thoughts from the peninsula (part one)

'There's a madness in Norea, that none but Noreans know..'

All set to attribute an acknowledgement to the scribe of the paraphrased quote above, our hero returns with an awareness that it's a truism that has likely been around as long as language itself, though potentially not in the format I've adapted for the purpose of this blog.

It's true what they say about Wart Norea, it's a terrible place. I was a-wandering, as you do, through the expansive streets of Soul th'other day, with a pocket full o' money & an ego the size of Tupac's bullet wound, when a harsh realisation smacked me in the face with a cabbage leaf the natives call 'Kimchi'. 'It's feck the much wonder,' it said, in an accent akin to a newt laying a frog, 'why those Commie recluses are struggling to stick a loaf on the table.

'The Mouth,' it said, now mimicking the revered Eddie Hobbes, (no relation to his actually intelligent philosopher namesake, Thomas), but still sounding like the labouring newt, 'is a thriving industrial nation, a wondrous place that should serve as a blueprint for all developing nations. It is epitomised  by its capital, alive with endless entertainment and a level of cosmic vibration bettered only by the thud of a wet sock on a concrete slab.'

I, being of a sound and rational marketing generation, measure distance in two units; Dunkin' Donuts and Starbucks. It's two dunkins' to the drivethru', four 'bucks to the bar. With the sickening gall the Wart portrays in opposing these friendly neighbourhood franchises, the current famine was always the inevitable outcome. How a people could expect to survive without a chunky-chocolate daily delicacy washed down by a reservoir sized mochachocawoccalatte is anyone's guess. My heart goes out to them, or would, were it not slightly distracted by the threat of imminent warfare. Still though, it's the thought that counts. Every little something or other.

As it's true that no good scone is complete without a hefty smatter of cream, so too could it be said that no good city is complete without a hefty presence of the Vaulted Dates military. Fortunate it is then, that Soul is thronged full with the calming influence they bring to any potentially sticky situation, backed by a flawless record everywhere else their shit was labelled democracy. It is with a softness of mind I lay my head to rest these nights. 'Not to worry,' I say, facing poignantly with my back towards Mecca in a bid to appease everyone's favourite uncle, 'Sam'll save me.'
 

Everyone knows the border was drawn up fairly, though perhaps not squarely, between the Noreas, by the VD circa 1950. Even if it may appear that the mapper given the responsibility suffered a stroke while drawing the line from right to left, causing the pen to slide unfortunately upwards from the Wart's perspective, seemingly someone died and made the VD god, and so it was written. Still though, one man's poison is another man's military weapon. 

 

The official version of events, as documented through the whistleblower WeeklyLicks, is that the map was drawn up in a UN jeep cruising along smoothly until it hit a crossing badger. On closer inspection the badger was found to be sporting a red star bandana, a vest sporting the slogan 'You say Alabama, I say Ali Baba', and a bumper sticker across its arse that read 'FRAUD'. It's unclear as yet as to whether the bumper sticker was originally adorned by the badger or transferred from the jeep during the impact. In the latest press release, Bobbing Ribs expressed his sympathies for the family of the badger, who showed no ill effects from the crash itself but was shot 11 times in the head as 'a matter of National Security'.
"He didn't look human. It had to be done. He snarled angrily at our officers and threatened to defend himself. It was either him or us. It's a dark day for all of us. No charges will be brought against the troops involved, but we do expect a hero's welcome awaits them for their actions here today. In Rust We Trod."

Many have accused me of cynicism in the past, but that was then. Now there exists a whole new me, who unconditionally accepts the need for, and divine intervention of, a global task force to protect us from the darker forces of well, the darker forces. Lately I've been down to the doctors and got 14 swine flu jabs, just in case the first 13 don't work. I've installed the latest app on my phone that detects all major fertilisers within a mild radius, so I'm informed of any bearded chaps who wish to redistribute my limbs. Granted the app played up a bit on a recent visit to a quiet country farm, but one can't be too careful, it's a dangerous world out there.

I'm at the platform waiting for the Norvos Ordo train to bring me to Seclorum. I have recently taken to whistling the star spangled banner and crying bagels at the mere sight of the harbringer of change we can believe in. A gospel singer of belief, I swing my hips to the rhythm of every village that gets flattened, happy in the knowledge that Reuters and AP are keeping the messy stuff from the eyes of the prying public.

*most names above are completely fictitious and bear no relation to actual things or places.

Toasting Joe Duffy at the G20.

I'm not all that well clued in some times, by my own admission. Stuff tends to pass me by in a blur of either apathy or ignorance, and i go about living in accordance to my own whims. Troubled only by my constant struggle to keep time and maintain feeling in my fingers, life keeps its own balance. I've got it good. Quick backtrack, what was that about feeling in the fingers? I'm sure that wasn't the case 2 months ago..hmmmm... something's changed around here, and it may be in my best interests to investigate the matter.

I'm pretty sure it's no more than a fortnight since the walk home around christmas with my jacket up around my ears to keep out the -16 degree temperatures on the road back to Lurganboy from another fluthered night in Manor. I'm not good with time, so it could be a month ago, but it's hardly 10 months already, it couldn't be, it's taken 'til last week for my ears to thaw, and just when i got comfortable with going outside again, the temperature plummeted and I somehow landed in Korea. The things you do while hypothermic constantly amaze me. Word is I had a heart attack two days before my 26th birthday too, but I'm sure that was a dream, it'd be a bit surreal to have spent time in the CCU of Sligo general as the youngest person in the ward by a good 40 years. Couldn't be right. To think, and in the dream for a supposed professional consultant to make accusations of my taking cocaine, ah now, i'm sure the HSE are a more thorough bunch than to idly throw slanderous comments around. They could be sued for defamation. Christ I wish I'd sued them for defamation...

Anyhow, I survived, and have the official documentation of the remarks, which I wouldn't think have a time frame of which to be acted upon. I'd be happy to take Murray to the cleaners, feeling, as I would, that I'd done a service to the north-west of Ireland by removing him from medical practices. I'll keep it in the pipeline, being alive seems to consume my time these days, whatever else is going on can hang back.

So anyway, it's come to my attention that the world leaders have taken to following me around. Following on from the successful murder of Ian Tomlinson by members of the City of London Police force on April 1st last at the G20 summit in Lahndin, similar ructions took place in Seoul last week. Nobody killed to the best of my knowledge, but if there was there probably wouldn't be much reported about it. This is a country that pretty much encourages suicide by insisting on a 'depression is weakness' policy, so the death of citizens at the hands of the police would probably be seen as swings to the roundabouts. I'm coping fairly well considering, though possibly only as a transcript of what Obama said to Merkel about me hasn't yet found its way into my hands. Dammit. I knew when I called Alex Jones a hypocrite back in the day it would lead to my being left out of the paranoid conspiracy loop. The crux of the craic from the summit seems to have been something along the lines of;

'China: We own the world... na na na na na na...
Everyone else: Oh shite, this debt based economy seems flawed...
China: Bow down to our mighty wall...
Everyone else (except the states): fair enough so...
The states: Nah, nah. F*ck you Wong
The UN: Eh Mr. President, sir, i think the Chinese have a point, innit...
The states: Yeah, well, it's my ball and I'm going home...
China: Well actually, if you check the label on that ball...
The states: Yeah, well, screw you commie.'


And so they all came and went without being fit to resolve anything at all, spent a tonne of cash policing farcical talks and went about their merry way. again. I didn't go down to the hoo-hah protests to lend my voice to the 'we're all going to hell on the back of the dollar bill' brigade. I would've, but I was partaking in the working world at the time, I find it difficult to argue my case for a bag of sugar in the local shop here nevermind not getting arrested by some chump with a baton who doesn't speaketh the lingo, and well, after last year's debacle in London, I've realised that organised anarchic protests are a walking contradiction. If that's your thing, which it wouldn't be mine anyway, you're as well off lobbing a molatov cocktail through the local bank window on a quiet monday when the fuzz aren't expecting it. Yet remarkably, that never seems to happen. It ain't true anarchy unless you get banged up by the cops and get to shout that it should be the cops who are locked up for brutality, yada yada <insertflyingfireextinguisherhere>. Down with that sorta thing. Careful now.

Besides, there's always Joe Duffy, if things get really bad. I tried calling last week but they wouldn't accept reverse call charges from the flip side of the globe. I had it all meticulously planned out;

Me: Oh hi, I was just wondering if I could talk to Joe about my local love-in with    anything that can be deemed uncontroversial...


Researcher: That's cute. I'm sure the country could do with a bit of cheering up. Christ if I here another stinking pensioner whinging about the state of the nation I'll choke on my tofu. Hold the line, what did you say your name was...


Me: Barabas. Ba-ra-bas O' Shock-neh-see...


Joe: Good afternoon, you're through to live-line. Barabas, (giggles), so I see here that you're a hard-working, run of the mill chap who sees no ill in the world. good for you. My researcher also tells me that you're in Korea, how's that going for you?


Me: Ara grand joe, y'know yourself. It's a biteen disheartening reading the times online to see that the nation's being sold down the swanny but sure thems the breaks. Sure we all knew that independence as a nation would never last for the long term anyway...


Joe: sure, sure...


Me: How's the wage these days Joe? I was having a gander on the google but I couldn't be arsed pursuing it, how many hundred thousand was it the state were paying you to act as a telephonist for those torn to bits for the price of a litre of milk...


I figured around then the line would cut, but if it didn't I'd be well fit to tear him a new one, being well into the swing of the gross divide that exists between those who have in Ireland, and the new up-and-coming peasant class who were allowed to pretend they had by a series of irresponsible governments who insisted that the only sensible thing to be at was to buy into a grossly inflated property bubble that in their eyes would never come a-tumbling. Up she flew like a hullabaloo.

If I lean out the window here I can hear Nero fiddling in the distance. In many ways I wish I was toasting marshmallows instead. It scares me to think that when I'm next in Ireland, in April next year, it's going to be a shell of a country, completely desolate and possibly relabelled as the People's Republic of the International Monetary Fund. What makes me sad is that there's shag the bit I can do about my beloved island hitting the wall. It makes me sadder to think that the only supposed defenders of the island are all standing on the border wondering how to reclaim the North while the thieves are busy at work selling the south to the highest bidder. Apocalyptic? Nah, not a bit, sure the 10 year corporate tax breaks aren't up yet. If you wanna see the apocalypse, head to Carrick on Shannon once the B.O.A. constrictor pulls the plug. As it is though, I'm well, and all belonging to me are reasonably well and healthy. It's a time of being grateful for small luxuries, and hoping that when the inevitable war breaks out, they'll march the main road from Manor to Sligo and leave Lurganboy to its own devices. I'm off to make tea in the hope of restoring feeling to the fingers, and in the absence of the green flag, wrap the quilt around me.

North Korea: Longford with nukes?

It's been a while. There was always the danger I'd slip into blog apathy once I found my feet here & dug out a groove in the locality. Better stuff to be at than sitting in front of a computer screen I guess, though in ways perhaps i should've assumed a permanent hermitage. I've been busy. Living y'know. Acquainting self with surrounds. It's been a bit of a mad time of it, if I keep going at this rate I could well be smoking cigars with Kim Jong Un at his inauguration ceremony. Very few things would surprise me. Where to begin. Think structure. Chronology. Or not.

I don't go looking for trouble, but it has an uncanny knack of finding me of its own accord. It's a strange one. Maybe a moral conscience would be a positive thing to acquire. I'll head down to the market and see if I can pick one up on the cheap during the week. Considering the other random stuff they flog down there I assume they'll have an entire street dedicated to all things morality. On the upside, it's been good craic, which is what it's all about. The glint is back in the eye & the bouldness makes me laugh. Better that than leading a quiet life in the country, which has its perks but isn't the natural environment for my penchant for divilment and talking shite. Strange feeling to censor the self, it isn't exactly what i'm noted for traditionally but 'tis as well to do so. A biteen shook today after the antics of last night, a one man crusade to Hongdae that took a turn for the better after starting out meeting 2 of the greatest tossers i've ever had the pleasure of sharing a beer with. I should've known it wasn't gonna' be the best of company once the english bloke announced his dad was from county londonderry. May the fleas of a thousand afghan camels crawl up his arse & procreate. I've always maintained that some of the best people I know are English, but I hold around the same amount of respect for brits as I do for cauliflower. I used them as a catalyst to locate other people and took it from there. Good night by all accounts!

I seem to have a mental block of what happened prior to the weekend, just cause the weekend itself was eventful. it's amazing how much stuff gets packed into the space of a couple of days, especially when ya sleep throughout the day parts. I've always come alive at night but this is especially the case when only waking up around 6pm, not good, best sort that out. Sure it's all the one, what with this new-fangled 'electricity' racket that's all the rage. it's like the day never ends. Times are quiet in the school house, well fairly quiet anyway, aside from the matter of the principle duking off to hospital tomorrow for an operation to attempt to get rid of cancer. it worries me, i like him, the feeling's mutual, he seems to treat me as the son he doesn't have and has helped make the settling in period that much easier by sorting out stuff i've needed sorting. I tend not to pass too much heed to the work itself, it's a job, pays the way etc. When I start living to work, I hope someone will have the good manners to give me a solid beating.

I've been back playing football again and attempting to get fit, between the debauched episodes, which are many and frequent. The two don't mix that well, there's a mind/body conflict ongoing where the body is aggrieved by the mind's penchant for lunacy. Normally after running for 2 hours I feel like someone's ripped out my lungs & fashioned a grill outta' them. Might try behaving myself for a few weeks now, see how that works out, i say that but already the mind is hmmming at it coming to pass. Life finds its own balance, and it happens that the boredom of the working week lends itself nicely to seeking a bit of madness on the weekend. Society has long such functioned in such a manner. perhaps just as well that the weekend is the shorter of the pairing, though a 3:4 ratio would still work better in my mind.

I was tempted to run through a check list of stuff for folk intending on busting a groove out here at some point, have it bearing some resemblance to a travel blog etc, but I can't be arsed. The only thing I would say is that if you find yourself here thinking that you've got a fair idea of the place and its goings on, it may well be a sign that you're developing dementia. Try not to trip over folk sleeping in the street, be polite to the 70 year old women collecting the rubbish at 5am & remember that you'll be dead long enough, live it while it's there to be lived.

I'm aware that at no point have I attempted to answer the question in the title. Sure ya'll have that.

Spoiler alert: general ranting follows.

'To choose doubt as a philosophy of life is akin to choosing immobility as a means of transportation.' - Yann Martel, Life of Pi


I've been thinking of late, as usual, about ideas surrounding the human condition etc. The religion complex, but specifically the idea of the atheist movement. I try not to draw conclusions of any sort as it's like shutting a chapter that will never end, knowledge breeds change. The self-certain atheists piss me off. They roll around in mainstream culture these days throwing out the 'there is no god' lines to all & sundry. The theory goes that the idea of this elusive god creature cannot be proved so is thus bunk. Some scattered ideas about evolution etc, but even allowing for the obvious evolution of all creatures, it still leaves a gaping hole in the argument that remains unanswered by their certainty. I can't stomach the idea that there isn't a greater force at work. Maybe I'm insane, but to me it's as crazy and narrow minded as suggesting that the earth is the only planet where life exists, in a universe of such infinite proportions that we can never wrap our head around its scale, to make such categorical assumptions is showing base level intellect. Not to say that God is some bearded chap or any of that nonsense, to personify the divine is to give a credit to humanity that our history shows is undeserved. I was skulking around the bookshop the other day and couldn't help noticing the shelves dedicated to Richard Dawkins, the prototype atheist for the sensationalist generation. I've read 'The God Delusion', it's cack. The way i see it, it's very easy to disprove the idea of a man made god, y'know the whole man-made construction thing, but if you wanna' see the divine, go find some flowers & wrap your head around the intricacy that it took for them to form. Or better again, go & stand on Slieve League & appreciate man's anonymity in the grand scheme of things. The trouble with religion isn't religion itself, but the usual crux of humanity; the control and manipulation inflicted upon it, man made dogmas that have nothing to do with the bigger picture. I could go on, but already the feeling that it's a rant i shouldn't have embarked on is gnawing somewhere at the ego I'm learning to transcend. Heaven is a state of mind.

So much going on lately without a whole lot going on. A lot of reading, always a good thing. A lot of music listening, though perhaps my relationship with Thom Yorke's genius is bordering on obsessive. It's not my fault. Some bonefide legend has whacked up loads of live gigs online, each better than the next, if music be the food of love then it's the equivalent of all you can eat for months on end. I've started to feel apologetic about how much I love Radiohead, recognizing as y'do that others mightn't share quite the same passion for these matters. Folk I speak to still throw out the allegations of Pink Floyd being a better band. Now that I no longer smoke weed and have the power of a conscious mind at my disposal, I can say with certainty that Floyd have bored me to tears. It's not a popular sentiment, but it's true nonetheless, maybe college overkill back in the day or whatever, but I can barely listen to them anymore. To be honest it was all downhill from when Syd lost the plot. Waters & Gilmore were walking cliches of the prog rock movement. No doubting their abilities etc but yeah, I look back over the years & realise I've either evolved or just changed, hopefully both.

Bumped into some people the other day, y'know it's a good conversation when the 'what's your favourite radiohead album?' question comes up. People working off the same level. Great people, ended up getting fairly drunk with them til 5 or 6 on a schoolnight. I don't work til half 2 anyway so it's all good but just really cool to meet good people. I answered with 'Hail to the Thief', in my mind one of the most under-rated albums of all time. I remember the day it was released, cruising down to Chivago in Galway with all the giddy anticipation of a kid waiting for Santa. It didn't disappoint. it took me a while to grasp the transition that Radiohead made post-Ok Computer, by a while I mean a second, maybe third listen to Kid A, but the evolution of the band is something that I really can't see anywhere else in the industry. People speak about bands like Kings of Leon, Arcade Fire etc as being this great thing and in parts their albums are exceptional for what they are, but they seem stuck in what they're doing, regurgitating the same ol' same ol' that they know people know and love. There's nothing wrong with that, but it's not for me.

Here's what's going on; http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b-_aijDvN7A&feature=related
Atoms for Peace, some seriously sweet & funky collaborative between Thom, Flea & folk. I'm away into Seoul to hit the market. I heard word that they sell monkeys there, I gotta' see it to believe it, and I've no intention of getting a monkey, unless it comes pre-trained in how to make a decent cuppa' tea, but I have notions about being offered the chance to buy one if I wish, just for the surrealism factor.

Email from Dog to Man

Hey man, how you doin'?

I was chewin' on your shoe 
But gettin' pretty bored
So I thought I'd write to show you
How much that you're adored
I was gonna' use a pen
To be like Beckett, Joyce or Donne
'Til suddenly it struck me
That I don't have any thumbs

I hope it doesn't scare you
That I've taught myself to type
I learnt how to read
Through the blogs people write
Please try to forgive me
If my grammar is shite
But I've no preconceptions
About what's wrong or what's right

See, I've known you a long time; I've analysed you closely
This life that you've been living is a parasitic parody
That feeds upon the blood of self-fulfilling tragedy
Where days & weeks meet months & years with vague familiarity
But never are your boundaries pushed to be the best the self can be.
Don't turn around in years from now and say that you remember me
When all you've ever seen me as is lucid domesticity
And only in your darkest moments looked to find the light in me

Look, I'm not trying to sound harsh, I'm just speaking my mind

I'd be everything you are if i knew how to lie
Your world is my life, man, if you asked me to die
I'd push back my ears and politely comply

But I have watched
And loved
Watched
And hated
Watched
And integrated
Hate with love as easily as
Innocence is obliterated
I have heard you screaming out the names
Whose overdose in pleasure brought you pain

And I have listened

As patiently as the wives of war
Victims pacing hospital corridors
Listened
To the horrors
That man
Brings upon
Man

Yet still you rather the cat
'Cause he looks after himself
Steals ham from the table
And cheese off the shelf
There's no co-dependence
It's each to their own
If your world fell apart
He'd just lick his own hole

I just think you should know
He's been plottin’ your death
Ever since that last ill-fated
Trip to the vet
Though looks are deceiving
He's completely insane
He's got no sense of reason
And he's numbered your days

But you see, sometimes, I wish I could talk
Or bring you for a walk
On a lead so you could see how it feels
To be me
'Cause if I could talk I too would blame astrology
Or clinical psychology, religious ideologies
Or pharmaceutical dichotomies
For everything that's wrong with me
When in reality
I am an animal
Who was born and who will die
Happy in the knowledge that I have lived and loved my time

So if you get this
And I hope that you do
I just want you to know
That, well, I'm sorry about your shoe
But don't be worried about me
There's no need to reply
Just talk a bit louder
I'll be here by your side.

The Harvest

My paradigm has shifted
From left to centre
Entered dimensions where the
false pretensions of time and space
have vanished without trace-


Where the words flow
Like the blood in the hands to the fingertips
To the tips of the pen
& then, my thoughts skip
to the sands of the flood
Where the low birds skim the burst banks
Hunting for worms on the fertile plains
Fronting concerns that are all in vain-


I
Am a germ
A particle wave
A slave to the continuity
Of consciousness
A fly
To the light at night.


I will dance with you
When the sun sets over Eden
Even if it is in silence
but for the rhythm of our breathing.


*


We can be the forgotten
sentences of punch-drunk
innocence.


The empty matter
of energy's resonance.


The cosmic cavalcade
Of synapses; collapses;
Co-incidents


Entering reality
As choice; finding god
in silence


When our plate is full

There will be no hunger.

sm '10

Here's a piece I felt the need to throw out there, some class of flippancy or other, there's a lot of really strong points to this, even though I've probably failed to get them across in the words of the piece itself, something in my head tells me that this is along the right track of what I should be writing. The structure is fragmented. Deliberately so, I'm sick of structural limits. Sick of a linear narrative that needs to tell the story like it's a picture book for kids. Y'know each to their own but it's not me, and as such, given that not-meity, I don't care. Follow your own path etc. i care for people, respect people, love people and everything else that goes with the human condition, but the last thing I ever intend on doing is to follow another's interests as a result of respecting them. if anything it's psychological plagiarism.

The idea centres around the quest to end dualism. A search for the unity/divine whatever one may call it. I've felt it before, the next time I experience it I feel I'll be in a more mature place to appreciate it.

Up she flew & the cat flattened 'er.

Like a human ferret. A green blur of gnashing teeth and ginger hair. Arms flailing, hat trailing in the wind. Woe betide the divil who would upset the pot o' gold, there's only so much rain the spirits can put up with in the wait for the right rainbow. 'If ya wanna see the rainbow ya gotta' put up with the rain.' Sure what would Dolly Parton know about putting up with the rain, a grand sound byte from the hills of California, or Nashville, or wherever in the blue feck she lays her jabs of an evening. The real danger lies in the leper's corn, 'tis far from the cob they were reared.

A native to the grassier parts of Ireland, (anywhere beyond the pale really), these midgetesque creatures are thought to be reasonably placid, (easily placated by the swig from the uisce bheatha) and fiercely loyal. Often confused with the travelling people, but the two are easy to tell apart, given how the leprechauns eyes don't meet in the middle. Another key difference, if somewhat circumstantial, is that the leprechauns don't exist. Well at least not in the traditional sense. What does exist is a more dangerous breed of ferret like human form, with the same penchant for wealth and a less egalitarian way of acquiring it. These creatures can be found roaming freely up and down the island, wearing suits and sitting behind brass desks in offices that claim to have the best interests of the people at heart. Another of the ilk is masquerading as Taoiseach, though seemingly under the guise of a cow.

Moo-cow

 Following a previous post lamenting the mother-ship, I felt it about time to lambast it for the sake of it. Not that there'll be an over-indulgence in the welts, but feck it: there's little to no point in pretending that it's all hunky-dory. I'm as eager as the next man to believe that it was Ireland Plato spoke of when he referred to the lost island of Atlantis, and the idea of the sunken island was actually a reference to the island Dogger Bank, that sank many's the moon ago. Besides, I read about it in the National Geographic so it must be true. I'm also a realist though, much to my continuing dismay, and though the far away hills are always greener, it's a good idea every now & again to remind the self of the reasoning behind the choices that were taken to up sticks and skip away from Róisín.

Biffo

'Romantic Ireland's with O'Leary in the grave,' to give W.B. his dues, except perhaps in pockets yet untamed by the free-market open-economy in scattered nooks along the west coast. The artists lament and sing about a land that no longer exists. Instead what is left is a proto-type of the globalist's dream, the carcuss of a Tiger that the likes of yon spanner Eddie Hobbes surmised would always roar. It's only struck me now the link between the tiger and Hobbes, perhaps the genius of Bill Watterson's Calvin & Hobbes cartoon mocked Ireland prophetically. Moving swiftly on.

We were given a vote as to whether we wanted to transfer our sovereignty to a European superstate and decided against it. When the people spoke, they were told to speak again, yiz ticked the wrong box last time lads, but sure not to worry, we'll run it again. This time don't fuck it up. So they rolled out the media machine, the taxpayers paid for the vote yes pamphlets and the no brigade were stigmatised as a degenerate band of socialists, shinners and the ill-informed. 'Yes to Lisbon, Yes to Jobs', came the rhetoric, as they coaxed the trinity rich kids out on to the streets in gaudy t-shirts and a sense of do-goodery that'd make Mother Theresa spew chunks into her hanky.

A quick synopsis of the situation post-Lisbon 2 makes for interesting reading. An estimated 70,000 people have emigrated since October '09, as a recent Irish times article that debates the accuracy of the figures points out. If anything I'd say it's a conservative figure. Anyone with half an ear open can't help but notice that the conversation in small towns up and down the country speaks of another plane load of natives heading for Australia or whichever way the wind is blowing at the time. In my own case I fancied something entirely different and it suited my wish to see the world that I wasn't held down by some trivial job, but in reality, there was nothing there to stay for, which is a scary thought. Coupling the guesstimation of the 70,000 emigrated with the increase in live register figures clearly points to a lie in the government's line of electioneering. A deliberate campaign of misinformation that is somehow considered as acceptable and above board. I'd go into the NAMA fiasco but I'd be here all night. What I will say is that the estimated 70+ billion that the taxpayers are contributing to the privately owned corporations, (something along the lines of 18,750euro per man woman and child of Ireland's approximate 4 million inhabitants), is at best an outrageous misappropriation of public funds, and at worst outright theft bordering on large scale fraud.

The crux of this is that there's an over-riding emphasis on the capitalist dream in the upper echelons of Irish society. Those who surfed the wave of credit and refuse to let go of their boards now that it's collapsed. The reality is that the rest of the island is up shit creek without a paddle, and generations to come will be left to foot the bill for the crimes they committed, yet nobody is being held to account. They couldn't have seen it coming. Despite the knowledge that 40% of the Tiger economy's workforce were employed in the construction sector, they couldn't see a day when the market saturated and came a-tumbling. I find that incredibly difficult to believe.

In truth, if everybody on the island were to default on loans, mortgages, credit cards and a.n. other bank repayment, the whole system would come crashing quickly down to a new starting point. If the 70 billion that the government are currently throwing off the Cliffs of Moher was used to install a renewable energy system that had the potential to keep Ireland self-sustainable for the foreseeable future, communities could regroup in a shorter time than will be possible when the inevitable eventually catches up. 'm all for a monetary structure, you give me a goat and I'll give you two sheep but I don't have two sheep so I'll give you this which is the equivalent of the same thing, but a system of credit is based on thin air and stripped bare is no more than a constructed illusion to maintain social division. I miss the Punt, at least with our own currency there remained the potential for Ireland to exist as a separate standing socialist nation independent from the European Union, with community gardening schemes and a return to a system based on reality. Perhaps utopian or what not, and with all manner of difficulties to be overcome, but surely a preferable notion than ploughing headlong into the cataclysm of governence by the IMF.

dongA.com

It was one of two things. Either the young fella in the shop was extremely polite, courteous and well intentioned in saying 'Excuse me, but are you aware that the new edition of this fine & upstanding Korean broadsheet will be in stock in a matter of hours?' or he was being honest, and asked me the Korean equivalent of 'What the f*ck you up to lad? You can just about manage to wing it with the formalities when you're in here buyin' water so where you off to tryina read the rags, EH?' I was about to tell him that I'd been down to the local bookstore to find the latest in popular Korean literature but to my dismay found it was shut. Then I realised my conversational skills stopped at the greeting stage and said 'Learning,' bowing graciously as I whacked the umbrella up in the shop to add to the surrealism of what must have struck him as some piece of performance art.

They don't get surrealism here, he notices, careful to tar them all with the one brush lest any escape gross stereotyping. I haven't checked the records for the Monty Python films box-office receipts in Korea, but I wouldn't estimate them to have broken records. Slight language issues (dub dee dub dub) but otherwise the sight of a supposed witch on a scales with a duck would leave most Koreans breaking out in a cold sweat, if sweating was something they do, which even in humidity of somewhere off the 100% scale, none of them appear capable of. This tarring thing is mighty craic, or not.

The surrealism thing is sure to find flaw in the stereotype, different folks and all that. The sweating thing I stand by. It's really bizarre. There's mise, in all my glory, strolling down the road in the blistering heat & 100%+ humidity factor. You'll know it's me by the river, sourcing from my pits and diving into any nook along the path, tidal at the height of the afternoon sun, lapsing to a steady stream in the dead heat of the night. I'd say I make for a seriously attractive sight next to the Koreans, casually sauntering along, pits drier than a devout nun in the Gobi desert.

Speaking of the surrealist thing, there's something I can't help but notice every time I stick me head out the window of the apartment. On top of a 40 odd storey apartment block in the distance there seems to be a deckchair the size of the average Korean house. Probably bigger, (these cows are small, those cows are far away etc...) I'm not sure if it is a deckchair, but its shape is certainly in keeping with the theory. Why or how one would fashion a deckchair of such magnitude and then proceed to stick it there is anybody's guess. My guess is that some smart-arse heard about my arrival and thought it amusing to play tricks with my head. I'll find out at some stage, might have to do a bit of rooting into the matter, but barring that once I get a camera next week I'll come back to this post and stick a picture up to illustrate it better than my words are fit to do.

Anyway, enough already. I'm off to read the paper.

Typhoon Kompasu & the Curse of the Stringed Tea Bag.

Those who know me reasonably well will be aware that my natural habitat is shared with a kettle. I've always been a good man with a spoon, a drop of cow juice and a tea bag. None of this sugar in tea nonsense. I don't understand the mentality behind that, though it wouldn't be the first time I'd failed to understand the workings of another's mind. It isn't that I dislike people who take sugar in their tea, merely that I believe they would benefit from psychological assessment and a short stint somewhere with extra padding on the walls. But enough of this preferential lark, it's not about that. There's been two things that have concerned me over the course of the last few days; the imminence of a hefty lump of a hurricane sweeping its way across the country, and Twining's English Breakfast Tea.

There's something very English about the tea in question, besides the title. Every bag is deliberately awkward. I'd hasten to guess that the Queen herself is awoken to the brew, though with no knowledge of the poncing that's gone on from leaf to bag to box. It's a lovely sup, don't get me wrong. As fine a beverage here as I'm yet to drink, and there was a part of me that was delighted to find it on sale in the locale. It's just the packaging that riles me. I'm all about the how many tea bags can ya' wedge in a box mentality. The bags in question are individually wrapped, with packaging enough to provide the average slum dweller with sufficient material to roof their shack. Were it water-proof of course. It's a wonder they haven't made the leap to cast iron tea bag casings, push the frivolity boat right out there. It's probably in the marketing stage. Images of the Bronte sisters knitting the packaging for the tea bags refuse to leave my mind, while the gentlemen of the estate prepare the hounds for the hunt and the umpire's call for 'new balls please' skims across the lake from the tennis courts. Spiffing.

 Exhibit A: Potentially stoned chav models packaged tea bag

After the two (unnecessary) seconds it takes to unwrap the bag, the real crux of the issue unfurls: the string. I've always held a fondness for the idea of the tea bag flick. A process that involves placing the used tea bag on the spoon, holding the base of the spoon between thumb and index finger of the left hand while using the index finger of the right hand for power and direction. This works best in a big room with an optimum distance between the self and the target area, and preferably with a definite goal by which to create a scoring system;

Exhibit B: A rational means of disposing with conventional tea bags

The trouble with the Twining's tea bag is that it appears to encourage a disposal method similar to the traditional hammer throwing in the Olympics. Now I'm not sure how many of you have tuned into the hammer event over the years, but those who have will be aware of the potential for disaster. Multiply that by being indoors, (possibly in your mam's kitchen), the drip factor and the inadequacy of the string to withstand a high revolution and the result should be a fair reflection of why the suggestiveness of Twining's branding should come with its own health warning. Given that the string's meagreness doesn't even lend itself to rope-status enough to be able to generate a decent swing-stir motion in the average mug, there follows the need for a spoon, which invariably gets tangled with the string and can lead to upset.

The hurricane was a tepid enough affair by all accounts. I'd braced myself for the perfect storm, surf-board in tow 40 miles inland just in case the right wave would come along to carry me to India. It was meant to arrive at around midday, but didn't. It took me on the hop and landed around 6am. Twice getting me out of bed to answer the door to the wind knocking on it (I'm on the second floor as far away from the street as is possible in the building) and following a brief stint of looking out the window admiring the power of nature to fling a table straight across my line of vision, I decided against going outside to see where it landed and went back to bed. I found the table when I got up, lodged in the doorway of a neighbour's apartment block down the street but other than that it was as if nothing happened. The council were busy re-erecting the trees that were knocked and the local pizza house scratched its head as to how they'd go about piecing their sign back together. I went back to the working world and my on-going battle with the tea bags.

Of Ireland

Sea Bird

The bird swept through surf-spray,

Through countries of diaphanous cloud

Cutting the sea mist with curved wing-blades.

Between cumulus she soars and sails -

Now high, lone on the horizon,

Then low, breath skimming white sea crests

Swift as emotion; her flight brief as memory -

Seeking dark eves' warmth in summer storms.

 Anna Warrington '10

In my mind I sat below the cliff face at Classiebawn in Mullaghmore, isolated and at peace. Staring out into the great Atlantic abyss, next stop America, thousands of miles beyond the horizon. That it's my favourite place is immaterial; it's more the homesickness getting to me, it's been a rough time of it here so far in patches, maybe something that my naivety hadn't catered for. Beyond the longing to be back on the island, even the recognition of my previous naivety has triggered learning signs. It's why I'm here. Stagnancy crept in. For every day spent in Mullaghmore at peace, there was at least a month spent irritated as the country was brought to its knees by greed and the eerily paradoxical 'free-market economy'. I learnt a renewed respect for the land of my birth since returning from Wales in 2006, but can't help but feel that respect had never really disappeared, more-so been pushed to one side in pursuit of personal progression. Through various jobs, that progress faltered, routine set in & life became a mundane recurrence. It happened to me, and my influence over it was held back by a part of my brain that didn't want to get too involved, the part that knew that it had regressed to a place it wasn't ready to be back in. For all the natural beauty, the people I love, the dogs that completed me, something itched at the soles of the feet, told me to move on. From the minute I landed back on the island to the minute I got on the plane to Korea, the journey was never in doubt. I needed the inspiration, and despite all the beautiful people I am fortunate enough to know that live there, I needed the distance to appreciate them the more. I am the base prototype for realising what you have when you're 8,000 miles away from it all.

So I sat there, as often before in body, but now in mind's memory. With images more lucid than any camera could capture of the waves crashing against the rocks; the sea foam caught like polystyrene in the gaps of erosion;  the haunting castle looming over the landscape, the sheer face of Ben Bulben keeping a watchful eye as the rhythm held its beat, steady and hypnotic, with the sounds that were left when the drone of humanity is muted and only the soundtrack of the natural world was audible. I watched her 'soar and sail' through the 'countries of diaphanous cloud' and my mind soared too, to a place beyond the limitations of bank loans and the rip-off republic.

I have spoken to many people about what good poetry means to me, and perhaps never managed to capture my true thoughts in a language that makes sense. Partly because my lack of fluency in Irish, the only language that my soul speaks, inhibits me, partly because I probably don't know what good poetry is. I own two books by R.S. Thomas, that cover his entire work and epitomise what strikes me as good about the art form. Whilst hating to throw definitions around, it is religious poetry, though not biblical, but instead an appreciation of man's inherent connection with the world around him. Outside of the ego, the id and the super-ego, or whatever the latest psychologists have dreamt up to categorise man's interaction with his self and others, the universal understanding that everything just is. No more and no less. I have read a lot of work by spoken word artists lately, and whilst I ultimately respect their place as artists and admire what they do, it's been grating me that the line blurs between their art form and the term 'poet'. The sycophantic back-clapping through lines too weak to correct grammar, whose claims (for the majority) to the poetic form are too raw to have yet been humbled by 'The Echoes return slow' or Kavanagh's 'The Great Hunger'. I get uneasy when people refer to me as a poet, knowing as I do the divide that exists between the words I create and the worlds created by those truly deserving of the title. It is with this in mind, along with the so-far eye-opening transition to life in Korea, that I was fortunate enough to be tagged in the poem at the beginning of this post. My ego briefly reared its head to suggest that maybe through such an honour was my path on track, justified by the respect of another's shared talent. A poem I wish I had the talent to write, and through the swift and graceful line transitions, that echoes the beauty of why I came to love the writings of Thomas.

What struck me is that we are all 'high, lone upon the horizon,' when our 'breath' isn't 'skimming white sea crests' of interaction with others. All we have is the truth our own minds create, and ultimately we are alone on our own horizon, as near or as far as we allow that to be. Too often I find people never look for what's beyond that line of vision, afraid that toying with the familiar shall imbalance their pre-conceived reality; searching so hard to find a box to climb into that they have have forgotten that all boxes are only a creation of consensus, and consensus only truly works when the numbers who vote for it are limited to one. I have arrived at an understanding with myself; good poetry is the removal of the poet from the work, words that offer themselves to the reader to take the narrative for the self, to submerge that isolated mind in the scene and have the verse belong to you alone. Too sweeping a statement perhaps, but it's why I've always felt uncomfortable around the egocentricity of 'poetry' gigs. For all the talent that exists within the movement, and it is vast and varied, there always exists the barrier of the performer, whose words whilst shared are never truly given. I don't need to be told, I just need the space to explore my own evolving ideas of truth.

My heart will always be in Ireland, as in time my body will also return. For all her ills there is a purity there in parts that is as yet untamed by subservience to the capitalistic farce. It's little wonder that in my mind's eye I am back there looking west to the ocean rather than east to the debacle that the government have subscribed the people to. I have left to gain perspective, and will return to what Thomas would describe as 'The True Ireland of My Imagination' to seek the 'dark eves' warmth of summer storms'.

Atlantis

Atlantis

At the cliffs of Classiebawn

I have seen you in dreams

Where the arid autumn leaves

leave their trees & drift

beneath the Celtic sun of a

June-dayed October,

Falling on the beach at Mullaghmore,

When last we walked

hand in hand in life.

The ocean was unchanged;

Still feeding on the coarse-rock

coughed up by disquieted time

Drinking from the fountain

of its own immeasurable womb

Breathing as the moon's disciple.

Ours was the island

latent in the lakes

of Plato's paradise

Buried beneath the

hurried highways of

the tiger's tomb.

You left before fate

had a chance to intervene

for the greyer-green

depths of the queen's majesty

In silence, I licked wounds

that wouldn't heal-

Craved the unconscious

Woke with memory's loss

etched in the empty echoes

of a hollow routine

Cried wolf as the

lions closed in for the kill.

I walked fields to feel

the unplundered pasture

of the past

Feigned love for the closed-eyed

surrogacy of your touch

Waited for a day that never came.

I must leave you in those by-gone days

In the sunset's silhouette

of the ocean;

Elegant,

Infinite,

Unchanged.

Deja-vu

Caught by chance of thought, this nothingness became
Of life and limb, a solemn hymn, a silent caste of shame
Whose course would change, and rearrange, would just the self to blame
Pray man was of the mountain, whose focus stayed the same

Who turns around in hindsight, regrets who they've become
Forgets to face tomorrow and the challenges to come
So that they may be righteous, would rise but with the sun
And when the darkness met the eye, accept what's lost or won

While nothing is forever, what's now shall never last
It's difficult to keep the mind from straying to the past
Where questions brought but questions, where answers were too vast
Were they content, of simple minds, who never sought to ask?

The richest man could ever be, could need for nothing more
Would never seek to find a key for there would be no door
With open mind, they travel blind, to search and to explore
A life of grand delusions, this world has seen before.

The Púca's prayer

What sins has man that will not heal in time?
Whose crimes committed not against the state
Would tempt with wand'ring thoughts the curse of fate
To take from reason, trust, to leave him blind

What morals left as guides upon his wealth?
Where peasants rich in gifts but of their heart
Know joy; as purest life, as simplest art
And love as hate without the love of self

Whose life reflects the truth another knows
Will pierce both gods and demons of his soul
And in his bitter hatred age him old
To wither, wrinkling, naked in the snow 

If but that mind with body were to stay
And not be left to haunt these troubled streets
To dust returned from dust that came to meet
with life. In death, a solace waits within the clay.

The Flood

Incidents a-plenty at the weekend, some good, some over-shadowing the good with a pungent whiff of shittiness that had me longing for the far side of the globe, for all its ills. Although there exists a lingering temptation to rant about them, there's little to no point in so doing, so I'll stick the matter under the nearest rug and jump on it for a while until it levels out. The only one I deem relevant here is the flood, clearly the wrath of the big fella for my dismissing the Noahic warnings posted in the scriptures, though in my defence I couldn't possibly have known the event would be localised to my apartment, it all sounded a bit more apocalyptic than that. Allowances have to be made for memory loss, but on no occasion can I recall reading or hearing 'And the Lord sayeth onto them, beware thine washing machine pipe, for it is liable to go kaput.' Note to self: study the bible in more depth in future.

'No major damage,' he says, with a quick check of limbs and vital organs to ensure the beat goes on. The notebook he's been recording random life events/poetry/prose and varying ramblings grows eyebrows and scowls at him, upset by his distancing it from his self. 'It's a self-defence mechanism,' he assures it, haphazardly, 'it's not you it's me.' Luckily for him this line has a tendency to work on inanimate objects. Unluckily for him, he can't quite manage to convince himself he isn't utterly heart-broken at the sodden mess that's been his world for the past cúpla bhliain. Scorning himself for having knocked it on to the floor while sleeping the night before the incident, he shakes his head & quickly reminds himself that he can't be held accountable for his place being a big bag of shite.

The long, short, and otherwise of it is that he's decided to transcribe the events in the book to here, for some sort of safe keeping I suppose, though how safe or otherwise is debatable.'Bollocks to it,' he thinks, incapable of concern and generally apathetic. Thinking haphazardly about the use of the third person, he trails off in random tangental fashion towards a situation where the third person was again thirdly personnified within itself, scratches his skull and concludes that the matter would be a case of speaking in the sixth person, which is just daft. 'We need to get out more,' he says to the other five, 'or less maybe.'   

Tea Ching

At this stage I've read a fair few blogs supposedly about teaching in Korea that actually become some class of crass psycho-analysis of Korean custom; the westerner abroad, complete with bum-bag, camera & little to no interest in what they're actually doing, teaching kids. Actually in all the blogs I've read I haven't read one that's dealt with the teaching side of things. They tend to spend their time discussing means of furrowing through the Korean landscape in search of other escapees from the western world in a bizarre ritual of 'ifyou'rereadingthisyoumustactuallygiveashitaboutmypaltryexistenceandthereforewanttoknowwhatIhadforbreakfastity.

For the large part I've found it's sycophantic happy clappers who hunt down western bars at night and McDonald's by day to keep themselves accustomed to their xenophobic leanings. Convinced that their spreading of the language of globalisation is a positive influence on the culture, they paste themselves to the bars and talk patriotism with the troops. Generalising I know but I can merely go with what I've found so far. perhaps somewhere lurking in the shadows of google's search results there's a decent blogger, and my ignorance or lack of time hasn't been trawling as well as it may.

That's all nonsensical gibberish, irrelevant and mostly just a bitter diatribe about bloggery. What's that sound? It's eerie... Ah wait, I've read about this, it's the warning pitch the brain makes before the vortex of self-parody begins and self slips into the assurance of its own pointed contributions to the virtual realm. Somebody call an ambulance. Actually wait, don't bother, I don't have health insurance and my monies are concerned mainly with food and tea 'til the first payday. I'll be sound, sure once ya survive a touch of the heart the invincibility factor can pretty much get ya through anything but a nuclear holocaust...(note to the dear leader; behave yourself, good lad...)

Getting back on topic, well maybe not back, but getting started on topic; I don't have health insurance. The American girl I work with was kind enough to inform me of such the first day we worked togther. I'll avoid naming her on the basis of the school adding it up and my losing a job, which I doubt likely to happen but at the same time isn't a button I wish to press. The contract I signed stated that half the health insurance would be paid by the school. The flip-side of this is that the contract was in English, and any contract that isn't in Korean over here isn't legally binding. This is something worth noting, while like most other foreigners coming here, you sign your life over to a Hagwon for the year. On the upside, if you hate it and decide to skip the country, there's nothing that can be done about it. Keep that in mind.

The school itself is a fairly chaotic affair. Classes from Monday/Wednesday and Friday starting at half 2 in the afternoon and finishing up at half 9. Tuesday and Thursday start at half 3 and finish at half 9. Work every second saturday til half 12 and that be that. 10 days off, 5 you get to pick, 5 that are picked for you by the school. It's not a lot really, spend your days preparing for school and your evenings eating or drinking and often both before hitting the sack. Suffering from soft-as-shite syndrome doesn't really aid my progress as a teacher here. There's no way at 9 in the evening that I'm gonna try and make kids who have been schooling since 8am try to learn stuff, when the alternative is to let them get homework done that otherwise they'll only be starting into around 11 and finishing sometime around the same time as they're due to start the whole process again. They're dead on their feet. It also gives me a chance to get the mountains of essays corrected. Win win.

Corporal punishment is used as an acceptable means of discipline here. My mind has taken the notion upon itself that If I'm ever a witness to it I'll take the specially crafted beating stick off the bucko and turn the tide around. I donno', the kids seem ok with it, but I'm not. I guess they've never known anything else. Keep an eye out for the headline 'Man deported for beating school director to death with his own paddle'. Free the Lurgan one! The weird thing is that all they need is an English Language Certificate to become a director of a hagwon, which is evidently not that difficult to get and doesn't require a complete fluency in the language to run a language school. Bizarre.

Look the main point here is to be careful where you apply for work. Ask questions, demand answers. They'll shaft you about but until you find out were you're at, you'll never know where you're going. There are good schools here too so I hear, try and find them. Ask for the name of the school and their website. Find teachers who were there before you. Ask about your apartment size and never send anything away that you haven't photocopied at least a few thousand times. Get a copy of the contract to sign in Korean and if it feels dodgy it probably is. Trust your gut, it'll lead you where you need to go.

I'm gonna' hit the leaba via the kettle.

Almost

             Almost
Was here and was one person
and was not.
Knew hunger and it's excess
and was too full for words.
Had he a hand in himself?
He had two that were not his;
With one he would build
With the other he would tear down.
Over his shoulder
he saw fear, on the horizon
it's likeness. A woman paused
for him on her way
nowhere and together they
made in the great darkness the
small fire that is life's decoy. - RS. Thomas

There was something quite surreal about reciting these words on the walls over-looking Suwon as the sun rose. I say surreal, but in truth it was entirely real, a beautiful way to appreciate life. Lost to the thoughts of the self, and in good company, save the weird bugs intent on feeding their blood lust. Although a city of 2 million plus, we climbed a mountain last night that made the hustle disappear, chilled out at a confucian temple/ look-out post and drank some beer and spoke about life, really refreshingly honest activity to be at in a world where honesty seems to require a trust disclaimer. Fair enough, trust issues with Rob have never been a problem, but it was interesting to hear him say that last night was the first time in a year of being here that he'd actually felt at home in Korea. In which case I feel privileged that it's taken me just a week to find a similar experience.

My mind was blown by the views, the architecture, the statues, and the aura of legacy that surrounded us. Maybe it's my naivety; new sights/sounds/textures, or maybe there really is something in this orientalism lark that I've been mulling over ever since reaching the conclusion that the occidental search for the external deity was a facile jaunt. Joseph Campbell spoke about it better than I ever could I suppose, it just kinda creeps me out. In the west folk are deliberately kept in a state of amusement so as not to dwell on thoughts of consciousness and the inner workings of the mind. Societal norms are obsessed with occupying time, and the consensus is that too much thinking time is a bad thing. Perhaps. Or perhaps it's the realisations these thoughts prompt that pose the true danger to an individual's mental stability; the ills of the species & of the self.

I've always been comfortable with the knowledge that I know nothing. For some reason my mind recalls a chat I had with a lad in Ireland about how as soon as labels are introduced, with them come limitations. It was about a poem I'd written and refused to title on the grounds of the title forming preconceptions within its audience.  About how the first sentient creature was probably the happiest as there were no external expectations. It struck me how upset he got at my argument that negated the need for labels, that strove for a pure understanding coming from an appreciation of understanding as construct. His brain was wired differently to mine, fair enough, to each their own & all that, I don't plan on creating another's reality, I've plenty enough to be going on with tending my own garden.

I've come to thinking that true happiness exists in negating other's expectations and establishing one's own truth. Weird and all as it probably seems, or maybe even really base level common sense. It just amazes me how many people spend their entire lives worrying what another thinks they should be; whether through brand advertising, peer pressure or otherwise. It's a sad aspect of life, though predominant, in what I've found in western culture, and indeed here, particularly in terms of vanity.

It's only been a week or so, but the journey has begun well. Heading out now soon to a pub that apparently houses the western contingent in this place. A walking contradiction I suppose, but if I spoke the language I'd be as happy socialising with the Koreans, probably happier. Feck knows how it's gonna go but I'm sure there are some really cool people here waiting to be met. Approached with the right attitude, life tends to balance itself. Well almost..

Liver Picket and the Philosopher's Sweat

Soju.

Ugh. Word familiar to Korean folk, like yeppeuda but only in familiarity, the two don't mix, but give the impression of doing so. Exercise caution. Raging hangover. The feeling you get when your liver humanises and decides to picket your brain for the injustices delivered from the upper reaches of your self. With posters mounted on pointy sticks. Expect to walk leaning to one side to avoid excess strain on battered body for at least the first half hour on waking. Preferably around your room, with the air conditioning on. Don't go outside without inventing a travel shower. A vat of water would probably do but can lead to further discomfort when dumping it over yourself to cool off. Wet clothes are never nice, be that the chronic humidity induced sweaty kind or the water dumpage breed. 

Picture the scene; pasty white Irish man lands in Korea, (or is that pastey, probably pastey, definitely not a cornish delicacy), I'd google it to find out but my laziness knows no bounds, anyway I digress. Pastey white Irish man lands in Korea, from a land of beautiful fresh country air and arrives in Suwon, pretty much a district of Seoul but very much a city in its own right. Humidity something along the lines of 70-80%. Although not prone to swearing, given his staunch Catholic upbringing <insertsarcasmhere>, he's tempted to say something akin to 'Sweet Suffering fucksticks, how in the blue bejaysus can anyone live in this climate, besides the plethora of locusts that seem to be everywhere, giving a sort of other worldly feel soundtrack to life as a Korean'. In truth he stops at the climate part, and later discovers the locusts (cicadas) haunting the trees, which are plentiful, but ill-equipped to deal with the humidity of the Korean summer. I'm sure they try, bless them, but sometimes trying just isn't good enough. He gets in, apartment isn't ready, spends the night in a hotel in Nuwon, bars everywhere, goes walkabout, gets lost, looks for station to meet people, thinks it walkable, realises it's about the same distance from Leitrim to Edinburgh and eventually decides a taxi might be a decent idea.

Soju. Blur. Good times, suitable introduction, roughity.

The women here are aesthetically beautiful, they're absolutely gorgeous. Walking down the street is a reason to get up in the morning. There are drawbacks. Lack of communication, they don't speaketh the English being up there. Seemingly they love foreigners though, happy days. Learn the language. Seemingly they're little craic too, but having been told that by an American girl that could be a jealousy issue. I've met women who were no craic who were also unattractive. Can't win 'em all y'know but one out of two is a decent enough average to work off. Anyway, there's little to no need for my being some class of a chauvinist. It's unlike me. Learn the language. Counting almost mastered. Talking not so much. Agassi yeppeuda yeoja. Possible grammar issues, will try it out though, language is mostly a contextual issue, that's my story & I'm sticking to it. Vanity is another issue, expect to randomly bump into folk fixing themselves up in any available mirror. Whilst this is common in western countries, normally there's a degree of subtlety involved.

There's a very high rate of suicide here, so I'm told and am inclined to believe to be the case. Between pressures of academic expectation and pressures to be drop dead gorgeous, ahem, life must be somewhat difficult. They go to school at 8am, and by the time they've left school, done their 2 hours of piano lesson and then come to the private schools for the English learning debacle, they get home around 11, launch into their homework and get set for the following 8am. Life skills aren't treated as something of importance, eating out is the norm and ovens are a non-entity. Expect to hear those who can speak English insert the term 'micro-wave' as a prefix to the word 'oven'. Gas hobs are present, though whether commonplace or not is anyone's guess.

They love boozing. Drinking should be a national sport. Pubs don't close until the last Korean has had their fill and fecked off to spend the night passed out on the footpath/alleyway/road. Although that's a gross generalisation, it is commonplace to see men in thousand dollar suits sleeping in the streets. Below is a picture of a puppy as used to illustrate said Korean post-soju. Obviously remove the comfortable bed and replace it with a piss stained alleyway but I'm sure your imagination is strong enough to get the general idea. Here's where I apologise for copyright infringement but having google imaged drunk koreans in the street it was what first struck me as an accurate depiction. Note the empty soju bottle under its paw, these are commonly found scattered around said people when you walk past or across them.

There are other stories from the first week, but worryingly I get the feeling that they'll become a regular theme and can be referred back to at a later date. Ah yeah, corporal punishment & intolerance of weakness; definitely another day's scripture.

Peace be with yiz, tóg bog é.