So. I keep promising to update, like I actually have time, which I don’t. Oh well. But I will say that here are some topics I will be discussing in the future:
- monsoon season and its beginning or possibly end
- The Program = summer camp, or: arts and crafts, and how much I hate heat and Korean bathrooms
- hangul, subheading: I will never learn this language
- drunken ex-presidents
- my birthday
- the politics of naming
- living with your professors/Charles in Charge
In the meantime I will leave you with this poem, which I have liked ever since Patrick Rosal introduced it to our class last winter. I’ve been having a sort of existential crisis lately, which is great when you’re in a foreign country – I’m not sure if it’s correlative, or causative, or just coincidental – but anyway, what this poem says about time and its passage, as well as a few other things, seems particularly relevant to me at this point in time. It has some adult imagery, however, so I’ll put it behind a cut. I get a weird sort of comfort out of repeating things like this, and out of sharing them. While you read it, I will be taking a shower, seeing “Harry Potter,” and sleeping.
