2015/07/26 Su – Flesh Hooks

It has been two years of marriage.

Korea itself still feels magical to me; I’m not tired of it, except only some of the traffic habits, and the same obnoxious loudness of the people I have always been averse to, and the horrible lack of discipline of the children which I fear must ultimately strain and break their vaunted educational framework; and their sickening cultural and racial guilt and greedy craving for the prestige language and the foreign (that is, white) lifestyle; and, of course, the troubling social blindness, the creeping rejection of their own morals and quiet accommodation of the obscene, which will also not end well.  There is sometimes the strange feeling of living inside a sunset here, perhaps the prettiest or gaudiest time of day, that you feel you must photograph or remember well, because before long, it will fade to black.

Did America have this nice interlude, in the nineties or something, or did it just all gradually turn suffocatingly smoky, gray, and dark?

By chance, we were invited to local television.  We were meant as poster-children for Korea’s present national idol, “multiculturalism”, which I already see as one tool for the super-conscious eradication of what has hitherto been known as Korea.  Asked whether I would return to my so-called homeland, I wanted to decry drugs and corruption, and warn the people of the radicalism and tyranny over the marriage question that is surely on its noxious way to poisoning this peaceful land.  More relevantly, I wanted to denunciate the grave difficulty and potential folly of intercultural marriage.  Instead, I only managed to stammer about crime and safety, and then fumble through a melody on the gaya-geum (translated “zither” or “harp”, a lovely sounding string-board I have been trying to learn).

About the marriage question, I have a fair bit to say.  I was deeply disturbed by this, my hometown paper’s confused article which tried stupidly and unconvincingly to pivot concern away from the same-gender perversion and toward non-committal cohabitation (why?  if marriage in the public mind has been reduced to a contract of whimsy between perverted friends, what possible argument remains to such people that heterosexuals should not enter and exit the absurd collection of irrational legal benefits at will?).  Of course, it was drowned out well enough by its own brutish commenters, the violent virtual protests of the organized thugs who swarmed the page, grunting that both homosexuality AND cohabitation were their ideals — indeed, every imaginable form of moral incontinency was, to them, the end purpose of beastly mankind.

Without a much greater gift of Godly vision, I cannot mourn these “people” so unyieldingly resistant to their own personhood, no matter what happens to them.  About the impenetrable toxic cloud of lies resting carcinogenically upon my own kind, like the radioactive fallout of a massive overhead explosion of pure, Satanic evil, I know what I would say: something like, “Devils, enjoy your hell; zombies, enjoy your slow rot.  The rest of you, don your masks and hike back out into the living world.”

But about my own marriage, what can be said, that I will not feel like scribbling out later?  It depends on the day, as to whether I could recommend this stage of life.

I have tried to keep a written record of the source and unfolding of the numberless conflicts underlying our frequent joys, but they reached the point of just being mindless, nearly daily repetitions of each other, seemingly unstoppable, notwithstanding our great, mutual effort…

While I am well over thirty now, and do not wish to gratify my whininess here as I have in past entries, she has pushed me very far beyond my original endurance; and she often assures me that everything is exactly mutual.  Both of us have both seen and battled each other’s inner demons.  Our private strife has even briefly stumbled across the public border, depleting community resources in a very small way.

I have had many sweet and happy dreams, to interrupt what would typically be happy days, but that are confounded by contention.

It may appear some breach of trust to say so, but mostly, it is not her face in my dreams.

I have dreamed of several old faces, maybe even some new ones, but nowadays, I rarely recognize the face nor can name the innate identity.  Two or three nights ago, the person had short, dark, greyish-brownish hair (often, it is longer and brownish-blonde) and an excellent demeanor.  She spoke my language natively and shared my racial design, at least to some extent.  Having become well acquainted somehow, as we talked, we coyly found opportunity to confess, in that childish, false way of infatuated interest, our feelings, and my heart was free, and soared… for the few seconds before honesty speared me in the back and I told her that I was already married.  The news hurt her, and her angry response hurt me.  Then why the interest, she seemed to demand.  I offered some halting justification, but had little other choice but to withdraw, head dangling in guilt and eyes watering at the abandonment.

In the next moment, I was awake again, face to face with the truth — a face breathing softly and at perfect repose only whilst sleeping, but stretched or crunched with so much unnecessary stress otherwise.  Within a minute or two, the lingering thrill and fresh pain of the dream evaporated, and my pondering fell to the mundane.  I did not tell her about this one.  Usually, I do, and she smirks or snorts, or tells me a reciprocal dream later; but I have little wish now to needlessly annoy her.

Was it worth it?

The other day after a fight, I pictured losing her — no, discarding her; disposing of her — and it stung me into an apology.  In more than one way, I would be lost if alone.  I do not trust those unruly dreams.  There is no real unknown face waiting, except across a wide, long, forlorn desert thirsty for emotional security.  And the die is long cast.

We failed to find any better; we found at last whom we deserved.  I believe her abusive reminders that no other woman would have me… because I experienced that life myself.

We married in the real way, to fulfill our purpose of inseparably joining flesh in creation.  We were and are still fully intentioned against divorce.  I would not change that decision, despite how often I have angrily, flippantly wished to be unmarried.  Given her background, nothing could be less natural than divorce; and for me, there has been a formative example that needs to not be repeated.  Yet the vile weapon is threateningly hefted from time to time, firstly by me, lastly by her.

It may very well lay us in early graves, having leeched away our life force… but I cannot think of an alternative to this life.

We have grown closer.  We each know what the other likes (we share ever more of these likes), and what they hate; we can regularly guess what each other will do.

Our story sounds nicer than it was.  Even to us, it gets better with the retelling.  Looking at our pictures from those innocent times is like watching some movie that we starred in, surreal from the right angle, cumbersome props tucked away — a fantasy that we cannot touch, although we ourselves created it.

We are still creating it.

Sometimes, maybe, on our good days, we like to think that we are touching that happy fantasy.

We have been somehow right for each other.  Somehow, we fill each other’s lack, cross each other’s gaps — not all, but the needful ones.

Our love, yes, love, almost entirely bypassed that delusive visual stage, that harpy song of fleshly attraction, and is now deeply burrowed in familiarity, is meshed partially and deformedly in conjoined identity… and, at last, is forever anchored genetically (forever, if the spiritual promises and theories of physics are right, and the past can really be seen at great lengths).

We had tried for a while.  It seems I was deficient.  At some point, we undertook to pay a man to play God for us.  God fortunately accepted and blessed this well-intentioned mimickry, and three new lives sprang off from us.  We could closely estimate the day of their conception.

One offspring soon failed to grow, or was crowded out (two, if my pictures are correct, were a little bit irregularly shaped at the beginning, and we were subdued but not surprised by the loss — in fact, we were relieved that it was only the single life, when it could have been all of them).  At our first discovery, we found two tiny, only vaguely recognizable humans still pressing forward some inches past life’s starting line, and kept checking in on them with increasing anxiety till about the twenty-first week, after which our minds grew easier.

Their position and number are not favourable for natural or timely birth.  They ideally would wait out the entire next month, but taking them three weeks early will endue them with technical legality just past the middle of August (whereas some Americans, pretending to idolize love while sacrificing its fruit to their true god of lust, still crusade for our unwanted right to scissor up these innocents — if I may channel Obama’s pastor, God curse such a nation to suffer its choices in reverse, upon its own head).

Among other health deficits of the early borne, today, I read glumly about the expected deprivation of their enteric microbiome — helpful digestive-tract bacteria, best established through certain kinds of maternal contact.  I still have not tried to learn how to pump breast milk, and am occasionally scolded for this.  We have bought a few things, and inherited a few.  She has scrambled for her maternal and spousal “benefits” (some even exist for mixed-race families, invented in an embarrassing fit of reverse-racism learned from the U.S.A.) that I would have made no such effort for, now considering marriage benefits only a spooky-eyed marionette occupying the seat of actual, creative marriage at the haunted dinner table of a grinning family of insane voters and their sadistic, black-robed patriarchs.

All in all (at least, whenever I can set aside my revulsion at the whorish pride smothering my homeland, which she usually thinks she has heard well enough of), we are expecting a good outcome, a wonderful new challenge of accommodation, and a chance to see what we are worth in the long chain, as the offspring of our own parents.

We are now in Jeong-eup, the only place where she is really at ease.  We accompanied family to the city of Dam-yang yesterday.  I happened to have caught two types of temporary disease, but am not suffering greatly.

My parents are expected later, though not in time for the event.  In two days, we will probably set the date with the doctor.  In two to three weeks, our lives will change forever.

We will continue to give our best effort for their sakes, but more still, for the union represented inside of them — our own.

When a young tree starts to grow, though the spot is hard, it does not ask to be replanted elsewhere.  It simply grows harder, live or die.  It clutches more deeply, comes in more densely.  And if it thrives, it lasts for generations.


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