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Imaginary Homelands: Ghosts of Joseon
Nov. 30th, 2010 11:57 pm[this is written almost completely stream of consciousness and entirely unedited, a record from last night's dream]
My grandmother is of the last of us to dream of Joseon, memories from her grandparents. Who now, even 60 years later, still struggles with the script of our ancestors, given to us by kings outraged that his people would be illerate, outraged that his tongue, his language, his reality bore no mark in the world that was our own. Who in matrimony massages away the bruises, shifting from kana to geul, from Josen-jin to Joseon-in, whose prayers lost in "amens" are found again in "om".
My mother is of the last of us to remember a world before Dae Han Min Guk, shifting from Joseon-in to Hanguk-in, fragmented but with hopes that one day we would one day be whole, a hope reflected in our name. Han. Roots that took hold as we reclaimed and recovered lost time, lost territory, lost seeds. Han - one, water that flows through our capital city carrying its heartbeat. Dreaming of a world before imaginary borders became a barbed-wire chasm.
Even now the city still breathes, gripped by the remnants of the Joseon that is no longer - the roots that even the blows that our once-brethren circling back upon us could not take away, growing through the concrete, the temples that remain half-cracked, shell-worn, bullet-ridden. Now weaves into the Hanguk that is. And the banners of the past permeate into our dreams, propelling the greater hopes that one day, one day there will not be a day - simply one.
Even as the liquid of the river shifts and carries "om" once again to "amens" and fast-food, we dream of three-legged dragons eclipsing the sun. We dream of great bows shooting arrows across the great chasm, stitching bridges from the robes of mudangs to the rhythms of chang-gu, toppling mountains to build a path back to the heavens.
My grandmother is of the last of us to dream of Joseon, memories from her grandparents. Who now, even 60 years later, still struggles with the script of our ancestors, given to us by kings outraged that his people would be illerate, outraged that his tongue, his language, his reality bore no mark in the world that was our own. Who in matrimony massages away the bruises, shifting from kana to geul, from Josen-jin to Joseon-in, whose prayers lost in "amens" are found again in "om".
My mother is of the last of us to remember a world before Dae Han Min Guk, shifting from Joseon-in to Hanguk-in, fragmented but with hopes that one day we would one day be whole, a hope reflected in our name. Han. Roots that took hold as we reclaimed and recovered lost time, lost territory, lost seeds. Han - one, water that flows through our capital city carrying its heartbeat. Dreaming of a world before imaginary borders became a barbed-wire chasm.
Even now the city still breathes, gripped by the remnants of the Joseon that is no longer - the roots that even the blows that our once-brethren circling back upon us could not take away, growing through the concrete, the temples that remain half-cracked, shell-worn, bullet-ridden. Now weaves into the Hanguk that is. And the banners of the past permeate into our dreams, propelling the greater hopes that one day, one day there will not be a day - simply one.
Even as the liquid of the river shifts and carries "om" once again to "amens" and fast-food, we dream of three-legged dragons eclipsing the sun. We dream of great bows shooting arrows across the great chasm, stitching bridges from the robes of mudangs to the rhythms of chang-gu, toppling mountains to build a path back to the heavens.
