\THE CLEANSING

The bathroom was in such a state that he expected daily to contract some strange fungal disease. As well, he'd taken to wearing his street shoes inside to grab last minute items, so the linoleum was doubtless breeding deadly killer viruses too. The contents of these streets will make you want to wear a mask or heavy scarf through which to breathe; Unknown horrors linger in the air and cling to your souls with every step taken. Ominous. Flulike things mostly, but mutant strains that have the power to evolve. YICK.

So he got down to it and went into a cleaning frenzy that would have done proud any crusty agima from the neighborhood. Oddly, as if this had been the one and only cause of his feeling unwell, the vertigo subsided. The exedrin and yogurt probably didn't hurt either, and the hangover was banished. The memory of the hawk circling proud and sovereign lord over the mountaintop in silence, the vast stretch of beach and city, rocky ocean points, and tiny fishermen hundreds of feet straight down below swept up like a vision in the calm sense of comfort in the mind's eye following a shower:

Igidae. The cleansing accomplished.

The khaki snowboard pants from Thailand bore a label on the inside at the back saying " don't speak, DANCE". Perfect. He put them on, bona fide. The black leather motorcycle jacket from Mexico, circa 1979, had a look of polished experience and minimal wear, having taken care, and bad as any biker on the strip. Bona fide. The thrice died purple hat from Guatemala with it's silken mandala on the crown, sacred relic of the days when he'd been verging on becoming a professional musician (as opposed to a mere "practicing musician") had been revived, redeemed, back to it's former glory, bona fide. He tucked it into the inside pocket of the black leather, wondering if such a thing would not be fully out of place in the weird and wonderful haunts of the night's events, wandering the weirdness of Pusan. Decide later. Purple shirt from India, bought in Victoria from the "Carnaby Street" shop down at Government and Yates, dark as dark and purple through and through, real as real, on it goes. Damn hairspray makes your noggin feel like a sticky doormat, but it's the only way to grow it out without looking like a bloody hooligan or one of the kids off the "dirty rascals", buckwheat style. Fashion is a fascinating mistress.

He kicks open the door of the apartment and looks back, feeling something has been forgotten (it happens eeeevery time), and marvels at the swimming pool bleachy smell of clean shiny porcelain wafting through the place. The future beckons, and voices from the other side are calling him back home from out beyond the ocean long forlorn in memory the shadows blend and sway. Floor heating on, window open to air the place out, get the hell out, it's seven thirty and Seomyon awaits. Halfway down the alley when the realization hits - head back to retrieve the amenable necessity of a phone. On returning to the very door he realizes that it's slipped through a gaping hole in the right pocket of the leather and shuffled around the back, inside the jacket, surreptitiously hiding at the rear, lending false credence to the absent minded professor theory. A time loop paradox is somehow new-uncovered as he glides back in and down the friendly narrow well-known alleyway, a five minute interlude of detached, self-reflexive hilarity ensues.

Scintillating.

Chuckle.

\CUT.

\\A FLIGHT THROUGH SEOMYON

Pritchard and Cassandra wait near the garish white fountains in the underground shopping plaza of LotteWorld, possibly the most obscene testament to blatant hardline money driven commercialism in the whole of Pusan. Anyone with any sense will wilt among the teeming hordes of avid, slightly rabid-greedy shoppers within a very short space of time, holding on and gaping at the walls to stay aloft. It's a full-on sensory overload. Horrid bane of all claustrophobes; Gasping fish in stale water. They wouldn't make it to the door, let alone inside. \\\Rumblefish. During the day it's like the inside of the more popular bars in Kyungsung, and you're shoulder-to-shoulder with so many bodies that you want to scream or mosh or run to the nearest park and breathe in some sanity for a few minutes to calm the seething chaos that roils in the medulla when so many pushing implacable Asian faces look all 'round and at and through you, every possible amenity imaginable and products of all kinds, and the sheer noise of all the talking and the hawking and smocking makes it seem like the apocalypse must come within the time it takes to cough up O-chunnen (five thousand won) for an espresso frappuccino in the (here it comes) less frantic pace of the Starbucks on the ninth floor (whew, survived the escalator/elavator deathtraps one more time) across from pizza hut, and T.G.I.Fridays, and Lotteria, and around the corner from dozens of sushi and ethnic restaurants and escalators up to the tenth where you can take in a flic in English with Korean subtitles flickering down the right side of the screen blathering semi-accurate translations of what the actors in the film have to say.

Thank heaven for the relative quiet outside near the underground fountain plaza, just up-ramp from the subway and outside the LotteWorld, where one can hear the water burbling up and out of huge white Roman-esque horses pulling a chariot and looking like a surreal copy of some European marble masterpiece. White picket fences and fishies spouting water into pools. Pearly-white columns and wood-steel benches and agimas cleaning up the doldrums of the cast of remains of daylight hours in Seomyon. This is where the wealthy of the labyrinth of this place come to spend their hard earned cash. And spend it they do.

A wolf-whistle spins him around and out of the loping gait that had brought him quickly hence. There's Cassandra, sitting with Pritchard under a white column, looking perky and cool in the crisp white surrounds.

We duck out and up the stairs and head above ground. The streets of central Seomyon seem to sparkle and explode with neon heiroglyphics seeking subtly to enthrall and hypnotize you with their hidden mysteries. It's like an Asian Vegas on amphetamines, implausible to explain to anyone who's not experienced the pace and flavor of someplace like Shanghai central or Seomyon after dark. A quick jaunt through an extremely dodgey narrow crack of a black back alley full of Bo-shin-tong (dog soup) and Bo-kim-bap(kim-chi-fried rice) houses, smells of dung and cooking, small metal pots full of burning coals brought inside to cook up galbi (beef/pork) on the tables, brings them to the rear of Lotte, where one more corner lands them at last outside the OJIMA!!! This place is the greatest discovery of the new millenium thus far as far as wandering the Earth in search of providence concerns -

It's a class A brew pub with crystal clear windows showing big shiny steel vats, and a staircase up into a room that's booked solid with people loving every drop of the amber nectar flowing from out those vats.

The Chinese "lucky cat" with it's swinging paw sitting on the end of the polished bar is a subtle reminder in the upscale/casual dining room atmosphere of the fact that Koreans are on very close terms with their neighbors to the West. He'd put on his velvet purple hat en route, and is taken very seriously by the floor manager as they peruse the menu at the door, the chinese mandala on the top for some reason always drawing sharp attention from the educated folk to whom it's shown. The place is booked solid, but he leads them to a table before it's even been cleared, and clears and wipes the table clean himself, a gesture of goodwill and respect, (also possibly to check us out a little more). It's kind of cool and a little uncomfortable at the same time. He takes our order for Mek-ju (beers!!) and disappears and is not seen again until it's time to go, a dapper Chinese/Korean master of ceremonies in a burgundy suit.

As Lance (the fool) says in Shakespeare's "The two Gentlemen of Verona", "blessing of your heart, you brew good ale". And that they do. Ojima in Seomyon is a house of special brew. I'd never heard the term before, but they serve up this fine and savory liquid in "whalebone" glasses - yes, "whalebones", like a yardglass of about half the size. 750 cc's of brilliant liquid sunshine served up in a glass that's fluted and almost two feet tall so you can grip it in the middle like a throttle and feel like a real man with a real beer in a real state of grace. Pritchard's face was all aglow after only two sips and he sat there proprietary with the beer held firmly in his grasp and resting on his lap, looking for all the world like he was at home in his living room and comfortable as every anyone has ever been, beaming face and equipoise and all, a King in high repose. Gary Gnu (so named for his legendary high spirits and sunshine disposition - you'll recognize the sarcasm) arrived and joined us, his mood foul, disconsolate, saying that he'd like to punch out everyone in sight and get FU**ed and call it a night and go on home, rambling about Texas street and Sloan who'd gone to find a hooker there and surly grumbling mocking about the Columbia-Korea soccer game from which he'd just come - they called a draw - and drawn out all the bitter sex-frustrated angst that Gary Gnu could talk and mutter out with subtle brilliant Aussie humor underlying grumpy angry chat. It takes one humongous lager (in a very tall and thin, but regular pint glass) and an (excellent) plate of sausages to cool him off and warm him up to the realization that the night is young and good friends positive thoughts and laughter conquer all. Cassandra is relaxed and occupied being her usual observant and sophisticated self; She hints towards the passing of the minutes and the notion of the time. The band "Ghetto Bombs" is playing at the Vinyl Underground bar in Kyungsung and there's time for just one tall brew (just as well at ten bucks a shot), and it's off to meet Yobb at the Blues Bein bar around the corner.

Elvis and the Blues Brothers are standing outside the place, large as life in moulded forms suggesting action and the Bein does see it's share of music (and fights) most nights. Yobb holds us up for five minutes as he talks to someone inside and we sing and dance and talk and laugh away in the dirty brightly lit weirdly fascinating street outside the Bein to the rock and roll piped from within. He returns and says he's staying, Pritchard wants another whalebone, and Cassandra is giddy with the hopping shopping joy of having bought some tight new bell bottom jeans en route to the Bein. Mercutio tried some on himself hoping to scoop on a lucky pair of 70's jeans, but they're "chic" jeans and while the stretchy feel is good on the thighs, there's just no room in the crotch and his bits were squashed 'til he was pleading for a "cup", and the sales assistants howled behind their hands in typical Asian fashion, trying desperately to be polite, but totally undermined in their attempt and their deportment by the sheer silliness and novelty of a foreign man trying on women's jeans in their shop. Well? These jeans have no hips on them, they're designed for Korean women who with alarming frequency must have C-sections to give birth 'cause as some would argue that they simply don't have "child-bearing hips". They would fit and look quite cool on any man but for the tension and discomfort down between...

But they digressed and lost the thread of their momentum in the street, while the threat of the company's dissolution loomed and moaned like a grim reminder of the disconnecting power fate can wield. The conversation fell toward mundane, \\\\\When suddenlike and not without panache Mercutio slapped Yobb with a verbal quip for keeping them awaiting at the door (inspired by the notion that he comes across at times a sort of self-absorbed, overcautious, over-calculating oddly fascinating bore), and shouted, "There's a cool band playing at the Vinyl Underground RIGHT NOW, LET'S GO"!!! The grateful and indulgent revelers wheeled from the Bein on Mercutio's heels to hop a taxi on the strip zipping under the road to catch the right direction on the other side with nimble feet of elves and happy youthful driven minds of raving angels on the wing taking flight.

It takes twenty slow and thoughtful interesting quiet thinking breathing minutes to get to Kyungsung.

The energy of the rush of Seomyon subsides. They talk about William Burroughs and a cartoon he narrated for a show called "eat carpet", down in Aus. It sounds fun. Pritchard expresses loss at not having had a second whalebone. We all agree and set a date for future times which now grow short as roads are weaving on to future ways and partings will inevitably come; We must (alas) make our way alone at last or in the end as sooner or later friends and lovers work and thrive or fade away as individualities we strive to dominate, participate, or at the least to have a say to light the way for better ways and brighter days for one and all in hope of Hopes that all's not lost - in the 21'st century quagmire confusion of a global village full of Money Greed and Avarice. It was bad enough without War. Dei Gratia, we Hope.

And Play.

\\CUT.

\\\DE HAUTE EN BAS

Like soft mad children they descend into the underground to dance and groove and reminisce, and signify the Truth of whom they serve. The smoke is drifting, the music is medium-loud and the tables all are full. It's a dim and funky polished lounge-style bar owned by a youthful Korean guy, one of the hippest businessmen in all the land he's on the pulse and double quick the man is rolling in the dough Saturday nights. The seasoned and sublime Aussie foursome winds up as is often the case tucked into the back corner, standing against the wall off the end of the bar in the high traffic zone. At least it offers good access to Heinekens and highballs, and a good look at the freshies coming in from off the street. Mercutio gets a Heinnie, Cassandra has beer as well, while Rich and Gary Gnu go for the bourbon and cokes, bane of too much pointless thinking, and of action bound in twisted drunken zen. Hmmm. Dangerous and fun; To be done with moderation or the curse of Zeno fall upon your head. It turns out that the band "Ghetto Bombs" doesn't go on until midnight, so they spend the intervening time quaffing off and wandering out and up the stairs outside to coolness and reprieve from the smoky heathen heat that's down inside. Pritchard repeats his pangs of sorrow -and all agree- at having missed the chance to drink a second whalebone. Time seemed more pressing early on as the band was scheduled to play at 10:30 - early - but pretty normal for Korean stages. This was slated to become a late one then. So be it. Happy chance for all the creatures of the night.

The band arrives with windy motion energy and begins to unload their van and saddle up. Spiked red hair and feral eyes shine from the bassist and there's a half/half black/blonde mohawk on the singer, his right hand wrapped up fully in a bandage of some sort and his impassive heroic-mythic rocker attitude calmly set - the guitarist has a sylvan Asian face expressing exuberance, a sad awareness, and wonder all at once - and the drummer is just plain thick. They're covered in denim, leather, spikes, British flags painted on shoes and armbands, and patches glowing hard with die-hard punk anthems, having just returned from Seoul where they cut a CD with another group called "Schizo". Originally from Pusan, they prefer the scene down here as do so many for it's more laid-back-ed-ness. They go on at midnight and thrash out a gorgeous set of crisp driven punk/ska music. The vibe is outstandingly positive. Some thirty-something idiot begins moshing by himself and hurling into others on the floor, (rash and obtusely punk in drublic), someone knocks him down, he falls onto the stage and knocks over the bass players micstand, looking for all the world like the world's biggest jackass. All are amused. He disappears in a puff of some smiling, moldering, grimly cheesy smell, and the coolness of the music returns to bless the fore of all our minds. There's no mosh, but everyone is grooving and loving the music.

The house DJ "fudge" - (Yousef to his friends - latenight breakbeat pilot smooth as class) scratches off some rythms briefly, and punk is joined by techno for a time. It's a weird uncanny sound, like the fusion of angst and rhythm in a unitary force of future's right. It's been said before, in the confusion of the post 60's generation, and by others, that "youth will prevail". Or as Hunter S. would have had it,

"You could strike sparks anywhere. There was a fantastic universal sense that whatever we were doing was right, that we were winning… And that, I think, was the handle-that sense of inevitable victory over the forces of Old and Evil. Not in any mean or military sense; we didn't need that.

Our energy would simply prevail. There was no point in fighting-on our side or theirs. We had all the momentum; we were riding the crest of a high and beautiful wave…".

It seems as though perhaps the modern/postmodern corporate entity has underestimated the power of intelligence and indomitable will to obtain and respect what is inherently right (as in what feels right and beckons intuition to the Truth: to live a life worth living in this world), in youth, and that an ever growing awareness in middle and lower class groups and communities is going to shape the coming revolution in which the powers that be will have to stop their impossible drive to deplete the store of finite resources on the planet and LISTEN to what people really want to come to pass for a unified planet and a unified people of the Earth, the human race, the sum of all the fears and drives of pleasure and of pain in everyone, and multilateral agreements for a system that Truly is utilitarian and brings the greatest good to the greatest number in the name of Peace and Unity will have to come to pass. This is what we are doing. All who share this common goal are the Healers and the shapers of tomorrow. We have the fire. We have the force. This is our birthright as human beings. The youth of the 21'st century will not stand for anything less.

We all are one in the sea of information.

The band rocks hard for 45 minutes and calls it quits.

Time to call it quits. He sticks around to snag another Heineken and heads up the stairs to get some air and chat with the Pukyong University crowd who are thinking of heading back to Sarah's to groove and jive and put down a few more lagers. There's a nifty poutine stand serving curry and sausages and other stuff across from the entrance, run by the Korean members of the band Mojo, Roy and Jamie, who are there on the scene one way or another every night on the weekends, students of music and good business who dig on the Beatles and Radiohead.

The Pukyong crowd is nearby talking about Stephen King and "The Talisman" when Mercutio spots a friend who's leaving, with tears rolling down her face, trying to hold them in until away, "I have to go", she says, "it's Mick"…who sits upon the concrete rail outside the bar, gabbing with Grateful Jimmy (so called for his love of the Grateful Dead - he plays a Lean and beautiful version of Sugar Magnolias, and you'd never guess from his disposition that he's with the U.S.army on the base). She holds up a printed sheaf of papers, on the cover there's a title, "Rochelle the Christmas Slut". She wheels off in search off solitude and Mercutio wanders over to listen in on the conversation by the rail. He's unaware of the details, but emotionally charged by the sight and sense of a friend who is upset by a callous jab (and slightly drunken). It's rumored that Mick and Rochelle have had some differences and simply "don't like each other" at this point, which is unfortunate since they both work for, and in the past collaborated together on articles for the (excellent and informative) expat newspaper "The Beat". He interrupts the conversation calmly to ask "what's up with you and Rochelle"? Mick tells him the straight dope that they just don't like each other and implies that it's no one else's business really, and smiles a big sly grin as he rambles on about what a good story "Rochelle and the Christmas Slut" really is. Malicious intent verified. Mercutio takes a step towards grateful Jimmy and unwinds a shoulder driven right hook into Micks left cheek that knocks him flying backwards off the rail onto the back hood of a parked car, and walks away. The reactionary conversation starts. Mercutio walks thirty feet - realizes what a mess and "bad press" and rumors will follow such an incident (which is not entirely without precedent, but those are other tales) - and he turns around and walks confidently and purposefully back towards Mick, "and he returns", shouts Mick, incensed and amazed. He quails and jumps back onto the hood of the car, "don't you fuckin hit me again", he says. Grateful Jimmy is standing by, implacable, built like a brick, "I'm not going to hit you", says Mercutio. The crowd has headed over across the road to watch and wait. Mick is doubtful, "is he going to hit me", he asks Grateful Jimmy. "I'm not, really", pleads Mercutio with chagrin. Jimmy looks them both over appraisingly, "waiiii-waiit and let the man decide", says Mick as he hesitates and holds a bottle up and back behind his head. Jimmy says "no man, I don't think he'll hit you". Mick sits down again and Mercutio jumps up onto the rail beside him. They talk and curse for about ten minutes about the whole situation (and each other), and finally Mercutio apologizes and Mick accepts, "I'm leaving in a month anyway and don't give a shit about your politics", "yeah, and I'll be glad when you're gone", Mick replies derisively. "You guys have to be cool, you ought to work things out with her, at least to be on civil terms. I really like you man, I even wrote a frikkin poem about you, aw shit, you hate me", Mercutio strokes his ego with secret knowledge born of inmost thought, a poem written after a dong-dong-ju (Korean rice wine) night the year previous - nothing grand or epic, just a stylized impression of a rebel and a writer, as "Mad Mick". "Yeah, like I want to scratch your face off and gouge your eyes out, come on, you want to play tough guy, why don't you talk to me you know I'm a straight up guy if something's on my mind I'll say it, I don't play no games, you listen to too many rumors, and you don't even talk to me, how do you know what's none of your business anyway, you should get the facts before you go and hit me in the face, you've got problems man", complains Mick with a measure of disgust on his stricken face. "No man, I haven't heard a thing, I've got no problem, I don't know any rumors, I just know that my friend is crying over there 'cause what you did and that's it, I'm just acting on what seems right, right now - I'm like you that way - just doing what I do - but you'll admit there's some emotion involved in this situation, my reaction was reactionary based on what you did". There is a strange moment when the two of them understand each other perfectly, where Brotherhood is Real, where they are equally victims and champions of the night. Time stops, intersubjectivity goes transrational, and the stars shine down as one upon two men, just two guys, sitting on a fence drunk and perplexed as to how these things unfold, "Forget it this is way too middle school", "fukkit". Mick hops off the wall and wanders off to spit into a bin.

Mercutio takes advantage of the moment which has come to a resolution, (so far as there can be), and walks off down the street. He taps Mick (whose back is turned) on the way past and whispers "Peace", with antithetical yet meaningful sincerity, a charmed encouragement to what he hopes will be the mood when they cross paths again. He doesn't look back or join the throng and taking the first corner swiftly disappears in a blur of black leather, chaos, and Heineken inspired blethering pseudo-justice, not feeling tough so much as confused, charged, and hopeful that things will all work out to be O.K.

\\\CUT.

\\\\THE WISH

The kids in his class damn near destroyed the glider they were trying to build together with their enthusiasm, disarray, and general store of non-cohesiveness. The teacher tried to plant a seed of wisdom in the minds the grains of what tomorrow brings the living world, and it was understood, but not without its faults. Their intentions were the best, but the application of things fell apart without a general agreement and a plan to organize CO-OPERATION - the word of the day on that particular day in Spring, on March the twenty-first, two thousand three. It's one of those kindy concepts that should be blatantly reminded to adults every morning of their lives along with breakfast. He sighed and made a "note to self", to finish the plane later himself, and show them that their efforts had not been in vain, as some progress was made among the errors and the mess. Right now, (as for always and will always be the case), the world needs CO-OPERATION more than money. The world needs CO-OPERATION more than fear. The world needs C0-OPERATION more than oil, tanks, and bombs. But it's not easy, it never has been. Times are coming - times are HERE when the choices of our fathers and our youth will coalesce to form and manifest the blessings of our dreams. Or the horrors of nightmares.

Let's plan it TOGETHER, with INTELLIGENCE and UNITY.

All the great things that have come to pass in this world were formed from abstract sources out of thought.

Our collective imagination has the power to TRANSCEND.

The will of our collective body-mind-SPIRIT has the power to build ANY future we might choose.

Victory through physical force is inevitable for NO-ONE, the implications of the complications are really dreadful and scary as Hell. Nothing. Oblivion. Or worse, a world without moral values, individual freedom of choice, and for those who need it - belief in a form of higher Truth to light the way ahead. Tonight I'll pray for everyone, insignificant and naïve as I may be, for the Christians and the Moslims and the Druids and the Saints, the Buddhists and the Jainists and the Mormons and the politicians, and EVERYONE, that our universal commonality unite the lot!!

Whatever you believe in let the way ahead be unity, for all that we are human one and all.

Suffering be alleviated.

Peace friends,

Sincerely,

Jason Lindsay Bowles

(aka. Grayson the Hack).