Intrepid Girl Reporter

Class notes had to come back eventually. Unfortunately, I stopped taking them for a while, which is why you were deprived. No fear.

THURSDAY, 12 JUNE 2008

2A - Infinite Classroom Challenge

• not perfect but did want to perform
• a ton of girls with pinkeye…ew
• can’t remember who won
• unusually good perormance from…that girl in the front
• Twin A is in this class, Twin B is in 2E (don’t forget)
• don’t mix up Baek Mi Young and Baek Ji Young (dammit Korea)

1K - Konglish Jeopardy

• had to do jeopardy instead of Muhan Dojeon because computer doesn’t play sound
• noisy as all hell
• got really into Jeopardy
• keep insisting that poor IGR 1 is my boyfriend…if they only knew

After stupid teacher conversation thing I have to go to the opposite side of town to see HD’s stone exhibition. To be fair, I don’t really have anything else to do, since the stupid AmeriCorps application still won’t work - it is now telling me that my account is locked after too many invalid attempts (zero) to log on. I obviously cannot just give up on finding a job, but this (lack of) response is incredibly discouraging.

EDIT: I never made it to the rocks. I went out for ice cream, galbitang, and an avocado-cheddar BLT (all within three hours) and played Scrabble with Africa. But while I have your attention, let me provide you with a few old student haiku.

First, we have a few meditations on seasons, with the way they reflect on our own (and our friends’) lives.

There is the cool wind
There is the beautiful scene
So I like fall best

I like spring so much
Spring is warm enough to play
But, I do not play.

I like winter best
We can play snowball fight too!
Oh Ji Seok likes too

Spring is very warm
At spring are enjoy PC room control board
We are crazy

Reflections on love and its vagaries:

I love MC Mong
His face is very lovely and cute
But he have a girlfriend

I am handsome boy
I had girlfriend yesterday
Now I don’t have her

Love return give me
But we are loving with our
Love is beautiful

Paeans to favorite foods.

I like egg fry best
Because that is delicious
I very like egg

Envy for coteachers:

(Co-Teacher F) has much money
His salary is getting bigger and bigger
Now his salary is .6 billion

Descriptions of students’ selves and others:

I am smart and cute
Also I am wonderful
But this tall a lie

I am bad boy
I don’t have any money
But, respect me ha!

I am a good boy
Many people respect me
I am a cool boy

He likes a crain
He wants be crain driver
He loves a crain [ed. note: accompanied by illustrations of construction equipment]

Within this category, there is a very special subset devoted entirely to my student Monkey. Monkey’s name, I may as well tell you now (realistically, in Korea, this is not going to help you identify me at all), is Man Ki. Now you understand. I actually have a few more of these at school, so I’ll try to find and post them tomorrow.

Man Ki is psycho
Man Ki always see (?) bad things
So Man Ki is short

Man Ki is short
But Man Ki is cut(e)
Man Ki is crazy
and Man Ki always show the sexual video.

And, of course, the metahaiku.

It’s so difficult
I don’t do it either (?)
It’s a haiku [ed. note: the author of this poem is named Yoo Seok]

I spent less than twenty-four hours in Seoul this weekend, tracing the path of our future MSYDP superstars and ensuring that they will have enough speakers to keep them entertained and enough jjajangmyun (ew) to keep them fed. It’s exhilarating now that all of this is starting to coalesce, that we’ll be able to take these kids and let them dream about a better world together. A couple of our friends/allies at the Embassy were gracious enough to spend their Sunday out in the city in the rain with us, helping us make sure that everything was going according to plan, and they even talked a little bit about the possibilities for next year. I’m not even sure if I’m prepared to hope for that possibility yet.

On the subject of possibility, though, here’s an editorial from the NYT that offers some rather sober food for thought, if nothing terribly new:

The Hillary Lesson

I think she’s quite right in asserting that

…voting for Clinton does not make a person sexist - there are other reasons to reject her.

The subject of sexism and Ms. Clinton, of course, isn’t anything that hasn’t been covered before, and the statistics the author cites are hardly surprising. Still, the fact that this article needs to be written at all, that there are still statistics to cite, is indicative of the issues that the girls of MSYDP, at least, will someday face. In one of the few advantages that my school has to offer, they had a gender studies program last year for the students - one that I would ordinarily have dismissed as repetitive, old news, perhaps replacing material of actual substance. But now I’m not so sure. Aside from the fact that a few of the boys at my school have obviously not learned to respect women (or maybe people, for that matter), most of my students seem reasonably aware of the actual, as opposed to societal, limitations placed upon them. But Jeju, with something like 65% of its women involved in the workforce, still outpaces the other provinces here by a good deal. And those women are still cleaning and cooking in addition to teachering and lawyering. Sometimes the girl power message feels repetitive, but I suppose we’re the first real generation to have it hammered into our heads repeatedly, and whether or not it works to change those numbers - and to create candidates who aren’t hated for their gender, as opposed to their tactics - remains to be seen.

.

.

.

Aside from the article, there are a few other things I’m sharing here. The first is this poem, which I found in a rather roundabout way. I’ve only read one other William Logan poem, and it also used meter and rhyme in a manner that most of the modern poets I’ve read seem to eschew. Guess I should have taken that class on Poetic Forms in college.

For an Old Girlfriend, Long Dead

Lying on that blanket, nights on the seventh green—
in the dry air the faint scent of gasoline,

nothing above us but the ragged moon,
nothing between but a whispered soon…

Well, such was romance in the seventies.
Watergate and Cambodia, the public lies,

made our love seem, somehow, more true.
Of the few things I wanted then, I needed you.

I remember our last arguments, my angry calls,
then the long silence, those northern falls

we drifted toward our newly manufactured lives.
Does anything else of us survive?

That day in Paris, perhaps, when you swore
our crummy hotel was all you were looking for—

each cobbled Paris street, each dry baguette,
even the worthless sous nothing you’d forget.

Outside, a block away, the endless Seine
flowed roughly, then brightly, then…

Then nothing. Nothing later went quite that far.
I remember that Spring. Those breasts. That car.

- William Logan

I’m also going to plug the newest Beirut album, The Flying Cup Club, which isn’t actually new at all, but is if you’re me and just got around to listening to it:

The Flying Club Cup

These are all in .m4a format, but you should probably already have iTunes anyway, and if you don’t, well, not being able to listen to this album is your punishment.

I probably like it mostly because I was listening to it today when it was nasty and rainy out, just like part of the reason I like the Police’s “Spirits in the Material World” is because I first heard it when I had a tiny part in a perfectly awful play we did at My College called “The Beloved Community,” and while the play itself wasn’t worth much, I liked contemplating the ideas of community and how much it’s worth - how beloved it should be. If you will. It gave me this weird feeling of naivete and optimism that, for unknown reasons, I associate with the late 80s and early 90s, probably because that was when I was first contemplating these ideas. It was also the first time I had heard the Police, although certainly not the last time, as I was also listening to that song fairly recently. And so will you, because it’s right here.

The Police - Spirits in the Material World

Twice in ten minutes, if anyone’s counting.

2-4 - I Wish…

• Famous American: Nina Simone
• I could feel them dragging…this is such a confusing concept
• liked song

1-6 - The Price is Right

• well-behaved
• responsive to numbers (but didn’t know million)
• took threat of point subtraction seriously (GOOD)
• WotD: discount

2-2 - I Wish

• Famous American: Nina Simone
• started class with genie scenario, kids were receptive
• more “I Wish” examples necessary to fill time
  • ended up doing rhymes to finish class

2-3 - I Wish

• Co-Teacher E thinks they need more time to practice
• covered “I wish I could” and change of subjects (i.e. “I wish she could”)
• Famous American: Nina Simone
  • find picture of Nina Simone that students will not compare to: giraffe, monkey, me

I’m beginning to realize that I should have paid more attention in fifth grade. My knowledge of grammar is roughly comparable to the Supreme Court’s knowledge of pornography: I can’t define it, but I know it when I see it. Teaching the subjunctive is really hard. On an unrelated note, I tried to take a shower and discovered that the tub is covered in a fine matting of hair. I have come up with a number of explanations for this scenario, and none of them hold up. Maybe I’ll go to the jjimjilbang tomorrow instead.

Reading The Omnivore’s Dilemma makes me want to be a farmer, which is a bad idea for so many reasons I don’t have time to list them all here. Less self-destructively, it also makes me want to learn more about Wendell Berry, who comes from my state, or one of my states, at least. I regret that I didn’t learn more about him when I was there - I have friends who have recommended him to me before, but I was not fully appreciative of Kentucky at the time. Well. Now I am.

In A Motel Parking Lot, Thinking Of Dr. Williams

Wendell Berry
<!– Wendell Berry poem –>

I.

The poem is important, but
not more than the people
whose survival it serves,

one of the necessities, so they may
speak what is true, and have
the patience for beauty: the weighted

grainfield, the shady street,
the well-laid stone and the changing tree
whose branches spread above.

For want of songs and stories
they have dug away the soil,
paved over what is left,

set up their perfunctory walls
in tribute to no god,
for the love of no man or woman,

so that the good that was here
cannot be called back
except by long waiting, by great

sorrows remembered and to come
by invoking the thunderstones
of the world, and the vivid air.

II.

The poem is important,
as the want of it
proves. It is the stewardship

of its own possibility,
the past remembering itself
in the presence of

the present, the power learned
and handed down to see
what is present

and what is not: the pavement
laid down and walked over
regardlessly--by exiles, here

only because they are passing.
Oh, remember the oaks that were
here, the leaves, purple and brown,

falling, the nuthatches walking
headfirst down the trunks,
crying "onc! onc!" in the brightness

as they are doing now
in the cemetery across the street
where the past and the dead

keep each other. To remember,
to hear and remember, is to stop
and walk on again

to a livelier, surer measure.
It is dangerous
to remember the past only

for its own sake, dangerous
to deliver a message
you did not get.

Stolen, indirectly, from a friend I’ll call Ashland.

from Eavan Boland:

Atlantis—A Lost Sonnet

How on earth did it happen, I used to wonder
that a whole city—arches, pillars, colonnades,
not to mention vehicles and animals—had all
one fine day gone under?

I mean, I said to myself, the world was small then.
Surely a great city must have been missed?
I miss our old city—

white pepper, white pudding, you and I meeting
under fanlights and low skies to go home in it. Maybe
what really happened is

this: the old fable-makers searched hard for a word
to convey that what is gone is gone forever and
never found it. And so, in the best traditions of

where we come from, they gave their sorrow a name
and drowned it.

So I downloaded The Snowman, which is only THE BEST CHRISTMAS MOVIE OF ALL TIME*, for use in my classroom, during these last two useless weeks after exams. Playing it, I noticed that this version featured a live action introduction with a narrator who looked oddly familiar. Google reveals that this mysterious fellow is, in fact, DAVID FUCKING BOWIE. Perhaps more importantly, his presence does not improve the movie at all, aside from the fact that you get to see David Bowie.

Moral of the story: The Snowman > David Bowie > the rest of us

I’ve had the past three days off, effectively creating a five-day weekend, which was nice to say the least. “Nice” might not even be the best word for Saturday, where Aewol’s co-teacher’s boyfriend proceeded, at noraebang, to rap along with popular artist G-Dragon, as well as 2Pac. Also, his name was Steve Son. As in, “My name is Steve, son.”

Of course, five free days without drama is an impossibility for the Jeju Crew and for my host family too, I think. We can’t help it, really; being thrown into this immediate closeness, spending so much time together, it’s almost inevitable that we’re going to make mistakes sometimes. When you finally start to know people, it’s so much easier for you to hurt each other. I got in a massive fight with HB; I got into another fight, not as large but just as difficult, with Scooter. I didn’t want either of them to happen. But these things, they feel like fires: you can avoid them, yes, but the brush collects and blazes later. And I’d much rather burn them out now.

But later HB told me that he likes me, although he doesn’t love me, which someone told me means that he does, really. And Scooter and I went suit shopping on Tuesday and had just a good friend day - we ate pizza, and Christmas shopped, and made fun of the guy at Zini’s (who is now - if you are interested - featured on the poster outside the cafe. He is reading earnestly), and split a chestnut 빙수 (sundae). Then today I had lunch with Oregon and Transy, and went to the five day market with HM, and she told me to sleep in the car as the Weepies played in the background. Then we went out for 갈비 and 냉면 to celebrate HS’s finish with finals, and I know it’s such a tired theme, how lucky I am. What should I compare this to, my favorite pair of shoes?

Speaking of shoes: I went into Athlete’s Foot this morning to try to get a pair - I currently have NO shoes that protect me from the rain - and I asked the guy if he had my size in these shoes, and he was like, “Yes.” Silence. After an uncomfortable pause, one that went on far too long, I was like, “…Can I try them on?” Then he seemed to take it as a personal affront when they were too big. As it turns out, they’re for men. Who knew? (Not Korea. Take that, gender stereotypes!)

Now I have a personal statement to finish - I have, rather suddenly, decided to apply to what the Koreans call 대학윈 now that TFANY is out of the picture. I’m applying to Columbia’s School of International and Public Affairs (SIPA), which is quite a long shot, but it’s also the only program I’m pretty sure I’d attend sight unseen. I don’t know if I’ll get in this year or not - if I don’t, I’ll just apply next year, although getting in this year would be pretty much unbelievable. It’s so terrifying to think that This Is What You’re Going To Do With Your Life, but as Miguk Oma (in her infinite wisdom) pointed out, one has to make some sort of choice at some point. And as the life of Miguk Apa has proven, you don’t have to stick with it.

In two weeks I’ll be home. But the days here feel so bright sometimes.

Finally, someone found my blog by searching for “burnt toast poem,” and I feel obliged to provide.

Eating burnt toast or kimchi -

The decision seems easy to me.

Beautiful it is not,

But toast don’t smell like rot.

I sure hope that this breakfast is free.

I’ll be here all week, kids.

Today IGR Recommends: The Snowman, and concurrently, bittorrenting. I cannot actually share a copy due to filesize, but I can direct you to Azureus, and from there recommend that you Google “the snowman” + torrent. And realize just what has been missing in your life all these years.

*I do not make such statements lightly.

The time between meeting and finally leaving is sometimes called falling in love

- Lisa Loeb

Yeah, I quoted Lisa Loeb. You want to make something of it?

2L (boys) movie reviews, part 1

• okay for the most part but loud
• got through everything

2M (boys) movie reviews, part 1

• usually lower-level kids seemed interested
• except for that kid in the back who kept asking why he had to do it
  • I thought I made real progress with him but maybe not?
    • although he is obv smart because when he wrote “fuck” on his paper and I yelled at him he told me that it was just a joke, and that maybe it was bad in America, but “I am Korean”

1J (boys) - personal ads, part 2

• TOTALLY redeemed themselves today
• v. participatory
• titles: “‘Who Likes ‘Muhan Dojeon’?”
• Malcolm X is my favorite kid ever
  • ad title: “I Am Seeking My Future Wife”

1K (boys) - personal ads, part 2

• as usual, not as adorable as the class before them, but reasonably well behaved
• made The Smartass hold his hands above his head
  • should have been a desk, but he claimed to have some sort of rib injury (?)

Malcolm X is fat - not obese, but unquestionably fat - and he has Malcolm X-style glasses, hence the name, and he has the sort of permanently disgruntled look that only the fat kid can possess. I wish I could put his roster mugshot on here; he’s looking at the camera as though he’s asking it, Are you serious? But his English is amazing and he, himself, is pretty great. Today I let him rent a pen - the pen costs a shoe, which they get at the end of class when they return my pen to me - and he managed to finagle another one shortly afterwards and kept demanding his shoe back. When I forgot, he yelled, “Teacher! MY FOOT IS LONELY!”

The Smartass, on the other hand, is whom I suspect to be the ringleader of this whole groping Thing. For his level and his age, he speaks English pretty well as well - and I have so few of those students, maybe fifty of my thousand, that I’m loath to alienate any of them - but he’s become the leader of this gang of maybe four boys in the class, all of whom need him in some way; he’s already hit puberty, obviously, and he’s reasonably tall and good-looking, and the other boys who circulate around him are, in order, incredibly short, a little chubby, and…obviously forgettable, because I can’t remember exactly what his thing was. At any rate, they tend to talk about sex a lot and ask really inappropriate questions, which I ignore, because I don’t want to encourage them, but what I thought might have been a groping incident happened with one of those boys a few weeks ago. I’ve seen him around my classroom when I’m not generally there, e.g. at lunch, and I’ve seen him try to get in through the window too, so I suspect him - or someone associated with him - with the vandalism I’ve dealt with, too, but I can’t prove anything. The major thing I hate about him is that he’s a terrible influence on kids who might otherwise be decent human beings. Plus, you know, he could be one of my best students if he weren’t one of my worst.

So. Progress on a few things my loyal-est readers will have followed: TFANY is almost surely out. I talked to The Program today about what would happen if I terminated early, aside from the fact that I’d have to buy my own ticket home, and the answer was that I would no longer be able to claim any association with The Program at all. Ever. Which is problematic in that I’m depending on The Program to help me get into grad school, and also psychologically demoralizing in that my entire year would be annulled. If that was what I wanted, I would just have done TFA in the first place. I’m trying to see it as liberating, but really, honestly, right now I’m just depressed. Because even after the fact that I have to lock my classroom, that a few of my students see me less as a teacher and more as the object of some sick game, I still wanted to be part of TFA. And I know there are other things I can do, and that I should probably cultivate my interest in things besides education so I get a wide range of experience before I figure out on which area of development I want to focus. This is, however, a dream I’ve had since the age of sixteen - and, honestly, much longer. I’ve only wanted to do TFA since the age of sixteen; I’ve wanted to teach kids who needed teachers since (and this is rather embarrassing) I read the condensed version of My Posse Don’t Do Homework in my grandmother’s Reader’s Digest. See, my life is almost unbelievable, but not in the entertaining way, more in the are-you-SERIOUS-that’s-really-dumb kind of way.

So there’s that, and the aftermath of yesterday’s incident - ACT is horrified, as I believe I mentioned, and held a powwow with the other teachers today about teaching the other kids about respecting women and the fact that, if you’ll pardon me, I AM THEIR FUCKING TEACHER. The student in question continues to insist that he did nothing, that it was a “mistake,” which I am absolutely positive is not true. This was not a misunderstanding. I am still so angry, so appalled, and more so that he can sit there and say that it didn’t happen, that he can lie with such sincerity. Miguk Oma suggests taking that kid out of my class, and I’m starting to think that it’s not a bad idea, but I am also about 98% sure that it is not just him. Honestly, I don’t entirely know what to do.

But then there are moments of such unbelievable delight - I LOVE Malcolm X. I love being bowed to by one of my most disrespectful students. I love how my students scream my name in the halls. Today I gave Canada a copy of one of my favorite YA novels, The Westing Game, to read instead of doing classwork, and she was so excited. And one of my students from PopSong - who also, of course, happens to be in 1J - turned in a personal ad describing himself as a “just student.” I love him so much; he is the kind of boy whom you just know loves his mother, and she him. He will be teased by his friends for being “the sweet one” long into his twenties. AND I received this personal ad from another student, which I sort of promise is the last one I’ll ever offer:

I am a 1. dark and bright, 2. don’t need glasses and 3. kind person. I like 8. warm 9. sleep and 10. friend. I have 6. brown eyes and 7. short hair. I am as attractive as water. I am 155~ cm tall. If so, please send me an email at 15. you look like happy.

This has nothing to do with mistranslation and everything to do with the fact that a magical alien has apparently landed on my doorstep.

I met with Soccer at Zini Book tonight to finish writing our grant for the after-school program. We talked, as always, about how it is with emptiness and changing love, and the unchanging (thanks, Coleman Barks). Also about Jeremy Piven. With all the stress I’m dealing with right now, there are other shifts in my relationships here that make me afraid I’m going to lose the state of affairs with which I am very happy - but surfaces change, and I can’t do anything about that. And I know that no matter how ruffled the water on the surface becomes, the floor of it remains the same. But it’s hard not to flail out in fear, and also hard not to get more specific, so I’ll leave it at that.

We also talked about the island and the year, and how we’re all here together for a short period of time before we get thrown apart again. But that’s how it is with everything, right.

I would recommend something, but my congestion is making me lightheaded, so maybe not tonight.

So I have this picture of you, under the tree, leaves everywhere, drinking from one of my parents’ mugs. I guess we used to bring the mugs into the car and then return them at the end of the day. I guess we were alive, and I am alive, and the person in the photograph is you.

- Jennifer Michael Hecht, “Notes for ‘September,’” The Best American Poetry 1999 (fuller text here)

As we sat through the first few minutes of August Rush, I told Oregon that I was never listening to the recommendation of a Korean movie-theater employee again. She suggested that maybe we just ask them if they enjoyed My Sassy Girl, and if so, to do the exact opposite of whatever they offer. It was that sort of opening.

But now, hours later, I can’t make up my mind. August Rush feels like a really good movie and a really strange movie fighting to get out of a really, really bad movie. It’s also only the third time in maybe four years that I’ve gone to see a film without any idea of what it was about (and the other two movies I saw under those conditions were Cry Wolf and Marci X*, so a little background research might not be a bad idea). I was a little conflicted from the beginning, looking at the poster: Jonathan Rhys Meyers? Good! Keri Russell? Bad. Robin Williams? Really bad. Reminds me of the poster for Once? Well, that’s tricky, now, isn’t it.

The main problem that most critics seem to have with the movie, now that I’m actually bothering to do my research, is that it’s totally, ludicrously unbelievable and sentimental. Well, um, yes. Earlier today, Oregon and I were talking about how orphanages in movies and books are these sort of Instant Pity Kits. (See: the Boxcar Children, the Samantha ["American Girl"] series, anything by Frances Hodgson Burnett.) And then we got there and the kid was not only in an orphanage, but also looked like the producers had maybe starved him for a couple of weeks beforehand. And the realism of the plot? Of course the kid is a musical prodigy! (I’m not giving anything away by saying any of this.) Of course Russell and Rhys Meyers start looking for each other at almost exactly the same time eleven years after their botched affair! Et cetera.

But here’s the thing: we say that events are “like something out of the movies” for a reason. Yes, everything that happens seems highly (like, 90%) unlikely. But strange, joyous things do happen to real people, and their lack of believability doesn’t make them any less real. The Hecht quote above (which refers to one of my favorite poems in high school) sort of alludes to that idea, a little bit; even when we think these things can’t happen, there’s no getting around the fact that they do. And while the meet-cute was a bit much, I didn’t think it was that implausible, and honestly, I found it (and a lot of the other plot twists) rather inventive. So help me, I thought it was…well, cute. Besides, how many times have you had some friend describe a ridiculously perfect evening that later went awry?

My major problem with the movie was its incredibly awkward and cliched explication of various sentiments that totally did not need to be said. There’s a lot of fluff floating around the movie about how music is everywhere and you just need to listen and blah blah blah, which the basic plotline - with that skinny kid picking up music so quickly and all - makes readily apparent. Also: while Freddie Highmore (aka Charlie Bucket from the Johnny Depp Wonka) is appealingly waifish, his lines all make him sound like a moron. I think they were going for some sort of “too distracted by art to pay attention to life” kind of star-child, but what I actually kept wondering was, “Is he supposed to be an idiot savant or not?”

There are a few moments of marvelous strangeness, though, that I wish had been allowed to come through more clearly. The Wizard’s lair is an incredible, creepy wonderland, and the Wizard himself has his creepiness spoiled only by repeated declarations of really stupid things. Robin Williams is incredibly creepy, but I suspect that he could have been very much creepier. The movie wants to be a sort of modern fairy tale, and I think that if they’d played more with elements like this one, they could have come closer.

There are elements of In America here - no surprise, as the director is Jim Sheridan’s daughter, although it’s nowhere close to that movie - and Rent, and even We’re Back: A Dinosaur’s Tale. (No. Really. The whole kids-joining-the-circus thing?) And that, too, is part of the problem - the movie cribs from a really, really wide range of movies, not all of which are even necessarily good, and it doesn’t really pull it off. There are times - like the ending, which, although sappy, does not feature a tearful reunion, more credit to the filmmakers - where you can sort of sense what the movie could have been, and others where you sit there and just go Stop talking. I don’t know if I can recommend it, exactly, but I probably wouldn’t change the channel if it was on, either.

Today IGR Recommends a number of things, including:

1. Fuji Apple Mentos. Apparently there is a whole world of Mentos flavors out there about which I know nothing. Too bad you can’t get these in America, Americans.
2. GS25 Marts, the obvious underdog of the Korean convenience store market, where it consistently loses to Family Mart, despite its having a much better selection of obscure candy and soda. GS25s are also consistently dirtier and harder to find.
3. “September.” Plugged in previous blogs (although no posts in this one.)

Tonight there must be people who are geting what they want.
I let my oars fall into the water.
Good for them Good for them, getting what they want.

Somewhere, people have entirely forgotten about tomorrow.
My hand trails in the water.
I should not have dropped those oars. Such a soft wind.

This poem was also, apparently, turned into a song by a Norwegian acid-jazz/electronica group. Given my past history with poems I like being turned into songs, I’m not inclined to listen to it, although I am a little intrigued.

*This is a ridiculously bad movie with the exception of the fork fundraiser scene, which is so good that it almost makes the rest of the film worth it.