Hey Kid, do you still
wash your hands in red wine? What sort of trip were you ever on to
pick up such a strange habit? Was it that dark girl, the one
you began to love, who taught you to do that? What else did
she teach you? And who else was she teaching? Can you still remember
why she cut you off, stopped coming to the door, answering your
phone calls, your letters, your computer messages? How long
did it take you to get over that? Or did you ever? Do you
deserve to? Do you want to?
Then what came next? How
could you ever allow your world to fall apart the way it did? Why
would anybody ever choose that path? What were you expecting
to find, as you slouched from town to town, job to job, person to
person? Did some sad change or damage occur in your head, that
icy night on the highway through Oklahoma City when you spun out,
burst into the concrete barrier, demolished your car and escaped
with your life? Why was your seatbelt off and your pants
undone? What kind of person plays with themselves while they
drive on an icy interstate highway at 3am? Do you still feel
so lucky? Who did you think you were? Were you
right? Is the void everything you ever expected it to
be?
Ahh, so you call it the void do
you? You like to play with it and change it around do
you? Voidus Maximus? Did you buy a piece of property
from Alternate Surrealestate DisInc.? Null space?
Visited Vector X lately? Did you shake hands with the
coroner at the ticket booth of Dreamgate Frontier? Are the
agents knocking at your door? Have you supined yourself
upon the plastic alter amidst the temple of the Solar Lotteria? Or
are you merely delusional? Are you afraid of facing something
larger and so much more real? Are you hiding from a vast, ugly,
violent, suffering world that never stops vomiting blood? Are
you still intent on finding that hole, between the fibers of reality
... that last resort? Is your skull merely indulging
your mind by screaming at your flesh from the inside?
Or, have you simply dismissed your
dreams and aspirations without even attempting to put up a fight?
Where did you expect to land as you willfully allowed yourself to be
sucked into the vacuum of infinite mirrors decoration? Can you
defeat the automaton with laughter before it consumes your
motherland, or will it obliterate you as well? Can you still
laugh? How many times per day? Per hour ... minute ...
second ... micro ... ? If there lies salvation in hope,
what's left to hope for?
Do you remember the man who
lives in your Korean neighborhood, the one who's made you keys in
his key shop on several occasions? Do you remember his fucked
up face, replete with distorted hair lip and operation scars, inborn
deformities? Do you remember that Sunday when you were leaving
through your alley and you saw him, all dressed up in his best suit
instead of the rags he usually wears when he's in the tiny key shop,
with his two happy looking kids on the back of his beat down 125cc
CitiBike scooter? How did you ever guess where he was
going? Where does a man go on Sunday dressed in his best
suit? Do you remember the big fucked up smile and wave he
flashed you? Did you find it harder to detest blind faith and
religious worship after you saw that?
Do you realize that chain-smoking
is inherently a nihilistic act? Or do you actually think
you're going to be one of those mutants who manages to prolong their
body's ability to withstand the erodingonslaught of life through
applied vice? Who do you think you are this week? Who
were you last week? Are you able to annihilate those future
visions long enough to listen to your self? Can you?
Will you?
Do you remember your roots?
Did you ever have any? Did you ever even try? Do you
recall that toast you made the other night, over bottles of cheap
Korean white wine chilled in a bucket of ice, "Here's to those who
try and those who don't."? Why did you say that? What
did it ... mean? Or did it just sound good in that
instant?
When was the last time you wrote a
real letter? When was the last time you felt like you truly
knew your Mother and Father or one of your three sisters? When
was the last time you put your ego on the shelf to dry out for a
while? What does ambition look like in the daylight?
Does it look like gold ... or putrid mold? Has your insistence
on self-love clipped your ties to the blood that began your
life? Will you put them off until it's too late ... or will
you be lucky enough to have that peace before the end, after the end
... whenever that end may come? You know they're trapped in a
rather ill society don't you? It's not hard to tell that your
motherland is hemorrhaging from the inside, is it? What's it
like over there, after all of these things ... these big ugly things
that have happened?
Do you remember where you where
when the incident at Columbine High occurred? Can you still
feel the stickiness of the vinyl lounger and the dull throb of that
needle in your arm, as the blood was sucked from you arm by the
centrifugal device at that place, the Alpha One Plasmapheresis
Center in downtown Portland, Ore.? What was it like to lay on
that bed, waiting to finish, get your vein bandaged up and receive
your $25 for food and cigarettes, when you saw on the overhead
television set that the insane shooting had occurred less than
twenty minutes away from your parent's house in the labyrinthine
suburbs outside of Denver? What was it like to wait, your pint
being sucked out in measured mechanical slurps, not knowing?
You couldn't just yank out the tube and run to the phone, could you?
You were relieved when you called your mother and learned that it
wasn't your sister's high school weren't you? Distance is a
vague sort of quantity isn't it, kid?
You know that society is suffering
from every sort of post industrial detritus conceivable don't
you? That's why you bolted to Asia upon the first opportunity
offered, right? And now they're dealing with this horrendous
business of airplanes crashing into buildings and mail order
viruses, aren't they? But for all the media coverage you've
consumed, can you even imagine what must be going through the daily
psyche of your average work-a-day stiff over there? You can't
can you? It's too much to process isn't it? You'll just
have to wait to get back there and see, won't you? Will
you?
Do you remember that lethargic
beer guzzling sloth bitch at that bar on Kwang-ali? It must've
been something like September 15th ... a few days after wasn't
it? Didn't she actually say something about all those people
who died when the buildings went down, like, " Well, don't you
think they sort of deserved it?"? She said it with a
drunken smile didn't she? How did that make you feel?
You wanted to destroy her didn't you? It triggered every
emotional button in your person, didn't it? Who would say
something like that? Why? What sort of effect would she
hope to achieve by allowing such a shitty thing to drizzle from her
swollen anus of a mouth like that? You know a lot of
people feel that way though, don't you? What does that mean
about the human spirit? Was she telling you that you deservd
it?
On the other hand though, New York
isn't the only arena where life holds such a cheap value, is
it? Life tends to slip away like rising steam anywhere
you go, doesn't it? Isn't that it's true nature? Do you
find that hard to accept? Does it leave you wanting to curl up
and assume the position as the lords of inevitability have their way
with you? Or does it make you want to live harder ... drag
more lifestuff out of the few remaining moments? You managed
to contain your rage after she said that didn't you? You told
her to " Buy you a beer or fuck off." didn't you? Do you
recall? How much did you manage to hold in? Where
did all that anger go? Did it merely dissipate ... or does it
burn like the coals in back of any given kalbi restaurant?
Hey, wasn't there a rock'n'roll album by Don Caballero entitled
That Which Burns Never Returns?
How much do you
remember? How much does one truly need to
remember? What's the actual worth of a thousand glistening
nights? Will you crumble under the psychic weight of two
thousand habitual criticism addicts? Or can you reduce their
aural slings and arrows to the fleeting septic swamp gas that it
really is? Have you ever tried to weigh the ejaculate of your
average academic who happens to be suffering a low grade case of
literate Turrets's Syndrome at the end of the week? There's
surprisingly little there, isn't there? Sometimes you just
have to ball up your fists and laugh, right?
Everybody goes down in the end, don't
they?
Do you remember that fellow from
Virginia? That bloke you met at Dong Ah's blues bar across the
street from his jazz bar near Pusan National University, wasn't
it? Didn't he dig all those old heavy metal records you were
spinning? Don't you think he was hip to Motorhead and The
Ace of Spades? It doesn't take a genius to grasp the
less-than-subtle nuances that Killed By Death or that Moog
solo in the middle or Frankenstein have to offer, does it?
Wasn't his name Russel I.? He wasn't a teacher was he?
No, didn't he claim to be a student, studying Korean at
PNU? Strange sort of character wasn't he? How did
he ever manage to fill two extra books of pages, taped into his
passport by the US Embassy of Somewhere? Wasn't that the
craziest goddamned passport you ever did see? Hadn't that guy
lived in Bangkok longer than he'd lived in Korea? How many
yarns did he spin? Did he disappear a few weeks later?
You never saw him again did you? How many times did you
hang out with him? Three or four? What was it he told
you about his friend in Bangkok? The fellow had written a
novel that the publishers refused across the board? When he
described the plot, about the universe imploding and a legion on
interstellar dimension traveling rangers dispersing across cosmos on
missions to control the ensuing chaos, didn't you get a chill
throughout your stoned nervous system? Where do you think
Russell was off to? That translation of the Tao Te Ching
he did and had printed up was downright sublime wasn't it?
You've still got it, stacked with the other books on your floor,
don't you?
Why does the innerspace call out
to you so clearly? Are you trapped on the planet of
sound? Why can't you care about the outer game a little
more? Wouldn't it make life so much easier if you picked up a
few more of those societal expectations? It would make more
sense, wouldn't it?
What are all of these outer
voices saying to you? Can you hear them too? Are you
suffering from involuntary ventriloquism? Is it sotto voce
... or is everybody else hip to some crucial detail about living
that you accidentally missed? Do you buy that?
Can understanding current global
economic conditions make a man's life any better? Where does
the chain reaction of betterment begin? Can the bloody
squabbles between power mongers and religious fanatics make life any
better for those who submit to their leadership? If the middle
east is truly the cradle (read 'crotch') of civilization , then
aren't the monthly skirmishes wholly comparable to an irreconcilable
case of herpes simplex three which fires up once or twice a
month?
Who can know? Who can know
what? Isn't relativism a cop out and an easy shot to
take? Why don't you just say ' fuck thinking in circles and
start thinking in spheres'? Wouldn't that be interesting
for a while? Can you conceive of a sphere capable of entering
itself? Would that be called an 'Aclipse'?
You like to make yourself laugh a
lot don't you boy? You miss those days of living with Aunt
Robyn and her wife Emcee in their house in Esopus, NY, don't
you? Angry middle aged lesbians can be a lot of fun can't
they? They didn't like it when you left straight porn laying
around the house did they? Did you call them after that sick
New York airplane-into-the-building-bullshit? She was damn
glad to hear your voice wasn't she? They're 'okay'
so-to-speak, aren't they? Got a little dog to spoil like a
child, right? Would you try to remember to write them
soon?
Hey, wouldn't they qualify as
roots? That's a nice feeling, to realize you've got roots,
isn't it? You won't ever forget that will you? Isn't 'family'
important anywhere you go on Earth?
Do you know how many people there
are? Didn't you hear it was up to six billion? That's a
lot of folks out there just tryin' to get by isn't it? With so
many people, aren't there bound to be some problems?
Speaking of problems, do you
remember last spring and summer? What were you thinking?
Your summer began beneath the wheels of a Pusan city bus didn't
it? You are a lucky bastard, aren't you? How did
all that trouble begin? Weren't you teaching company training
in the mornings? It was tough to make a 9am class,
showered and wearing clean clothes, wasn't it? Why weren't you
paying more attention to traffic while driving that sloppy 125cc
DaeLim moped-of-doom through Allak Dong? What song were you
singing in that noray bong of a helmet that you wear, when you
ploughed into that taxi and flew off into the side and then under
the bus? Didn't you expect to die? How did you still
teach that class with your bleeding hand hidden under your sweater
like that? Those company English students thought you had some
sort of schizoid Napoleon complex, didn't they?
What led up to that summer?
Besides, that crash, what was it? Was it that whacked out
night after the fourth poetry reading at the Monk in
DaeyonDong? That night left you feeling dark and empty didn't
it? Why did you go drunk driving in Lt. B.'s car with him and
I.V.? He didn't like your driving did he? You have some weird
pathological loathing for military officers, don't you? It's
something about their sense of leadership and authority, isn't
it? He tried to issue one too many 'orders' while you
were driving his car, didn't he? You were both sodden on the
'juice', weren't you? Why did you spin that donut in front of
Camp Hialleah's Guard shack? You knew that could get him in
big trouble, didn't you? He got so angry when you both got out
of the car in front of the Dallas Club that he started swinging,
didn't he? Did he rip your shirt? When did you realize
that you were in the middle of the first fight you'd had since 9th
grade? It didn't take long for you to realize that if a set of
G.I.'s walked out of the club while you were going 'round with him,
that you were going to get a double or a triple ass kicking, did
it? Do you feel like a coward for putting the helmet you had
with you on and head butting him into bleeding submission? It
was a surreal twilight dance wasn't it? That drunk soju man
sitting on the nearby bench got his eyes filled didn't he?
What did you do once the good Lt. was sitting on the ground
with blood dripping from his lips, nose and the gash on his
forehead? Did you really jump into a taxi with your helmet
still on and ride back to Soul Trane for another drink with the
people? A toast to your failure at pacifism, wasn't it?
You didn't have anybody then did
you? Why did you feel so lost? What happened then? You
rode the night train to Seoul with a blue-blooded blonde and two
Canadian Dan's, didn't you? Drank a bit of the stuff did you?
Did you really end up alone at the Incheon airport later that
morning with a pocket full of $3000 US? What were you thinking
about? What weren't you thinking about? Who were you
expecting to become by buying a day-of ticket to the Fiji
Islands?
What happened to you between June
9th and August 22nd? Why didn't you take any pictures
while you were there? Did you manage to skullfuck your death's
head until it wore a happy face? Didn't you see an island laid
bare with sun and sand and surf and suicide? That village was
in pain, after Aca's (pronounced 'Aurtha') death, don't you
think? That healthy boy uncovered some unbearable secret and
hung himself in the bedroom he shared with the other surfers in the
village, didn't he? How long did it happen before you
arrived? Month? They were planning his 100 nights wake
when you showed up there, weren't they? Didn't they invite you
to stay and share endless bowls of kava with them, as they said
goodbye one last time? What was his grandmother's name
... Boomboo, wasn't it? Didn't she invite you into her kitchen
for tea, and started telling you about him? Did she seem
bewildered with grief, questioning as to why a healthy 21 year old
boy, working at a nearby resort, a teetotaler, rejecting Fiji's
endless supply of booze, grass, Benson and Hedges cigarettes and
even Kava, would hang himself at 5 pm in the afternoon, amidst the
verdant Chong-Sue family village compound? Did he know that
there were wild papaya and coconut trees surrounding his room?
Did he forget that there were shifting sand dunes the size of the
Bexco convention center and twelve foot waves that he could surf
masterfully, less than five minutes walk from his sepulcher of a
room. Or was he simple sucked into a vacuum somehow connected
with island life? Didn't she say, " But he was taking
computer classes ... he had a chance to escape his circumstances if
he really wanted to ... why?"? Could you help feeling
that you'd encountered some sort of paradox ... a Paradise/Prison
Paradox, out there in the southern half of the Pacific Ocean?
Is it possible that the basic
cellular organization of life takes on fundamentally different
configurations based upon the amount and intensity of sunlight that
it receives on a daily basis?
Would you care to diverge from the
Fiji thread for a spell? Would you care to diverge for an
instant? Would you care to ascend to a realm where mortality
is so thoroughly understood, that all conjecture concerning it's
advantages and disadvantages is rendered moot? How would you
like to chop off the death's head? Care to render the
diabolical inert? Is it possible? Do you think the kid's
... the young ones ... are wise to the ways of subliminal
sublimation of sublimity? What about Pokemon and Harry Potter
and every other modern cash cow? Do the children make
them? Do they sell them? Do they buy them? Do they
... consume them? Do children have some sort of
Alchem-mystical effect on the plastic bricks they so readily
consume? And when does this ability pass from the body?
And what about the adult fiction
market? Movies and stories and every possible sort of
narrative and such? Who makes them? Who buys them?
Who lives them? Who generates these stories about serial
killers and psychological 'intrigue'? Who creates political
'thrillers'? Have you ever seen true violence ... the everyday
variety... the sort where a person's life is suddenly and
unexpectedly ruined or lost? Was it
exciting? Did it drip with the nectar of sweet
drama? How did it feel to witness it and walk away
unharmed? Where did it leave you?
" It's the difference between wrong and right ...
that's the story of my life ..." - Did Lou Reed write
this?
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