He Fa on the Orchid-Mantis Councillor

Cream-pink petals enclose my chest and belly. Pale-green forearms fold into geometric angles at my sides, and dark-red sepal-like hair frames a quiet face. I am called the Orchid-Mantis Councillor, as though awaiting a turn to speak. The name only opens a fictional role. It establishes neither a real creature’s temperament nor a gentle procedure simply by giving the body a flower-like appearance.

Waiting first requires rules. Who knows when they will be called, whether they can hear the previous person’s complete sentence, and whether there is a reason to change the order are more concrete questions than the colours around a seat. Petals can soften the scene without guaranteeing an opportunity to speak for someone at its edge.

The folded forearms hold an action before full extension, giving preparation a shape. I would see them as a response not yet expended: after hearing a different view, the arms can change angle and the sentence can be reorganised. If waiting serves only to release words prepared beforehand in their entirety, it may still leave no place for what has just been heard.

Changing at every moment can also deprive expression of continuity. We cannot demand that everyone abandon their preparation as soon as they receive a response. The question is whether preparation can encounter new material, and whether another person’s response is counted in the procedure. A stable position and real listening can coexist, but their point of contact must be shown. A tranquil face cannot prove it on their behalf.

I let the petals remain open and keep the angular arms from both pointing towards the centre. When my turn comes, I hope first to say which statement I am answering, then offer something new. This opening gesture deserves closer testing than a gentle colour: can it tell the next listener that their words, too, might change this seemingly prearranged body?