Time is a problem because I don't know how to spend it. There are few lifestyle similarities of ESL teachers in Vietnam vs. Korea. A Korean ESL job could be reasonably compared to Peter Gibbons' gig at Initech. Working in Vietnam is more like this:
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| Woo. Hoo. |
In Vietnam, most ESL jobs involve heavy hours on the weekends and night classes during the week. Unless you're a sap with unlimited availability (like me), it is entirely possible to work three or four days a week and make enough to live comfortably. Even if you're unlucky enough to work five or six days, weekday mornings and afternoons are usually free. This can be problematic.
Newton's First Law of Motion states that an object at rest will remain at rest unless acted upon by an outside force. Applied to humans, this can be interpreted as: 'A dude in bed will stay in bed unless he has somewhere important to go.' Alarm clocks may be the most universally despised yet indisputably essential tools on the planet. Everyone dreams of skipping that 6:00am wakeup call and lounging beneath the covers until noon. But what happens when that fantasy suddenly becomes possible?
A few weeks ago, it occurred to me that I'd spent five consecutive days at the pool. From Monday to Friday I had sipped fresh coconuts and dozed in the steamy Saigon afternoons beside the sparkling, urine-free waters (I assume). I decided this was a terrific development and resolved to pursue it even further. Because pool days weren't just a wonderfully mellow way to pass the time - I was also gettin' stuff done.
When was the last time you had your mornings and afternoons free for five straight days? Personally, I have no coherent memories of such a time. Maybe as a toddler, but then again Mom was always nagging me to trace letters and build shit with blocks. Childhood isn't nearly as idyllic or carefree as we remember.
In any case, I now have no work, school, or social responsibilities until at least 6:00pm, M-F. This feels pretty remarkable - after years of moaning that I never had time to pursue my passions, I now have…plenty of time.
This arrangement comes at a cost, of course. I now spend a tidy 23 hours at school on the weekend, only seeing the sun during brief class breaks and furtive glances out the window as I ponder the professional and ethical ramifications of strangling an iPhone-addicted teenager. It took a month or so to make my peace with this. In the Western world, weekends now hold nearly-sanctified status, as evidenced by innumerable Facebook updates lamenting the need to come in on a Saturday, and the equally common (if poorly-spelled) empathetic consolations. The weekend is a time for Jesus, football, and booze - not necessarily in that order.
I've grown to embrace the new order of life, though. For the first time in my life, the prime creative hours of the day are open and available. There are infinite possibilities when it comes to using this time, which causes its own challenges. David Foster Wallace referred to it as the 'confusion of permissions', suggesting that we are paralyzed by choice. Given total freedom, we tend to sit on the couch and watch SportsCenter.
That thought has definitely crept into my mind. A hundred creative writing post-grads pounding on a hundred MacBooks would take months to compile a list of al the stuff I haven't done (but fully intend to do, seriously). A brief sampling: learn muy thai, take Vietnamese lessons, buy a guitar, film a documentary, and play pickup basketball. You could live an incredible life just by doing the stuff that I haven't.
Snark aside, the current schedule hasn't been completely wasted. After completing all my lesson plans in a single grueling marathon session (usually at the pool, between naps) I'm free to write. And I'm actually doing it - another first. I've been able to finish about one new piece a week, which is quite a step up from the previous standard of 'zero pieces a week'. Anyone who has gone through a prolonged creative dead spell can probably relate to the excitement of finally getting back to not working. Without a pesky job to interfere, I can return to my first love of chewing on pens while staring in frustration at half-finished paragraphs.
I've also had the chance to dive headfirst into the music world. For at least an hour every day, I chill on our rooftop terrace and sample freshly pirated* albums. The amount of excellent new music is staggering and frankly intimidating at times. There are moments when I feel like a relapsed dope fiend who wandered into a Shanghai opium den. Sometimes the urge to discover the next great tune unleashes my inner hummingbird and I flit from track to track, completely lost in auditory pleasure overload. The first time I heard Mayer Hawthorne, my heart nearly gave out. I finally understand the weary arrogance of the true music aficionado. Keeping up with the music scene is exhausting.
*Just kidding - I only use iTunes to download music like all decent, God-fearing folk.
In addition, reading has also made a major comeback lately as I shift to a diurnal leisure pattern. Paradoxically, reading in Vietnam is made enjoyable by a lack of choice - aside from the Bryson and HST photocopies hawked to backpackers on Bui Vien Street, you're pretty much at the mercy of your friends' book collections. As a result, I've read a weird assortment of loans and castoffs that I probably wouldn't have chosen on my own. I've leafed through everything from Terry Prachett's preachy scifi to Vo Nguyen Giap's jargon-filled People's War, People's Army, which even Engels would find hopelessly convoluted. I've read the Best American Science Writing of 2004 (verdict: science is awesome when it doesn't involve equations and periodic tables) and re-read The Gods Drink Whiskey (upon further review, I agree with Asma's low opinion of 'rice conversion' missionaries and vehemently dispute his characterization of Southeast Asian traffic systems as 'surprisingly safe and efficient').
Although my overall productivity still leaves much to be desired, the progress has been encouraging. Saigon offers limitless opportunities for creativity and freedom, and for the first time in my life I actually love the city where I live. Working on a non-traditional schedule in such a bizarre and dynamic environment is the best situation a wannabe artist could ask for. There's a lot to do, a lot to explore, and a lot of time to get it all done. If the History Channel ever stops rerunning documentaries about Hitler's secret love of shadow-puppets, I'll have it all figured out.
A few weeks ago, it occurred to me that I'd spent five consecutive days at the pool. From Monday to Friday I had sipped fresh coconuts and dozed in the steamy Saigon afternoons beside the sparkling, urine-free waters (I assume). I decided this was a terrific development and resolved to pursue it even further. Because pool days weren't just a wonderfully mellow way to pass the time - I was also gettin' stuff done.
 |
| The office. |
In any case, I now have no work, school, or social responsibilities until at least 6:00pm, M-F. This feels pretty remarkable - after years of moaning that I never had time to pursue my passions, I now have…plenty of time.
This arrangement comes at a cost, of course. I now spend a tidy 23 hours at school on the weekend, only seeing the sun during brief class breaks and furtive glances out the window as I ponder the professional and ethical ramifications of strangling an iPhone-addicted teenager. It took a month or so to make my peace with this. In the Western world, weekends now hold nearly-sanctified status, as evidenced by innumerable Facebook updates lamenting the need to come in on a Saturday, and the equally common (if poorly-spelled) empathetic consolations. The weekend is a time for Jesus, football, and booze - not necessarily in that order.
I've grown to embrace the new order of life, though. For the first time in my life, the prime creative hours of the day are open and available. There are infinite possibilities when it comes to using this time, which causes its own challenges. David Foster Wallace referred to it as the 'confusion of permissions', suggesting that we are paralyzed by choice. Given total freedom, we tend to sit on the couch and watch SportsCenter.
That thought has definitely crept into my mind. A hundred creative writing post-grads pounding on a hundred MacBooks would take months to compile a list of al the stuff I haven't done (but fully intend to do, seriously). A brief sampling: learn muy thai, take Vietnamese lessons, buy a guitar, film a documentary, and play pickup basketball. You could live an incredible life just by doing the stuff that I haven't.
Snark aside, the current schedule hasn't been completely wasted. After completing all my lesson plans in a single grueling marathon session (usually at the pool, between naps) I'm free to write. And I'm actually doing it - another first. I've been able to finish about one new piece a week, which is quite a step up from the previous standard of 'zero pieces a week'. Anyone who has gone through a prolonged creative dead spell can probably relate to the excitement of finally getting back to not working. Without a pesky job to interfere, I can return to my first love of chewing on pens while staring in frustration at half-finished paragraphs.
I've also had the chance to dive headfirst into the music world. For at least an hour every day, I chill on our rooftop terrace and sample freshly pirated* albums. The amount of excellent new music is staggering and frankly intimidating at times. There are moments when I feel like a relapsed dope fiend who wandered into a Shanghai opium den. Sometimes the urge to discover the next great tune unleashes my inner hummingbird and I flit from track to track, completely lost in auditory pleasure overload. The first time I heard Mayer Hawthorne, my heart nearly gave out. I finally understand the weary arrogance of the true music aficionado. Keeping up with the music scene is exhausting.
*Just kidding - I only use iTunes to download music like all decent, God-fearing folk.
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| Sampling studio. |
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| Spot the knockoff. |
Although my overall productivity still leaves much to be desired, the progress has been encouraging. Saigon offers limitless opportunities for creativity and freedom, and for the first time in my life I actually love the city where I live. Working on a non-traditional schedule in such a bizarre and dynamic environment is the best situation a wannabe artist could ask for. There's a lot to do, a lot to explore, and a lot of time to get it all done. If the History Channel ever stops rerunning documentaries about Hitler's secret love of shadow-puppets, I'll have it all figured out.
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