Dear person who doesn’t get fantasy

How? How do you not get it? What’s not to get? You have someone with imagination making up a world that does not exist – pretty much fiction in general, in that case. Fantasy only takes it a little farther and adds dragons. Or fairies. Or wizards. Or camels. Or all of that and then some.

So why don’t you get it? Did your parents restrict your access to good books? Or was it a status symbol of your worldly wisdom and maturity that you were above “such things?”

What made you this way? And why didn’t you get over it after thirty and appreciate the incredible capacity for fantasy to reveal deep truths about humanity? Fantasy can show us a reflection of life unlike any other medium. Although here, I also include surrealism, sci-fi, and any other form of fiction. Any work that holds a mirror on life – and does it well – can lead us to greater empathy, understanding, and insight.

So, dear person who doesn’t get fantasy, please get over it, and let me lend you my library.


that kind – red lips

I want to be the kind of person who brings darker lipstick to wear when she goes out for dinner with coworkers and friends.

That’s the life I want. It holds so much behind it – the having friends, the having a social life, the having enough confidence to dress up and go out, the having a desire to be seen and see others…things that I haven’t had before.

I want it.


Whenever I get dissatisfied, suffocated, overwhelmed, stressed out, or just plain bored, I have this thing I do. I call it displacement. I go out of dis place and over to dat place.

Mentally, anyway. I don’t mean I take a walk, although that would definitely be healthier and probably actually more helpful, but I start planning a life elsewhere.

Back in America, the other place was Korea (see the concrete room). I was so bogged down in preparing for this place that it completely took me away from the there and then I was in.

Now, after five months in Korea, things are starting to slow down, and I’m beginning to feel shirky. I want to shirk my duties here. Job is a job, not much social life (and whose fault is THAT, you idiot), and I feel like I need another kick in the pants to get things going.

So, thanks to a certain Youtube couple who shall remain nameless and who pretty much got me interested in Korea in the first place and have now moved to Japan…I want to go to Japan. Am I following them? Well, seems like it. It only takes me six years from when they go. Yay…there’s my life planned out, I guess.

Anyway, I just came down from a high of watching other people on Youtube talk about living in Japan, reading blogs about teaching there, and imagining how nice it would be to live in a place where night time is quiet. Ahhhh.

And then I remember subways so full there are people paid to push you in, and how expensive everything is, and how many alphabets there are, and how hot in the summer it is…and I sigh heavily and think I’ll stick it out for a least a couple years here before I move out of sheer antsiness. I should take care of that before moving again.

If only Murakami wasn’t so amazing…


the concrete room

When I was in university, back before I came to Korea, I thought of myself as being in a room made of concrete. Plain, solid, inescapable. There was one door in that room, and for me, it was Korea. My exit from that life was to move to Korea to teach.

It’s really interesting to look at that room from the outside. Because outside of that box-like room was another, bigger, box-like room. I do have more freedom now. More opportunities. More space to breathe.

But it’s still a box. I think it says “comfort zone” on it. I haven’t found a door yet. Maybe there isn’t one.

Everyone has a box, right? We are all trapped, to some extent, inside some box or another. Maybe we realize it, maybe not. I dare say some are bigger than others. I dare say some people will leave those rooms one day.

But for now, for me, I am inside this room.

Do you know who I am?

Do you know who I am? I want to ask my first boyfriend. I want to ask my best friend from childhood. I want to ask my parents, my teachers, my students, my coworkers, the man on the subway who sneakily stole glances at me. What am I in all those different eyes? What can be made of the mixture of impressions? Would it be me?

Do you know who I am? If you know, can you tell me?