WAKING UP IN SEOUL

m. cygalski

entangled in the coils of the morning, dream walking through the hot and humid air of the streets lined with dokboki stands, on a journey to itaewon to get long-distance phone cards, chained by the melody of subway beggars and the pitch of chon-won salesmen, like a human kite above curved, tiled roofs, slaloming among the clouds of strewn garbage. suddenly, arrested by the red of drying chili peppers below, on the sidewalk — like some exquisite rectanular patch of paint for a future canvas or some well made kimchi. shamans' dance on ingwan mountain and half buddhist mom and pop temples on our way to surak — dave, anna, and I — in the back of my mind replaying the silence of the dead only yesterday second-hand tape player. strawberries with soo-san. dust balls in the corners of my room — piling since ania left for peterborough. last night, cheer, soju and lots of hwae, dinner with students, praise for their sansengnim — blades of compliments thrown around. rolling over to the other side for better perspective, dodging the alarm clock's gaze. yet again, a morning cocktail of scrambled feelings and sensations, mine and borrowed, ease, confrontation, warmth, timidity, stench from the kitchen balcony, distance home and the finding out where it is, holding on to and against ever-present mountains ribboned below with streets and encroaching apartment buildings. i crave the texture of these rocks. perhaps i'm settling. against the stone. growing comfortable. gazing at the recycling bins and the science fiction relief on an entrance to some pc-ppang. sailing, with the punch card in mind, through cold wind down subway stairs through traffic, slush, noise of cars, buses, people, and the numbing boom of speakers everywhere, outside little shops, on the curbs, blasting clipped waves, as you eat your mandoo or blood sausage at a street stand. turning, stumbling, forgetting everything little by little day by day is easier with the noise. the hogwon secretary, the trip to dragon gate, the busy excuses, the disappointment of voices faces, which were like making wire transfers while hanging up coats feelings unorganized desires shattered half made plans directions roads to take note of the currency rates in the papers while skipping decisions about paths to miss. this is the sound of things flowing through my head during this morning abroad, like fish swimming down toxified stream through a turnstile to where the dough is or tofu something pure moving cut tentacles on your plate reaching out for warm flesh or a bus ticket to touch someone and fly to and die to with something to leave behind something to show some magic to get done or just get it over with to shake and rattle and vibrate to leave break away or sleep and plunge and emerge — sometimes to the sound of a clock radio in some angry orgy of routine neuroticism to hurt deeply those who lack sleep. i wish to shut it and just give in to the pleasant overflow of things blended and so familiarly entangled in the coils of the morning