"Forest of Sweet Osmanthus."

"Take me as a grain of rice, husked and one among billions."

-Jerry Grandea

Well, part III begins. I have travelled to Guilin, well known through all of China for her scenery and magnificent vistas. The area deserves her reputation and China has eulogized her through the centuries in poetry, art, and song. "Guilin's beauty is the best under heaven" an adage says, and I am slow to argue, and slower still to forget.

I saw many things in and around Guilin, and will divide her stories in two. Reed Flute Cave was in Guilin. My short venture on a bamboo raft was as well, and so too were long bus rides up tall mountains through treacherous passes, and calming boat trips down soothing rivers. The city itself is pretty, with the river darting through and dividing, parks and paths and the famous hills surrounding, but it was beyond the city I spent my time and loved the moments and the air I breathed.

One morning I woke and hopped aboard a bus to visit the famed Dragon's Backbone rice terrace in LongSheng on LongJi mountain. It is one of the areas I most wanted to see in China. The terraces stretch far out on every mountain, manicured and perfect high in the hills, tops of mountains down to valley bases, steps and steppes for giants

to journey to their temples high above. I visited small minority villages, danced and sang in their celebrations, walked through their homes, corn and rice strung out on wooden floorboards or stone paths, or hanging in bunches like bouquets from the ceiling to dry in the sun. In one house an old man bent over the small family stove tucked in to a corner on the floor, smoke settling and sifting among the odor of the beams and dry wicker baskets, and that very smoke was all part of it, and could never be replaced.

As it is easier for me, I will do as I have done before and tell you only what I have already told myself.

Monday, August 10th, the year of our Lord two thousand nine.

"Today I hopped on a bus and did a day trip down to Longji to see the LongSheng rice terraces. They are the largest in the world, formed 700 years ago. The drive out was fantastic. We headed out of Guilin a few hours east in to pure country and farming villages. Men and women carrying bamboo sticks over their shoulders with buckets tied to each end walked the small roads, small palms dotted the rice paddies, swamped in water, and local farmers waded through working their harvest. The air and sky is much clearer out there and you could see the tall mountains surrounding endless farmland. It was glorious. Our bus rose and rose the narrow mountain road, a river carving down as we carved up. Chinese children played and swam in the river seeking refuge from the sun and humidity. Men waded through with nets or spears in search of food, ducking their heads beneath the river surface for long moments. The mountain too was beautiful and we had to switch to a smaller bus able to make it up the last steep and windy section and maneuver the sharp corners. At top we then had to hike the rest of the mountain, perfectly landscaped with old wooden homes built on stilts the villagers lived in. Chickens and ducks roamed about, free range food, and half-way up we stopped for lunch. I ordered the bamboo rice and bamboo chicken. It is well-known in the area. They take a hallowed out bamboo reed and stuff it with Chicken and sauce and spices and vegetables, then throw it on a fire and let it smoke over coals. They do the same with

the rice. The rice was good, but the chicken was delicious, tender and each bite a flavor of its own. I'll say it is the best meal I've yet had in Asia. I finished hiking the mountain and on top I had an aerial view of all the terraces, perfectly sloping and terraced down the mountain, interrupted only by scattered homes or small villages. It all looked like a well-manicured mountain ski resort town, small and green with summer. The whole walk up and down was filled with panoramic views of picturesque mountains and rice terraces and rustic homes.

On the way back we stopped at the Yao village, a small village of a Chinese ethnic group. They are outsiders, even the Chinese people have only been able to visit within the last ten years. The road to Longji was only completed in 2002. The Yao village is on the river at the base of the mountain. It is a matriarchal society with the women the definite head of the household. The men tend to stay in cooking and caring for the children. What the village is known for is the long hair of the women. The longest hair is 201 cm. I am about 186-187 cm (6'2''). They only ever once cut their hair, and only a portion of it once they marry.

You can tell the status of the women by their

hair. Single women always wear a wrap around their head, their husband needing to be the first person to see their hair. There was a ceremony at the village. It began with all the single women performing dances and songs. Then they grabbed four men, I the only volunteer. We each picked out a girl for our bride and they dressed us up and then we all held hands in a circle and danced about. After that our brides sang to us, then we sang solos to our brides.

Then we stood back to back and exchanged gifts. Then two of us went to the front of

stage and mashed their sticky, gooey rice cakes with long poles and we did toasts with our brides and were marr

ied and then carried our new wife on our back off stage, though in play the other girls chased me around from

side to side of the stage with my new wife on my back. It is custom in the village if they like you and want you stay

they pinch your bum. The harder they pinch, the more they like you.

To your bride, a man gently touches his foot to hers. All through dancing and the entire ceremony women were

grabbing my butt and pushing and banging in to me. It was a riot and now I am married, and of course those women already married did let down their hair for us all to see."

"Where Sleeping Soldiers Lie."

"Soldier rest! thy warfare o'er, Sleep the sleep thast knows not breaking, Dream of battled fields no more, Days of danger, nights of waking."

-Sir Walter Scott

Finally, part two begins. I have been back now for a few weeks, and am once again enjoying the oh so unique thoughts and actions of Koreans in my little town. Someday I'll have to try and explain this all to you. It is both the joy, and frustration of living here. But for now, let me pick up where I left off. I left Bejiing after a week there and took an overnight train to Xi'an. The train was suppose to be about 11 hours, but really it was 16. I was lucky to get a spot on any train. Because of high tourist season, nearly everything was completely booked, and they had one spot left for the next 5 days. I took a soft sleeper, 4 bunk bed style cots shared with three others in a small room. There were three Chinese girls in the room with me, one who spoke some English, the other two spoke none. As the train left Bejiing late afternoon, I went out in to the narrow hallway sitting on a fold down chair and stared out the window at the country rushing past me on the rails. I sat for some time, befriended by my Ipod and the music I love, soundtracks of the many lives I try to live. A cute young chinese gal came and sat on the fold down chair the other end of the window, with subtle smiles and bashful stares. I began to talk with her, and soon discovered that she spoke English poorly, yet even with that, we spent many hours sitting out in hallway of the roaring train looking out the windows together, and chatting away about China and traveling and any small talk we could think of. Until late we talked, when her mother called her back in to their room, with some cautious and disapproving glares. Her name is zhaoshuo, my new Chinese friend. I stayed awake a short time longer and went in to my small cot and slept the few hours that I could, waking early and walking the halls before the train pulled in to the station. I met zhaoshuo again that morning, and as she lives in Xi'an, she offered to meet me outside my hostel that same morning and take me around the city acting as my guide. Sure enough, at 9:00 a.m. she was there at my hostel and acted the very gracious guide, taking me to the sites she enjoyed, the food she eats, and the stores she shops at. I don't know where all she took me to, but we entered in to many walls and palaces and parks, walked large waterways, meandered through small museums, stood high on towers overlooking the city that stretched out beyond the water and man made lakes surrounding the parks and palaces. We sat in shade from the sun, under folding boughs and willowing branches, talked on benches gazing out at the scenery of an ancient country. All through pathways of small brooks and statues and carvings we talked and walked in to the late evening when she dropped me off at my hostel to return home. She told her mother she was hanging out with a friend that day, telling me her mother would not like her hanging out with a foreigner. So we said our goodbyes for the night.

I met up with some gals from the hostel and we walked a few miles through the city to one of the famous pagodas in town, this one famous for its many water fountains. Dozens of water fountains, likely over a hundred were strategically places in grids across the slabs of cement walkways. Each night around 9:00 the fountains all begin to shoot off their water with lights and music serenading the shooting gusts of water that transform through colors, yellow, blue, pink, green, white, and the glow of the sky changes with the spray of stained water drops. Only at night do the fountains show their potential, release their purpose and become the fountains they were born to be, and the music celebrates them, the lights celebrate them, and the thousands of people crowding around to watch, join in on the revelry and gaiety, extensions of music and light and a hundred fountains that cascade up and fall down. It is a celebration for more than watching, but for frolic and play, and how many can resist the temptation of falling water on your skin on a hot night in August? Dance and play and sing and shout, and let the water know, let the night and the lights and the music and every bit of summer and all of China know that you are there in Xi'an dancing amongst the many in the largest water fountain show in the world. I came home that night and

slept sound in my hostel bed, and in the morning zhaoshuo met me, again telling her mother she was with a friend, though we had become friends, so it was no lie.

That morning we hopped on a bus and continued our new friendships and journeys out beyond the city to the famous Terracotta Warriors and Horses. These thousands of warriors were created nearly 2300 years ago, but only discovered in 1974 by farmers digging a well. Now, along with the Great Wall, they have become among the greatest treasures of a vast country rich in history. They are each created with their own face and features and armor and weapons, and stand over 6 feet tall, and the horses life-size, and arranged in proper battalions according to rank. They were created for the first emperor of China and placed around the palace made to be his burial, with his clay soldiers left in stance to defend his tomb so that even in death, this army of thousands would guard his sleeping body.

There are several pits and buildings housing the many soldiers, archeologists still digging and discovering, new soldiers fighting through the dirt to stand again in proper rank with their soldier brethren. These are the warriors of China, great and mighty, buried in dirt for thousands of years, now standing again. There are no duplicates among these men, each his own personality etched out through the clay. I have always wanted to see these warriors. I know my sister has always wanted to see these warriors, and so this visit was in great part for you dear sister, and while only one picture is posted here, many others I will show to you someday, when we meet again in person and share our many stories of time passed between us.

We hopped back on the bus and headed again in to Xi'an and walked the muslim quarter again, searched out food and shopped, and this my new young friend bought me gifts and food, and so refused to let me pay for anything, and our friendship will continue on. She stayed with me till night and left to rush back home and we said goodbye, and that night I also said goodbye to Xi'an, the next morning making my way down to Guilin. Most of my Guilin trip I will save for later. Today I will only speak of Reed Flute Cave. I took a bus from the hostel our of the city and up along the river to Reed Flute Cave, a large cave of stalagmites and stalactites lit with neon lights to create some surreal and other worldly planet, caverns of space, and the lights and stones drooping down reflecting off the water and the many colors looked like some spot in the galaxy, gazing straight in to space and the universe and science fiction movies where aliens creep and walk around. No aliens I did see, only myself among the many Chinese. At times I hardly knew myself where top and bottom was, each mirrors of the other wrapping around the mazes of stone deposits. After the cave I climbed up the mountain to gaze down on the river and the road and the other mountains around and at the bottom took a small bamboo raft, big enough only for myself and the boat man, though often I controlled the paddle, a long bamboo stick stuck deep in the water to propel and turn. We floated silently on the cautious water down to the bus stop and I returned back to the hostel to walk and explore this new city and the river that cut through it and the street vendors selling their food and hustlers out in search of naive tourists. For today, this should be enough to write.

Out Riding Fences.

 "If we fail to reach the Great Wall, we are no heroes."

  

I am back in my little town of Yeosu.  I have spent the past month building a better relationship with my backpack, and yes, we are more acquainted now, greater friends, and with a better understanding of what life may hold, or at least a hope of what it will. 

  It was a long journey, and I cannot hope to ever tell you, or let you in on the secret of my travels.  With a thousand entries I could not get it right.  With one entry, I could only get it wrong, so I may break the month in several blogs, perhaps keeping them shorter than I have in the past written. 

  I started the month off with an overnight bus trip to Seoul, from where I took an a.m. flight to Bejiing, China.  The hostel I stayed at in Bejiing was great, though they were doing major road construction on the entire street, and wow the Chinese do construction interestingly.  Instead of bringing in bulldozers and tractors and heavy equipment, they had lines of men with small shovels and pics tearing away at the road one scoop at a time and shoveling it into wooden wheelbarrows or buckets.  The entire road looked like a landfill, or perhaps like a clean up crew after a major bomb raid.  Bricks, stones, garbage and rubble was thrown everywhere across the road with only one small path to walk across, and often not even that.  It was a busy road blown up and obliterated by Chinese un-modern construction techniques.  While it was noisy, in rambles, and resembling Dresden or your local dump, I thought the whole street added charm and authenticity.  Still the little shops stayed open, people walked and passed and dodged workers and debris.  

  I saw the things I most wanted to see in Bejiing.  I went to an acrobat show, spent hours in Tianmen Square, a day at the Forbidden City, the Summer Palace and the Temple of Heaven.  In Korea, I expect to be looked and stared and pointed at.  I am an obvious looking foreigner in a place sparse with foreigners.  In Bejiing, there were foreigners and westerners all over, and I thus expected a vacation without the constant stares and giggles, but at least 20 times a day were people asking to take pictures with me, and far more often than that taking pictures of me, most often secretively trying to sneak taking the photo of me without my knowledge.  I am sure most of them were chinese tourists themselves from more rural areas of China where foreigners are a not-so-common site, especially the blonde curly hair and blue eyed type.  It is as though some of us westerners were part of the tourist attraction of the big city, and had become a niche in their vacation, with photographic memories and proof to show their friends and family back home of the blonde white person they saw in Bejiing.  Yep, I am a pop star in more countries than one.

  The forbidden city is enormous, and I made the mistake of exiting the side opposite from where I entered, and then walking the circumference of the exterior.  That was a bit like skateboarding across the whole of Rhode Island, but I was able to see many of the Hutongs, or old traditional neighborhoods with thin alleys and rustic homes.  What can I say about the Forbidden City other than that it is both massive, and no longer so forbidden.  Yep, there were crowds and crowds.  August is hight tourist season bringing not only a steady flow of foreign tourist, but swarming rivers of Chinese tourists rushing from site to site of their beloved countries capital and her historic sites.  I like the Forbidden City, though I think I like the Summer Palace more.  While still there were crowds, it seemed more relaxed, and was surrounded by a beautiful lake, with small mote like rivers cutting and dashing through, passing under bridges and through shops and and lilly gardens.  I met two japanese women and one chinese woman there who I spent the hours with walking around the palace and grounds.  There were trees and boats made of stone, and temples and parks and gardens, and people paddling out on the lake to enjoy silent ripples of water smoothing the sides of their boat.  

  

The temple of heaven was even more enormous, and I found myself lost in there.  Really, it is just a giant wooded park with pathways crisscrossing all directions through the vast span of trees and benches nestled safely in shade.  The grounds contain several temples, each living up to the splendor of ancient Chinese architecture, and families spread out in the park to play cards or dance or play traditional instruments with small crowds gathering in for a listen.  I found myself thinking if I lived in Bejiing, that is where I would go to rest and think and write in my journal, some forested escape from the masses and craziness of the city.  As it was, I had one day, one half day, and then I left for some new place, some new city, some new adventure.

  Of course though, no trip to Bejiing is complete without the Great Wall of China.  I met many people either in other cities in China, or in Japan who said they weren't sure if they wanted to visit Bejiing, and wondered if it was worth visiting.  How could you visit China without seeing the Great Wall.  As the quote above says, though sometimes translated slightly different, "If we fail to reach the Great Wall, we are not heroes."  I my friends am a hero, and can now add one of the worlds great sites to my list of conquests.  The list is thus far short, but ready to grow.  Of the Great Wall, I will simply say, yes, it is worth it.  

  

I woke up early one morning and headed out with small group from the hostel.  We did a part simply called "The Secret Wall."  It's the oldest part of the wall, built 2,000 years ago.  It's also an unrestored portion few know about or visit.  Our group was the only group anywhere on the mountain.  It was several miles hike up the steep mountains, several miles across, and several miles down.  It was spectacular.  The wall was broken down and crumbling and overgrown with plants and flowers, and still it stood out and stretched and carried on.  It is humid in China, and walking around always brings out a sticky sweat.  Hiking up the steep hillsides in the hot sun of a Chinese summer brought it out fierce.  I wished to strip down naked and jump in a cool and clear river and feel the chill of the water on my body.  The mountains alone were beautiful and the wall added to that beauty in a subtle, yet forceful accent.  The peak where I stood reached 888 M above sea level, marking a special and holy spot in a now revered and sacred wall, 8 being a special and lucky number for the Chinese.  After the hike, we ate a traditional chinese meal cooked and served by a family in a small village at the base of the mountain.  Only I dared venture to to try the chicken feet, holding on the the little claws like toothpicks to strip off the fleshy meat from the soles of the feet.  The meal was good and well needed after the long hike in the sun, miles across the wall, the very ancient stones at my feet.  

  Well, friends, that is Bejiing.  I'll share more of the rest of China later.  Now, I have couch surfing responsibilities to attend to, so I am off to play the good host.  

  Be Well

  Stay Well

Soft Art and Sunrise.

  It has been five months now since landing in Korea.  My situation here has changed, though my feelings remain mostly constant.  I don't say much about my going ons here.  I often say little of a great deal.  Now, it is summer, and my time here is nearly half complete.  The first rainy season has come, and is now ending.  Here in Yeosu the weather is more mild than the rest of the country, and this first monsoon season passed quickly over us with no horrid flooding or downpours, though we did receive our share of rain.  You can always see the rain in the clouds before it comes, and smell it hanging there in front of you deliciously.  Some days I would drive my motorcycle to school and get caught in some torrent coming home, splashing through puddles dotted across the slip n slide of the pavement.  I was soaked, the rain tumbling down on me, my clothes doused and dripping, and all the water wetting me, the puddles and pavement, and the fog on my helmet visor, all that rain, all that rain, I just smiled, and laughed some reminiscent laugh. I laugh like that so rarely, but the rain, the rain does things to me, some emotional, bi-polar lover.  

  Some nights the wind would whoop and whish so loudly out my door, the thunder booming and beating, and lightning some melodic trance of hypnotic strobes. I would lay in bed, the window so close to me, and hear the night and the storm and violence, and I had reason to be awake when I knew I would be anyway, and I was in love with the rain again.

  What have I done in Korea?  How am I to make report of five months time?  Is it worth the read, or my time in writing it, when this night, this night I have much to do, but I don't forget you, nor of the absence I know is coming, so I write. 

  Well, in wanting to experience a culture different than my own, Korea certainly answers the call.  The people, while outwardly friendly, are also very traditional, and not easily accepting.  Being a foreigner in the most homogenous country in the world, where 98% of people living here are natural born Koreans, I am an oddity, and in the small coastal town I am in, I stand out more so than other areas.  I cannot go anywhere without being stared and pointed out.  Children and high school girls giggle, and often the boys as well, and the attention we as foreigners draw is like we are some Korean pop star, though a pop star feared with having some contagious disease, for though we are certainly an oddity and curiosity, we will always be outsiders, and always be treated as such here.  I am taller than most, though by no means the tallest person in town.  South Korea is the tallest nation in all of Asia, though I am certainly well above average height, and in a continent where everyones hair and eyes are the same color, I certainly stand out with mine.  "Oh, hairstyle good," is a common phrase I hear, and the curiosity to touch the foreigner gets the best of the children here, particularly my blonde hair, or my arms and legs, as body hair is not so common here.

  Favorite activities amongst the Koreans are in the Bongs, the Jim Jil Bong, PC Bong, and No Rae Bong.  The Jim Jil Bong is a public bath house, usually divided in to 5 floors, men's changing room, women's changing room, men's bath, women's bath, and the Jim Jil Bong floor.  The bath portions are filled with saunas, steam rooms, and pools of various temperatures, both hot and cold.  Many of the baths are filled with spices or herbs, and of course, as it is a bath house, dozens of men walk around naked, stretching out for massages, showering, or relaxing in the warm baths.  The bath houses provide soap, towels, toothpaste, lotion, and more, and it's common for people to frequent the bath houses each morning before work, or at night before bed.  The Jim Jil bong floor is essentially a large cultural hall where there are often thin mats or blankets and wood blocks or pillows to rest on.  This floor is co-ed and as the Jim Jil Bongs are open 24 hours, they also make cheap hotels, as you can find a corner somewhere on the floor and crouch down for a night's sleep.  During our first experience in a Jim Jil Bong, we woke surrounded by hundreds of people matted across the floor, and carefully tip-toed over them.  

  PC Bongs are essentially internet cafes, but really only used for on-line gaming purposes, as this is a nation addicted to computer and video games.  I asked a group of students to tell me what their dream vacation is, if money was not an option, and several answered that their dream vacation would be to stay home and play video games as long as they could.  This would be a typical response.  No Rae Bongs are karaoke bars divided in to individual rooms.  This is the popular form of karaoke in Asia.  Instead of busting out your incredible singing voice in front of the whole bar, you rent a room with your group of friends and are given the privacy to make a fool of yourself in front of only those who know you and are willing to photograph and video your embarrassing moments to later document on facebook.  

  My own experiences here are perhaps not so grand, though to me still memorable.  My friend Justin invited me to his gym to work out with him.  Well, this gym is a Jiu Jitsu studio, and my first day there the Gwang Ja Nim, or master, asks me to grapple with him, so here I am going at it with the teacher.  I've returned several times, and though I haven't learned any moves or really how to perform the art at all myself, still I am asked each time to wrestle by others there, and I act as their little rag doll to toss around as practice.  I am the sparring partner who allows you to hit them, but never hits back.  It's funny really, and I have even wrestled one of the Korean national champions several times, and I struggle through with him, but in the end, he always has his way.  I did once make someone tap out as I wrapped both ankles around his throat and victoriously choked him with my feet.  In the humid air that is Korea, wrestling around in a building with no AC works up a mighty sweat, and I love it.

  I think other than my adventures in the mud some few weekends ago, my favorite experiences here in Korea are in riding my motorcycle out through the country side, and across Dolsan Island, or out past Yeo-Chun to some beach, though it is not always the destination, but the journey that I go for.  One destination though was lasting and a favorite of mine.  It is Hyangiram, a temple atop a mountain at the end of Dolsan Island, on a cliff staring out to the yellow sea.  Rather than attempt again to recapture what I cannot, I will copy what I wrote then, on my two separate journeys to Hyangiram.  

Wednesday, April 15th, the year of our Lord, two thousand nine.

    "...We walked up the mountain, the many steps, through the rocks carved out to pass through, me ducking low to fit the trail.  We heard the resonance of the temple bell hum out her tonal beauty.  We saw the monk slowly swing the wooden beam and rope of a pendulum, as an invitation for the bell to sing her songs.  We heard the monks chant, their followers bow, and kneel, and pray.  This was among one temple on the mountain.  The other, the peak itself, the ridge and rise of the mountain standing tall above the other temple below.  Are all mountain peaks temples?  Did God design them as such  We walked to that temple too, the burn in our legs prodding us still upward.  I must always reach the top.  I always wish to walk inside the temple, not merely stand at the doors or across the way.  I walked in that temple and there was a prayer inside me, released through my reverent awe.  Perhaps we all had prayers, the solemnity of a windy mountain peak.  I shall pay my homage in all temples of this kind..."

  Thursday, April 23rd, the year of our Lord, two thousand nine.

 "...We hiked straight to the top of the mountain, skipping over the temple in order to see the sun set. Kelli and I headed straight up, able to go faster than the rest of the crowd and made it up to see the sun slip down behind a mountain across the way from our own peak.  The rest made it up after that, but the glow beaming out from behind the mount was soft and luminous.  dusk is a glorious time to be on a mountain.  The gentle mix of blue and white hang well in the sky.  The islands around seem to stand out more in the subtle colors of dusk and the water calm and silent below.  The wind blows brisk and cool and I always find comfort in the wind.  Is it some memory of home?  The canyon winds that stream down and blow out over the orchard?  I wonder if one reason I love the ocean, the beach so much is because of the wind.  She always calms me.  I feel she has some song that only I can hear.  We walked off the mountain to the temple to show the others .  They were impressed and amazed as we were, though I do not think anyone saw the beauty I saw there.  I am always curious to meet people who see what I do, the beauty, who understand.  It was dark when we walked down.  Kelli and I looked for a place to eat, though the shops had closed down.  The Elders gave us snacks and that was our dinner.  Hyangiram does not have a temple stay program, but they let Kelli and I spend the night anyway.  Everyone else went home, but we slept at the temple on blankets on the floor and watched the sun rise.  It is known for its sun rise and means "standing where the sun rises."  There were no mountains to block the view of the sun rising up above the water, a giant orange and yellow circle like a Japanese flag.  Hyangiram is one of the four sacred praying places in all of Korea and if you stand and pray toward on the Goddess of Mercy statues, it is said your prayer will be answered.  I offerred my prayer, the same prayer of mine for many years, the prayer I am not sure I believe in.  We ate breakfast with the monks, rice and various kim chi and headed down the mountain for work.  I am happy we stayed, slept in a Buddhist temple, sacred and holy, woken at 3:00 a.m. from the prayers of the monks, watched the sun rise, standing where the sun rises, ate our rice with monks, and fell in love again with the mountain.  We sayed in a temple that does not offer temple stays and I made my wish."

I have said enough for now, and must be about other business.  In a couple hours I will be sleeping the night away on a five hour bus ride to Seoul from where I will fly to China, and then Japan, a month with my backpack, i-pod and camera, no plans or itinerary, only myself and the hopes of a million breaths.  I leave you now with the poetry of So Chong-Ju, a Korean poet, and his ode to these Korean mountains, and mountains everywhere, temples of their own. 

"One morning I suddenly looked with fresh eyes at our ancient mountains. They were just squatting there, as usual; they seemed to have quite forgotten how rough and stupid they were, and the clouds in the sky were all the time clustering and snuggling round them; there was no way I could understand why those clouds were pressing so closely against such repulsive old things.

But as I gazed at the familiar sight of them wooing each other, the next day, and the next day, and the next, I finally realized what it was all about.

It's just like when our young human couples kiss each other's cheeks, and stroke one another's hair; only these gestures have been going on for perhaps several hundred thousand years! As if all that remains of earth's sordid battles has been cleansed and gone soaring up to become clouds, that now for ever flow over a unified jade-coloured space: by their constant gestures of unrestrained longing the clouds have perhaps been consoling the mountains ever since they were young.

 

That night I heard the sound of a mountain singing in a clear ringing voice. Yes, rising out of a darkness still as if submerged a thousand fathoms beneath the sea, I clearly heard that mountain sing.

It must have been past midnight. It sounded like a song sung softly by a new bride alone, venturing to open her lips only a few weeks after her arrival at her new husband's family home. It was the kind of song that gives a glimpse of flowery fields seen when still a maid, and it brought their fragrance floating by. The mountain sang in a soft deep voice, seeming eager to arouse not just those flowers but even their very roots.

 

  Can anything remain so long unforgotten? Sometimes we hear of a young widow who has stayed intact and chaste, living alone for thirty years or more, still in the bright clothes she wore when first she entered her dead husband's home. But for how many years has each mountain stayed in one place?

A voice as clear as that of waters that grow no older though they endure the fall of countless dynasties: it seems that such a voice can be heard ringing in every mountain.

 

The next day

there was something which kept attracting my gaze in the bright daylight: the green shade there that seemed to have some secret to tell me. Here and there in the checkered shadows, it was as if grazing things were whispering, glimmering pale and green, then suddenly they were parted by what seemed to be the passing of a vast fragrance and there came thrust towards me a gilded swing bearing a melancholy youth. It seemed there was a desire to make famous, if not the mountain itself, at least its sons and daughters..."

 

"Marble and Mud."

"There is an eagle in me that wants to soar, and there is a hippopotamus in me that wants to wallow in mudl" - Carl Sandburg I do so rarely write, and unsure I'll have much to say this night. I have written so little about my time here in Korea. I'll find the motivation to write more of my time here later. I suppose I am not yet sure who I am writing to, or for. It is for my own benefit I know, some second journal to assist my first, but I know what life is like here for me, so I find I rarely need to write it down to tell myself. I know few people read this. I know few ever will. Perhaps it is only that which gives me any sense of honesty or courage. I have always hidden my secrets in the most obvious of places, for it is there they are often hardest to find. I will tell you one thing of my life here, the annual Boryeong Mudfest. It is perhaps the biggest and most well known festival of the year in Korea, and certainly known as the most fun. It is a weekend of good, not-so-clean, fun. Twelve years ago a city called Boryeong decided to try and boost up its tourism. A good way to do this, they thought, was to capitalize on the cities well-known mud. The mud of Boryeong is known throughout the country, and other parts of Asia for its cosmetic value. It is known as some of the best, and finest mud around. Many companies bottle it up in body lotions, facial scrubs, soaps, or set up spas to soak in. With all that in mind, the city decided to throw a festival dedicated to this brown nectar of the earth and created Mudfest. While mudfest started off much smaller, it quickly took off and gained popularity, particularly with the foreign crowd here in Korea. The festival takes place over two weekends in July. This past weekend was the opening weekend, and between the two weekends, during those four days, between one and two million people participate in the festivities. There is a parade, fireworks show, live bands and theatrical performances, booths, food, camping, games, mud pits to wrestle in, a mud prison where spectators throw buckets of mud on those who wish to lock themselves inside. There are giant inflatable walls covered in mud to try and climb, rings, and a huge slide dowsed in mud to slide down. The city is on the coast and has the feel of a real beach town with long sand beaches and a board walk. All the festivities take place between the beach and board walk. It would be similar to Huntingon Beach's fourth of July celebration in California turning in to a giant mud fight. It was a total sensation. I went up with my friend Ruth. We woke early and took two seperate busses to get there, and had a spot reserved in a min bak, a traditional Korean stlye of motel infused with hostel where a bunch of people sleep on blankets on the floor. We painted each other muddy with paint brushes sloshed and slid, went swimming in a mud swimming pool with muddy water spraying down on us from sprinkler systems placed obove. We slid down the giant mud slide, splatted and splashed everywhere we went. We painted ourselves with red mud, blue mud, green mud, yellow mud, brown mud and ran through town revelling with hundreds of thousands of other people doing the same thing. Everything was chaotic, and yet simple and calming. I have always loved to play in the rain and splash in the puddles, or lay myself in the gutters and feel the rain water rush over and around me. Do not we all still have a child like that in us, who wants to splash in the puddles and come home dirty and wet? Mudfest answers that call, and if you are unaware that child still breathes inside you, Mudfest will bring it out, smiling and howling for a long waited dance in muddy puddles. You can throw it at your friends, cake it across your body, or fling and kick it to the sky, and never worry of it hitting someone else. The numbers of people who come, are proof of who we never really forget to be inside. Nearly half the people who attend are foreigners, and it's almost like being back home at a festival, English language and western faces everywhere. The city even tried to realize the festival has turned in to a foreigner festival and had some of the bands sing English songs, and hotels set up "buffets for foreigners." They were poor buffets, but nonetheless, it was a nice change from rice, kim chi, and fish with bones still left inside. It was surprising with the number of foreigners attending that the clubs refused to let foreingers in. They are Korean only clubs. That is not uncommon here in Korea. Some restaurants and bars here in my city are the same, either refusing to serve foreigners, or making it unpleasant for foreigners to be there, and people, old and young alike point and stare without trying to hide what they are doing. While Korean people are very friendly, they are neither open-minded, nor open. They embrace neither change, nor individualism, but instead conformity and sameness. They do not like that which is different, particularly in people, and I know no matter how long I were to stay here, I would never be fully accepted. I will always be an outsider here, and will always be looked at as someone a little less equal. Many families disown their children if they find out they have been dating a foreigner, and if that foreigner is a westerner, it is even worse. It is not this way in the big cities, but where I am at it is still considered rural and country with traditional and conservative Korean values. I love this country and her people, though I would never want to stay here for this reason alone. They are an un-accepting people, over-generalized I know. Anyway, back to Mudfest. It was a blast, and even the rain at night while we watched the fireworks shows and walking around in panchos to protect us from the stormy winds and slanting rain that hit late seemed to add to the splendour and authenticity of the weekend. Can mud ever be mud without a little bit of rain? All the rain could do was add mor puddles to splash in, and give a greater sense of something unique and something grand. We should play in mud more often, stop and feel it between our toes or brushed against us, then slide our flesh across another, slippery snake of skin. I should never wish to take away the rain, nor wash away the mud, and so in memory to the many days I played in puddles, with feet bare, or that I rushed like slip and slide through the mud, I alone or on the motorcycle I drove when I was young, to those memories, to many memories, I wish to write the words, but instead, leave you only with what I have said. "The world is mud-luscious and puddle wonderful." -E. E. Cummings.

"The moments that make up the dull day."

Ticking away the moments that make up a dull day You fritter and waste the hours in an offhand way Kicking around on a piece of ground in your home town Waiting for someone or something to show you the way

Tired of lying in the sunshine, staying home to watch the rain You are young and life is long and there is time to kill today And then one day you find, ten years have got behind you No one told you when to run, you missed the starting gun

And you run and you run to catch up with the sun, but it's sinking And racing around to come up behind you again The sun is the same in a relative way, but you're older Shorter of breath and one day closer to death

Every year is getting shorter, never seem to find the time Plans that either come to nought, or half a page of scribbled lines Hanging on in quiet desperation is the English way The time is gone the song is over, Thought I'd something more to say

  "Time" by Pink Floyd.

  Today is my birthday.  For another 60 minutes it will be so.  I cannot say I am in the mood to write, but I feel I must, and I know I so rarely attempt such things any longer, so here I am, spending the last hour of my birthday on a bed in a small studio thousands of miles from those I know, alone and lonely, as is the way of me.  Anyone who knows me, knows I have long now not been a fan of my birthday, and have so often done my best to avoid it, and it has worked too well. I am always of the same mind on this day, unaware except for emptiness down inside me.  

  I cannot now explain the reasons, though I have them, my reasons for an animosity turned antipathy.  Has this day ever been more than just a day?  When I was a few years younger, I would run away on this day.  I would go through my rituals of an inflicted solitude.  I would hide, up in the mountains behind my house, across and over in the valley down in some field, on some empty ski resort in early summer months, on some cliff, standing at the edge, looking down and over my city and the world it seemed I knew, knowing enough to know I knew it not at all.  I would jump upon my motorcycle and find in me a freedom of escape that only there was possible, and I would have to stop, and lose it, and go back, and it was all gone.  

  I remember how strange it seemed to me that so many of my birthdays I was greeted with rain, a perfect reflection of torrential confusion, and I loved the rain.  I cannot say I feel the same for the day any longer.  I cannot say I feel anything at all.  It has never appeared to me a day worth a mention.  I have not had a birthday party in over 20 years.  I'm not sure I've had a birthday cake in a decade.  My one friend, Suzette, is the only person who has remembered my birthday each of the last few years.  I don't think I've ever had a group of friends take me out to celebrate, nor do I recall the last time some group has sung happy birthday.  It is of my own fashioning, and I am not sad for it.  I don't say these things for pity.  It is my doing, my planning.  Birthdays are not really a big deal in my family.  I think we all get this equal treatment, though I try the hardest for it, and yet, it is strange that I do like to celebrate for others.  There are some women whose birthdays I still mourn at not celebrating with them, some whom I have tried so desperately to make it a perfect day, and known I have succeeded.  It is a happiness I have never allowed others to feel.  I still struggle with realizing that birthdays are not necessarily about those whose day it is, but rather about those who care for them.  I do at times now finding myself curious of how the other side lives, those friends I know who have parties and cakes and special birthday dinners and blow out candles with circles of friends about them and singing.  I wonder about it, and saying so is hard for me to admit.  You would have to now me to realize that.  When I was 19, I did receive a cake.  My sister picked it up for me with her then boyfriend, now husband, John.  My sister, knowing me well, did not have "Happy Birthday" written on the cake, but rather "Quack Quack."  It is why I forgave her for the cake, for the kind gesture, for the duties a sister so gladly performs.  I was such a punk then.  I still am, and the sad part of it all is that I hold on to such things for the mere sake of holding on, and not for any genuine feelings still inside me.  I think I am waiting for someone to pull it all out.  Oh, a topic there we could talk of.  

  I remember last year on this day I was skating home through the streets of Huntington Beach with my dear friend Suzette.  Suzette never reads these posts. I know few people do, and because she is unaware of this all, I can freely say I love her as my greatest friend of the last few years, and while I have told her that in person, I know she does not fully understand, for those I do value, I value with a depth that legions could not conquer.  I was with her, on our longboards, cruising the black pavement, two blocks off PCH, and we reminisced about that past year.  We were together the year before as well, and if I were back in California now, I think what I would want the most is dinner with my friend and Cold Stone ice cream.  We also talked about what we wanted to happen in the next year, that next year ending this very day.  One thing I said was that I wanted to find the woman I would marry, not to be married, but only to have found her, to have a good idea of it, to feel she would be the last woman I would ever date, kiss, and love.  I believed then it would happen.  Months before that I had even thought I found the woman, but then, I had hopes and prospects and confidence in it.  Now I remember our talk on longboards, and I confess I am further from it then ever I was.  It is a frightening thought that I pray God blesses me to never have to think again.  

  This birthday is a more unusual one than others.  I am in some foreign land and given to too much thought of goals left unaccomplished and dreams unrealized.  So what is this birthday for me?  What is the memory of the last year for me other than what is explained in the lyrics atop this post?  Words relate to me too much at times, and I do not expect you to glean the same from them.  All I know now is that this is a post I really had no wish to make.  I am tired, and the day that means nothing to me is close at end.  I will wake tomorrow the same as I woke today, and that day will end as well, one day blending to the next, and for my myself I find no distinction.  

  "There is still no cure for the common birthday."  - John Glenn

To you, I a common man, on this my common day, leave you with a most uncommon goodbye and God bless

  Be Well

  Stay Well

  

The Waygukin way

  Well,  I am in South Korea.  I moved here about six weeks ago.  I don't know what to say about it.  I suppose I am writing because I know I need to.  I know it is overdue,  and now I have the few moments required to sit at this screen and type a few words.  I can go in to all the reasons for coming here, for uprooting my life and moving to some country I know so little of, where no one speaks my language, and I do not speak theirs.  Perhaps there are too many reasons though, perhaps I do not understand these many reasons myself.  

  I moved here to teach English.  I moved here to in some attempt to seek out the adventure I know I have been missing throughout my life.  I moved here to experience some new place, some new culture, some distant land and people.  Maybe I moved here to escape the reality of losing my job, of a bad economy, of so little prospects.  Maybe I moved here just to escape, to run.  Maybe I moved here in some flight and plight for freedom inside me.  I moved here to learn, simply to learn.  I have many hopes for my new life here, for this next year before I return back home, not knowing what home to return back to.  I have not yet realized my dreams for coming.  I wanted to learn Korean, a new language.  I know only a few words, and am realizing I will not learn the language in a short year.  It is a difficult language to learn.  Being here makes me want to learn Spanish, become fluent in it.  The difficulty of Korean, knowing I will not adequately learn it gives me such a desire to know a language other than my own native one, and Spanish being a language I already have studied and can hold basic conversations in, I want to learn that language, and I think of going to some other country after this, to learn some new culture, to learn a language I know I could learn.  

  I wanted to travel while here, see as much of this large continent as I could.  I hope to make it to 8-10 countries while here, a difficult task, but one I know I can accomplish.  The time for traveling will not come till the end of this venture, and as things change, and have changed already, I know some of my traveling plans already have been altered.  I cannot state the reason just yet, but new plans will have to be made.  I am impatient to see other places, to watch the sunset over a new land, to bow to some passing stranger on a street I don't know the name of, to gag on the food or gulp it down, to smell every particle of dust and fragrance of flowers in the air.  I want to swim in every ocean, every sea and judge the sand between my toes.  I'll have it.  I need to have it, or else not just this experience, this one mere year, but all my life, every moment hereafter will be a void never filled, and I'll continue to look back not only upon the life I did live, but upon the life I never lived.  

  I want to read while here, to study, to write, to learn.  I have time to read.  I read most every week day, and am engrossed in a book right now.  I have time after classes at school, but before I am allowed to go home.  I sit in my classroom, silently, or out side on a bench with the noise of swarming and curious school children buzzing about me, and I read a book.  I love that time.  I look forward to that time, and as much as I love the weekend, I find myself waiting for the week, to wake up early, to go to work, knowing that only on workdays will I find the time to sit and read.  I am anxious in the book, to discover what I know I will not discover for 250 pages more, but I must get through those 250 pages as fast as can be done, and when there, 250 more pages will be ahead of me again.  I am anxious to finish the book, and yet I find myself already depressed at knowing I will finish it.  What then will I have to look forward to?  What then will make the week so enthralling, the otherwise moments of drudgery so exciting?  When I finish the book, I know I will not be able to read it any longer, that this great masterpiece is something I will no longer experience for the first time.  I must complete it, the addict inside me will not let me stop, and yet I want to stop, to pace myself, to calm myself and drag this moment out, so that always I can look forward to it.  I will not though, and I merely pray the next book I find keeps me so much with it.  It is hard to find books in English here, and the books I have I fear will not last me beyond 2-3 weeks.  I must find something new soon.  

  I don't study here.  Why don't I?  Why don't I find the time?  My free time has not really been my free time and I really have no time for myself, this now being among the rare moments of solitude, and I a craver of the silence, a seeker of the solitude.  I wanted to study Theology, like I once did, to know the things I knew, to feel the things I felt, the things I know if given oxygen I could feel again.  I wanted to study languages, business, vocabulary, anything, and yet I have not.  Why haven't I?  Are my excuses adequate?  Should I stand up and say I need the time?  Will the insanity from lacking it break me?  Can a shattered man be broken?  

  I don't write.  This is my first entry since being here.  I slack in all my duties, and I apologize.  I apologize to myself, to my many future selves and all who could learn from the stories I could tell if only I took the time to make the stories.  I will be better.  I know shortly I'll have the time, more time than wanted, more time than needed, and I'll be forced with it, shoved in to it, and we'll see how healthy and strong I can remain then, when it is I alone who will listen.  We'll see what stories come from that, from inside me, without me. 

  I wanted to experience living in a different country.  I have always wanted this, never allowed it, never allowed myself it.  I knew that with losing my job I no longer could make the excuses.  I knew it was this time and only this time where I could make away from being responsible, safe, practical.  I wanted to go to Central or South America, again, knowing I could learn the language fluently, but of course, I can never fully kill the practical man inside me.  This is it, right here, why I chose Korea over any other place.  They pay more.  Most countries pay their English teachers only enough for basic survival, but here in Korea, they pay an actual wage, a higher wage than the beginning native Korean teachers make.  They pay all airfare expenses and a years worth of rent.  They cover half medical insurance, give a small settlement allowance, and pay a monthly salary far exceeding other expenses.  It is possible to work here, travel many countries, and still go home with money to wait out a bad economy, or to run off to some other place for some new adventure.  I am living in another country though, and I can feel how grateful I will be for it, in the near and distant future.  I am learning a new culture, bowing is becoming second nature, and I am starting to feel I disrespect myself when walking in my own apartment with my shoes on.  When I shake hands, I put my left hand across my stomach and at my side and when giving or receiving anything I place my left hand upon my right arm, grabbing with my right hand.  I am eating food I would have, could have never thought of eating, eating things I do not like, all in an attempt to know the culture.  I was a vegetarian for over 13 years.  For over 13 years I stayed away from meat religiously, and I gave it all up the night I flew here.  I realize one cannot truly experience a culture without experiencing the food, and that is certainly true of Korea.  The food is a big part of their culture, and while I do not like much of it, I eat everything I am given.  I try everything I can.  I gave up myself for it, a large part of myself.  If you are not a vegetarian, you will never understand.  Giving it up, is giving up one of the larger parts of your identity.  I find myself embarrassed at meeting vegetarians now, as though I am one of those who gave up.  I find myself ashamed at eating meat at times.  I am NOT a vegetarian, and yet deep within me, I feel I still should be.  Why am I embarrassed for this?  Why am I ashamed?  I know I was a vegetarian longer than most those I meet now.  I know I was stricter and more obedient to the task than most I meet, and yet, still this is how I feel.  I do not regret it though, for I know I am in fact experiencing more than others.  I know I am learning more about this place, about the people.  I try everything, not only the food, but every option, every activity, every gesture.  I have eaten food, and will eat food I know I shall never wish to eat again, and I am glad for it.  I'll do it intentionally, and some of it, well, some of it will surprise me, and I'll find myself liking it here and there, as I find myself learning to like things now the more I eat them.  I should send you pictures of the things they eat, videos, or write some blog dedicated only to that.  

  Well, my time to write is wrapping up, and so this writing must wrap up also.  Let me quickly tell you of where I live.  I live in a city called Yeosu.  It is on the south coast of Korea in Jeulonom-Do.  They call it a small city, though it has 350,000 - 400,000 people, though it has the amenities of a city much smaller.  There is no department store, no mall, and little in English.  Few people here speak English, and many consider themselves more country folk than city folk.  They are a proud people, proud of their culture, of their country, of their food, and I love this pride in them.  I know I have heard it said there is no such thing as righteous pride, though I have never fully agreed with that.  I am proud of things.  I am proud of my country, and I find myself saddened when I meet people who cannot say the same about their country, regardless of what that country might be.  I do not find myself saddened in this country.  They are friendly here, so much so it makes us feel guilty at times how they treat us so well, even those who do not speak our language, who cannot understand us.  My city is on they yellow sea and is made of over 300 islands, the vast majority of which are un-inhabited.  The city itself is a small peninsula.  My school sits atop a large hill, halfway up Gu Bong mountain.  We have a view of the bay below us, the water of the sea, and Shinae, the old downtown area.  A picture of my city is below, of the water and some of the small islands taken from a small Buddhist temple above my school.  It is a beautiful place there, small, undisturbed, quiet, almost secretive, with a large cherry tree which is now in full blossom.  Quiet music, prayers, or chants play silently and rhythmically over small speakers above the main temple.  The air now is calm, some wind nearly always blowing, the water below , the city far away, the sky and trees and mountain all that is near.  It is a temple indeed, if only for the soil and oxygen around it, and for the desire to sit and meditate, to stay and pray.  It is a temple indeed.  

  I live in a small studio apartment, a bed, a fridge, a two burner stove.  It is smaller than many of the bedrooms I have had in the past.  I live the minimalist life.  Oh, Thoreau be proud.  I have this laptop, a small TV left in the apartment with some channels occasionally playing shows in English.  I have a camera, scriptures, a few novels, a suitcase of clothes, and that is it.  The bed is unimaginably hard, like resting on a stone, so I bought a small pad to place on top of it.  Only now are people beginning to buy matresses and beds in Korea.  Many still sleep on the floor, resting on yo mats laid across the ground.  The floors are heated. I have a fan, a bar posted up against the wall to hang clothes on, and a small bookshelf acting as a dresser drawer, and as a bookshelf.  The bathroom is small, no drawers, cabinets, or shelves, and the shower is a hose hooked up to the sink, no stall, no tub, just the bathroom floor.  I have a large patio with a washing machine and a clothes line, and the washing machine leaks water all over the patio, creating a small wading pull.  

  Yeosu is surrounded not only by water, but also by hills and mountains, which are slowly beginning to green, though the trees have been blossoming for near two weeks.  Koreans do love their blossoms and hold festivals for nearly every tree with blossoming flowers.  I have been to many already, and I too love the blossoms.  I can see a row of cherry tree blossoms from my window, and I am growing sad to see the blossoms slowly replaced by leaves.  I see pink and white in many shades on every hill side.  It is beautiful, and soon it will all cocoon in to dark and deep green.  I'm including a few pictures, and will post others later.  For now though, this post is long and tiresome to read.  It is night now, and sleep is calling.  I think of all of you, back in America.  You are now just waking up to a day I have already lived.  I am searching for a sleep you will not experience for many hours to come.  I am reaching back through the time, the hours and the miles, and I greet you with some kind word to say goodnight.