Charlotte

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

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

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!

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

'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

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

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