colored dust

Halt. Breathe. Its a syntax of smells. A Hong Kong street. I feel gullible to all the tastes around me. Braised pork, fresh clams, ducks with necks intact, butcher's knives rejecting mercy, a hen there, a fish dead. I'v never been exposed to an array of olfactory sensations like this before. And still i wonder if there is something familiar to me in the heart of this Newness. Steams and sweat. Accumulation of spices and the hands that create sensory art. Its as if the world oscillates between the then and the now. I am a vegetarian. The smells and sights should disgust according to stereotypes. Instead I am in awe of the people who unearth the very roots and please their tongues daily. A little further, there are shops selling cameras and mobile phones, stationary and tee shirts, dry spices and pickles. The more i invade that street the more i feel pulses throbbing of people who consider this home. why are we so afraid to challenge our notions about our culture? Is it possible to just dive in and be able to make a new street, an unfamiliar bed, your conclave of emotions for a night or two? why do we need gloves on our hands when the heart is open to all those beats which a new culture infuses in our blood? A day in Hong Kong and that"s all i had asked for.