In brief: apologies for the many days of silence; some upheavals have torn my life asunder, have lifed my asunder torn—notably the sudden miraculous connection with a nice Korean girl whose legs, of course, are almost as nice as she is; how did we meet? how did I achieve that great desire of all the foreign men who come here to gawk at the clopping walks? (and all the foreign women who come here to marvel at the effeminate navels of the Korean androgynies—whose cheeks (both pairs) are smooth as babies’ bottoms—and with their pouting eyes the women (often plain janes) beg these fellows to ask for their telephone numbers!); it was through a language exchange website, hanlingo, which advertises itself (amusingly enough) as anything but an internet dating service (okcupid in Korea was fruitless, worthless, hopeless, pointless, far more so than topside, stateside). That is essentially the long and the fractured short of it. “How to get Korean girls?” how to steal the beautiful women from this divided peninsula?: simply come here and try!
Otherwise my time has gone to writing a short unfinished essay on regimentation in Korea, a speech that I have to give to my school which was later rejected by the translator (instructions: write about anything! except what you’ve already written about!), editing and thinking about and drawing a map for the hundred and twenty pages I have of Restart, some pleasant volunteer tutoring at lzone with various typically pleasant Koreans, sports day at school—the race! the race! let me tell you about the race! to race the other adults! to smoke them! decked in short-shorts, I stepped onto the dusty field, ready to burst out in front of them, but when the red flag waved (or was it blue?) I slipped! I fell! flat on my hands as the others shot forth, Anakin Skywalker at Boonta Eve!—but I, swearing, panting with rage, sprung up before two seconds had elapsed, and darted forward like lightning, so quick no one but the kids could see me, and they screamed together as one as I rounded the mass of sagging adults, a blur of flesh with his white teeth gritting brightly in the sun—in the few seconds of running I remember seeing that the leaders were far too far ahead to catch, and thus I only came in third. Thereafter I went from lightning bolt to black, grumbling stormcloud, furious that I had failed myself. What’s more, before the race even started I knew there was a very real danger of slipping. Hermes was not with me this time. Must make a note: garland a white bull with a crown of interwoven basil and parsley, gild its horns, chop its muscled neck with swinging axe!, thunk!, red splash before the Hermian altar, smoking with sweet blue sleepy incense…
What else? Far more, infinitely more—new apartment, new rectangular studio apartment, a larger variation on the old with a far better view. I can see the highrises crow-stepping up the mountains, and watch the people hobble here and there, and drop watermelons full of churning napalm on the roofs of obnoxiously-klaxoning fruit trucks passing by beneath. Finally, this, the latest paragraph from Restart, which inspired this post:
The talking insect lifted a brown pincer to the window and tapped it. Outside was Formation F-1071, a familiar star nursery for ships traveling back and forth between Earth and Zemlya. When we looked back the Scarab had vanished; the translation equipment later informed us that such a tap signifies “Goodbye.”
Needs some work—is the formation also a fighter jet from the sixties? an enterprise?—but interesting regardless.