Imagination

parts and phrases

bumper car 
children 
red and white

first car crash 
husband turns wheel to protect himself
wife becomes handicapped
children die


she speeded towards him
attempting to kill him in the process.
She died. He lived. At the last moment the car seemed to slip to the side while the man jumped off towards the middle of the road. Falling to the ground looking back he could see the red car crash into the near by tree

Vapor from the o curls around the pearl white suv  

Rough draft

  "Salud! Hey there lady, come scooch over here, and I'll give you a buck!" the man yells at the tightly dressed woman bathed in colored lights swirling around the karaoke light. His voice seems to slither over the loud music coming out from the stereo into the ears of the tight lipped woman who gradually uncrosses her legs and gives him a glance. The man seems to like the coyness of the woman, it excites him. The woman, on the other hand, lets out a short sigh. A sigh to be silenced by the noise. "Oh, I get it, a buck is not enough. Then how about three bucks! How do you like that?" The woman is tired of dealing with these charity cases night by night. She can see the same look seldom seen in the face of her father, lost, helpless, lonely. The man is still calling for her while she moves toward him. On aproaching the man, slowly, she leans and whispers into his ear. "Come with me."

  The man, extremely drunk, decides to follow her out of the room. His colleagues are busy flirting with the other ladies in the room-saron vigorously laughing their troubles away. He thinks about setting a hand on her hip. He hesitates for a moment, he thinks of his daughter at home. The man falls into a trance thinking about his beloved daughter. His 24 year old daughter Sumi and the woman he is following seems to have a faint similarity. She looks just her age-although the youth is covered under heavy cosmetics, same long hair tied into a bun, the tight lips... Just like her mother. The facial muscles between his eyebrows start to tighten up as he thinks of his ex-wife, how they parted. The night of their twentieth anniversary, she decides to leave him. "Oh, just get a life and please stop ruining mine." he remembers that piercing voice she let out before she left the house and him behind. Regretting the fact that he recalled that dreadful memory he grunts painfully.

  "Hey, I've been thinking about it since I saw you... How about we go somewhere quiet and have a little talk?" The woman suggests with a seduce-for-business tone. The man's face lightens up while a hint of sorrow remains. He gives the woman a nod and takes a short look back at the room they came from. "I'm sure those men will have a little fun of their own, so why don't we go out and deal with some serious business." The man likes the woman's attitude and flings his arm around her shoulders with a satisfied look. The woman takes a glance at him in the elevator. He seemed to be walking alright but his eyelids are drooping down.

  As they walk out of the building the bright lights of Jongro greet them like sunshine. The woman thinks about taking him to a 24-7 cafe first, to get him some coffee, so that he doesn't drowse out on the job. "Yeobo, I need some morning coffee. Mirae, get me a cup." The man mumbles. The woman, a bit irritated by his drunkness and the weight she had carrying on her shoulder, shifts away from him, leaving his left arm to drop down to his sides. She replies, "My name is Narae, I'll get you some coffee. Stay here for a minute." Leaving him on a bench the woman runs toward the nearest coffee shop on the corner. Watching the woman trot away the man leans over to his side. He is still thinking about his wife and child while the thoughts flow to what he had done to them, what he had not done for them. What should he do for himself? He is clueless. He wishes somebody would think for him instead. Then his life wouldn't have turned out like this. He regrets but refuses to think. Thinking is not something for a salesman to do. Working is his only obligation. Money is his only value. Money for family. Money for his daughter's tuition, his elderly mother in the nursing home, consolation for his ex-wife. 'Consolation, what a weird word, like she can get something out of the money that I could not give. Something that we had failed to find in our relationship seems to be replenished by that consolation money.' He feels empty. He had always been empty but at least he had someone by his side. Now he is alone, midst the bright lights and chattering people, he is dark, gloomy and cold alone.
  The woman comes back with a latte, the scent of coffee grinds fills his nostrils. "Thanks," says the man while he takes the coffee in his hands and takes a sip. He thinks about something to say to break the silence in between them. Before he thinks it over his mouth is moving, making sounds that he would never make if he were sober. Some words, again, meant for his wife. "This may sound a little awkward, but right now, all I have is you. I love you. So let's have a night" The woman smiles as she receives her check and the two head to motel where both get their consolation.

Purple

You can see a lot of purple lately on the street.
one time two middle aged womem went by laughing away with their purple jumpers on.
Then another ladie with a purple sweater goes by.
And next a woman with a purple knit hat goes by.

too busy to breathe

Why do we need to make our lives so complicated that we turn out to be too busy to breathe? We live to breathe and we breathe to live don't we/ Even so the people of the city seem to enjoy this suffocating game of ecstasy. The pleasure of sadism is what seems to keep the city going. Torturing others to do more work and straining our muscles to an extent where the weaklings are to fall out of the order down into the pit. That is why our people are so out to find and use a way that will send them up with less effort. A method that will make things so much simpler like fraud, bribery or the lottery. So we think each person looms their ills into the society but in fact the society is just one big web made by itself and still in the making. And now it is growing in a way so that people cannot but break the law to break free from the choking obligations.

When it feels like your running alone

In life it is sometimes more difficult to keep your own pace, especially when it exceeds others. You need to look around and attach your self to those that can pull you a bit back and slow your pace. Of course it isn't so easy trotting in a pace far slower than your own but at least you do not have to feel you legs burning from running at full speed. Sometimes, the binds that keep me back snap, as coworkers behind me find it hard to follow, I fail to lead and run alone. That is when I feel the most lonely. When I thought I was running a marathon and suddenly nobody is near.

fear

I think that in some sense I am afraid to write about unhappiness. Maybe I fear the depth of my unhappiness or I'm just not fond of the concept at all. Of course I do admit that nobody can be truly happy throughout their whole life and happiness is not in the continuum but in the pursuit and the moments. Yet I still seem to struggle in making my character look unhappy or fall into misfortune. In fact, it is funny how Most people find strength to live from other people's misfortune, sadly, including my self as well. So here we are talking of hope through failures, happiness through unhappiness, fortune through misfortune. Why can't we just talk about it itself? Is it just impossible?

Some random phrases and ideas that came to mind

What if everything slipped through my fingers and all I could grasp was your hand?

What if Time was used as the narrator of a story?
Would he be happy? probably not.
They think they can conquer or already have conquered me.
Slice me as if I were a piece of pie.
They worship me, with little round pans with tiny needles strapped around their wrists like hand cuffs.
Monuments are placed here and there. I am supposed to spin between twelve figures.
It hilarious to see how they think they can materialize me with mere metal, glass and wood.

He lies under the starlit sky

He lies under the star-lit sky. The stars seem to call out to him like sirens. Come, come, come to me June. Come here and stay with me. They seem to whisper. He gasps at the sight of the milky sky, shimmering with light. Light that reminds the boy of a girl, named Sue. He decides to call her.
Hello?
Hey, how are you, it's me June.
Oh hi! Fine, how have you been doing?
Well, I'm in Junnam now, on a fieldtrip at work. Chilling under this korean pavillion a wondumak after a few sabals, bowls of makgullee. Great, I'm doing great.
Youre like a real younger sister to me
I don't know why I always speak of the future and wishes when I@m with you instead of those mundane every day topics.

No I will not do that.

There may be a couple of things I will not do,
I will not sacrifice my life for others, I will not do things that end up in lowering my self-esteem, I will not bite off more than I can chew, I will not do what is against my will, all of these things that I say I will not do is mentioned because they are what I have been doing.

writing and unhappiness

  I just noticed that, probably, nobody writes when they are happy because they are simply busy being so satisfied with themselves. As for me also, writing and reading is more easily done when I am less content with my life. It may sound funny for me to say that I actually try to find moments when I feel unhappy enough to get into writing. Feeling discontent must bring forth a hunger for words. We gulp them up until we feel full, burp and vomit them out until we feel empty. In this way, writing feels very similar to digestion. The pencil protrudes its sharpened tooth to naw across the pages, it eats away the paper with silent slicing sounds while leaving a track of black lead behind.

  Thus the pencil can be defined as an essential animal to be bred in writing. My pencil is now much like a sheep. It wanders out while taking chunks of grass here and there, leaving tracks everywhere, anywhere it wants. However, it has not yet truely seen or gone beyond the invisible fence, beyond being merely herded. My drawing has certainly surpassed this cultivated limit. The lines are free and fluent. That may be why I feel an urge to roam out as far as drawing with my writing as well. It will probably take a period of time where my only means of expression would be writing, which I expect will be a very sad period. In the meantime, I think I will stay content in the fields of glory and happiness, graze in the sun for a while. I believe these enjoyable times will pass and my unhappiness will, someday again, take my pencil across the territories.

some time to think about time

What goes by slower the faster you move?
Time, in the relative theory, and Alice in the Wonderland.

So if we were to race in space and you were ahead, with greater velocity, you would in fact be behind, in terms of time, I would be ahead.

Thus space and time are interwined into one big loop, the clock ticks away the time in terms of space, across the round surface the hands glide. While we ourselves glide as well across the universe in an eclipse. Time flies fastest at the center of the clock while time on the hands follow. Time on the sun must spin like crazy compared to ours on earth.

The faster you move
the slower time goes
my, what an irony,
the world jokes.

Poem S

Poem S

The story teller.

Met amidst a rainbow,

brigded across the plains.

You had many names.

Many colours, camaflaged

your own being.

You dreamt of stairs and broken hearts

each at every flight, belonging

to everyone.

No one can mend a broken heart

but we ourselves can heal.

Our warmth and beams,

ray out towards each wound

cared for by the world.

We write poetry instead of philosophy

to bring our worlds together,

words are caught by strings of thought.

Rushing in, quickly, thoughts form seas:

seas that make us ponder what may be underneath.

We break in, holding our breaths, to the water.

Our eyes shiver from the cold and salt,

but not to halt we continue. Pressing on,

the navy blue takes a turn to black.

We scrape the bottom, before

we see, lungs cry out in agony.

Ascending forth we praise the air,

the sun, the warmth and light.

Our success and failure all the same

in the pitch submarine darkness.

Nothing meant to mean anything

leads to underwater abscurity.

Then why do we swim underneath, to see

what we cannot, where we cannot see.

That is a question of why we live,

of why we think of why we think.

Our spinning heads in the water form

a wave of curiosity, sends our thoughts

and feelings forth to clash and churn with

other waves made by turbines across the sea.

The storyteller makes such stories

told through the mouth of my own.

Songs are sent to him while

on me he plucks each tune.

No song lasts, all pieces end,

as ink is bound to dry. Just as

seas dry up, we know, though

we tend to deny.

Bleached in the Sun

BLEACHED IN THE SUN

 



“But my wife..."

Behind two black sedans and a glass show window a woman in a hiking suit stares across the table (with steel legs looking as fragile as the woman’s crossed fingers) at a man who seems to be her husband. The man is fully dressed in a suit; formally, his attire resembles that of a mannequin, flawless, but a drop of kimchi stain on his left sleeve. The sun chose to shine on the man's already gleaming shirt, a trembling pearl, and the cut edge smiles of the two salesmen, while one of them politely interrupts-

"Oh, Mr. Chu, surely that is no problem, luckily our brand has just the right vehicle for a madam in such condition. Would you care to take a look at this catalogue?"

As the two men take turns explaining the features of the automobile to be sold, the man's fingers reach for a cup of water, slowly; his eyes catch a glimpse of red on his sleeve, while the white paper cup is delivered to his lips. Right after taking a decent sip he diligently dampens the tip of a handkerchief pulled out from his right pants pocket. The woman watches her husband rub the stain with quick short strokes. 'Clumsy old man,' a thought goes by. She shifts herself, slightly, in her seat to ease the back pain. 


"Yes, yes, that sounds fine. Very convenient, don't you think so, yeobo?” he asks, checking the dot on his sleeve which now, to his previous effort, has a slightly faded to orange.

"Of course, I do but really all I care about is the color, honey." she states as the woman shows her once brilliant smile, the smile which her husband used to call 'fit enough for a dental commercial', the smile that brought each other to fall into what some call 'love at first sight'. That was twenty some years ago.

 For some reason, the man is suddenly perplexed. He does not frown but looks down at the catalogue which displays the same model in a variety of shades. 'Red, negative.' starting from the last page, he continues to flip backwards and stopping at the first, 'White seems fair,' the man concludes.


Just as he was about to ask her opinion, the woman who was also flipping along, shows her husband the last page.

"Red seems fine. Not too flashy for me is it dear?" she asks excitedly, with her smile on.

"Of course not, it fits you perfectly." he quickly replies and checks the time on his wristwatch. The sunlight slashes through a crack in the corner but still he manages to read the time out, approximately, 2:57.

"Yeobo, we’re running late for your appointment at 3:30. It's almost 3 o'clock, so why don't we leave the rest to my secretary here. I'm sure your back should hurt for having to sit here for so long."

"I’m okay honey, though I was getting a bit hot here with the sun shining down on my face, phew, good that I had sunscreen on. Let's get going. Oh, I can't wait to roll on these wheels." she chimed, setting the catalogue down on her lap.
 

The husband goes over to her wife and carefully leans down to whisper into her ear, "Darling, please don't forget to check the red dot between your teeth, later on when you have the time." He talks in a soft way, not to hurt her feelings.

His wife, surprised, takes out her phone and checks her reflection. Indeed there it is, a red fleck of minced red pepper stuck in a crack between her two front teeth. 'It must have gotten their earlier when the two of us had kimchi-jjigae, and all along I've been smiling in front of these two young men.' For a second, she looks thoroughly embarrassed.

Her face remains slightly pink as the man wheels her towards the exit. He leaves her for a moment, while he pushes open the door. And then suddenly, she bursts into laughter, a laugh so hard that made her wheelchair jingle. The man watches her face fade in with the shade of the jumper she had been wearing, realizing that her favorite color had always been red since the accident.

 
Calming down she lays her eyes once again on the last page of the catalogue; a red compact car designed for the disabled, awaits.

"I can do this myself now dear." she announces, as she rolls herself outside into the sunshine, her smile wider than before. With a considered grip the man let go of the handles, stepping forward, begins to fold his sleeves with a quiet smile. The stain had dried and faded away. Its once irritating red, safely returned to its original white, as if it was bleached: bleached in the sun.

at the car dealer

"But my wife..."
Behind two black sedans and a glass show window a woman in hiking suit stares across the table- with steel legs looking as fragile as the womans crossed fingers- at a man who seems to be her husband. The man is fully dressed in a suit, formal, his attire easily resembles that of a manequine, flawless, but a drop of kimchi stain on his left sleeve. The sun chose to shine on the man's already gleeming shirt, a trembling pearl, and the cut edge smiles of the two salesmen, while one of them politely interupts-
"Oh, Mr. Chu surely that's no problem, luckily our brand has just the right vehicle for a madam with such requirements. Would you care to take a look at this catalogue."
As the two men take turns explaining the features of the automobile to be sold, the man's fingers reach for a cup of water, slowly, his eyes catch a glimps of red while the paper cup is delivered to his lips.
The man rubs the stain with a wettened tissue.
The stain dries and fades away, it's irritating red returning to its original color white.

Can you believe

Can you believe that somebody may simply be interested in who you are not what you have, what you do and where you are? I almost did. I think I still do.

Anything you want for your birthday? I want 'you'. Cheesy. No really, I wan't Sue. Who you are.
And exactly how are you planning to get 'me'? Through your mouth. Oh, really. Yeah.

On the day of his birthday, he really did 'get' me. He asked me through my life and I told him the story of how I came to become who I am today. Listening attentively he guided me through my lifelong traumas soft and soothingly.

Exercise - Analyzation of Beginnings

The Stranger by Albert Camus

  Maman died today. Or yesterday maybe, I don't know. I got a telegram from the home: "Mother deceased. Funeral tomorrow. Faithfully yours." That doesn't mean anything. Maybe it was yesterday.

Sputnik Sweetheart by Haruki Murakami

  In the spring of her twenty-second year, Sumire fell in love for the first time in her life. An intense love, a veritable tornado sweeping across the plains ... In short, a love of truly monumental proportions. The person she fell in love with happened to be seventeen years older than Sumire. And was married. And, should I add, was a woman. This is where it all began, and where it all wound up. Almost.

The Cut-Glass Bowl by F. Scott Fitzgerald

  There was a rough stone age and a smooth stone age and a bronze age, and many years afterward a cut-glass age. In that cut-glass age, when young ladies had persuaded young men with long, curly mustaches to marry them, they sat down several months afterward and wrote thank-you notes for all sort of cut-glass presents ...

Alice's Adventures in Wonderland by Lewis Carrol

  Alice was beginning to get very tired of sitting by her sister on the bank, and of having nothing to do: once or twice she had peeped into the book her sister was reading, but it had no pictures or conversations in it, 'and what is the use of a book,' thought Alice, 'without pictures or conversation?'

  So she was considering in her own mind (as well as she could, for the hot day made her feel very sleepy and stupid), whether the pleasure of making a daisy-chain would be worth the trouble of getting up and picking the daisies, when suddenly a White Rabbit with pink eyes ran close by her. 

A Child Called "It" by Dave Pelzer

  March 5, 1973, Daly City, CaliforniaㅡI'm late. I've got to finish the dishes on time, otherwise no breakfast; and since I didn't have dinner last night, I have to make sure I get something to eat. Mother's running around yelling at my brothers. I can hear her stomping down the hallway towards the kitchen. I dip my hands back into the scalding rinse water. It's to late. She catches me with my hands out of the water.
  SMACK! ...

What's going on here?
What kind of info is the author giving you?
What mystery is the author presenting?
What is set up for the whole story?

Notes Organized from Classes before Midterm

" Realism, it does not always tell the whole story."
/ A balance between General vs Particular needs to be made.

" Characters are (need to be) wierd (interesting)."
/ You never have a perfect character. They have a special ability, as well as, a weakness.
The flaws usually become the reason of happening or a case of conflict.

" Do something unexpectable."
/ Put them into the corner and make them suffer so they have to do something.
Be sure to make the choice surprising, unexpectable. Dramatize.


4 Points for Critique
1. What's going on?
/ Not the plot but the philosophical idea or theme.
2. What is working here?
/ Effective points
3. What can be improved?
/ What is not quite done right, why?
4. One last suggesion?
/ If there was one thing I would work on it would be-


"How am I self-contradictory?"

Breaking the rules.

Dissonance.

Research!

What is a Story?

Plot, props and character, change;
Characters and how they change.
Understanding and misunderstanding,
Connection;
Significance of events lead to series of connections.
Decisions; choice and consequence,
Satisfaction,
Which threads to pull up,
Suffering; who gets hurt?
Point of view
Story telling - tone, voice...
Narrator - 1st, 3rd, (2nd) / Reliable vs Unreliable
Narators are characters / Limited, omniscent
Conflict
Memory
Action;
In Medias Res: Begin in the middle of things (action)
What is your character going to do?
Problems and Issues
Ethical prescriptions, morals
Make readers think about this
Judgement
Ethics and power issues the complicity (good and bad, evil)
Feeling: No answer, confront yourself
Difference between Art and Ethics (complex)
Publicly, not easily as personally

" Fail better."
/ Relax. Find a story inside yourself and find the best way to tell it.
There are divers genres, ways to do it, try to have fun.
Learn how to tell a good story well, when to stop editing.

" Writing is not like jazz - revise."

" It is not a race. "
Write daily, take a certain amount of time everyday.
Emersion. Critique.

" Make concrete goals."

Schedule.
Carry a notebook. Adjust schdule. Put in the time. Play with it.

" Read the kind of stuff your writing."
/ Learning by imitating is a good way to learn about style and voice.
Read english everyday, get used to literary expressions.

" We find the story in the details."

" Give something to imagine."

Look out for using too much adjectives and adverbs.
" Cut the fat, they're only useful when they are surprises."

" Imply and Simplify; make them imagine what's not there."


" Names have special associations."

Flat and Rounded character
Flat characters are like supporting actors, descriptions are simpler.
Round characters are more complex, unique and associable.
Flat charactrers may be interesting but usually follow the formula.

"Show" don't tell.
Reveal slowly, in small ways and big ways.
Avoid letting the readers know so quickly.

" Find the moment."
If you choose a scene it should have something in it.
Use flash backs.

" Good writings are Fractals."
Like yeast the first scene should have the seeds.
Same thing with differences grow into something bigger.

" Foreign language is spice."

"What is the role of humor?"

Reading out loud and acting out works.

Spoon theory: metaphoric language. A way to tell dramatically.

Tension at the first scene. Form an inherent conflict. Possible conflict. Don't make it obvious.
Or a promise on what is going to change.

Having to guess is okay but help readers guess correctly.

" Testing the characters is about what you think human nature is about."

Bring the character into a painful and embarassing moment.
Purpose: to pull them ito the experience and show how we deal with it.

Characters may refuse to change, fail to deal with the question.
Try giving your characters one of the hardest question of your life.

" The most interesting character is a person with a problem surrounded with people with problems."

" Spin as many plates as you can."

D

Sometimes I wonder why I am so drawn to difficulty. Difficulties in life, difficulties in my character, difficulties in life coping with my character. Most of the problems are interwined with a memory or some kind of link to a past traumatic or troubled event. It is as if I had a knot of feelings, the worries all tangled up deep inside of me. When certain situations start loosening the knot I suddenly have to cope with these dark mixed emotions all at once. Falling into chaos I run through the tangles somehow trying to get them untangled yet when I fail, and the situation ends I quietly tie them up again waiting for something to pull the strings. So I do want to get them sorted out but why can I not do it on my own? Probably because I'm scared, afraid to deal with my own dark feelings by myself. Like my lover told me that he had always felt so bare and alone like a little boy out in the plains with a tornado coming close. It is very difficult to deal with things as big as yourself, especially when your eyes tend to magnify the bad to make it worse. Making yourself into one big demon when all you are is human.      

sigh

sigh...
sighs are usually followed
by I wishes
or should'ves

Z

My torso had almost forgotten
what you had done to me
the gashes made to endure
in the name of charity.
Away with these haunting memories.

My focus wanders
into the distance,
at the thought of you.
The life you lived after your death
I had to take you through.

Please, get well, I prayed
for the sake of your arid life.
Days no one could touch,
drawn out by people at night.
Oh it was such a strife.

How could I, a little girl
bring somebody back from death?
Regardlessly my little soul
could not leave this corpes undead.
I lured him out from underneath.

With my purity as bait
your drool flowing endlessly
leaving slimy tracks behind.
Ata boy your doing well,
just keep following me.

Through the rivers and the rains
down the water washed
away with those grimy grims
I thought I could rid of them
but the flood went on.

Onto me, was when I saw
this was not the death
that had made you so dark
but the life that been before it,
the slime clings endlessly.

The light I had shone on you
all but made you shine,
like a slug leaving trails
fake diamonds left behind.
Allthemore I cherished you.

The warmth I gave
meant nothing to you
the tears I shed just stung
your thin grey skin so sensitive
writhing and churning along.

Once I tried to rid of you
back to where you were,
but you insist to follow me
sputtering so helplessly
that you could not be abandoned.

I walk a few steps
and look behind, there you are
slugging on with droopy eyes
focused unfocusly on me
and my dragging pace.

What a race, so meaningless
no enthusiast no speed.
I mumble on with dreary eyes
for two long months I run
my own marathon.

At last I cross the finish line
smiling happily. Congratulate
I left you there for someone else
to take, just in time another girl
comes by your running mate.

w

We met at night
gazing over the moonlit sky.
we talked of the world
whether or not we had
any part in it.

We were imigrates,
at first, aliens to the soul
of the earth we set our claws on
and wings in, isolated, craving
for a connection.

So we roamed around everynight
pressing our feet into the paths
trying to fit in, yet yearning for
the originary grounds we had come from.
Ba-ing like cultivated sheep.

Our bells rang along the distance
into the barn boy's ears, sound asleep
on a hay stack so steep.
Oh if he were to topple over,
We would snatch him by the collar.

You spoke of sacrifice,
looking up quite sinisterly.
While a hint of sorrow goes by
that grin of yours, trembling
with puzzled anxiety.

I am chained, you said
for the sake of my bottomless
soul, afraid to lose conscience
if they were not there to keep
myself secure, you explain.

But your still wild inside your head,
No wolf can be tamed in sheep's wool
so you've been slashed and whipped
till your heart wept itself dry, cold
like the chains that cling to you.

You devour each passerby
with a starved and startled look
it took some courage to take your hands
in mine while your paws hastely
wrapped round my hips.

Under your smiling lips
there was always this
doomed savageness.
Let's pretend we're human.
We cried under the moon.

One night you bit me
pulling me into your coarse
black lims, I struggled in the depth
of the holes your heart possesed,
made by continuous stabs, I carressed.

Give me time, I chanted calmly.
With a cure for your ancient maladies
the light to fill your wounds.
I'll come back, I assured. Wailing
you went off into the wilderness.

I ran off, in disgust, not looking back
and shuddered off the merky darkness
that had clung to me for ages. Washed
myself at dusk and walked till dawn
towards the sunset of the west.

werewolf

Many authors have speculated that werewolf and vampire legends may have been used to explain serial killings in less rational ages[citation needed]. This theory is given credence by the tendency of some modern serial killers to indulge in practices commonly associated with werewolves, such as cannibalism, mutilation, and cyclic attacks. The idea is well explored in Sabine Baring-Gould's work The Book of Werewolves.

Until the 20th century, wolf attacks on humans were an occasional, but widespread feature of life in Europe.[24] Some scholars have suggested that it was inevitable that wolves, being the most feared predators in Europe, were projected into the folklore of evil shapeshifters. This is said to be corroborated by the fact that areas devoid of wolves typically use different kinds of predator to fill the niche; werehyenas in Africa, weretigers in India,[7] as well as werepumas ("runa uturuncu")[25][26] and werejaguars ("yaguaraté-abá" or "tigre-capiango")[27][28] of southern South America.

In his Man into Wolf (1948), anthropologist Robert Eisler drew attention to the fact that many Indo-European tribal names and some modern European surnames mean "wolf" or "wolf-men". This is argued by Eisler to indicate that the European transition from fruit gathering to predatory hunting was a conscious process, simultaneously accompanied by an emotional upheaval still remembered in humanity's subconscious, which in turn became reflected in the later medieval superstition of werewolves.[29]



Some modern researchers have tried to explain the reports of werewolf behaviour with recognised medical conditions. Dr Lee Illis of Guy's Hospital in London wrote a paper in 1963 entitled On Porphyria and the Aetiology of Werewolves, in which he argues that historical accounts on werewolves could have in fact been referring to victims of congenital porphyria, stating how the symptoms of photosensitivity, reddish teeth and psychosis could have been grounds for accusing a sufferer of being a werewolf.[30] This is however argued against by Woodward, who points out how mythological werewolves were almost invariably portrayed as resembling true wolves, and that their human forms were rarely physically conspicuous as porphyria victims.[7] Others have pointed out the possibility of historical werewolves having been sufferers of hypertrichosis, a hereditary condition manifesting itself in excessive hair growth. However, Woodward dismissed the possibility, as the rarity of the disease ruled it out from happening on a large scale, as werewolf cases were in medieval Europe.[7] People suffering from Downs Syndrome have been suggested by some scholars to have been possible originators of werewolf myths.[22] Woodward suggested rabies as the origin of werewolf beliefs, claiming remarkable similarities between the symptoms of that disease and some of the legends. Woodward focused on the idea that being bitten by a werewolf could result in the victim turning into one, which suggested the idea of a transmittable disease like rabies.[7] However, the idea that lycanthropy could be transmitted in this way is not part of the original myths and legends and only appears in relatively recent beliefs.


In Medieval Europe, the corpses of some people executed as werewolves were cremated rather than buried in order to prevent them from being resurrected as vampires.[7] Before the end of the 19th century, the Greeks believed that the corpses of werewolves, if not destroyed, would return to life as vampires in the form of wolves or hyenas which prowled battlefields, drinking the blood of dying soldiers. In the same vein, in some rural areas of Germany, Poland and Northern France, it was once believed that people who died in mortal sin came back to life as blood-drinking wolves. This differs from conventional werewolfery, where the creature is a living being rather than an undead apparition. These vampiric werewolves would return to their human corpse form at daylight. They were dealt with by decapitation with a spade and exorcism by the parish priest. The head would then be thrown into a stream, where the weight of its sins were thought to weigh it down. Sometimes, the same methods used to dispose of ordinary vampires would be used.[7] The vampire was also linked to the werewolf in East European countries, particularly Bulgaria, Serbia and Slovakia. In Serbia, the werewolf and vampire are known collectively as one creature; Vulkodlak.[7] In Hungarian and Balkan mythology, many werewolves were said to be vampiric witches who became wolves in order to suck the blood of men born under the full moon in order to preserve their health. In their human form, these werewolves were said to have pale, sunken faces, hollow eyes, swollen lips and flabby arms.[7] The Haitian jé-rouges differ from traditional European werewolves by their habit of actively trying to spread their lycanthropic condition to others, much like vampires.[7]

Mummies

The English word mummy is derived from medieval Latin mumia, a borrowing of the Persian word mūm (موم), which means "bitumen". Because of the blackened skin bitumen was once thought to be used extensively in ancient Egyptian embalming procedures. (See also: Mummia.)

(Wikipedia)

Lon Chaney, Jr. as Kharis in the film The Mummy's Ghost (1944)
Mummies are commonly featured in horror genres as undead creatures. During the 20th century, horror films and other mass media popularized the notion of a curse associated with mummies. One of the earliest appearances was The Jewel of Seven Stars, a horror novel by Bram Stoker first published in 1903 that concerned an archaeologist's plot to revive an ancient Egyptian mummy. This book later served as the basis for the 1971 film Blood from the Mummy's Tomb.

Films representing such a belief include the 1932 movie The Mummy starring Boris Karloff as Imhotep; four subsequent 1940s' Universal Studios mummy films which featured a mummy named Kharis, who also was the title mummy in The Mummy, a 1959 Hammer remake of The Mummy's Hand and The Mummy's Tomb; and a remake of the original film that was released in 1999 (and later spawned two direct sequels and prequels and a spinoff movie). The belief in cursed mummies probably stems in part from the supposed curse on the tomb of Tutankhamun. In 1979, the American Broadcasting Company aired a TV holiday show, The Halloween That Almost Wasn't, in which a mummy from Egypt (Robert Fitch) arrived at Count Dracula's castle without speaking.

The 1922 discovery of Tutankhamun's tomb by archaeologist Howard Carter brought mummies into the mainstream. Slapstick comedy trio the Three Stooges humorously exploited the discovery in the short film We Want Our Mummy, in which they explored the tomb of the midget King Rutentuten (and his Queen, Hotsy Totsy). A decade later, they played crooked used chariot salesmen in Mummy's Dummies, in which they ultimately assisted a different King Rootentootin (Vernon Dent) with a toothache.

Autumn Azures

-




A lone sky,
up there so high.
They are blue because 
they have nobody to talk to.
Do you hear the sound,
spilt tears onto the ground?
Their cries as if they had eyes.




_

A thought that came to mind while strolling down Namsan

-

Yesterday i killed a man.

A man ran passed by
running to death
his heart heaved to a halt
because of me.
And today i gave birth to a boy.
The boy grew to kill a girl,
the girl to be a women tomorrow.
While the boy ran to become a man.


_


_

Part and whole

Conversation
is all about elephants.
I get hold of the tail,
you check out the nose.

In the midth of feeling out an elephant
playing the guessing game,
I say we are touching something similar,
you say they cannot be the same.

We share thoughts about parts;
each one being a unique part,
we do not know how those are to be
parts of the same whole eventually.

1

I'd kill you
If I were to.

The reason I dare
is the thirst I can't bear
for the sweet dreams your having
which I have been craving
for the past few years.

Funny isn't it to see
what scarcity does to sanity.
It drives people crazy all busy to kill
drawn into role play of hunters and prey
with blood shot eyes full of hunger.

This is not hunger.
It has nothing to do with taste.
Thirst is what it is.
For dreams that go to waste.
The abundant is the most valuable.

So give me that piece of mind,
I will absorb it eagerly
into my veins, onto my cells
the dreams will spread soothingly
to give my mind some peace.

Although I know,
only fools take in all they can
overtaken by their own greed
they take the world as an
all-you-can eat buffet.

The world is not a buffet.
Nothing comes if nothing goes.
You will see how naturally everything flows
if you look carefully underneath and above
the most abundant keeps the world alive.

If dreams were to flow on and on through the day
visible to the eye, there would be no one to deny
how beautiful they are how precious and sweet
but sadly in the sun they melt
at dawn to forever be gone.

That is why I lick off the tip
of your tongue as aphides sip
a drop of dew on morning leaf tips.
Before the sun shines and everything dries
I enjoy the moist that was meant to be mine.

I would like to live
as I would like you to do too,
as I live on your dreams
(or 'your dreams are my living')
strange as it seems
but it is true, I need you.




End of poem 1.

If were to kiss you, hold you, sleep with you.

If I were to kiss you I would suck the very dreams out of your soul.
If I were to sleep with you I would dance all night till your too tired to resist.
when your squeezed until I get every imaginary drop out of you.

That is why I prefer to hold your hand gently,
stay by your side to lick those sweet dreams of yours.
Quench my thirst with what seems to trickle out of that spring like mouth of yours.

TURNING TWENTY THREE

part of a poem written by Anne Michaels
from 'The Weight of Oranges'

...

To love one person above all others
is despair, you said, turning twenty-two.
Propaganda of the senses, the narrow-minded heart -

We are magnets, averted
by our sameness.

...

Daydreams and nightmares

People crave for what they do not have. I do not have dreams. Instead I have had an ongoing thirst for dreams since the night I stopped dreaming. First it was a regular interest in what others dreamt of. When others would tell stories of what they dreamt last night, mysterious or hilarious alike, I would keep my ears plugged to the tip of their tongues enjoying the fantasies licking them to the core.

Come to think of it, I do dream. I daydream.

Fish tank fish dreams

Fish dream bad dreams of needles piercing through the water penetrating their skin. No way to get out of a tank full of roomies that stink of rotten fish to the very skin. Nothing to do but ongoing laps inside a four cournered glass merky with flem. Continuous memory failure not being able to recall the previous ten minutes yet a queer feeling of dejavu lurks within. What have I been doing? Wondering wether I even existed then. The ability to question and imagine is surely a nightmare's origin to them.

?

Nothing is real as nothing is unreal.
Everything is real as everything is unreal.
Everthing is nothing as nothing is everything.
The real is unreal as the unreal is real.

?

Dreams of everything but nothing

Dreams are one of those things that give everything to everbody but nothing to nobody. Everything to nothing, what a vast and vague range. Truely somethings are just better not having. I would say dreams are merely sweet and sour non-beings.

Recently I've been taking a pack of heavy dreams for breakfast but they were not worth trying. The bitter feeling left in my chest was quite a drag for the whole day. What else would you recommend?
Well, the spicy ones are the best to frizzle up your mornings but too much of 'em would get your feet numb. How about a nice cup of hazelnut dazes? It gets you up in no time while you wade in the sweet aroma.
Yes, that would be nice. I think I'll challenge myself to one of those hot-chilly frenzies too.
Great, best to get you sizzled up before a busy day, exellent choice.
Thanks.
Have a nice dream.

Dreams of a blind man

What dreams would a blind man dream
If they were no dreams in shape nor color
Would they be in rythm and beat
Should they be in smell or odor

Would he see a bird through its melody
A flower through its scent
How would one know what a blind man dreams
Unless I sleep with him

Yes I know I do not dream but yet we all can see
How one would enjoy dreaming more than all
If he were a blind man to see all that he can
Through his dreams it would be surely heavenly.

Pin cushion family reunion

Awkward, abash
bashful and rash
Nowhere to sit comfortably,
no sound to comfort me.
Everything prickles
their voice makes me sick.
By angles and corners
circles get pricked.
Up into pieces everything breaks
keeping eachother sharp and awake.

Mr. Sky the rain addict

"Why do you love rain?" I ask. "You see,
for me, it's very hard to understand." I add.
"Perhaps it's because of the sound of raindrops." he replies,
"I get upbeat as the rain pours as if I am in love."

All I see is rain, on rainy days when he looks into my eyes.
I used to ponder which he would love more,the rain or I?
Now I'm starting to like it the rain, the sounds, your eyes.
I see what you feel about the rain when I pore into those eyes.

Dream Source3

Continuous dreams of teeth falling out.
Meaning your losing somebody or something.

Dream Source2

Ambushed.
Kidnapped
and shot.

Dream Source1

Transparent building entered.
Stairs climbed.
Hear sobbs and sorrow.
Own heart breaks and devastates.
Looks up and sees people like he.
Crying and moaning at every flight.

Vampires and victims

One side flows full of essence,
something the other craves.

Which is why we need a balance,
as without it neither lives.

Yin and yang, lack and flourish, 
a cycle of vampires and victims.

On grounds with plenty to nourish,
the rain falls in periodical rythms.

Mist and Vapor

Cold wet
warm wet
but not quite water

Hot dry
cool dry
but not yet air

A few quotes and ideas related to daydreams and nightmares

"Insight without action is a daydream and action without insight is a nightmare."

Weekly Assignments 1 & 2

“The book that made the strongest impression on me”


The book that had impressed me most would be ‘MOMO’ written by Michael Ende. It was read during my middle school years when I had hardly any sense of reality. At that time I always found it difficult to read books that were realistic. So this dream-like book was one sweet treat for me. I dug my face in it and gobbled the whole fairy tale up. That was probably the point I developed a great appetite for fiction. There was always a novel beside my bed and I read each night till I fell asleep. I had more novels on my bookshelf than I had friends during these days.

Meanwhile, in my freshman year I had an opportunity to visit my cousin in NJ. She had majored in film and was working as a freelancer for an apartment in Brooklyn, NY. That was when one title caught my eye in between a fat stack of books. ‘Sputnik Sweetheart’ by Haruki Murakami was the first book I started reading as soon as I was back from my trip. Its poetic lines and tempting story had captured me completely. The book aroused my once lost emotion and a new taste for philosophy. Greatly influenced by the sophisticate simplicity, I came to think that if I were a writer I would write like Murakami.





“Daydreams and Nightmares”

The project I am willing to work through the semester goes by the title written above. Dreams have always been an interest to human kind. They have been psychologically and scientifically examined through the past years, by psychoanalysts such as Sigmund Freud, in order to better understand the human mind. However, I believe dreams are also worth synthesizing not just analyzing. Taking each dream as it is, leaving it alone without dissecting and putting them all together. I hope this project will end in giving the dreams a certain form of life.

The method will be by interlinking my dreams and those that are dreamed by the people around me, daydreams and nightmares alike. It would be wonderful if I could find some kind of unity and compose them into it. I will continue to collect dreams and try to find a connection among them. According to the Zen mind, ‘the whole life is a net.’ Life shown by reality and dreams are bound together. Therefore, I am looking forward to seek togetherness in life and our dreams through poetry.

Flight

Who said you could stand up?
Who said you could fly?
I am afraid to fly,
of being shot not knowing why.

So I try to lay low.
Lower than the eyes.
Of those who abore
those who seem to be more.

I know I am so much more.
I know I can fly.

But I can not flap my wings,
not until I am totally sure.
I'm not sure whether
I or the bullets will be faster.

So I wait.
I wait for the time.

Practicing each step.
I fly at night, in my dreams.
But at day I am just
somebody with nobody to trust.

How many days left until I die?
How many days left until I fly?

By the time I spread my wings
I will be left with nothing.
Nothing to leave behind
but love for every kind.

The day I fly
will probably be the day I die.

Reading and writing

  Everybody has their own reason to read.
If my earlier years were spent with reading to simply indulge myself in something other than the world around me, now I choose to read each book for some reason, goal or purpose. While in the past I read to spend time, now the time spent in reading seems to go by so fast I wish I had another head - or at least pair of eyes - to read right next to me. Some people are such fast readers that they are capable of reading 10 to 20 books a month. Yet I have still been hovering over 5 to 10 books for the past 3 months. I am a slow reader and a slow thinker mostly because I like to go deep and far into my thoughts.
  To me, reading is like diving into a sea of thoughts. If the water is cold or unfamiliar, it takes some time to get used to the scape and temperature. If I like the sight I go deeper and deeper and deeper. It's interesting how the deeper you go into your thoughts, time tends to go by quicker than you feel. How amazing time and thought are bound together by the bindings of a book. This tight and intimate feeling between my eyes glued to the book, streaming thoughts and flowing time is probably what brings me to keep on reading.

  Writing has never been easy for me.
Nobody gave me enough time to understand the actual process. It was as if I were given no thread and had been told to weave in seconds. Homework and TOEFL essay writing was always done in a hurry and usually failed to complete. It maybe more difficult because I try to keep writing as something of the past. Good memories of when I used to win prizes for the storybook making contest in 2nd grade haunt me. Not until last semester had I felt again how good it is to spin a web of words like a spider. Lead threads spurt out images tangled up in my head.
 If I were to choose one word to express the exact opposite of myself it would be 'simple-minded'. Sometimes it gets so complicated that I have no idea of what I am thinking about. There is always two or three thoughts going on inside my head like an unfinished software process. Doodling used to help me organize them, visualize my thoughts and emotions. They were often in the form of images, words than sentences so I am used to drawing out my thoughts than writing. Sometimes I feel my writing tends to jump between the lines, lack full description. I speak that way as well, when I am in a rush, I assume people will know how I think and how I feel. So maybe the most difficult challenge in writing for me would be to learn how to explain and help others understand.

  

"Goodnight, sweet dreams."

Honestly, these words give me the chills.

Last time I heard them, I had a nightmare. 

Everynight we go to sleep not knowing what dreams we are to dream.

If we could choose them - like flavors at an ice cream store - would anybody have bad ones? 

We float and glide through these pools of unconscience.

Some burning hot and some dead cold.

Some bring their dreams out into the day.

Some say daydreaming is useless.

I believe most dreams are worth looking into. 

They show us our everyday dares and desires.

What makes us happy.

What makes us afraid.

Both happiness and anxiety become motives of our daily life.

Underground motors hidden beneath our hair and skin.

Let the dreams talk.

They don't lie.