Bismillah-ir-Rahman-ir-Raheem.
Assalam alaikum wr wb!
On hitRECord, I called myself C3PO recently. The analogy is more fitting than I'd like to admit. Yes, I feel like a gold-plated robot with a high-pitched British accent - mine is acquired, of course. Yes, I feel like I'm very annoying, neurotic and a burden – but I am useful and that is the only reason why anyone keeps me around. Yes. I feel inhuman. I feel sexless. I feel emotionless.
I suppose all of this started last week when I was at film boot camp. I had the bad fortune of being chosen to play this psychiatrist whose schizophrenic patient thinks she's her mother. I've never acted before in my life, but I didn't think I would be that bad.
I was that bad. I just could not emote. The director was tearing his hair out. And the boom operator said, "I pity your daughter."
That touched a nerve. I've wanted kids all my life and to even think that I would be bad at it, that I would be anything less than loving just killed me. It still kills me. I heard my voice and saw my face on the rushes – I was cold and businesslike. Would I be like that with my children? I know it was a throwaway comment from someone I had just met. But sometimes little things hurt a lot.
Film bootcamp. An interview with a filmmaker. A way forward. It seems like God is giving me lampposts on this long and arduous journey to filmmaking.
But I cannot muster any joy. Not even a little. I held a camera in my hand for the first time. We made a film. We helped edit it. I boomed, I directed, I acted, I even rewrote a little, though not as much as I should have.
I am not happy or hopeful. I cannot muster any gratitude to God. That feels ten different kinds of wrong, like some part of me has died.
And at the same time, there is this nervous energy that is just driving me crazy. I'm not excited or motivated - I'm just tired. I want my heart to stop pounding so hard. I want some peace and quiet in my head. I want to sink to the bottom of a deep calm blue ocean and eventually I want everything to be carried far far away from me where they can't reach me. Yes, even my feckless ambitions. To write and film my first comedy. To fall in love, raise a family. To be honest, that second one seems even more far-fetched than me being a successful filmmaker. I can't dredge up any feelings of mild affection for anyone, let alone love. Would I love and marry someone like me? The truth is – no, I wouldn't. I'm boring and socially awkward. I have no hobbies really. I don't even have a real job right now.
At least C3PO could power down.
Wassalam and Fee Amanilah,
Zed.
Friday, 27 March 2009
Monday, 16 March 2009
#2
Bismillah-ir-Rahman-ir-Raheem
Assalam alaikum wr wb!
1. So I saw this talk on glamour on Ted.com. I suppose her message struck a chord with me somehow and lodged in my subconscious. Days later, my brother and I were driving to the mall on a Friday and we saw this man. He was tall, had grey hair cut close to the scalp and was handsome, but not in an overpowering way. He was wearing a crisp white kurta and pants - that seems to be the standard costume of South East Asians to the weekly congregational prayer Jummah. Basically, he was an otherwise unremarkable man - if not for his cane. It was beautiful amber-coloured polished wood and it shone in the afternoon sun like melted gold. It formed a semi-circular grip under his firm hand and was intricately carved with all kinds of animals. I couldn't stop staring at him till we drove by. He was just that cool.
Dude, that's what I call glamour. Way to rock a limp, man. I wish I had taken a picture
2. So I'm now a part-time copy-editor at my place of work, having aimed to use my extra time to explore other career options, or simply other more stable places to work because my company is cur-rrrrraaa-zzzzzy!!
I thought that while I'm still single and free of huge responsibility, I'd explore a few different career options.
Yes, I am justifying my choice to you because at the moment, I can't really see it working.
It's been two weeks and I'm bored stiff at home.
Plus, having a social anxiety disorder, I'm scared stiff to try new things. And my family is little or no help in that regard.
I've made a litany of mistakes this past year. I turned down a job at the biggest publishing house in the city. I let people's stupid idiotic personalities get to me when really, however much anyone screamed and cried, nothing except God can make them see the light. And by "light", I mean the headlights of an SUV. No, I'm kidding. I hope.
And I'm wondering now if this too is the latest in a series of mistakes.
3. Plus, my novel sucks. Not that it's unreadable. It's unwritable.
I've decided to drop one of my characters in it and give them an abusive relationship. Eventually, like me, she will kick him away but obviously, not without some scars.
I don't think I have the energy to write that. The poor girl is only 17 years old and the guy is a pig. A real pig. Would you want your sister to be treated that way? I wouldn't.
But if I back out and give them something less draining to wrestle with, then that is simply a cop-out. My future agent and publisher Insha Allah would never know, but I would know.
4. Plus, plus - my parents have found another proposal for me. And the thought of marriage and men fills me with dread. While I don't feel suicidal anymore (a huge achievement) and I do want to eventually have a family, I don't just want to do that just because it's another item I can check off my list. I want to marry for the right reasons. And honestly, I can't see how I can marry someone who's not even my friend.
There must be a solution.
Wassalam and Fee Amanillah,
Zed
Assalam alaikum wr wb!
1. So I saw this talk on glamour on Ted.com. I suppose her message struck a chord with me somehow and lodged in my subconscious. Days later, my brother and I were driving to the mall on a Friday and we saw this man. He was tall, had grey hair cut close to the scalp and was handsome, but not in an overpowering way. He was wearing a crisp white kurta and pants - that seems to be the standard costume of South East Asians to the weekly congregational prayer Jummah. Basically, he was an otherwise unremarkable man - if not for his cane. It was beautiful amber-coloured polished wood and it shone in the afternoon sun like melted gold. It formed a semi-circular grip under his firm hand and was intricately carved with all kinds of animals. I couldn't stop staring at him till we drove by. He was just that cool.
Dude, that's what I call glamour. Way to rock a limp, man. I wish I had taken a picture
2. So I'm now a part-time copy-editor at my place of work, having aimed to use my extra time to explore other career options, or simply other more stable places to work because my company is cur-rrrrraaa-zzzzzy!!
I thought that while I'm still single and free of huge responsibility, I'd explore a few different career options.
Yes, I am justifying my choice to you because at the moment, I can't really see it working.
It's been two weeks and I'm bored stiff at home.
Plus, having a social anxiety disorder, I'm scared stiff to try new things. And my family is little or no help in that regard.
I've made a litany of mistakes this past year. I turned down a job at the biggest publishing house in the city. I let people's stupid idiotic personalities get to me when really, however much anyone screamed and cried, nothing except God can make them see the light. And by "light", I mean the headlights of an SUV. No, I'm kidding. I hope.
And I'm wondering now if this too is the latest in a series of mistakes.
3. Plus, my novel sucks. Not that it's unreadable. It's unwritable.
I've decided to drop one of my characters in it and give them an abusive relationship. Eventually, like me, she will kick him away but obviously, not without some scars.
I don't think I have the energy to write that. The poor girl is only 17 years old and the guy is a pig. A real pig. Would you want your sister to be treated that way? I wouldn't.
But if I back out and give them something less draining to wrestle with, then that is simply a cop-out. My future agent and publisher Insha Allah would never know, but I would know.
4. Plus, plus - my parents have found another proposal for me. And the thought of marriage and men fills me with dread. While I don't feel suicidal anymore (a huge achievement) and I do want to eventually have a family, I don't just want to do that just because it's another item I can check off my list. I want to marry for the right reasons. And honestly, I can't see how I can marry someone who's not even my friend.
There must be a solution.
Wassalam and Fee Amanillah,
Zed
Tuesday, 3 March 2009
Paper Planes
Bismillah-ir-Rahman-ir-Raheem
Assalam alaikum wr wb!
So I was invited to judge a Red Bull Paper Wings contest two days ago at a local university, by virtue of me being the only person available from our company.
I miss college. I miss the live music and the unbridled, almost destructive energy of being young.
I was just a teensy weensy bit over-dressed. Judging seemed a big deal to me and I didn't know how formal the environs would be, so I just dressed smart-casual like I usually do for work – or rather how my mother insists I dress.
I gotta get that woman out of my closet. For one thing, I need more colour in my wardrobe. For another, I need to look like I have a pulse.
So the contest was judged in three categories, the longest distance, the longest airtime and creativity. The last category was itself split into three – construction, design and flight performance, me being given flight performance. I assume that meant the amount it swooped, dipped and flurried.
The MC was a fake American i.e. an Arab dressed like Snoop Dogg with an American accent. But oh, I couldn't have cared if Princess Diana herself was MC'ing, because man, the guy with the measuring tape was super-hot. From the way he was running around, I reckon he was with Red Bull. He looked like Guillaume Canet, though a little more filled out. He had kind blue eyes, a square jaw covered with a scrubby beard and was dressed like one of the students, unlike me.
My fellow judges were a faculty member from the interior design program at the university and a bigwig from Saatchi and Saatchi. At least she acted like it. She was wearing jeans and a floppy white poplin shirt. Her hair artfully framed her face in a punk fringe and a little brash stud twinkled on her nose. She had the sort of effortless cool that both killed and cured, the sort that made me want to weep, not least because Gorgeous Guy stopped the proceedings so that he could come up and give her a hug. I wish someone would stop the show just to say hello to me. I don't think I've ever felt that important to anyone, for any reason at all.
Okay, well, maybe to my parents. But they're sort of getting annoying, as you can probably tell.
It was a great day watching them play with planes and hoot and clap for their buddies. At the end of the proceedings, this dude got up and beat-boxed at the behest of his friend. I got the feeling that he was really a shy guy, too shy to even show off his talent, but his friend really believed in him. And after the show, that guy's face was shining with pride – he hoisted this skinny little playa up onto his shoulders even. I've never seen anything like it, certainly not among friends.
For the last few weeks, I've been spending most of the day trying to ward off depression. It's gotten better since I've decided to make a conscious effort to not feel sorry for myself. And this whole thing left me wondering where I've left my damn youth. I'm only 22, yet I'm squeezing myself into business suits, clomping across waxed floors, trying to impress people I have no respect for at all. I'm too young to compromise. I should take risks and live life while I still can. What am I going to tell my children? What am I going to tell God? That He gave me a gift, a passion, that I didn't use for the good of humanity? That I was too frightened of failure, even though the pen has lifted and the ink has dried?
I should make some friends. Yes, I don't really have any friends, outside of people I work with. That might be a serious contributor to my social anxiety.
Real flesh-and-blood people around me might cure rather than kill. That is my greatest fear – that I am one well-worded sentence away from suicide (that's John Mayer, by the way).
So how does one make friends? There are comedy classes mid-April. I could join those, find some like-minded people. A filmmaker here in Dubai asked if I wanted to help with production coordination – I don't really know what that is, but it's a way to break into the field and a way to practise my social skills.
I'm kind of scared now.
We were watching Vicky Cristina Barcelona yesterday and my brother said I was like one of those "tortured pseudo-intellectuals" that didn't like being employed. That really rubbed me the wrong way. I've made my choice and I quit my job. Everyone isn't cut out for a nine-to-five. Everyone is cut out for the banal plodding of gainful employment. I don't have any exotic unrealistic demands. I want somewhere that I contribute with my brain, my heart and my creativity. Not my legs, not my mouth. I'm not cut out to be a pack mule.
Why must I defend my decisions to this man every single time?
Where can I find people that will love and cherish me the way that guy did with his friend? That will hoist me onto their shoulders after a really great performance? That will stop a show just to say hello?
Am I being selfish? Of course, I would return the love. I'm just so sick of one-sided relationships – with my family, with my company, with my ex. I want someone to give me something as well.
Plus, I would kill for a decent conversation.
Wassalam and Fee Amanillah,
Sabina.
Assalam alaikum wr wb!
So I was invited to judge a Red Bull Paper Wings contest two days ago at a local university, by virtue of me being the only person available from our company.
I miss college. I miss the live music and the unbridled, almost destructive energy of being young.
I was just a teensy weensy bit over-dressed. Judging seemed a big deal to me and I didn't know how formal the environs would be, so I just dressed smart-casual like I usually do for work – or rather how my mother insists I dress.
I gotta get that woman out of my closet. For one thing, I need more colour in my wardrobe. For another, I need to look like I have a pulse.
So the contest was judged in three categories, the longest distance, the longest airtime and creativity. The last category was itself split into three – construction, design and flight performance, me being given flight performance. I assume that meant the amount it swooped, dipped and flurried.
The MC was a fake American i.e. an Arab dressed like Snoop Dogg with an American accent. But oh, I couldn't have cared if Princess Diana herself was MC'ing, because man, the guy with the measuring tape was super-hot. From the way he was running around, I reckon he was with Red Bull. He looked like Guillaume Canet, though a little more filled out. He had kind blue eyes, a square jaw covered with a scrubby beard and was dressed like one of the students, unlike me.
My fellow judges were a faculty member from the interior design program at the university and a bigwig from Saatchi and Saatchi. At least she acted like it. She was wearing jeans and a floppy white poplin shirt. Her hair artfully framed her face in a punk fringe and a little brash stud twinkled on her nose. She had the sort of effortless cool that both killed and cured, the sort that made me want to weep, not least because Gorgeous Guy stopped the proceedings so that he could come up and give her a hug. I wish someone would stop the show just to say hello to me. I don't think I've ever felt that important to anyone, for any reason at all.
Okay, well, maybe to my parents. But they're sort of getting annoying, as you can probably tell.
It was a great day watching them play with planes and hoot and clap for their buddies. At the end of the proceedings, this dude got up and beat-boxed at the behest of his friend. I got the feeling that he was really a shy guy, too shy to even show off his talent, but his friend really believed in him. And after the show, that guy's face was shining with pride – he hoisted this skinny little playa up onto his shoulders even. I've never seen anything like it, certainly not among friends.
For the last few weeks, I've been spending most of the day trying to ward off depression. It's gotten better since I've decided to make a conscious effort to not feel sorry for myself. And this whole thing left me wondering where I've left my damn youth. I'm only 22, yet I'm squeezing myself into business suits, clomping across waxed floors, trying to impress people I have no respect for at all. I'm too young to compromise. I should take risks and live life while I still can. What am I going to tell my children? What am I going to tell God? That He gave me a gift, a passion, that I didn't use for the good of humanity? That I was too frightened of failure, even though the pen has lifted and the ink has dried?
I should make some friends. Yes, I don't really have any friends, outside of people I work with. That might be a serious contributor to my social anxiety.
Real flesh-and-blood people around me might cure rather than kill. That is my greatest fear – that I am one well-worded sentence away from suicide (that's John Mayer, by the way).
So how does one make friends? There are comedy classes mid-April. I could join those, find some like-minded people. A filmmaker here in Dubai asked if I wanted to help with production coordination – I don't really know what that is, but it's a way to break into the field and a way to practise my social skills.
I'm kind of scared now.
We were watching Vicky Cristina Barcelona yesterday and my brother said I was like one of those "tortured pseudo-intellectuals" that didn't like being employed. That really rubbed me the wrong way. I've made my choice and I quit my job. Everyone isn't cut out for a nine-to-five. Everyone is cut out for the banal plodding of gainful employment. I don't have any exotic unrealistic demands. I want somewhere that I contribute with my brain, my heart and my creativity. Not my legs, not my mouth. I'm not cut out to be a pack mule.
Why must I defend my decisions to this man every single time?
Where can I find people that will love and cherish me the way that guy did with his friend? That will hoist me onto their shoulders after a really great performance? That will stop a show just to say hello?
Am I being selfish? Of course, I would return the love. I'm just so sick of one-sided relationships – with my family, with my company, with my ex. I want someone to give me something as well.
Plus, I would kill for a decent conversation.
Wassalam and Fee Amanillah,
Sabina.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)