Americana rosy-prosey.

      Cultural contamination overtones my creative practice just as much as it does my literal writing style. There're often times when even the spelling I use influences the tonal expressions emulated by the results of Americanised ideals, conformities, functioning in the craft.
       What I see and what I hear on the television informs "what I'm used to," and illustrates by design the shape my writing takes.
       I can use my Valley Girl accent to "to-a-d-a-ll-e-ee" provide an internally formed instruction for my pieces' pace, shape, and delivery notable susceptibility to Americanised culture.
       Nuances shift thoughtful perceptions of what I use to make my work different every time I write for wider audiences other than my own home-stretch of sand. An effort is made to utilise a standard English that represents everybody - or at least, everybody from the U.S.

       Does the apple really fall far from the tree?
       It's certainly possible that the way I choose to write reflects how I was schooled, this cultural distinction of white middle class Australia, denotes the imprint of our American parent who mitigates how we're to use broad brush-stoke language.
       Apparent is our cross-lingual reference to call on our patriarchal fear-respect relationship toward Americana tropes and guides to successful writing skills founded in the land of The Bold and The Beautiful People.

        We go out of our way to incorporate inclusivity in our speech-patterns, stitching meanings out of subtle innuendos based on original patterns designed by our traditional and ancestral icon media-market men who gave us sayings to use like, "glass is half full" over there,
your grass is ass... make it greener.
Oh, yes, include every one with these paraphrase books, 'cuz you've got language to boot, and you use it to be a cheerleader for the sea of stars in Hollywood.
Jus' keep truckin',
alright I'll stop.

Much I do, do you?

What's your understanding of Hong Kong? What has been your exposure to it? Food? Language? Movies? Is it China? Is it NOT China?

A valuable session of learning yet to be “undertaken” duly applies to the concept of who is a “true resident” of Hong Kongnese lifestyle culture. Perhaps spreading myself thin around the conceptual landscape of other philosophies based with my own kind of writing exposure – or lack thereof – has curtailed an essential part of investigation into a very real, vibrant, and vital location for the arts – Hong Kong. I will only deliver the sugar-coated coattails of investigation based on the ongoing anthology of collaboration teaming us an encounter of partnership both fruitful and wide-ranging through our semester – travelling virtually abroad into the branches of culture, race, and navigating the humanities one word, and purposeful exposure, at a time.

A careful ploy to facilitate undergoing such a steep climb into correct respectful terminology of “who is true” came through for me whilst engendering a clear minded leap of faith to understand Hong Kong’s place in my mind as of yet unvisited.

This leap of mindset occurred on a tram ride journey homeward bound, where I often muse on the happenings of places elsewhere, and where I find a quiet repose often for peaceful reflection.
Without understanding gathered, I found myself lost in a sea of confusing thoughts, did I even know my own place in this world – let alone those lost in a sea of their own confusing conundrums elsewhere? I’ve never been to Hong Kong. I can agree with myself when I say aloud – “I don’t yearn what I haven’t learned: here is there for me,” so I say and I can agree that I was to discover my short-sighted interest into expedient exposed connections found on my horizon line, escaping a rich and fundamental destination to trek who is what in the worlds play-stage.

Is it merely a quantifiable link between the fleshly sensations and carnal pleasures we humans embrace to mean something as is tried and true only on a physical attirubute – rather than a metaphysical understanding of a layered culture behind the scenes of a back-stage world of mystery and intrigue? Is it not a joyous celebration of those elements left unseen to the blind Westerner – which has me taking up a very important character in this mighty world stage of Comedy, Tragedy, and Life – and I reciprocate this layered veil of misunderstandings and mystified beginnings as a token of my gratitude for the privaledge to learn and grow from what I attain to surface level knowledge.

Sure, there’s food.
Yes, there’s Jackie Chan.
I am here.
You are there.
Will we ever change the world with fundamentals such as these?
Well, it starts from the going getting weird and losing your touch on making marks on the world, without long-standing receptivity keyed onto the clue that we don’t know another inside the snakes-and-ladders paradigm crafted for us by those braving outside themselves, and taking each of us on our roads back to You.

Confetti cotton cloud...

Confetti cotton cloud

Ellen spoke in volumes, but yet rested breath.
Ellen yielded to the subtle woe, and she remained.

Ellen took with her a sandwich, saw seagulls following,
and she sat in the Saturday morning rain ---
These birds were true to her, truer than sudden shock, awakened wariness proved
flocks right in their boundless making fun of this enigmatic person who sat still still to watch them. They rode the Saturday’s whitewash, creeping closer.
These were birds of fancy, not of prey.

Each step they took, teetering, all three fossicked for her attention.

Ellen took a bite of her sandwich, her better judgement lapsed,
and she reached out for her favourite bird she’d named Igor.
Igor came closer and nibbled from her a piece of white bread.
Naught was calm.
The birds bickered, and Igor lost the war.
Over the rooftop sanctuary, the rains stilted in the sky,
and it became serene. Deeper forming a subdued,
taking her own breath,
Ellen envisioned an eclipsed moon.

The birds’ shrieks reminded her of being young. And how we all came to bemoan our losses, and how we scratch and scramble for our ends.

If on this workplace rooftop parking lot, her stillness masked a green-eyed twitch she felt for all the other interns, in there, inside, below and beyond hustling into nick-namery and pleasurable petting to procreate a sweeping mess with silent words and whistles designed to progress on prowess. They built walls to climb.

There’re levers in this world.
You can leave this world.
Little cold leaf, whittled world.

Fun is and has many hands. It will be there when the faint minute deadens to a click, when odes to thatched turrets beckon us to heal from silhouettes bygone. Are they your shadows? Do you will their presence; do you wish they’d come in? And how abounds your raincloud above you’d ever so beget to see, drained of life and fervour crying out to the sea?

While up high,
kid once broken,
crumbles underneath the sky,
if you hadn’t spoken.

Spoiled were the birds that came and found a girl stationed, built inside a lidded dome, the created house given to see, echoed of her heart’s respondent seeds that lay aside of she. She’d sprinkled them home, and she’d covered their heads, and all that was left was a dreaded bloom of the insistent end.

Through all these whistles and quips, many of friends may pretend waiting for shalom. At the height of night, one strives for a quenched thirst for destruction, and one might delight in the silence.

Ellen wouldn’t hear them coming, and she’d wait here all day paying it no mind.
And in that sad time – there came a bird whistling to her a sign.

Anew is the Day’s Power,
Source of Creative Keys,
Out of this brilliant hour,
Birds wishes are these:
on stirred provocations, glide toward our fantasy desire, fantastical rich,
to bid salutation          ~

You have to grow up
Before you’ll see
The harbour dock
Returns us safely to thee.



  

.make you dance.

 "Can I just be?" Rus asked me.
I was about to say no. It would hit her hard, it would smother her. I could eat up the amount of words she'd spent, sounding boards and riffing ---- riff and drift. That's all the sentimentality needed.
 What of grifters?
  Where there's smoke...
 "Oh, my stars. You don't say much, do you?" she said, earth quaking underfoot, her lilted stammer barely audible above the rumble.
  Sounds and sentiment.
  "Don't get deep on me now, Rus."
  And it shut her up.
  The way times were spent, recreated ear to tend to memory's bend...
       Here we go again, it's time to cry, time to defend.
 
   Always up on high horses in public, we shadow dancers. I'd come to the street looking for a depressing repeat of all I'd long since longed to forget - there's no more rent. I vacuum the station floors once a week, mean streets.
   Do a sweep --- I comb these floors for cigarettes.

   "Where are those bloody cigarettes?" I hollered out, not really waiting for someone to answer.
   "Ugh," she scoffs at me. "Really? You only care about your damn cigs!" There was venom dripping down each word. I felt like dying --- not literally of course, but she made it feel literal all the damn time!
   I found them, though, under the couch, must've fallen down or kicked under. I walk out the door, hearing her yell after me. The whole neighbourhood can hear you, love, I thought.
   Though the whole neighbourhood wouldn't care. I doubted the guys next door would even flinch, they heard this stuff all the time. My lighter flickered and then the dancing flame disappeared. I tried again but there was nothing but a spark. Spark. Spark. Spark. I whacked the lighter against my palm.
  "Come on". She returned and flirted her heat with my cigarette, turning the tip to ash as the thick air passed down my throat. I exhaled and watched the smoke hang heavy in the cold winter air, wishing he was here with me.
     Every time I smoked, I couldn't hep but consider the irony. I spent most of my time working cleaning up the damn things, cursing the people who just throw 'em on the ground. At least I get rid of 'em properly, I'd congratulate afterwards.
     I started the habit when I was just fifteen. When my parents found out, they threatened to kick me out of the house, but settled for a month grounding. So, I'd smoke at my casual job, or the school oval.
     I wished everyone would just let me be.
     I finished my round of the durry-riddled station upon seeing the break of day. I saw the dust dance  through a ray of light, as I was swallowed out into the city again.
     The city is always littered, I internally grumbled.
     I kicked a can and watched the last remaining stars fade away. The light killed their twinkle slowly and they were nothing.
     The cigs, the darkness, the warmth of the flickering lighter, was all I had left to hold. This job and my actual employment are becoming intertwined. The occupation is smoking and my job is to clean floors. There is something indifferent about this sterile behaviour.
     I'm quitting my job, it's time to continue smoking somewhere else, hopefully no one would notice until I was completely gone, then I'd have enough time to move onto the next job.
     They can't find me, they won't find me.


       

Habitus

- but habitus which have been produced by different modes of generation, that is, by conditions of existence which, in imposing different definitions of the impossible, the possible, and the probable, cause one group to experience as natural or reasonable practices or aspirations which another group finds unthinkable or scandalous, and vice versa -

Cambridge Studies in Social and Cultural Anthropology 16] Pierre Bourdieu - Outline of a Theory of Practice (2013,Cambridge University Press).

Who stifled expedition into unconscious terrain?
Whom may I ask, sailed against the winds of change,
creased chasms of vanity... I propel thee.
Naught once nor twice, have I gotten a grip over your
ever-willingness to quip; should you stop before teeter-trailing
truer than I ever knew you. I'll never know You. I'll never know.
How shall I grow? I beg to know,
leave me here gently. Increase your prowess and peace.
I call to yearn, and sometimes unlearn,
behaviours in children make us mask... all that was the very day
we came to twist our clasp, subdued in a labelled class,
and I'm lateral.

I begin over, to define substance in your sustained reluctance to
police my disgrace, disdain and haste, and you dismantle my fate.

I find closure in young skin,
you begin by getting
in my own lush measure
founded painted pen,

dance as a feather. 

Let us rumi-nate on this struggle.

Who can't and who can?

30/07...

I believe that no one can really know how to write. You should meander through your own subconscious skills, showing a piece of the puzzle one may may miss. If only, if only, the woodpecker sighed.
- S
Some people do negate facts or lack a certain tact
I'd perpetuate this untactful attack on you through believing in all "outside" your belief systems.

----

Life is a struggle one intends to win. Life is all belief systems. Anyway, there's no order. You own chaos.

Yet what should bely intention is a certain realism inherent in understanding your own place. Place yourself in between the sum of your ideas --- there'll be scope.

Beyond the notion of right doing and wrongdoing, there is a field...
I'll meet you there

- R

Rumi.