I’m up early.

The sun this time of year has slid just north enough that its path crosses directly in front of the office window hanging just above the desk, behind the monitor. At this time, which is around 7am, the sun is still low enough that it appears like a 1-million candlewatt lamp held by some spirit hovering on the other side of the glass.

I am typing with my sunglasses on.

Furthermore, I have turned the monitor and moved the keyboard way off to the right so that I may attempt to hide in the shadow behind the portion of the wall that is not window.

Of course, there are no curtains. The glass is frosted so that no one can see in and certainly I can’t see out. I like the light - usually. I like the way the glass baubles I have hanging there are illuminated by it.

Yesterday was the rarest day in all of Korea. It was the perfect day. The sun was shining brightly onto a breezy earth. There were no particles of pollution loitering in the air and skinny white clouds skated across the blue. Something about the clear air and sky brought out the brightest, saturated possibilities in all color. It was like looking at the world through some kind of wonder emulsion that captured essence undetectable by human eyes. Like that. It was so beautiful. I felt like I wasn’t in Korea but instead occupied some small spot on a whole gorgeous planet. Usually I divide the world into the brown parts and the parts where brilliant color constitutes the landscape. Korea is a brown part, a part isolated from the locations where I would like to be. But yesterday… yesterday the divisions were gone and the whole world seemed like a paradise.

I couldn’t resist it. I went out into the park adjacent to our apartment complex and sat reading, writing, and just watching things move. I plunked down on a bench with most of me in the shade, only my feet warming in the clear sun. I didn’t take my music, but just heard the buzz of winged things and the rustle of healthy leaves. So many colors in the late springtime; I never knew it.

I wrote down all the quotes I have accumulated on scraps of paper over the last several years. I put them into a traditional Asian-style blank book I bought in Insa-dong. Though it looked handmade, the book was actually mass produced in China. It’s beautiful, and sturdy.

I read about someone’s bright idea to test people’s stereotypes of gender based upon roles in violent marriages. Most interesting thing: The sex differences observed between when a man is assigned the role of batterer and when the woman is assigned as batterer. Seems people associate fewer negative passive qualities to a battered man than they do a battered woman. The author thinks it has to do with the level of aggressiveness perceived, but her explanation didn’t really make sense to me. Rather, I really think people tend to sympathize more with a man who is the victim rather than the woman. I think people say about a woman who is victimized: "Why doesn’t she leave?" But for a man, it’s something different. It’s like, so unusual and contradictory to what we are accustomed, to our concept of who has power, that we feel more sorry for him; we see him as having fallen farther from his position. Thus we won’t attribute negative passive attributes to him, but more positive ones.

I took out some blue pages with tiny little lines and wrote. I told of the things going on in my life like I do on the computer but unrestrained by my typing inefficiencies and the awareness of a potential audience. It felt more free because I knew I could tuck it away in a book where no one will see it again for years, when the sting has waned a bit. It felt good, but my hand eventually tired as it wasn't used to the workout any more - the callous on my middle finger has smoothed to an unobtrusive little hump. I had to stop before the flow was finished.

Late last night I carefully folded several yards of fabric on the floor in the spare room and began pinning the thin paper of pattern pieces to it. I’m making a dress from shimmering acetate. At some point Dave strolled by and asked why I didn’t just buy a dress from somewhere. Store bought ones always look better because the people slaving away in the factories have far more superior sewing skills than I. ‘Tis true. I said I didn’t know why I continued to sew. I’m almost always disappointed in the work I do. I get impatient and sloppy, not caring if the stitches are straight or if the edges are finished. Yet, here I am again cutting fabric. Maybe this time will be different? Still, is it worth the time and effort? Dave’s mom sent a pattern for me from the States. I noticed that the cost of the pattern is more than I paid for the fabric in Korea. That’s weird. It’s really not economical to sew in the States anymore. But here, the fabric is so cheap and I just think I should take advantage of it. It’s in my heritage. I grew up walking among rows of upright bolts, reaching out and touching the different textures as I passed by. I still do that when I walk through Tongdaemun market. Only here my hands get dirty because of all the cigarette smoke and dust that accumulates on the fabric. So many clothes were made for me while I was growing up. My G-ma did it all - including nearly every prom dress - and I enjoy seeing a piece of fabric and making into something I want instead of having a corporation decide what is stylish for me. But I think after this dress I won’t attempt another. It really is a lot of work for me. Pillows, shower curtains, and other household things are still good things to make as homemade ones are almost always cheaper than store-bought and they are usually easy because they’re just squares to cut with straight lines to sew. Still, I feel glad to have this skill. If there is some kind of armageddon, someone will have to make clothes for the survivors.