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Cultural differences
English culture versus Afrikaans culture.
As a original Cox who still retains my English heritage, having been raised to speak both languages fluently and respect both cultures equally, I have come across some culture clashes.
Being politely ignored.
As someone who’s family line has strong British roots I was raised to know when my presence was not wanted.
This does not mean me as a person is not wanted or liked, it simply means that me showing up at someones door at a time that for them is of great inconvenience. I proceed with polite caution.
With either the security gate or inner door locked, signalling a need for security or privacy.
I’m not about to start hollering after calling being unable to knock or ring a bell and hearing people inside within clear earshot of me without anyone coming to the door.
Proceeding I called again. The dogs had been silenced at the door then and there was no one coming.
Being in no position to diddle daddle I headed home after trying one more time to be sure I wouldn't be leaving without reason, later curtly letting them know that I had been there.
The English response to this could be one of two options.
A: Oh, I didn’t heard you. What did you need to see me about?
B: I might have heard you, at that time though it was not at all a good time. (with the option of a brief explanation) Was it something important you needed to see me about?
Depending on the relation you have with the person the person may add an ‘apologies’ or a simple ‘pardon’
The response that I had received in Afrikaans culture on three occasions was a prideful one, despite my most polite interaction, which I proceeded with their convenience in mind.
How to approach the clash is often hard as apologizing in modern Afrikaans culture is seen as an admittance of fault rather than a curtecy breeding well content. Often in many communities it is also seen as a demeaning thing that lowers you to a level lower than the person you are apologizing to. And you letting them know you’d been there is like asking for an apology.
As I have said before English culture allows for certain behaviors if reason arises. But yet again there arises clashes culturally about how each conduct themselves. In my case I was told that I should not mention having been there and that it might have been a bad time and that according them I should have called louder and stood longer. Which makes sense, unless you had little time and needed to get going on other things and you didn’t intend to intrude, however it is not I who had taken offence, I had thought of them, they had taken offence in my cultural difference. Blaming me saying that I had made them feel bad by assuming I might have come at a bad time.
Now despite me having paid them a courtecy reading: “No need to feel bad, everyone misses someone at one point and only hears later that they had been looking to see them, it has in fact happened to me many a time. Otherwise I know not anytime is always a good time to drop in on something, something one is not in a state to receive someone. Apologies if I made you at all feel bad. But there’s no need.”
Still after that they had taken insult and saw my ‘apologies’ immediately as an admittance of fault and thus worthy of a figurative cold shoulder.
To be fair, I get along with everyone, but this interaction has cast a great shadow over my view of them and how much I will be interacting with them in the future.
The English thing here to do is to conclude ones business with the person and remain polite, as their actions had proven to show that they dislike you and it would be best to remain out of one anothers way while remaining on friendly terms but not being friends persay.
Any comments on how you’ve come to perceive cultural clashes?
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Have no fear, like a woman's scorn.
Unknown song lyric
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A wolf rolls on his back and shows his belly, the alpha eccepts this. A human being shows softness, vulnerability, they get stabbed seventy times over. Rule of thumb, don't roll over.
R.M Cox
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I will fight till the end, even if I'm crawling on my hands and knees and bleeding out.
Unknown song lyric
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Sometimes you were just born to be a she devil, a survivor, because an innocent woman gets burned at the stake.
R.M Cox
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Me: Oh come on, I'm on my seventh psychopath already! When does this stop? Now that's what I call serial dating.
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Call this a rant.
I adore writing because when people start kicking and biting at my soft spots I have a plush growing gang of characters to take out my frustration with, to impose my sadness and express my determination and character with. Honestly I like being nice, sweet, soft, loving. But I hate it when the pain brings out the worrier in me, it has to come out, there is nothing that angers me more than being able to do nothing more than curl into a ball and cry till that even doesn’t help anymore. On a lighter note, the badassery of my characters help me maintain focus, at least while I’m writing. Irrational pain warrents irrational results. To get to the point. Do woman need to cause problems to have someone so busy chasing them and extinguishing fires that they don’t have time to sharpen their blades and cut to mame? I don’t complain, I don’t play games, I don’t lie, I don’t cause pain, yet I am not worthy of even the benefit of the doubt? Brilliant. Such things is what makes me this bitter bite of a she devil I think I should be, rather than a delicate flower with no thorns. So here’s my question, do you have to be a witch to be loved?
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Red eyes
Sleepless night
Honest truths
Thought to be lies
Promises made
Heart break
A pain of sorts
I cannot describe.
Soft Heart by R.M Cox
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Her scent brought him to the edge of the world. Her skin to the misty shores. Her kisses to the sea and storm, her soft touch to the green plain, pure and rich. She did not make him heat up with lust, with her it was something else. He’d experienced lust before, with her it was a case of absolute attraction. Her gentleness was a veil for her strength.
R.M Cox, Everything Must Change
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His voice was husky, honey like, charming, but had the lustering addition of a brogue to it. That which he could not hide given the things he’d whispered to her between nips in that intoxicating language of his that had sent her heart spiraling.
R.M Cox, Everything Must Change (#1)
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Chapter 35: Veils (by R.M Cox)
A mutual feeling rose as Robin read her, and she him. For the first time she could see past the shrouding of his soul. His dark blood. His mother's passing, his solitary ventures, his father, his passion, his reserve was down and the dark heavy doors to the hall of his thoughts were wide open to display a fire pit of liveliness, and fancy, and intricacy, a uniform air of soul.
In gazing into the flames priory he'd felt the slow growing tug of her. Was it because they were alone? Was it temptation? No. He'd had that before.
When she was there, the rest of the world faded, the landscape became more innate, the textures more vivid, the colors deeper and the sensation of her touch and gaze stronger.
She didn't move away. It was then that he draw forward, like throwing himself off the cliff into a frigged river. They broke through upon one another. Again she welcomed the contact between their bodies. Arching into his form, so there was barely anything between them. How much she wanted to feel this ever since the night of the dance. Robin felt his mind swing, spin and tilt. Then everything settled with her fingers spreading over his heart. He let his hand slip to her waist and the other lay to the side of her neck, tilting off to the side. Kissing the corner of her lips.
“I'd wondered when you'd kiss me. . .” Muriel cooed.
Making Robin smile against her skin. “Too badly, for too long.”
Normally such a statement would have sent a chill down her spine and make her back up. But she could feel his intentions. And she knew him. Smiling she captured his lips again. This time draping her arms about his shoulders. Inevitably leading to him slipping one arm around her lower back, he needn't any help from her to pick her up as she gasped. Now hoisted she found herself again perched on the edge of the hard wood desk, only a wall separating them and the front entrance. Robin tilting up Muriel's chin as he kissed her neck, softly, before he'd been scared to ignite such a fire between them.
But there, in that moment his hunger was only for her skin, like a fire in search of fuel. Catching her lips again he nipped at her lower lip, making her gasp again.
Her light skin was flushed at that point as she pressed back against him. Her fingers stealing into his hair. Yet before things could get anymore heated there was the sound of the front door.
Penny had returned. In the darkened corner Muriel immediately hid her face in Robin's neck. His hands having come to settle at her thighs grasped and held her hips as her pelvis was flush to his.
She held her breath as the two girls entered. Robin moving forward another inch to come into the full cover of the shadow. Muriel didn't want his body to leave her, yet she wasn't sure if what she had gotten herself into was that smart either.
Given the events of before, he was a fiery reminder that she was not entirely bound by nature misbehaving in her presence.
Her skin tingled where Robin had brushed his fingers along her arms, sparks had quite literally flown.
Penny and Lana didn't venture into the living room, merely hanging their coats and retiring, if only that would be the end, Penny turned before her chamber door: “Robin?”
There was a moment of silence in which Muriel had the need to giggle: “Yes?”
His voice was husky, honey like, charming, but had the lustering addition of a brogue to it. That which he could not hide given the things he'd whispered to her between nips in that intoxicating language of his that had sent her heart spiraling.
Then although Penny had heard him respond, she paused only another second before stepping into her chamber: “Good night.”
This plain soft utterance did not expect a response as her door shut behind her and the house once more returned to silence except for the fire's crackling.
Muriel was now even closer to the boy than she could have ever imagined being. There was something to onlookers that would seem dangerous about it, his strength and size, the veil of passion that still lingered over them in the moon's rising light.
Like a child now Muriel looked at him, wondering what he would do now, withdraw, proceed, or was it her role to choose.
Both she realized as after a moment Robin perched his forehead to hers, kissing her lips again, more softly, with his hands venturing up her curves, one coming to rest at her waist, drawing her closer, the other stealing into her hair, which she'd kept lose. His kisses were not teasing like she had expected, neither empty of passion. Despite the affect of his acute touches and skillful kisses and movements where most would move to more, he didn't.
So this was what it was, to have the dark gypsy.
All her fears were voided in his touch, she didn't feel the panic of being close to him, she felt the attraction.
Like when she had stretched out her hand to meet the wave only to have it stall mid air for those glorious seconds to follow, so was Robin to her.
To him she was irresistible. He was well aware of the sensuality that they shared. The very affect he had on her, the craving he had for her being to be near his.
Her scent brought him to the edge of the world. Her skin to the misty shores. Her kisses to the sea and storm, her soft touch to the green plain, pure and rich.
She did not make him heat up with lust, with her it was something else. He'd experienced lust before, with her it was a case of absolute attraction.
Her gentleness was a veil for her strength.
Slowing his kisses Robin softened and slowed the pace again. Her fingers having sailed along the contours of his shoulders, skirting his shanks and caressing down his back, sending a hair rising sensation through his body.
Muriel felt this in turn in his touch. Drawing back enough to catch her eyes with his Robin could feel his soul exposed in his gaze, Muriel met his gaze with curiosity. Her white eyes beautifully crystal and liquid.
“And now? My champion?” She spoke now locking her fingers behind his neck, Muriel could finally trust her voice all be it steady but low and soft.
Smiling a small smile Robin's ever green eyes gained a soft gleam as he lifted his hand off her waist, cupping her face gently as he could not help but kiss her again, drawing her in as close as he could, so that for a moment he could savor the freedom of having her.
Brushing her lips with his he tilted, whispering in a dialect, eloquent yet commonly taught enough for her to fully comprehend.....
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He was a talented sketch artist and on bitter nights when the blizzards blew he would take charcoal from my fire place and in grave images on the cellar walls. Images of a woman, darker in skin, and a man, clearly European. A boy and a pony, wild cats, skin tents, tribal scenes, dining halls, soft scenes of river and forest.
Brutal conflict between a bear and the wolves, who cowered in it's wake. One in particular caught my attention, of him and me, to either side seemed to be depicted our life stories, present and past. We lay in one another's arms, features soft, but with a longing in our eyes.
Part III The Black Jack
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There's nothing like the beat of the drum and the thrum of a deep voice and the slightly dirty sound behind the core dramatics that we as human beings for thousands of years surrounded even the most mundane actions with. Music. The thing that coaxes our souls to show in our eyes and makes our limbs lighter and our muscles nimble with rhythm. But most of all our thoughts flow with every note, we identify with the empathy of sound. And thus it reminds us that we are very much alive. Like the subtle touch of a lover.
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Can a writer be a reader?
16th December 2018
When we read as writer’s there’s always the chance that we’ll take on the other writer’s voice, assume their perspective and even unknowingly quote them.
This topic brings up so many other things for me, including a conversation I had with an elderly gentlemen of quite the qualification. He argued that for a writer to edit and smooth their own work is a very violating act, which according to him destroys the originality of the work. I of course argued that the plot cannot be derailed by the writers themselves as they grow with their work.
And that settled the argument for me, as it is part of my own personal writing process. I am fortunate enough to have the privilege of a very considerate and intelligible gentleman editing my work. That which appeals to him of course. As we cannot do anything justice if we ourselves do not enjoy it.
That brings me back onto my topic.
I find many writers who adore reading other authors work, I for one find myself at a cross roads. Some books I enjoy, most however do not possess the pace I entertain in my own works. But it would imply a great ego if I should only read my own work.
There are times I think I have writer’s block when in reality I crave to read rather than write. In these spaces of time I either exclusively read or exclusively write.
They say writer’s write when they've read all there is to be read. Of course in this day and age that is quite hard to put claim on. But we as writer’s indulge in creating new worlds.
To which others escape to.
Although if you create entire worlds in your mind and you put it all in words. To me personally, if I was to do that, plus read a very rich novel, I might just go mad. Well, that’s perhaps an overstatement.
So as for my question. I think writers can be readers too.
Now that I have shared my experience on the topic. I find myself curious as to the experience of other writers.
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In Penny's inner chamber Maddox rested, thick muscled shoulders pressed to the back of her headboard. He watched as she entered, noticing her trained yet subtitle steps as she came to meet the full length dresser mirror. All the furniture was darkly varnished as black oak. Her eyes in the mirror caught his attention, they seemed directed at him but he knew all she could behold with those beautiful diamond eyes was darkness. Yet she spoke, sure of his presence in the room.
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"The fire was hissing low, the sparks flying high, and Kevin's own spirit was brooding as the thunder outside. His mind slithering with the wind, ever on the border of a storm. With only the warmth of the fire separating him in likeness to the beasts prowling outside waiting for someone to wonder too far from shelter to make them disappear from sight."
The Sight In Blindness by R.M Cox
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