Class Renga

      Renga 1

The words enter me and I feel like I know you. You have told me stories countless times of these places, with so much detail I inscribed every word in my mind. Then I walked those same roads you shared with me. You life is not alien to mine, we shared our stories. But I am not arrogant, I will never know your life like you do. But I think I know this place. You bought it alive for me and then I saw it myself.

The day we first experienced it together, you were open, it was real. I felt like your home was mine regardless of my innocence. The moment I stepped through that front door, there became a sense of freedom and unlikely comfort. Your mother cared, the sun was shining and the time seemed endless. We continued a small routine, I was able to find solace in this home, regardless of your absence. It began to grow and the distance was no longer visible. Your world I had initially experienced turned to isolation, the initial comfort dissipated as your work became the priority.

It may seem difficult but the time I spent alone was to me, the most sacred. You let me walk, without constraints, through the streets that began to feel like mine to know. They became less intimidating with each step, more to uncover with every corner. I would leave every morning 6, before you and the sun rose, so I had time to experience a shift in light over the old city. How things changed so quickly as a result of this. I would sit and admire, the people moving in and out of my vision. Full of motion and direction, I wonder where they are going, who they are seeing, how they feel. I do not open my mouth in this time, because I fear that would disturb the silence. I do not speak your language but can anticipate much interaction. I needed to know these interactions fully, and at this clock donging twice – lunch is over and we can all return to function as a state of piles. There was piles upon piles of knowledge, of integrated learning, of seeking, of speaking, and all that requires. Who could ever determine the quantity here? I knew not of these things myself, but I decided to ask these questions.

The editing process was underway, a light feather-dusting of the article I was writing. In need of some inspiration, I got up and returned to my hotel for an afternoon siesta. I’d sunk down low to retrieve a moment’s silence when ---

“How are you this evening?” 
My eyes opened wide, and I gasped. I thought the pause meant that nothing was amiss. Then there was another moment passing, and the voice spoke again:

“So, how can I help you?” I screamed and cut this unknown valet off before he could take a step closer.
He was dressed in black, and the light from outside through the cracked curtain showed only a moustache.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING IN MY ROOM?!” I shrieked, rolling off the corner of the bed and backing into the wall.
He said nothing, but stood very still.
I felt my heartbeat quicken, and my hands started to shake. I was a ghost. Maybe, it does sound a bit crazy to think, or human. I honestly, did not know where I was. This place doesn’t seem real in the slightest, though every time I touched something it sure as hell felt real, the floor I was on felt real, the hotel bed felt real. There was even a minibar and a little TV on a desk. Of course, I wasn’t even thinking about how real things were, but more so why the fuck is there someone in my room looking creepy as hell? He smiles at me like everything is fine, but I can help but feel hot wet tears pricking my eyes.

“How are you?” He repeats himself in the monotone voice I was greeted with.

“Goooooooooooood…” I trail off, not really knowing what else to say. I listen to the voice that comes out of my mouth and realise it isn’t my own. I try again, “how are you?” the alien voice still ringing from between my lips. I wipe my sweaty palm on my pants, feeling the brush of fabric against the wide palms that feel unfamiliar to me. I look down and marvel at the hands attached to my wrists which are not my wrists at all but the thick strong bones of a labourer, extending from tanned, veiny forearms and that is when I realise the man has been talking and I have not been listening. But how can I really listen if these are not my ears?

Renga 2

I like small talk better when the other person and I can barely understand each other. You don’t have to worry about being funny, or charming, you’re just happy to get a few words out and be able to understand the other person. Nothing connects you better with someone with a different first language, than proudly uttering a swear word from their native tongue. The knowing smile you give each other says so much more than “I understand what you are saying.” It says “I understand you.” It says “I see you.” It says “I know it’s hard” and it says “you are okay.
“Here is my world,” we say as we spread our hands, leaving sparks on our fingertips. “It’s ours now.”
Our eyes are our weapons when words sit in our throats and plonk themselves there, refusing to come out. Hand gestures, and “How do you say…” live with us, old roommates that would never leave the dirty dishes in the sink.
If you were old, come one come all, and that’s your reproach – then get to know my approach, that’s what I say. In this dampened and heavy soiree. That’s my village, this is my brigade. I built that bridge to cross in a day. I did it with whitened knuckles, clean beaches where delicate shells lay ‘a-shimmering like delicate strands. Let’s be honest. Language is life and life is lived, so let’s say less. Not speaking is really great, as is not doing anything. Every where has probs been multi-cultural and bilingual in some way, we just got hella TV’s now. Surviellance is real my friends! I have to work through this one, my counsellor knows how much I think people are watching me. I have only been in this country for a few weeks and to add more to my surveillance paranoia, my wallet has been stolen. They say I lost it but it just a ploy to get my address. The counsellor wants to help and is trying to say I lost my wallet, bullshit it was stolen, I can tell from the way he looks down whenever we discuss it. He’s probably one of them. In the van outside my house. I leave through the back door.

Reflection on Shifts

The first piece flows quite well in the beginning, with the following parts deepening the story and taking it to a new level but not completely diverging from the start. A shift of tone enters around the middle of the second paragraph and the story becomes a story of absence, tinged by the sadness of isolation. While it began with a feeling of connection, this development is a surprising turn, yet it still works to flesh the scenario out deeper. After this turn it continues along as a new cultural experience with a similar tone to the start but with a slight disconnect between the characters.

The big shift occurs in the fourth paragraph when the conversation starts. From here the story takes on elements of mystery and even thriller. It becomes heavy in dialogue and the language changes dramatically as it incorporates colloquial terms. This shift evokes a sense of bewilderment and fear and the story dives into ideas of panic and being confronted with an unknown threat.

Similarly the second piece has a major twist towards the end from the surveillance part. From here new themes emerge and a different tone is used and like the first piece the language gets considerably colloquial here. There is a clear change of concept from this part too. It began as a story about connection and language. However the last part picks up on the idea about living in a foreign country but takes this to a new level to tell a story about danger, lack of trust and surveillance paranoia.

It’s interesting to compare the two pieces as they both start around themes of connection but take a dark, intense and suspicious turn towards the end.