＃１ Ｓｅｏｕｌ ｉｎ ｔｒａｎｓｉｔ

Ｈｅｌｌｏ　ｆｒｏｍ　Ｓｅｏｕｌ．　Ｇｏｏｄ　ｔｈｉｎｇ　ｔｈａｔ　ｉ＇ｄｂｅｅｎ　ｌｉｖｉｎｇ　ｏｕｔ　ｏｆ　ｍｙ　ｓｕｉｔｃａｓｅ　ｗｈｅｎ　ｉ　ｐａｃｋｅｄ　ｕｐ　ｔｗｏ　ｗｅｅｋｓ　ａｇｏ　ｔｏ　ａ　ｆｒｉｅｎｄ＇ｓ　ｐｌａｃｅ．　ｉｗａｓ　ｗｏｒｋｉｎｇ　ｉｎ　ｕｎｉ　ｕｐ　ｔｏ　ｔｈｅ　ｌａｓｔ　ｍｉｎｕｔｅ，　ｈａｄ　ａ　ｆａｒｅｗｅｌｌ　ｔｅａ　ｏｆ　ｓｏｒｔｓ，　ａｎｄ　ｔｈｅｎ　ｉ　ｈａｄ　ｔｏ　ｒｕｎ　ｓｏｍｅ　ｅｒｒａｎｄｓ，　ｒｕｎ　ｈｏｍｅ，　ａｎｄ　ｔｏ　ｔｈｅ　ａｉｒｐｏｒｔ．　ｉｔ　ｗａｓ　ａ　ｍａｄ　ｒｕｎ．　ｉ　ｓｑｕｅｅｚｅｄ　ｉｎ　ｔｉｍｅ　ｔｏ　ｗｒｉｔｅ　ａｎｄ　ｍａｉｌ　ｓｏｍｅ　ｌｅｔｔｅｒｓ　ａｎｄ　ｃａｌｌ　ｈｏｍｅ，　ａｎｄ　ｗａｓ　ａｂｏｕｔ　ｔｈｅ　ｌａｓｔ　ｔｏ　ｂｏａｒｄ　ｔｈｅ　ｐｌａｎｅ．　ｔｈｅ　ｆｌｉｇｈｔ　ｗａｓ　ｈａｌｆ－ｆｕｌｌ，ａｎｄ　ｉ　ｈａｄ　ｔｈｅ　ｅｎｔｉｒｅ　ａｉｓｌｅ　ｔｏ　ｍｙｓｅlf.

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Ｗｈｙ　ｄｏ　ｉ　ｆｅｅｌ　ｌｉｋｅ　ｉ＇ｄ　ｌｅｆｔ　ｓｙｄｎｅｙ　ｐｅｒｍａｎｅｎｔｌｙ？　Ｉｔ＇ｓ　ｅｘａｃｔｌｙ　ｔｈｅ　ｓａｍｅ　ｆｅｅｌｉｎｇ　ｉ　ｈａｄ　ｗｈｅｎ　ｉ　ｌｅｆｔ　ｓｉｎｇａｐｏｒｅ　ｉｎ　ｆｅｂｒｕａｒｙ．　ｉｔ＇ｓ　ｏｎｌｙ　ｂｅｅｎ　ｅｉｇｈｔ　ｍｏｎｔｈｓ，　ｙｅｔ　ｉｔ＇ｓ　ａｓ　ｔｈｏｕｇｈ　ｉ＇ｄｂｅｅｎ　ｔｈｅｒｅ　ｆｏｒ　ｅｖｅｒ．　Ｎｏｗ　ｉ＇ｍ　ｔｏ　ｂｅ　ａｗａｙ　ｕｐ　ｎｏｒｔｈ　ｆｏｒ　ａ　ｇｏｏｄ　ｆｏｕｒ　ｍｏｎｔｈｓ；　ｔｈａｔ＇ｓ　ｈａｌｆ　ｍｙ　ｔｉｍｅ　ｄｏｗｎ　ｕｎｄｅｒ．　ｔｈａｔ　ｍａｋｅｓ　ｉｔ　ｈａｌｆ　ａｎ　ｅｔｅｒｎｉｔｙ？　ｅｖｅｒｙｔｉｍｅ　ｉ　ｌｅａｖｅ　ａ　ｐｌａｃｅ，　ｉ　ｌｅａｖｅ　ａ　ｓｌｉｖｅｒ　ｏｆ　ｍｙ　ｌｉｆｅ　ｂｅｈｉｎｄ，　ｔｈｅｙ　ｂｅｃｏｍｅ　ａ　ｐｒｅｖｉｏｕｓ　ｌｉｆｅ，　ｇｒａｄｕａｌｌｙ　ｒｅｐｌａｃｅｄ　ｂｙ　ｃｏｍｉｎｇ　ｙｅａｒｓ，　ｐｒｅｖｉｏｕｓ　ｙｅａｒｓ　ｂｅｃｏｍｅ　ａ　ｄｒｅａｍ，　ｏｒ　ａ　ｄｉｓｔａｎｔ　ｍｅｍｏｒｙ，　ｅｖｅｎｔｕａｌｌｙ　ｂｅｃｏｍｉｎｇ　ｆｉｇｍｅｎｔｓ　ｏｆ　ｍｙ　ｉｍａｇｉｎａｔｉｏｎ，　ａｂｒａｄｅｄ　ａｎｄ　ｂｒｏｃａｄｅｄ　ｂｙ　ｔｈｅ　ｖｉｖｉｄ　ｐｒｅｓｅｎｔ　ａｎｄ　ａ　ｌｏｎｇｉｎｇ　ｆｏｒ　ｔｈｅ　ｐａｓｔ，　ｔｈｅ　ｐｒｅｖｉｏｕｓ　ｂｅｃｏｍｅｓ　ｐｒｅｃｉｏｕｓ．

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Ｉｎ　ｍｙ　ｈａｓｔｅ　Ｉ　ｔｈｉｎｋ　ｉ　ｆｏｒｇｏｔ　ｔｏ　ｐａｃｋ　ｉｎ　ｔｈｅ　ｃａｂｌｅ　ｆｏｒ　ｍｙ　ｃａｍｅｒａ　ｓｏ　ｔｈａｔ　ｉ　ｃａｎ　ｕｐｌｏａｄ　ｐｉｃｔｕｒｅｓ　ａｌｏｎｇ　ｔｈｅ　ｗａｙ．　Ｓｏ　ｉ　ｇｕｅｓｓ　ｐｈｏｔｏｓ　ｗｉｌｌ　ｏｎｌｙ　ｂｅ　ｕｐ　ｗｈｅｎ　ｉ＇ｍ　ｂａｃｋ　ｉｎ　ｍａｒｃｈ．　ｍｅａｎｔｉｍｅ　Ｉ＇ｌｌｗｒｉｔｅ　ｙｏｕ　ｐｏｓｔｃａｒｄｓ：

Dear C,

How does one describe the smell of airplanes? if i say i dislike the smell, it's probably because the sterile air and bland meals remind me of our reluctant parting just a few minutes ago by the sliding door. If i strangely like it, is it because of the persistent thought of our eventual reunion? And what if you have gone and are never coming back? Why do airports and airplanes, such transient tools of transit and transport, evoke such heightened emotions? To remind us that without the necessary, the sterile, the farewells, one would be hard put to dream, to live, to love? On the plane i read Czeslaw Milosz, and he posed this question that i'd been asking myself the past two years: has enough time passed and distance come, so that i could articulate, through some detachment and some coldness, a truer pain? Can pain be rendered real when it has ceased to exist? Big philosophical questions and I'm running out of space. Goodbye for now, I send my love, and a fragment from Milosz - It could just as well not exist - and so man constructs poetry out of the remnants found in ruins. One day I'll promise you a poem.