I spent most of the day at home yesterday.  However, the glory of sitting on my ass on a Tuesday was not a desired form of relaxation.  Instead of reading a book or working on my own book, I spent most of yesterday online juggling emails from prospective buyers.  Reality started to seep into my brain as I sold off a toaster oven, a food processor and a bike.  There is an extra 115,000 KRW in my pocket and a few more echoes in the house (that toaster oven really absorbed some sounds).  Today, there are bigger pieces up for viewing.  Divestiture of worldly belongings has begun.  It is, though, the divestiture of another kind which has caused some introspection.  Finally.

For as long as I’ve had the countdown on for my departure from Korea, it has just seemed like abstractions: numbers, minutes, days, hours that really had no meaning attached to them.  In the same way that the idea of being married has taken a little time to settle in, the idea of leaving Korea has me muttering to myself, wondering if it’s really true.  I find it difficult to wrap my mind around leaving this country not because I have the most outstanding group of friends, though there are a quality few (I’ve grown to be a bit of a xenophobe against the expats here; though this sounds like a contradiction in terms, I have seen—and maybe even done—some things that I am ashamed of; Westerners by and large being brash and immodest when compared to the older generation of Koreans).  Anyhow, the thought of leaving is tough because I have experienced here a few metaphysical lives, deaths and rebirths.  Who would want to leave the homeland of his latest-revealed Self?

But, it is in the leaving that the newly-born manifestation grows into his faculties.  These faculties are refined and honed from the previous Self, the previous Self really not having gone away in spite of its death.  The previous Selves go with me wherever I go and whatever I do.  Often, they are buried far below the surface, as a fossil in stratified rock or ancestors in a family grave.  In any case, were I not to move on with the present Self, I would be disrespecting the toil and difficulties endured by my other Mes.

This morning on our walk to the top of a small mountain near our apartment, Nic and I stopped and watched the large, setting moon.  Its nearly full orb was un-obscured by the low-lying morning haze as it sank slowly in the light blue-pink sky.  With the future looming as large as a setting Winter Solstice moon, I thought of the moderation of my expectations.  Given that the emptying of the apartment has begun, I started to think in much more real, tangible terms about what exactly it is that I want from the finish of this chapter in Korea.  And what do I want from the interim in southeast Asia and the Himalaya?  How will I be temperate in my hopes for career and family in the motherland?

War mongering.  Rush hour complaining.  Job bitching.  Cat disparaging.  Internet hating. 

Watching television, eating cheese, drinking (bad) beer, watching a 50-floor Korean tower being built.

I have done these things out of boredom.  And procrastination.  And anger.

When I was a kid, the time of Cold War I (Cold War II is USA vs. China, no?), what else was there to do but fight off the Russians in my front yard?  Or listen to Tim Fisher tell about flying an F4 Phantom in Vietnam?  Or listen to Grandpa Kelly talk about fighting in the Battle of the Bulge?  (I could have read more books.)

The anger I carry with me at commute time has as much to do with poor drivers (on both sides of the Pacific) as it does with frustration at not being “there” yet.  What would I do during my drive-time but find errors in lane-changing judgment?  Or blaspheme the untimely blinker turned on after half the lane-change is complete?  And when I get to work, what else was there to do but fume about the driving illiterate?  (I might’ve gotten immediate tasks done in a prompt fashion.)   

Bitching about my job (and I’ve had many) is a favorite pastime.  What to do, though, but gripe about shitty tips, drug activity in the bathroom, annoying customers, over-bearing e-mails, sitting on my ass for eight hours, standing too long, piecing together three part-time jobs to equal one “real” job?  (Maybe I could do something about getting that “real” job.)    

My companion when young was a mutt of a lab/rot/Doberman/cocker spaniel named Black Bart.  I do not know where the hatred of cats came from except the stories of both my dad’s mom and my mom fighting endless battles with the felines in their respective gardens.  Also, my sister and mother have allergies.  Was it some sort of vengeance that fueled the pointless crusade that Bart and I were on, roving the neighborhood treeing cats?  Also, what other excuse would I have to get out of the house for an after-dinner smoke or dip of tobacco?  (I may have actually finished my math homework.)

It has become tiresome over the years to hear (and worry) about this or that American-involved conflict.  Yet here I was just this morning at the gym seeing the same footage I have seen on a regular basis over the last 4.5 years of ROK military training exercises.  I’ve had enough of Ee said, Kim said.  The DPRK said if the ROK held their artillery drills yesterday, there would be “catastrophic” results.  Today, the DPRK says the drills were not important enough to get bent out of shape about.  It is out of boredom, maybe, that the two Koreas (America and some Asian superpower, for that matter) create this drama every so often.  Cry capitalist or communist wolf if you want to inject a little life into a wearisome stalemate. 

What ever would I do with myself if there was peace for my country?  Well, let’s just say that may never happen.  But, I approach an extended break from commuting, working or caring for cats (this apartment has been a feline hotel this year).  And this battle with my technology addiction rages.  Here I write, fighting my way past the urge, tick, impulse to check my email or the stats on wordpress.com or comments on facebook. (Since beginning this most recent burst of writing, I find myself a much more frequent visitor to all of these sites to see if there are any additions to the ranks of my 30 faithful readers.)  An extended break from all of these necessary annoyances (military industrial complex, excessive cheese and gallons of bad beer notwithstanding) is a mere 43 days away.  Zen awaits.

Less than a week ago, it was in the 20s here (well below zero for you metric system folks).  Good, brisk weather that makes you remember just what time of year it is.  On Wednesday, I rode the autobike Maxine in to work (18km each way of ball-ascending cold.  I endured three full work weeks of this last winter, the wind chill factor cryogenically freezing my X and Y chromosomes until Busan’s humidity and heat rolled in late in the spring).  Thursday heard me say to hell with that because, when walking to the gym, the wind sliced through my clothing with—here comes the literary and cliché panache—the aplomb of a cold-blooded swordsman.  I took the bus and enjoyed two and half hours of warmth and catch-up reading.

There is no winter session for me this year; not only are there not enough classes compared to the number of people who want to work but also there is just no way I could endure 3 weeks, and 270 km (167.770 miles, for you American folks).  I will still be headed out Maxine autobiking throughout the remaining weeks here.  Why, you ask?  Well, I’d tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.  Let’s just say for legal and monetary reasons (and for the purposes of high drama) that I am a secret agent who has to visit informers (informees?) at Russian teahouses throughout the city (never mind that there really are no Russian teahouses, and teahouses double as Starbuck’s here).

What ever you believe of the double-speak here, believe this: it was fucking cold last week.  However, yesterday saw a balmy 55 in the evening (you metric-users can do your own damned conversions), and this morning its 47 before the sun even rises.  Global warming is a serious problem; for example, my people say it’s going to rain for ten days straight back in CA.  I do not think it has ever rained on Jesus/my birthday week when I was living there.  Some of you may also say, well, Nick, you’re from California; isn’t it always sunny and warm there?  (These are the same people who don’t know that some of the best skiing in the country is in CA; these are the same people who think everyone from CA—all 37 million—were born with surfboards in his hands.)  No, in fact.  This time of year in my hometown in central CA was typically socked in with tule fog and the temperatures in the upper 20s to mid 30s.

The point is this: global warming could negatively affect my writing habit.  It is generally known to people named Nicholas Andrew Holmberg the First (autobike-riding secret agent of Russian teahouses in greater Busan area) that seasons influence the productivity and texture of his writing (yes, he just referred to himself in the third person).  Fall is for writing.  Winter is for editing.  Spring is for the birds and the bees.  Summer is for waiting for fall to arrive.

So what will happen to him on the SE Asian swing, where summer will be in full swing, the beaches and sand warm, the jungles steamy?  What will become of the secret agent whose notebook’s pages may warp with condensation on sweaty hands?  whose pen may slip out of his hand?  whose attention may shift frequently to his wife’s ever-darkening bikini’d body?  whose biorhythms of creativity will be inversed with summer in Thai February, then slapped backwards by Nepalese spring?

December 14

Woke up and had a nice leisurely breakfast at the hotel.  Grabbed a newspaper, returned to the room where we nearly conquered a crossword together.  (That’s why I got married to a smart woman: so we can work together a couple times a week on those word puzzles that have never come easy for me).

We took a forty-five minute walk (to work-off the cheese and wine from the previous night and earn our lunch) and got some Nepalese/Indian food at restaurant where Nic was a regular when she lived in Seoul.  Took the same walk, grabbed another crossword, returned to the hotel, packed up and got on the train home.  Almost completed yet another puzzle, but then the pull to finish grading papers (and frustration about certain clues) got me on the computer.  Over my marriage weekend, I completed grading six papers.  Now that’s dedication.

December 15

Finished up grading for one class; received my last group of papers.  What can I say?  My time has been totally consumed by developing these new courses over the last two years.  My resolve was great when faced with a full email inbox.  I wanted to complete my grading ASAP.  With all the due diligence of the Grammar Gestapo that I am, I finished half the papers on that day, a full day at the office.

In other news: placed an ad for our apartment and furniture.  Got three prompt responses.  More on that later.

December 16

A morning at the office where I gave some make-up speaking exams for the conversation class that I teach.  I will not miss that material.  Though it was easy to teach after five semesters and two vacation inter-sessions, I was generally bored to death by the material.  Fortunately for me, my last two semesters only required me to teach one of these classes per semester.  Also, the students I had may have been the most respectful and intelligent ones in the school.  That is not often the case in General Education.  But somehow, the ESL gods smiled down on me, perhaps seeing the struggle and sacrifice I was putting in to make proficient academic writers out of Silla students.

In other news: Hobak (Pumpkin) the Cat was delivered to this apartment.  We are watching him for five weeks.  He’s sure to be a pain in the ass and a good addition to the house as it slowly empties of furniture in the coming weeks.  More on that later.

December 17

No office on this day.  I stayed home and completed the last bit of papers.  Enjoyed a nice night at home with holiday movies.  Ho-ho-ho-hum.  But sometimes, that’s okay.

December 18

Went to acupuncturist.  About five years ago (the spring before I came to Korea), I was rear-ended.  While I was compensated at the time, the chronic neck problems have consisted, the worst bout coming with incapacitating spasms when we returned to Korea last winter.  Since then, I have had more needles in my neck and lower skull than Hellraiser.  I think there is something to be said for the relief in regional pain (I have also gone to the acupuncturist for my chronic knee problems).  However, once we get back to the States, I want to combine the needles with physical therapy; with a  more holistic approach, perhaps I’ll be able to bowl a few games without feeling older than I actually do.

December 19

With grading done, the emails are trickling in.  A English Education writing student of mine, who didn’t say boo all semester, has sent me four emails questioning my methods.  This is, of course, okay, but it also is a little annoying because I barely know the guy (I have good rapport with many of my students).  While he was a decent student, I did not see as much progress from him as I did the others.  He was a borderline “A”, but I had to bump him down to a “B+” because of the grading curve.  The point is this: if he had shown a little more desire to learn from his mistakes and approach me with his questions throughout the semester, he might have made the cut.  However, the participation grade is what tipped the balance and knocked him out of the running for one of the ten “A’s” I was allowed to give (English Education Department policy).

December 14

And she was exquisite.  Black boots calf-high, black leggings, purple dress knee-length, black beads elegantly wrist-and-neck wrapped, hair pulled back, felt flower dress-matched.  Arresting, to be sure.  The ensemble brought together by the two most distinguished pieces by mine bride’s own hands: that omnipresent button bouquet and a black bird-cage veil.  When you think bird-cage veil, think widely-spaced netting, a nod to 1940s femme fatale opposite Humphrey Bogart. Bogart I am not, maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, maybe not even years from now…not even some day.  Certainly, a fedora for me would have complimented Nic’s look.  Alas, though.  It will be the end of me (and my bank account) if I try to match my stylishly unique wife.  At least on this day, I am a little better than a shabby accessory thanks to that three-button boutonniere. 

Nic’s superb assemblage often comes with a price: exquisite tardiness.  Or so it seemed to me, as I fidgeted over the newspaper and waited impatiently, nervously my third cup of coffee jangling in my nerves.  Oh, for a pencil so I could attempt (and fail miserably, as usual) at the crossword.  Despite her total lack of regard to my usual comments on any old day about how she needs not do much with that splendid face of hers, the lack of punctuality is a right of the bride.

We bolted down a few bites of food and left the hotel at 845.  Fortunate for us, the hotel is a five minute walk to the US Embassy.  We arrived right on time, our married friends waiting outside.  I thought Nic and I would be left to our own devices at the gate, what with Lindsay being a Canuck and HunJong being from this fair land.  However, a rascally, impatient adjoshi allowed us through security after temporarily confiscating cameras and cell phones. 

After a short wait, our name was called, we paid $150 USD, showed the necessary and superfluous documentation (three of the seven documents I filled out went unneeded).  Then we took those documents past security and the rascally adjoshi gruffed and moaned about having to do his job.  “Yes, sir.  We need everything now even though we are returning shortly.  Please give us our cameras.”  Cameras were needed because it is at the mayor’s office around the corner where we were legally married, unceremoniously for 8.67 USD (10,000 KRW).  Without further ado, we returned once more into the adjoshi breech (though not his breeches, mind you).  After stamping the appropriate documents, the notary said, “OK.  Thank you.”  And Nic responded, “So we’re married?”  The notary’s blasé response: “Yes.”  No “congratulations” or “You’re married” or anything like that.  Nic turned to me and said so everyone in the waiting-room could hear, “We’re married!”  I wasn’t expecting anything from the document signing; Nic wasn’t expecting much either, but she was a little surprised at our countryman’s lack of verbiage for this occasion.  Didn’t he know this was the most important day in the world? 

We stepped outside the embassy and, with the flair for the dramatic, I decided we should exchange a few quiet words as we put the simple wedding bands on each other’s fingers.  Of course, that rascally middle-aged man was much more dramatic, flying out the door, interrupting, saying there were no pictures allowed in front of the door.  With riot police standing around outside the embassy gates and an armored, black personnel carrier around the corner, we complied.  Crossing one way of traffic to the center of one of the most important roads in the city, we stood before a massive gold likeness of his highness King Sejeong.  With his palace in the background, it was Sejeong who presided over Nic’s and my quiet, hopeful vows. 

Around us, the third largest city in the world rushed on.  Around us circled HunJong with his camera and Lindsay with her artistic direction.  In spite of the cold, we doffed our coats for a while, took pictures throughout that notable square, in the palace, beside the period-piece imperial guards.  Thereafter, we walked to Sam-Cheon dong, a well-to-do neighborhood with traditional but renovated Korean homes.  With remarkable, large wooden doors and exposed tile and brick walls, the neighborhood rises gently above downtown.  All of this provided spectacular backdrops that captured the essence of Korea.  The essence of our Korea: the land where we met, the land where we fell in love, the land where we grew happier because of each other.  The land from whence we launch our next adventure.

December 13

Of course, I am all ready to go. I am jotting a couple words here in Anguk-dong, Seoul as Nic, as furtively as possible, tries to hide her “look” from me. I’ll be leaving the room soon to go down to breakfast; shortly thereafter, she’ll glide into the room with that exquisite way she has of “putting herself together.” Needless to say, she doesn’t need much work. But given our surroundings in this upscale international residence hotel—we’re not in a sleazy love motel with half-used lotions and par-cleaned bathrooms—, there are business types from all over the world who will be down at breakfast. I’m wearing my grey pants and jacket, so the only thing that will set me apart from all the other suits down there is the little button boutonniere that Nic made me. When Nic walks in that busy room, quite literally the eyes of the world will be on her. As it should be.

In addition to the nice digs we have for a couple days, this important event also warranted a couple first class tickets on the KTX (the quiet ride and extra room was much needed because of the hangover “ice picks that were stuck into our heads,” as Nic was fond of saying yesterday). Hair of the dog in the form of a can of Hite for me as I fought my way through three final papers from one of my writing classes; Nic slept for a couple hours. I try to tell myself that the surprise party was a good idea, was a romantic thing to do. There was no romance on that train, let me tell you. Two A.M. snuck up on us, as did many of the shots that were bought for us. We are not as young as we used to be, but we make the same dumb mistakes when out, mixing whiskey with vodka, tequila and whatever sugary concoction out there. Certainly, we are out of shape for the bar activities, those being only partaken in three times this whole year. All with the same result.

So, the ADD theme of the last few days of writing was given a new meaning when we arrived here, realizing that we have forgotten not only a slew of marriage-prep and post-marriage gifts from Nic’s family but also a bag that has my toothbrush, my shaving gear (to say nothing of other marriage night essentials). I should have known that when my brain was Swiss cheese yesterday morning and I almost forgot my suit that something was amiss, that most certainly I had forgotten other things.

However, as testament to our strength and progress in the last year of difficulties (i.e. GRE studying and testing and grad school apps), we laughed it off, knowing full well that we can get all of the necessary items nearby. Today, we are in good spirits, if a little nervous, looking forward to the rest of the adventure that is about to unfold, starting with Nic’s appearance downstairs.

December 12

Nic is throwing some things together as we approach time to leave.  Over the course of yesterday, I wandered the house, checking things slowly off the list.  So many were the little things to do, I felt as if I was walking in circles.  Aside from all the odds and ends that one needs for an overnight stay, I completed (in triplicate with no photo copies) the affidavit form and the application for marriage.  This does not sound like it’s a big deal, but when your list of things to do include making sure the bride has all that she needs ready to go so she just has to throw it in a bag, the tasks are of great importance.  Making a list, checking it thrice.

I kept going over and over the list, thinking of one item here, another item there; and I kept being pulled by some damned cousin of ADD to do these things.  The next thing I knew, it was 3 in the afternoon, three and a half hours after I set out to fill out all the necessary documents for the embassy tomorrow.  Sure, sure, our train doesn’t leave until 11 this morning, but I had a grand plot that was set in motion 3 weeks ago.

Nic has been working so hard all year that she really hasn’t had time to “feel like the bride,” as she has said a number of times.  She has a few ladies with whom she has coffee every Friday.  It is with these ladies with whom she was supposed to have a little bachelorette brunch just yesterday.  But, being that button bouquets take forever to assemble, the event was cancelled.  It was okay, though, because I had planned a surprise party that was basically like a bachelorette party (yet somehow, I ended up with MY shirt off). 

The surprise was a hit with about ten people showing up to help us celebrate the waning days of fiancée-dom.  But now we deal with massive hangovers and time running down; makes us feel like we’re losing our minds, what little of our minds we have left.  Maybe by rubbing the six brain cells betwixt the two of us, we’ll get our shit together and out the door.

Unsuspecting.  Guileless.  One of the greatest ironies about the idea of “unplugging” is that I have lost sleep over the last few nights thinking about what I was going to write next here.  And, as my mind often goes, other ideas creep in.  Packing for the trip to Seoul.  Cleaning the house.  Shining my shoes.  Getting my suit from the cleaner.  The sanity of my fiancée as she assembles her bouquet out of buttons (I’ll explain some other time).  I asked for this, though.  Anything but the grammatically dripping ghost of professional apprehension floating above the bed.  In spite of my email (still unchecked at ten in the morning) being full of sixteen student papers awaiting my discernment, in spite of the five and half hours of less than restful sleep, in spite of the inside of my eyelids that are coated with sandpaper, I am here.  Writing.

Although the format I’ve chosen for my writing classes (final drafts sent via email) forces me to be online, my job requires far less of me in terms of being “connected” than many other people out there.  Nonetheless, I find myself often fighting the urge to click over to my email or to check the headlines.  It is this short attention span that led me to believe I had a legitimate case of A.D.D.  In fact, about a year ago, I was going through this amusing spell of walking around the house having forgotten to zip up my fly.  While I exposed myself to no innocent adjummas (or corrupt ones, for that matter) and Nic may or may not have seen my junk before (we have messed around before, but I swear we haven’t had pre-marital sex.  Really.  Honestly…a-hem.), the real concern came from a time when I left the burner on after warming up some coffee.  I had been working on some editing for my novel (the fifth major revision) and was immersed in a bit of research on the ‘net or cruising for a synonym or two at my favorite website, but the untended open flame that was discovered by Nic an hour later was cause for concern.

So, off to the psychiatrist to take care of this absentmindedness.  In the following weeks, my performance at work soared.  And I needed it, often finding myself buried in the development of two courses, the creation of PowerPoints to explain to a group of novices about the necessity of subjects and verbs or the reading of thirty-five intermediate-level five-paragraph essays.  After about three weeks, my dude was about to bump up my dose of Metadate (a cousin to Ritalin) because my listless window-gazing had returned. But I wanted nothing to do with the increase.  So I attacked the other problem that was perhaps interrelated with my lack of attention span: early onset insomnia. 

It was this inability to shut off my brain (and Nic’s twitchy REM sleep) that often led to three hours tossing and turning, worrying about the grammar and writing lessons.  On top of the stimulant in the morning, my dude had me on a nightly dose of Xanax which, as I would later discover, is simply masking the problem.  I became addicted, losing my ability—however scant that ability was—to fall asleep without the Xanax (I also began waking up after four hours and would be unable to get back to sleep).  At the end of the spring semester, I waned myself off all forms of medication.  Eventually, though not to the level I wanted, I was sleeping better and was back at the writing (starting work in earnest on the second novel).

When I was a kid, I didn’t read much.  Incidentally, I didn’t watch more than an hour of TV a day.  I would much rather have been outside climbing a tree and fighting off the invading armies across the street or riding my bike to the arcade, pockets jangling with quarters pilfered from dad’s change box.  And as I got older, my last 4.0 GPA in second grade was but a distant memory, most subjects suffering from the inability to sit still for an hour.  Now, so far removed from those early days, I wonder what came first for me: the “A.D.D.” or the channel-surfing and net-staring habits of the generation in which I grew up.

In some of the reading I’ve done on nytimes.com lately about the internet and the gadgetry out there that is rapidly changing the way we interact with each other, the addiction to constant tweet/facebook/email/text message interfacing reduces our ability to concentrate on a particular task at hand.  The readings indicate that the resultant attention deficit disorder decreases our problem-solving ability because of the “multi-tasking” culture in which we live; we do not become immersed in a problem, but we rather skim along the surface of it, often with an endless series of two steps forward, one step back, trying to find where we left off with Task A before we left it to go to Tasks B and C.  The question arises, then: what do we make of the paradox between A.D.D. and multi-tasking?

Is it true what the experts say?  Are we so bored with our lives that we take to our gadgets and internet surfboards at the first twitch of tedium?  I can only speak for myself.  In fact, this may sound like an AA meeting, but I have a touch of the internet bug, my addiction became so bad over the last four years that the first and last thing I’d do in any given day would be to check my email and facebook.  Shameful, really.  The last time I woke up and read a book instead of my sparsely populated email inbox was longer ago than I care to admit. 

Admittedly, being so far away from home and those youngsters in my family has made a webcam indispensible.  Though I do not use it all the time, the occasional face to face chat with Ian about school and soccer, with Audrey about dance class and her birthday party, with Lexi about the gifts she got from Nic and I the other day and the card she sent us with a care package, to see how much little Ella resembles her father—all of this has helped solidify my status as best uncle ever.  Not only that, but I get the opportunity to see how those young’uns are shaping up.

To this point (11AM), I have yet to do anything online but post here.  In about an hour, I will finally get to my email to discover the first seventeen of the final 35 papers I will have to correct at Silla University.  But that’s aside from the point.  Am I really that bored with my life?  I’ve got some pretty amazing things going on for the next half year, the most immediate of which is marrying that woman I’m so crazy about.  We’re going on a weekday adventure to the US Embassy-Seoul to enjoy the generosity of people. However remote a monetary gift may seem in our situation, it is greatly appreciated: my parents, and both Nic’s and my unis have basically footed the bill for first class travel and accommodation, excellent food and shots of Patron.

So if it’s not boredom, what is it?  Laziness?  When it comes to attempting to write something new or read, say, The Brothers Karamozov, I think laziness is a watered-down and even misappropriated euphemism for fear.

It’s a stark day out.  Cold, clear, windy.  Those last two lines felt like Snoopy starting that novel he never finished.  And let me tell you: the last thing I thought I would mention in my first line here today is Snoopy.  I think I liked Peanuts because it had a dog who flew a plane and had a massive basement.  But that’s about it.  Those kids talked too much. 

Nic sleeps in today (fever) and I’ve gone quietly about my morning routine.  However, the silence that pervades this morning allowed me a little time to think about my usual routine.  Get some exercise, make breakfast, talk about the previous nights sleep quality and dreamscape with Nic, check my email and other such sites, check the weather, hop the shower, dress according to the weather and hit the road.  Nothing so wrong with that routine…except that is was missing one key element: writing. 

I’ve been writing now for seven minutes and the sound is only of the wind outside, the cars on the street and the tapping of my fingers on the keyboard.  And when I stop, the only thing that is noticeable is my thoughts spinning like a car spinning its wheels in a mud ditch.  There is this silence that is deafening, and the internal noise is me grasping and grappling with that next sentence.

I don’t much mind that grasping and grappling, knowing that something will come out of it.  It is a feeling I haven’t had in a while.  Though grasping and grappling may seem like words rife with negative connotation, I find that struggle, that desperation, that cacophony in my head much more appealing than the noise of having checked my email for one more annoying, overbearing message from my boss.  There is no “urgent” question raised in a three AM electromissive by a student about paragraph transitions.  There is no kindly and timely note to return to a family member or a friend.  All these do not exist because I have not yet gone online. 

Purity.  On this quiet morning before I head into the mayhem of rush hour traffic (incidentally, the last time I have to travel at the hour of gridlock here in this city), I find my head clear enough to keep typing, trying to fit as much as I can in this fifteen minutes.  I am over time now, and a flurry of action looms.  I need to pick up the rest of my routine and down another cup of coffee and zoom off to work.  But my moments here tapping have inspired the Zen needed to face the no-blinker lane changers, the frustration of language barrier when explaining why a adjective clause is restrictive or non-restrictive, the first round of bowling championships.  The dread over an idea come and gone without having put it down in writing.