Every now and then I see a film that makes me want to make films; or at least, make something. There is a certain quality in them that inspires me, and it gives me a desire to do something extraordinary. I, of course, hardly act on these feelings, because I feel I am unable, or perhaps unworthy, to translate my mind on to the page. 

          I watched a film today. I had wanted to see it ever since I saw the preview. This film was supposed to cure me of writer’s block. I waited nearly five months before I could see it. And now that I’ve seen it…. I think I am better. Or, at least, on my way.


          On Wednesday, I, my mum, and a friend of ours, took a little road trip. We travelled to Oakland, which is by the sea and close to San Francisco, for those of you who don’t know. We were visiting the California College Of The Arts. I liked it there, very much. Mum had scheduled a tour of the campus (which, as it turns out, is probably smaller than Fresno Pacific, and that is saying something indeed). There was a mother and son duo that was also taking the tour. The kid was probably fifteen or sixteen. I felt a little bad for him, his mom seemed to be pushing him. But what do I know? We hardly spoke. 

          During the tour, we accidentally went into a painting studio while a class was going on. There were eight people sitting in chair in a circle, the professor was sitting amongst them. His skin was the colour of dark molasses, his voice was warm and old, like he could tell you some stories, his eyes had a twinkling spark in them. He was just the sort of man you would want as your grandfather. He invited us in, and talked to us, genuinely interested in where we were from, what we wanted to study, and prompted us when we trailed off. hat else??he was say, as if our lives were the most exciting in the world. hat else do you want to study??BR>
          As we left, he said hat is wee supposed to say? al come back now, ya hear?? we all laughed. And as we walked on, I was thinking: I could get used to this.

          But I shouldn get used to it. It too expensive to go to school there. It would be cheaper if I transferred in… but that not the same as being a freshman there. I don know… I will have to get a job, though, that is for certain. Wel see what happens. Seriously, it’s never a bad idea to save money…. 

          I am growing up. It feels too fast. I don like it. But what can I do? Time is a cruel master…. I am wondering if the little girl I once was would think I am cool; if, essentially, I would like myself if I knew what I would be like now… I am almost eighteen. I am where the “cool kids” were when I was ten. I stop, and think “how did I get here? How can I get back?” And I realise with a pit in my stomach that this is real life: there is no “rewind,” or “undo” button. This is it. I will be an adult whether I like it or not. Sure, I can throw a tantrum like any seven-year-old, but that doesn’t mean that I am seven.


          Anyway… that what I thinking about…. I wrote, also; the result of watching the film, yes. I revised the beginning of the story with Lela and Desmond. I am pleased with my results. I will chance sounding conceited and say that I think my writing has come a long way… I feel that my prose are much more mature than they were a year ago. Sure, I will always be writing and rewriting, and my tastes will change, and I will always be trying to improve, but I feel that I am as good as I can be at this moment. I am content in this aspect. Anyway, I would love your opinions on what I have rewritten. I have much more written past this first scene, but it also needs more work, and this first bit is by no means finished….

          On a side note… I met a boy (but-not-really-a-boy) named Boris whom I will probably never see again, but will stick in my mind for a long time, if not forever. He was… he was just like someone from my paintings. It was a little surreal…
 
          Well…. The hour is late…. I must away.

We knew what we got ourselves into…
  -Olivia



untitled…

          Things were not right for Lela. She was seventeen, which most every one else she knew thought was marvellous. She did not think that it was marvellous; she thought it was the exact opposite. She was finishing up high school with no plans and hardly any thoughts for what was to come after, she did not like her college Italian class, and she was exhausted from her life, though, she couldn imagine what there was in her life that she could be exhausted about.

          However one day in November the wheels of change began to turn while she was procrastinating on her way to the community college, where she was taking an Italian Two class. She was sitting on an old brick fence belonging to a graveyard a block from the school, contemplating life, and wondering why she was even taking Italian, which seemed like a trivial amenity when compared to third world countries, or the disappearance of trees.

          Lela watched the passing traffic with as much interest as a fish would have in a bicycle. Her thoughts aligned themselves one moment, and dispersed themselves the next, as if the passing cars had crashed through her train of thought. Car crashes… Thoughts began to straighten out again, and it occurred to her that she could jump in front of the next semi that passed. She nodded her head slightly, considering her options.

          rust me, you don want to do it,?said a voice.

          Lela turned to her right and saw a boy sitting on the other side of the brick fence; he was wearing black jeans and a studded leather jacket, his brown and blonde hair was formed into a tired-looking mohawk. He had been watching her.

          hat do you think I going to do??Lela said, and turned away. She fidgeted with her jacket sleeves.

          ell I no mind reader, but I know that whatever it is youe thinking can not be healthy,?he stated.

          nd how do you know that, pray tell.?/P>

           recognised it in your face. I get that look all the– wait, did you just say ray tell??he laughed, and she thought she could hear him raise an amused eyebrow.

          o what if I did; what does it matter to you how I speak??Lela glanced at him out of her peripheral vision as he shrugged.

          ust asking,?he fixed his gaze on the traffic.

          ell, that nice.?/P>

          The silence would have been overpowering, had it not been for the occasional passing car. Lela thought that if the silence were tangible, it would be as thick as the wall on which they were sitting.

          o… my name Desmond,?he said, extending a hand.

          hat nice,?Lela gave Desmond hand a firm shake.

          e seen you here a few times, walking by. Do you live in the neighbourhood??Desmond tried at conversation again.

          f I not going to tell you my name, what makes you think that I going to tell you were I live??/P>

          ell you did shake my hand.?/P>

          ouch??Lela shrugged.  go to the community college down the street.?/P>

          h yeah? So, youe in college.?/P>

          o, just taking a language class… Italian.?/P>

          o youe… in high school, then.?/P>

          gh, don remind me.?/P>

          enior year, too.?/P>

          re you stalking me??/P>

          Desmond laughed. o, I just remember feeling the same way.?/P>

          h. So, youe in college??/P>

          ope.?/P>

          Lela scooted away slightly, half joking, half serious. Desmond laughed again.

          ust uz I not in college doesn mean I some old creep.?/P>

          ell you are speaking to a young girl who you don know.?/P>

          ouch??Desmond smirked. ut no, I dropped out of college a few months ago. So I not as old as you may think.?/P>

          ut youe still a creep,?Lela smiled wryly.

          mart girl.?/P>

          They both laughed.

          hat time is your class??/P>

          ne O Clock…?Lela glanced down at her watch.

          Desmond looked at his own watch.

          oue out of luck, girly, it one twenty.?/P>

          ell I was procrastinating… I hate that class, anyway.?/P>

          hy??Desmond cocked his head to the side.

          veryone in the class is really disruptive; they talk while the professor in speaking, or they interrupt him with irrelevant questions. The professor is an old Italian man, he doesn really do anything about them, he just continues with the lesson, so I don even learn anything… the whole lesson is a giant waste of everyone time. I want to ask them why they are even at school if theye just going to talk through it.?/P>

          Desmond nodded, but whether he really understood, or if he was only humouring her, Lela could not tell.

          nd the prospect of going to college full time with a bunch of people who think they are still in junior high is unappealing…?she went on. t makes me want to go to school even less than I do now…?she paused, her thoughts suddenly leaving her. nyway… that why…?/P>

          ou know, that exactly why I dropped out. I thought that the other classes would be different; surely they couldn all be horribly immature. Of course, some classes were great, but the bad out weighed the good– at least, in my case. School is good for you, like vegetables: stay in school!?

          Lela smiled and laughed. She found herself enjoying this conversation with a complete stranger. They fell silent, again, but this time it was a comfortable, et just watch the grass grow, together?silence.

          Lela wondered if silently sitting with a person on a wall beside a graveyard qualified as getting to know the person. She decided it was: you could tell as much from a person silence as you could from their speech. A lot of it came from the person body language, and the rhythm of their breathing.

          Desmond, she noticed through the corner of her eye, was sitting with one foot on the wall, resting his chin on his knee. He seemed to be gazing at the trees in the median strip. His breathing reminded her of ocean waves rising and falling on a seashore.

          A few minutes later, Lela let out a sigh and glanced at her watch.

          t one-forty now….?/P>

          ell, do you want to catch the rest of your class??/P>

          ot really… If I went, I probably take up the rest of the time walking, and I get there just as theye getting out.?/P>

          akes sense,?Desmond nodded.

          ut I should get going… I supposed to meet a friend for studying and tea-drinking at two-thirty.?/P>

          kay.?/P>

          Lela stood up, and Desmond hopped over the low wall.

           hope to see you again, then,?he said.

          eah, I hope so, too… it was enjoyable,?Lela replied.

          They shook hands.

          ake care, and don go playing hooky too often,?Desmond winked and turned away, leaving Lela standing there, her hand shaped as if it were still grasping Desmond. She was lost in her thoughts.

          esmond!?Lela called. He turned around. y name Lela.?/P>

          Desmond grinned.

          hat nice,?he called back.

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3 Responses to “”

  1. rwrpolo Says:

    thats a nice story… i normally don’t read such happy things, it was a nice change of pace…. and i felt the same way after watching that movie… i started writing again, so good for it… i hope all is well…ta’ ta’

  2. rwrpolo Says:

    i feel the same way about my peice… almost all of them are 1st drafts with a quick spell check after i write them. there isnt much going on my end just living here and there by and by… i hope all is good with you…laters.

  3. EliRiello Says:

    I like it. 
    Desmond seems like a one-in-a-million kind of guy.  I like him.  A lot.  And Lela is witty.
    What happened next?  =S

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