my intentions to write anything substantial and self-explanatory keep ending in failed attempts. I’m looking at the reasons, trying to pin point everything that stands between my ideas and the process itself. because it is a little bit like a type of sacred passage that one has to go through in order to meet the ends. sometimes I have an idea but the writing abilities are asleep and I cannot put them to work, other times my fingers are aching to do
to the physical aspect of writing and my mind also seems to be ready, but none of the ideas are simply worth developing or even just thinking about.

I was actually surprised when last night, instead of going to sleep I opened my writing files and began writing. I didn’t think I had it in me. the last few days have been unproductive because I have spent the majority of the time inside our apartment, avoiding everything. and yesterday was particularly bad because before I even had a chance to turn around it was seven thirty in the evening. I was tired. exhausted. mostly just incredibly bored. but something still triggered me to write last night. maybe it was the photos we took, maybe it was the stories we shared. I am not sure. it was beautiful. but everything hurt. I cannot explain it.

everything hurts all the time. it’s not a physical pain. it is more of a discomfort, something that I am not able to define properly when I am sober. except when I cross the line they tend to come back to me; suddenly, like a boomerang and I can’t control any of the thoughts. last night I wrote it all down, even though there is still a fragment missing, something that I will never be able to put down, simply because I don’t remember it. but I kept writing and I kept writing; it took a few hours before I stopped. when I turned around I saw that the light has already started changing.

I write. I write that I am writing. mentally I see myself writing that I am writing and I can also see myself seeing that I am writing. I remember writing and also seeing myself writing. and I see myself remembering that I see myself writing and I remember seeing myself remembering that I was writing and I write seeing myself write that I remember having seen myself write that I saw myself writing that I was writing and that I was writing that I was writing that I was writing. I can also imagine myself writing that I had written that I was imagining myself writing that I see myself writing I am writing.

- salvador elizondo / the graphographer.

Pandiculation

– an instinctive stretching, as on awakening or while yawning

I wake up you are still asleep. I watch you breathe, I watch your eye movement beneath your eyelids. It seems as if you are riding a train in your sleep; watching the scenery out of the window. I feel as if my bladder is going to burst but I decide to stay in bed because I don’t want to wake you. You look so peaceful in your sleep. I wish I could crawl under your skin and stay there for the rest of your life. The bed is warm.

The house is silent. Light outside is getting brighter and brighter each time I look to the window. Shadows begin to move at least it seems so because everything else is still.

I slowly get up. I move as slowly as I can because our floor is old and it makes noises to each step. But even when the floor panels screech, you don’t wake up. You are deeply lost in your dreams, riding a train across the country, somewhere far away. For a moment, I wonder whether you still love me. Are we still as close as we have been in the last few months? I sit on the lavatory; it’s cold. You forgot to close the window last night.

But I leave it open and go to the kitchen. I put the water to boil, prepare two cups of coffee. I stand still. Listen to the water; there’s barely any cars passing outside the window. On the fridge there’s dozens of photos and newspaper clippings; I look at them. Each morning they greet me and remind me of everything I have ever left behind; of everything I have not experienced yet. The coffee is hot. I leave the apartment; quietly shut the door behind me; the elevator arrives faster than usually. I walk quickly to the street corner. It’s a cold September morning. Every day I pick up The New York Times from the same lady; always leave her extra change. The newspaper smells of fresh print.

By the time I return, you are already awake. Standing in the hallway, stretching out, yawning. Your hair stands out in all directions; you look cute. Innocent.

You smile when you see me. You bring me closer; kiss my neck. We share the newspaper and drink our coffee in silence.

Seven months later. I am in Afghanistan, still reading the same New York Times every day, except I am reading about myself. Gunfire the only sound I hear in the morning. Unspoken words and wishes. I’m gone and I am not sure when I am coming back. If ever.

You hate me now, but I loved our mornings more than anything else. I wanted you to know.

Charlotte: I just don’t know what I’m supposed to be, you know. I tried being a writer, but I hate what I write.
Bob: You’ll figure that out. I’m not worried about you. Keep writing.
Charlotte: But I’m so mean.
Bob: Mean’s okay.
- sofia coppola’s lost in translation, 2003.

so I’m staying home tonight. with a cup of chai tea and the social network soundtrack. trying to develop my own film into something substantial. tonight I’m being mean. the characters hate each other but cannot go through life without one another. a mix of cultures and opinions. it wasn’t supposed to be political but I’m thinking that’s how it’s going to end. drug addictions and one night stands. that kind of thing. there’s an element of everything I have ever been exposed to, I’m trying to put it all down. but in a way, writing this film is more about understanding myself and finishing a piece of work, rather than creating something awesome. at the end, it might be. but right now, I’m not so concerned about it. I’m just writing. writing, writing, writing. I’m expecting it to be five in the morning the next time I look at the time.

“She hates spending any of her cogent hours doing anything but writing.” – The Hours by Michael Cunningham

*

staying up until the small hours of the morning, writing, is what I was born to do. it seems. but the only reason why I am writing this post is because of this particular one and because of a few words, which landed on my facebook wall last night. it made me think. it made me think about what I am doing, and what I should be focusing on. because in the last days of this week I haven’t gone to bed before five in the morning, as I spent each night writing. noting down ideas, thoughts, writing school assignments (and actually finishing!). I’ve always had these periods of intense writing and continuous silence sometimes lasting couple of months. here’s what I am wondering about: what if I have (finally) reached the stage, in which I could end these irregular writing intervals and begin a certain disciplined writing routine? would I be able to do that? I have said this before; the only factor, which prevents me from writing on a serious level is my lack of discipline. because that’s all writing is about. what am I hoping to accomplish, really?

what is my focus for 2010? do I have one? do I want one? tonight I am thinking of the dreamers, the revolution, pop culture references I am aching to understand. where and how do I see myself in the next twelve months? why is it even important? it took me a long time before I started taking life as it is, all the challenges, the easy things, the hard ones and everything in between. I don’t want to plan. I don’t want to know what are the expectations of tomorrow. I don’t want to stand up against them every morning. I want to wake up free as a bird. doing things I love, things I love less. accepting everything I am offered not because it’s a polite thing to do, but because everything will eventually contribute to my personal development. once I understand certain things. there’s a quote that stayed with me, I don’t know who the author is anymore, but it goes something like, how can you call one place home when everywhere you’ve been has shaped up who you are? I deeply identify with this, but I’ve realized it’s not just places, it’s everything. everything shapes up who we are. so why bother with details if you can’t see the big picture?

I want to see the big picture. I want to understand. live the life of an intellectual, write, read, devote myself to photography, cinematography. understand people in different parts of the world by speaking their language, understand the cultures. not regret one thing. I’ve already regretted more than enough and I haven’t even crossed the line called adulthood. and I don’t want to. I will stay a Peter Pan for the rest of my life, if I want to.

we are who we make ourselves to be. and reasons behind that shouldn’t be change in numbers every twelve months. because that’s all it is.