a fiery fog too late for its own morning

blue patching, sun punching but still, unrecorded mindphotos

a panoramic woodcut graphs a sky of time into a window opening

a few fingers felled

for a day is (of) light foliage

ever greening at the tips

rivery of veins are blood mined for

narratives of time, speak me through

a current caught, nicked

white bird stirrings no shadows attached

my heart beats an open fish mouth o for breath

outside of fire escape, i live, rephotographing in my ghost culture

by the eighth count of breath in bed i always forget to make it past

shots of blood to my heart how i wish i could see

walking down the woods of my will become day

community is a homeless word

do people really belong with other groups, other people, or do they merely just join them? if the latter, there is something organized, something militaristic about belonging to a community that leaves me well, unsettled. sometimes i wonder if i just imagine community that i still don't really know what togetherness is between humans who are otherwise strangers. sometimes i think that everyday community borders on opening a door for someone or listening to a homeless person talk about what troubles them, but i'd like to believe it's something deeper, richer, and far more fulfilling than that--a kind of connection with no expectations but a knowing that if in a moment of true crisis you could expect so and so to pull you through. i'd like to think of community as a kind of ever-suspended selfless love that hovers over us and maybe strengthens us a little throughout the day even just by thinking about its presence. all i know is that i keep searching for it for some reason. i don't even know what it is really, but i just keep looking because i feel compelled to do so. the strange thing is that when i find myself looking that's when i feel alone. generally, i don't feel lonely in the world or in my life except for these moments. maybe it's because i'm searching outside myself and it reminds me that i have no home in that sense. perhaps my idea of belonging has been forever changed from my years spent in korea. i knew there that i was never accepted, but i was needed and used in a very practical way that at many times felt loving because it was so human. i don't know that i feel that here and i think i want to; that is, i think that's what i'm searching for when i go on daily walks toward a home of anywhere. i spoke with a friend of mine who tells me he has been reclusive from people, not the world, for months now. there is vibrancy and positivity in his voice and i can hear how collected, calm, and kind he is with himself. it is difficult to be at peace with a peaceable life in a city. cities are invisible and they always have been, but they struggle against their own invisibility. the work we love and love to do is ghostly and must continue to be worked at. he held community in his voice. the munus in community is a gift we are always seeking to give to others.

the book is a history in our hands that we have put in the other suitcase

having a blog for writing that is without all the bells and whistles is seemingly antiquated, it seems. this is strange for me to think about when a blog is essentially a bell and a whistle of a novelty itself, and yet it also rings of an antiquated form that is essentially the chapbook (minus the paper, of course). it's the calling (or drawing) of a public into well, a public arena. for me, writing online is both daunting and curious, frightening and unfettered. i am not sure that i will be completely at ease with the act (or action), and i equally think that's probably for the best. i started this blog up years ago with no real intention other than to join the ever-present and ever-pressing social crowd that has since grown so crowded on the internet; a strange growth that no one can ever manage to see but can instead feel. but i've never been able to keep up a daily blog entry, not because i have nothing to say, but because i don't want to say or carve out an idea over the internet. i approach writing online in much the same way that i journal-- not often enough to be consistent and overly cognitive and/or prosaic in the unfolding. of course, more playfulness makes its way into whatever blog entries i do write than would ever enter a journal entry, but i am more guarded with my blog entries, partly because i know that they can instantly enter a public space of no space, and partly because of the writer in me who is worried that someone will extract lines from my split-second thoughts, and yes, steal them. i'll admit that this idea of stealing words online is a bit ridiculous, but not without validity. when i choose to publish a post, i am in effect opting to give up (or share?) some of my privacy with unknowable others. this is a great thing unto itself, but what i am haunted by is that choice and why i choose to make it when i do. after a talk in berkeley at u.press bookstore on the technology of the book, i think about how there was once no clear division or label between the role of the writer as author, as editor, and publisher (printer), and book distributor, and how this unified role has now been transferred or given over to the internet for things like blogs to establish themselves through. authors in the past had no control or rights over their published work, and maybe, to some extent, that was perfectly fine-- to relinquish the role of author to some other unseen uncontrollable public group or space. thoughts of kathy acker here. thoughts of a child recognizing its own image in a mirror. there is a strange safekeeping with writing and posting things online that exceeds momentary self-satisfaction in putting yourself "out there." i think that this safekeeping resides with the fact that we all seem to have at our fingertips a virtual, limitless storage space that is the no space of technological ether. it reflects the capacity of the human mind, but provides us with a illusory glimpse at being able to go beyond our human capacity (since we apparently can only access a low percentage of the brain). i think it just gives us hope that we can come close to transcending our human selves. there are days when i wonder if that day is the day that a massive earthquake might strike san francisco, or if a fire might break out in my apartment building during one of my long daily walks, or if something should just happen to me in general, and then i breathe a sigh of relief, thinking about the fact that a good portion of my writing is in the safe hands of nothingness, safe from earthquakes, fires, and my own mortality. i even sent out my recent manuscript to several close friends and writers to share, yes, but also as a kind of will, if you will. in many ways, it really just makes me feel braver.

on the bart ride back to the city, a middle-aged man in a suit with two stuffed briefcases sat opposite me. i was reading maggie nelson's "bluets" and was thinking about bluet #154 and #155 on how red is the color that most humans are drawn to as a child, but then they later mature into loving blue more and how logical that is since blue is abundantly everywhere. the man with the suitcases began a kind of usual fidgeting through his pockets and in one easily accessible pocket on the suitcases that evolved into a full-on frantic unraveling of a search for a book. what was so interesting about this entire bart ride of a situation was how most people on our bart car most likely never thought anything of this man's presence (myself included) until he began to act with such animated gestures and profanity that it was impossible not to notice, much less watch him completely lose his marbles over a book. he was in utter disbelief that he had put his book in another suspect suitcase, and openly voiced this to the bart car full of people as if we knew where it was or had taken it from his suitcase as a kind of joke. during momentary periods of rest between searching and researching and finally yes, actually unpacking all of his personals from one of the suitcases, setting these items in the bart aisle as if unaware of any passengers around him or who might need to get by, the man seemed to notice that i was reading a book of my own. don't ask me why, but i felt his eyes burning into me with hatred and jealousy that i had remembered my book. little did he know, but i had 3 other books in my bags, too, and part of me nearly felt obligated to offer him one. then again, one of the books was on the technology of the book, and i felt that an unwise book to offer him. so, i stayed silent, clutching my bag a little closer to me, whispering to jabes and howe inside to remain calm. after the man's arduous battle with his own memory and his suitcases, he just sort of sat still, but would continue to peer over and longingly down at his suitcases, without touching them, hoping they would give up the ghost and just say where this book of his was. as all of this was going on, part of me was annoyed by this man's reaction to a lost book when there is so much going on in the world, but then i thought about how incredible it was that a book can still mean so much in the world we do live in today that its absence could produce such an amazing response. i have never grown into blue very well despite all its abundance. ever since i saw a mime paint a bright red 5 on a blue ball when i was a little girl, i have the strongest of feelings for red which go beyond color.

and now the waves unfold

how strange to hear arguments in my mind (a broken ribbon of wind) and sense them as being the most audible thing in a theater. the silence of a film casts our bodily functions into the spotlight. a digestive peep or squeal barely audible but high in pitch is cast out amidst such dark human sea and somehow understood by cave bellowing hunger pains that are deeper and further away. we speak our intestinal sounds as anchors and ports, ports and buoys to one another. we remember how we have been passing each other gradually, but only able to drift or float past one another to a certain unnameable distance.

i see a pan of foliage, my eye, foliage huntress, i spying and hiding in foliage. a thorn was always a stem. a stem was always a stalk.

i wanted to know beyond the blotches of new shapes and worlds that the light splotches cut and afforded my eye. but then i felt my eye wandering inward away from sight and i trusted what i didn't recognize because when it moved, panning into a brilliant light streak, it reminded me of being. when i thought i saw a galaxy of clouds expanding into a universe of night sky as snow clumps on a car's back seat window i forgot for a moment that a tree rings of a truer map of the body, its history a folded whisper. after that, i didn't want to know beyond my eye.

mocking birds perched on the same branch, surely a sigh of relief was heaved from our breast as we recognized there was no theme, there were no characters, there was no narrative unfolding. And to think that this absence had been unfolding around us all along.

communing with community

somewhere between fisherman's wharf and rebecca solnit is where my wandering and wandering imagination strolls into these days. the betwixt is less ghostly when you actively smile into a stranger's face. aside from being a super smeller, i listen to the way people who i don't know (yet) but would be embracing during an earthquake read my hands more, and i giggle over pedestrians' street corner complaints voiced into a phone or to a friend standing with them. it's one long exhale that i breathe in, a street sweeper of emotive outbursts or leakage. not waste or wasted. not want or wanted. sometimes, i feel like a tree being decorated all year long, ornamented, branches dangling with emotions of others; caught because my arms were just extended. little, tinseled looks flash from me, and it's here's looking at you, kid because i (that is) (am) you, is looking into your eyes, and we always were. we are that connected. so, that's a walk (yes, unto itself) i take daily. i essay, jaunt, trot, saunter, gallop, stroll, divert, meander through the yous' (that is, me) daily profanity that is also spun into a conversation, a narrative, a confession, a plea. a we is conceived (though rare perceived) in our passerby love. a couple of months ago, i thought i was one of the few ghosts in this city grappling with what it means to be a ghost, to embrace it. san francisco is the only city i've lived in where i feel the city with all of its structure in buildings emitting whispers (or sometimes screams) of history and culture living around me, supporting me in a way that is parental. our passerby love. not take or taken. give and given. fisherman's wharf swarms with the unreal, the ghostly. sometimes, i get excited flitting through all of these ghostial remains that are people rolling like movie scenes before my peripheral vision in any direction around me. this ghostly plane of places has become a kind of portal for me. i can go there and be instantly transported to the ghost i was in korea. here, all direction of walking is lost or has no place (in this no-place of sorts) as it is in asia. this cultural misconnection of mine (that does not exist in word) feels like home in its familiarity of disconnection and displacement. here, (or there) no one person speaks the same language; in fact, language is obsolete. everyone just wants, no, longs to wander, gaping upward or into corners, forgetting pedestrian safety, wanting to touch, to gaze, to wonder, to be everywhere in such nowhereness. being amidst that throng of pulsating ghostial terrain there also exists the ether of a slowness that is often neglected. the chaos gives time to allow early spring blossom scents to supersize themselves inside that ol factory of a nose of yours (mine). that is a small moment in capturing, i know, but it builds during our walk. during a stroll out onto pier 39, i was layered with sunlight that was almost a gutted salmon in coloring against a nimbostratus sky, and i met in such ether a tourist who asked me to take her picture with coit tower in the background and to get part of the wooden rail of the pier, too. she was from daegu, korea. we spoke in part korean, part english, each practicing words we thought we knew would surely connect a conversation together. but, when she (maggie) told me that she chose me to take her picture because of the look on my face, and when i told maggie that i stopped because of kindness in her voice, i knew that we had already conversed long before any words tried to effectively fall from our memory. words come from remembering or memory. they sometimes seem automatic, spontaneous, but we are speaking long before them with most people. they are the most reliable port in the storm. and they are pleasing to the ear and aesthetically pleasing to the eye, too. words come from memory. gestures, sounds, tones, things that we automatically feel but cannot voice without words are how we truly begin communication. we are made ghostly by words. we are most at home with others (ourselves) when we embrace our animals selves. to shake hands with the animal self of another without using words is small capturing, but it will build during our walk together.

an american expat in america

i left this blog of mine early into my time in korea. with each passing day, words grew like little baby teeth that kept falling out of my mouth and began to cut my tongue. at some point, i had no idea what language i was speaking anymore. wait, actually, i had no idea how to write the language i was speaking by that point. words had all but broken down and reformed themselves into new shapes, colors, sounds, and smells. the way i thought i felt about words was familiar, but everything else was foreign, speaking though me in ways i might be fortunate enough to dream about. so, i left this blog very quickly and quietly to begin speaking perhaps, noetically?
is it true that once you go ghost, you can never return, or you are ever caught-up in an endless cycle of returning?
there are no stages for my culture shock; it's a drawn-out, daily electrocution. at the intersection of many moments, i enjoy the general splendor of little miscommunications that cause friction or elation (but that has nothing to do with being american, and here i pause), but then that glistens away and i am left with an deep undercurrent of disturbance that i can only give a few words to. those few words are usually in the realm of, "is this home?" "this is not home." "this looks familiar, but it doesn't feel familiar." while looking for an apartment recently, i found that i wanted to live in hayes valley or pacific heights or the inner sunset, and yet, after several sobering walks through these neighborhoods, i found i only felt a sense of home that was really nostalgia for a past comfort of what was settled to me in my world as only my childhood and living back in california again, my home state, could. the more i walked, the more i encountered old snapshots of the me i was and the me i was trying to become wherever i went. home was omnipresent and frankly, getting a little crowded. but at some point, an unfounded fear washed over me, whispering or perhaps yelling to remind me of the one thing i wanted to forget because i was "home," but it surfaced anyway. home lives only in my imagination. for as many homes that i've made into a home, romanticizing home comes too easily and too often. everywhere i look now something can be home, and that is what's scaring me. if i feel like i belong or can belong anywhere in the place where i want to feel settled, i don't know where that leaves me. most days, i wander through the hours like a ghost searching for a home it cannot attain. the strangest thing about this expat experience of mine (if i may at least categorize it as such), is that this fear, these feelings, do not want to fall into the category of good or bad.
many people told me that when they arrived back home from their time in korea that their time in korea felt like a dream, and they were now waking up to pick up where they left off however many years ago when they left. if korea is a dream, then it is a dream that is clutching onto my waking life here in america. i cannot seem to step fully into a life here. something is holding onto me but is giving me no words to hear it by. my mind is now re-adjusting to the language it once knew and exercised itself by on a daily, routinal basis, so it may be too busy to hear the words that this otherness is holding me to anyway. i guess an unlimited vat of time, of no prejudices, and self-kindness is needed- that's how i'll bandage it up for now and bring myself into keeping.

samsung leeum museum/korea's contemporary art museum

celedon

blossoming red and white plum trees
yu suk

a hermit with a boy servant
choe buk

small boat by blossoming peach forest
an jung-sik

chusuk che
new style of calligraphy
gim jeong-hui

child on a tree
chang uc-chin
kandinsky/klee

standing face to face
post war korea
song young-soo

mountain
yoo young-kuk

valdemosa
welded steel
john pai

dancers
suh do-ho
some/one

faint shadows of love
kwant-kyu kim

/////////////////

dual painting
yang qian

egg shape #2
xu zhongmin

terraspin
huang yan
grotesque humanism

floating = new generation of china
how young chinese artists are too independent they float in their own worlds

how do they differ from young korean artists?

5
huang yuangqing
personalizing language from calligraphy
the spirit can connect the east with the west

emotionality
urbi culture
li wei
chagall

quiet garden
wang yiqiong
the grey zone can tolerate anything

china vision 2
yan kai
cypresses = time = humanity

a hereness is six

We leave Ti We fly back into parts of Ch It grows hazywehavepassedover
mountain rang Did we believe we saw Mt. Ever It was

auspiciously magnificent

at this point. No man's land

a hereness is five

tomato wedges coated in sugar granules. muslim tea floats sage and chestnuts dried mums quietly. the boy shied a rock or potatoe at my heel. or so i didn't see but felt. enter clockwise random temple you monk sleeping. they hide deep within the temple cornershadows behind mandelas or kettledrums. to make eye and a sometimes smile. i see you in the wall mirror at the steps descending mandela restaurant. rooftop garden low ceiling ascend the stairs.

the light is making sense to me now. how it reveals the thing. how we are balanced under it. bus ride back from sera monastery to realize it is important to relax my face in sunlight with whistle jingle of bells around beyond. all colors drift past and the light flap colors towards eye. monks locals attach two pieces of metal for solar capacity. they use only the sun to heat water. through sera sounds of boiling kettles and tibetans working to raise a wall. details of daily work. he places a large bourlder on stakes of wood a woman pours red dirt mixture into the space where the boulder will go. he cuts and carves the rock to fit. one monk takes a graphite slab and pounds my backside willingly because i move through the temple and decided to go into the room and decided to take my own invitation. he knows to miss the spine. printers sit on calves strattle a long wood block of scripture. they fluidity and utterly rhythmic nothing no thing can interrupt their rhythm not the two 5yuen tourists who paid to take pictures. i remember that man is most beautiful when doing daily work and for pilgrims here it is a primary one.

we you eye are fortunate to know ourselves better in this light. no where else is it pure and unrefined, raw, raw light. the sun is on every part of our body even the forgotten parts like a toe and elbow.

the barkhor once more for a street vendor. she drops her price from 80 to 50 yuen only to give me a bracelet with explanation. bracelet meet the one i bought when we first arrived. we are identical. how so much is bohemian in lhasa.

hullo? hullo? you look. you buy. very cheap.
and to mean it. if you look you do buy.

we grow restless. we have acclimitized. we have walked.

someone takes my photo from behind a curtain.

tomorrow he will buy a painting from tashi i. i will buy a series of flags sewn together.
we will continue to walk through.
should we ask why we are walking?

auspicious/prostrating

a hereness is four

head fill dream of sauntering. my body prostrates before my imagination. a difficult day. moving in and out of tibetan people i am forced to recall i am a westerner. seen as a westerner. the pushing past feels more familiar now. in korea i can get away with my western self more; here it is not tolerated and i am constantly reminded of its presence. i am slowly facing my western ways; not in an attempt to change who i am, but understand more about how others live. how they see me and what it means to be seen. to be living side by side easterners as i integrate more and more into an eastern culture. in my imagination, i am of an eastern mind in certain respects, but i forget that no one can see my imagination; it is my body seen and translated instead.
any hope for communication is between our bodies, not our words.
what does it mean to embody an eastern mind inside of a western body as one might have it when they look upon you in an attempt to know you? that is, how can i learn from an eastern mind that is the body?

she at market stand
grabs one arm
more cheap
handle situation?
pay her respect
you obvious consumer
but did not want
to compromise myself
prey on
my humanity
i have no money
you saavy business woman
eye communicate
thank you softly
thank you softly
thank you softly
momentary human moment
weary situation
today a difficult day

affected by our interaction i could not get past muddy puddles and a band of unacknowledging monks who walked in the central compound of meru serpa monastery. we were flagged away. potala to no avail. no at the west gate. no at lhasa's tourist agency. a couple wanted to travel outside the t.a.r. but could not afford the permits.
a pilgrim's peaceful ways seems very treacherous and dangerous to understand. i do not understand it, but i can respect it. it seems that to be peaceful requires a certain amount of aggression. it is really difficult to feel this.
to see pak la buk cave relief paintings and a monastery. a very young monk makes eye contact with me as we cross pass the wicks burning in yak butter and wax. we pass right past each other. he looks out the window for a long time. she looks in the window of the cafe, who, i do not know. i only held my peripheral vision there. we wait for the pilgrims to pass through before us, a long line, always moving clockwise in these holy places. tibetan children are the most directly demanding. one boy tried to stop me in my path for the length of a block; i continued to walk forward acknowledging him under a soft voice with words he could not understand. it was difficult to get around him. he only held one hand up and shoveled food into his mouth with the other. never once looking me in the eyes but clinging to me as though i were his mother.

how to get past the other before the "i"?
i struggle with this. it. is. not. about. me.

i am uncomfortable most of the time here in tibet, but it is necessary and it is not easy. still it feels of home in the light and i came here initially for that. despite my discomfort, i still love it here. i love it because it is authentic out of necessity. tibetans use everything here. they depend on each other like no other people i've met.
they sat under a tent carving scripture into stone tablets they broke from the rock of the mountain. they take from the mountain and give it back language so that language is embedded literally into the mountain.
so that rebirth of language continues.
rock hives. thoughts of andy goldsworthy.
they didn't say no to photos so we were careful.
he paid for her portrait.
i recorded the sounds of the rock carvers.
knowing the day is beautiful.

it does not seem you can negotiate with tibetans; that is, you cannot negotiate with a spiritually-inclined person. you cannot make a person laugh or cheat themselves when they are asking you to truly acknowledge them despite their apparent begging.
i did not acknowledge him in the way he wanted, but i let him see how i was acknowledging him through my act of writing:
i am doing this right now and will not leave my creativity. you may stand there or even sit next to me. but my creativity should not cease until it needs to.
i apologize if we cannot understand each other in this moment.

a hereness is three

tashi delek
tu jay chay
di gong ka tsay ray?

gu xiu nu for tea with currants and pine needles. he is playing guitar in pieces a song
half recorded half he wipes the tables down. this makes a song. two monks on the street barkhor square. one wears a backpack. one speaks into a cellphone. all the prayer beads at their sides
all the robes at their ankles. they peek into a window. hear a young tibetan sing a folk song. and two americans off to the side.

wondered and wandered into much today and the barkhor grows into an orientation we
they clockwise pour yak butter into bowls of floating wicks in the jokhang and we
old musty wood infused with yak meat butter, sage, and urine

why the basket with red and white garlands? when he plays it is folk infused gregorian chanting a meditation he can easily break with self and gather self back into. she has no money and the girls takes the garlanded basket back into curiosity and shyness. take picture, give yuen. does a shopkeeper know boredom here? where does their fascination begin? to notice everyone and everything that passes.

i saw her snatch the basket cradle it in her arms. everything is needed, shared. a kid on one neon rollerskate. which place is the rooftop? we reconciled ourselves to ourselves the other night. we will get into some world. can we be here? should we be here? will anyone notice or believe us? we live our togetherness in secret places.

here, the light is pure directness. harsh and ever present. white, white light. a man has an empty eye socket. i misheard her 40 yuen for 4 and she has no money but i have no interest in that bracelet and if it is not a photograph that means something to me i do not need it. he reminds me. circuit. square. there is an older section, still. where, but we find our ways and things we forgot about. it was always in front of our eyes, the prestige. everyone is lugging something around on their backside or in their hands, their hands and backsides pulling and lifting and holding. the day still isn't done the light makes it

gedum artists guild
tserang dhundrup
"languid dogs"
wang shi min
"women"

a hereness is two

to look them
to look them too long
to look them too long in the face
to look them too long in the face is to lose face

nowhere else have i seen such full-bodied characters

their skin alone
both sanctuary and formidable

to go into
i want to go into

a hereness is one

an arrival hauled over

a slowness delivered

we are here in Tibet


a hereness we were always inside of


a handful of kind air


where is the elsewhere in the world?

trees from a field of marsh

she?

barks waddling in a half circle

they we tethered by old rope

to

How can you decide a

mountain?

estranged cows


Face up the mountain

Press my face up to the mountain


along the highway they're


Faces against the mountain


nippled haystacks

and they we walk in mud


You forget to breathe

or your breath is still

entering a bridge planks to(o) many

All of two mountainsides

First well traversed pagoda resting

Old Korean men walk behind

with hands behind

tiny roses or knots folding against spines

Young Korean men walk aside

hold her purses her bags her hands

Young bench

Strange intercom

Wherever flurries of English, I assume too much

mainly I am being addressed am I being addressed

May I ask where you are from?

There is a beautiful bridge there

Ye, audah yo

I give my mashi toaster to a friend

She tells me about the mountain behind blueville

You climb it and there is the ghost town beyond, you can see it

A wall you cannot scale, a mountain you can climb

But both were hills

Iron nickel bridge, metallic music notes and flower buds welded on

To go over in poppy light some transfusion

Duck under the bridge and meet the red dirt roots, I swear I know myself better in this place

A farm plot protected by one stuffed animal giraffe

Makeshift irrigation for deadened corn crops and rice paddy fields

becoming swampland becoming

Red earth

To make use of the war

Old barrack gardens

A minefield where whole families travel

To make use of the war

A mindfield of barbed wire tied into asterisk risk

Vines sent to coil around new life but the wire remains to remember

Make use of war

And white gloves abound up and down the path

What I imagined was queen anne's lace, picked and fingered

For my grandmother

She will never see such a field and dreams of traveling in it her whole life

Who cares for a failing grandfather

His eyesight passed,

his mind will not let him

breathes

remember my mother or his wife

To make use of a war

His tight embraces are my closest to knowing

She calls to speak with someone normal

and could I take her up the mountainside in my mind?

entering to be festive all

April 12, 2007

I find it is the starlet bell blossoming at the end of the stem and not the head of another person that presents the greatest challenge for me

How say that body language of any car approaching

should I not use the competitive nature of my students to gain their engagement?

I avoid the post office

It is not the language collision I fear but perhaps what really wants to be said between us is the true barrier and we want to say it without words, I mean sounds,

I want to say you white lotus lily atop branchlet
When my eyes first stuck against you the unfettered wick has now split open into onion

How say that capturing of growth?

Yellow powder dust my bare feet
They glide with ease over warming floorboards

It is not the language derision I fear but the absence for want of discovery of barriers

How say that body language of Namdaemun open market laughter

In your tiny patch grassland forest somehow you rebloom after one fall


lotus lilly rising


Sungnyemun gate

White boats floating atop
enduring blades of grass

Japanese cherry trees (Yoshino Cherry slightly fragrant with pink or white flowers---Akebono Cherry soft pink single flowers---Sargent Cherry rich, polished reddish bar---Accolade Cherry semi double petals with a deep rose pink bud opening to blush pink---Mt. Fuji Cherry large white blossoms covering widely spreading branches---Okame Cherry pink, single flowers and fine fall foliage---Rosy Cloud Cherry large double blossoms that are deep pink color---Weeping Cherry dramatic boughs drape to the ground---Autumn Flowering Cherry semi double (10 petal) pink flowers, nearly an inch in diameter---Usuzumi Cherry grown from propogations taken from the 1,400 year-old "usuzumi" tree growing in the village of Neo in Gifu Prefecture, Japan) , meet the Korean Sakura cherry tree

entering karen teacher

karen teacher, i think recommend means to commit yourself

karen teacher, i aviation to my mom for help

karen teacher, my mother knows the meaning of altitude

karen teacher, i deceived a big prize from the teacher because i helped her from getting in a accident

karen teacher, i deceived that boy by leading him to the haunted house when i said i would take him to his mom

karen teacher, i want to chase the fish very much

karen teacher, a kitten eat a mouses

karen teacher, a pronoun is what it is because it was born that way

karen teacher, joy is a baby kangaroo

karen teacher, i was very careful at bear



dear sue, i love that you sneak little stickers on my arm and purr about it all class

dear brian k., thank you for moonwalking back to your chair

dear 2nd graders, thank you to whoever left the blue marble with the white ribbon running across it on the podium. dynamic korea and i stole that marble with ease

dear woo-young, you are quite possibly the funniest student i have, especially when you playfully complain about things like the tip of a marker being furry from use. you say, "i do not like the fur"

dear sung-hee, stop tattle-telling on other students; seriously, it's annoying

dear yeong-sip, your fellow students would like you to stop expectorating when you speak; one student circled the spit on his desk from across the room

dear daniel, thank you for asking me what my position was on the usefulness of locating the object of the prepositional phrase

dear albert, you described yourself as looking like a mouse; you are very mousey when it comes to doing work, but sickeningly cute

dear 1st graders, i had so much fun making origami frogs with you even though you fought over which piece of green paper you wanted