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
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-mil
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
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