Acting American

"Hollywood" said the sign. The man in question began his transition online, he'd never actually been to America but he'd culturally been there for many years.1

The bright lights not of the big city, neither were these lights from a machine. "Bright Lights" he said repetitively. The man in question didn't own a theatre, nor did he drive a car and for that matter he didn't even radiate any particular constructive light that would correspond with this story; in-fact the only electrical light he felt proud to possess was a pointing laser light. Like the own he'd seen on the evening news. [Boy dazzles helicopter pilot with a green laser pointer].2

Our man here felt a sense of pride about his eye site, the only part he truly felt was worth mentioning. It's such a shame the hypocrisy he experienced about vision, I mean he felt american but when he opened his lips all that came out was plain English. This particular morning the reflection of his blue retina in the public mirror showed a pigment that not even the writer could recognise. The writer only knew how to spell in American however he was accustomed to the English way of describing characters and giving directions but he never actually understood how well these messages carried during transmission. 3

Culturally what this man had learned through watching television had been nothing compared to the introduction of Cable and changing his Youtube profile to Canadian. He'd heard the warnings about conspiracy and had dismissed at the rate in which conversations travelled. If it wasn't for humour he'd of died of fear long ago. Like most people in the world he felt safe in his achievements. But small achievements only bought him time to co-exist from day to day. He felt mindful and congruent about nothing. Yet he felt as if he had to vote, had to experience american escapism and grow in the cradle of online activism. Not one person could he share it with, all his friends were foreigners, that is they didn't live in the U.S.A. Even though he knew the Dollars in Canada and Wales differed he felt an over growing anxiety about getting ill. He had a lasting memory about crossing borders, and for years, it seemed he'd struggled between application after application, green card after green card. During this imaginary time not once did he think about getting up of his ass to work. He felt a sense of Slack in the knowledge of one day having to break away from the idea of an innate belief in academia. He heard a American Jew share wisdom about family values, then one day waking up from the academic show.4

None of his parents came from America, nor did he come from any indoctrinated family system, perhaps this is how one ends up experiencing the American dream. He once reportedly said " Life is a Plateau" but after that he just muttered, no-one ever actually understood what came after his highly recommended quote. He however did not want to be remembered or if he did he couldn't remember for what for. However he did once dream about being buried with only the sub-continental holy man as his only witness. He'd even considered going into funeral directing, or just writing funeral services then posting them on a lonely blog. For someone in the future to suddenly remember him by.5

The dollar sign in the post office began to flicker. It's number raised compared to the English pound. The que in the post office was about average, with everyone admiring the ground, the window's and the TV monitors advertising Post Office sponsorship. Our man in question paid his rent regularly and was good in that he'd save the trouble of the direct debit man in having to monthly or weekly have to subtract money from his complex account.6

He thought about being in America one day then remembered what it was to not be an American Express member. He noticed a whole number of unwarranted bills when travelling Europe, but every where he went he knew how revered Westerners were welcomed. "O, your Irish IRA' or "You English men are fuckin crazy""You drink, fight, chase the women". But for years he'd sat at home, surfing the net feeding the chip body. Basically things had changed. He'd changed, they'd changed the world was changing. His perceptions about street politics were at a peak. The plateau, again may have began on some activist expedition, someone else's plan. What came to mind were flowers, hippies, Vietnam, Kennedy. Inside his head lived a personal character assassin.7

Annually for the past three years he'd watch Canadians talk about Americans and Americans talk about Canadians oh and the English. His European experience only added to the enforcement of Americanism. For example in Holland he drank in bars with Willie Nelson look alike. He listened to conversations about family support, american supplements and political digressions. It was here he heard about big Brother, although he had previously noticed George Orwell on his school shelf. And, later this year Big Brother the TV series was released. Second to his eyes was his memory he chuckled with this pride but like his eyes the perception often differed. His perceptions acted out some other quarrelsome niche.8

To be continued if at all.