Every time I have to write a paper for class, I make up every excuse NOT to concentrate on it. I feel a sudden urge to clean my entire room, which usually stays untouched and pretty messy on a normal basis, and when that's not enough, I start organizing my roommate's stuff on the other side of the room. Then I start cleaning the kitchen, the living room, sweeping the floor, doing the dishes, even scrubbing the bathroom floors. Anything is better than having to sit in front of this computer and type out a paper. Anything.
I have a tendency to start making lists of things I have to do when I don't really want to do them. So I start with the current time (which right now is 5:21 pm) and plan out my the rest of my day exactly, detailing every thought I must think and action I must take to get something done by the time I go to sleep. For instance:
5:21-5:40 Write in blog about not being able to write my paper
5:40-5:45 Browse the internet to take a break
5:45-6:15 Read paper on North Korean economy by Hong Sung Kook and summarize
6:15-7:00 Write first page of paper
7:00-8:00 Dinner (yay!)
8:00-9:00 Read more papers on North Korean economy by other authors
9:00-11:00 Write page 2-4 of paper
11:00-11:30 Wash up and go to sleep
It's not that I'm OCD. I just like to imagine what I would most ideally be doing at certain times of the day. The funny thing is, once I finish writing the list, I rarely ever look at it again. Thus my conclusion that I'm the most impractical, inefficient person in the world. I just need some sort of therapy to convince myself that I'm being effective.
Even after I manage to sit myself down in front of the computer and open up Office, I continue to fidget. I start browsing the internet, "looking for references and sources" for my paper. Facebook is the devil. That's why I deactivated it. But just a couple of minutes ago, I forgot I had deactivated it and logged on. As easily as 1-2-3. They make it too easy to come back. It's an addiction I can't overcome.
I'm going crazy. I need to finish this paper but my mind is filled with everything BUT that wretched paper. Is there any way to cure myself?
Monday, April 20, 2009
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Jon Stewart on NK's missile launch
It's a little but I had to put it up.
Had a good laugh from this.
Had a good laugh from this.
| The Daily Show With Jon Stewart | M - Th 11p / 10c | |||
| Bad Korea Move | ||||
| ||||
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Rainism
It's raining, and I'm stuck inside a random building on campus.
Everything around me is quiet, exept for my typing and the hollow echo of raindrops outside.
The air is quite dim and muggy, and the building is quite monochrome, except for the window in front of me, dotted with colorful drops of water. Some are reflecting the gray sky, others the crimson wall paper, others the distorted contours of my face.
This morning, I looked out of the windows of my apartment and noticed the dreary haze outside. It might rain, I thought, but I folded that idea because carrying around an umbrella all day would be a hassle. Instead, I put on my hooded sweater, thinking that would suffice. As long as it isn't pouring outside, I thought. Well, it's pouring outside.
And so before stationing myself in front of this computer, I roamed around aimlessly from hallway to hallway, disappointed by the muddy floors and cramped cooridors. I was looking for something to pierce through the stuffiness, but everywhere I turned, all I could hear were the murmuring sounds of silence.
It made me think of my memories of rain. Some happy, some dramatic...mostly boring.
What comes to mind first, however, is that one night at Duke, when I walked back to my car in a dimly lit parking lot after spending nearly spent 10 straight hours in Perkins library.
I had mixed emotions of relief from finishing an assignment I had procrastinated on for weeks, and utter exhaustion from staring at the computer screen for the entire night.
The air was cold and fresh from April showers and occasional gusts of wind. I didn't have an umbrella, but I was wearing an extra large hoodie and sweatpants that kept dragging on the ground. Under it all were a pair of worn out flip flops that had lost so much of its traction that I couldn't stop myself from slipping at least four or five times in a 5 minute span. Each time I lost my balance, an unintentional "Whoa" would slip from my mouth. My voice was loud enough it echoed, and I would turn slightly red, even though nobody could see me.
The rain had been trickling down since I left the library, but as I got closer to the parking lot, it began pouring. Hard. I slipped my laptop underneath my sweater and looked up at the sky. All I saw were leaves, sparsely distribted across the gigantuous oak trees around me. And in between the leaves were little spots of sunshine, starting to glare through shamelessly into the naked air.
Then something strange happened. In that moment, all feeling stopped and I became numb. No pain. No joy. No frustration. No cold. Just nothingness...rest. Maybe this is what it feels like when you die, I thought.
I've tried to relive this experience every time it rains, but have never succeeded. The feeling escapes me, and the more I try to chase after it, the faster it seems to slip away from my fingers.
Everything around me is quiet, exept for my typing and the hollow echo of raindrops outside.
The air is quite dim and muggy, and the building is quite monochrome, except for the window in front of me, dotted with colorful drops of water. Some are reflecting the gray sky, others the crimson wall paper, others the distorted contours of my face.
This morning, I looked out of the windows of my apartment and noticed the dreary haze outside. It might rain, I thought, but I folded that idea because carrying around an umbrella all day would be a hassle. Instead, I put on my hooded sweater, thinking that would suffice. As long as it isn't pouring outside, I thought. Well, it's pouring outside.
And so before stationing myself in front of this computer, I roamed around aimlessly from hallway to hallway, disappointed by the muddy floors and cramped cooridors. I was looking for something to pierce through the stuffiness, but everywhere I turned, all I could hear were the murmuring sounds of silence.
It made me think of my memories of rain. Some happy, some dramatic...mostly boring.
What comes to mind first, however, is that one night at Duke, when I walked back to my car in a dimly lit parking lot after spending nearly spent 10 straight hours in Perkins library.
I had mixed emotions of relief from finishing an assignment I had procrastinated on for weeks, and utter exhaustion from staring at the computer screen for the entire night.
The air was cold and fresh from April showers and occasional gusts of wind. I didn't have an umbrella, but I was wearing an extra large hoodie and sweatpants that kept dragging on the ground. Under it all were a pair of worn out flip flops that had lost so much of its traction that I couldn't stop myself from slipping at least four or five times in a 5 minute span. Each time I lost my balance, an unintentional "Whoa" would slip from my mouth. My voice was loud enough it echoed, and I would turn slightly red, even though nobody could see me.
The rain had been trickling down since I left the library, but as I got closer to the parking lot, it began pouring. Hard. I slipped my laptop underneath my sweater and looked up at the sky. All I saw were leaves, sparsely distribted across the gigantuous oak trees around me. And in between the leaves were little spots of sunshine, starting to glare through shamelessly into the naked air.
Then something strange happened. In that moment, all feeling stopped and I became numb. No pain. No joy. No frustration. No cold. Just nothingness...rest. Maybe this is what it feels like when you die, I thought.
I've tried to relive this experience every time it rains, but have never succeeded. The feeling escapes me, and the more I try to chase after it, the faster it seems to slip away from my fingers.
Maybe that's why I dislike rain so much. Because it teased me that once and refuses to share that magical feeling with me again. It taunts me and tells me I was only dreaming. But I wasn't, I couldn't have been. Because that day, I had been standing in the rain so long that my computer wouldn't work the next day. The diagnosis: resistor damage from shock.
Resistor damage from shock. Could that be the same thing that happened to me?
Resistor damage from shock. Could that be the same thing that happened to me?
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Adventures from this morning
It's only thirty minutes past noon and I'm already ready to go back to bed.
In fact, I fell asleep for two hours after writing that first sentence and forgot everything I was going to say. Shucks.
I came home close to 3 am last night after wasting several hours in our student lounge. Instead of working on my paper like I intended to, I fell asleep on our teacher's couch. I remember scrunching up into a ball wondering why it was so damn cold. I used my teacher's blanket without telling her. I don't think I folded it correctly when I left.
At 5 am this morning, I went to a Korean police station for the second time in two weeks. When I told that to people at work, they all gasped and asked me with bulgy eyes what happened. It wasn't anything that dramatic. I just had to go to report on a crime or accident for class. "Oh," was their universal answer. They were disappointed. They had all wanted to be entertained with someone else's drama.
One interesting thing about Korean police officers. They try extremely hard to look tough on the outside but they're big softies for students who go to the same college as their kid and vitamin c drinks.
When two other students and I arrived at the police station this morning, the officer in charge of last night's incidents looked us up and down and smacked his gum at us.
"What do you want?" he asked, looking back down at his work. "We came to report on a crime or accident from last night," we replied, a bit timidly.
He looked thoroughly annoyed. "Why did you come so early? We're really busy right now." By the way, the first time we went to the police station, they told us we had come too late and that we should come around 5 if we wanted to learn anything.
My classmates and I looked around the office but nobody seemed busy. One guy was browsing the internet and checking his cyworld. Others appeared tired from the long night before, and were lounging lazily in their chairs.
"We'll wait here," said Hye-min, the girl who had assigned to be my tutor for the journalism class. "Wait outside," the officer said. With that, he left his desk, trying to scare us more, and went to talk to the other policemen in the office.
We didn't budge, and after about 5 minutes of wandering aimlessly around the office, he came back and said "Okay okay fine. Come in," and buzzed us in. Easy as that.
"What school do you go to?" he asked us. "Korea University," we replied in unison. He looked up and smiled for the first time. It was all smooth sailing from there. "My son goes to Korea University! He completed his first year and just started his military service!" I had to remind myself I was talking to the same guy.
He stapled us the actual reports of last night's incidents and warned us not to write down the criminal's name. On the front cover of each report was written in large letters, "You are not authorized to show this report to any 3rd party without the consent of those involved." It was the same rule that had prevented us from doing the assignment before, but today, it didn't seem to matter at all.
My report was about a soldier on duty who was digging through a pouch attached to the back of a bike. The police were making their rounds when they saw him and pulled over because he seemed suspicious. "Is that your bike?" they asked him. "It's mine. I'm just looking for my glove and a gear," he replied. Too bad the bag he was digging through was too small to lose anything in, and after fidgeting around for a couple of seconds with the police watching nearby, the soldier ran out of excuses to make. "So why aren't you leaving?" the police officer said, looking at the unopened lock on the bike. The soldier was said to list several unreasonable excuses until the police scared him by looking his name up on the computer. "It's not mine and I didn't steal anything!" he screamed. They took him in anyway and grilled him for a couple of hours before letting him go. A fair punishment, I believe.
After taking notes on our incidents, the three of us left the office, satisfied at our accomplishment. We had stood up to the police bully and got what we wanted. But as a token of our appreciation, we bought him and his colleagues some vitamin c drinks. "You shouldn't have," he said surprised. "I love these!" Cute.
And with that he was back to work. Back to the gum smacking, nose wiggling, stern faced police officer who had to put up the tough front so people wouldn't walk all over him. What a life.
In fact, I fell asleep for two hours after writing that first sentence and forgot everything I was going to say. Shucks.
I came home close to 3 am last night after wasting several hours in our student lounge. Instead of working on my paper like I intended to, I fell asleep on our teacher's couch. I remember scrunching up into a ball wondering why it was so damn cold. I used my teacher's blanket without telling her. I don't think I folded it correctly when I left.
At 5 am this morning, I went to a Korean police station for the second time in two weeks. When I told that to people at work, they all gasped and asked me with bulgy eyes what happened. It wasn't anything that dramatic. I just had to go to report on a crime or accident for class. "Oh," was their universal answer. They were disappointed. They had all wanted to be entertained with someone else's drama.
One interesting thing about Korean police officers. They try extremely hard to look tough on the outside but they're big softies for students who go to the same college as their kid and vitamin c drinks.
When two other students and I arrived at the police station this morning, the officer in charge of last night's incidents looked us up and down and smacked his gum at us.
"What do you want?" he asked, looking back down at his work. "We came to report on a crime or accident from last night," we replied, a bit timidly.
He looked thoroughly annoyed. "Why did you come so early? We're really busy right now." By the way, the first time we went to the police station, they told us we had come too late and that we should come around 5 if we wanted to learn anything.
My classmates and I looked around the office but nobody seemed busy. One guy was browsing the internet and checking his cyworld. Others appeared tired from the long night before, and were lounging lazily in their chairs.
"We'll wait here," said Hye-min, the girl who had assigned to be my tutor for the journalism class. "Wait outside," the officer said. With that, he left his desk, trying to scare us more, and went to talk to the other policemen in the office.
We didn't budge, and after about 5 minutes of wandering aimlessly around the office, he came back and said "Okay okay fine. Come in," and buzzed us in. Easy as that.
"What school do you go to?" he asked us. "Korea University," we replied in unison. He looked up and smiled for the first time. It was all smooth sailing from there. "My son goes to Korea University! He completed his first year and just started his military service!" I had to remind myself I was talking to the same guy.
He stapled us the actual reports of last night's incidents and warned us not to write down the criminal's name. On the front cover of each report was written in large letters, "You are not authorized to show this report to any 3rd party without the consent of those involved." It was the same rule that had prevented us from doing the assignment before, but today, it didn't seem to matter at all.
My report was about a soldier on duty who was digging through a pouch attached to the back of a bike. The police were making their rounds when they saw him and pulled over because he seemed suspicious. "Is that your bike?" they asked him. "It's mine. I'm just looking for my glove and a gear," he replied. Too bad the bag he was digging through was too small to lose anything in, and after fidgeting around for a couple of seconds with the police watching nearby, the soldier ran out of excuses to make. "So why aren't you leaving?" the police officer said, looking at the unopened lock on the bike. The soldier was said to list several unreasonable excuses until the police scared him by looking his name up on the computer. "It's not mine and I didn't steal anything!" he screamed. They took him in anyway and grilled him for a couple of hours before letting him go. A fair punishment, I believe.
After taking notes on our incidents, the three of us left the office, satisfied at our accomplishment. We had stood up to the police bully and got what we wanted. But as a token of our appreciation, we bought him and his colleagues some vitamin c drinks. "You shouldn't have," he said surprised. "I love these!" Cute.
And with that he was back to work. Back to the gum smacking, nose wiggling, stern faced police officer who had to put up the tough front so people wouldn't walk all over him. What a life.
Monday, April 13, 2009
Being the object of laughter
People like to laugh at what I do. Or tell me I'm really funny, but with a condescending giggle that tells me that they think I'm rather dumb.
They announce mistakes I've made in the past to people I don't know, to teachers, or whoever happens to be around, which makes those people laugh. I can never give my own first impression unless I'm by myself.
I usually play along in good humor, surprised by my own stupidities. But it upsets me at times, when others feel like they have the right to reveal my private life to others with the sole purpose of making them laugh. Their words do not hold any bad intentions, but it hurts nonetheless. And I don't want to swoop so low as to say, "Well, I don't know if you remember doing X that one night when you were drunk off your ass..." Though sometimes I'm tempted.
If I decide to tell a story, that's my decision. When others tell it for me, it's always distorted, tinted with an underlying smirk. 'Thank God I'm not like her.' I know, thank God.
Maybe I'm being too honest. I imagine the people who read this would feel uncomfortable, especially if you've told people my story before.
Here's the thing. It's not that I want to make the mistakes I do. Or say the weird things that I do.
I would actually prefer to be the serious person everyone is afraid of. Instead, because I laugh along and somehow stop myself from lashing out against people who make sly comments about my life, people think they can walk all over me.
But what can I do? That's the extent of my character. If other people feel they can pump up their own self esteem by laughing at my words and my actions, I shouldn't stop them. After all, I would be doing some good in their life.
They announce mistakes I've made in the past to people I don't know, to teachers, or whoever happens to be around, which makes those people laugh. I can never give my own first impression unless I'm by myself.
I usually play along in good humor, surprised by my own stupidities. But it upsets me at times, when others feel like they have the right to reveal my private life to others with the sole purpose of making them laugh. Their words do not hold any bad intentions, but it hurts nonetheless. And I don't want to swoop so low as to say, "Well, I don't know if you remember doing X that one night when you were drunk off your ass..." Though sometimes I'm tempted.
If I decide to tell a story, that's my decision. When others tell it for me, it's always distorted, tinted with an underlying smirk. 'Thank God I'm not like her.' I know, thank God.
Maybe I'm being too honest. I imagine the people who read this would feel uncomfortable, especially if you've told people my story before.
Here's the thing. It's not that I want to make the mistakes I do. Or say the weird things that I do.
I would actually prefer to be the serious person everyone is afraid of. Instead, because I laugh along and somehow stop myself from lashing out against people who make sly comments about my life, people think they can walk all over me.
But what can I do? That's the extent of my character. If other people feel they can pump up their own self esteem by laughing at my words and my actions, I shouldn't stop them. After all, I would be doing some good in their life.
Thursday, April 9, 2009
..
I'm saving this spot for an entry that I will put up when everybody forgets about this date. I don't know how to make entries private on this thing, so it's my only method.
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
Music. I missed you.
Today was the first time in a while that I let myself drown in live classical music. The experience unleashed a flood of emotions in me. With my eyes closed and my mind drifting softly away into the serene sound of the strings, I felt my tense nerves breathe a sigh of relief. And I smiled.
I often forget the power of live performances. The other day, I spent more than four hours browsing through youtube for my favorite piano pieces. Though the quality wasn't as good as I would have wanted, I couldn't help but be mesmerized by how beautiful and so incredibly expressive the songs were. And yes, I even cried.
But seeing and hearing the four middle-aged men today--submerged in the pure harmony of their instruments, swinging their bows rhythmically to each other, unaware of the bright lights around them--gave me a whole new feeling. I wanted to jump on stage and say me too! Let me join! Pick up an instrument and participate in remaking reality.
Of course, I didn't.
But it made me think the whole way home about those lonely nights with just me and my piano. Just me and my piano, and a limitless, unfathomable world of melodies, chords, and expressions. It was always lonely, but never empty. I began to miss that feeling.
There is a piano in a large lounge area in the underground student center at Korea University. The room is always bustling with students. I'm too embarrassed to play in front of those people. I wish I could have another lonely one-on-one with my piano. Just me, my thoughts, and my piano.
There's nothing more I could wish for right now.
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