A man, a photo hobbyist. Semi-conscious of his word cloud, he posts with frequency and familiarity on a series of related issues. He brags about the decadent cost of certain lenses, he plays sheepish, “It’s honestly more than my (first/last) car! And for taking pictures! I’m insane, I know.”
In this way, he develops a habitual sense of himself, as a self. He can say, “I am the kind of man who photos in the early morning hours,” and this sets a tone and style for many of his other habits, for the breakfasts he desires to the kind of hood-eyed tiredness he brings to the later hours of his work day. When bored or feeling loosed from any concrete desire, he turns to his hobby, the “I am the kind of man who photos”, when feeling void in his art, it becomes a becomes a re-affirmation, “I am the kind of man who photos doors or frames up urban texture”, as if he had forgotten what his desires even smelled like anymore.
When time comes, a dear acquaintance takes the bait, sees him as he sees himself in these abyssal moments, as a word cloud, as a habit and a hobby, see that his birthday has arrived, needs to get him a gift, a coffee lens travel mug. “Oh my god, this is exactly his kind of thing, isn’t it, it’s perfect for him!” they say, and schedule its delivery.
⌚ ⌚ ⌚ Time Passes ⌚ ⌚ ⌚
The photo hobbyist, the photographer, seated in the midst of his acquaintances. They are eating sandwiches on thick slices of baked bread, they are all, more or less, the kind of people who delight in crafted and expensive staple foods, the photographer pulls out his camera case, it has a treated wire strap with a comfortable shoulder-pad, it looks improvised, made to look circumstantial, like found in a war zone by a war photographer. He pulls out a lens, stubby with details on its side, expensive with a hesitant, an obscure but subtly imposing brand name. Twists the end, opens it. The others look to themselves with concern, the mechanisms inside of a lens are very delicate, the lenses themselves are fragile and slightest dust is enough to mark a photo, wind can swirl up and throw sand and dirt inside the lens, cause grinding, but instead of care, he takes from the small picnic table a thermos, steaming thermos and he pours in scalding tea.
They didn’t know it was a travel mug, that it was not a lens at all, he fooled them into thinking it was with his elaborate gestures, his carelessness. The photographer laughs, their freaked-out faces mean they know he is the kind of man who loves his camera, he loves his photos, they take him at his essence, he is the kind of man who takes photographs.
One badass kid shows up in the neighborhood, she’s mysterious and nobody knows what is her agenda. Our protagonist is named young shik, he is the son of a kind business man who owns the main business in town, an insurance company. Young shik meets the badass kid, her name is amanda, he goes for a bikeride, they wordlessly engage in a race that turns exciting, blistering through city streets and swerving in and out of cars at SUCH high speeds. At the end of it, the kid, she says, “Hey, nice riding. You want in on the job?” she’s gonna rob an office park. The protagonist says “No way! Are you insane?” and she response. “You got the legs. Let me know when you’re ready to do the real thing.”
The protagonist follows the badass kid’s exploits in the newspaper, heist to heist. He overhears from his father at the table, his dad is talking about how bad it is for business to have all this theft and robbery and how the cops can’t catch the first robber and now there’s two. Young shik is upset; that was supposed to be him, it was his riding, he finds amanda and her accomplice, toby, “You want to ride with us? Prove it.” They do a daring heist.
They do a series of heists. The town grows hysterical, “How horrible, we are being attacked by bike gangs!” Young shik’s dad asks for some emergency measures to help police catch the criminals, and bicycles are banned, “It’s only for a little while and only until we catch these bad guys.” he says, supposedly a comfort to young shik who is not furious but pleased at this latest success. A boy is biking in contravention of the law and he is shot in a “mistaken identity”, one of the three, perhaps toby, he says “Mistaken identity, bull-shit, they targeted him for the same reason it appears: because of his bicycling.” The crew decide to go on a revenge spree and they find a policeman who is working as a surveillance boss at a big company store and they circle round him, they are so menacing, each of them nominally individual, young shik has a chain, amanda has a bat and toby has a gun, they menace him for a bit and hit him and tell him they have a message: “It’s war-time.” They draw a bicycle on his face for emphasis, in permanent marker.
Back at the compound, the unwatched corner of a service warehouse, amanda and toby and young shik have a tremendous fight about what to do, young shik wishes they had killed the cop, but amanda says thats stupid and ultraviolent, toby says they’re all fuckers, top to bottom, it isn’t the cops fault because they’re all fuckers, young shik asks what they should do, amanda doesn’t know, toby doesn’t know, but he says, “we should get these fuckers, all of them, top to bottom” he mutters.
They do some planning, young shik hears his dad say the insurance company is on a razor’s edge right now because of the disturbances, “investors are getting really antsy” so the plan is afoot. They are going to do three things: 1) start a protest against the police for their bike policies and their fascist attacks on bikers 2) rob a number of rich people of extremely expensive things, 3) start a lot of arson fires around town at the companies, including their own warehouse 4) smash up an insurance company truck and steal a lot of documents including certain policies.
All the kids in town are out for a protest, the robberies start, they are being done by amanda and toby, then young shik starts some fires at companies, the police can’t detect anything, their ability to control the mob is getting out of control, they try to catch all kinds of kids but each one extracts the maximum energy and difficulty in its capture, exhausting the police, causing broken cars and big mistakes everywhere, also it is v.v. slow and they can barely catch anyone. In the madness, the insurance documents need to get the hell out of town, ASAP, but it’s also the worst possible moment, young shik, amanda and toby converge on the van and rob it in the middle of the swarming bikes. “This town is completely out of control!” the van driver says, he is crying very hard in frustration and confused fear.
The documents show fraud and abuse on the part of young shik’s father and all the company presidents, they don’t have any money after all the insurance claims, the businesses go bankrupt because they can’t get paid, people move away from town, devastated. Young shik’s dad tries to explain to him why he was a criminal, “This game is bigger than any law, I didn’t make the rules, I was just trying to provide for you and your mom and your grandmother.” but young shik doesn’t care, “Get the fuck out of my face.” he tells his dad. Young shik’s mom moves away and so does most of the rest of the whole town, except all the kids with their bikes. Amanda and young shik and toby meet in one of the old warehouses, they display all the expensive things they stole and then they smash them up, smashing up diamonds and crystal glasses and jewels.
At the end of the movie, the bike kids have taken over the city government. Amanda is the mayor. She says “Let’s go for a ride” and they show up at a neighboring town, looking innocent but they are planning to rob something.
Spent an hour setting my tent on an absurd tree-less beach, just north of Seongsan Ilchubang a construction that can be called poor, of which I am quite proud, which I am also half-sure will not make the night, in the passage of this time, all the kitchens have closed, for miles and I am left to subsist on beer, taken in a terrifyingly nice mom bar, I smell like a gasoline-soaked horse and I am dressed like a murderer.
Translation of Mao Zedong’s Reply to Comrade Guo Moruo
Wind and thunder burst above the earth,
there heaped in refined and raw white bones.
Fool bastard fucker monk could be trained,
Still ghosted demons kept a lust for havoc.
A golden monkey heaved his massive club,
smashed heaven, and shook loose the dust.
Today, scream out for Sun Wukong,
because the demons are coming back.
went to Hongdae for pride but it was over by the time my flight got back, it was a messy drunk spool around and everyone flitted off and it was me and lara for hours in better and worse dance clubs until the sun came up, I was so happy spilling out into the morning sun shine, now I’m home and I’m so happy and I feel so good, the only thing that can capture it is this mistake picture.
Ants hurrying into mouths, through beards onto fingers. First spits and it clings to the cave wall, a sticky trail with pace matched by the one on Second’s chest.
Silence interrupted only by frustrated grunts and unexpected resistances. Some large animal snorts.
Grubby fingers leave hair, move to floor, more dirt crammed under the yellowed nails. One is black.
The howl of longing from a woman outside does not increase their urgency, but their surety and the deliberateness of their movements.
Spit mixes with mud and it dries on their skin as a long while goes by without movement. Second shifts and the mud cracks, flaking, they look into each other’s eyes without language.
Six passes of the bird across the opening of the cave and then two passes of the dog. The bird was whooping past and around the hill overtop but the dog was trying to sneak in and gobble some food and only the fire kept it beyond.
“This hair is too long,” the one of them said, he pulled it out and giggled, the other one, he squealed. The two were layed out on a pile of cut grass “And this hair is too short,” said the one and pushed hard on where it sprouted with his rough fingertip until the other one burst into howls and started to wrestle the hand away. The other one, his name sounded like Foal, he was husky, and furry from his burst cheekbone to his bent heel, the one, name sounding like Brask, slightly younger, he was husky too and furry too, with a longer and uncurly beard and with shorter hair, not Foal’s grimy, hard mane, but more short sided with a blossom on top. Foal had got the hand away from poking him in his belly and was trying to wrassle Brask over, but his foot was just off the matted grass and onto the floor and his toes were slipping on the peeling slime of moss. “Get over,” Foal huffed through his teeth, mock angry, “Get on ovERRRR” he tried to bellow but his weak ankle slipped his foot on the moss and he fell on his face, with Brask toppling on him, arm free, Foal face down, Brask atop, his ass on Foal’s head, Brask the heavier, face up like a turtle, his head resting on Foal’s ass.
“Try to move, just a little bit,” said Brask. “Just try to move and I’ll try to stay on top and I won’t touch the ground.” There was no trying, exhausted Foal was face in the grass and ass on the head, ”Just try to move out from under.” Brask wiggled on top of Foal’s head, the greasy pile of hair sticking to his sweaty skin and Foal moaned.
“I can’t move, you’re too fat for me and you’ve crushed me and I’m dead now.” Brask shook his hair puff to tickle Foal. “I’m dead and no longer ticklish, you can do it all you want, I feel nothing.” He lay for another moment, just long enough for both to know it, then bellowed again and tried to buck and throw Brask off of him, Brask curled up his legs and arms like an egg and giggled and was nearly thrown, and nearly reached out for the straw or the wall but grabbed instead at the Foal’s thick legs and pinched his fingers in to them and held on. Foal howled in mock and real frustration and mock and real pain in his legs, and then whimpered, “Off of me please, off of me, I’m dead, leave me alone, I’m dead.” Brask cooed at the poor baby and rolled on his side and gave his ass a kiss and then kissed his back and kissed his spine and kissed the hair that overran the body, and just when Foal murmured, took a tiny spiteful pull of one of those hairs with his teeth and made Foal howl again, and then kept up the kissing, pulling backward over this man, kissing his shoulder and neck, and back on his knees in front of face-down Foal, he played his fingers through his hair, pulling gently on the knots and kissing the back of the neck again.
Brask was off him now, with Foal’s head between his knees. Foal was still face down in the straw but cooing less dead than he claimed. “Get up, old man, get up.” Foal peeked, and rested up on his arms. “Come here,” said Brask and Foal inched forward and looked up at the cock that was there in his face and he frowned.
“I’m dead, I don’t think I can do anything for you.” Brask whined like a dog. “Maybe if I were alive, I’d be happy to, but having been dead for a while, I’m worried my mouth is all dried up and my head will probably fall off and roll down into the cave and I’ll be all alone forever, just a dried up mouth and rotten head.”
With one hand, Brask ran his hand through Foal’s hair, with the other, his beard, and scratching underneath like on a cat, and Foal was contented and he looked at Brask’s face and his barking eyes and his smile, and he kissed the cock and slowly put his mouth over it.
They stood at the opening of the cave, the two of them, looking at the starlight illuminating the rocky plain, their bodies pulled so tall and naked in the summer, they ran their fingers up and down the other’s back, feeling the man beside him.
dat weet ik niet, spitting,
she drab and fall, her
eyes, saggéd out their spots, hovering just,
lagging behind on her wolven head,
vibrating in them eyes,
cause of lasting damage to
they them have turned toward,
from under hair,
cause them knew neither,
then no-one did.