Sitting in a hotel room in the Pacific feeling somewhat artificial to the ways of being and connecting as my forefathers had many years prior
The dirt on his feet and sweat on his brow, working the plantation – my grandfather immersed in the land, his land – not owned: ethically entangled– , his fanua – where his blood and the land are one, his life force. I walk this land with a gaze of scepticism, love and yearning.
Sitting on the lounger, hearing the rolling waves in the distance the rhythm of Moana, the slight salted air with its gentle embrace. Feeling synthetic, in a simulated space far from the stories of Moana shared by my mother.
Can I think other, in an othered space? Neatly pruned trees, the wildness and weeds taken. The Frangipani I wear, an introduced plant to these Pacific Islands…how has this has become a commodified symbol of pacific beauty?
Sitting at my desk engaging in research, what questions to I ask how can I conjure in words up my capacity to affect in writing, in my speaking when these are highly striated conditions that govern my work. Sitting too much, a repetition of movement or lack of, how can I sense and come to understand indigenous knowledge as my ways of knowing are subject to neoliberal conditions, how can I sense the sweat on my grandfathers brow – as he toiled with the land and the land toiled with him.
