Expectations of my First Winter Camp

Winter camp! Hey you guys! Winter camp is here! YAY! It's like camp - but in the winter. All those fun activities we are going to do.  All those learning opportunities.  All those memories we're gonna make. 

And the children.  Oh, the children!  They are going to be the most wholesome, leave-it-to-beaver types.  They're gonna be like. "Gee Mister, you're thuper thtrong."   Their lisps are going to be ADORABLE. 

I know it's a little early but that will add to the mystery.  Dunkin Donuts, you're up at this time too? Crazy! Woah, look at everyone else up at this time.  They are goin to be singing and dancing in perfect morning choreography.  It's going to be freaking Mary Poppins in this joint.  

And then the sun will rise and everyone will take a moment to bask in its radiance.  They'll breathe in the low net with eyes closed, standing on their tippy toes and floating in the ever so gentle wind.  Is this perfection? They'll wonder.  No, their inner reflection will reply.  This is Winter Camp.  

Flow

My friend read one of my blog entries the other day and said he liked it.  Being the ego whore that I am, I asked to hear more. "It was good because it felt natural.  It felt earnest. It felt like your weren't forcing it.  Sometimes when you write , I think you're trying too hard."  Aside from being an abject lesson as to why you should not pursue compliments, it raised some points.  

I can accept I am a writer. I have been published in different formats and to varying( read, middling) levels of success. I used to say I was an aspiring author until my beautiful lady pointed out my former academy has published ten and plans  to publish over sixty more of my short stories. So this is a thing for me. It is not a hobby nor an interest.  It is not a job although I occasionally get paid.  Even if the payment is drinks coupons at a rainy beach party or a discount on sausages.  Having the ability to write and know that that will pay the rent and put mythical children through college would be nice. Then again, so would 'lottery winner' and I do believe there is a comparable amount of luck to both gigs.  

Now this is where some people disagree because they think you can work at your writing.  To some degree they have a point.  Salman Rushdie says to aspiring writers (and therefore not me, clearly) to treat writing like any other job.  You sit at your desk from nine to five and DO YOUR JOB.  The more you do anything, the better you get at it. My friend from the beginning of this article likes to punch and kick things. He's not a crazy homeless man. He is a martial artist.  He says muscle memory requires doing the same thing ten thousand times.  I have not written ten thousand notes.  I've barely written 'the' ten thousand times. Clearly working at your passion improves your appreciation of and your ability within said passion. 

So where does this friend get off talking about trying too hard?  He must be taking about letting my writing flow naturally.  To have an idea and to express it easily.  How lovely! What a wonderful notion, to take any opportunity and any subject and just be able to expound effortlessly.  Sometimes of course that's not possible. 

Everything is hard to everyone all the time. I am going to disregard the babies who can shoot three pointers or mathematical geniuses.  They're genetic freaks, so far outside the norm as opposed to be needing to be shunned by the norm.  I love those guys but they're not you or me. Everything is hard to everyone all the time. My friend, who I realize is taking a few too many rides on the example train, may be great at getting someone to tap out.  It does not mean he can do it without exerting himself, without thinking it through, without accepting and working through the problem. 

So when I write, occasionally  I'm blessed with a revelation. Awesome! Now I have  writing fervour.  Sometimes something interesting happens. Cool. I have a fun story to embellish.  WHAT ABOUT THE REST OF THE TIME? I have to write about something! I have to make it witty! I have to be socially relevant! By writing more and more, I can write more and more. I am not alone in this process. Runners love being able to push themselves further in more torrid circumstances. Painters live for creating 'their best works yet'. Both do not come overnight.  They come through many, many hours of suffering and torment.  

So, I say to my friend and I say to you.  Yes, sometimes my writing will stink.  Sometimes it'll jar and you'll want to give up on me.  Sometimes you'll want to compare my writing to shoving a stick up your arse, dipping it in tar and then spreading it on the wall. Recognize that it's all part of a larger process to self improvement.  Believe that one day, something amazing will come out of it. Then recognize that within your own struggles in your own passion.  

On the subway, on the bus, we ride the journey of missed opportunity.

I'm a foreigner in a Korean city who spends two hours every day on public transportation. As soon as I sit down on a subway the whole bank of seats becomes clear within three stops.  I reckon I could clear a whole carriage if I stayed on the subway long enough.  It is the same on the bus.  Every other seat could be occupied and people would rather stand in increasingly more confining spaces than be sat next to me.  

Somewhere on here, there's a space next to me.  

This is surely a missed opportunity.  Koreans spend lots of money on their English education. Talking to me is a free English lesson.  I'm happy to respond to anyone asking me questions.  Hell, they can even ask me questions about places I've been and things I've seen.  I'm a dictionary, a travel guide and Wikipedia all rolled into one.  I'm the freaking Internet with a smile and minus the virus.  I would also like to meet new people and give what Tyler Durden refers to as 'single serving' friends.  

"Oh no, you didn't just use a 14 year old reference!"

Although, lets be honest, that doesn't always apply to me.  Sometimes I do want to be left alone.  Sometimes I want to just stare out of the window and think deep thoughts, normally what I want to eat, where I want to eat it, and how quickly I wish that to happen.  Sometimes I want to not talk to a stranger.  It's nothing personal. I mean it can't be;you're a stranger. It's not like celebrities are clamoring for my attention on public transport. 

Rihanna may be a multitalented entertainer with millions in the bank, but all she really wants is to talk to you, then take your seat. Stay back, Rihanna!   

If only there was a simple way to let people know that you're approachable.  Students have traffic light parties where the choice of colour worn indicated their level of sexual availability.  Perhaps something could be worn by people who want to have conversations on public transport on buses.  Some bright orange armband.  Then other people wearing the same armband could recognize a kindred spirit and join them.  No, wait. I see what I've done here. That's Jews and homosexuals  in Nazi germany.  Damn.  

               I'm an idiot, sometimes.    

The fact is we are all social creatures living in an increasingly sociable sterile environment.  I can say this knowing those hermits who wish to argue with me would be, by their very actions, acting sociable.  Sociable and ornery, certainly, but still sociable. Maybe we should accept that and turn round to the person next to you and say 'hey'. Maybe when the person next to you says 'hello', say hello back. You may find you have a lot in common.  I'm sat next to a woman right now as I'm typing this.  I know she keeps looking over my shoulder and is reading this.  I just looked over at her after I typed that and she closed her yes, feigning sleep.  Don't fake a coma, lil' lady. Point out my typos and tell me what you think.  Nope.  She is actually asleep.  Bad example.  

There were clues.  

Be excellent to one another. Chicks dig scars.  Movie quotes starring Keanu Reeves aside, they have wonderful points.  I am here to show you guys that are inching your way on the freeways in your  metal coffins that the human sprit is still alive. 

'Dude, I'm not doing the Point Break remake. Patrick Swayze's dead now. Show some respect.'

Your public transport journey is a part of your life.  Get busy living.  Or do the other thing. 

Humbug Thoughts on a Xmas Eve Morning

  

As I sit on the 349 heading downtown on a brisk morning, I find myself asking myself some questions and getting precaffeinated answers.  My brain does not work so badly in the morning; rather it fires off different axon trails that are often better left unused.  Occasionally though it makes me write about fast and the furious.  I apologize for this. 

I woke up to children singing the chorus of 'So this is Christmas'.  In my brain. Repeatedly.  Their devilry hypnotized me into deciding to buy presents.  Milady and I chose to go no gifts this year.  We are pretty skint after we chose to go on vacation for three weeks in South Africa. We chose well because it was a fantastic vacation but now, with less than 24 hours to Xmas morning, I am terrified of no presents.  The silence associated with no ripping wrapping paper, no heartfelt thank yous or squeals of excitement.  The inactivity as no one scrambles to find more presents from hidden recesses or to announce which bag is for collecting trash.  The lack of shit. The lack of a perfect gift.  The lack of a moment.  When will I get my moment? Bah humbug? More like, dammit, I really screwed the pooch on this one. 

So I panicked.  I got showered,dressed and headed off to Hot Tracks.  Buying for Nikki is somewhat easy. She loves stationery. She thinks pens and notebooks are groovy.  I think she's groovy ipso facto, stationery are let through my velvet rope.  I can afford stationery.  I'm not THAT broke.  My business is doing quite well considering I'm selling food during xmas in a country where that means more pot luck dinners than you can shake a stick at.  But now the heart flutters as I realize I'M BEING A TERRIBLE BOYFRIEND.  She was working under the assumption of no gifts and she's getting these things from me. I'm Neville Chamberlain and I've made Santa into hitler.  Wait, in that analogy, am I Hitler? Oh G-d that's not good.  

But now I'm locked into this process.  If I come home without presents, milady will know I went out on Xmas eve morning and CAME HOME WITH NO GIFTS.  Imagine as a child your dad going into a toy store as you waited outside, licking an ice cream.  You wait ten minutes and then he comes out with nothing.  You now hate your dad a little, right? Oh dear.  I'm a deadbeat dad.  To my girlfriend. On Xmas. 

The bus has been playing Xmas songs.   The eternal hellfire repetition of 'Feliz Navidad'.  The mournful sound of a saxophone instrumental version of 'Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas'. At least it is better than a restaurant I frequent. They have a Xmas Playlist consisting of songs, of the variety done by cover RnB singers who fly all over the vocal spectrum in lieu if being able to hold one note for any appreciable amounts of time.  Bah humbug. 

  People are not going Xmas shopping.  This is Korea.   People go to work dammit.  People to to school and learn shit! They do not look concerned about presents at all.  I wish I could lean over to the woman next to me and ask 'What would you like for Christmas?'  I'm fairly sure she'd have a palpitation.  I look over at her an smile.  It was meant to convey 'don't worry, I'm not going to freak you out.'  It failed in its conveyance.  She got up and moved to a new seat.  I am alone in my suffering.  My bus has arrived.  What do I do? What can I do?  

Ah Xmas.  Your emotional rollercoaster has once more started its inexorable journey. The feelings are back.  The sickness in the pit of my stomach.  The sweaty palms.  The frantic eye tic.  All symptoms that Xmas has arrived. 

Merry Xmas.  Jesus, who'd go through all this, eh?