Finally pulled my thumb out & turned my computer on. So many books to read. Here we have Yoon Yong, mothering doubtfully, exposing her flaws through the flesh she has produced, as the image she produces in her dream. The biological aspect through the child image, becoming psychological to tell the identity where it falls into error. Something like that. I may have got mothering, feminism, love, dream, psychology, all of it wrong, but I could only persevere with the direction I felt, in essence, the most interesting for Yoon Yong as a fiction. Where I fall into error I have my intuitions, but I’d be more than pleased to be pointed out where else.
Her daughter Sarang (Love) appears in a dream
…“How many died of preventable ailments because of a belief in transcendentalism?”
Her daughter with an adult’s voice exposing flaws explaining where I steered myself wrong
what I could have done better | differently —euphemisms | apothegms she couldn’t possibly know
at her young age—I scribbled notes but… the pen contained only UV ink.
Motherhood is impossible | I worry continually : I don’t want my Love to grow up to be someone I hate.
Everyone says “it just comes to you | it’s natural.” I kept telling myself to love
this jaundiced looking ball of wool & rolls of skin that cackled like a pocket radio.
The primitivism of it suckling hungrily at my swollen nipple —I wanted to perform the ritual so badly
but it made clear to me how tainted | how cosmopolitan I was : breast feeding repulsed me | it felt so animal.
Gravid | I pictured my belly’s contents lift me out my life like a blimp filled with helium & confetti |
rousing me from my apathy like smelling salts | out my very self—climbing | climbing out | skyward.
I couldn’t stomach Korean food during my pregnancy | not even the postpartum seaweed soup rich in iron |
the olfactory idiom & lilting made me nauseous —I craved quiche or omelet | anything yellow…
During my last few weeks in Korea, I made one final push to photograph the environment I called home for so long. Despite my tone of voice of late, I am making valiant efforts to reorient myself, this mostly involves going to the pub, as well as quaffing a few foaming ales, my reorientation includes finding work, making friends, reestablishing friendships, taking very long walks in the nearby forests, filling in obscene amounts of online forms, going to the bank, the Job Center, calling receptionists with pretty voices, talking to a bank customer services adviser about D.H. Lawrence’s free verse poetry & the difficulties of studying this & banging my head against the wall until I suffer semi-concussion. Such are the joys of no longer living in the 4th dimension.
Still trying to get my head on straight, I have the neck thread into the shoulders, but maybe the thread has worn on the fixture or on the head. Toggling, wiggling to get the thread in place, the satisfying couple of the track of the thread so that the light bulb blinks on into full, hard light. The wagging struggle is on going.
Thought I’d compensate with a poem from the Yoon Yong series, not as daring as the previous one, but more formally different & in its form, akin to my current state of mind. In addition, & a bit late, but better late than never, thanks & congratulations to Linda Wolff for including my poem Moonlit Migrations in issue#1 (The Ache of the Pen) of her Wolff Literary Press & the best of luck in a long run into the future.
The title is a dead give away for this post. Been sitting on this set quite awhile & finally got round to having a dabble with them.
I was visiting my pal Omar, a musician from Morocco. I happened to, at this time, meet a very interesting man called Saad, also from Morocco. We met outside Omar’s lodgings around 7 a.m. & proceeded to continue talking until around 4 a.m. while we flaneuered Seoul, taking in the sunshine & putting the world to rights. It was very interesting to watch Omar & Saad converse, as they would oscillate between perfect French, Arabic & English. One would ask something in one language & the other would respond in a different language. This was not done boastfully but in a almost absentminded, organic manner, which was joyful to watch. Saad was very pleased with my curiosity.
“ There, I am desperately free and naive; but knowing this oh dear happiness, dear misery; there is no distinctive sign except that one tearing one’s heart, and a smile destined to nobody(...)" E.Stachura