sakura season


There is nothing so startling or delightful as piles of pink on the curbs. Snow turns muddy quickly, so its beauty fades, but cherry blossom petals, as delicate as cut paper, as fragrant as the image of spring itself, lie in swirls and dusts of blush, gracing the road with ridiculous beauty. I say ridiculous because it is. Who else but children and romantics could dream up a road frosted with pink? It’s almost obscene, and I love it.

Others have written about it – when the season strikes you can’t help it – like a plague, cherry blossom fever strikes and everywhere are pictures and desserts and totes and lovers embracing the event.

But having never seen it in person, only as a visual motif for fluffy animes, I didn’t fully understand how dreamy it all is. Living where they bloom, for those two or three weeks, is a lesson in living happily, for who can turn a bend where those trees line the way and not feel uplifted?


being an adult in korea

Being an adult here means teaching even though you have the flu because there are no substitute teachers at your small private school and the other teachers are your friends so you can’t let them figure out the mess without you…

It means having to call your school to tell them your light in the bathroom is out because the landlord doesn’t speak English and you don’t want to bother with the hand signs and awkwardness…

It means not being entirely sure what kind of pads you’re buying, since those kinds of phrases aren’t in any decent phrasebook…

It means not ordering food over the phone because, although you could say your order perfectly fine in Korean, you couldn’t answer the other small questions about sides and would you like sauce? and will that be on a card or cash?…

It means late night or very early morning trash runs because even after eight months, you’re still not sure you sort the trash correctly and you don’t want to get yelled at…

And generally doing things you don’t like…like wearing pants…

a book of poems

…that I do not own.

I wish I had found the following lines in a beautifully leather bound book of poems I keep by my bed and read every night, a little faded, the pages I love most creased.

Instead, I found it on Tumblr, where I get most of my culture. It seems to diminish the impact, somehow, but it shouldn’t. Just as words delivered from an unworthy vessel do not make them less true.

March is a month of storms and lust. Spring looks on, like a thought between two people,

  • Mahmoud Darwish (via theperfumemaker)

At any rate, the words are true, this week into the third month, the transition. Especially here, in Korea, where Spring is truly breaking slow and stealthily, in the wind that carries a smell of heat, in the red of my allergy-sensitive nose. It’s coming, and it has brought storms, and lust indeed. Lust for a single life, for the hot deserts, for adventure and escape, again.

You can keep your pedantic lusts and let me have my opposites. A lust for running away.

another bad egg; blogging drunk

I’m boiling eggs now. I may also be drunk. I don’t know. After not drinking for a long long time, will two beers make me drunk? Or tipsy. But I haven’t misspelled anything yet. That either says a lot for my ability to hold alcohol or my ingrained English prowess. Also I just used a word like prowess.

And why am I tipsy or possibly drunk? Because, my friends, I had another bad egg date. I think I could turn this into a funny and relatable blog about dating. Cause boy do I seem to pick em. Although, to be fair, the other one was a blind date setup by a coworker and this was someone off a dating site…so not guaranteed to win on either counts. I hadn’t met either one before.

I need another sip, hold on.

Okay, so the last one wasn’t touchy or close enough. It was like an interview, right? And bad. But this guy, this guy who had been texting me emojis and dear and such crap all the time and who I thought was super sweet…yeah, he was super touchy. We watched Deadpool, not quite a movie to get cozy with, and I wanted to fucking watch it, fuck it all, but he wanted to hold my hand, and damn me and my inability to say nooooo.

I actually had the shitty thought that hey, he paid for everything, shouldn’t I let him hold hands with me? Fuck. Shit. Am I a whore? Balls. I’m swearing a lot because I couldn’t even concentrate on the movie, I was panicking too much. I don’t like people touching me that much on the first date. First meeting, fuck it. Don’t kiss my hand, you desperate douchebag. Just leave me alone to enjoy the blood and gore and witticisms. Shit. I thought I was past all that. I wanted to practice with a guy who seemed into me. Turns out I wanted to pull a Deadpool on him and shoot him up the ass.

I got home and cried a lot, which makes me sure I need that counselor. Damn. “I cried because he held my hand and I couldn’t say no. What do I do, counselor lady m’am?”

Yeah, cause that’s totally a conversation I’m dying to have.

At least the movie was good. I know that, even if I was only half concentrating. Fuck him. And fuck me and my stupid boy problems and past trauma and all that crap that makes me now convinced I’m not ready to date for another five years. Bye bye, boys I’ve been chatting to. Bye for another long long time.

Thanks for listening, pal.

today I did not go to a VIP lounge

Today I did not go to a VIP lounge. Now, I could describe every single other day of my life in exactly the same way, so why does it matter? Because I could have. We tried. We really did.

My rich friend scanned her mother’s card four or five times, rang the doorbell, and even tried forcing the door. Nope. The ugly orange-ish marble counter inside remained resolutely unmanned. Or womanned. No one came to rescue us from our embarrassingly upscale blunder. Meanwhile, the Korean couple at the brioche place behind us kept throwing covert glances our way, us in our cool trench coats and ankle boots, and the obviously touristy American looked at us with a kind of awe and affected dislike. Or maybe that was just her face.

I wanted so desperately to get in, for once, to feel rich, to sit and bask in the luxury of my own wealth…or something. A VIP lounge at a designer mall is nothing to shake a stick at, I’ll wager. But now I may never know, since it was closed. Or reserved. I bet some Kdrama man wannabe had it totally reserved so he could fill it full of sickening flowers and propose gorgeously to his carefully surprised girlfriend. Ugh.

But dammit! I was wearing my new, cool black coat that was slimming! Dammit.