RuKsaK

I’m posting this swiftly written interlude as Meta-Bryan part 4 is not done yet. I’ll also explain myself a little – RuKsaK is going to slow right down for the next three months. My linguistics dissertation has got me in a headlock, choking me into near-submission. I have to start fighting back or stamp a 6000 quid expense on nothing into my history. I can’t do that.

So, I’ll give you Meta-Bryan part 4 later this week and then RuKsaK will see new posts every seven to ten days. So, please keep coming, please keep leaving your comments – my ego, like a hard-on, can never feel too big.
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Interlude

My morning taxi raked past the buildings of Seoul – all seemingly erected in defiance of the human soul. They all look like grey cardboard cut-out monsters, making a joke of the losing sky. Even the occasional dot of a tree is so craftily trimmed that it looks built, rather than grown. A city that’s beaten the living crap out of nature. A city which believes in a master race of cities.

Some searing, big and cheerless classical music was playing from the radio and just under it the rock and tumble of engine and road buzzed in my ears. I stared from the window getting a little miserably high on the cocktail of architecture and music. I felt like I was in a film and something tragic had happened. It hadn’t, but I took stupid-serious pleasure in the arrogant roleplay.

Just at the moment I was re-chiselling any part of my face that will chisel, posing for my absent director, the taxi driver edited the script by flipping the station. Some tinny rip of Korean pop music rattled from the speakers, a squealing girl let out jumpy yelps and the beat nipped at me.

Yanked from my part, I pondered snuff-torturing the taxi driver - turning the film into a dark, uncensored horror, simply to spite the now incongruous, unwelcome soundtrack. I thought of having him park in a backstreet and prising him down with his seatbelt. I imagined the worst I could – having a red-hot skewer to insert right into the squashed open urethra of his penis. I’d then strangle his cock until its innard sizzle-melts into the skewer and so his dick is ruined by a sword King Arthur couldn’t draw.

That’s what taxi drivers get for stealing me from such a moment when I’ve got work coming to do the same thing just ten minutes later.

We stopped the taxi three minutes after my fleeting, fantasy torture. I paid him, got out and wondered for a semi-second if my private hate had any possibility of floating through the thin karmic air of Seoul and one day biting him, somehow.

Then I forgot the whole thing until the next time it happens.
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I’ll try to get Meta-Bryan part 4 to you by Wednesday – bear with me.

Monday, February 28, 2005

Interlude