poo-free

ON A RECENT bus ride, I overheard some chick talking about how it takes, on average, about six weeks for a person’s hair to re-balance itself to its natural state of health when one stops using shampoo.  The woman went on to comment that she could never stop using shampoo because of the ‘sweaty smell’ that would be so prevalent.  Being an every-other-day hair washer and someone who’s always up for trying new things… I haven’t washed my hair in 16 days.  I might not ever use shampoo again.  

I went online to see what people had to say about this, and found several dozen blogs.  When we use shampoo, it washes away our hair’s natural oil, sebum, and that causes an over-production of the sebum, which gives us the need to wash it again.  That’s the cycle.  But, according to many, the hair and scalp can take care of themselves.   As I read up on the subject, memories were jogged of the junior high P.E. teacher, who was also my beloved tennis coach, rumored to have used Ivory soap as her hair cleanser.  Why this would be the subject of student gossip is beyond me.  I discovered that a lot of people do ‘water only’, but several choose to massage a baking soda paste into the scalp once or twice a week.  People with long hair prefer to use natural conditioners.  The most popular conditioner seems to be apple cider vinegar; others use honey.  The majority of write-ups warn of the gross, greasy hair that one must live through for one or two weeks before moving on through the 4-6 week process that apparently leads to the healthiest hair and scalp we could imagine.  

For me, day five was pretty thick on the grease.  I was wondering if I’d break down and wash it.  I held out.   I guess I’m lucky for having short hair and only a day or two of nastiness (as opposed to the average week or two of grease ball hair).  My hair seems wavier than it’s been in a while… almost like… ‘beach hair’ without the sand.  Last Thursday, I rode the bike for a few hours, wearing a piece of t-shirt as a headscarf, or do-rag, whatever you wanna call it.  I decided to try the baking soda paste that day in the shower.  My hair looked and felt awesome.  According to a trustworthy friend, my hair does not stink.  For the people who always enjoyed the smell-good aspect of shampooing, many use essential oils, vanilla, and cinnamon to please the nose.  I’m even tempted to let my hair grow, without a trim, until at least February.  This is partly because I’d like to see what it’s like, and also because nobody compares to Wendell.  Happy hair, and I dare you to try it. 

on Statistics

This year, World Aids Day was December 1, 2009.  According to the World Health Organization, 33 million people are infected with HIV.  With the success of some prevention programs, new HIV infections have been reduced by 17% over the past 8 years.

Statistics tend to be thought provoking.  According to www.worldometers.info :  

This year, there were twice as many bicycles produced than cars.

There are over a billion undernourished people in the world right now.

There are more than 340,000 obese people in the world right now.

There are over a billion people with no access to safe drinking water. 

Over 15,000 people died of hunger today.

World statistics surprise.  Facts are gross and haunting.  They're just numbers until you get out there with open eyes and hearts.  A dear friend of mine is working as a Peace Corps volunteer in Cambodia.  He's written about and shared with me stories of the darkness that  the people he lives with have seen in the recent decades.  War.  Poverty.  Murder.  Disease.  Children are sold into brothels so as to support other members of the families.   

The atrocities in which people live go on and on and on.  We know this.  Mentioning them is not to depress.  It's to remind us to be mindful... mindful of the many conveniences.  We are the 'haves'.  This, too, we know.  Back to my present life's moment.  

Woke around 7:30 to begin my morning with a walk up the nearby 'baby' mountain (or, ginourmous hill, if you will) Sarabong.  The air here is almost as lovely as Monterey's, but not quite as perfect.  Gorgeous views of the city and sea.  Descended the hill on the far side, which is a switchback walkway laid with reddish octagonal bricks, lined with trees and large, tropical flowers.  I only saw three other people, yet on a clear day I would have likely seen no less than a dozen.  Continued on to explore the next hill, which seemed almost as steep, perhaps not as high.  I'd never been up this one before. The path down its far side was even steeper.  At the path's early descent the view of the sea was so amazing, I had to pause.  It's the thing, it's the outside that can simultaneously take me away and bring me back.  The wonder of that nature, seeing the sea's horizon in the distance, with no land in sight.  Heavy, grey, distant clouds lowering to a hazy whitish line over the deep, far, blue-grey ocean.  Ships here and there, and the water hitting the black rocks of the coast.   Continuing on, the path leveled out and branched out through an area wooded with pines.  Trees and fallen leaves, being wet, appeared even more vibrant.  After about 15 minutes down, I emerged to a road near a parking lot behind a huge, blue-metal-roofed building.  No idea where I was, but the direction back was obvious, so I followed the roads around 'til I reached a recognized, main road.  


This is my life here, I can take this walk any morning, and I'm grateful.  Living in a gorgeous location, doing easy, enjoyable work.  No wants, no complaints.  Decent, likable, friendly, great company.  No car needed.  Just feet, a bike, and convenient, cheap public transportation.  


The heavy clouds constantly change the sky, the sun occasionally peeks out.  One of those days that welcomes the dark, moving cover.  It's the dark, moving cover that can keep me mindful of the darkness.  The darkness that looms in the lives of so many individuals, families, communities, and nations throughout the world.  We can't save the world, but in the midst of our comfortable lives, we can remember it's there.  And when we stop to wonder what we can do to lend a hand, to help... we must know that it starts from within, with the realization that we are one.  We are all the same.  As we go, may we continue on in life with the intentions... to think good thoughts, speak good words, and do good things.  


... and appreciate the many facets of 'beauty'... 

Props to Jeju Air

The flight from ICN to CJU is a quick 50 minutes.   I awaken from my cozy, window-seat nap to the sound of cheery flight attendants.   Extra smiley, it seems they’re engaging the passengers with some sort of entertainment.  One attendant is donning a Mickey Mouse eared headband.  Another is holding a basket of what appears to be chocolates.  I don’t understand a lick of what they’re carrying on about, but it’s as though they’re saying something to the effect of:  “Ah, ladies and gentlemen, we are commemorating the n^th anniversary of the introductions of Mickey to Korea, so let us celebrate!!  If you pay attention and are swift with your clever responses, we will reward you with these cellophane-wrapped, boxed, gift-wrapped delicious waxy chocolates!!”   They seem to be explaining the rules of “rock-paper-scissors” or, as they say in Korea, “rock-scissor-paper”.  As if anyone on the plane would not have known the rules of this game since they were toddlers.  Here, it seems to be the common way to solve any sort of conflict:  who goes first, who gets the better seat, who gets to (you name it).  So they conduct the most expansive game of rock-scissor-paper that I’ve ever seen.  All of the passengers participate.  Game after game, there are great rounds of applause, and people are eliminated.  Finally, an individual seated toward the rear of the aircraft is deemed winner.  I didn’t see what prizes were handed out, but the game is over. 

I resume my rest against the bulkhead.  Moments later, I realize those silly crewmembers are up to something again.  One passenger is fishing through her belongings and pulls out a camera.  She hands it to the flight attendant who then takes a picture of the woman and the two other individuals sitting in her row.  The woman who fetched the camera is wearing a pilot’s cap; her two row-mates are wearing wigs of multi-colored clown hair.  The attendants are going from row to row, as if it were as standard as the complimentary beverage service, handing out props and offering to take photos.   I’ve seen a lot, but this was so randomly bizarre, I was laughing hysterically.  If only all people had as much fun as those who work in the service industries.  High-five to Jeju Air!  

For Fukuoka's sake...

A “visa run” is no amazing race, nor is it a beer run.  We had two days in Fukuoka, Japan to obtain our proper work visas (E-2 type) from the Korean consulate.  Any native English speaker likely wants to pronounce the first syllable of Fukuoka as that favorite, versatile, descript obscenity.  The closest I can describe its proper pronunciation is:  foo- COKE- ah.  So anyway, off we went to Fuck-ooh-uck-ah to get the magic sticker in the passport that allows one to work in Korea for one year. With all the visas I’ve acquired, the reasoning behind the processes to obtain them is still unclear.  My two beloved co-worker friends & I were required to take the trip, fully paid by our employer (lucky us). 

Day one:  go to the Korean consulate.  Give them the application, passport, a photo, and money (around $50 U.S.).  Check.  Done by early afternoon.  Next personal mission:  get to the nearest disc golf course before the sun goes down.  Donae had it in her to join me on what turned out to be an adventure.  This required us to figure out the ways of the ‘regular’ subway system, and then transfer to the ‘JR train’.  Check.  We got there with an hour of daylight to spare, yet the park was closed.  I’m talking ghost town.  We took advantage of the pleasant evening and strolled the coastal grounds of some luxurious resort-y hotel that, in this off-season, seemed abandoned.  We rounded up Stacey at the hotel and headed out for dinner.  Starving, we chose half a dozen menu items to share.  Easy-Bake Oven (as coined by Donae) was the best way to describe the dishes they brought out.  What they called “pizza” was a six-inch tortilla baked with a spoonful of cheeses and a few drops of pesto.  The Spanish omelet was served on a little soap dish, as were the edamame.  Because we are not size zero Japanese, we were still hungry.  Luckily, there was a convenient store conveniently located near our hotel so we could spend $20 on a few snacks. 

Day two:  find a place to have lunch and watch game six, before heading back to the consulate to pick up the passports.  With help from the hotel staff, we learned that all of the nearby pubs and sports bars would not open until dark.  But what do you know; they played the game on the lobby’s flat screen.  So we sat for the first few innings, long enough for everyone to get excited about Matsui’s outstanding performance that put NY in the lead.  For lunch, we dined at Hard Rock Café.  Not bad.  Back to the Korean consulate, our visas were done.  My passport is now full, not an empty page.  I’ve had a blast getting all of those stickers & stamps. At a nearby park, we rested before searching for a cup of coffee. 

To the Starbucks, we did succumb: a reliable brew in foreign lands.  Back to the airport for an overnight in Incheon where I’d meet up with a creative, adventurous friend I hadn’t seen in over three years.  After a satisfying dinner, we found a random rooftop for beer drinking, moon gazing, and nice conversation.  Ending the perfect evening, we made it to the subway just in time to catch the last train that would take us to our Guest House near the airport.  Another night away, then back to enjoy the last weekend before the teaching would begin.  

Day three:  Early morning brought us news of the shooting that had just occurred at Fort Hood.  Fukuoka.  Fukuoka.  For Fukuoka’s sake, don’t ever forget how lucky you are.  And when the day seems bad, when the demons crawl in, when you start to feel a little sorry for yourself… don’t ever forget… Life is Good.    

Where my seabag is...

Across the Fields...

Across the sky, the clouds move,

Across the fields, the wind,

Across the fields the lost child

Of my mother wanders.

Across the street, leaves blow,

Across the trees, birds cry - 

Across the mountains, far away, 

My home must be.

~ Herman Hesse (1902) translated by James Wright 

"Home is where your seabag is."... a Navy-issued mantra of sorts, I've always liked it.  I look at the sky and see the half-moon, a black & white cookie.  I think home is where the black & white cookies are.  Then, I remember where my seabag is.  It's here with me.  Right where we should be.  

on the rocks

“I have a thing for rocks and stones, I really appreciate them”.

“You’re in the right place”.

The people in my life are like rocks. Some of them are dumb. Some serve for stability, some are rolling stones. I could stack them in piles according to rules of agreement. Some of them, I’d like to lick or throw in the water, others I’d like to carry in my pocket. Some rocks look good, and some keep things back, down, or up. There is a rock in my bathroom that serves as a holder for a bar of Dial soap. That’s not necessarily one I’d like to lick. Some are fun to play with.


Yesterday, I walked a pleasant afternoon with a sweet friend. All over the neighborhood, I was barefoot. Crossing busy streets, getting dirty feet. Most sidewalks around here have built-in bike paths that are rubbery & soft.

Grounded, connected, natural, and free. At a park we delighted in the foot-massaging path, consisting of rocks of various colors that gradually decrease or increase in size, depending on which way you’re walking.

Diagrams posted near the path show how different areas of the feet are supposedly connected and affected by various areas of the body. Brilliant.

Today, while riding the bus, I noticed large rocks beyond the sidewalk. Among the rocks, green plants grow. They’re succulent-like. I love seeing plants growing near rocks. These, in particular, reminded me of Monterey. Later this day, I walked through the neighborhood, hand-in-hand with that same sweet friend, a lovely being that I’m grateful to be acquainting myself with. While walking, I noticed several rocks, way beyond the sidewalk, up a hill. They were arranged upright, upon long ends, in what appeared to be a garden. The garden was divided by stonewalls and contained more rocks, stacked into beautiful piles. I’m sure there’s a name for those piles, but to me a pile of stones is just something that someone focused on for a while. This photo is not of a pile of rocks from the garden, but it’s a close representation:  [in yet another moment of 'cleaning things out' i removed several photos from my flick'r site... being mindless of the fact that the images would, then, also be removed from this blog... oops]...

Breathing the mixture of air today was a fresh, renewing experience. Something about it kept my awareness in the moments as they occurred. The breezes were delightful. It’s been yet another fine day of perfect life. More than three weeks will pass before I begin this job. I have been getting paid for a month now; it’s been the best accidental paid vacation ever.

Making instrumentals instrumental

I’m becoming addicted to NPR’s music webpage again. In the States, I had the variety of friends, work, and local venues for the music fix. In Korea, what we hear out on the street seems to be a mix of the same 8 pop songs. In stores, storefronts, and in taxis, we can almost sing along to the Korean syllables. Yesterday, I gratefully listened to a yet-to-be-released album by the Flaming Lips, [Embryonic]. Yes, an entire album, available for our listening pleasure on NPR’s music page: http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=113403123

All afternoon, I was thinking about music and, of course, appreciating the fact that I have plenty of time to do so.

Out for a walk, I was listening to Sufjan Stevens’ “Greetings From Michigan- The Great Lake State” (2003, but a recent, satisfying acquisition for me). Traversing the park, I came upon a solo accordion player. He was a middle-aged man with bushy eyebrows. Seated on a bench before a line of trees, with something appearing to be sheet music spread out to his right, and a bag & random belongings to his left. Headphones off, I sat on a nearby bench to rest and listen. It wasn’t a grandiose melodic execution, by any means, but the guy’s heart was in it. The song just kept going and going and going and going and going and going. As I soaked in the continuing, sometimes dissonant, folding & unfolding of the accordion, my mind and thoughts wandered. I just let them go, freely. Abstract colors and shapes, flowing and changing with the passing breeze of song. At its conclusion, I gently walked away. The moment prompted thoughts about the imagery that music suggests. Vocals in music tend to steer us in certain directions. Greetings From Michigan… brought many visions: a grandmother smoking in a hospital room, an individual in prayer, the daily routine of working class America, and yes, a Great Lake. Music without vocals is still quite suggestive but, for me, the power of its suggestion is obviously much broader. The music to which I refer is known as “instrumental”. (Though, in a university Humanities course, I was taught that the voice is the oldest “instrument”, which leads me to question the term). The imagery prompted by instrumental pieces draws on greater influence of environmental factors such as: time of day, inside/outside, cloud cover or absence thereof, temperature, urban/natural setting, absence or presence of other people, season, lighting, listener’s mood, et cetera.

So what about it? For me, it’s an experiment. Three days of instrumental music only. No divine chants or mantras to accompany my yoga practice, no Damian Marley or Shawn Q for my jogging. No Sufjan Stevens in the park. A new, big world of endless possibilities. The first thing I did this morning was dance… to Vijay Iyer’s jazzy new album "Historicity": http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=113472412&ps=bb4

As I write this, I learn where Night on Disco Mountain (David Shire, Saturday Night Fever soundtrack) came from... it’s a Classical Party: A Summer Night to Remember:

http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=111595310

Thank you, NPR.