I've of late been titillated by the prospect of good old fashioned Total War breaking out on the Korean peninsula. I know, right? I'm pretty much a sleazeball. How could I possibly be titillated - how dare I sexualize my interest - by the prospect/threat of war?
A few years ago, I had a summer job as an overnight stocker at a grocery store in my hometown. That was the year Israel was going bananas for Hezbollah in southern Lebanon, dropping payloads and blitzing tanks and smashing apartment complexes and et cetera on account of a captured soldier. At 4 a.m., right near the end of my shift, they'd bring in the newspapers for the next day, and I remember how excited me and the other stockboys/stockmen were to snatch the rag and read all about the pain, misery, suffering, loss, and so on and so forth suffered by the people of Lebanon and Israel.
Since then, I've basically not bothered to follow the news until the prospect of war is drummed up. To wit: A few years later, Russia and Georgia went at it; and suddenly, I'm reading the paper again.
Now, South and North Korea are getting all, "This is my land" sort of thing, and here I am, cruising news-sites for dirt.
|a pictorial summary of worldview|
But still, this is absurd. My girlfriend's grandfather is a veteran of the Second World War; my own grandpa trained fighter pilots during the same. And these connections demand almost mandatory sympathetic adjustments; a certain, roiling, pit-of-stomach belief that "that war was different," ignoring even the unsubtle and obvious fact that it was as much a product of circumstances as any other, filled with horrors as any other, and only took place on so grand a scale because Europeans were, at that moment in time, near-literally the owners of the world - and hence brought war to every corner of it.
|is something to die for something to live for?|
Am I an awful person? Am I "messed up?" Is this really the world we're born into, the options we're given? Do I really want to live in an awful life-scenario that demands/threatens war, rather than my pleasant, domestic, consumeristic, North Atlantic situation?
Well, whatever. I've decided nothing. Please, audience: decide for me. Hurl you anxieties and fears at my feet, or else hurl your curses. This husk shall be filled by your entreaties/vitriol/comforts and joys.