we came to the church, which because it was Sunday was filled with worshippers and tourists like myself. I took a few pictures but was fiercely attacked and admonished by a girl of about 15 years, who was supported by some man who appeared to be in charge of the back of the church. They were intent in herding people to the sides of the church where no one could see, while keeping the center of the sanctuary vacant.
Our real destination for the day was a martial arts musical show called Jumping that had been running for some time and became extremely popular after being acclaimed by a festival in Edinburgh. As it happened, we were to see the last performance of this show in the Cecil Theatre (a typical off-Broadway style space) before it began a national tour.
Upon leaving the church, we grabbed a taxi, and discovered that the driver did not have the slightest idea how to get to the theatre, even though it is a well-known destination and quite famous because of the hit shows that have played there. It was at this point, Jungmin pulled out her phone and called someone for directions, and then handed the phone to the driver, who despite this assistance seemed very reluctant to accept the directions.
Even though we inched our way through traffic, we made it to the theatre much too early and were told about a nearby cafeteria where we might spend some time and find some refreshment. But the cafeteria was closed for Sunday, so we wandered a long the street and stumbled upon a true national treasure that had been named by an international group of architects as the most impressive and beautiful building in Seoul, the Seoul Anglican Church.
This was an extraordinary discovery, and although the sanctuary was closed, a very kind gentleman unlocked the doors and gave us a personal tour. The architecture is Anglican gothic mixed with Korean, the only such structure of its kind. Even as I write this in the plaza of the Seoul Plaza Hotel, I am looking at this idyllic structure with the deep earthern orange roofs and light brown stone that sits in the center of the city, out of the way but also deeply in the midst of the life of Seoul. Begun in 1924, the church took more than 70 years to complete, and saw Seoul survive some of its most tempestuous times.
After leaving the church, we discovered a gallery maintained by one of Korea's largest newspapers, Chosan. In the gallery we found a very tasteful snackbar where we tried a beverage Clearly Canadian and a mango frappe. This turned out to be a great spot to talk politics, and I discovered that Korea's president is not well thought of (to say the least).
We then headed for the Cecil Theatre and watched a wonderful display of energy and imagination called Jumping, and by the time the show was over the whole place was jumping. A highlight of the event was after the show when the entire cast lined up to give autographs and pose for pictures. Jungmin collected all the autographs as I served as the historian/researcher.
You might think that would be the finish of a wonder-filled day, but we were joined by Youngju and headed for the Samsung Tower and a restaurant/bar known as Top Cloud. There we had impressive French Cuisine and shared ice cream and cake to finish the meal. The manager of the restaurant and our waiter were rather smitten by my guides, so we were treated to a tour and pictures before we finally left and called it a day.
Saturday, August 12, 2006
An American in Seoul
Coming into Seoul from Anseong, I felt the energy of a city tuned to the present but steeped in the rich heritage and tradition of a past that stretches into the remote past and included regions that extended out as far as Manchuria.As we approached City Hall, we could see the building decorated in anticipation of the upcoming national holiday on Tuesday, August 15th of Kwangbok-jol, Korean Liberation and the establishment of the first Korean government in 1948. The building was completely covered with materials replicating the Korean flag Tae-kuk with intense red, white, and blue with the black characters framing the central red and blue yin and yang symbol. Workers were busily constructing a stage to the side of the building.
Fortunately my hotel room looks out over this scene from the 20th floor where I look northward to the mountains that surround Seoul. As I look on the grounds before me, I see the great lawn in front of the City Hall Building. In the states, this area would be sealed off with a "Keep Off the Grass" sign, but here in Seoul families are enjoying the lawn, strolling and sitting, with children running and playing.
To my left as I look at the circular grounds below is a square with about 64 water fountains that shoot out various patterns as children run into the square to be doused with water. They are having such fun. What a great idea!
The stage has been comleted and chairs set for musicians. In front of the soundstage is a circular stage, which will likely be for speakers, performers, dancers, and whatever will comprise the official celebration.
From the intense activity, I wonder if there will be some event today, Sunday, in anticipation of the Tuesday holiday. I have just finished breakfast and will be going out in the city with some adventure ahead. Last night I went to the Korean Traditional Theatre with a friend. We had been led to believe that the top performer of Pansori, An Sook Sun, would perform that night, but as it turned out, it was her students, who were fine, but still growing. We watched the Pansori for about an hour. It is an epic work that is deeply ingrained in the Korean Psyche. The entire performance is usually about four hours.
Friday, August 04, 2006
JFK-KAL-KOREA
I am sitting here, half a world away from my destination: Seoul, Korea. I am in the Korean Airlines Lounge looking across to the waterway that skirts the runway at JFK. In Korea it is half past midnight, August 5th. Here is it is not yet noon, August 4th, Eastern Daylight Time. I will go through an enormous afternoon in which Friday will morph into Saturday and I will step off the plane around 5 p.m. Saturday, fully convinced that I have taken a long summer's day into evening.
This is the miracle of travel, a phenomenon that makes us aware of the relativity of Time. Even on our little blue marble planet we experience time warping through space, the delay of Time filtered through the array of Space, slipping into dimensions of consciousness not fully comprehended, too easily dismissed as "jet lag."
My taxi to JFK was through a different time warp. The driver was pure Indian, with full Indian regalia, and he was intent on avoiding the bottleneck where the LIE joins the Cross Island Expressway. This took him on a journey past LaGuardia Airport, and I thought for a moment that I must have muttered the wrong airport as I recovered from the trauma of lifting and loading my extremely heavy bag into the trunk. Given the high humdity, there was a mess of fluids dripping from me and hitting the cold air conditioning of the cab like a miniature weatherfront.
"Are we going to JFK?" I managed, but the driver was silent, and in my weakened immune state, I began to imagine I was being abducted. Such moments are heady fantasies since it requires an audacious leap of faith that you are someone worthy of abduction... a boost to the old self-esteem...
I looked at all of the familiar ramp exits of LaGuardia and was thoroughly convinced I would never make it to Korea.
"Are you going to JFK?" I repeated, with somewhat more authority than before.
The driver glanced back at me and nodded.
There was surprisingly little traffic as we literally flew along the Van Wyck, usually the nemesis of every driver attempting to reach JFK by automobile.
And now, here I sit, listening to the distant roar of jets coming in and out of JFK, sipping some coffee courtesy of KAL and beginning the first Blog of my journey to the East, which amazingly takes me to the north and west to a world of serene mountains, robust people, beautiful lakes, and a city that never stops, but literally stretches out to the mountains all around in a pose of foreverness.
My friends in Korea are mostly asleep by now. I won't sleep for a whole day, because I can never sleep when I travel, but my psyche will pretend that it is just one long, beautiful day stretched out in the twilight of summer, and we can blame my drowsiness on the heat and the humidity.
This is the miracle of travel, a phenomenon that makes us aware of the relativity of Time. Even on our little blue marble planet we experience time warping through space, the delay of Time filtered through the array of Space, slipping into dimensions of consciousness not fully comprehended, too easily dismissed as "jet lag."
My taxi to JFK was through a different time warp. The driver was pure Indian, with full Indian regalia, and he was intent on avoiding the bottleneck where the LIE joins the Cross Island Expressway. This took him on a journey past LaGuardia Airport, and I thought for a moment that I must have muttered the wrong airport as I recovered from the trauma of lifting and loading my extremely heavy bag into the trunk. Given the high humdity, there was a mess of fluids dripping from me and hitting the cold air conditioning of the cab like a miniature weatherfront.
"Are we going to JFK?" I managed, but the driver was silent, and in my weakened immune state, I began to imagine I was being abducted. Such moments are heady fantasies since it requires an audacious leap of faith that you are someone worthy of abduction... a boost to the old self-esteem...
I looked at all of the familiar ramp exits of LaGuardia and was thoroughly convinced I would never make it to Korea.
"Are you going to JFK?" I repeated, with somewhat more authority than before.
The driver glanced back at me and nodded.
There was surprisingly little traffic as we literally flew along the Van Wyck, usually the nemesis of every driver attempting to reach JFK by automobile.
And now, here I sit, listening to the distant roar of jets coming in and out of JFK, sipping some coffee courtesy of KAL and beginning the first Blog of my journey to the East, which amazingly takes me to the north and west to a world of serene mountains, robust people, beautiful lakes, and a city that never stops, but literally stretches out to the mountains all around in a pose of foreverness.
My friends in Korea are mostly asleep by now. I won't sleep for a whole day, because I can never sleep when I travel, but my psyche will pretend that it is just one long, beautiful day stretched out in the twilight of summer, and we can blame my drowsiness on the heat and the humidity.
Sunday, July 23, 2006
Pershing Square
Walking along 42nd street, looking for some place to land around Grand Central Station. Discouraged by the cold store fronts of fast food chains designed to force you through their calorie-ridden food fare at a break-neck pace. Tired. Feeling the sultry air of a city summer morning. Sunday. Lazy and lax.
There under the viaduct of Park Avenue, tucked away like a pre-war mirage, Pershing Square beckoned, calling me like a black and white movie, full of intrigue and mystery.
I crossed the street, somewhat wary. Pershing Square seemed both out-of-place and strangely familiar. I had the eerie feeling that if I walked through the door, I would enter the world of Bogart and Bergman. I half expected that Peter Lorre would greet me with his fiendish smile and hand me a menu as he escorts me to an out of the way table surrounded by characters from Casablanca. Lorre leans over to me, shielding his face with the menu, and whispers that he can get me out of here to a safe place, for a price.
I push through the fantasy and enter Pershing Square. It is a large space, the front inhabited by cane-backed chairs and tables set for a continental-style breakfast. Looking past this vesitbule, I find a huge restaurant with a sumptious bar to the right. Somehow I have tumbled into a wonderland of the forties. It is quiet, as though waiting for something, for someone. For me, maybe. Mostly empty. A few people give me the once over as I am taken to a prominent table across from the bar.
Almost mysteriously, coffee is poured and water placed to the side, setting the stage for the waiter, an Eastern European from Hungary or Romania, looking like a young Peter Lorre. He regards me suspiciously, asking me if I am ready to order. I order eggs over easy with sausage. He takes the menu from me and asks "you mean instead of bacon?" I nod. "That's right, sausages." He gives a look of approval as though I had successfully said the right code word and disappears.
I pour the cream into the coffee and slowly stir as I look around the dining room. It has a confortable feeling, in spite of its size, and although there about twenty-five people, the restaurant seems strikingly empty. There is a man at the bar, watching some soccer game, some world "football" fare, while the bartender moves about his business. Both men appear to glance over at me, noting my presence while pretending to ignore me.
More quickly than I had expected, the food arrives, the waiter whisking the plate from behind me to the table in an almost frantic gesture while he half whispers urgently, "...careful...the plate is very hot!" He gives a glance and disappears.
I try to understand the meaning of this and begin to carve up the sausages. The plate IS very hot, and I figure this is a common practice of the restaurant to ensure that the food arrives at the table piping hot. The breakfast is excellent, laid out as extravagant fare, a separate dish of strawberry jam and a slab of butter, and an endless supply of coffee.
Suddenly I am struck by the intense silence of the room, punctuated by murmurs and laughter from several tables. No background music!
I look around. I am disappointed that there is no piano near the bar. It is too quiet. Pershing Square is the epitome of another time, a time gone by, and I want to lean over and whisper to the piano player, "Play it again, Sam, for old time's sake, play it again."
There under the viaduct of Park Avenue, tucked away like a pre-war mirage, Pershing Square beckoned, calling me like a black and white movie, full of intrigue and mystery.
I crossed the street, somewhat wary. Pershing Square seemed both out-of-place and strangely familiar. I had the eerie feeling that if I walked through the door, I would enter the world of Bogart and Bergman. I half expected that Peter Lorre would greet me with his fiendish smile and hand me a menu as he escorts me to an out of the way table surrounded by characters from Casablanca. Lorre leans over to me, shielding his face with the menu, and whispers that he can get me out of here to a safe place, for a price.
I push through the fantasy and enter Pershing Square. It is a large space, the front inhabited by cane-backed chairs and tables set for a continental-style breakfast. Looking past this vesitbule, I find a huge restaurant with a sumptious bar to the right. Somehow I have tumbled into a wonderland of the forties. It is quiet, as though waiting for something, for someone. For me, maybe. Mostly empty. A few people give me the once over as I am taken to a prominent table across from the bar.
Almost mysteriously, coffee is poured and water placed to the side, setting the stage for the waiter, an Eastern European from Hungary or Romania, looking like a young Peter Lorre. He regards me suspiciously, asking me if I am ready to order. I order eggs over easy with sausage. He takes the menu from me and asks "you mean instead of bacon?" I nod. "That's right, sausages." He gives a look of approval as though I had successfully said the right code word and disappears.
I pour the cream into the coffee and slowly stir as I look around the dining room. It has a confortable feeling, in spite of its size, and although there about twenty-five people, the restaurant seems strikingly empty. There is a man at the bar, watching some soccer game, some world "football" fare, while the bartender moves about his business. Both men appear to glance over at me, noting my presence while pretending to ignore me.
More quickly than I had expected, the food arrives, the waiter whisking the plate from behind me to the table in an almost frantic gesture while he half whispers urgently, "...careful...the plate is very hot!" He gives a glance and disappears.
I try to understand the meaning of this and begin to carve up the sausages. The plate IS very hot, and I figure this is a common practice of the restaurant to ensure that the food arrives at the table piping hot. The breakfast is excellent, laid out as extravagant fare, a separate dish of strawberry jam and a slab of butter, and an endless supply of coffee.
Suddenly I am struck by the intense silence of the room, punctuated by murmurs and laughter from several tables. No background music!
I look around. I am disappointed that there is no piano near the bar. It is too quiet. Pershing Square is the epitome of another time, a time gone by, and I want to lean over and whisper to the piano player, "Play it again, Sam, for old time's sake, play it again."
Wednesday, July 19, 2006
Marking Time
Music has always meant so much to me because of its immediacy, a felt connection with Time that vividly etches a streaming existence --- a metaphor of melody unfolding from the silence in a declaration of being. Music is Being.
I suspect it is this quality of immediacy that gives music its special niche in contemporary life. Music made in the moment makes us feel our authentic selves. Even recorded music provides a window of connection with our primal beat, our pulse shaped as the musical evocation of Now. Music is Now.
Music and dance are inseparable. Moving to music has become the social norm, mutual connection to the beat is a form of greeting and acceptance. The essence of musical movement is shaped moment to moment, and correctness is the hipness of Now. Ringtones are the new musical mantras, and dance is the tribal gesture of life. Music is Dance. Music is Life.
In the frightening zero state of ourselves, we are compelled to make music to cover the silence of non-existence. Music marks Time, reminding us that we Are. Music is Time.
I suspect it is this quality of immediacy that gives music its special niche in contemporary life. Music made in the moment makes us feel our authentic selves. Even recorded music provides a window of connection with our primal beat, our pulse shaped as the musical evocation of Now. Music is Now.
Music and dance are inseparable. Moving to music has become the social norm, mutual connection to the beat is a form of greeting and acceptance. The essence of musical movement is shaped moment to moment, and correctness is the hipness of Now. Ringtones are the new musical mantras, and dance is the tribal gesture of life. Music is Dance. Music is Life.
In the frightening zero state of ourselves, we are compelled to make music to cover the silence of non-existence. Music marks Time, reminding us that we Are. Music is Time.
Monday, July 17, 2006
The Troubador
Sitting there in Silver Spurs with steaming coffee, a trunk and guitar to the right, the Troubador took a sip and looked straight at me. I recognized the songster surrounded by everything defining a musical identity. In a five-foot square of space, all of the Troubador's belongings sat neatly tucked away alongside the small square black table. A wardrobe trunk, a guitar case and satchel, all black, carved out a space in the diner like a moveable office or studio, the top of the trunk holding the business of the day. On the table with the coffee, lay a gleaming white laptop. and on the laptop lay a mobil phone, silent but poised for action.
The Troubador smiled and moved to the music playing in the background, grooving with the mood, the tempo, and zeitgeist of the moment, perfectly content and comfortable as though this space was a permanent haven. Thoughts surfaced like music rippling through the diner in counterpoint to the countless conversations of customers at nearby tables.
The phone rang and the Troubador flipped open the phone and quietly streamed a phrase, the patterns connecting with sounds defining the perimeter, music flowing in and out of the moment. It was though everything the Troubador touched turned to music. A stranded song maker, caught in the routine of a Monday morning, shaping time with the rhythm of ideas bursting from the imagination.
The food came...eggs over easy with sausage, homefries, and toast. Without missing a beat, the Troubador incorporated the breakfast into the routine, even this was a musical texture weaving a web around the space, a place for music as presence, as sounding silently in the immediacy of awareness, torso dancing in place to the tune of a different drummer.
Putting down the phone, the Troubador connected with the music in the background, arms waving to the beat. I looked at the Troubador and saw a child of the future bursting through all impediments to become a singing poet of a new age. I looked at her, a youngling barely eighteen, long black flowing hair, intense dark eyes, music pulsing through her like sonic circulation.
She looked at me, and for an instant, we recognized each other, troubadors passing through time to different refrains and distant destinations.
The Troubador smiled and moved to the music playing in the background, grooving with the mood, the tempo, and zeitgeist of the moment, perfectly content and comfortable as though this space was a permanent haven. Thoughts surfaced like music rippling through the diner in counterpoint to the countless conversations of customers at nearby tables.
The phone rang and the Troubador flipped open the phone and quietly streamed a phrase, the patterns connecting with sounds defining the perimeter, music flowing in and out of the moment. It was though everything the Troubador touched turned to music. A stranded song maker, caught in the routine of a Monday morning, shaping time with the rhythm of ideas bursting from the imagination.
The food came...eggs over easy with sausage, homefries, and toast. Without missing a beat, the Troubador incorporated the breakfast into the routine, even this was a musical texture weaving a web around the space, a place for music as presence, as sounding silently in the immediacy of awareness, torso dancing in place to the tune of a different drummer.
Putting down the phone, the Troubador connected with the music in the background, arms waving to the beat. I looked at the Troubador and saw a child of the future bursting through all impediments to become a singing poet of a new age. I looked at her, a youngling barely eighteen, long black flowing hair, intense dark eyes, music pulsing through her like sonic circulation.
She looked at me, and for an instant, we recognized each other, troubadors passing through time to different refrains and distant destinations.
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