Seoul Searches its Own Son

Thanks for the follow and like.
if you want to follow me, go to
(to find one or two of interest…perhaps)



# Though my family and close friends say it would be far more entertaining with a video-camera* in the “real world”, rather than in cyberspace!)
* By the way, do they still make them in today’s ever-faster changing world..or is it all done with mobile phones?

(get with the times now,”luddite”* c – it should be a smart phone)

* or so I was often called by my “my techno-geek” friend, Bill (“the gonk”)

“total non-techno” c (who doesn’t possess a mobile phone, after a rather eventful’ experience some years back, whilst trying to walk, talk and chew gum at the same time) #

The impossible we do immediately; however miracles take a little longer!

* (You may think I’m joking, but just ask my friends!)

Who says men can’t multi-task!

Men…Some Mothers Do ‘Ave ‘Em!

“You will do foolish things, but do them with enthusiasm.”

– Colette (nice name for a girl, btw)

All the best with your blog
Shared by craig

“Information and Inspiration Distributer, Incorrigible Encourager and People-builder” *

* not bridges (thank goodness)!

Well my family and friends say I’m “safest” just writing and sharing

Driven to share, uplift, encourage and (perhaps even) inspire


“Live each day as if it’s your last…
and one day you’ll be right!

Don’t worry about the world ending today…

it’s already tomorrow in scenic and tranquil ‘little’ New Zealand


“I am the mother of sorrows, I am the ender of grief
Paul Lawrence Dunbar

I looked at Seoul with the eyes of sorrow. Dong-ho, the name of a teenager brutally murdered in Gwangju during the darkest hour in its recent history, will stay in my memory. With the dwindling readers blessed with names in literature that transcend histories, this might be one of those names. Together with Saleem Sinai of Rushdie’s Midnight’s children, Oskar Matzerath in Grass’ The Tin Drum or Col. Aureliano Buendia of Garcia Marquez’ One Hundred Years of Solitude, Dongho for me marches slowly to that esteemed level. These names have their invisible statues that are erected at the center of modern literature’s town center. They are built for hagiography’s sake, for restless people to stare at, eternally psychoanalyze about, drink for bacchanalian festivities or be associated with for what is enduring, fantastical, profound and…

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