Most words don't make sense, but I get the gist, the context, from the whole manifestation, or so I think; the process in which the words were put in to existence by the person opposite, their hands, the movement of the torso, the lines on the forehead, the dimples, the glint in the eyes, those raised eyebrows, that frown, the smile - slight or otherwise - playing a part supplementing comprehension; even some words sparked a vague recollection, either through knowledge prior, or probably common ancestry with a language in my conscience. The food, moreish, too lacks familiarity, challenging the visual, the olfactory and the gustatory senses simultaneously; even the air feels different to the skin. Is it a dream you wonder? Oh, but it's not, it's better actually, it's achievable reality.
Ever so often I choose to wander, beyond what I know, to places unknown, where the domiciles lead a life different from mine, they converse in words, even think maybe, alien to me; socialize in ways peculiar, drink poisons unfamiliar, they dine of, and in ways new. The slight awkwardness for both parties, that crude naivety in social encounters, for even the local customs I'm not privy to, to try and comprehend through speculation the words and intentions of the other, rejuvenate and challenge the otherwise stagnant gray cells, in even the most simple of interactions like ordering the local equivalent of a coffee, or hustling up breakfast in the AM at that rustic looking eatery where the locals flock. The inconvenience inherent to such interactions - when rendered to successful conclusions - seems tiny to all involved, eventually, in front of the fruitious gratification of having navigated such a complex maneuver, with a handicapped sense of understanding; an encounter perhaps that will stand out for the domicile, from the familiar ones expected or executed through the day that reek of easy monotony, and for the alien one of many that he will learn from over the course of his wandering. The failure of such interactions, would leave the domicile amused, again a tangent from her ordinary, and the alien in all probability, slightly flustered, but happy for he has learnt, with no major repercussions otherwise, for such faux pases are all but expected of foreigners like him.
Even the signage on the shops, the rules of the road, the menu cards, the products that line the aisles in the grocery stores, the trees on the kerbs, the makeup of the footpath, the smell in the air, the skies over my head and the weather, the demographics and the lay of the land, the dwellings where the locals live, their windows and balconies, the vehicles they drive and the number plates, where they work, the clothes they wear and how they carry themselves and what they look like, the restaurants and the food they advertise, the dogs on the streets, the city lights, have all exotic tales to tell, that I haven't ever heard and I wish to hear with no prejudice, providing new stimulus, at each juncture; all things that don't register beyond the subconscious back home, in the dimension of cognizance. The butterflies in your stomach as you indulge carefully in the simplest of barters, ordering a dish with a name unpronounceable ín an accent out of reach, or simply reacting to greetings at the till in the grocery store, where you went in to buy water perhaps, are all reminiscent of childhood, where navigating simple social rendezvous was exciting, for it was a skill half nurtured still.
There is a beauty in not knowing, not understanding, of being lost, opening the mind to the new, feeding your curiosity, for it renders you vulnerable, naked through ignorance, catapulting you away from the confidence that dwells in the dimensions of preconceived concepts, staunch ideas and the comfort of mundane familiarity built through repetitive experiences; and this exposure to the unknown, in return, expands those dimensions ever so slightly. There is a relaxing calmness in this chaos of unfamiliarity, of no expectations from the food, the people, the place, for you don't know, and no notions of what's good or bad clouds your judgement.
I yearn to hold onto staying an alien, not ever comprehending fully; I have no dreams of learning the language, or the customs in entirety, for I want learn slowly, relishing in the diversity, for I fear that if I learn, then the beauty of ignorance, that magic of speculation, the freedom to make mistakes in social encounters unimaginable back home where you're expected to know and comply, will fade into the boring illumination of knowledge.
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