Not knowing the future has pained humankind since it's humble beginning.  If you have ever seen the movie Krull, you'll remember the man who traded one eye for the power to see the future.  But the dark lord who made this deal with him played a trick.  The only future seeing power he granted him was the power to see his own death, thus creating a truly tragic creature who we know as the Cyclops. 

History abounds with such marvelously tragic stories.  If one examines the present, there are many parallels to be found, and the future promises to hold abundant fountains of such tales.  It's the stuff of life ... the texture of the magnificent tapestry which drapes over our tiny speck of a world and keeps us all warm in our dreams. 

Just the other day, ole' A.D. Pearson and I were on a ship, being rocked by the crazy eastern waves.  It was the 12 hour overnight Car Ferry from Cheju to Busan. We were holed up in the video arcade, trying not to stagger onto the kimche splat on the floor and trying to avoid all the drunk old men who seemed to want to gay us up in the bathroom. We had a pitcher of beer and a tape deck which was either rocking  Rolling Stones Exile on Main Street or Fugazi's Repeater ... anyhow, Pearson, in usual nutty form, was lazing about in his sleeping bag lain across a row of orange vinyl loungers and telling me that he's more comfortable in his dreams than he is in reality.  He said that he gets that comforting sense of 'home' when he's dreaming.  I realized that for those who travel on the loooong trip ... and if you're there, then you know what I mean; the human dream-head is like a turtle's shell; It's the home that we carry in our heads and tuck into at night regardless of where we are ... my home is in my head. 

The Fugazi lyrics went something like this ...

Fugazi was a beautiful band.  The essence of youth energy focused against the darkness of establishment society.  So pure.  Burning so hot and bright. So fast and impermanent.  I saw them play in their latter years, in Hotlanta! ... Atlanta, Gerogia, on the Red Medicine tour. It was too late.  Their energy was diminished.  It was like going to a dead museum ... stuffed animals, posed in scenes of their glorious past.  Interesting, but not so invigorating.  So it goes.       

Here I sit, in a very posh Haeundai PC room.  My head is blazing with thoughts of the pastpresentfuture.  Korean language ... gwa-go ... hyun-jae ... mi-rae ...

This pc room is big and nice.  Someone has poured a lot of money into the glowing orange light fixtures.  There are display cases embedded in black lacquer columns,  filled with red, yellow blue and white colored rocks, and white frosted plastic tree branches with leaves.  There are also columns holding bubbling water filled fish tanks with fake plastic fish.  Very cute!  The walls are blue with accent lighting and japanese style black lacquer lattices.

Earlier today, I was having lunch with John Bocskay ... Pusanweb Straight Dope columnist.     We were at the VIP western style buffet restaurant in Seomyeon.  It's one of those places where people mob the buffet lines, piling up plate after plate of bland mediocre institutional-large-quantity style food. It's one of those places where my eyes swell bigger than my stomach.  It's got good stuff, smoked salmon, a taco and burrito assembly line with guacamole and cheese and sour cream.  We talked about a lot of things, mostly women and how much we long to be with them constantly, yet avoid all of the emotional responsibilities which lead to so much mental anguish in the mind of a young thoughtless man.  We talked about cars and industrial society.  We talked about the uniforms that the server girls wore and how they accentuated their calves. We talked about the food.  We ! wanted coffee from the serve-yourself coffee makers, but they were empty.  Then we paid for our food ... 28,000 and change for two lunch buffets.  Then we went across the street and looked at the Harley Davidson motorcycles at the Harley Dealership.  We looked at a shiny new bike which would set the buy back 36,000,000 won.  There was a biker-gal their with British-Mod style regalia, tight jeans and an alligator skin chain wallet sticking out of her back pocket.  She looked at us like we were grease monkeys, then she put on her helmet and sunglasses and revved up her cute Honda which I'm guessing was somewhere between 250cc and 400cc and she was off. 

We walked down the busy Seomyeon street drooling at the beautiful women and talking about the character from the Joseph Heller novel Catch 22 ... Dr. Daneeka.  I haven't read the novel, but Bocskay did.  He told the the story of Doc Daneeka which went something like this ... There's a doctor who has to log flight hours, but doesn't want to go on the dangerous flight missions.  So he has a pilot write his name down on the flight log, while Doc stays back at base, out of harm's way.  But then the pilot who was nice enough to forge the Doc's name on the flight logs commits suicide by purposely crashing his airplane.  Everyone thinks that Doc Daneeka went down in the plane and is dead.  He tells them he isn't dead, but no one believes him.  (John laughs at the way the military personnel can't accept the disparity between reality and paper.)  They write a letter to Doc Daneeka's wife to te! ll her that he's been shot down and killed.  Doc Daneeka writes a letter to his wife to tell her that he's alive.  And she thinks that there's some sick fuck writing letters to her in Doc Daneeka's name as a part of a twisted joke. 

While we sat perched on the marble subway abutment, some Korean college students approached us and asked us to fill out survey sheets for their class.  I was immediately rude and refused.  But Bocskay, ever the nice guy, accepted.  I sat there feeling like a curmudgeon.  So I grabbed a survey sheet, clipboard and pen and began writing.  The survey asked for my name and I wrote 'Kong Long'.  Then it asked my job and I wrote, ' Eros video star'.  It asked what my job duties were and I wrote, ' Making love to beautiful women in front of a video camera.'.  Then it asked if I liked Korean food and I wrote ' Yes'.  Then it asked if I could read the Korean letters and I wrote ' Yes', although in hindsight, I think I should have written ' ³»'.  Then it asked me a question I can't remember and I wrote ' Yes'.  Then it asked me to sum up! my feelings about Korea in a single word and I wrote ' Easy'.  The the students asked us to take a picture in their cutesy way, and I put my motorcycle helmet on with the face shield down, because I'm sick of being the anonymous guy in the photo like the sad fellows inhabiting shrink wrapped new picture frames at K-mart. The name of the professor who sent these inquisitive young students out on the street to pester foreigners who are outside trying to enjoy the beautiful spring weather as D-- L----.  D--, I hope a mosquito flies into your inner ear for the duration of an 8 hour sleepless night this summer and buzzes your brains out.  Next time, be cool for once in your life and try not to involve innocent  hardworking people in your devious teaching schemes during their off hours. Eat hell you bad bitch! 

Earlier, before lunch, John and I were looking at the Poetry Plus page on Busan web.  I'd noticed how my show-closing performance wasn't on there, even though it is listed as a complete video of the night. I questioned my omission on the snazzy new Poetry Plus 11 video display and I was told that ' the pleasantry police found my performance abrasive and unpleasant'.  In defense of the Pusanweb, my act was waaaay to long to download onto their page, a technical problem which was totally reasonable.  But in defense of me, I want to explain the background context of my performance.  I dragged my Juno 60 polyphonic analogue synthesizer onto the stage and conjured up the chaotic sounds from beyond in order to offset the words of the poem I performed which was entitled ' GIRL, YOU GOT VOODOO TITTIES AND A BLACK MAGIC PUSSY'.  It's true that the verse contained words which might ! be considered a little 'blue'.  But that poem was an expression of the emotional anguish I've been suffering at the hands of a truly psychologically damaged woman who was present at the Poetry Plus 11 reading.  I tried the marry the words with the noise in an attempt to avoid addressing this individual directly and publicly from the stage, which is a very un-cool thing to do to anyone.  I was also afraid that if she caught on to the subject of my poem, she would fly off the handle and punch, bite, slap, head-butt and scratch my face as she has on several other occasions.  Since last September, my blood on her hands has been her truth.  From her I have learned that there is nothing on Earth more frustrating than being physically brutalized by someone who you can't fight back by virtue of their gender and physical stature.   Plus, rocking the stage with G.I. ! Sean Marvin on bass, two-fisted-and-fightin' Ben on the Drums, Bocskay on guitar and freestyles by Pearson on the mike was just fun ... it's too bad no one gets to see us go ... I'm not too shy to tell you that I was dancing on the amplifier and playing that keyboard with my feet y'all! 

Looking at the webpage on his shitty power-mac laptop, I said to John, " Good gods man!  I'm being historically revised out of existence!".  We laughed and went for lunch. 

Pastpresentfuture. 

Later in the evening, I wound up at A.D. Pearson's house, sitting on the couch and drinking a beer.   We were talking about the review in either the Korean Herald or the Korea Times, of Jimmer's new book A Day In The Life.   We've both read the book.  He read the review and I haven't had the chance yet.  But someone else told me that the reviewer panned the book.  The other person and Pearson both told me that the reviewer said it relied too heavily on pop culture sub references and inside jokes between friends.  We both thought this assessment was accurate. But Pearson said that the reviewer was also very generous in the way he treated the novel as a legitimate work of literature.  A strange balance was struck.  I was at Jimmer's book signing a few weeks earlier.  We toasted champagne and danced around the decapi! tated head of a pig with a chun won stuck in the mouth, Korean style, in order to bless his new business endeavor.  It was the most fun I've ever had at a book signing.

Here lies a review of a review told by word-of-mouth.

Mask dancing is a popular Korean pastime.  The bizarre drama's of everyday life are pantomimed in an exaggerated fashion.    

The digital future is frightening to me, because it is  so accepted and so easy to manipulate.  The digital presence of a person can be wiped out of existence in a matter of hours.  There is great danger in relying on the digital medium as a means of recording history.  The cyclops not only sees his future death ... but the future removal of his death record from existence. The what?  The who?  These things we cling to ... sub-reference, allegory, verbal history through storytelling ... methods of tying ourselves into the tapestry.  The thought of being dis-incorporated into the oblivion which lies apart from this tapestry is terrifying. 

Dear reader, here is a neologism ... a new word, I submit for your judgment ... your consideration ... acknowledgment ....

                                                       ANACHRONARCHY

Please consider the roots of this new word: 

Anachronism ... something displaced from it's proper time ... like a digital watch in a scene from the film Braveheart. 

Anarchy ... disorder ... lawlessness ... [aidsf lkasjk as;dfiuwo4jfAWOIEj KJR $

Together they conjure up images in my mind of a conceptual bomb ... a non-physically-violent bomb if you will.   A weapon to take time away from those who would those who would try to control it for the people of the world.  As I see it, time is the only true currency in the world.  It's the equalizer which sets all humans on an even playing field.  Who on earth lives more or less than 24 hours in one day?  The poor man lives 24 hours.  The rich woman lives 24 hours.  The kid with no legs lives 24 hours in one day.  The old guy in the nursing home, hooked up on life support and oxygen lives 24 hours in one day.  Time is the true money ... and it scares the shit out of power mongers that everyone has the same amount of time to live in a day.  That's why the rulers take measures to control the people's time.  That's why greedy business men want to own their worker! 's time. Time + Action = Output = Profit. Try to deny it. 

When they tell you to use a new computer, use a pencil or a typewriter.  When they tell you to buy a new mini-disc player, find an old record player.  When they tell you to buy a new pair of nike's, put on some old-man style wing tips.  When they tell you to live in a high rise apartment, rent a mansion style house.  When they tell you to wear cosmetics, don't.  When they tell you to watch the new blockbuster movie, watch a black & white.  When they tell you to drink alcohol, drink water and smoke natural herbs.  When they tell you to bow down, rise up and dance a funky dance.  When they tell you to send email, write a letter on paper. When they tell you to take an airplane, take a boat.  When they tell you to go quickly, go slowly.  Choose where and how to spend you time.   

I think it was Ray Bradbury who said, " When they give you lined paper to write on, turn it sideways and write through the lines.". 

I only know a few other universal truths.  Everybody breaths air ... NO2 I think ... nitrogen dioxide.  Everybody comes from their mother's womb.  So, we all come from the same place and we all need to suck the same air.  Those simple facts should be enough to destroy all illusions of superiority/inferiority between people and create a natural atmosphere of peace on Earth between all humankind.  I have a sad feeling that these facts won't end war on Earth yet, but I'm still hoping.  I won't attempt to dodge the 'naive' bullet.

Anybody who uses violence against another human to achieve any sort of material gain is an asshole. 

Anybody who revises history as a means of achieving material gain or legal vindication or self righteousness in the eyes of their family is an asshole too.

What does it mean to be an asshole?  To be an asshole is to be a carrier of darkness, perpetual untruth and negativity to the people who surround you. 

When you throw a paper cup from McDonalds into the grass at a park, you are a sort of minor asshole. When you beat someone up at a bar because you are drunk and you don't like the way they looked at you, you are a big asshole.  When you order your troops to gun down unarmed villagers you are a huge asshole.  You drag the world down towards hell.  This equation:

X (motive)  x  V (violence, transgression) = H (hellification of Earth) holds true in a lot of situations. 

And in 'hell' I don't necessarily mean the biblical sense ... not literally, but a sort of parallel ... a dark world of doomed aspirations, hopelessness and rampant nihilism.   That's what the 'good fight' is against.  The 'good fight' is larger than any one religion or any one philosophy.  The 'good fight' is larger than any single person, any single artistic medium, any single invention.  The 'good fight' is more important to human kind than the wheel or fire. Anybody in any country, of any racial heritage can engage in the 'good fight'.  The 'good fight' is a battle against suffering. Buddha says suffering is caused by desire.  That's big, dear readers.  That's so heavy ... heavier than the fattest Buddha.  It could take several lifetimes to comprehend that statement.   I'm still sumo wrestling with what it means and how it applies to me.    But enough of eastern religion.  That's another big bag in and of itself. 

Here's a story in closing.  It was told to me by a 24 year old Fijian man named Caminellie Tunevaillieu ... who goes by the nickname Cams.  He was a strange fellow who I met and hung out with daily for two months on the southern main Fijian island of Viti Levu.  He was young and poor and covered in bizarre growths all over his body, like hundreds of big black knobs.  He was also covered in blue ink tattoo ... of the variety that me and my friends back in the states call 'prison tat'.  The 'prison tat' covered most of his body and a lot of it was text.  One of the phrases I read from his bicep was ' Expect the Unexpected'.  There were a lot of paragraphs on his body about how he was misunderstood.  He was thin and said that his body couldn't hold water.  He wore the best cloths he had and kept his hair neatly trimmed even though he spent most of his day in the village garden patch and serving various tourist guests.    He even wore a gold chain and cologne.  One day he told me one of the greatest stories I have ever heard.  It started when he told me that he'd seen the Golden Gate Bridge and Alcatraz in San Francisco  the Panama Canal and the Statue of Liberty in New York. It went something like this: 

I was drinking with my friend.  He turned to me and said, " Hey Cams, do you want to go to New Zealand tonight?".  I was drunk and shocked and I asked, " How can we go to New Zealand tonight?". 

He said, " I know a crewman of a container ship leaving tonight.  If we give him $200 (Fiji Dollars = about $75 US), and bring enough water and biscuits for three weeks and some smoke for the ship's crew, we can stowaway in the container. Travel to New Zealand Columbian container style.  Once we get there we can pick fruit on a farm.  My girlfriend and baby are already there.". 

I wasn't doing anything at the time but drinking and not working, so I said, " Okay.".  I went home and got what money I had.  We met back up and got the water, the biscuits and the smoke.  Then we put our money together and went to the ship at the docks in Suva (Fiji's capital city). 

We gave the crewman our money and he told us, " Just hang out in the container.  They're going to search the ship when its near New Zealand. If you get caught, I don't know about you.  If you get caught, whatever you do, don't jump into the water.  Six boys died from jumping overboard a few months ago.  It's better to get caught than to jump overboard. 

So for three weeks we hung around in the container.  We only ate enough biscuit and water to stay alive, pissing and shitting in a bucket which our friend would dump into the ocean for us.  Sometimes he would bring us a little food and we would trade him smoke for himself and the rest of the crew.   

When we got close to New Zealand, a customs ship docked and began to search the ship with dogs.  They found us and chased us out of the container.  The dogs were chasing me, barking and snarling like the hounds of hell, and I climbed a number of container ladders to get away from them.  They caught us and took us into ship's custody.  When we reached the mainland, my friend used what money he had to bribe the officials to let him go free.  He's in New Zealand now, picking fruit and living with his girlfriend and his baby. I didn't have enough money to bribe the officials.  They told me I could go to jail in New Zealand and wait to be deported, or stay on the ship for four months and make a trip up to San Francisco, down through the Panama Canal, up to New York City Harbor and then back through the Panama Canal, to Fiji where the officials would be waiting to charge me. I decided to take the four month trip on the boat. 

And that's what we did.  We sailed up through the pacific, to San Francisco, where I saw the Golden Gate Bridge and Alcatraz with my own eyes.  Then we went through the Panama Canal and up to New York.  There I saw the Statue of Liberty with my own eyes.  I was never allowed off the boat.  I just sat around, watching the crew work, smoking and growing my beard.  They fed me with their food.  Then we sailed back down through the Panama again and to Fiji.  When we got home, the authorities were waiting to take me into custody.  I met them at the dock, smiling, with a very long beard.  They took me to the judge and he fined me $2000 Fiji dollars ( about $750 US dollars).  My mom gave me $1000 and I didn't pay the rest, so I had to serve five months in Fijian prison.  But that was alright, because serving time in Fiji isn't so bad.  I've got a lot of friends in there and it's actually fun most of the time.    It was the greatest trip of my life to see those famous places that I never would've been able to see any other way. Three weeks ... four months ... five months  ... and worth every second. I saw them with my own eyes.".   

And then we smiled and had a smoke together, listening to a Peter Tosh tape on his small cassette deck.  I realized that hearing his story with my own ears was the reason that I am driven to go to places like the Fiji Islands.  I don't know if it was a true story, but I choose to believe it was. 

Later that night, on the overnight car ferry from Cheju to Busan, ole' A.D. and me ventured out on the deck.  There was a full moon hanging over our huge little boat like a giant single glowing eye.  The moon had a shimmering halo around it, and the clouds under it looked like cheeks and a mouth ... I saw the cyclops staring down at me from the sky, smiling a tragic smile and I felt the future as if it were the wind blowing at my back.  Then Pearson farted and we laughed. 

ANACHRONARCHY IN THE R.O.K.  ... PEACE TO ALL PEOPLE OF THE EARTH PLANET

M.R. Bradie 02 Ano Populai

          archmagma@hotmail.com