|
.
|
my Term paper, in all its crappy glory
We hereby declare that Korea is an independent state, and that Koreans are a self-governing people. We proclaim it to the nations of the world in affirmation of the principle of the equality of all nations, and we porcelain it to our posterity, preserving in perpetuity the right of the national survival. We make this declaration on the strength of five thousand years of history, as an expression of the devotion and loyalty of twenty million people… This is the clear command of Heaven, the course of our times, and a legitimate manifestation of the right of all nations to coexist and live in harmony. Nothing in the world can suppress of block it.
---The Declaration of Independence March 1st, 1919.
My name is Mun Jong-sik. I was born on March first 1920, in Uiryeong county, South Kyongsang province, on the one year anniversary of the March 1st Movement. In many ways I feel like my life was shaped by the event that happened the year before my birth, even though it never personally touched me. While the students in Seoul were first rallying for a return to Korean autonomy, and then being forcibly put down by the governor-general Yoshimichi Hasegawa’s troops, my family was operating in nearly the same way it had for generations. I was born into a wealthy yangbang family in the countryside, the first son of a first son. My grandfather ruled the house. He was a severe self-styled scholar in the Confucian manner.
My first memory is of my grandfather’s quiet but firm voice. To my small self he was a mountain, imposing and very, very old. I remember seeing him studying at his desk, reading the Analects or writing classical Chinese poetry. I was very envious of his authority. Everyone always did exactly what he said when he said, and he had the last word on everything. I would try and imitate his serious looks and his stance. The older women in the house teased me, saying I acted like an old man at an age when other children were running around getting into scrapes, that my face was always set in a little frown and that I walked hunched over.
I remember Ch’uscok, or the Harvest Moon Festival when I was very little, maybe four. Dressed in my best clothing I remember mimicking the grave attitudes of my grandfather and my father and uncle as they in turn offered wine to the ancestors. The entire family was there, all of the aunts and uncles and cousins together to honor the ancestors. I recall laughing at the antics of kobuk that came into our household later that day. The turtle dancers frolicked about our courtyard to the amusement of the entire house. I was very happy.
When I was around six, my grandfather engaged a tutor for me to give me a Classical Chinese education. My tutor was a thin man with a droning voice that made me think of a cicada. He would drone on and on, and I would try and pay attention, but my mind would often wander into daydreams.
Study, study, study. It was all I was allowed to do. Grandfather was a stricter teacher than my teacher was! He would send for me in the evening to go over the lessons I had learned during the day. I suppose I should have been grateful for the fact that Grandfather took a special interest in my upbringing, but I was only a child and didn’t realize was a special favor he paid me. All I could think about was how I never seemed to be good enough. Chinese was a slippery fish for me; I never seemed to be able to get a sufficient hold on it. I practiced sincerely, painfully composing wobbly poems, copying pages over and over again until I had memorized them. Truly Mencius was right, “A carpenter or carriage-maker can pass on to another the rules of his craft, but he cannot make him skillful.” The only part of learning that interested me were the histories of famous people, especially famous generals or warriors. I never liked the great diplomats or scholars, but warriors sparked my imagination. I learned about Korean heroes as well, and I liked these the best. I used to daydream about being Kim Yu-shin and besting the Chinese.
I was more like my father, than my grandfather. My father had never had a head for poetry or reading; he was a practical man with a head for business. It was in this way that he was able to keep the house together. I didn’t know it at the time, but times were hard in the countryside when I was little, production was stagnant, many people went hungry. I had no idea how privileged my existence was inside out courtyard. Although Grandfather officially headed the house, it was Father who ran it. Our house was large, there were Grandfather and Grandmother, Father and Mother, myself and my four sisters, and also my father helped support his younger brother and his household. Throughout my childhood, and especially on holidays, many uncles, aunts and cousins would drift in and out, officially to pay respect to Grandfather and the big house, but unofficially to meddle in household affairs and to receive gifts.
Although my father and grandfather never quarreled, my father was always the filial son, as I grew up, I began to notice differences in the way they viewed the world. Grandfather wanted to emulate the sages and ascetics. He hated the Japanese with a vengeance. For him the wounds caused by the annexation, something that happened ten years before my birth, could never heal. My father, although he deeply sympathized with the Grandfather’s view and was full of Nationalist pride, did not feel he had the luxury of Grandfather’s uncompromising and inflexible beliefs. My grandfather, the poet and the scholar could only rail at the injustice. My father the businessman could only see the bottom line-- purity of virtue can not feed empty stomachs. My grandfather was, at his heart a 19th century man, my father was more much more progressive.
I never exactly knew for sure what connections my father had with the Japanese. My father often had business in the neighboring villages, he traveled a fair amount. He went out of his way to get to know the Japanese that he came across in his travels. He seemed to have very good relations with the Japanese who taught at the local Japanese school. I’ve sometimes wondered exactly how deep these relationships went, if my father’s gifts were actually bribes or if his friendly attitude had greater political implications. I don’t mean to say that my father was a traitor to his people, that he profited from other people’s suffering. He always believed very much in Korean nationalism, and made a big show of patriotism but sometimes I wonder if our neighbors questioned my father’s loyalty.
The winter of my tenth year, Grandfather suddenly took ill and died. It was almost beyond my ability to comprehend how so sudden an illness could take a man with such strength of character, such fierceness of personality, as my grandfather. One cold day in late winter, he complained of feeling very tired and hot, the next day he was delirious with fever, and on the third day early in the morning, he died. The funeral was a large but subdued affair. On the third day after his death, the funeral procession wound through the countryside to the burial spot that had been picked years before after careful consultation with a geomancer as per my grandfather’s wishes. I remember how the itchy sambe clothing scratched against my skin in the cold winter air.
Following the three-month mourning period, my father informed me that my classical studies were to be suspended indefinitely and that I was to be sent to the Japanese run primary school. Part of me was very excited. I had longed for greater contact with children my own age, the only children I played with were my cousins whenever they visited. My sisters and I had little contact after I turned seven, after this age according to Confucius, men and women had to be segregated. I had this image of the village children living carefree lives, beholden to no one, free to run and play as they pleased. Truly I had no conception of life outside the security of the courtyard, other than what I had heard from the various cousins, who were as a whole louder and more boisterous than I.
Elementary school life was much different than I had imagined. There were students, all boys no girls, of all ages in my classroom all starting their education like I was. No one considered it seemly for girls to get an education, and my father agreed none of my little sisters were ever sent to school. There weren’t any Japanese students, it was mostly Korean boys from middle class to upper class backgrounds with some farmers children. Most of the lower class students went to the sodang, where they studied the classics. The older more coarse boys made life hard for me. They could see my skin was pale and my hands were soft, and they set about to make my life difficult. I had never been a very powerful child; I didn’t even know how to fight. I was a daydreamer; I would sit lost in daydreams, and wouldn’t see them coming until it was too late to run. My teacher was not only as demanding as Grandfather had been, he was disinterested, and this surprised me. He would punish unfairly sometimes, and with my distracted air, he figured that I was trouble. My sore fingers and calves didn’t hurt as much as my sore pride. For as long as I could remember I had been the favorite, the chosen one. I was the oldest and I was the only boy, I was unused to being punished without just cause, unused to being treated the same as everyone else.
My father was unsympathetic when I came home unhappy with my new school. He told me that learning Japanese was an asset, a tool we could use. He said that nothing could change who I was at my core, I was Korean. However a truly wise man hid his core under many layers, and speaking Japanese was a way to create another layer. This was my father’s philosophy, and it served him well. While other people starved, we lived in relative comfort. It was following his advice that I learned to get along.
School politics were ruthless, cliques formed and unformed, you had to befriend people fast and watch what you said. I adjusted quickly, of course. Although I was not much better at Japanese than I was at Chinese, I learned to be crafty. I found I had an ability with if not a passion for numbers, and I did fairly well in that subject, if not so well in others.
On September 8th, 1931 the Japanese invaded Manchuria. My teacher was very enthusiastic as he told us about the take over. It was very exciting to listen to him tell how it happened, about the bravery of the men who died. Although these events were happening in real life, it was so far removed from my life, and what I was doing it was almost like a story. I eagerly read glorified accounts of the “three human bullets” impressed by their heroism and their dedication to a cause, not thinking about whether the cause they fought for was right, or even what it meant for me to admire them.
As I came to the end of my elementary school days, my father informed me I would be attending high school upon graduating from primary school. I studied hard and managed to pass high enough in my class. My high school experiences were very different than my elementary school ones. For the first time I attended classes with Japanese students. There was always a sense of hostility between the Korean and the Japanese students, although we all spoke Japanese, and although we were told Korea and Japan is one, it was very clear that we were not the same. Often we Korean students would complain that the Japanese students were preferentially treated in the classroom, and it seemed very true at the time. I didn’t have any Japanese school friends, partly because I wasn’t sure how much I trusted the Japanese students in class and partly because I didn’t want to be abandoned by my Korean schoolmates.
I was nearly 17 when war was declared on China. The teachers in the school made a show of being very patriotic, and the students were supposed to follow their lead. It was a confusing time. At the same time we were hearing about Japanese victories in China, and about the power and rightness of the Japanese Empire, it was hard to understand how it affected me. Although I appreciated the sacrifices that these soldiers were making for their country, I couldn’t see how this helped me. At the same time, the governor-general of Korea, a man named Minami Jiro announced that all Koreans had to pledge their loyalty to the empire. We were required to recite this pledge at the beginning of every assembly, to openly declare our fealty to the Emperor. Although at first it was annoying, eventually it became a habit, so much so that I really didn’t think about the meaning behind the words I recited, I simply recited them from memory.
Shortly before my 18th birthday, the shingahei seido or Korean Volunteer Army was instituted. Because of my age, my fluency in Japanese and my educational background, my teacher encouraged me to sign up. There was an assembly in which the headmaster stood in front of the entire school and gave a very stirring speech about honor and duty and how Korea and Japan were one, and how as members of the empire we could serve her best by joining. A sort of fever overtook the school, Japanese and Korean students alike. Many of my Korean classmates boasted about signing up. We had no idea about war, no idea what it really meant. It was all boasting and bravado, an extension of day dreams I had had as a child. I remembered both the deaths of the five bullets seven years before and I remembered Yi Sun-Shin dying defending Korea from Toyotomi Hideyoshi in the 16th century, and one seemed like an extension of the other. I wanted to prove myself as a man. Even as I was swept up in daydreams of manliness, I believe that some part of me was pretty sure that I wouldn’t be accepted. Although I spoke very good Japanese, I don’t think I would have passed the physical. I was never the toughest or the strongest, and I was subject to blinding headaches. When I broached the subject with my father, he laughed at me and told me it was out of the question. I was the only son, I had a responsibility to get an education and then come prepare to take care of the household. Secretly I was glad that he forbid me from signing up, he gave me an excuse to save face with my friends. Many of my friends applied to the volunteer army, however, only one person in my entire high school actually was accepted. Everyone was envious of him and the headmaster praised him in front of the school. One of my classmates received a letter from him once, he said he missed school very much and that the war had not been what he had expected but that he was doing okay. That was the only letter we got from him. I do not know what happened to him after the war.
I managed to graduate at a respectable standing in my class, my low marks in literature being compensated by my high marks in math and science. After I graduated from high school I was faced with a dilemma. I didn’t want to go back home, it felt like a step backwards. I was full of energy and I wanted to put it to use, to do something with myself. I convinced my father that it would be advantageous to the family if I got a job in Pusan, and sent the money home. At first he wasn’t enthusiastic, but eventually he agreed that my opportunities were greater in the city than they would be in the countryside. He went through his connections and found me a job in a textile factory. I packed my things said goodbye to my family and boarded a boat heading for the city.
I was unprepared for Pusan. It was bigger, dirtier and generally noisier than any place I had ever been in my life. The quiet separation of people that I grew up with, rich families here, poor here, Japanese here, Koreans there, didn’t really seem to exist in Pusan, everyone was in a big jumble. I saw very rich people, with European dress and sophisticated mannerisms pass right by peasant beggars with their long hair without even noticing them. Even though I had come from a cultured family and had went to a respectable school I was overawed by the worldliness that the people around me exuded. Everyone was on the move, everyone had places they needed to go in a hurry, and if you got in their way, they were not polite. Down by the docks you could see sailors and longshoremen moving cargo on and off ships, laughing and cursing at one another at all hours of the day. The train station was the same way, people were always pushing in and pushing out.
I started work in the textile factory. The factory produced, among other thing, uniforms for the Japanese army. I didn’t work on the floor, I worked in the offices of the factory, as an accountant or a bookkeeper. It was very boring work, by the end of the day my head would swim with numbers, every now and then I would have dreams of drowning in a pile of ledgers. I was lucky, it was a very respectable job. It’s funny, I never connected the records of shipments with the war itself, to me it was so many full units were to be shipped here, and so many there, it was detached from war, it was business.
I rented a room from an old lady, a Mrs. Kim, so that I could save more money. Mrs. Kim was a very irritable old woman, and as she was fond of repeating her husband had died years ago leaving her the house and many headaches. She was impressed with my upbringing and my manners, and I went out of my way to be polite to her. On her birthday, I composed a poem for her, luckily she didn’t understand Chinese very well, or she would have known how poor a student I had really been, but she was flattered. I always paid my bills on time. I lived very frugally, I didn’t go out to eat often, and didn’t socialize too much. Although my work filled most of my days, it left me with evenings free. For the first few months I would simply walk around the city in the evenings absorbing the sites and the sounds. I would walk to the harbor and see the mouth of the Nakdong River. The river was a connection to the place where I was born, although by the time it met the ocean it looked much different than it did near my home.
By the time the Pacific War started in earnest at the end of 1941, I was afraid. I didn’t believe that what the Japanese had in mind was right, but at the same time I had never really known life without the Japanese. I was born into Korea a member of the Empire, although I didn’t know it. Although I worked with Japanese people all day, came into contact with them, and even had a few casual relationships outside of work, I always felt tension a sense of inequity, sometimes overt and sometimes very, very subtle. Even though I worked hard at my job, and my bosses liked me very much, I was very much aware that there were two ladders to advancement, and I was on the slower one because I wasn’t Japanese. I remembered my father’s advice, and was always a friendly hard worker, but I also remembered the lessons I learned in school and worked hard to maintain good relations with my Korean co-workers, so that I wouldn’t be accused of being a conspirator.
The newspapers and the radios all talked about the war, it was on everyone’s tongues, and suddenly everyone became a war expert and a master tactician. Even if one buried one’s head in work, and did nothing but work and sleep, it was everywhere. Sometimes I would wonder which side I really wanted to win, if the Japanese lost, what would happen to my job? My fluency in Japanese, which was such an asset, would cease to be important. And what about all of the Japanese that I worked with, what would happen to them? What would happen to the Korean people if the Americans won? Would we be free, or would we be become subject to foreign rule again? I spent half of my time hoping the Allies would win and the other half hoping the Japanese would win. It was a very rough time.
In April of 1945, general conscription was announced for Korean men. I became very worried. By this time it seemed very clear to me that the Japanese were going to lose the war. Although I had at one point in time wanted to join the army, I had come to realize how fruitless all wars are, and I didn’t want to die for a cause that was not only lost, but something I didn’t even believe in. I heard from a fellow Korean bookkeeper that there was a sympathetic army doctor in town, who, for a price, would give you a medical exemption. I thought it over, and decided that I didn’t want to die, so I went to see him. He was a crookedly looking man and his clinic wasn’t very clean. He took my money, looked me over, asked me a few questions and informed me that he was writing that I had a deformed foot and that he felt it was in the best interest of the Empire if I continue my work in the textile factory facilitating the production and distribution of uniforms. I was relieved but also felt guilty.
The last few months before the surrender were madness. Everyone could feel the desperation in the air. Japanese businessmen would disappear in the night, taking their families and their possessions with them. Many people took advantage of the change in the air, and didn’t work as hard. Other people made a bundle buying up valuables those who left to resell. I was in a quandary, my bosses encouraged me to work hard, praising my loyalty, and told me that when Japan pulled through that I would be amply rewarded. I didn’t believe it, everyone could see that Japan was a rapidly sinking ship. I declined all of the extra work they tried to give me, telling them that I was only able to do my job nothing more. Of course, they weren’t pleased, but what could they do? At least I stayed to work, unlike the many workers who left without notice after each successive payday.
When the war ended I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. I was twenty five, Japan had been a great power all of my life, even though I knew the war was going to end in Allies favor, some part of me had trouble accepting that Japan could lose and had lost. The factory I worked for closed down right after the war as the administration had to be shuffled around, only to open some months later in a peacetime capacity. When it reopened all of my friends in management were gone, and the new higher ups viewed the previous favored employees, such as myself, with suspicion. I decided that living in Pusan was no longer a good idea, and headed back home to see my family. I hadn’t seen them in seven years, I sent money home, and wrote letters faithfully, but my job had prevented me from actually travelling out to see them. I sent them a letter telling them to expect my return, but with the disruptions in the mail service I wasn’t sure whether the letter or I would reach home first. I packed up my possessions, said goodbye to my landlady Mrs. Kim, said goodbye to Pusan and all of my acquaintances I could still find, then set about my journey home.
really old story that I wrote in math class (oh dear six years ago) with my then good friend and really funny guy Calen. Thought i would put it up here as a reminder that I have improved, and because I still think its funny (although my fingers itch to edit it).
The Secret Of Celery Isle (written by me, and Calen Horton)
"never go out at night, my minion onions" the leader of the small patrol shifted to take in the whole tropical isle laid out infront of him. He turned back to his troops adding, "if you do, I won't be at fault for your deaths. Remember always that the celery stalks at midnight."
The minion onions (being mindless logic machines) paid no heed to their leaders warning. They felt that their tear gas was more than a match for the savage samurai celery. They set out carefree as the orange moon rose over the inky black waters behind them.
"Halt my minions!" the onion leader barked at his troops. "If ye plan to leave tonight, set up camp, that way those of you who survive will have a place to retreat." The onions pivoted, (more rolled actually) and began to set up camp on the beach. Once the master's tent had been established, and properly furnished, he decided to organize a meeting. "Dorg! Tharg!" he called to his generals "in my tent, now!"
The obediant onions went into the tent. "I must inform you of the hazards of this isle" Blank stares from Dorg and Tharg."
"First the samurai celery. We are safe here, this is a sacred celery burial ground, they will not come near. Second, the hot water springs (more commonly known as the "soup springs"). They pop out from within the jungle. The temperature is hot enough to turn a large onion into a smushy pulpy mass in ten minutes." Dorg and Tharg shuddered at the visual image as the leader paused for breath and spat out onion juice. (a special attribute of this juice is its effect on the eyes, it's the "secret ingrediant" in their tear gas)
The only warning you get is the smell of bay leaves. If smelt remove yourself from the area immediately. What, what is it Dorg?"
"Um, milord, what do bay leaves smell like?"
"What a completly competent question," said the leader sarcastically, "one befitting a lowly ensign taking Onion Defense 101!" The leader brandished his green onion whip (made from the scalps of seven scallions) as Dorg and Tharg cowered.
"Now leave me and head my words. You are dismissed." Dorg and Tharg quickly rolled out of the room.
Back outside the tent, the minions had finished setting up camp. The tents were up and the squash had been fed and groomed (well "polished" would be a better word). Dorg and Tharg quickly recounted their meeting with the leader.
The onions plopped themselves around the fire (at the careful distance of about 3/4 of a squash away).
Does anyone know a story?" asked ensign Morack, the youngest onion of the patrol. "Why sure, I think I know a story fitting of this night." said lt. Col. Diack.
"It happened long ago, when I was a little green onion, not much older than you, Mory." Morack looked increduously at the ancient Diack. Diack was a large yellow onion who was going black (although no one would admit it to his face). He was covered from top to bottom with battle scars. His valor was widely known, why he had fought in the Fruit Wars. When Diack glanced back at Morack, Morack cringed. Diack laughed and began his tale:
"Way back when I was a wee little green onion," Diack said (adopting a Scottish accent for emphasis. Why not, that was where the Fruit Wars took place)
"My company was hunting band of renagade apples through the Loch Forrest, when the celery descended upon us. You should have seen them!" Diack said, hopping around and looking scary to add to the suspense.
"They turned the commander into onion rings before the alarm was even sounded. We had walked into a trap!" He paused for a dramatic moment.
"Now me and my fellow minions were prepared to become stir fry. Then the samurai leader appeared. And let me tell you, never a more fearsome sight has this vegetable ever seen. Dressed in lettuce leaves he was and carrying a tomato vine whip, the leader stood about three onions high. Long and thin was he, and a healthy spring green color as well, in perfect fighting condition. He raised a leafy front for silence and then he spoke.
'Foolish onions you have trespassed on our homeland. Tell me, where you chasing these?' At that he made a leafy motion, and two of his followers hopped into view, rolling along several dry husks of the apples we had been chasing. All of their juices, their very life's blood, had been sucked out of them.
'what did you do to them?' someone asked.
'Simple, ' the leader of the celery said, 'We threw them to the lettuce." All of us remaining (roughly ten) gasped. We had heard enough stories to know about the lettuce. Evil, vile, bloodsucking vampires in capes of green they were. 'And now, its your turn.' the leader said with an evil grin.
BANZAI!!! yelled a voice from behind and above us. We knew what was happening, but the celery weren't so sure. Suddenly a king-sized banana bearing the proud mark of the Chiquitas, smashed into the leader, knocking him into the bushes and splattering banana goo across the clearing. In the confusion following the attack, we fled into the forrest. Right before I went in, I turned around to salute the brave lone kamikaze
"who saved our lives." Diack closed his eyes, remembering. "Now that's the end of my tale." He rose from the campfire and hopped to his tent.
Dorg and Tharg sent up night watches. Morack and Thiesen got first watch, Darg and Ayeck had second, Tharg and Diack had third and Snark and Feron had fourth and final watch.
Morack and Thiesen prepared to watch for two hours, while the other minions went to bed.
"Have you ever seen a vampire lettuce? Do they really suck apples dry?" asked Morack
"Nope, but Diack is a great warrior he would not lie."
A long pause ensued. The crackling of the dying fire was all that could be heard. The squash woke up and became restlessless. Thiesen stretched.
Something was out there.
I am crusing in a 1990 honda civic livin' life like the depraved. I smell only gasoline and cigarettes as the ramones are blasting. I feel as if I am in a dream.
I have a headache that could stop an elephant in its tracks. Every rustle of dry grass is like small daggers in my head. The music is blasting and the back speakers thump and pop, my head vibrates in sympathy.
I keep telling myself, as we race to LA. that if you trust a girl you have to trust her horse (I know I read that somewhere but I can't remember where just now), its become my mantra. I made myself stop looking at the spedometer, and that helps, but when we zoom so close to a whie acura that I can actually read the expiration date on the reg tags, I start again.
This place is emptiness. I have been granted an all access pass to nowhere.
How many cups of coffee have I consumed in the last twenty four hours? I don't think I want to remember. I must remember to relax my jaw or people will start staring.
I know I am a blur to everyone outside this car, an ever diminishing shadow that that they spit curses at, I can vaguely hear the horns.
I wonder if its the sheer dullness of this place that causes my friend to go to such extremes. (expired tags on a white-gold Honda).
Sandy dunes covered in mottled scrub brush, gray white and intermittant patches of mediterranean blue in the sky. Rain is forcasted, but the sky has no real substance, I feel that if I were just standing up high enough I could reach through its bleached out nothingness.
I've taken to applying chapstick like a new addiction. Its so dry here. I put it on carefully, using a fingernail to wipe off the excess. Five minutes later I put it on again. Again. Again. (Red Honda Prelude, no tags at all) The window is cracked to let out the smoke, the air roars ferociously around us, making the window shake and causing vibrations in the conversation.
We don't talk much.
What I like about my companion is that she has the common courtesy to signal about two seconds before she changes lanes, just enough time for the potential victims to think, 'she can't possibly mean to...!' as they slam on their brakes. (red Dodge caravan, tags expire in November) Two seconds is almost enough time for a Hail Mary.
A haze has fallen over the distant mountains, giving them a saffron cast. A whole community of satellite dishes sit like upturned umbrellas, waiting for a tide that never comes.
If only my brain weren't five seconds behind everything. (Ford Escort LX, white, March) I feel underwater, and my brain is covered in peach fuzz.
An exit ramp approaches at dizzying speed. The yellow sign says 35mph, I resist the urge to look at the spedometer. We take the clover-leaf and I feel the gs sitting on me. The car tilts drunkenly to one side. I wonder idly if I am going to die. There is an audible thud the right side tires bear weight again as we pull out of the turn alive.
She digs in her ratty purse with one hand, looking for a cigarette. (Navy Blue Jeep Cherokee October) She offers me one, our eyes meet for a moment. I raise an eyebrow. Her left hand forms the lady-like claw of a vetran smoker, as she holds her cigarette up the window. It burns quickly, and we leave a invisible trail of ash behind us. I realize my life is resting in the two fingers of her right hand that nonchalantly stroke the wheel.
I dig in my pockets for my chapstick and delicatly apply it (Dodge truck, forrest green August). Again. Again.
okay, so here's the plan, my man. This is where I am going to write (what was that you do in your other blog amber?) That, was me writing, but more of a diary. We'll see how this works. If it sucks... then its gone. Wish me luck, eh?
|
