philosophieren

Charlotte

2007-09-17T17:15:00.000-07:00

I've met a beautiful girl, very quiet, shy and small. She talked slowly with a shy smile in her eyes behind her silver framed fragile-looking glasses. I smiled when she talked. I said that I was glad to meet her. And I meant it. I smiled again inside. Her hair was short above her small ears and bright brown. She was wearing a dark green shirt which made her body look even smaller. When she smiled, she looked down then slightly closed her eyes and opened them slowly with a peaceful smile. She looked at my eyes and I smiled. She seemed to want to talk to me more. She tried to say something funny but she just quietly laughed to herself and looked at me with a baby boy's smile. I smiled a big smile and almost wanted to give her a hug.

One day I heard that she had left the town. I heard people talking about her. She left some dirty socks of hers that she had not washed for years and an old blue and yellow radio that did not work anymore. That was all that people remembered about her. And everyone started forgetting about her. Their life was already hectic itself and their personal issues captured their heart. The truth was that actually nobody was to blame. There was some curiosity over the leftovers. Why did she not take her dirty socks and the old radio? Why not anything else but thoes? But soon people naturally stopped questioning about those stupid dirty socks and the old radio, they had many other important things to talk about like their new cars, Mrs. Pager's new hat, the guy who peed in his pants at the village party last Sunday, or new paint colors and so on.

The place I met her was the public lady's room downtown. There was no toilet paper and she told me to grab some of hers. We went into the separated toilet booths to take care of our businesses and I felt extremely uncomfortable and nervous about the fact that I could hear pretty much everything quite well far from her booth. I didn't want to let her hear me and reveal the fact that I was pretty desperate to take care of this personal business. And I was well aware of the fact some unexpected farts could damage seriously too. At that moment, she started talking to me. I don't remember a single thing that we talked about there but I remember that she sounded calm and warm. So, now the real urgent problem was that I desperately did not want to wash hands with her after coming out of the booth at the same time. That would be the awkwardest situation ever. I waited a bit but she did not come out. I didn't want to seem to be taking care of another heavy business. I hurried to come out and she did too.

She washed her hands next to me. She smiled and I smiled back. She was going to leave, but she did not. She seemed to have something to tell me. She was staring at the empty corridor and moved her arms and hands awkwardly in the air as if she had had something to describe. I said my name and asked for a shake with my right hand. She said her name right away, smiling. I forgot right away. I told her to see each other again soon. She said something very quietly and I couldn't hear it. I left. And I did not have anybody after that to talk about that day or her with. I forgot about it too. And I heard about her leaving from other people after she had left.

I thought about her smiles, voice, the touch of her hand and the sunlight of that day. Then I pictured her dirty socks and the old radio. I badly wanted to ask her about the socks and the radio. But she was not there and nobody knew where she'd gone. Even if anybody had known though, I don't know if I would have gone to ask her about it. I forgot about it again. My life was truly hectic itself and to be honest, actually I really was not to blame. It was yesterday when I was traveling far from the town on the road, that I saw her in the field far from the road. She looked like a boy, running back and forth in the dried field to find something. Then I realized that I had to call her to ask about the socks and the radio. But I didn't want to let her know that I was traveling far from the town for some inappropriate reason or rather, with my sorrow on my back. She faded away in the dusty wind. I closed my eyes and tried to focus on the pain in my heart. The sun was shining through the dusty wind. And I was still going.

Angel Hye-young Kim

Hatred to Truth

2007-09-10T22:52:00.000-07:00

Truth is painful. The path of seeking truth is never easy. What is this obsession of truth of human beings? Does truth free you? Why am I crying without a cry in a tiny cell of truth? My heart bleeds by the edge of the blue sword of truth. Truth sings joyfully with its venomous tongue. The faith of human beings to truth is reckless. This stupidity of our own moulds our brain. The dazzling blood of heart and pungent tears of eyes is glouriously attractive. Is life worth the living? What do you say, my Camus?

Jesus's body is His truth. This ordourous corpus is the absolute truth. The terminus of Philosophie should be corpus. Since corpus itself entails sophie. Body is pain. Pain is a sort of feeling you feel through senses in the body. Therefore pain is body and body is sophie. Why did God grant corpus as truth to human beings. Why not some lightness for truth. I shall put my burden under your feet, Lord, but why not some fairness for Thee.

Such a terminus is not human though. Since philosophie is human, too human. For the original Christian faith philosophy is foolishness. [M. Heidegger] The truth is revealed in the body of Christ, the Corpus, which is human, so human. What is human and what is not? Why does truth never disclose itself? It only harms the tame spaniels of truth without mercy. The angel of death opens his beautiful hands with the bitter sweet conciliation of a little truth of life on.

Angel Hye-young Kim

O' Freedom

2007-02-11T08:27:00.000-08:00

O freedom O freedom O freedom over me
And before I will be a slave I will be burried in my grave
And go home to my Lord and be free

There'll be singin there'll be singin there'll be singin over me
And before I will be a slave I will be burried in my grave
And go home to my Lord and be free

When I saw this four year old boy swallowing his tears holding my hands so tight with his little swollen hands, I gave him kisses on his little cheeks. He pointed at his right cheek with his little finger. I gave him another kiss on his right cheek. He pointed at his left cheek. I gave him a kiss on his left cheek. He put his little hands on my face and gave me sad kisses on my cheeks. He looked at my eyes with his eyes full of tears. His eyes were saying that it was ok. He acted as if he would not see me again. He did not cry like a little boy, he swallowed down his sorrow and told me that it was ok with his eyes. It was one of those normal Mondays when I visited that old small orphanage. I myself was also a little girl attending the strict girls' highschool, I still was a novice at nursing babies, I was just as naive as the babies whom I was taking care of. I did not know if I loved them with my whole heart, I just loved being with them. However after that Monday when this little boy swallowed his tears for me, something deeply cut me and I could never let this pain go ever. I was guilty. I even did not know the name of my offense. But I knew that I was guilty. And that was enough to know that I was guilty. And I could not go there anymore.

It has been seven years since that last Monday. It was the beginning of spring. It was still chilly and sometimes icy, but it smelled like pinky yellow flowers already. It was a very sunny day but very cold. It was like today. But today, I still do not know how to purchase the indulgence for my guilt. The spring is coming; the spring for the violets but not for the guilty. Jacob moaned for days and nights tearing his robes without eating when he lost Joseph. That was his right to do that when his heart was torn by grief. It is ok. It is ok to cry over some pain and it is ok that you endure some hurts. The indulgence is free. Only it is needed to trust that it is free to take. You won't be dirty anymore, you won't be guilty anymore. You will shine like snow and bloom like lilies. I see that the little boy's hurt did not cut me, only his heart loved me.

No more weepin no more weepin no more weepin over me
And before I will be a slave I will be burried in my grave
And go home to my Lord and be free

O' freedom over me.

Angel Hye-young Kim

I've Been Tagged!

2007-01-29T22:56:00.000-08:00

An old friend of mine, the dearest knitter Nikki tagged me. A cute game. I've been tagged! The rule is that I have to come up with 6 weird things about myself. As Nikki has said about herself, I would say the same thing about myself; I do not quite think that I am even nearly normal. I am the weirdo!

1. I speak and write in both English and Korean. I was brought up in Korea, educated in normal Korean schools, and my parents only speak Korean. My relatives live in the States, Europe, China, Japan and Africa. Some of them work as missionaries. We speak Korean, English, and French at home but not everyone can speak all of them, so the rule is that basically we all have to speak Korean. Thus, this might not be the whole reason why I speak English. And I don't speak French. My grandfather speaks Japanese, but I do not speak Japanese either. I speak Chinese. So whenever people question me how I speak English, I try to come up with some good reasons but I usually end up making up some plain reasons which lead me to face no more further queries.

2. I love philosophy. I do love philosophy. People again inquire of me what made me give my life away for the ultimate source of depression. I truly love this though, not the depression part but the work of philosophy. And it actually does never drive me depressed. It mostly is like a very clever and clear way to stick to the bright side of life.

3. I don't like wearing socks. I love sandals and I put on my sneakers barefoot often. (they don't stink bad though!)

4. I can't eat spicy food and I am Korean. I hardly eat red Kimchi. Budaejigae, especially, gives me an enterohemorrhage.

5. Outside of Korea, when I tell Chinese people that I am Chinese, they believe me, and Japanese people believe me when I tell them I am Japanese, but Koreans do not believe me easily when I tell them I am Korean.

6. I am 'Miss List'. I love making lists. I love organizing things. My room often remains quite messy and I am rather forgetful. But I love making lists and scrapbooks.

I am not sure whom I have to tag. I know not so many of them who run their blog and visit mine. Well, but I think, I know who I will have to tag this time; I tag my German professor, Stefan Carl. (So, his 6 weird things will be listed in German!)

Hi Haruki

2007-01-28T21:29:00.000-08:00

'Literature is a mysterious smile.'

When I first started writing as a little girl in 1990, my writing teacher told me that 'simile' is the scantiest strategy. I was a neat drawer as a small person but I was not a competent narrator. My teacher was a modest storyteller. He roamed from place to place to meet small stories. He told me that writing was an agony. He said tiny timid flowers on the ground were more beautiful than those gorgeous ones without fear. He passed away one day early in summer of 1994. I was eleven. When I heard about his death, and went to the funeral, and even after taking care of the memorial address as one of his most cherished pupils, the only thing I was recalling the whole time was his fart. After 18 years, I still remember that so clear. He was a very quiet man, with great politeness. My own mother put much respect on him as a teacher and a writer.

It was after a month when I burst into tears so suddenly in the class over his death. And that was it. All I could remember was his favorite tiny purple flower and his fart. He used to talk about the flower quite often but it was only one time that he farted in front of me. But actually it was only his fart which flashed on my mind when I heard about his death. I do not remember anymore if I could not hide my laughs when he farted or I thought about it seriously since it was something which feels inappropriate but in fact is natural. He did not say much about my writings. He told me that I should be as low as violet to be a beautiful person; many loud words are not refined. When I was writing a peom about the moon, the only thing he said to me was that the great poet talks about the moon without saying any words about the moon. I wanted him to be fair with my writings and that he demanded that the moon should be described without reference to the name of the moon was not regarded as fair to me.

Haruki talks about life without talking about it though. I shook my hands with him without rejection. His world did not seem lofty so I did not fear for this stranger. There is a thing that even death cannot overcome; the acceptance of life. It is just as low as violet. I have been sent to many great teachers but none of them taught me the secret of their stupendous skills. As a small person, I have dreamt of many splendid things that I might be able to do when I grow old. But they just told me to live my life. I shall know oneday, how to talk about life without talking about it, but only after living it fully. This strange connection between life and its rhetoric reveals the tears of beauty of life.

Because, Life is a mysterious simile.

after Murakami Haruki's Norwegian Wood
a photo of a lone trumpet in Prague CZ, Jan of 2005, taken by
Angel Hye-young Kim

Bach Und Jazz

2007-01-05T21:45:00.000-08:00

Although it is almost bizarre to picture J.S. Bach playing Jazz piano, the intuitive passion of both looks alike to me; the fluent stream of the temperate sadness. Beethoven chokes me sometimes with his overly out laid passion. The emornous chunk of emotion is hard to swallow down without pain. It makes my eyes go blind.

Bach's music brightens up my sight with its regular breathing of thinking. It does not blech out the agonies of life. Jazz does not burst life with sadness. Its passion is modest and acceptable. They are well composed and generously liberal.

Passion and temperance: the path to the truth, whether we are already on the way or do not even see the mouth of the path yet, may be revealed through the beauty of the abstruse relation of two of them.

Hans Koller Trio, 25 May 2005 London, drawn by
Angel Hye-young Kim

The Problem of Depth

2007-01-03T17:24:00.000-08:00

Nobody knows your depth; this was the phrase I used to say to others to encourage them; but this has been the very clear representation of the pain that I have to go through, or maybe, overcome(?). This justifies the whole reason why I have longed to study hermeneutics so long.

When I was thirteen, I read about this woman. Of course she is fictional. She is an artist. She faces the criticism that her works do not have depth. Her painful journey to seek 'depth' brings her 'death' instead. I was confused; I did not know what led her to death; weather the critics or herself.

A few years later, I saw a movie about a young writer, for free. In the movie, an old successful writer tells the boy that anyways nobody knows his[the boy's] depth. Is that an arrogant composure of the successful one? Or, is that the hidden truth that is too light to be caught easily? Almost intuitively I knew that they would like this line and be encouraged by it. Because it is a very powerful spell which can distract anyone from thinking too much. Do not die for depth. It is not something you should give your life to. It maybe is just clever or rather human. I still do not know.

I could not know the depth of my writings. My drawings are shallow, they do not conceal any secret of the interpretation of the world. I told the artist woman after her death that she was simply sacrificed by the common notion which is rather empty and completly polis-oriented. The key of her death was only the problem of political predominance. To avoid death, or to gain life, you should know well how to let them to tumble into the abyss of depth. To live or to die, that is the problem! Am I winning in this internecine war?

Self-portrait

Angel Hye-young Kim

Things That Last

2007-01-01T04:29:00.000-08:00

I believe that, some things do not come back; as the year of 2006. It is amazing how human beings tolerate this unbearable emptiness as they lose some things, for most times very important things forever. Some things do not come back once they are gone. I would love to add at the end of this sad proposition 'as people'. Some things do not come back once they are gone, as people.

Pains and hurts do not go away once they are placed in our hearts. They do not leave. While the mountains go lower and the rivers go higher, pains and hurts rotate ceaseless. Some things last once they have come.

Here is the secret of life; only the things that do not come back change the things that last. When the tears of the weak and weary as each and every one of ourselves soak the whole land and the air in its pain, the light and fragrant breeze whispers through the trees. The colors of leaves were humming with its ancient freshness. The old forest is always old but it is never old. It is new every moment. It lasts, but it does not last. As they endure time, may we bear the unceasing segments of life.

Angel Hye-young Kim

reminiscence

2006-12-21T18:48:00.000-08:00

Order in Disorder

2006-12-20T17:55:00.000-08:00

The Proprioception of Being: its frail affirmation
The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat and Other Clinical Tales by Oliver Sacks

The aspects of things that are most important for us are hidden because of their simplicity and familiarity. (One is unable to notice something because it is always before one’s eyes.) The real foundations of his enquiry do not strike a man at all.
-- Wittgenstein

This reminded me of the query of Descartes from his Meditation that he doubted how we can believe that what we are cognizing is able to be called ‘real’ or ‘true’. The distinction between hallucination and reality seems shallow like a piece of paper. Descartes finally had to assert that there is only one thing he can prove of the true being: his own being. Even it is possible not through our perception but through his cogitare which can be translated as ‘to think’. So he avows, “cogito ergo sum” which means, ‘I think therefore I am’. It might have been an outrageous provocation of the belief of old that had approved the reliability of the human’s perception. However, personally this assertion of Descartes sounds rather frivolous and flippant. How can he assure that his proprioception of being is telling him the truth through ‘his thinking’? And, to conclude with this conclusion Descartes had to ignore or more likely ‘omit’ the existence of his body. The study of the human cerebral cortex to learn about our perception and cognition must sound only bizarre and inhuman to him. What would Descartes say when he could diagnose this woman who was literally disembodied. Descartes excellently aided the whole human to believe that the certainty of their existence is purely the matter of mentality.

It is shockingly inhuman how the human has been trying to omit the physical. The author Oliver Sacks seems to point out man’s inhumanity to man that is generously accepted under the name of modernity. The specific stories case by case and cautious observation of each patient seemed a dramatic deliverance of human beings from the inhumanity of modernity. The pathological cases of ‘abnormal’ or damaged brains freshly brought up the thought upon the problem of being; the problem of the meaning of being, the interconnection of body and spirit, or even the query if the separation of body and spirit is possible at the first place…etc. Philosophy and psychology has to be human more than human since it studies the human before the human studies it. –Is this another chicken or egg question?- The whole stories about neurological patients accentuated the humanity of the studies of the human.

Going through my own mother’s loss of memories, even though it was for a short period of time, I queried myself over and over again what really the being is. The form of her physical body, her voice or even her handwriting was all the same as before but she did not remember her family or her deeds. What I was seeing did not feel as reality and I could not believe myself observing the true phenomenon. The woman I was observing could not guarantee the confirmation of my mother’s being. Any epistemological certainty was not guaranteed. It was like residing in the complete dark without a hope of a beat of light. It was almost scary how easily we can all tumble down into that darkness at a snap. The problems about the normal perception and true identity matter loads to human beings. We are designed to perceive things like we do now and ponder upon our being like we do now. And our brain and body perfectly interconnected operate to make us perceive the world and comprehend the world as we do now. Nothing seems to be accidental. It should be perfectly designed to be this way. It hurt my family and my mother herself that some doctors did not know how to deal with those neurological symptoms properly. They still are the whole human beings, even though it is not easy to recognize it with their certain defects. However, we will have to admit that it really is not just about some brain damaged people’s problems but we should not miss the frailty of the proprioception of human beings they suggest.

Jean Dubuffet, Campagne Heureuse, 1944
Angel Hye-young Kim

Superare

2006-12-17T21:38:00.000-08:00

A calm fear knocked at my door, he said, "I don't know where I am going, I rather rest here until I know who I am. Would you sing for me while I stay with you?" I said, "why do you not seek peace in your own heart? You will have to overcome yourself one day." He wept and whispered, "I am silly and weak, I have to block my eyes to comfort the emptyness, allos autos." I said, "I should not sympathise with you and your fellow in your grief." He grabbed the door knob and begged, "I shall not be well." So I said, "come in then, I can't be harsh anymore." He came in and I closed the door behind him. Folding his dark coat neatly, he asked "what is this mirror, this is new." I answered, "I have recieved it from a stranger who once visited me. You shall have a look." He said, "you are aware that there is no window through which the light can come in, you are not able to use this." I said, "I can say you are right, but it sings songs. It makes me dream." he frowned, "that is troublesome." I said, "So do I know. But I think it's human." He said, "I am human." I said, "I know. I let you stay as you know well. You are quiet and timid. I don't blame you." He said, "you are floating away." So I consoled him, "I am only overcoming."

A jazz saxophonist in HyeHwa, Seoul drawn by
Angel Hye-young Kim

A Short Thinking on Plato's Intrigue

2006-12-11T01:37:00.000-08:00

Platonian esoterik in art and being has its significance on the potentiality of self-transcendence. Through art which interprets the world out of accordance with concepts or formal language but in dependence on metaphors and symbols, human being is exposed to the light of new interpretaion of the world. This is a whole unique way of understanding and interpreting the world and the relation of human being to truth of being.

What a delicious deciet of Plato. His contempt for the representers might be a brilliant intrigue to veil the truth of the finite.

Modernity enables mimesis(representation) in aesthetics to emancipate the meaning of art from the meaninglessness of the uninterpreted world. Acknowledging the finitude of human experience, finally human beings can percieve the world as the root of their conciousness. The conceptual schema of the interpretation of the world of human knowledge does not have to repress the desire not to be amenable to the conceptual analysis. Art is not anymore subordinate to rational enquiry of the traditional metaphysics. Art can be regarded as one of the ways or even the prominent way of understanding of the world. The metaphoric interpretation of the world may bring us back to life.

Angel Hye-young Kim

Moments

2006-12-04T22:15:00.000-08:00

It was Prague where I finally realised how to truly enjoy being by myself. It was aromatic and warm. It was winter in Prague raining. The gray brown city was perfectly composed and about to soar with its dark bronzy wings. My snow white jacket was all wet with it's gloom. I had told others that I was longing for snow in Prague which would draw me to the bright liveliness. That night when I was admitted into this sparkling city in the dark, I believed that I saw the trecherous gloat of Kafka. I felt welcomed. It was tranquil. For three days alone in Prague, I did not think much but was not light so was just comfortable. It was like an underplot of my happy story. [January of 2005]

It is 11:44 friday morning, no school, so oversleeping. I just woke up; smelling freshly brewed coffee from Madagascar, a sweet piece of cinnamon toast, reading an email from a friend in New York, listening to 'The Christmas Song' of Vince Guarald Trio: a perfect moment of life. [December of 2006]

Mucha, Prague, drawn in May 2005, London
Angel Hye-young Kim

On The Side of Laughter

2006-11-27T01:56:00.000-08:00

The Cognitive Neurosceinence class actually is funner than it sounds. I have one friend in England who still believes that I study Psychology. I reckon that it is probably because Philosophy and Psychology, these two do not sound so different in terms of boredom and impracticalness. Even though I have to correct him everytime, I have no desire to blame it on him. Not that I admit that they are impractical and boring, but it is true that they put things in knotty and unconscious words and force us to understand them, or compel us to accept the ambiguous conclusions. However, we should not overlook their innocent initial purpose. They, anyway, all started from human beings, us. They desperately meet our needs, our aspirations to attain the truth about ourselves. They all talk about us, human beings. In this sense, you can equate Psychology with Philosophy.

Speaking of our lives in Psychology and Philosophy, I recall this Psychology professor's belief about 'Smile and Laughter': your smile and laughter make yourself smile and laugh because they make yourself believe that you are happy- the process of our cognition is quite interesting. Smile a lot for your own sake. If you want to make yourself a happy person, make yourself believe that you are a happy one first, then you will be acting as a happy one. It may sound cliched to some, however, all those cocky words are not all about Psychology and Philosophy. Back to life; I do not believe that it is simply a trendy slogan of the world of thoughts. From Plato through Christianity, the idealism may have had believed in the binary understanding of the world, until Nietzsche provoked the whole traditional metaphysical world. Nietzsche's or, Schopenhauer's 'back to life', to me seems like a natural dialectic consequence: if I am not too far from the sincere understanding of Hegel's 'dialetik'. Their names may threat us but they also were human beings seeking the 'truth' as we in 'this' world do.

He jokingly told me one day that maybe for me it is not too good to see him, because I am not too sad and I still have to study Philosophy. We laughed. I laugh loads, and I smile to the world's end. It seems true that my smiles and laughters make myself believe that I am the happy one. What a pleasant deception though - if I have to take some sort of philosophical criticism about this 'light' statement. This is what has changed me since I met this one person; 'back to life' interprets me, my life, all over again, in the whole new way. The agony of 學[hak:xue:learning] does not drag me down to the shaow of 'life'. What a grateful burden for us to 'philo' 'sophia'.

Angel Hye-young Kim

A Drummer

2006-11-13T08:38:00.000-08:00

One afternoon in the late autumn of 2004, at the Trafelgar Square in London, after the speech of Nelson Mandela, there was a special stage for this African drum team. It was uncomfortably chilly under the typical charcoal gray London sky. Dressed all in white and milky green stripes, this overly bright-coloured group of the black was like a drollery for London. It was one happy sound of a feast spread all over the gray sublime Trafelgar. The whole air of the congregation was rather the 'emblem of the gloomy awakening of misery'; to 'make poverty history', when they, the milky green drummers were playing the pure joy of life. Who had said that life is agony, why do you choose to cry when we are able to choose to sing, said a joyous frog to me. There, I heard the sound of morning dew sprinkled on the sound land. It smelled like the breeze traveld all the way from the forest of truth to the Trafelgar square. Life was all vibrating with all that human rhythm.

12:00am 14 Nov 2006 at Chunyun Jazz Club, in Hyehwa, Seoul

A sketch of Jonathan Pollard the Drummer,
drawn by Angel Hye-young Kim

The Year of 1989

2006-11-13T03:37:00.000-08:00

It was the winter of 1989. I was in the first year of elementary school. In the winter of 1989, so, I was an elementary school student. By that time, I possessed my own private spot in the tall white three-story house which my grandfather had built 30 years ago. My grandparents’ bed room, the living room, and the kitchen used be all on the second floor. And there are cold wooden stairs which turn once in the middle, until now. My parents’ bed room was placed on the third floor and I spent loads of time there. Because my whole family –grandfather, grandmother, father, mother, three little aunts, two uncles, my baby brother and I- lived all together, the tall white three-story house was not at all big enough. Consequently, to small youthful me, it was nonsense to expect my perfect private space in that house. So, I designated this open secret area, right under the small window at the top end of the wooden stairs which connected the second and third floor, as my private spot; nobody cared about it and it actually was officially a secret. I brought this little portable foldable ‘The Good Lord and His Sheep’ table to my private spot whenever I was ‘free’ and did my small work like drawing or reading quietly. That spot was always filled with the bright sun light and it was the specific spot of the house where people, like family, passed by pretty often but never stays at for longer than a few seconds. It was quite calm and peaceful, generally.
It was one of the troublesome winter vacation assignments to keep a journal everyday during the break. I learned the Korean character at the age of 6 by keeping the pictorial journal with my mother. Every evening my mother asked me what I had done during the day while mother was at school. I usually tried to tell her as many things happened as possible so mother had to make me choose the most memorable event of the day. And she wrote down a story within 5 to 6 sentences below my colorful drawing. By the time she came back home from school, usually it was nearly the sunset. It was after I entered the elementary school when I actually started writing my diary in my sentences without sharing the bundle of my daily stories with my mother. I honestly enjoyed the lone time of contemplation picking the most memorable even of the day without somebody else’s pressure. So, it was not a burden to me to keep a diary. I wrote my journal at my bright and quiet private place. I sometimes was writing my journal in the morning mainly because I had to write it when some sort of inspiration whispered to me and also the morning time was the brightest and quietest time of the day.
It was the last day of the year of 1989. I believed years also rotate as the seasons do. I did not have a clue to get to acknowledge that the numbers of the years are the simply numbers which people number. In the morning of that day, when one of my little aunts told me that tomorrow eventually is the first day of 1990, I asked her then when the year of 1989 comes back. She said that it does not come back. I could not believe her. I asked my mother. My mother told me that the year of 1989 was the year which leaves us and the new year of 1990 was waiting for us. I asked my uncle if it was all true that the year of 1989 shall not come back ever. He explained that the year of 1989 comes to the world for only once and it simply cannot exist ever again in the world. In the tremendous shock, I asked again my mother, slowly, doing my best to make my question as clearly as possible and restraining the irresistible sadness secretly, whether it truly was impossible to have the year of 1989 back. My mother answered slowly and sincerely that ‘time’ does not come back once it leaves. I did not let anyone know as usual that I came back to hide at my private place and there, I wrote down as ‘good-bye the year of 1989’ in bold letters on a piece of paper. And I sank in the great sadness. For the first time since I came out to the world, I realized that there are things that I cannot have more than once and not everything comes back as rotating fairly like the seasons. Years later, I also could accept the fact that I grow and become an adult one day but never can be a child again. I was slow in a way; I answered them that I wanted to be a rabbit when I grew up if somebody asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up. I continued to do this until I first met this boy in my class who wanted to be a fire fighter at the age of 7.
Grasping the glimpse of the rules of the ‘time’ and the testing inquiry about the future dream at the age of 7, I cognized the concept that time flows towards the unknown world of infinity and never looks back. That day, the last day of the year of 1989, I could not free myself from that great shock all day. It finally became the fact that yesterday, today, and tomorrow exists, and yesterday is unreachable forever once you leave it. My initial conception of time as counting down to Christmas day as ‘three more nights, two more night’ tumbled down to the immaturity zone. The year of 1989 was taking off, just like that, while I was going through the sense of a deep pity for the helplessness we all have to face. The next stop was that to cognize the loss of somebody. Then I learned how to ‘be’ sad. The world is nothing but a huge ball of sadness, if it really is true that everything in the world exists once but has to leave at some point for the infinity. I thought that the air was unbearably pungent since it was only full of people’s sadness and all their lives accumulated in the bottomless sadness.
It took me another long long time to cognize the fact that the lost time and the lost ones exist in me wholly and soundly. The past time, the past people and their love remain in the blood of the present; we breathe in the sadness and the lung filters out the sadness through the love of memories – just like the trees of the forest of truth.
All present once used to be the future but all present is the past. All is present but none is present. All time happens to be past. ‘I in the present’ is ‘apodictically’ the ‘I in the past’, and my love, passion, and my people all will be gone as time. But none will be gone. My mother, my uncle, and my little aunt all were right. I have been waiting carefully and secretly, but, yes all, the year of 1989 did not return yet. Moreover, it has been ages since I lost the ‘good-bye 1989’ paper. However, I also have gained a pinch of an acquaintance with the sadness; how it, the sadness over the things that leave but never return, liberates the ones of the world and just leaves them to live ‘a life’.

photo taken in the year of 1979 in Seosan in Korea, my mother with the white mourning ribbon over her mother's death on her hair, and one of her students
26 Jan 2003 and 13 Nov 2006 Angel Hye-young Kim

不動 [bu dong: immobility]

2006-11-08T06:31:00.000-08:00

as clouds

it rains

the sky

as rivers

flows

into ears

goes deaf.

lain

as grass

it runs

the sun, to it

sticks

the feet

goes blind.

hair

the wind

blows

the sky

forms.

as clouds

it rains

the sky

as rivers

runs

goes deaf

again,

lies.

photo taken on the train from Luoyang to Zengzhou in China, July 2006.

3 Jan 2003 Angel Hye-young Kim

A Short Description

2006-11-08T04:11:00.000-08:00

For a couple of days, I sketched anything at random. Drawing helped hold back this unbearable depression. I, especially, fancied the drawing of my foot gazed down on. That it shaded the foot under whose gaunt frail skin veins were almost transparent, was quite paradoxical. Such tranquil interests were aroused when the direction of the light changed with his fresh speech. It was near the sunset when I finished drawing the foot. The searing solemn sun rays streamed down to the living room on the second floor. It was comfortable as if it were granted to be that way, that the sides of the old pencil became smooth with finger marks. A name written down fully on the pencil is remained as a boast. It says ‘J. Kim’ written with black water ink. I once have given this pencil to my brother, now it only has lost its history how it returned to my hands. I put the melancholiac pencil which has lost its history and my sketch note as thick as the bible in the middle of the sun flooded into the room as lava. I came up stepping on the icy stairs in my bare feet. At the edge of the stairs, through a tiny window, the yellow sunlight was crawling into. Through the wooden corridor I sneaked into the room with the piano in. Pairs of spectacles of my brother’s were laid down on the pile of books. Why does he place the pairs of spectacles which he does not wear in order; if this has been done in some sort of ritual reason like I draw the foot. The pairs of spectacles in the shadow where the sun did not touch, were hiding with a sneer. I sat on the piano chair. The yellow book with a thick black printed word ‘Chopin’ is placed, fairly indifferently. The book sounded like a leaf which is now completely dried after a long cry. [Waltz in A minor. Op.34 no.2] It already has been 9 years of playing this piece. Tears with a queer sentiment trickle down along my cheeks. For 9 years, no other way but this way have I been able to interpret this piece. It composes the whole guilt synopsis that I transfer this sublime sensation to a loaf of bread. The negotiation with some tunes seemed to be an inappropriate compromise. Compared to that I drew the foot, it was a dirty negotiation. The unbearable silence of that dark searing piano before my immorality was like pain. Hiding the guilt, I run away from the room as if unwittingly. The piano does not chase me. It does not yell at me. The pairs of spectacles in a row are staring at me sharp. Crooning a nameless song, I came down from that brown place. As leaping for joy, spring down to the living room on the second floor, I subside into the gigantic couch, as dust is laid down. The crimson cover of the sketch note was scorching hot as the sun, so I turned it over. The pencil rolls down to the floor. It that was fiercely rolling stops at just an awkward point. It was rather an unacquaintedness that I drew a foot floating in the air. His story against my belief that a foot is not a being permitted to be floating in the air was worth listening to once. I looked at my foot drawing with scrupulous care, and put on the shoes to go out. Then, I seemed to forget about the foot. When I was out, the strange thing was that the sun which flooded into the second floor so searing slow, was actually immovable.

24 July 2003 and 8 Nov 2006 Angel Hye-young Kim

Beijing

2006-11-05T07:10:00.000-08:00

The white air of Beijing makes everything look dim. Everything seems hazy as sunk in reminiscence. The sun, through the white round mass of air, is beaten down on my eyelashes heavily. The heavy yellowy sun on my eyelashes makes everything look even hazier. The white, warm, soft dusty breeze pacifies my heart. The death of fool is become a bit of inoffensive dirt then gone with that warm dusty breeze. The freedom from life. The moment when the intangible freedom seems even more perfect within the square created by ‘the material’ of Marx and Engels, this is the time for the tears of void and contradiction of Metaphysics which has been crying for the complete ethics and freedom. When my eyes and nose are paralyzed by the white pungent air so the things melt into dreams, all the phenomena seem not to exist, mongrelized with hazy memories. The misty beauty which the question of Ontology does not dare to bother leads all our senses to its ecstasy, so that the present life becomes dreams without a guarantee of reality.

Angel Hye-young Kim 2005-2006 Beijing

Jazz

2006-11-03T21:55:00.000-08:00

Jazz

If the Sumerians inspire me with an academic sensibility, Jazz sails me to the sea of dreams. Satie may whisper the sophisticated sadness, whereas Jazz absorbs the absurdity. Jazz is a breeze with the scent of the forest of truth. It shall not unveil the secret of truth, however, it embraces lives, so warm. The Enlightenment only awakes my weary soul, so why is it too wrong to lean on this cozy friend for a moment and let my eyes fall asleep.

Angel Hye-young Kim

Bethena

2006-11-03T19:48:00.000-08:00

Chungseong Kim (,die) , a new family member of Kim family was born in June. 2006 in Korea. She is the biter, cuddler, runner, hopper and kisser.

Grandparents talk loads to her. She always nods her head slantwise which makes my grandparents believe that she understands what they say.

One summer day in 2006 at the local college playground near my grandparents' in Korea.

Angel Hye-young Kim

Etreinte

2006-11-03T17:52:00.000-08:00

Embrace, Pablo Ruiz y Picasso, 1901

Picasso's early sketches attract me like the rapture. I have faced the passion of young Picasso at Museu Barcelona in the spring of 2005. In 1901 Paris, Picasso was maybe in the middle of his initial transition to find and free the true self. Etreinte(Embrace), 1901 seems to reveal his youthful but passionate faith in the 'naive' truth; the 'mushniess' of love and being. The embrace is in part a pregnancy motif which appeals to me. Embrace finds its favourable companion with the 'Waltz in A minor. Op. posth' of Chopin. This friendly companionship may have its origin simply in my belief in the beauty of hermeneutical harmony of two hands in Chopin's waltz. This is the first post of this page; because it implies the primary idea of my thoughts.

We all know that Art is not truth. Art is a lie that makes us realize the truth, at least the truth that is given to us to understand.
- Pablo Picasso

Angel Hye-young Kim