Accidentally Sneaking into a Korean Military Base...their President's Backyard actually.

Every stupid move deserves another.
This was how it all happened. It was a mistake, an honest to goodness mistake. One of those fumbling, stooge-like mistakes that somersault into buffoonry, slip into absurdity, but yet emerges perhaps what could be dangerous dust, but falls altogether, nice and charming, like an afternoon anecdote of miscalculated wiles.

Stupidity for the most of us is a dull balm that hangs upon our day like a thick vapor blotting out the sun of sense and reason. However, stupidity for me, is full-blown, a fitful gust, a shooting star emblazoning the day and night with its unquenchable embers.

That day in itself was a spectacular one to begin with. I'd spent the early afternoon at a shamanistic ceremony. I won't bother with the details but suffice it to say that there is a mountain just a hop from Central Seoul where concrete ends and a forest springs. Here in a spirit temple, a shamanistic priestess was performing all types of sacrifices. Involving dead pigs, a trident, a cow's head, and various dances and trances that supposedly channel dead spirits. I will not unwind any lengthy tale about the Mu falling into a trance and dancing chaotically all in black possessed by the departed, nor how these women witches smoke bunches of cigarettes at the same time ala Groucho Marx, nor will I bore you on how after praying over a large butchered sow, a champion priestess turns circus act climbing on precipices to stand on blades all the while singing. Nor will I bother you with any digressions on how this spot, this very temple was some time ago, used solely as a place to exorcize spirits probably the chief exorcism place in all of Korea. My tale is not of these. All of which are fascinating. See my videos and pictures. I caught footage of all this. Needless to say, the whole mountain is considered by many to be a magic mountain full of mysticism and strange, blood-let sacrifices.

No sooner than I left the ancient clamor ringing up the mountain, that I found another adventure which concerns my story here. As I bounded up the path leading towards the summit, I would pass an old lady or two sitting cross-legged, an incense stick burning nearby and pinches of grain they'd scatter as a type of offering to the mountain spirits. Hoisting myself to one overlook, I was given a great view of Seoul which towered in the close proximity, the high rise apartment buildings, like paths oEven amongst all these highly interesting things. I had already pierced through the cloud of the mundane, the fog of life, and was still yearning for the Heavens. The ancient fortress wall rode on the back of the mountain and every now and then a shadow seemed to stand peering at the tremendous view of Seoul across the way. I clambered my way up in that direction. Intent, as most mountain trekkers are, of perching myself in a sublime spot. The winds were nice, the rains were absent, the cold was long gone. It was the month of May and everything was solidly delightful. The old gates of Seoul are all named after mythical creatures pertaining to the 4 cardinal directions. I was near the wall of the White Tiger of the West. Weeks before I had explored the Blue Dragon of the East. I made it to one protruding rock and sat crossed-legged, mind emptied before the sun and the sky and God. And prayed for two friends who were having difficult times. One battles cancer another battles divorce, the cruel realities of a savage world. Wearisome adulthood. While I a child, frolic about the world making of it a playground.

As I was making my way up the path, a small group of elderly people had finished their grain offerings and were descending. This old man of the group asked me where it was that I intended on going. I told him that I was going up. He shook his head and warned me, “No.” This was the only English he could muster for this bit of advice. And I could not muster up any Korean to understand if he was giving the reason why. Besides, I thought he was just giving me delicate old man advice, not too different than delicate old lady advice. A hen-pecked old man's translation from an Old Wives' Tale. In truth, I thought he was only passing along the knowledge that there were no trails in that direction. The path ends, and so forth. But he obviously didn't know that by saying “no” gave me all the more incentive to say “yes” and go romping up the mountainside. No sooner than he uttered the impossibility of going any further up, than my eyes darted over and spotted a steep deer path. I thanked him for his advice and instead of following the path back around which would bring me back down the mountain from another direction, I feigned this descent, and when I saw he was gone, I bounded up the deer path, ducking under limbs and stomping through patches of grass on the hillside.

Eventually, I could see peeking through the foliage, gray stone -the wall. And upon emerging, I marked the barb-wire wrapped in coils.
“Boy, they really don't want anyone parading onto their walls. They really take their parks serious around here.” I said to myself.
I was sure it was some type of satellite dish or radio tower they were protecting. And I skirted around the heavy barbwire. There was an area of the barbwire that was torn off the wall and was laying discarded on the ground. To me proof that it was not too serious wherever I was intruding. I merely stepped over the barbwire and even snapped a shot of my foot over the barbed wire with my camera as I did so. Next, I scaled the old gray wall. Upon entering, there were no ambling hikers. No grandmas in visors and ski poles scuttling about. No old men in neon pinks and blue fending off the decline of their health. No glued-together couples that are found in every public spot across Korea looking as though they're in a 3 legged race. It was strangely not Korean, strangely vacant of people. Solitude in Korea is a highly barren feeling. And then I noticed closer to the crest of the mountain where all the heavy barbed wire hung. A few buildings, a basketball court, and a dog behind these massive coils. If I would've entered, had it been possible, right where I first came out of the woods, I'd would've landed myself there.

“Ohhhh”, I thought, “ How about that? I almost sneaked into a prison compound. What an idiot I would've been. “ And laughed a good chuckling laugh. I was pretty sure it was a prison for they had all the scenery that makes a good prison movie, the fierce German Shepherd chained to a dog house. A worn basketball court where someone is probably stabbed on a weekly basis. A weary, vulture-home look to everything, without the vultures. For that matter, no prisoners were bustling about either. “Must be inside stamping license plates, or decorating chopsticks...whatever inmates do in Korea.” I took my camera out of my pocket and snapped some shots thinking it would make a good picture in an album one day. “See here, kids this was the time that I came within 5 feet of breaking IN to a prison compound.” Then I'd embellish it a little bit, “Sometimes I got so bored with myself and I'd fantasize about how I'd escape from prison to the point, that I would attempt to break in, in order to break out.”
As I took these pictures. The German Shepherd barked his threatening bark, probably not knowing what to think of a person standing gawking into the prison, him being used to all the humans standing on the inside staring dreamily out.

I, ever so carefree, followed the ridge path up to the highest part of the ridge where two massive boulders sat, and stepping sprightly around one of these boulders my eyes spotted the trouble of what I had just climbed over the wall into. It was just at that moment of good-feeling and sunshine, that I was probably well on the verge of bursting into song. For I tend to sing out loud when alone and walking like some modern-day Tom Bombadil, when I rounded the large boulder and saw two men standing dignified and at some important business. One dressed all in black and the other in camouflage. And my quick, careless bound out from behind that boulder seized their cautious natures, and set their hawkish eyes upon me. A look of flabbergast stretched onto their solid faces. That's when the realization hit, I hadn't almost sneaked into a prison, I had actually, very successfully sneaked into a Korean military base. It was all summed up in their looks of surprise and stupefaction.
In a flash I assessed the situation. My first inclination would've been to have hurled myself behind that boulder, if they hadn't turned to see me. But it was too late for that. The slightest feint to flee would be extraordinarily suspicious.

No, I devised to play, what has worked so wonderfully well before in other situations around the world, the dumb American card. Except in this case, it was every bit true. “But officer, I didn't KNOW this was a military base that I had stepped into. Which way is the Starbucks/McDonald's?”
As the soldier all in black approached. I mustered up all the affability, innocent expressions, good-naturedness, and utter block-headedness that was at my disposal at that moment. I play the dove-like fool amazingly well.

The officer spoke good English. “You do know that you are in a military base don't you? You're not supposed to be here.” His tone was nice and congenial, and put me in the assurance that I wouldn't be pistol-whipped yet.
“W-hhaat?” I made my eyes as big as they could. I tried to look overwhelmed as though I was registering everything. “Really?! Oh..no! I'm sooo sorry.”

“How did you get in?”
“Over the old wall. I hiked up from the temples down there.” pointing in the direction that I had just came.
He shook his head. “There are two ways out of here. You can go that way,” pointing in an area that was opposite with anything I was familiar with, “Or this way.” pointing still in another direction that I wasn't exactly sure where it lead but was still closer to the temple areas.
I chose this latter one.

“Okay, you just follow this trail, and you will pass many men positioned there. When you see them, just til them what you told me and they will let you pass.”

“Thank you. And again,” bowing which is the greatest sign of respect in Korea, “I apologize.” I think that I also complimented his English which is a good way to flatter in Korea.

I was relieved that the consequence was as light as my actual mistake. But the thought about these other sentries seemed dubious. “Oh great. Now, I'm to explain this stupid reason that I am trespassing on military property to a whole platoon of men. I wonder if I shall be interrogated about this. He probably sent me straight to my interrogator to be questioned.”
I knew that I was being watched from behind.
And as I walked around the bend where the scene of the German Shepherd, the basketball court, the huge coils of barbwire, in short, what I thought was a prison, the anxious thought flashed before me.
“Uh oh. I have in my pocket a camera that holds photographs of this very base. If they find this, this will harden my case against me being out for a leisurely stroll; they could very well incriminate me as a spy. I must keep this camera hidden at all costs.”

But I didn't meditate too much on this predicament, for it is in my nature to hold off thoughts for all the bad things that could happen in the middle of such circumstances and to sort of secretly laugh about it all.
I was walking on the ridge now on the path. To my right was the wall. I had the notion that if things got bad, then I could bound over this wall in one leap and then dart through the woods like old times, like the tomfoolery that was my youth that I never ever completely stepped out of. But then what? A blonde haired white man running loose in the area with squadrons at their beck and call? How long would that last? It was just a thought. Only if things got completely desperate, a bound over a wall is always an option.

And also, I didn't know this at the time, but it definitely would have influenced my thoughts had I had known, for I was in the close environs of what is the Blue House. The Blue House is the Korean version of the White House, the presidential mansion of the nation, where the president sits around doing whatever presidents do. I was basically, not only roaming around in the neighborhood but in a broad way, haphazardly frolicking in the president's backyard. Of course, I didn't know this at the time.

My path led down the ridge, and instead of creeping around surreptitiously, I thought it best to just stomp down the hill, absolute innocence my cloak. But it was something when out of the bushes on my left, or behind a tree, would shadows or figures would emerge all dressed in black. Like ninjas ready to spring, but they'd sort of nod or signal to me that it was okay, that they already knew my story and I'd continue on my merry, accidental-trespassing way. Eventually, I was halted. And this fellow in camouflage came down the hill. It was the same guy who gave me directions previously. He would direct me further and be my guide out of here, or to whatever dark dungeon they were taking me.

He was a young man. If not my age, then a little older. But as he accompanied me down the fortress wall, I soon realized he was some sort of high officer. For all the sentries would salute with passion and gusto, of what is becoming of lower soldiers in front of higher officers. His salute back was lackadaisical, as though the return salute was some over-used formality.

We passed, what I thought from across the mountain was an observation deck and it was, but one for military observations. Apparently, they were too busy watching the opposite direction, not looking at the way that I had wandered inside. It was here that we halted again.
“This is it. This could very well be where the dark room is where they place me under that bright lamp and get me to spill the beans, while a soldier named Scrappy punches me in the stomach multiple times.”

Up from another path from behind this large gate came this soldier all decked out in military gear. The first soldier I saw with a helmet on and a machine gun. He ran up as though something was of utmost importance. “Here we go.” I thought. But he was only some type of deliverer and gave my friend, the officer, a key.



And then we proceeded further. I began to make conversation with my guide. After apologizing for the 5th time or so, I told him that over to the East part of Seoul they have these same type walls that you can climb onto and a nice park, a man selling ice cream, a little museum even, and that I thought for sure that this was the same thing. It certainly looked like it from the distance. He only laughed and told me it was alright. As our path cut through a small forest we came to a small black iron gate. He unlocked the gate, told me this was the way out, and the funniest thing, he apologized to me. Which is a very Korean thing to do. “I'm sorry that our military base is situated right in the path of your day's frolic. Sorry that we interrupted your hiking by having this base here.” He didn't really say that. But the truth is had this been an American base, of which the irony is even being an American, had I stumbled upon their base, they would've cross-examined me in some basement somewhere just because its what they like to do. But no, this Korean base, I received only an escort out and then a very mild-mannered, “Sorry.” Come to think of it, they never asked me my name, my nationality, nor what I was doing in Korea. They probably rightfully assumed that I was an American. And something tells me that this sort of thing happens quite regularly.

What is the Deal with this New Immigration Law that Alabama is Enforcing.

This is not an argument; this is only a story. I have no arguments. There really is no such thing as an objective argument. Only personal stories. -Of what one lives and experiences, thinks and believes. Hence we construct our views of Truth.



Once, many years ago, I recall driving from Alabama to Atlanta. I was on a main highway maybe an hour away from Atlanta. When my car broke down. Yes, it was a remarkable machine of contradictory moods and half-way destruction; Flip-lights and white. I loved that car but it was of a mercurial temperament. Anyways, she broke down on the side of this highway. And I sat in the median, without any knowledge of what to do. My car loaded with all types of books, but nothing worthy of car maintenance. (I wish quoting Shelly had a magical effect and could start a motor. I was soon to be wishing that if a person could quote the Bible, this being the steeple piercing horizon of the South, they'd magically stop their rush and help someone in need.)
It was an interesting place to be, for I sat on the trunk of my car and noticed all the traffic on either side of me like a sun-reflecting river. The sunlight hitting their windshields and the constant flow of cars. People coming and going. So many, many people. Everyone strangers. Everyone in a rush. But no one knowing about the stories or the lives in the vehicle next to them only in the space of a few yards. I was in a good position for a break down for I was up this gradual hill and could see the oncoming traffic and I knew that they could see me. In between these 2 highways of rumbling hurry, there was this beautiful median of grass, almost so large to be a meadow. I sat back taking it all in. I had no one to call for at this time, I didn't know anyone in the area. I would just wait on the good-naturedness of humanity that I was surrounded by.

Pretty soon, this good-naturedness I was hoping in, was more into rushing off to Atlanta to feed the homeless I am sure. I mean, so many people and not one would stop. I had my hazard lights on.And I don't look like a thug or punk, or even a hippie for I had short hair at this time. I mean, I even sort of resemble a Mormon when I have short hair. (Maybe that was the real reason no one stopped).

And I was in the South, where Southern Hospitality and Living for Jesus (pronounced with a strong "Jeee-sus!") are key words. But no. No one stopped. Not the flood of SUVs, suburban white families in route to the Atlanta Aquarium; I'd hate for them to lose a few precious minutes in front of a manta ray. Not the plethora of Ford Broncos, men who had worked hard all week in order to take a trip to a Braves Game. They shouldnt stop, I mean those baseball warm-ups are every bit as exciting as the actual game (Yes, exactly.) Not the myriad of business trippers who'd really like to check into their hotels before 5 o clock traffic envelopes Atlanta. (On this one, I am not being sarcastic and can actually understand.) Not even the church vans, on their route to Do What Jesus Would Do in today's world and go to Six Flaggs over Georgia. I mean, some poor kid may succumb to temptation and smoke a doobie if they don't get those kids to a roller coaster fast enough. However, no one stopped. But can I really hurl an accusation? For, I have been in their gas pedal pushing shoes as well and have not stopped. Enflamed by a tragic sense that I needed to get to where ever it was that I was going or the earth could very well blow up. Why stop? Poor schmuck, it was his dumb decision to not buy a reliable car, or gas up, or check his tires or whatever it was that has him on the side of the road. Not to mention the risks. This day and age crazy kids are likely to do anything. There could very well be a gang of kids with blonde hair and blue eyes, who sit around quoting Shelley, and when they have the chance they pose as pedestrians on highways, and cut out the heart (like Mary Shelley did with Percy Shelley's heart) of any who try to help. Dang kids will do anything for cheap, depraved entertainment these days.

Needless to say, I watched the cars. Like some enormously long funeral procession intent on burying the present moment and any kind act for the day. But from out of the zone of wheels turning to everyone's own individual predicament, this small, ugly, half-wreck of a car comes puttering out. Low-riding, with doors not matching the rest of the car. It stops right behind me. An instinct of caution forms for it looks like the type of car that would be a vulture of other cars or people stranded. Out hops this Mexican. He is very young, skinny. Is wearing a wife-beater, even has this skeezy little mustache that Hispanic jovens like to sport as an attempt to claim their much prized Machismo. A gold chain around his neck of some saint. I am sure he kisses it before making a dope sell. But he does the strangest thing. He helps me. He gives my car a momentarily quick fix. He completely shatters my stereotype of Hispanic youth, while probably affirming his own stereotype of us WASPs. "These white kids don't know how to do anything" I am sure he is thinking.
And then he even escorts me to the nearest car shop; follows me in his car which looks like it could use a visit there as well. I do not know this guy. I mean for all I know he could've been a Republican Senator's dark-skinned son. He could've even been in the military and had fought off a whole troop of Al-Qaeda spies. But I'd be willing to bet that none of these are true, and that the chances are pretty high that he was an illegal alien. I hate to stereotype...No, actually, I love to stereotype. I mean, if it isn't apparent from reading this. I stereotype everyone. I can't help it. From SUV drivers to Hispanics, from Church Van Drivers to Brave Fanatics. We all do it. I guess the problem is when we expect everything to actual fall into these stereotypes and leave little room for the good of someone to come out. The question is not whether he was an illegal alien or not. The question is...why should this even matter? He was just this kind individual who did a good deed. Alright, so Mexico could've beaten Brazil in some huge Soccer match that most Americans don't watch and he was ecstatic and loved everyone for a short time (there I go again) or he was merely doing Catholic penance for the shoot out he had at Grande Jose's Pool Hall (I just can't stop and need to do penance myself).

But it strikes me now, out of all those people that saw me broke down on the side of the road, it wasn't the church pastor who stopped or the theological seminary student who pulled over (albeit, if I know seminary students, this was probably due to his inability to fix a car as well). It wasn't the humble grandfatherly farmer, nor the leader of the local Boy Scout troop. No, it was some poor, young, delinquent looking Mexican. Who if I saw at Walmart, I'd assume he was a punk who was probably going to get free movies out of the Redbox machine. And the chances that he was an illegal are pretty high.

Reading the recent news on the Alabama Immigration Law made me remember this incident. Which really has nothing to do with the law. And it has nothing to do with labor rights. But everything to do with humanity, with judging, with the one thing that is beyond the law, compassion, with the idea of who exactly is our neighbor.

I don't know if you made the connection, but if you took this story and stripped it off its modern trappings. It is exactly the Good Samaritan Story retold. I had the fortune of witnessing this age-old plot play out right in front of me. This story makes me ashamed of this law being passed in Alabama and how kids, not different than you or I, are not going to school because they fear being deported. I'm sorry, I see nothing redeemable in this law. It seems very hateful and shows lack of perception. Thank you, state of Alabama, for making more Good Samaritans more and more rare.

A Slacker's Manifesto; A Recollection on Travel and How I was Possibly Working for the Mob.

Now let me reminisce for awhile on an old job that I used to have. I was spoiled outright. And the blame rests solely on this shady boss who lived in Las Vegas and ran the whole operation. I think back and out of all my 4 years as a dutiful employee for this man, this enigma of voice and wallet behind the bank card that I was given, and of those frolicsome years, I had never face-to-face met the man. I knew he was a business man. And from his voice resonating on the other side of the company cell phone, I knew him to be a direct, shrewd businessman who doesn’t waste words nor time on anything. He had the stereotypical choleric nature. Something that bordered on the verge of being feudal and chief-like, though lordly and protective. Early on, I discovered that he was a native of New York City, I think, Brooklyn. He had that shell-like hardball edge to him. Sometimes talked as though he was yelling out of a taxi. And this one deep, deep fact…He was more Irish than half the bumbling barflies you’d ever meet in a pub in Dublin or Cork, even.

All this left me with the sense that I was part of something much deeper than I could understand. Though, I never cared to probe. I never asked questions , I wasn’t supposed to. I didn’t chew the gristle, so to speak, I merely did my job. Calling stores and traveling to them . He would call me…maybe once a month, maybe not. That was the overall supervision I had. I lived free. I worked when I wanted and played much more when I didn’t want to work. It was an ideal job for a gypsy with issues in sloth and without any ties to a lady or a child or both. I wandered the Deep South. -Was this national company’s representative of that area of the US. Sometimes roaming down backroads where chicken trucks were the norm. Sometimes, wandering through the remnants of Dixie’s old cities, decaying next to the river…a Memphis or a New Orleans. Usually always heedful of the state trooper’s flashing lights. I was Huck Finn falling off the raft into strange tributaries.

We grow up thinking that there is such a thing called a “real world” where the structures and life vehicles that hold our parents and grandparents the same must hold us. Even in my current life now, I often hear people talking about a “real world” (whatever they mean by that), as though being a teacher in Korea is not real enough. This job, I held before, was a fantastical dream if one thinks that teaching in Korea is not a job. And yet, it was my first “real” job after the University.

Somehow throughout all the commencement speeches during graduation, throughout all the rallying of motivational education, and the long, arduous slog of toil and yawndom, through papers and textbooks, someone forgot to tell me that in the future it was both physically and economically possible to have a job that allows you to sleep in til 11 everyday. And this I did, well, maybe not every single day, but it certainly had got into a habit.
I make no pretenses. I try not to pretend what I can never be. I will admit, just in case you have made the mistake in assuming me to be one…but, I am not a snob of ambition. A snob of free time? Why, Yes,...of leisure, of tomfoolery and horseplay….with these I turn my nose, (fairly easy when it is resting on a pillow,) up at the rest of the productive world. And instead of going about my business, I aptly forge ahead with all various "businesses" and curiosities and adventures in the world. Seeing, thinking, experiencing alot. But not getting alot done. Some people call it procrastination. I term it motivational brainstorming or just plain soul-searching.


There was this one time that I asked my boss permission if I could take off a month from work and go to Italy. It being the slow time of the year, he said, “Yes.” So I did what any raving traveler full of admiration for high art, inspiring history, and damn good ice cream would do, I went to Italy.

Still another time, I left my job for 4 months. Call it bachelor-cowboy leave if you will.(Equivalent to a maternity leave;what I'll never get to experience). And I moved to New Zealand. I told my boss that I was to be gone a little while without any specificity in regards to when I'll back. He said it was okay. In my head, what was to be an entire year of bachelor leave, of roving manhood and feats of masculine island-tromping, I came back early soon after a car wreck. I decided that working for a job that required little motivational incentive other than taking road trips and folding a few T-shirts was in my best interest, was the best policy as far as goals in life or lack thereof, and the caged reality of this world with its motto. -Man must work for food. And if this is the sad truth, than going on road trips and calling stores whenever I wanted to, was better than breaking my back picking kiwifruit. No matter the location.

I called up my boss from this tiny island not far from Auckland, an island known through the Kiwi lands for its exquisite wine..though tiny it was. And my boss had been there. And all he remarked on was how there was this really good Irish pub nearby. I asked him if he still needed me. He was very excited and said of course. So I told him I would be making my way back home. I had simply to buy a plane ticket, stop for a week in Fiji, that sort of thing. Didn't tell a soul, I was coming home. Surprised everyone including my mother.

But hands down, the most slack that I was given. Was when I thought I could take a 2 month trip to Europe without my boss knowing about it. You know, 2 months to do the essentials...run with the bulls in Pamplona, Participate in the world's largest food fight, go on an ancient medieval pilgrimage, visit the Guinness Brewery, and kiss the Blarney Stone. You know all the stuff you can possibly squeeze into on a vacation to Spain and Ireland. I thought why bother with all the formalities of calling my boss in Vegas, all that bothersome red tape. Just buy a plane ticket and go. It wasn't til I was in Ireland that I checked my messages and found out that it was very important that I be in Mobile, AL in a week. Yikes. So I had to scratch the month long hike and pilgrimage in Northern Spain. I called our secretary, and told her that it was no problem. They never found out that I was making the call from an internet cafe in Cork, Ireland. Nor that that the "no problem" meant buying another round trip ticket (I wanted to come back to Europe for the Tomato Festival in Spain, you see) nor that the "no problem" was a cumbersome travail through 3 countries Ireland, France, and Spain, just to come back to Mobile, Alabama to set up a dad-gum T-shirt display rack on time. But I came back to Alabama and called off a life-changing spiritual pilgrimage to the cathedral where St. Thomas' bones are buried. For I am a good employee.


Maybe 5 months after this incident, it is the slow season, and I am in the Portland area visiting friends for 3 weeks. I decide to check on some stores in this area. You know, peak my head in the door. Do my job. When I found out that there was previously somebody else going around doing the same thing. It just so happened that a group from my company was up in the area checking on things. So I got this call from our secretary and she asked me if I was in the Oregon/Washington area for they too had heard about some long haired blonde guy going around the stores asking about shirts. I was in the wrong, for I had stepped into another's territory. My territory being the Southeast portion of the US, or actually the entire East. The Northwest was another's. I don't know if my boss was really peeved about it. I just knew by this time the economy was taking its toll on our company's expenses. And I was working less and less. Eventually, they only called me when they needed me. And The last time was a year ago. Hence, why I left a fairly interesting job and moved to Korea. Where I go to work everyday at the same time. It's not bad, but sometimes, in between pouting 6 year olds and story books, I think back to a time when I pretty much did whatever I wanted to. I think those days of frolicsome youth are over with. Spent. Gone like the US economy. Fitzgerald was always harkening back to a Gilded age. Perhaps that was my Gilded Age, not of wealth or luxury, but of carefree days, remarkable freedom, perhaps, waste as well.

An Illusory Romance with my Illusory Girlfriend in a Buddhist Monastery

I saw her in the little office of the Monastery, where the few workers will sit on the floor at their computers. The rain was pelting the temple grounds creating this gravelly mud, and this misty haze fell upon the dragon gargoyles on the roofs, fell on the fir trees that ricochets the echoes of Buddhist chants, that falls on enlightenment, whatever that might be.

But I saw her smiling through the doors in between the dripping of the rain. This was not far from a large stone fountain that bubbled up mountain stream water where liberated folk fetch water from the well.

She had a smile that cut mantras in half, that severed ascetics from their starvation, that for a second made us think that life wasn't about suffering. So, as I sauntered by, I peered in, and was met by her gleaming eyes, and she invited me to come in the little room, and sit on the floor with her mother and this monk. She was eating these little cakes that I can't remember what they are called in Korean. I just recall telling everyone that it in Russian, it is what they call "peroshki" I told this to the Templestay worker, a nice kind man that I really wish I could remember his name. And who began to act as a translator, for I quickly saw that this girl and everyone else there didn't speak a bit of English.

There was this monk in full robes sitting on the floor nearby at a little table pouring tea for everyone. His shaven head wanting to shine with the reflection of the sun that wasn't there. He was a young monk, probably younger than me. And I saw that he was entertaining them, or they were entertaining him. Just then, an old man, the father walks in and sits on the ground. The girl speaks something to him, and it was announced to me that she had told her father that I was her boyfriend in jest. All that I could think to respond was a flippant, "Please don't get my hopes up." But I wonder if it was translated properly.

If you understand Korean culture, what little bit I know, you will understand how comical that is. For I know, a handful of foreigners here who have dated Korean girls for years, and all of them contend that the Korean girls never, never introduce them to their parents. As open and affable as Koreans are, I think the older generation is not too keen on the daughters dating foreigners. Especially licentious ambassadors of the anything-goes West.


The old man, this father, sat crossed legged on the floor, his back to us, as though he didn't approve. As though, the situation was serious. Meanwhile, I was trying to converse with this girl, that I couldn't even speak to, that through the gulf of language, of centuries and culture, of ill-fated timing, that I couldn't touch, nor reach.

Through the interpreter she said that it was okay, that she could rely on reading my expressions. But when I tried talking to her, there were just these 2 eyes that scattered light with the confusion, and made understanding impossible.


After that, I saw her around the temple with her family. She knew all the chants precisely. And I liked the way, she shared her umbrella with her mother. But other than that, our interactions were very limited. I learned her English name was Rose. And whenever we were in a meditational ceremony, I could feel her entering the room.
I left the monastery, without saying goodbye, crammed on a bus, as it sloshed through the rain puddles, Even though, the Templestay guy told me that she was interested in me, I couldn't ever think that she was serious. And how could I be serious? I relayed a message to this Templestay guy to tell Rose, yes, like a freaking middleschooler. Something along the lines of, "I really wish you spoke English. You are very beautiful. You distract me and probably all the monks here."

It seems one of the things I found out from that weekend, that I am bent on one illusion after another. Intent on mirage attachments, not just her, which leads as all these monks would agree, to a very addicting sense of suffering. A ridiculous, comic suffering almost. But nevertheless, a suffering.

My Turn on the Drum

Eventually, I was allowed to strike the drum as well.

Marching in the Parade

Because I had my own lotus lantern, which I made earlier that day, I could march in the parade. I didn't realize that til the very end.

Dancing at the Lotus Lantern Festival

This was after the Lotus Lantern Festival in front of a Buddhist Temple, these musicians were playing and people were dancing. I got swept into it too.

Creating Little Artists

Now there was this auction a few weeks ago, back home, before the wild rampage of the tornado, in a place and with people I hold dear. The auction was to benefit a charity work in Honduras. And it is very common at this auction to put up any skill, or any thing, really. A talent or an idea that can be auctioned off, and you can place a bid...all proceeds help to support another idea, where some of these folks go and build houses for the impoverished people of Honduras. And that's one of the loveliest things about this community, each brings to it, something...whether a skill, or an idea, a service, whatever, and nothing is despised. And the things you think are worth something maybe aren't so much, while the things that are little or subtle, they can be worth much more. You never know. All are included. And things can be flipped in a cyclone of worth, letting us know, perhaps, what's really important.




Well, I'm away from this auction hall that takes place every year, and I couldn't help but think that I had a small army of Korean children at my command. So maybe I first thought up the idea as a sort of joke. Well, at least a cute thought. But I offered my auction far across the distant seas, in the form of a bunch of scintillating artwork from a mass of Korean kindergarteners, that the winner of the bid could hang on their fridge, better yet, entirely cover their fridge, and even submerge their whole kitchen in crayon creations from an elementary school in South Korea.



I really didn't expect much. But then I got wind that the winner of the bid was one of the wealthier people of the community, a personality that from all appearances, a practical minded individual, not big on the messy doodlings of children. But he won the bid, and now, all these works were to go to him, and I had no idea how much the bid was for. It worried me. For what I thought would only draw a few dollars and some cute laughter. Now I wasn't so sure.





Ontop of that, I had another difficulty. For Asian children are very big on imitation. They like to copy and duplicate. And they are spectacularly talented in that area. Some of them have supreme artistic craftmanship. But if I just told them to draw anything, whatever they felt. Maybe one or two would be innovators, the rest would follow suit and I would have 50 drawings of a house with maybe Pokemon beside a tree. I didn't want that. I had to orchestrate diversity. Which is a funny sentence to write, much less do. I've already done what I could in encouraging originality. But its something that I've noticed that I'll hit walls with. So I needed a plan.





There is this game that I've played with some of my classes. Its made up of these cards. Half of them have written on them names of nouns like "A Happy Clown" or "The Big Dinosaur". And the other half of them have verbs and another noun. Like "Wears a Funny Hat" or "Likes to Eat Flowers." Now, typically, for you grammarians, the Subject cards had the appropriate match in the Direct Object cards. For instance..."The Pig" matches "Plays in the Mud". Or "His Grandpa" goes with "Drives an Old Car." But I never played this game with them correctly. I always wanted them to think outside the box. I'd switch it up. Makes things a bit fun. Why can't The Pig Drive an Old Car? And why can't His Grandpa Play in the Mud. I've had kids put their foot down and try to argue with me that these are incorrect and did not fit. But I'd stand my position, that in the world of imagination anything was possible. And because they are still children, it wouldn't take them long before they caught on and learned to dwell inside a world were such things happened. They began to make up wacky sentences too.




So with this art project, I passed out these cards that were all mixed up. And told them to draw whatever sentence they got. To give their work a lift from just an ordinary picture that they all had to draw, and definitely to make all their drawings different. So what was produced was a diverse set of highly surreal drawings or paintings of big dinosaurs playing soccer, mothers eating flowers, frogs wearing dresses, fat hippos shopping at the grocery store, babies driving old cars, happy clowns with 8 legs, Grandpas with very big teeth and so forth. And now, I just mailed them all off today. And somehow, I think they may rival Pollock or any other modern or postmodern artist. You could probably put the works up in a Museum and convince the masses that Picasso did them on his death bed and was his statement of his return to childhood.

My Ride in the Back of A Police Car; The Search for the House of Poets

I had everything that would prelude a sublime quest. The sun on high, immaculate blue skies, the awakening of spring, a breeze in the air that painted everything with this frolicsome spirit, and an endless world city with easy train rails that trailed underneath it, spouting out the questing explorer at countless spots and stops. I spotted on the northeastern part of a map of the city Seoul this place, called the "Korean House of Poets" and I thought that if there was ever a place that I could possibly belong to it would be down past the gate, and across the threshold of whatever this meant. I tend to have this inclination in my spare time. Find some random, curious place full of wonder and go and step out into the streets and see if my footsteps can find it. But even more so if that place held some sort of personal draw to me. And this title did.




So, I hopped on a bus zipping into Seoul and then descended into the subways. And emerged out in the sunlight and hit the pavement walking down the same busy street seeing what was there. But it eluded me. It was a hidden, unattainable fortress of serenity among the high rise aparments and frantic traffic. Besides, all things poetic are unattainable. And I really didn't know what I was looking for exactly. It could be anything from a library, or an academy of writers, to a cemetery, the exalted patrons of the earth buried into the mountains. Or maybe it was a real house where furrowed-browed poets dwelled, their dishevelled hair gleaming in a sunbeam.



It could be a strange strand of a martial arts school full of dreamy-eyed fighters who compose haikus while they break boards with their feet. They are trained to slit open a man's, no, better yet, a woman's heart with only a feather quill. They sit on the edge of a stream, instead of meditating, they daydream and contemplate the depths of the universe. They climb up waterfalls and embark into the clouds where they, in stealth and in passion, fight back the mists and the darkness and steal the light from the stars and on returning they string a a few words together. -I hope they had some one to do the dishes, the laundry, and pay the bills for them.



My head was full of such themes, when i didn't notice if I passed it or not. I kept on looking where the map indicated where it should be. But no where. There was this ancient temple standing on a hill, but I searched it, it was vacant and used to be the sight of the Eastern entrance into the city of Seoul in the 1400s. I asked a number of people nearby but no one knew. And then I walked into the police station, I decided that if anyone knew, they would. And traveling in various places around the world, asking the police can be one of the stupidest things one can do. You never know where you'll wind up or what you'll lose. In Russia, you avoid the police at all costs.




But no one in this police office could tell me where this place was located. But it confounded them. There were 4 officers in there, poring over maps, consulting who knows who on the phone. I think it gave them something to do, or they felt it a challenge of sorts. Just then 2 of them walked outside and motioned over to their car, and asked through mannerisms if I wanted to take a ride while they looked for this nebulous "House of Poets". Or at least, I reckoned that was what they meant.




They opened the back door for me and didn't get me that spill about watching my head. The first thing, I noticed was that there was no cage that seperated me from their throats. Then I noticed a part of an umbrella that I could easily get my hands on, handcuffed or not, and probably bust out the back window with. It made me think that Seoul's not all that dangerous. Like 10,000 Mayberrys stacked ontop of each other.





And then we cruised through these backroads, down these narrow streets almost alleywaus that winded up hills around all the apartment buildings. One of there names was "Moon" and the other was "Yun". Moon was about my age. He had a whistle around his neck. Yun was a bit older. Maybe middle-aged. They both knew a few more English words than I knew Korean. But communication was nearly impossible. I was having a thrilling time. And I hoped it lasted longer than just a short ride. I also, had this secret wish that they'd get some crazy call and they'd have to carry me with them as they chased down some criminal. But for the meantime, they'd turn at certain roads and I had no idea where we were.





Eventually, they came to another little police officer post. A door leading into a tiny office. One of them got out and went in, I guess to ask them about this place. But, I began to think that maybe there was something more in their ultra nice gesture of being both a taxi service and a tour guide for me. I think that they got some kind of kick out of driving a Westerner in the back of their car. It was as though they were showing me off. You know, they drove past this university area where all the students were walking about, their books in hand, and I could've swore that they slowed down. Okay maybe so as not to hit anybody, but also because they wanted to be a spectacle. You know get people talking. "Hey, did you see that blonde dude in the back of the police car. I wonder what he did. That's the way of our policemen. Nothing gets past them. Not even those with English speaking, main world-power passports."




And perhaps, the stop in front of the other police station was not for directions, maybe it was to brag to the other branch. The one that walked in, thrusts out his chest and scratches himself, "Boys, quit picking your nose and see what we picked up over in OUR jurisdiction. Yep, caught him embezzling 1.2 million dollars cash, he had 3 suitcases of cocaine in the trunk of his car; he was smuggling a Russian prostitute who is supposedly related to Putin. He had bodyguards all around him. 5 of them each about 300 pounds. But they were easily handled. Got a bruise on my shoulder, that's all. So what have you guys been up to? Eating donuts I see."




It was funny, when driving by people. I looked at them pleasantly. As though, we were all going on a picnic. I don't know what people thought. And not too long after riding around, we found the spot. There was this big black gate with some sort of house behind it. The both of them got out and I tried to follow only to be reminded that I was in the backseat of a police car; there were no handles on the inside of the backdoors. So one of the cops assisted me. The "House of Poets" was a museum for Korean poets. But it was closed on the weekend. It looked sort of stuffy and narrowly pedantic on the other side; not how I imagined it, of course. One of the cops pounded on the big black gate for me. But no one answered. Some one was in the middle of writing a couplet or maybe doing something tragic like sticking one's head in the oven to open the door.




The policemen then offered me a ride back to their station, which I was hoping they would for I was so zigzagged back from where I knew where I was at, that I would've been lost if left there. So we rode back and with a bunch of "Kamsa Hamnidas" and bowing I left them, deeming the Korean police to be the nicest in the world.