if i could dream forever

The suns get closer and the dawns get earlier, but I can almost taste her again, for the first time. I smell her, even now, through a thousand dreams, past six thousand miles, and maybe one more, through the many days and weeks and someday it will be years, all my dreams meant for those days in our youth, when we were too young to care, those days I’ve spent every one since trying to hold onto, to recreate, with different faces, different cities, foreign languages, and miles upon miles of fiction.

Maybe if I get it right on paper, if I can type the letters in the right order, make the words sing and dance, a syncopated symphony to bring it all back to me.

There are so many days I can’t remember, so many faces I never cared to know, and so I sat on my roof, stared at the stars, howled at the moon, breathing smoke and a promise of better days, ones without blackedout eyes and misremember memories, my life all cutup and rearranged, spliced with dreams of mine and all the ones I’ve heard and lived in from different voices, different hands.

There are days I fall apart inside myself and breathe only those syllables that make your face alive again.

It was supposed to be so easy, but nothing ever is.

Korea’s full of ghosts and they’re processing over the mountains beyond my window in a deep blanket of white.

go to sleep, dear

Just go to sleep. Close your eyes.

There’s a fly in my room and it makes me want to kill myself. I slept for an hour last night because I knew it was in here and he’s still here, watching me with his compound eyes from the ceiling or wall, somewhere I can’t see him in the dark.

A fly, a fly, oh no, a fly! I hope it dies soon because I can’t kill it. That was the nice thing about having a house full of guys through college, they’d kill my bugs for me. It’s not that I can’t, technically, or have some strong conviction in their right to life, but, like, it’s so unpleasant, killing things, and then there’d be the bugdeathjuice on my wall or ceiling or floor and whatever I used to kill it.

I just want it to go away, leave me alone. There’s not room for me and insects in this world.

I’ve been infrequent this month, but there’s been little to report beyond my ballooning sleepdebt. I went to Mokpo for a day this last weekend, which was dope [making that word happen again]. I’ve found where all the pretty girls in Korea are hiding, and it’s Mokpo, randomly. I’ve lived in Gwangju a while now, and, really, I find attraction scarce, which is likely why I can’t take any of it seriously.

Being phoneless doesn’t help. Ever taken a bus across a country to meet someone? I have, but I had a phone in that world.

I don’t know how people functioned without phones and internet. I’d be useless in that world.

I’d name the fly if I didn’t hate him so much. I’d name him Archduke Archibald and write a song about him. I’d sing it until his exoskeleton collapsed upon him and he turned dry and dead, like a giant mote of dust.

So it goes. Another sleepless week.

I made another plan and if I can keep my head on straight for a few days, I’ll implement it.


And always and forever more, I’ll be foolish and you’ll be graceful.

Beautiful song there from Max Richter.

So, you know how I started a tumblr a few weeks ago? Yeah, um, it exploded or something, so I’m done with it, which is probably for the best. Some weird kind of addiction, trying to get people to reblog the random things you find on the internet. But, yeah, I can’t go to the one I made and when I click the link, it says it’s an adult site, which, yeah, normal, I suppose.

Every week I get more foolish, do stupider and stupider things, meet more and more girls I have no intention of knowing, even for an hour. But, I mean, when a pretty girl talks to me, I stop thinking and just want her to keep smiling.

Girls are wonderful creatures and I’m very much a fan. And pretty girls are kind to me, more than I deserve, likely. Danielle thinks it’s because I’m pretty, but that’s nonsense. This vamplife wears me haggard and I tramp on drunkenly, shamelessly, laughing always.

But I’m the prudish type and I don’t want more than their smiles, their laughter.

I love you, always tomorrow.

My bizarre and baffling life with the fair sex.

People asked me, too, before I came to Korea if I was really into asian women. I don’t really have a preference for women, so long as they’re pretty. But Korean girls, I think, are very passive, and so nothing will ever happen there, as I’m far too passive. I need girls to tell me what to do or I just end up staring at the walls all day, listening to violins, dreaming all the lives I’ve made inside my head.

Maybe someday.

Take care, Starchild.

another sleepless

Sun’s rise in about an hour and a half and I never do sleep much anymore.  Though, I mean, yeah, normal.

One of my students told me I look like a panda, and she looked concerned, then motioned punches to the face.

If there’s one thing to love about Korean children, it’s their unabashed and brutal honesty about the way you look every day. So, yeah, potential teachers, if you’ve poor body image, you may want to go somewhere else.

Being blond and eyeblue mostly gets me awkward compliments and stares from everyone I meet. My students are amazed by the blond hair on my arms, too, and can’t help but try to rub it all the time.

Another thing to be noted for potential Korean teachers: Korean children really like to touch you. Like, a lot. A weird amount.

Anycase, I’ve decided to talk about some good things now. Sorting through the political crises of my early twenties may last me the rest of my short life, but what really pulled me out of the sinking depression of the weight of imperialism was a beautiful girl who was kind to me for one night in Busan.

The most beautiful person I’ve met here, and that’s what she was: beauty. Tall, thin, halfirish, halfkorean, which is some kind of magic collaboration [and I’ve strong feelings towards the link between those unlikely cultures and their histories, but maybe for another day]. She found me and pulled me away from the noise, the berating bass of expatriation, the many bodied woman that is every bar in every city in every lifetime, and she spoke to me in soft tones, tentative touches. She made me nervous, which I’m not accustomed to, but the way she flashed her eyes, made her eyebrows dance, I was lost before she spoke my name.

She told me we didn’t need last names.

The night continued, swirling past me. Not drinking, just talking, the hedonism surrounding, but never breaking through.

She was kind to me.

When I left I didn’t want to, and I think I may remember her forever, if only because of eight hours, if only because we never had to know each other for longer than that night. No names, just histories and faces.

My love for starlight, fading in sunlight.

Michelle, my Busan girl.

I’ve dreamt of you for days and will for a thousand and a thousand more.

the crises of being american

I’ve been going through a lot of drastic changes in the last couple of weeks. I’ve somehow awakened politically and it’s destroying my fragile birdheart. I look at the world, at the world shaped by this century of violence by the militarism and economic warfare of my country, and I feel the weight of the world throttling me to my knees.

I’ve long suffered from occasional crippling melancholia where the weight of existence, in a metaphysical way, buries me. But now, it’s actualised, concrete and quantifiable. And it’s worse. So very much worse than the mental pain of existence, from the unbearable lightness of being. Now it’s the crushing weight of humanity’s sin that does not only hang and press on me, but constricts me to complete immobilisation, both abstract and concrete.

I look at the world and the disgust and shame is absolute. It’s just, i look at the world and see nothing worth liking. I’m dissatisfied with the world. With imperialism and being a citizen of an empire and seeing, directly, how this empire imposes a surreal control over actions and attitudes half a world away. I’m sick of it, quite frankly, and i feel so impotent here, being a citizen of america. Knowing that there is nothing i can do to change even a single thing about america. And so where do you start? Is it enough to know that things are very much in a terrible way? That nothing has changed in our foreign policy in almost one hundred disastrous years. The more i know, the more crippled i feel. It’s partly why i gave up pursuing neuroscience, because the hands that hold the deck are so very much not in the interest of science, but of dollars. And when the place you’re a citizen of is the biggest terrorist state in the last century, and maybe the history of the world [though i’m sure england is rather close], what are you to do? Do you just allow it to continue the way it’s never stopped, an unbroken century of violence and hate and discrimination and xenophobia, coupled with all this other simultaneous hope happening in the technological fields, in science and understanding? But socially, where are we? Women are still underpaid and treated as a minority special interest when, in fact, they’re the majority of people in the country, and the majority of people in higher education, incidentally. Or the way our long genocidal war against native americans has never ended or how blacks have had their culture and family structure systematically destroyed by an outrageous and abominable prison system. The way sociopaths like Reagan are considered heroes of mythic proportion for no evident reason except the general belief that the past was some kind of golden time where it was always summer and we fucked without condoms on. But the violence didn’t start or stop with him, but just keeps going on.

And it’s not even an executive thing. We pretend like it is, but it isn’t. The faces of government hardly matter, which is why they can change with such breathtaking ease, while policies never do, because policies are not dependent on the people that the minority of the population elect. Policies are determined by the people who put them there, and, if you’re Obama, and a billion dollars were put behind you, you have a lot of hungry mouths to feed. But, like i said, this isn’t Obama’s or Bush’ or Clinton’s or Reagan’s fault, though none of them have helped, and most have made it easier for things to continue as such. We have our own Supreme Court acting as criminals, giving international corporations the rights of individuals, as if that’s in some way shape or form justifiable. We have three wars going on and soldiers in over 800 permanent military bases around the globe. We will never leave the Mideast, just as we’ve never left Japan or Korea or Germany.

No one is our equal so no one is our enemy. They tell us to leave, that we’re no longer needed, and we unceremoniously ignore them or tell them to shut the fuck up while we dock a nuclear submarine in Nagasaki port every month, as if that’s not a continual insult to the people of Japan, especially to the people of Nagasaki. They ask us to leave and we yawn, point towards the nuclear reactor.

And so what’s to be done? I keep asking myself and i find nothing. My generation is one of apathy and ambivalence and a stupidly excessive desire to be ironic. About everything. And so where is there sincerity left in the world? My mother used to tell me that i feel things too much, and i’ve always known this to be true, which is partly why i try to keep things at a certain distance, so that i can deal. But what is to be the start of what needs to be done? I think the best thing that could happen to america is for it to collapse upon itself and stay that way for a generation. I honestly don’t see solutions to the many problems that happen concurrently and neverend. Education, the depression, imperialism, rampant capitalism and militarism to a bloodthirsty and rapacious degree, our support of dictators around the world, to genocides across the century, to the nearly fifty year long occupation of Palestine, to our own bloodsoaked internal history, the way we raped the south and called it peace, the way we crushed the workers and called it progress, the way we seem to be heading back in that very same direction, they way we take lives before they can begin through an insane criminal justice system and financial system whereby every citizen who desires higher education must first go into a crippling debt that will last at least a decade, if not more, while even basic medicine like birth control can become unavailable.

And somehow we’ve been bought and sold into believing all of this is a good idea. And not just a good idea, but a new good idea.

And it weighs on me stupidly, like a millstone. And i have all this energy and capacity to just do things. I’ve never found something i cannot do, and most things come kind of easy. So i’ve been wondering, Is fiction an appropriate usage of this energy? What if i can do more? I should do more. I feel that i have to do more, to be more, but i don’t even know where to start. I’ve written over 300,000 words of fiction in the last nine months, which is more than many people write in a lifetime. I could write another 100-200,000 by the end of this year, but what’s the point? I don’t know.

So I’ve been educating myself politically at kind of a breakneck speed, but it’s the only way I seem to know how to do anything. But it’s been very good for me and has caused some thing to turn for me.

Today a breakthrough of sorts came. I’ve decided that fiction is the correct path for me. But not fiction alone. Art can be so much more than art, and I intend to make it so. More responsibility is on me and my words with this in mind. So it goes.

There’s so much more to say. So very much more to say, but I suppose that’s the gist of it.

I’d like to end this on a hopeful note, because there’s certainly a lot to hope for in the world. Even though the problems seem monumental and insurmountable, there are people trying.

And try we must.

More on this later.