My cell phone, apparently sick of playing hide-and-seek with someone as stupid as I am, vibrated this morning to announce its presence. I answered and it was my American buddy Tom, who'd been trying to reach me for the past, oh, 36 hours. My phone was hiding in a pair of shorts I'd worn on Wednesday evening. The shorts were in my shoebox residence, high on a clothes rack.
So I don't have to go and cancel service. My morning is free.
I'm heading out to Insa-dong again to spy on some artists and steal some techniques. If I can't afford to pay for lessons right now, then I'll just steal them through observation and osmosis.
In the meantime, I can't help thinking that my phone has been my Zen master these past couple days, teaching me a harsh lesson in mindfulness. Much as I hate cells phones, I have come to rely on the little bastards.
Art. Just because.
_
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