I watched a film yesterday (I know, what a surprise, since I am studying Film Aesthetics) called Metropolitan (1990), by an American director by the name of Whit Stillman. Stillman is well known for his tongue-in-cheek depiction of the 'urban haute bourgeoisie (UHB)' in 1980s New York City, a world he knew well being a Fly Club member at Harvard and coming from a well-off family. The film is hilarious in its portrayal of the cluelessness of preppy rich youngsters in their debutante season; the shamelessly pseudo-intellectual banter and contrived philosophical/principles that do not match up to the characters' actual actions are charmingly desperate and endearing. Stillman's dialogue is wordy and empty precisely because of its wordiness, a common feature his conversation scenes share with Woody Allen's. His deadpan humor is remarkable. This is his latest film, Damsels in Distress (2011), a contemporary piece on teenage salvation and girly sane-hood. A great film is all you need to make your day. 

Monday noon. I'm spending the early hours of the week with this guy here reading about phenomenology and the body. Merleau-Ponty will be the philosophical pillar of my dissertation (due in 5 weeks, yikes) which will be about the treatment of the 'body-character' in the two films Dogtooth(2009) and Innocence(2004). The body has been an overdone topic in film, especially the bodies of young girls but usually in this context, the body is discussed in a Lolita syndrome / psychoanalytical / objectification of women / male gaze / feminist framework, which I will attempt to stay away from. Merleau-Ponty has a fluid way of writing, a beautiful but extraordinarily complex manner of approaching his topic. Many dislike him precisely because of his wound-up and overly-intellectualized stylistic, but I find him brilliant. I hope I do him justice. 

I love going to a favorite cafe and discovering new things about it. Today my flatmates and I went for a late brunch to Oxfork, the sweetest brunch place near home. We were seated in the far cozy corner, right beneath this vintage floral lamp and mirror that looked like a whirling skirt. I loved how they complemented each other, one with light and the other with self-reflexivity. Oxfork has the most amazing brunch menus, my favorite being the Little Veggie American which is fluffy pancakes served with an egg, halloumi, and maple syrup. I have it with Girlie Grey tea and it is difficult not to be happy.

Brunch talk involved everything from a friend's potential break-up, her lack of emotional courage, visa issues and 'bought' marriages, problems with illegal immigration (did you know that in Italy, it is against the law to kick people out of a house if they have a child? So technically, if your tenants were not paying rent but were raising a child, you as the landlord/owner would not be able to oust them from your property. Insane law in my opinion), my dissertation topic, child actors and what becomes of them, the redundant plot of Mad Men, the stupidity of making the 2p coin, the even more astonishing inaneness of the administrative bureaucracy in Oxford, how the English love to play with letters and documents, and a range of other equally arbitrary yet delightful topics. The best way to spend a grey Sunday afternoon. 

super sunny weather continues this week, but i've been a little weary this morning.

for the past ten days, i fully immersed myself in the Vietnamese light up research. perhaps too much. pacing yourself, whether it is work, relationships, running, reading, who-knows-what, is essential for the long-run. when something is in the beginning stages, I'm bound to get excited and eager and give too much in it.

excited for something, which I haven't yet figured out, I've been sleeping less and staying awake, even though my body signaled that I better rest.

so today, I enjoyed the serenity of a Thursday morning with my favorite flower t-shirt on. to be still

now I'm off to read/review a soon-to-be published economics article on incentives for low-income American children to study math and read more.

I love feet. I love my feet. That's why I asked the caricature guy at the ball last weekend to draw my feet instead of my face. 

"Can you do a caricature of my feet?" 

"Hmm I'm not sure if I can draw a caricature. 

But I can try to sketch you a likeness." 

So I stood on the modeling chair for five minutes as the pencil went whisk whisk on the surface of the paper. I also asked the guy to draw my new court heels. My shoes were pretty but hurt like hell, like all the nice things in life. 

My toes are generally disfigured. But my pinky toe looks hideous, resembles a pyramid than a ball. It even has a sharp edge. I don't think a toe is meant to have an edge. 

I read somewhere that Quentin Tarantino has a foot fetish. I'm happy we share one thing in common. 

As you can imagine, Oxford goes big on balls. Formal balls aren't my cup of tea, but I decided to go to one because I thought it would add flavor to the life-in-Oxford chapter of life. Yesterday was the 'Exeter College: The Orient Express Ball' which my friends and I attended. Typical of me to leave things up till the last moment; I spent yesterday afternoon fishing the shops in city center for a dress and a pair of decent heels. It was a highly stressful and intellectually stimulating task. 

Dress codes are a matter of life and death here in Oxford, a trait I deem properly English.  (For more info, please have a look at Downton Abbey) Last night's code was 'black tie,' which in itself is lucidly straightforward for the lads but perplexing for the girls. Rumor had it that girls would be expected to wear floor-length gowns or cocktail dresses at the least; dresses that went over the knees would be frowned upon; no flat shoes; etc. I pondered for a good while whether I should buy a long gown I would never again wear in my life. But no, I ended up purchasing a casual dress I would make practical use of.
Clever me : )

M, Lotti, Plebwood, Moi, P, Bartini, JMS, Smithers, Spicy

There are so many things in life one does for the sake of being able to say one has done it. Much of Oxford is like that: the Oxonian experience. And it sells so well. Many international students brave the dreary weather and unhealthy food of the UK for this precise experience: studying in the oldest university in the English-speaking world, living in pleasantly antiquated housings, dining in formal hall and high table, wearing sub fusc on matriculation and exam days, and all the items on the true Oxonian/English life track list. Charming, indeed, but what about inefficiency, elitism, and backwardness? Because these words are the negative flip sides of propriety, privilege, and tradition. 

Oxford was ranked no 5 in World's Best Universities with its rival and counterpart Cambridge at no 2. These days I often wonder what is at the core of the Oxbridge magic, what makes the spell so enticing. Being an Oxford-phile myself, I am in no position to assess this matter with an objective eye but one cannot help but ask: if all the buildings in Oxford were burnt down, would the university still hold the same academic prestige? 

I say no. And oh yes, the ball was fun. 

The past week just flew by.

These trees with white flowers in front of my apartment greet me every morning as I step out to go to campus. Monday morning was a bit gloomy but appeared to be like any other ordinary morning. Then ended with the happening in Boston. It could've been any city. Events like this remind you that normal everyday life is not boring nor meaningless. I used to make plans for five, ten, fifteen years ahead, but not anymore. Living every day to the fullest and choosing to live every moment became more important, after realizing I can't foresee what will happen in the future, except what's been promised. 

What are some things you will never let go? I wondered what led them to pursue such act. How some people here reacted have also dismayed me. 

While tension accumulated in MA, the rest of the week was sunshine here in NYC. And I finally started enjoying researching full-time, now that I'm almost done with SDDS responsibilities. I'm quite enjoying this research phase, working in my favorite spots on campus. For some reason, I don't remember spring twenty-twelve. This spring is full of hope, energy, and initiative. I'm trying to hand in my MA paper by May 1st, so must go do some more research!

When I was young, I loved to play with my stack of "100 Greatest Men in History" cards. (*Note that being pc was not in fashion when I was young. 'Men' had more impact than 'People' is my conjecture. Nonetheless, women were not absent from the collection) The cards, a little larger than than the Samsung Galaxy phone, had an iconic portrait of the person on the front and a short biography on the back. I had two separate versions, one marked East and the other West. 

The game I played with myself was simple. First, I would peer into the portrait and try to infer the profession/field of the person in question. The hints would come from the expression, hairstyle, outfit, often the most critical cues from an item the person was holding. Beethoven was a dead giveaway because he held a music composition notebook.  And come one, who else but an impassioned composer would nurse such a tousled look. Religious figures such as Jesus, Buddha, and Mother Theresa were the easiest as they were either shown praying/meditating or had bursts of light emanating from their torsos. The trickier ones were male politicians, scientists, and writers; they all wore the standard suit and tie. Bo-ring. 

Next, I would turn over the card and read the biography. When I had gone through the whole two stacks, I would shuffle them vigorously. The game now morphed into a memory task: the exercise of matching the face with the correct name and profession. The Greeks always duped me; Plato, Socrates, and Aristotle all looked the same in marble. I also cultivated favorites: I loved Einstein because he looked funny with his spazzy hair, respected Helen Keller because she was the prettiest, admired Yu Gwan-sun for her spunk, and had a fondness for honest Abe Lincoln because he looked like the type of man who would die doing good for the world. Hitler was a dubious one because I realized that being great did not necessarily equate to being good, Eureka.  

- 48 portraits, by gerhard richter, macba

In  the Barcelona Museum of Contemporary Art, I came across this installation work by the celebrated Gerhard Richter. The wall hosted a series of portraits of famous men (men, as in the male. No women here). I went through all 48 of them, racking my head and prodding my memory to recall faces I had seen in AP World History cram books, books in general, newspapers, satiric images I had witnessed on the internet, etc. To my absolute mortification, I could only put the name to face for only 5 of them: Albert Einstein, Oscar Wilde, Rainer Maria Rilke, Franz Kafka, and Tchaikovsky (what was his first name?). Most of their visages seemed painfully familiar but not quite. Sorry William James, Thomas Mann, Igor Stravinsky, Max Planck, Graham Greene-I should have remembered what you looked like - and profuse apologies to the other great men on the wall, I'm sure you're all very important. I'm most certain that I've encountered you before but didn't bother to retain the snapshot of your face in my brain. Really, my bad. 

My point being (if I dared to have one): we live in an era of faces; it's all about remembering what someone looks like. And about being remembered. I see people on TV, in films and interviews in magazines, on ad campaigns and think, I know that face from somewhere; I may not know his/her name but I definitely recognize the face. Even people with non-camera related professions such as cooks, writers, designers, CEOs, professors, and what not, all sell their faces to a certain extent. To remember faces, or not to remember them, that is the question. If accumulating a directory of faces works on a zero-sum game, my childhood pastime of portrait-guessing has been a futile exercise, for there is no possible way that I would be able to retain the visual info of irrelevant-to-life people in my brain; there are more important faces to store, more catching visages to pay attention to. 

Honestly, who gives a damn about dead faces, right? 

Catch-up. 

1. Apologies; the wifi in our room in Barcelona malfunctioned for the majority of our stay. We slept in a traditional Spanish house right next to La Rambla. This is the view from my window. The building is fashioned in a way that all rooms face one another across a vacant square area in the center. The ceiling is sealed so there is no actual ventilation. What a peculiar use of space, I thought to myself. 

2. The friend I travelled with is my best friend from elementary school. There was a time when I called her Zzang and she addressed me as Cap. She is currently doing her master's at Courtauld with focus on modern art. Funny, how life springs pleasant surprises on you. Zzang and I were cut apart in our adolescence when she left middle school to be home-schooled by her parents. Who knew we would reunite in London after a good decade apart and explore Barcelona together! Over paellas, tapas, and sweet sangria we reminisced about how we used to make prank calls to the boys in our 6th grade class.

- Hello? Is this Semi's house?

- No it isn't. But who is this?

- You mean Semi isn't there? We're looking for soosemi! (sponge)

(Hang up in burst of giggles)

Classic prank call repertoire. A great deal of fun. 

3. I was completely shellshocked when I went into the Sagrada Familia, as it is without a doubt the most beautiful church I have set foot in. Antoni Gaudi was clearly an eager disciple and avid observer of nature and his reverence for it is telling throughout every inch, curve, carving, angle of his architecture. I found myself squinting at the rays of light streaming through the stained-glass windows, trying to absorb the benediction of warmth.

4. Barcelona wouldn't and couldn't be what it is without the rich art culture. Zzang being a proper art history student and I a pseudo-one, we made our way around the various art stops. Although Picasso and Miro were highly inspirational, my favorite exhibitions were the ones in MACBA, the Barcelona Museum of Contemporary Art. Probably the equivalent to MOMA in New York or Tate Modern in London.  

5. This is is Lawrence Weiner's piece. His conceptual works are poignantly philosophical and equally humorous that they linger with you for a long time. I love his play with language and space. 

Another inspiring collection was "I Have Never Painted Golden Angels-" by Eulàlia Grau, a Catalan artist whose montages and collages are uncanny in their social critique. There was so much artistic energy to digest that we often caught ourselves zoning out afterwards. 

Other notable wisps of the trip:

6. pestering a lazy cat lying under the sun; she turned over on her back to express annoyance 

7. tapas-bar hopping around back alleys of Barri Gotic

8. eavesdropping on conversations drifting from other tables (usually loud Americans gushing OMG about some depraved love affair) 

9. escaping from senile man who masturbated under his coat next to me on the transport to Montjuic Park (... kindly showed me his private parts and gave me a toothy smile)

10. meeting cute scrawny boy at the reception desk of the Joan Miro Foundation

11. licking grapefruit & jasmine gelato cone on the walk to the beach

12. lying on the beach watching hot locals show off soccer tricks

13. lying on the beach listening to some guy declare that the "two things in life I never thrift on are drugs and booze" and snorting inevitably in response

14. spotting delightful and colorful laundry sashaying outside windows

15. drinking coffee at the 4 Cats, a favorite venue of Picasso's at the height of modernism

16. hiding a postcard behind one of the paintings in the cafe for Zzang's friend to find 

17. befriending a 4-year old Chinese boy at the airport who suggested (in perfect London English) that we go on a treasure hunt to find a golden pan with which he could make tomato pancakes

18. realizing at the end of our journey, that we hadn't taken a decent photograph together

19. laughing it off ... and saying "next time!" 

On Sundays, I like waking up to read the S magazine that comes along with our Joongang Sunday newspaper. It's my weekly dose of culture. In particular, I like the commentary on the last page and the three excerpts that are bundled under the "들숨날숨" section. Here are the three excerpts from this week's edition:

Ever since 2004, my birthday has never solely been my own but always ours together. Mijung's (13th) and Mandy's (14th). There were times during our almost decade-long friendship when we would be celebrating our birthdays at literally the same moment due to the time difference between Canada and Korea. It was a surreal feeling, to be able wish happy birthday to her in her time whilst the clock had ticked over to my birthday in my time. 

I received this from the recently-wedded KMLA couple JH & SY. The card from Nice, the gift from Monaco, the package sent from Paris presumably. Apparently they have just returned from their honeymoon to their little love nest in Seoul. I cannot fathom how that must feel. Unbelievable, how we have aged. 

We had a "team bonding" dinner the other day. I had my first try at "molecular gastronomy". Amazing how science is now affecting not only the arts and sports, but also what we eat. I was particularly amused by the air cakes that melt in your fingers if you take too long to deliver them to your mouth.

http://blog.naver.com/pree0301?Redirect=Log&logNo=80135023330

We also talked about the three different types of people: the brains (mu-ree-hyung), the hearts (ga-seum-hyung) and the guts (jang-hyung). Most people said I looked like a mu-ree-hyung, with hints of jang-hyung. We are probably a mix of all of these and also act differently depending on the setting (at home vs. at work) and depending on the kind of people we're with (friends vs. lover). After all, everything is relative. Which type are you?

You can take the Enneagram test here: http://www.anylover.com/
Based on this test, 5,6,7 are the brains, 2,3,4 are the hearts and 8,9,1 are the guts.

http://blog.naver.com/blackpower29?Redirect=Log&logNo=50164004682
http://blog.naver.com/66298?Redirect=Log&logNo=140138168955

Starting today with the keynote speech from Professor Sachs for the interdisciplinary workshop I've been preparing since last semester with my fellow SDEV crew.

Look at the wide range of topics covered by speakers from all over the world. I've spent this the whole morning greeting and making sure things are good to go.

http://blogs.cuit.columbia.edu/sdds/schedule-events/ipwsd_2013/ipwsd-2013-schedule/

For some oddball reason, although the two are valid synonyms, I like the word 'perseverance' and dislike the word 'patience.' 

For me, patience connotes a female virtue, a docile and obedient form of waiting, a word that echoes into a hushed and still Victorian room. The image I have of patience is of a pale white girl seated in a chair, cross-stitching some ludicrous adage unto a cream hanky. Patience is the better word for fighting boredom. 

Perseverance on the other hand, implies a fierce will to suffer to reap better results, an active and kinetic journey of choice. It is the strength to overcome obstacles, the good-spirited cruelty to sprint ahead of competitors. It is the fiery spunk of a young warrior, who squeezes out the last drop of fuel boiling in in his body to fight those who are bigger and stronger. 

Synonyms as they are, the two stir up different emotions and interestingly draw distinct visual drawings of themselves. Sadly, the gendered images are the products of the conventional gender-role culture ingrained within me. Touche to that. 

The tree in front of my apartment was one of the quickest plants to respond to the temperature increase. Have not yet found out what this tree is called. Ever since I was little, I remember being amazed at how Dad knows the names of wild flowers and the trees that were distinguishable only when you carefully looked at their leaves. Perhaps it's no wonder I spent the last year and a half in high school, trying to measure chloroplast avoidance movement of various trees around our school. 

Despite the spring bloom, I couldn't be completely happy-go-merry after hearing about the recent news. I don't know how people in motherland think about what's been going on. Many of my KA friends lament that their parents won't let them visit Seoul for the summer. But what I'm concerned about is whether there is any conversation going on across borders, how will this be settled, will we be one again, how will the loveless young generation and old generation of the South respond...

Peace of mind is so difficult to have when you're occupied with work, people around you, things around you, and just about anything. I remember a pastor saying that people love peace so much that they are willing to go to war for it. What is peace?

Last evening, to greet C back from Rome, I tried my hand at cooking aubergine-and-goat-cheese-penne, a recipe I found on the BBC Good Food website. Cooking for me is always a hassle as I easily get flustered by all that needs to be done. In other words, my culinary methodology is one that has no order. Luckily, I had dear M to sprinkle herbs into my quite bland tomato sauce, and a hawk-eyed JMS to remind me that I had to take the garlic bread out of the oven. It was the first time in a long time for all the members of our flats (minus rugby E who has gone to Miami and tall J who is Gods knows where he is) to have dinner together, so it was a casual and pleasant evening.

Naturally, I brought up a topic I had been musing with JMS and M over lunch: If our two flats were to star in a horror movie, what would be the order of our deaths? See below for our scenario. 

# : order of death /  X - name of character / - : reason of death

1. C  - standard horror formula that pretty and sweet blond chick is first victim

2. M - the scientist of the group who tries to handle situation with reason 

3. rugby E - tries to escape on his own but fails 

4. JMS - heroically tries to save me from killer

5. myself - (*R-rated death)

6. El - who is allergic to nuts, is discretely fed cashews by killer 

7 & 8. S & tall J - both survive because the latter would be the killer, and has spared S because he secretly loves her. Both will return in sequel. 

Definitely an engaging game to play around the dinner table!

Life is blooming all over here :D It's been a while since I received flowers, so I was so happy to wake up to these white ones this morning. 

We've reached mid-20 degrees Celsius here. After doing morning QT, we all took our books to read in the green lawn. J was reading her play to act out in the afternoon, and R explained the meaning of one her lines. Wandering around the library of my school, SIPA, I found an anthology of Vietnamese households (Reconfiguring Families in Contemporary Vietnam), which totally grasped my attention nowadays. 

Super shocked to hear that Seoul got snow this week! Talk about crazy weather, huh?

I bought a small treat for myself yesterday in a fit of ennui and thirst for novelty. My new kalanchoe flower is a sweetheart (Look at Ratty sniff it, he adores it) I deliberately chose a pot that has yet to bloom to watch its shy buds blossom into full skirt of beautiful petals. My track record for growing plants is astonishingly bad, as you probably recall from my killing off the little flower we were given on our coming-of-day ceremony back in high school. The poor thing literally withered to death. It also killed off my appetite for attempting to mother plants, for I was childishly offended and hurt by its demise. Hopefully, my new roommate won't be as inconsiderate; Tyrant Ratty will keep on eye on it for sure. 

I'm starting my week at Rick's, a friendly cafe on Cowley Road. It's a good place to work, which is why I guess all the people around me are staring intently into their macbooks. I am writing my essay on Gus Van San't Elephant and want to finish it before I leave for a short excursion to Barcelona this coming weekend. I am trying to explore the significance of 'walking' in the film and link it to how it treats the school as a space. For me, the most strenuous part of writing an essay -- or any piece of writing for that matter-- is always the first paragraph. There is so much pressure on the first couple of sentences, the need to be engaging, witty, intelligent, and unique all at the same time!

P.S. Guess what I found at Tesco! The New Maltesers Teasers! Double tease, is what it is. Of course, they aren't as fun to eat as the original balls. You both know that I find great joy in scraping off the chocolate and nudifying them to shame.  

I think I'm craving more alone time/reading time nowadays, especially since my weekends have been infiltrated by too much basketball. I now have practices on both Saturdays and Sundays, both of which lasts for four hours. Considering, we usually go for dwitpooli afterwards, this basically takes up the whole of my weekend. Saturdays are the usual jungmo, while Sundays are an intense training program which consists mostly of running laps and painful exercises. I respect the girls' passion for basketball and their willingness to prioritize it over everything else. Very few people find anything in life that they have so much passion and love for. But I figured I couldn't do that myself since I need more time for career-planning and other hobbies. So I find myself increasingly inclined to ditch either one of the two practices, so that I can spend some chill time at a cafe or simply enjoying the sun when the weather permits. Maybe I can do this after the two competitions in April are over and done with. One down, one more to go.

Today's my hermit day, as I have not stepped one foot outside the building and have not seen a human face in person except for a fleeting encounter with one of my flatmates. John came to check up on me, accusing me of going AWOL for the past two days. Sometimes you feel entitled to shutting yourself out completely from the any social situations. I managed to have a brief FaceTime session with Kimmi & Dali and discovered that apparently Kimmi had not been out of the house for the whole day as well and had slept more than I did. What a hero. T. S. Eliot was absolutely right. April is the cruelest month, for the both of us. 

I woke up this morning at my friend's place in Washington, D.C.

We didn't have enough time to venture around the city together but had time to talk at her new spacious apartment and even pass by her new work place, the Bank.

As the novelty of her amazing work gradually wore out, she had mixed feelings about the type of family that most workers have, the physical and financial independence from the parents in contrast to emotional dependence, and the bureaucracy, of course.

We spent exactly 12 hours together, which was too short for having met in almost a year. But the short reunion left us yearning for a follow-up meeting, so looking forward to have her over at my place in New York :)

Beautiful day in Oxford! I am tempted say that spring has finally dawned, but will not risk jinxing tomorrow's weather as the weather in the UK is as fickle as it gets. Someone once told me that the word 'climate' does not exist here; only day-to-day or hour-to-hour 'weather.' I wholly concur. 

I took advantage of the pretty day and went for a jog in the University Parks. I passed excited dogs, little children on tricycles, sunbathing ducks, grass-grazing horses, blooming irises, and lovers strolling hand in hand. It's amazing what a little bit of sunshine and green can do for your mood. 

My mood. Ever since you have gone, I am suffering from homesickness. Which is a rather interesting statement, because it's not necessarily home that I miss. Naturally I do miss the vibe of Seoul, the horribly packed and overly energetic bustle of the city. But there are also parts of Seoul I would wish to avoid, such as the obnoxious drunk men on the streets or the rude and hurried pedestrians. And yes, I do miss the provocative food but that is available in London as well. There are plenty of Koreans here in Oxford for me to converse with, if it is the language that I miss. But not so much. Then what is it that I miss? 

I'm inclined to say it's the easiness with which I can access everything that is familiar to me.  Even if we don't see one another for weeks, there is a certain sense of comfort knowing that we reside under the same city-roof. I may not want to eat dduk-bok-gee every single night but know that should I crave it, I could run outside in my pajamas and ask for 2000 won of it and wheedle an extra half-egg off the ajooma. I don't think it's even Koreanness that I am homesick for, but rather nostalgia for the accessibility and familiarity of all that is dear. 

The boys and I have found a new pastime to spice up the monotony of working during spring break. Badminton is a fitting choice because it's fun without being too physically intense and is fairly easy to pick up. We usually play 2:2 taking turns for teams. Flat 7 vs Flat 8, English vs Continental (Since Korea isn't an island I guess I can accept the terms), etc. I am by far the least competent player of the four. Ed and John are naturally talented at playing sports, having played rugby and hockey since they were big enough to walk. They are in the process mastering ridiculous swinging positions, such as hitting the shuttlecock between the legs. Max is a decent badminton player in his own right. I'm not bad and have quick reactions (as the boys say) but I could improve on serving techniques and power. The best part about badminton though, is waking up the next morning with muscle aches from the shoulder down to the back. They make me feel rather heroic. 

This morning is my first time to see one of few favorite Library spots empty! Butler is the only library to be open 24/7 on campus, so at night you are bound to find some zombies walking around with some energy drinks at hand. 

Ever since last weekend, we've been having lots of sunshine here. Notice that this room is super lit up. What would we do without electricity in 21st century? Yesterday, I was talking to a sophomore in college, who asked me about my research topics. So, I told her about my Vietnam project and pending India solar home system project. When she heard the statistics about access to electricity, she exclaimed, "how can people live without electricity?" Come to think of it, I don't ever remember living without electricity at home. 

This is the map I made using NOAA night lights data for Vietnam. We can't see the similar stark difference for South Korea, because this satellite data is available from 1992 to current. 

But this picture is often used for cross-country comparison in magazines and even academic journal articles. 

from The Atlantic

You just see a dot of light from far away. 

At the gym this morning, I read an interesting piece of writing in my favorite film magazine  Sight and Sound.  In his article "Outside the Bell Jar," Irish director and film critic Mark Cousins laments that fact that despite -- or perhaps due to, depending on how one looks at it -- the availability of resources in the digital age, people are still prone to "live in the bell jar of our own taste, knowledge, and desires." Who's in it? Who is it directed by? are questions we often ask when someone offers a movie recommendation.  

Cultivating a specific and consistent sense of taste is undoubtedly important. Taste is what will distinguish you from others and work as the liaison between you with those who have honed similar appetites. By all means, the bell jar encourages efficiency. But problems surface when we limit ourselves solely to the interiority of our own bell jars, when our hands (or rather our eyes) reach for things we know we are interested in or know something about. Knowledge and familiarity are prone to commit the crime of automatic omission. 

This is not to say that I practice what I (attempt to) preach. Quite the contrary. Take the screen capture above. It is from one of my most petted apps, Discovr Movie. The app maps out for you, movies that are in some way linked to what you type into the search bar (ex: Midnight in Paris). Admittedly, I was rather proud to count how many few films I have not seen from this web. Bell jar alert!

I wonder when you girls start each morning. Late evenings sometimes provide a setting for reflective and time-constrained essays, but sounds of ambulances and noisy people on the streets often disturb my train of thought. In general, I prefer serene early mornings. From Monday to Friday, I usually wake up between 6 to 6:30. If the weather permits, I take a walk outside.

April air in New York is still uninviting, so I read, write or pray and then go to morning QT(quiet time) gathering that starts at 7:30 on campus. New graduate school friends, ssong unni and I started this gathering in the fall 2010, so that we can routinely read the Bible. In the fall of 2012, we opened up this group to everyone on campus, non-Christians and Christians attending different churches to attend to reflect on the verses of the day and share on their reflections.

Today, one of the nonbeliever SJ oppa has received acceptance to pursue a PhD in accounting and it was his last day to attend. So we had a breakfast feast to celebrate! It was timely since others had also received acceptance and we hadn't celebrated Easter together yet.

Sharing the morning and a meal together can be life-changing, even if we don't realize it. Apparently, it was the same for oppa as well. I've been thinking about what it means to be a healthy living community. The more I think about it, I'm blessed to have these people and to have met you girls in my teenage years <3 <3 

This is Elad. You missed him by a couple of days because he was back home in Israel (that was so inconsiderate, unacceptable behavior on his part). In the photo below he is explaining his interpretation of a dream I had a couple of days ago. I am in my bed listening with an impressed and receptive expression. Our midnight rendezvouses are dangerous because they have the potential to go on forever. The sessions usually start with a pressing issue, i.e. how to answer a text from a guy (the devil being in the detail up to the last full stop or emoticon) to more far-fetched aspirations of whisking Ben Whishaw off to a romantic venue in London (a firm resolution rather than a reverie I must add). 

Elad addresses me as dear babe (*note to self: remember to write on babe in the near future) which sums up our friendship quite nicely. In the beginning of the year, we were called the Liquid Lad and the Liquid Lass for antithetical reasons: his strong intolerance for booze and my brazen tolerance for it. Tolerance meaning amount of consumption before one loses balance on high heels and requires help of third party to stand (me) or tipping point for one to become fluent in English and strips off shirt to show off black beater (him). 

All that being said, the product of today's posting is upsetting because originally I had planned to write about the weird dream I had had of a tall and chalky Victorian woman. But I will have to save my encounter with her for later because I am late for dim sum. 

Prologue

I must admit that, for the past two years, anything I’ve ever written in length has been on the stock market and the economy. I have not bothered to keep a diary (until very recently) and have only written a few letters/birthday cards. Bottom line: I feel quite uneasy writing this blog entry.

This laziness in documentation actually surprises me since I consider the last two years to be quite an eventful and emotional period in my life, to say the least.

If I were to find a reason for this laziness, I would blame myself for leading a very myopic life. My normal day centered on getting my work done simply in order to get off from work as soon as possible. I was constantly trying to get away from something but towards nothing.

Fortunately, I have recently had two occasions that have stimulated me to change my perspective. One was a brief encounter with my mentor and one was my spring vacation with old friends (a spring awakening indeed!).

Stimulation is easier to achieve than we think. Meeting a new person, few days of travel, a book, a song, or even just some sunlight. Yes, stimulation is easy. But using that stimulation as a fuel for change is much more difficult.

I am hoping that this blog, a documentation of my daily encounters and interaction with my loved ones who have always inspired me since we met in high school, will help me remind myself to feel, live and be stimulated. And maybe even to change.

New York is almost a second home to me now, considering that I've lived here almost seven years so far. Wait.. I better qualify my statement to upper west side of New York. My family moved more than ten times because my dad used to be a journalist. So we haven't spent that long of a period in one place (we live in the suburbs now but might move to Seoul again).

When at school, I sometimes forget that I'm in New York. I fell in love with this school when I was sixteen years old and the love-hate relationship began. But this year, the love for this school and campus grows everyday as I spend more time on research at my favorite library spots. and building a living community here through morning holy star QT gathering, Harlem explorer volunteer, and Sunday services on campus.

The view of the sky from a study room I discovered my second year of grad school endowed a feeling of renewal and peace on this ordinary Tuesday morning.

Shameful residue of last night's party. It-the-shisha demands a space on the table even when the mountain of dirty plates and empty wine bottles have been cleared away. I was amazed to see it arrive in an ominous black plastic bag; apparently they deliver it with one's preferred flavor (apple, in our case, although taste was questionable) with soot, flicker, pipe, etc. We nourished good old Korean chung through huffing and puffing clouts of apple smoke into the room talking, laughing, and teasing.

Considering how much depraved fun we had with this device(?) last night, this morning the shisha's prestige plummeted to being an object of scorn and disgust. We could stand neither the sight nor the smell. It had to go. Alas, the fate of the once glorious shisha: put in a bag and pushed to the very far corner of the room till its keeper comes and collects. How lamentably versatile of a social position the shisha has. And how unabashedly fickle of us to create such a reputation.

Yesterday, I broke my tenacious three month meat-fast with lamb at my friend Clara's Easter dinner. Talk about an intense re-introduction. I am not sure how I feel about this yet. One part of me wants to shrug and say, "Oops I won't do it again. Consider it an Easter weekend foil" while another voice whispers "You've already broken the self-challenge. Just eat less of it and don't fuss." What to do, what to do!

My initial inspiration for trying out vegetarianism sprung from Jonathan Safran Foer's book Eating Animals and Eric Rohmer's film Le Rayon Vert (1986). Surprisingly I did not find cutting meat out of my diet that difficult, although it did put me social situations where I would have to eat double portions of mashed potatoes (yuck) while others knifed finely cooked steak, which did not make me happy at all. 

Today the unni I'm staying with in London is hosting a bossam party. My dietary musings will have to be postponed till tomorrow, as today is still Easter weekend, ha! One thing is for certain: even if I don't continue to avoid meat, I'm shunning all traces of potatoes in my meals simply because they repulse me. Those potatoes, they must die.

Spring is officially here at Easter!
Our high school friend JH is getting baptized today and the King's Kids are celebrating as well :)
I love winter but spring is lovely because of all the liveliness and the sense of rebirth .