By way of an apology:

My last note has been plaguing me to some extent.

While a small contingent of soldiers have been milling about outside the same subway stop, down the street from the courthouse, for the past two consecutive days as well, the comparison in numbers is like the volume of Lake Erie to Lake Bikal. And the music was replaced by a man yelling... perhaps that accounts for the drastic loss of numbers, but in any case, what struck me today, that I failed to articulate in my last note, wherein I really just wanted to share the experience of the sight, because I had no story to tell, for the very revelation that stuck me today was the total absence of conflict.

Without conflict there is no story. If there was conflict in the occasion I remain ignorant of it.

As the loudspeakers were blaring the loud but surprisingly passionless words of the speaker the listless dressed and decorated sitting and squatting military men were offering less than supportive half-hearted fist raises in scattered unison while fidgeting to light cigarettes that resembled lollipop sticks. I walked by looking a few of the older gentlemen in their bored, discontented eyes trying to figure out how to walk with a closed umbrella wondering what they thought of this ignorant foreigner, or if they were thinking of anything at all.

I decided today that I don't want to be someone you, or anyone, can look at and wonder if I'm thinking of anything at all. I always want there to be some evidence, however faint or deep, shrouded perhaps in minutia or moments of worry, cares, confusion or exhaustion, but still alight, of a burning passion, a flicker of life, so that you know I'm not just sitting there, not even listening to the message, meant for me, bored and uncaring. Not that these men were necessarily as I describe, for I didn't linger and couldn't necessarily speak to them, and so far be it from me to judge, but their demeanor was such as to inspire these musings.

I'm not claiming these thoughts resolve the former, again, there's nothing to resolve. I do however hope that these thoughts offer some greater perspective than those posted prior. If to no other end, to recognize the need to identify conflicts in our lives and work towards their resolutions so that we might tell better stories to one another.

- Foster

A Waste of a Unique Morning...

I had an interesting morning. I woke from weird dreams that I can't remember, had breakfast, went to the gym: so far so good.

In getting ready for work I realized that I had run out of what has been my staple cologne (but I've had this particular bottle for years since it only became my staple when I brought it with me to Korea), so I changed to another. Which is neither here nor there, but it ties into a theme I'll be exploring so bear with me.

Getting out of the Subway turnstile, I saw an unfamiliarly-decorated-military-uniformed gentleman cross my path, then a few steps down the wide halls of the station, another. Upon rounding a corner to a flight of stars there were a half dozen more. The last passage of stairs leading to the street opened into a mob of all sorts of military uniformed men, milling about with stern looks and cigarettes hanging from their lips.

As I wove through the mob, I started to hear music loud enough to infiltrate my ipod's offering, blaring in all directions from a van with four loudspeakers, some seeming war-time ballad-esque fare that reminded me of Lena Horne, or world war-era depictions of crackling gramophone productions ringing through prison yards, or battlefields, only in a language I couldn't understand, or perhaps that's part of why.

In passing the military men (sorry, I didn't see any military women) I was, in turn, passed by ranked police officers, all decked out in riot gear, with armor and shields, streaming by, two by two, towards the group. The streets were jammed with traffic, because police buses were lining the one nearest lane all the way to the top of the hill where the Korean Supreme Court offices are. The entrance to the courts was barricaded, which usually isn't the case until I'm leaving work. I assume all of this is related.

More police were dotted up the hill, most smoking, masking the usual smell of pine needles, that I associate with beaches (see previous note), with the choking fumes of nicotine and exhaust.

It's funny how having one sense thrown out of your routine can effect your thoughts. In seeking some solace once all the uniforms, smoke, and foreign sounds had passed, I thought of things I used to find familiar, starting with smells, and was drawing a blank. I still am, though I've been musing over smell since I received a towel from home; it was from my Dad, as requested, since bath towels are hard to find around here, and I distinctly recall that it didn't smell how I remembered my towels to smell, for the mere fact that I could smell it and identify an odor other than detergent. I remember loving some smells of certain homes or people if not for the mere fact that they're nigh impossible to replicate in memory or duplicate outside of the intimate places of their origin.

I remember a lot of second-hand smoke from my youth, but it's been so long since that's been a regular part of my days that the smell is as foreign as those emanating from the Korean cultural cuisine being served for lunch.

So I'm retreating here to try and organize the mess the morning has made of my mind and I'm still confounded, utterly unable to find an adequate, relevant thread in this to tie it all together into a neat little life-lesson or applicable sharing despite my lofty ambitions stated at the start. I keep realizing that that new smell I smell is me. And that this particular change means nothing.

Sorry to waste your time.

- Foster

A Confession... (at last?)

Given this blog's title, I thought it was high time:

I really didn't mean it when I wished everyone a "Happy Canada Day", nor is "Happy Fourth of July" or "Happy Independence Day" anything more than a colloquial well-wishing when it passes through my lips or fingers into the realm of communication, written or spoken as the case may be. To be honest, I haven't celebrated my personal independence since it was thrust upon me a few years ago now.

The last such holiday I was anticipating in any way was when I was living for a summer back in Canada, but I had still begun seeing the holiday, which happened to be her birthday, more as a celebration of co-dependence for years already. The only thing that made this one especially anticipatory was her agreeing to spend it in Canada with me, since she had told me she loved me when I left her two months prior. Alas, she didn't make it.

I should say before I continue that I wholly support and appreciate the privilege of living in a free country, however, in so doing I fear that many people take a social principle and transform it into a personal one whereas my recent conviction is such that our freedom exists for the sole purpose of choosing who we will serve and how.

In my time, perhaps prematurely, though I've never wholly thought or felt it was so, I chose a particular individual. Ultimately, she didn't choose me. Thus, I've spent the last few years thrust into an independence I have in no way relished, appreciated or celebrated. I took a walk with a friend up a mountain earlier this week and he reiterated his concern in his way, which I know others share, and I admitted, perhaps for the first time to him, and myself, that maybe I've taken particular measures to remain in such a state, but I've most certainly not done enough to effectively alter my circumstances in any significant way (I know: Africa, now Korea, but distance is nothing to the heart and mind).

The point remains that independence has never been a sincere goal of mine. I believe whole-heartedly that this life is best served with co-dependence. The primary tenets of my faith rest on that assertion. Even the word faith, which requires a relationship with someone, something, speaks of an inherent co-dependence, partnership, or some other form of requisite connection, between two or more individuals in a situation belying some risk given failure, be it emotional, psychological or physical pain, stress, or discomfort. If your faith in a chair is betrayed, you'll fall to the gound; the height you fall from determines the cost of that betrayal. With interpersonal relationships, the complexities of the consequences are seemingly endless. That I should be over this is a common refrain, and I believe for the most part that I am, despite the daily reminders, be they willful memories or happenstance recollections, triggered from our time spent together or the resultant shards of faith from that relationship which I'm still picking out, or leaving to fester, but given all this that I know I still don't think I have a problem (even if I am the only one).

At any rate, I do believe and am opening to the possibility that there is someone out there to share these life experiences with, physical and tangible, not to say that my salvation is insuffiecient for a life well-lived, with the God who cannot leave me alone even if I think I want it so, and that is indeed my goal in my self-percieved independednce, to see that such a term is a misnomer, and that I am dependant at all times on the grace I keep reaching out to find, sometimes grabbing hold of, but still too often letting go, and perhaps that is the first step to being ready to step up on the chair again, putting my faith not on the chair, but putting it all in my constant companion, God, who, even if I'm standing on a rocking chair on a balcony, putting up Christmas decorations, twenty stories above the harsh snow-covered concrete, should the chair fail, keeping my faith and focus on God, shall keep me secure until the work I need to do is done.

So I'll still wish her a "Happy Birthday, Canada!" and a "Happy Fourth!" to my American friends, but may my sincerest wish be for a "Happy co-dependent life for all!"


- Foster