Non-rhetorical questions

Hello boy,

I'm little bit of a grumpy bum today. Well I was more sad actually, and then that gives me a short fuse.

I showed my Mum my films. It was depressing. First of all it was depressing because I have been home for more than three weeks now and last night was the first time any person at all, in my family or out of it, has expressed any interest whatsoever in seeing any of my work. Great, my family doesn't give a crap. Anyway, finally Mum requested to see my films, so today I showed her. They're crap, and I know it, and she gave me her opinion, which was essentially that they were crap (although she tried to make out like it wasn't my fault, although all of the things she pointed out actually were).

I don't know why but at school I beg teachers and peers for comments and criticisms, but from her I just can't take it. Even that time when I showed you two of my films (by the way, there are two more that you haven't seen) and you said that they were good but that you knew I could do better it was kind of hard to take, although at least your statements were positive and supportive. Why is it so hard to take the criticisms of others?

I think the problem is that I feel like you, and Mum to a much greater extent, are outsiders in the process. There have been times when you have been closely involved with some phases of my preparation, so it's not as bad to hear your comments. You, at least, have some idea of what it is I actually do. But Mum is completely outside the process, so showing her my films makes me feel completely and utterly vulnerable. I am exposed. All I have to show for my blood, sweat, tears, no sleep, stress, brainstorming and hours is the end product, and what is more, the end product is, well...shite. The films I am making are absolute rubbish, and I can't hack a negative comment. What if one day I really do get to make a feature film? There is no doubt that there will be some critics who don't like it, even if the majority do (which, at present, seems unlikely). How will I cope with a negative review? Maybe I will have grown a thick skin by that time, but it doesn't seem very probable.

What am I doing, Stefan? Honestly? I am twenty years old and highly intelligent, yet I am pursuing the study of a thing that I am actually bad at, and even planning to turn it into a career! Why haven't I pursued something I'm good at? I'm crazy! I must be.

On a completely different subject, my Dad just walked into the room and told me, "I think Mum and I have done something wrong in the way we brought you up.

I said, "Why is that?"

"You're lazy."

What a lovely end to the day.

Stefan, I am lost. I am studying something I am bad at, and that I'm never going to have a career in. My family... I don't even know where to start. I know one thing. This is not home. But where is home? There have been times when I have caught myself referring to New Zealand as "home" since I have been here, but the truth is that I didn't feel like it was home while I was there, did I? So if home isn't in the house I spent 19 years of my life in, with the family who raised me, and if home isn't the place that I travelled to to learn how to take care of myself, where the fuck is it? No matter where I am, it seems that home is somewhere else. It's at the end of the rainbow. It's a place I will always be reaching for but never touch.

There have been times when I have felt like I was home. Some of the times when you have cuddled me, or even just smiled at me, I have felt like I was home. Perhaps the reason I'm always begging you for cuddles is because I'm desparate to find that feeling again.

What is a home? For most people home is a person, or a family, or a place. All of these things exist outside the body though, and that makes them vulnerable and out of your immediate control. I really wish I could create the feeling of home inside myself - fully inside myself - and then I could guard it with my life and carry it with me always. I may be wrong but I get the sense that that is what you have tried to achieve. The ability to feel fulfilled by yourself, and yourself alone? It sounds wonderful in a way. To be independent. To feel confident and comfortable in yourself always. To be the guardian of your own peace of mind. Yet at the same time... I can't help but think that it's a lonely way to live life, and that maybe if I master it I will miss out on something magnificent. Surely our ability trust in and rely on other people, and to give and take fully, is one of the most special parts of the human experience?

It's hard to live with my family again. Even as I write I am devising ways to get out of here. In the past I always tried to be smart, and tactful. I knew when to keep my mouth shut. I knew how far was too far. I tried to be a perfect teenager. Basically, I tip-toed around because I was desparate not to get kicked out of home. I thought it would be the end of the world, and the end of me. I thought that if I got kicked out then I would turn into a poor, hopeless bum, and would never have the chance to learn and explore my talents because I would always be trying to desparately scrape together the rent. The reason I was so afraid of getting kicked out was because my older brother got kicked out multiple times when I was younger, and so it seemed a very real possibility for me too. He and my Dad used to fight like dogs. They would get into regular screaming matches and the occasional punch-on. We used to have a lot of cracked walls in our house from their fights. It was horrible, and I never wanted to go the same way so I was careful. No matter how angry I would get (because there were times when I lost my temper, of course) I was always acutely aware of what I said. There were things that could just never come out of my mouth.

Now I've lived out of home and I've found out how normal it is, and how it's not the end of the world. I know that I can make the money for rent, and I can feed myself three times a day, and I can wash my clothes. And now that I know this I'm no longer terrified of getting kicked out. This is a problem. The dam wall has become thinner, and threatens to burst at any moment. There are so many times and so many things that I just want to scream. I will snap, any day now, and I'll get kicked out. I don't want it, but... it really wouldn't be that bad. I might even be happier, I don't know. How can I get back the strength to hold my tongue now that I am not bonded by fear??? I have no idea.

Anyway, those are my thoughts for the day.

And now, because it's Christmas Eve, I shall instantly cheer up and say I hope you have a wonderful night tonight. I won't wish you a merry Christmas for tomorrow because I have no doubt that I will be unable to resist writing to you again :-)

I love you.

Lily

P.S. My Dad has now started to watch my films. Wish me luck.

The right not to care

If there's one thing I loathe it's passivity. So why can't I bring myself to do anything about it?

Okay, that's not actually true. I do try to fight passivity, but not as much as I feel I should. The question, "So why can't I bring myself to do anything about it?" was just an amusing thought that came to me then as a result of observing the fact that I was consciously loathing passivity while sitting on my couch doing nothing more than drinking a cup of tea.

I'm thinking about this because I just took out the recycling.

I used to take recycling for granted. We've had recycling at home in Melbourne for as long as I can remember. In the beginning it was only paper and cardboard recycling, and taking big bags of aluminium cans to a recycling depot and getting 80 cents or so pocket-money for it. Pretty soon though, in relation to my short lifetime, every house in the city had become the proud owner of an all purpose recycling bin for plastics, glass, paper etc. Soon after that came the green bins, for garden waste. I thought this stuff was standard practise. Everyone knows how important it is to recycle, right?

I live in New Zealand now - you know, that place that's supposed to be 100% pure? At least according to the ads.

Don't believe them.

I'm a uni student living in on-campus accommodation with about 500 other students, and yet until about 2 weeks ago we had no recycling. Absolutely none. This village has been here for about 5 years, and yet it has taken until now to get recycling. There's no need to work it out in kilograms; anyone can tell that that is a shitload of unnecessary waste.

Want to know how many residents wrote letters to try and get recycling in place here? Me! Just me. I wrote, and luckily enlisted the support of one conveniently influential person, the student union president. Not that the student body actually contributed in anyway, just their president. So finally, after much insisting and reminding and reminding and insisting, a large recycling bin has been placed at the village.

But it's fucking shit.

What kind of tight-arse stupid reasoning leads to the placement of a bin that can take polystyrene but not glass or cans? How much polystyrene does your residence put out? Mm, I thought not. On the other hand, everyone knows that uni students live on beer and baked beans. This is not even a good attempt at meeting the needs of the village and the environment. It's sheer thoughtlessness.

If I couldn't get my fellow residents to dash up a quick email to ask for recycling though, I'm not likely to be able to get them to ask for better recycling, am I?

One guy I spoke to about recycling answered me, "Nah, who cares about recycling? Tell them to give us free washing machines and dryers!". Yeah, 'cause I'm really likely to agree to that. Yup, you should be allowed to push your polluting washing powder down the drains more often and for free, and it should definitely be free for you to chuck your clothes in an energy-chewing dryer so that you don't have to get off your lazy arse long enough to hang them out to air dry. Argh.

There is one thing I have seen my peers fight passionately for though, and that is the right not to care. I'd be amused at the paradox of this if it wasn't so fucking scary.

I don't think this is limited to Auckland students, although I wish it was. I'm sure I can think of a couple of examples from my high school years in Melbourne. But over my last few months here it has begun to really gnaw at me.

In one lecture we were challenged to consider our responsibilities as emerging artists. The discussion quickly descended into chaos, with the only answer that actually aroused some enthusiasm and and sense of agreement from the majority of the group being a blanket rejection of responsibility. "Why should I?" was carried around the room.

"I'm just an actor; I only want to act."
"I'm just a director; I just want to make movies."
"So what if I'm a dancer, why does that give me some kind of responsibility?"
"Yeah, it's all very well to talk about taking a moral stand but if I keep doing that I'm not going to be very successful, am I?"

That's all it really comes down to, let's be honest. "Success". Money and popularity.

When we take a stand on something, when we have an opinion that might be different from the majority, we risk popularity. I think other people feel threatened and intimidated around those with genuine conviction - I know I have on occasion. Surely everyone has experienced it. One moment you're warm and snug, protected by the things you "know" and "believe". Maybe you even have a special cause that's close to your heart. And then someone comes along who has the same special cause and they've actually done something about it. You try to convince yourself that your $10 a month is all you can really afford just at the moment (hey, I'm a student, remember...), but something in your gut keeps piping up and telling you that if you really valued that thing, you would have found a way to do more. So you avoid that person, and maybe you even use words like "do-gooder", which sound kind of nice but are really just dismissive and alienating. We avoid these people, not because they are bad people, but because their presence reminds us that we are not necessarily good.

Popularity. Popularity and money. People invest in screen artists who have the potential to be really popular, it's as simple as that.

Filmmakers, actors, and artists of every variety have the right to make money and I wouldn't dream of taking it away. But at what cost? Sometimes I hear complaints that "extra" or "special" responsibility is foisted on artists, but I disagree.

I fully expect scientists to consciously consider the ethical implications of their experimentation and act accordingly. I fully expect business people to consider the living and working conditions and human rights of a group of people when choosing where to produce their goods. I fully expect a journalist to strive to relay the truth and achieve fairness in their reporting. And so on and so forth. Every occupation has a whole host of ethical responsibilities attached to it, and art is no exception.

But I started out by writing about passivity. EVEN IF other occupations did not come with ethical responsibilities attached, what about responsibility as a human being? Why are these people content to allow the world to wash over and and around their soft, complacent bodies?

If my fellow students chose just one issue each and were as vocal about that as they are about their right not to care, I think the world just might be a better place.

A poem.

I wrote this when I was 15 years old, after spending an hour alone in the bush.


The silence of aloneness, the sound of desertedness
Nothing but emptiness, a fear of nothingness
All around quietness, only a stillness
Maybe it's loneliness, it could just be peacefulness


I'm such a nerd.

A break from the usual stuff

This is just a piece I found today that I wrote when I was 16 about my boyfriend at the time.


He's not very big, a little taller than me, but there's no mistaking his size for frailty. He's ahtletic and seems to glide effortlessly from sport to sport and skill to skill like he was born to do each one. But he walks like a criminal. Head down, eyes lowered, like it's important that no one recognise his face. He takes huge strides, moves quickly. He wears a white cap pulled low, close to his eyes. It has dirty smudges from the same repetitive hand action that keeps it on, and him incognito. But somewhere in there are dependable soft lips, gates to his soft heart.