My November Guest

Picture taken on Soyosan, early morning on Nov. 5th.

Has it been so long? Last November Jiwon, Andrea, Clare and I walked up Namsan on a cool sunny Sunday afternoon. Clare asked who wrote the poem "My November Guest." Although a feeling of recognition stirred inside me, I couldn't remember who wrote it. Jiwon suggested Robert Frost and she was right. Bits and peaces of the poem kept coming back to me as we walked up, especially those alliterated parts "desolated, deserted trees" and gray turning into silver. So many poems and words swirls in one's mind, it's impossibly to have them neatly classified and retrievable, when need arises (unles one makes a point of doing so, of course).

I personally have always been more 'prosaically' bended. When I was a teenager, just like any other teenager, I flirted with writing poems - a girl was expected to do so, after all. It's funny how cross-cultural this pubescent scribbling thing is. Moving through langugages - from Croatian, to English, to German, and back and across - one has to endeavour at getting the rhytm and picking up the melody of the language. Of course, I can appreciate poems in all three, but I still memorize the ones in my mother tongue the easiest.

I don't have the cable TV so I spend my evenings with two trusted companions: the Aussie Shiraz and my Toshiba laptop. I was looking for something else last night but I came across the November poem. I read it over and over again as it really struck the 'melancholy' chord in me this time- and oddly - I could recall it almost entirely today. As my girls in the Middle School were labouring over their cross-word puzzle I was labouring over the lines trying to put them in order. When I did quite successfully, a whole string of memories came back: when I read it for the first time and with whom. It was my "Introduction to the English Verse' course in my undergrad days at York University. I even wrote a journal entry about it. What the heck? Am I really in the early stages of Alzheimers? Is my brain really such a volatile storage keeping frivolous things fresh and easy to reach and leaving the 'good stuff' that I can use (if nothing else than to show off my literary prowess) to rot and crumble.

Another bend in my surfing the net last night led me to a great on-line books link: (www.readbookonline.net). What a great surprise to find there possibly my favourite book and one of the best books ever written (however utterly and shamefully neglected), "Winesburg, Ohio" by Sherwood Anderson. What a chain of memories came: Prof. Anne Pilgrim at York University and my favourite course ever, taught by her: "The 19th Century Novel." She was absolutely mesmerized by this book and she managed to infect me with her literary affliction (although, technically, the book didn't belong to this course as it's not a novel but a collection of short stories with one common theme - emotional paralysis - yet another of my long-term perpetual ailments acutely felt as of late. The promise I had made to myself the night before - to be in bed before midnight and help those racoon eyes pale a bit came to nothing. I was reading the stories until 2:00. "The Teacher" is one of my faves - I loved all over again and felt it even deeper than before -how fitting that I am now a spinsterly teacher just like Kate Swift. Here's a beautiful excerpt from it:

"On the winter night when she walked throughthe deserted snow-covered streets, a crisis had comeinto the life of the school teacher. Although no onein Winesburg would have suspected it, her life hadbeen very adventurous. It was still adventurous.Day by day as she worked in the schoolroom orwalked in the streets, grief, hope, and desire foughtwithin her. Behind a cold exterior the most extraor-dinary events transpired in her mind. The people ofthe town thought of her as a confirmed old maidand because she spoke sharply and went her ownway thought her lacking in all the human feeling that did so much to make and mar their own lives.In reality she was the most eagerly passionate soula mong them, and more than once, in the five years since she had come back from her travels to settle inWinesburg and become a school teacher, had been compelled to go out of the house and walk half through the night fighting out some battle ragingwithin. "
I personally have always been a solitary walker, more or less out of necessity. Walking saved me many times from falling into dark holes. Immediately after mom's death I came back to T.O. having to finish my Internship; after the internship, I had a full-time job in the customer service of a Canadian tour operator - needed to pay off my huge Visa statement. After a day of dealing with angry German-speaking customers and their agents (when I wanted to scream: "shut up, you loser, there are worse things than not getting a room with a view of the lake, that wasn't guaranteed in the first place."), I'd go out of the stuffy office and just walk and walk and walk and walk, for hours on end. I hoped to wear myself out, to be be utterly exhausted before I finally get 'home' and to sleep... I couldn't sleep at all; I'd toss and turn, jumping up, hoping over and over again (not a cliche, dear friends) that I was in a prolonged nightmare - I need another entry to explain this) .

"Home" was actually a decent room with a too-soft bed in a posh house of a posh family in the posh Forest Hill Toronto neighbourhood, right behind Toronto's Casa Loma Castle built in 1911. I made it my home 'caue it was close to The University of Toronto's Teachers College and because it required the only rent I could afford after two years of living on the Queen's University scholarship in Kingston: 10 hours of housework a week. I helped Pam and Richard, the owners of the house with their parties, their pool, theri garden and house plants, shopping, Pam's work as a producer of a TV children's programs, taking Richard's shirts to the dry-cleaners, and the liike. I was your irregular w21st Century Jane Eyre except there was no one around remotely romantic as Mr. Rochester and there was no crazy woman in the attic (except for me, raving in my room on the 2nd room). I liked living there and walking there. Everything around me smelled of old money, of centuries of peaceful privileged life: old brick houses scattered on little hills in the shade of huge maple trees; silver-haired elegant grandmas walking their dogs; pretty Filippinas pushing pretty babies in their expensive strollers; beautiful facades, shiny windows, color-coordinated flowers, manicured lawns.... The neighbourhood alwasy smelled so good: in the spring lilies of the valley and hyacinths, in the summer fresh cut grass, in the autumn fallen leaves simmering in the warm sunlight, in the winter the milky smell of snow and baking.... Pam and Richard were kind enough. At their parties, as I walked around with trays of finger foods or bottles of wine, assisting Pam in her role of a perfect hostess, they never failed to introduce me to their guests - graciously listing all my credentials., nor did they fail to let me have enough of their good wine/food or slurp 1/2 dozen East Coast oyesters right out of their shells, enhanced only by a droplet of lemone (at $2.00 a pop). Under my care and in only 10 hours a week their plants blossomed, their pool sparkled, Richard's shirts gleamed, Pam's ego swelled... we were all content with the deal.

However, after Mom's death it was difficult to be around this happy family who hustled and bustled, sang and played the piano, ran wildly in the garden, entertained (Pam herself is a cancer survivor. After conquering her disease, she made sure to live to the fullest). I felt as if in this elegant upper-middle class home, there were two different species with an enormous chasm between them: them, the happy 'have-it-alls' against me, the uprooted, devastated, ravaged by pain and insomnia, tired - sometimes working 50 hours a week. While Pam, - reclining on her plush white sofa, the epitome of a queenly well-preserved mother, hair perfectly highlighted - sang her Carol King songs with the help of an expensive karaoke device and her three talented tall, beautiful, slim and smart daughters home on holiday from their Ivy League schools, I, the motherless daughter, was crumpled on my bed, rocking and moaning, listening to Eva Cassidy in a morbid need to listen to someone from the other side (Eva Cassidy died of cancer and her family published her songs posthumously). Is it a big surprise that I couldn't spend my free time in this house?

I think that in the end what saved me was the total physical exhaustion that in the end turned me into a feelingless automaton. Most nights I didn't sleep at all, getting up puffy-eyed and stiff, having to rub ice cubes over my face to help it deflate. I'd walk to work, be there by 9:00 and finish at 5:00. Once out of the stuffy loud office, I'd walk until midnight or later. Only 3 million people live in Toronto, but its land surface is enormous - a huge North American city , indeed. Many times I would end up possibly 20 km away from where I'd started.

What did I think about when I walked? The point was not to think. I'd look at people, houses, dogs, cats, flowers, grass, insects, anything; I'd examine window shops, entrances to building and cafes, movie theaters. What always surprised me was that in such a big city all people had same expressionless faces. Pam, who had lost her brother to AIDS a couple of years before I moved into her house, told me that after his death she'd sit on a subway not able to contain her grief, sniffling quietly into her Kleenex, wonder: how come more poeple are not weeping.? I had the exact same thoughts. How is it that in such a big city only I appear to be falling apart? Then, I'd see my expressionless face in a window, the face that didn't reflect at all the gaping hole in the midst of my being, the hole that hurt and hurt and hurt... HOw many are just like me, I'd wonder then. Must be dozens, hundres, possibly thousands.

My cell phone would ring, family or friends trying to locate me. I chose not to answer, I didn't want to speak to anyone. I couldn't handle yet another well-meaning "life must go on" consolation. In time they gave up on theri sincere attempts and left me alone just when I was ready to be around them again. You can never get it right, can you? At least, I fail in this department.

I have these strong legs to thank for not going crazy then and on many other ocassions. I think we all have moments when we need (or have no choice but) to be alone; however; we cannot bear staying in the horrible blank staring silence of our rooms. We go out to be among people to feel like we belong. Look at all those people in toronto (a very lonely city, I might add - or any other big modern city) who spend their Saturdays and Sundays reading at Starbucks, Timmies and Second Cups. There's something about reading in a coffee shop, some kind of romanticizing in progress that helps us deal with our "I'm so alone" thoughts. Don't we all adopt a bit of an 'oh so cool intellectual' posing while sipping our java, poring over our books and looking ever-so purposeful... For some, there's also the hope of striking up a conversation, of meeting someone with similar literary tastes, or - quite frankly- nice eyes, bulging biceps ... I know, I know, not everyone who reads at coffee shops is lonely just like not all fat people are fat because they have issues that lead to overating - some, admittedly simply like to read at coffee shops and some, admitedly -and most naturally - like to eat,,, but still, for many the stereotype rings true.

I have no idea how I got to talk about all of this. Two glasses of excellent Aussie Shiraz (got on sale at Home Plus) seem to have lead me into this amateurish pseudo-philosophycal direction. Oh, yes, I remember: I started talking about the November poem. It's weird how I know it now almost all by heart. And perhaps I should iknow it, too: November, after all, is the month in which my Grandma and my brother Goran were born; it was also the Day of The Republic in the former Yugoslavia, a holiday celebrated with fireworks and festivals; it is the Rememberance Day in Canada, The All Souls Day, and the Peppero Day in Korea (hahaha) .
So, here's the poem "My November Guest." My fave images that almost (but not quite) make me hate November a bit less: the silvery mists, faded earth and heavy sky (see the pic!)



My Sorrow, when she's here with me,
Thinks these dark days of autum rain
ARe as beautiful as days can be;
she loves the bare, the withered tree;
She walks the sodden pasture lane.

Her Pleasure will not let me stay.
She talks and I am fain to list.
She's glad the birds are gone away,
She's glad her simple worsted gray
Is silver now with clinging mist.

The desolate, deserted trees,
The faded Earth, the heavy sky,
The beauties she so truly sees,
She thinks I have no eyes for these,
And vexes me for reasons why.
(wow, all these s's and z's - like rustling of the leaves, pretty coolio)

Not yesterday I learned to know
The love of bare NOvember days
Before coming of the snow ,
But it were vain to tell her so,
And they are better for her praise.

Alas, I still don't like November. The only month I like less is February. At least in November one's looking forward to all fo the Christmas excitement that's just around the corner. If you live in Canada, February means 2 or 3 more months of winter in which nothing special happens (o.k. Easter, but who, really cares? )
I'll have now another glass of Shiraz and read another paralysis novella from Winesburg, Ohio. And, you, keen reader, if you've lived through all of the above, you deserve 2 glasses. Cheers to you - and , o.k. November, too.

All Saints or All Souls Day, November 1st

November 1st, All Souls' Day or All Saints' Day, a Catholic religious observation day. It's also a day- off in predominantly Catholic countries. It reminds of Chusseock in that one visits her dearly departeds' graves armed with Chrisantemums and candles, pray, remember, cry... This should assure the ones "on the other side" of our undying love and devotion. (the picture shows a typical Croatian cemetary on this day).

I can't remember if my faith seeped out of me gradually or if it left me in one powerful gush - in any case it's not been with me for a long time. I do observe some of the Catholic traditions to honour my Mother (and since my Grandma passed on this last summer,her, too) who embraced religion especially in the twilight of her life as a consolation for all the bad stuff that had befallen my family. My hope is that their faith helped them die with less fear and lots of hope.

Today I went to the Catholic Martyrs Memorial and Foreigners cemetary with yellow roses (couldn't find the white ones; Mom might frown, but Jelica, my dearest cousin, killed in the war, is smiling - she always loved yellow roses). I brought with me a little prayer book that had belonged to my maternal grandfather, inheritied by my Mom and finally ended in my hands. I found a prayer for the dead and I mumbled it feeling cool air on my cheeks streaked with tears. Time's a tricky healer, as we all know or are about to find out.

Looking around me, though, provided a bit of comfort, made me feel like a part of the crowd. People were milling about praying, looking solemn, hopeful, ... The little candle shelter was all alight, hundreds of candles flickering inside. Candles, Chrisantemums, roses, prayer books - they are all a way for us to deal with the grief, to keep the spirit of those we love around us, although their bodies are crumbling in their silent graves.

It is at times like these that I miss my family the most. I'd love to talk about Mama and Baba with someone who knew them and loved them, someone who also remembers their voices, body language, the way they looked when angry, happy, sad...

As I sat in front of the statue of Virgin Mary (Mom's favourite saint, I think), memories of the times when I still lived under her roof and under her wing rushed to the surface. The only time we ventured into making home-made plum jam, ganging up with Tetka Mira and Perica. A purple ocean of foggy-skinned plums in the pot; we, the kids, Goran, Josip, Perica, I, helping with pitting them; Mom and Mira sitting on the couch, the rest of us on stools around the 'ocean.' To kill the boredom of the long tedious job, mom starteed telling us about the book she was reading - a silly romantic book called "Mala supruga," "A little bride" - but she mesmerized us with her Sheherezadian skill. The sound of her voice, the nimbleness of her fingers working on the plums, her legs outstreched in front of her....

Mom baking 12 different kinds of cookies at Christmas, her pride and joy, and me feeling like her slave doing all the whisking, greasing, stirring, dredging hot cookes in in vanilla-flavoured powder sugar. Goran and Josip helped also, if for no other reason than to be allowed to lick the spoons and bowls. the taste of her creams and icings, lemon or chocolate flavoured, the crunch of her cookies.


The end of summer: with a toothpick mom's gently pricking freshly picked sour cherries from our own cherry tree in the backyard; she's helping them ooze more juice into the sweatened 'loza' schnaps - she's making her liquer. I see her prooning her flowers, attending to her roses, or weeding in her vegetable garden, hair a mess, and old dress on...

The touch of her warm hands on my stomach as she rubbed it when it hurt. I see her in front of the mirror, applying lipstick and combing her chestnut hair...
I see clearly as a younger woman, very popular in her office, joking and chatting with her co-workers. I used to stop by to have her fix my pigtails; sometimes, during her lunch break she'd go to the market and buy strawberries; she'd give them to me instructing me to beat the Dr. Oetker 'schlag' [whipping cream], spoon it over the fruit and let it chilll in the fridge.I learned to make this simple and still favourite dessert when I was in grade One or possibly Two.
At the time my parents were building the cottage and the money was tight, or so my father claimed, [and still does]. Whenever she'd indulge in something she'd say mischiveously: "kad se propada, nek se otmjeno propada." - "if you go down you must go down in style."

The memories come rushing to the surface, of her, of grandma. As devastated as I still sometimes feel over not having them in my life, I know that I am lucky to have had them. I just wished I had had more time with them. I left so early and visited so seldom. I am not colouring my relationship with them in soft hues. God knows we had our differences, our misunderstanding, there were moments when I hated them... But they are me, what I loved or hated about them are the same things I love or hate about me. They both were my Pygmalions, they moulded me, added more to what I already was when I was born, influenced my my strengths and weaknesses.

Mama and Baba.... They both had hard lives marked by wars, losses, sadness, harshness....it's all a part of the deal being born in this troubled Powder Keg called The Balkans. But they both had such incredible zest for life; they were strong, they were tender, also... My grandma who would yell and scream at us was also the one who fed stray cats and gave food to poor Polish or Check tourists camping nearby our cottage. When we were teenagers and never had money for cigaretters, she would pretend to be a smoker, take an offered cigarette saying that she's savae it for later. One day at the cottage, when were dying for a smoke, she went to her room and came back with a crumpled packet of all kinds of cigartettes inside, smiling like a mother cat bringing a nice morcel to her kittens. What a pity that she was orphaned and nobody cared to recognize her talents.

I have a Thousand and One Story collection hiding in the pits of my being, stories I hope to keep alive with each candle, each flower and each "memorial" prayer I do. Jewish people are right in saying that the highest comfort comes from not forgetting. Neka vam je laka crna zemlja. Volim vas i uvijek cete biti uz mene.

What's in a candle?

Beeswax, love, hope, memories...

The message flickers on

"You're not forgotten and you can never be."

Ginko Bilobas

Ever since I saw my first 'live' ginko tree in a palace garden in Germany, I've been fascinated by this ancient tree. I remember examing the leaves, finding them gorgeous but somehow sad. They reminded me of dead butterflies. They were also so different from any other leaves, and the tree itself stood like a hated minority among European birches and willows. There are a few ginko trees on Hansung campus and I can never just go past them. I must stop, almost as in a greeting.
The ones on Jouldasan brought back memories of my student days' Midsummer Night's Dream production. We made really spooky-looking trees that looked like human beings. The one shown here is just such a tree. If you look closely you'll discern distorted features under a shock of wild wild yellow hair. Alas, nothing got resolved in this forest. I came out the same old same old.

The ginko fireworks - Happy Celtic New Year everyone 

Like fine patterns on Chinese silk, the leaves are sharply outlined against the dark November sky 

It ain't the Moon, just a street lamp that bathes the whole street in gold and makes the beautiful ginko leaves look transluscent 

A Ginko street, leading up to Jouldusan Martyr's museum.  

Yet another woman applying make up on the subway station, just before the train pulls in 

A Korean kite adorning Dongmyo Subway staion, LIne 6  

And more of them. They break up the geometry and austere look of the dongmyo subway station 

A beautiful if somewhat timid cat, a gourd with its drying vines... an ordinary roof in modest Seoul neighbourhoods. 

All I want is a little house with a garden...  

A modern and glittering scyscraper looms over Dongdaemun, real and painted, a pojang macha tent restaurant) and a scrap cart. 

A very busy corner, indeed. Dongdaemun 

The flower power. Dongdaemun 

Dongdaemun: Giftbags on sale  

An attempt to make it all look less bleak: an artificial rose in a pot of dirt.  

Don't let the sun go down on these sad neighbourhoods  

Strangers in the night...  

A delilvery man speeding down a steep narrow road on his way to Dongdaemun, at the end of the wall.  

Cosmos, barbed wire, makeshift roofs, power lines and modern buildings in the background - a very common image in Seoul 

"An image good to Koreans," Changdae insists, saying that in the past every house in rural areas stood in the shade of a persimmon tree. At first I thougth it very plain and just sweet, but as many things Korean, I learned to appreciate it, especially the soft variety that I use as jam, mashed and spread over my toast, or as a healthy addition to plain yogurt. I took this photo in front of Kapsa that was surrounded by persimmon trees.  

Gyeroyongsan Hike, Oct. 30

CD, Chris, Georges, Shane, Debbie, Andrea and I hiked on Gyeryongsan on this beautiful Saturday. The mountain was designated a national park in 1968 and crosses over three districts: Daejeon, Kwangju and Nonsan (the place where Debbie spent 4 long years). The mountain is named Chicken/dragon mountain because its ridges have the shape of these creatures. It's also a very spiritual place with many hermitages where Koreans come to meditate and cleanse their minds from daily business. This time we took the Kapsa trail, not Dongaksa. We only had a glimpse of Dongaksa from one of the peaks.
I wasn't feeling too good on this day. Although I enjoyed the hike, I found it exhausting, too steep and too long. I'm still trying to recover, 4 days later.
the weather was great, the spirits were high... overall, a great day, in spite of this old ajumma's problems

One of the king's children, Andrea, showed up and finally got a chance to see the other king's Brat