Korean Shamanic Silks #2
{- longer prosodic memoir stone riley creative commons 2020 -}
Jumble sale in a church hall.. Lovely memory of a humble scene.
Me a discharged veteran, certainly poor in a city, with a healthy baby, and a woman in health that is very poor, us going about our business, seeking inexpensive family enlightenment and entertainment, we a striving little cell of Earthly life, on a Saturday, and comes upon a church hall with a jumble sale inside.
Me known as a sentimental person. During an on-going war overseas, and me a discharged veteran. To include our country’s service, while no more than a youth, in exquisitely beautiful Korea.
So, down a line of tables we, and each table is loaded with wonderfully sentimental things, brought here from attics and closets and neglected bureau drawers, with little price tags on them, of wonderfully small price.
My poor sick wife and I find things to really fancy, if we had a wish to fancy them. Also many cute things to pick up and show baby, in her cheap little baby carriage, which we’re pushing on along with our delighted smiles, that day.
But then there’s something awesome, which I don’t dare touch.
For there a Chinese lady is offering, laid out carefully, in brilliant colored over-lying folds, on brilliant folds, on her narrow table, perhaps two dozen of them, small, magnificent, antique silk scarves.
And then, suddenly, a one standing out to me from all the rest, to me, by far, suddenly, the most magnificent of them all,
.. .. for its particular philosophy of color brilliance, using colors any human eye will tag as elemental,
.. .. and its particular mathematic,
.. .. of infinitely textured surface, with straight line, and square box, that throb,
.. .. a thing my eyes clearly recognized from an earlier theater lesson, which I will describe presently,
.. .. a Korean Shamanic Silk.
The lady sees me gawking, and does what I won’t do. Carefully draws the carefully folded kerchief from the folded rest, and lays it, folded, on my open hand, right hand, laid point-of-center-finger to the wrist.
Suddenly I’m standing in the old royal palace. Took a bus ride, from our forward army base, to the capital city, to experience the open summer public hours of the beautiful old palace, and its surrounding garden park.
And, among the green green lawns and ambling thoroughfares with crowds of friendly folks, I have, by then, been discovering geometric gardens overflowing lovely blooms.
But now I am standing looking up, me and a number of others looking up, in a famous broad, bright, sunlit, famous, famous antique room. Us mere human beings all safe inside the rope lines. All our heads back and looking up.
Us under a billion tumbling flowers, a broad canopy of a billion billion flowers falling, falling unceasingly, from a quite convincing sky of geometric painted wood.
But then again another place.
A small theater inside a side door of a modern building.
The building is a school-like place of a long-surviving ancient cult, the ancient cult whose people made that falling-blossom sky, and strung the string to dig those geometric gardens.
But now this place, of that ancient great school, is a theater. This is a teaching theater. And this is a teaching theater of dance.
Me, I’m on the bus for a public education thing, a very brief introductory class, consisting of a demonstration and a lecture.
I am there from a foreign army’s entertainment service pamphlet. And a little bus of other foreign soldiers with me too, who’ve also seen the pamphlet. Half, or more, of our small group are Blacks, by the way, me guessing Jazz or Blues fans, and no commissioned officers.
Us all members of an army that has largely occupied our beautiful classic dancing teacher’s country for many years, and largely dictated their government, and their government, at that time, is holding many of them prisoner, as political prisoners.
Me a soldier among several other such soldiers, who are present that few minutes. Intending to educate ourselves, enrolled in your public education effort. And obviously, us mostly welded to our seats and crouching forward, in your small practice theater.
Where the construction of the stage, seems to me, in a geometric way, suggests the stage space has clear resemblance with an ancient inn yard. I who’d read the Shakespeare scholar’s scene years before, I am feeling that I notice this.
We whose hearts and souls are being courted by you, our fantastically graceful and powerful teacher. You are endeavoring to reach inside of us by teaching us great classic art. Great art shaped to a shape the soul of your body-heart-mind knows.
Her passes of her hands were quite intentionally magic, and the elemental colors of the scarves. Scarves from which trailed visual echoes in the open spaces. Quite a demonstration.
Body operates in certain poses of sexual power, legs devoted mainly to evolving that presentation of the body. Then there is a hand drum, for punctuation or the like, and even outcries.
But mostly we see elemental fluid magic scarves, weaving powerful things of moving sexual fluid into space. And done in depiction of a classic cast of characters and plots and seasons.
The concentrated face and the transparent arms.
The costume is sewn of magic scarves.
I’m going to leave this here.
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{- End Of “Korean Shamanic Silks #2” -}
{-Creds.. This is from my book.. “Army Stories”
.. .. Its overview page .. {-Here-} -}
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