Plunging the Depths

Last night I became a man. 26 years of nurturing, education, love, and encouragement has successfully led me to this moment, and it was beautiful! Last night I attempted to fix a blocked pipe on my own. I didn’t fix it of course; such miracles cannot possibly fall out of the womb without cosmic repercussions. But I did however take a thorough look, and even went so far as to taking apart a pipe. In all honesty, I think I did more damage than repair, but what is important here is that I tried! I went on a plumbological voyage, and boy did I discover!

What you all will be interested to know is that there actually exists a world past that black hole, the plug hole. It is not a majestic world, and there is little grace and finesse to it. It is a tough world, a dark one, full of aqua related perils. It is dirty and squalid, requiring a firm mind and stomach. It takes a strong man, willing and brave to discover this world, and fully prepared he should be. Doffing all unnecessary clothing (such things are an encumbrance in this world) I squatted in my pants and plunged behind the ceramic front cover (technical term I might add) to assess the piping situation.

When ones hands is not accustomed to the rigour of manual labour, it is easy to cut and fray such tender skin, but such is the sacrifice a man must make on such a voyage, and what I lacked in actual physical practice in labour and conquest I certainly made up for with a knowledge in the Classics. Homer and Virgil themselves would be humbled at the sight.

I pushed up my glasses and squinted into the darkness that was more a reflection on my sudden atavism.

The situation was grim and my hands alone could not conquer this savage environment. I had to fashion tools, thus increasing my manliness. From the clothes rack I forced out one of the poles with a strength I never knew I possessed; but it is at times like this that you learn new things about yourself. For this was as much a journey of self-discovery as simply fixing a blocked pipe.

With this long stick thingy I rammed it down the hole and immediately felt the resistance I was expecting. But it was hard, stubborn and reluctant to easily yield to my efforts. And so I met my foe, and like with many foes I could not see its face. Its elusiveness pressed a more fervent image on my mind. But I would not give in, I was in too deep, and backing out now would only bring shame upon me and my family. I forced down again, harder.

Like the seppuku-ed bowels of a disgraced samurai in a violent 70s Japanese action film, the splash was loud.

And like a child that kicked his friend’s balls who was trying to steal his skipping rope, only to discover that he had had testicle surgery a few days before, I felt I had gone too far.

Squatting again with more emergency I discovered that I had in fact forced apart the pipe by shoving against it with my stick, with all the accumulated water in the basin splashing onto the bathroom floor. What I thought was my enemy was merely the apparatus in this new world, and like a new-world coloniser what I believed was the block in my path to a restored world order was actually the new environment. And I was violating it. Should I have just let it be? At nights I ask myself that question a lot.

But through hasty violations, one can also learn. And With this newly freed pipe part new realms of piping knowledge revealed itself to me. I affixed it again to its right place, yet everything was not quite in its right place. I was a changed man. I had been to that place that we only hear of in legendary plumbing bawdy talk. I had marched past that place seen only in the ass-crack of a bending plumber, plumb plunging, and experienced myself the watery world of this misunderstood land.

And when the actual plumber comes around to fix what I had undeniably broke, I can be treated like a deserved equal as we swap stories of our piping voyages. I too can share with him a bond deeper than any pipe may wish to plunge.

Yellow Malaise

Like the hoary scales of a bourgeois flapjack, the yellow dust penetrates and wrecks the lungs' capacity to breath. Shallow and raspy, is the breath, with a sore throat as rough as the words of an outspoken atheist and as red as Gorky's pen, which in all probability was just plain black.

I was a chocolate biscuit once, violated by a crooked teethed cockney boy, dipping me too much in sugary tea, and even then my sense of deterioration was not as strong as now.

All in all, I've not been feeling too well lately. My acid is playing havoc with my oesophagus and unknown bumps and bruises are distorting the topography of my arms. I hate it when that happens. Got a yellow bruise that taunts me with words of Zionism. Should have got a mask, and look like a proper Korean. Can't see the yellow dust though! Is it real? Maybe its just a ploy to scare the people into correct behaviour. What would that be I wonder? Understand the bus drivers point of view? Knowing how many pretzels or nuts to consume at the pub? Eat your greens, and other colours too? But be sure to use a tootpick, and stab out those stubborn seeds of organics. Bastards.

It rained the other day, only a little bit mind. Took my white and black polka dotted umbrella to work for appearances sake. Show my Korean colleagues that I may not be a user, but at least I possess. The bosses at the front door gasped in disbelief, gesturing for me to use my umbrella as I walked past to the side entrance. I gestured back, “it's only a little bit of rain, I'm alright.” When I left with some colleagues after work, I walked out from the shelter with my neglected umbrella by my side, when I heard an uproar behind me.
“Ameen, your umbrella!” For fucks sake, I thought to myself. It's a little bit of rain. You're being silly. Like sausages that think they're frankfurters, because of their sketchy and rushed inner-city education. Inner city sausages. It's a sad state of affairs.
“It's only a little bit of rain.”
“No! The rain is radioactive. It's from Japan!” How come it's not green then? Can't be that radioactive. Turns out it wasn't that strong, hence the lack of green on this front.

Ah! Fukushima. I put up my umbrella this time. Faint thoughts, quietly depressing, for that place that can't quite seem to catch a break. Airborne particles, painted as threats, but in reality only tokens of deserts in the west and radiation in the east. Come here to meet and broker new ideas of air quality.

I ate lot of red the other day, you know, apples, strawberries. Ate a whole box of strawberries, and boy did my farts declare new artistic directions of potency. The kind of farts that builds dynasties and topples empires, founds charities and cracks down on organised crime with newly researched online techniques, all the while entertaining friends with words of decadent witticisms. All these and more were my farts capable of that night.

Being ill at work can turn me into a thoroughly temperamental bastard sometimes. A kid shows me that he has ink on his hand.
“Ameen Teacher! Blue! Blue!”
“Yeah yeah, I know, blue. But you're not going to the bathroom. That's life you know, people get blue on their hands.”

One book with pictures of China in it of course has a picture of Mao in it, to my displeasure.
“And here Chairman Mao, one of the greatest mass murderers of all time, still revered and idolised. Sickening.”
“Teacher? No understand.”
“Me too Hyeon, me too.” I shake my head.

“No, thats not how you spell me Hyeon. It's M, E. Like the disorder.”
“Teacher? No understand.”
“Me too Hyeon, me too.” I shake my head.

Needless to say I am tiring of the lack of appreciation for my jokes. The kids are too busy with their colouring and bogeys to let my jokes thrive. Why cant they let them live?

First summery-feeling day popped up its yellow energetic head last Sunday, and I took some time with friends to lie in a park, with all the crouton-like accompaniments; shit beer, shit sandwiches, music from an iPhone, saying “Anyong” to cute Korean children that walk to us, drawn towards the vocals of Damon Albarn telling us how boys like girls and visa versa.

That sunny day helped out on the whole eastern front of my health. Stalingrad is gradually being retaken, but the western front's not been opened yet! Lazy fucking allies. Maybe the vitamin C tablet I got will help out in the west. Huge orange lozenges of latent tenderness, unclear of it's directives (not sure if they are having any affect on me) , yet certain of it's destination (stuck halfway down my acidic oesophagus). I can also get some pro-biotic drinks every day. In Korea they are sold by yellow clad ladies with be-fridged motorised carts and hats with brims. These yellow petals of femininity provide the nation with their necessary supply of pro-biotic yogurt drinks. And who the fuck am I to refuse them! I don’t, I just drink.