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.

Narcolepsy

– a disorder characterized by uncontrollable bouts of sleepiness during the daytime, occasional loss of muscle power and paralysis, and hallucinations during sleep

Fire surrounded me in my life as if were my friend, as if it were something I trusted and believed in. Every time I had seen a fire I knew something would change. We had always trusted each other. I trusted you because you knew how to take care of certain things. We have never gotten into a fight we have never been rude at each other. I thought we would stay the same.

I lay down on your bed, waiting for you to come home, to your home. You didn’t know I would be there. I waited hours and hours before I finally heard the glass door open. I thought you would be mad at me for coming without calling first, but I took the chance anyway. He came into your room, your hair wet from the rain, and you saw me. You saw me lay in your bed, with your teddy bears around my shoulders, reading one of your sister’s children books. Pippi Longstocking had always been my favorite. I looked up from the book; I casually put it on my chest, as if it were mine. As if the bed were mine. I waited for your reaction. I expected to see the anger and surprise. But neither came.

You looked at me but only for a short moment. You looked around your room, bare walls, which used to be decorated by posters of various soccer players. Those bare walls represented the change, which had occurred in your life. Your bed and me laying on it represented what had always stayed constant in your life. You took off your clothes and climbed into the bed next to me. And as you did so I saw there was a smile on your face. It was an undefined smile of unspoken promises. You were glad I was there, but you weren’t sure what to think. You shivered with cold. You lips were dark almost blue. I put my arms around you hugged you to make you feel warmer.

After an hour your lips were healthy pink again. You fell asleep in my arms. But I couldn’t sleep that night. I saw shadows and heard voices, which weren’t there. Twice I woke up with a start. But I did not wake you. I suffered in silence only not to remember anything in the morning.

“Is this okay?” he asked while standing completely naked before me in a Playboy pose.

I looked at him through my camera lenses and instead of answering him with a full sentence I rapidly began to take one shot after another. We had met only an hour ago, in the campus coffee shop, where the coffee tasted worse than the stale coffee offered by airlines on international flights. But I desperately needed a model to pose for me, as I was way behind with my nude works. I’d seen him in the hallways, during lunch and if it was a sunny day then outside of the classroom, sitting on the green grass about the entrance to the campus but other than that we have never made any attempts to speak to each other. I am not even sure he remembers me. During the forty-five minutes shooting session I managed to take two hundreds of shots where at least half of them would be usable later. After I finished my last roll I decided to let him go.

“You know, I think I’ve seen you around.” He said as he put his sweatshirt on.

A heartbeat. Then another one. And another. the First word is spoken as we listen to the silence. It breaks. The silence is replaced with a strong of voice of one of the most important men in history of the United States of America. The crowd cheers. The cheering is breath taking. People from all over country form a single voice. This voice is trying to scream its way into better future. It takes long minutes before the crowd settles down. It fells into silence, which is just as overwhelming as the high-pitched cheering. Barack Obama looks up and greets the American public. It is one of those moments that we will remember forever because we feel as if it belonged only to us. Those who are standing in front of the huge podium, looking at the man who has the scarce ability to allow for a much needed change to happen. And we will always remember.

November 2008

*

recently found on my disc. 11 days to go.