I’ve been in Seoul for almost a week now, with what started to be a few amazing days. The weather, proving to be a major factor, seventy degrees and sunny with a cool breeze. The nights falling to a brisk fifty-five, just perfect enough to wear a light jacket with a cardigan. I’ve been avoiding writing until I felt more settled, although perhaps the best times for writing are those days fraught with displacement, loneliness, and missing the few important people back home.
Before I left LA I tried, and failed, to begin writing my first fiction piece. You will see the efforts of this below on a blog post dated over two weeks ago. Every night in bed as I struggled to fall asleep I would fade into a dream world I had created, one where I had in a sense, killed myself, and was carried under into a land deep in the ocean. A place where everything I was before no longer existed and life became much more interesting. And I could see it so clearly, the tunnel of lush sea amenone that flickered in the darkness and the vast palace of the kingdom which was my new home. Every night this world became more real and detailed to me, as I relived my death over and over again from the comforts of my warm bed, the heater buzzing with white noise, and the absolute darkness of a room with no windows.
I should be so lucky, soaring above the great green and blue landscape of California in a four seater plane. Co-pilot to Ares, the other owner of Milk Studios in his red polo-shirt glory. Back on land, prior to departure, he methodically checks the plane to insure our safety. I enthusiastically snap photos on three sources of media, phone, digital camera, and disposable. Ares tells me to make sure to unbuckle my seatbelt and open my door in case of emergency landing, because he sure as hell won’t be saving me. I can’t help but be over excited, the worst thing that could happen is death, the best thing that could happen is death. (cue laughter)
You know why I don’t like writing every day? Why my updates are so few and far between? Because writing in this style is a self reflection, writing like this means sitting down at the end of the day and spreading out all the events, the emotions, the achieved and more than likely failed goals, and bolding staring at them until they have some sort of meaning. I feel like an anorexic unpacking her lunchbox; neatly placing the sandwich in the front center, red apple to the left, pre-packaged cupcake to the right, luke warm boxed apple juice delicately behind. It’s all there to eat but misery to look at.