No-Name-Narrative

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Construct a narrative outline without a protagonist and with multiple characters, involving a journey without an outer transformation. What would the story look like?

I'd place a group - three or four max - in an elevator; trapped in a space where it would capture all personalities in a locked-box scenario which I'd contend to create.This scene would evoke a series of enraptured interactions befitting to the unfolding event of a daily struggle to move on and out of one circumstance to the next. 

I'd utilise all skills and or conversation starters, serious points of character revelation, and even flashback in differing perspectives to give this scene a built-up and solid foundation to create tension and anxiety blockades to stage a full-frontal foursome trying to overcome a shared obstacle. 

This type of setting encumbers them to react in virtually distinctive physical characteristics, shaping the encounter through mannerisms, social mores and contextual misunderstandings explored in a tightly confined situation.

A comedy of errors, if you will, would ensue gently navigating the terrain of characters' elaborate wishes and desires to fulfil in a delightful realism with each leading character possessing strong perspectives. The characters' accentuated humour intentionally designed to create conflict, drama, and disunity as they each aspire to reach significant and unique outcomes to their shared present challenge. 

Biography~

Rhys Westbury is a twenty-three year old guy who studies at RMIT in a Bachelor of Arts second year Creative Writing program. He loves poetry, loves to love, and he majors in making people laugh - at him.

He prefers to see through the looking glass - or as Will says in Anchorman, "In a GLASS CASE OF EMOTIOONS!??!" at deep feelings. The voice he longs to mirror is none other than literary colossus of dreams, epiphanies, and deep despair, Miss Silvia Plath... He was also born on her birthday... coinc-kee-dink. Megan Abbott specialises in saucy, steamy, L.A. forties to sixties noir, in a decadent stirring of the darkest human desires - he enjoys this bit of light fic, really.

He has this acquired taste for spiritually entrenched meanings shining through his works, pulling a part pieces of human relationships to analyse humanity's psychic frailty.

We're all so fragile -

He knows himself;
When he writes,
Freedom's his embrace.

Poo \ Peace / Power.

Two will do.

Grab your keys.

Find your peace.

If time will allow,
make a sound ----

out with it.

R.W.

What does the intercultural experience mean?

God only knows.
He does.
What will I choose for the topic at hand --- "come hither, go thither"
aventure de jour.

R.W.

The way we were is who you are now.

The way we were electrified us. I sat across from him,
and had this crazy feeling we'd met. We had.
      "You're joking?"
      "Nooo way, Rhys - isn't it?"
      "Tom," I declared, placing the name over him like a command.
       I knew who he was, see? I'd created a face for him in my world,
and from house to home and on the road again - long lost brethren,
ol' pal Tom, from la la la long-long-long time ago, came up and hugged me.
       He was in his trademark flannelette hoodie, bum jeans and bearded -
and strikingly I was very much the same since I'd left him in England.
       We'd met plenty of places and times over there, memory fails to exact
certainty of each location - all blending into one episode in the sands of time
of our secretive, out-of-our-minds world conjured as journeymen.
       He wore a hushed and subdued manner, eyes fiercely startled by my presence.
       So I pressed on past our joint silence and said, "Tom, are you working
back 'ere?" He didn't need to brace the topic before I spoke for him,
"Ah, but you're still recording your E.P. aren't ya?"
        "Sure am," he agreed. And then he nodded to the beat of my phrasing suited to cater for a personality lukewarm, and soft of sound.

Assignment with Sidney - Milestone Three

Mother is my marker,

Mother is my marker!

Mother is my mind,

And I her minder.

 
Somewhere outside frosted shells,
Dancing in the light
Spreads you thin.
Oh, life acquired a willy-wag tail
To outlive the eldest tree trunk---
Do you reciprocate?


There, called Life to some,
was where I came to be.
I didn’t do it for elaborate sincerity…
I’d doodled and compounded,
that this is where my love
should be founded.

On a breakaway wall
two words etched:
Me + You

If you could see
my black ship
linger on a port,
you’d sound about
right on point.

Chortled he did,
finding me on my perch -
delight smeared on him,
hunched over and happy.

He knew I could dim
the hard-noise with my
noisier chirps….
He, being my whole embrace.

He called me Murphy,
I knew him as Jack, and I
loved the words “something borrowed, something new” to describe how he’d thrown his lovely person from view,
telling me:
My wings only fly me to you.

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.