ξενιτεια

You'd best be a Jew, or suffer your fate....

It does no good to assimilate.
Maccabees are coming to town.
They know if you're Assyrian.
They know if you dig Greeks.
They see you on the temple mount,
consorting with Hellenistic freaks.

- "The Maccabees Are Coming to Town"

That jingle's gonna stick in my head for a while.  Bizarrely enough the article in which I found the above mentioned that an online Jewish retailer had received one of its first big orders from Korea.  I've spoken to a Jew or two in Korea, and damn is it hard to eat Kosher in the midst of Worm-Eaters.  (Not to mention pork...)  He told me there were only about a dozen or so Korean Jews.   Shellfish-loving Koreans may be, but they've got the circumcision bit down.  Their timing's a little off though - every few weeks one or another of my students disappears for a "man's operation."  It would be hard to have a more exclusive genetic and ethnic group than Korean Jews, I imagine.  I wonder, how well have they "assimilated"?

Fast-Busters

The Advent fast isn't all that strenuous, and no, I didn't break it with these.  But really, can you think of a better way to end a 40-day stint of near veganism than deep fried bacon wrapped hot dogs?  My arteries shudder....

Nativity come soon!

똥

Koreans are rather nonchalant about their shit.  It is one of the most common doodles I see in my classroom, boys and girls alike.  Most add steam squiggles and even a few flies.  Korea-sides bloggers don't seem to be all that shit shy either.  The Marmont recently spoke of the 똥 개  which is a unsurprising aspect of rural life.  Where I lived in Africa, such was the main canine raison d'étre.  Is this then, a shit dog's dream of paradise?

Found this up near Hyehwa Station near the Catholic University.  There were several of 'em.   Strangely, they seemed much less defaced than the other public sculptures.

The Path to Rome...

is littered with "babarians".  They're delicious, too.

Rome is Mine!

Sorry I've not written much of late.  Not that any one reads or cares.  But I've been steadily conquering the known world.  Ah, there's nothing quite like sacking Carthage over breakfast.  Or goosestepping in Rome.  Once again, kudos to Creative Assembly. 

Poem on an Autumn Evening

Someone seems to be dying.
With half-open eyes
that refuse to close,
someone seems to be dying this evening.

In this world's harrowing loneliness,
in the days that have flowed away like water,
calling just one name,
calling piteously,
someone seems to be dying.

Look how the sad gaze of autumn
permeates grass, trees, hills, cliffs,
and indeed the whole world.

This evening
a life, incomparably chaste
must be flowing away someonewhere, like water.

가을 저녁의 시詩

누가 죽어가나보다

차마 다 감을 수 없는 눈

반만 뜬 채

이 저녁

누가 죽어가는가 보다

살을 저미는 이세상 외롬 속에서

물 같이 흘러간 그 나날 속에서

오직 한 사람의 이름을 부르면서

애터지게 부르면서 살아온 

그 누가 죽어가는가 보다.

풀과 나무 그리고 산山과 언덕

온누리 위에 스며 번진

가을의 저 슬픈 눈을 보아라.

정녕코 오늘 저녁은 

비길 수 없이 정한 목숨이 하나

어디로 물 같이 흘러가 버리는가 보다.

The poet, Kim Chun-Soo (김 춘 수), died on the 29th.  He was a well known figure in Korean poetry.  Like many poets, he was known for constantly reinventing himself.  I don't know how much of his work has been translated into English.  All I have is a single volume from the leaving-much-to-be-desired Cornell East Asia Series, translated by Kim Jong-Gil.

One of his most famous poems was inspired by Chagall.  So if you're the type that likes to remember poets in odd places, go the the Chagall exhibition in Seoul and read this:

샤갈의 마을에 내리는 눈

샤갈의 마을에는 3월三月에 눈이 온다.

봄을 바라고 섰는 사나이의 관자놀이에

새로 돋은 정맥靜脈이

바르르 떤다.

바르르 떠는 사나이의 관자놀이에

새로 돋은 정맥靜脈을 어루만지며

눈은 수천수만數千數萬의 날개를 달고

하늘에서 내려와 샤갈의 마을의

지붕과 굴뚝을 덮는다.

3월三月눈이 오면

샤갈의 마을의 쥐똥만한 겨울열매들은

다시 올리브빛으로 물이 들고

밤에 아낙들은

그 해의 제일 아름다운 불을

아궁이에 지핀다.

The Snow Falling on Chagall's Village

Snow falls on Chagall's village, in March.
At the temple of a man looking forward to spring,
a new vein
trembles.
At the trembling of the new vein,
the snow, with thousands of wings,
descends from heaven, covering
the roofs and chimneys of Chagall's village.
When snow falls in March
the winter berries of Chagall's village
revive in olive
and women make
the most beautiful fire of the year
in their ovens.