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Twenty Lines
to Freedom
One listens for hours, patiently
waiting her turn, before heading
to Sucheon to play outside
with her Dad. Another busses home
to make or eat fried or boiled
kimchee-fish soup; then there’s Su,
hopping, joyous, life-changed,
spiritual, philosophical, knowing
one day the support needed
will return; already this or that angel
has stopped at her doorstep,
sometimes talking, sometimes smiling,
she knows the best will come. Silver bicycle, oversized pink trunk
and the smell of fresh-baked-goods
mingle here. Brick walkways
lead lookers, lovers, lost
souls past each other, and Ding Yuan, the
one who, twenty three messages
later, sticks with it, though with
lowered expectations, not ever
giving in to today, always focused
on a better tomorrow. One will fiddle for Hyuntay, another only
wants life abroad, her boyfriend
could not meet family expectations,
yet her mother nods in a room
her father isn’t in. Now the two faces:
one wants a comfy job at the
Korean Exchange Bank, the very best,
Wood’s wish, will stop
by for modeling time tomorrow, a wonderful
tomorrow, with long-hairs walking
by, work-out sweaters bobbing,
museum visitors moving in a
slow rhythm reserved for interested
eyes, old legs, young minds,
tuned to a complex life that can be had
within a ten minute walk or
bus from the Chonnam faculty apartments.
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Weehiyah!
Light blue heels, not spikes, but wide-heeled,
butt-shaping
sandals stroll below a woman with Kyung
Jung’s hairdo.
Where is Kyung Jung now? In Paris, Alex, Raleigh, Schnurr?
This family, three daughters within six
years, could be my
brother, eight years ago, both parents
tired, looking everywhere
but at each other. Today’s sadness is short, vivid, bubbling
up from a bad day with a caddy, bad memories,
bad timing,
and this book, slap-dash, not acceptable,
not funny, digging in to
marriage, spirituality, pulling 100-hour
weeks to try to exist in a
place that will not accept me no matter
where I stand. Counterweight
comes when young ladies model, wise ladies
tease, short lady put
hair up into pigtails to play youngster,
attempting to “cute” her way
into a grade. Later you find out her English is shaky, analysis flawed
logic unavailable, proclaiming herself prettiest, but nowhere near it.
Unabashed freshman exudes the youth-dominated
sexual revolution
that openly threatens centuries of Confucianism. Her parents may have
broken the rules themselves, but, as a
tiny closet minority. Plastered pink-
shirted princesses vomit, get pulled to
taxis crying for their lives, amazed
about alcohol poisoning, blowing off Monday,
still bent by Friday. Here
the gents don’t take advantage
of this, still pure, or too drunk themselves.
Weehiyah!
><><><><><><><><><><><><><><
Kang, The Magnificent
We sit on scraggly sharp rocks waiting
for King
Kang, or, as he is known to his six assistants,
Kang the Magnificent. He arrived too late to be
part of the memorial ceremony for the Indian
monk
who taught him Buddhism, then walked us
directly
away from the graveyard, mistakenly thinking
the
celebration of this great man’s life
would not be
at his grave site. Baegyansa is both temple and
national park, so packed in the fall, but
near-empty
at the point between blossom and leaf. Religion as
roadside attraction, the “seunim”
now talk on cell
phones, drive SUVs, appear to have dropped
many
rules once sacred. When religious leaders, those
whose piety and prayer supposedly make
them closer
to the creator, embrace secular habits,
it’s the Korean
version of religion gone bad. Back home “preachers”
demand one race over another, or to re-elect
a mass
murderer.
This “spirituality” means we are at the end.
Can Kang teach his legions how to survive
the crisis
of supply and demand? Will my son know enough?
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