An Answer For Caity

I met someone through this blog months ago. A new friend. We are 10 years apart in age; she is younger. Our interests are incredibly similar as are our thoughts. I never dreamt to meet a friend through this blog. I honestly never thought a friendship would blossom from me stumbling across a webpage. I never thought I'd 'meet' someone who is so similar to me, yet she is so wise beyond her years. I always think it's harder to trust as you get older, so making a friend is difficult.

Not with Caity. We just clicked. I think we're on the way to becoming good friends. I like that she asks me things and I hope she doesn't mind me giving her advice. I also like that she makes me forget that people I actually know read this blog, but I'm still able to write about my deepest darkest fears as well as my hopes and dreams.

She has asked me a question. Ironically, it's a question I've been asking myself a lot in recent months. My mother asked it of me just the other day. I don't have the strength to tell her my aspirations. I think she thinks I'm destined to be an office worker for the rest of my life. I pray I won't be. I'm afraid she wouldn't understand my dreams. Caity would. And for that, this answer's for you...

I have always loved movies. Always. I go to the cinema once a week. One week, when I was living in Toronto, it was snowing and I was so bored I went every day. It is my personal best, seven days in a row. Before that, it was five days. But I didn't mind, because I'm so passionate about movies.

When I was younger, I dreamed of being an actress. I wanted to be on the big screen or do theatre. One of my drama teachers told me when I was 16 that I should get an agent. I never did. That is my biggest regret. You are already living a life I would love, Caity. You are getting the experience and putting yourself out there. Some days, when I read you blog, I feel that I am living vicariously through you. I wonder if you mind?

I often still dream of being an actress, but I'm 27 now. Well on the way out for Hollywood. And I just don't have the physique. The dream is still there, but I am now certainly convinced that that is all it'll ever be. Some days I accept it, most days I don't. Still, I try to move on to a different dream. Still in the entertainment industry, but taking a different direction. I wonder if it's too late. I'm crossing my fingers and toes and hoping it's really not. I have just found out one of the ladies I work with is leaving her career that she's been in for 10 years to start afresh. She's off to study to become a teacher. She's 38. If that's not an incentive, I'm not sure what is.

I want to write movie scripts. I want to write plays. I want to write short stories. I want to write about travelling. Basically, I just want to write. I wrote a short 15 minute play when I was only 15 years old. It won second prize for the State. I haven't written like that since. I have a few ideas for some scripts. A couple of good comedy lines. A drama piece that I hope will have you thinking about it long after you've seen it, but I don't know if it should be for the stage or screen. Also, I'm not sure how to get the thoughts from my head onto paper. My confidence and self esteem are not where they should be and I always ask myself 'Who on earth would want to read what I've written?'. I fear it's not interesting. Boring. Mundane even.

I also didn't study writing at university (even though I have a major in drama and did a semester on scriptwriting). Because I haven't studied it, I wonder if I can take it up as a profession? I have recently been given advice by a writer I know to 'put myself out there' and send out parts of my writings to publishers and see if anything happens. It won't happen overnight, that much I know, but I need to learn perserverence. I need to learn patience. I need to learn confidence. Most importantly, I need to stop procrastinating.

I understand with a job like this there is a lot of travelling involved, research and what not. I'm sure there'd be days when I mind. I'm of an Italian background, so family is very important to me. But I'm of the new generation and understand that getting a job nowadays - especially that dream job - means you'll probably have to move away from family and friends and all things that you find comfortable. It's difficult, but I've been doing it for about 4 years now. I travel, go home and make some money and then travel again. As hard as it is, it's a lot easier than it sounds, what with telephones and emails. And at the end of the day, home is only a plane ride away.

I just want to be happy. I don't want to do this job for the money or the fame, I want to do it because it's what I want to do. I don't want to have to wake up in the mornings and wonder why I'm doing a job I don't want to do. I don't want my first thought in the morning to be a curse word because I'm getting up to go somewhere I don't want to be. I don't want to have to keep thinking 'What if?...'. If I had the choice to be an unhappy dot com executive making millions of dollars or a cleaner making less who is contented with life and has a loving network of family and friends, I'm the kind of person who'd choose to be the cleaner. I just want to be happy.

So that's my dream job. Writing. Script writing in particular. It's hard to get into and I wonder how I'll deal with 'writers block', but there's plenty of time to worry about that. I think this is the year to start working towards it. God knows it's just not going to fall into my lap. So although I haven't found it yet, I hope I eventually will.

I hope one day I'll walk that red carpet with you, if you'll let me.

I didn't mind you asking. I'm glad you did. Infact, I was wondering when you would.

I hope your question's answered now.

A Theme Is Beginning...

A new friend has asked a question of me. I'm working on the answer.

For now, I'd like to post this poem. I think it fits in with the 'What am I doing with my life?' theme, which seems to be on my mind all the time lately. It's one of my favourite poems (although it is written in the male form).

It was found written on the wall of an anonymous prisoner's cell on death row. It's called...

'The Man In The Mirror'

When you get what you want in your struggle for self,
And the world makes you King for a day,
Then go to the mirror and look at yourself
And see what that man has to say.

For it isn't your father, your mother or wife
Whose judgment upon you must pass,
But the man, whose verdict counts most in your life
Is the one staring back from the glass.

He's the fellow to please, never mind all the rest.
For he's with you clear up to the end,
And you've passed your most dangerous, difficult test
If the man in the glass is your friend.

You can fool the whole world, down the pathway of years,
And get pats on the back as you pass.
But your final reward will be heartache and tears
If you've cheated the guy in the glass.


(I have just found out that the poem is incorrectly titled and should be 'The Guy in the Glass' by Dale Wimbrow, 1934)

I Kept On Walking

I was playing the tourist. Singapore. I had been out all day seeing the sights and it was raining. A gentle rain, but rain nonethless. The air was muggy, humid and sticky. The pavement was slippery.

I stood at the traffic lights and looked around around at my surroundings. I took it all in like a child at at a fair. The sound of the cars, the rain tapping lightly on the ground, people talking. It was a regular day for a tourist.

And then I looked up to watch the 'walking man' underneath the traffic light. I was waiting for him to turn from red to green, to tell me it was OK to cross the road.

Then the yelling begun. The loud, high pitched screams of a female voice. I don't know what she was saying as it wasn't in english. But she was screaming... at him. She was angry. Mad. Furious. They stood on the opposite side of the street and like the other one hundred people around me, I stopped to stare. I don't usually. I'm curious, but not curious to get involved in things that don't concern me. I'm the person that DOESN'T slow down to see the car accident on the side of the highway.

But here, there was nowhere else to look. So I stood. And watched. My surroundings have gone silent. I have unintenionally blocked out everything. I didn't realise I had done this until later. It must've been a subconsious act on my part.

She was a tiny woman. That small asian body that makes her look childlike. Her voice angrier now. She is yelling at the top of her voice. She raises a hand. She slaps him. Once. Twice. From what I could tell she used all her might, but to him, it would've been like a child had connected their palm with his face.

He's not accepting of it. He yells at her. As though it's played out in slow motion, I watch his right hand move up to his be in line with his head. He swings it back as far as it will go and then, with the greatest force, I hear him capture the wind as he brings his hand back to slap her face.

She loses her footing on the wet ground. There is a thud. I am standing across the street and I realise I have just heard her head connect with the pavement. Her eyes close. One second. Two seconds. She opens them. Startled. Confused.

The crowd grows bigger. Some of them continue walking, many of them looking back to still see what's happening. The man turns green and I begin to cross the street, transfixed on what I've seen. I look to my right, I am in line with them now, they are so close. He leans over her, still yelling. How can he be yelling at her when she is lying akwardly on the ground? I have passed them now. I continued to move. I heard the voices behind me. I didn't look back. But I kept on walking.

I take a few steps and battle with my conscience. Should I go back? What would I say? Why is nobody else going over there? I took a few more steps and then looked back. He then bends down to pick her up and scoop her in his arms. She is awake, but I'm not sure if she is aware. A man has approached them. A big burly man. Their attitude changes. It's almost like he has to deal with her now because she's in his arms and he's suddenly paid attention to the fact that people are watching. The man says something to him. I don't know what because I was too far away and I'm sure it wasn't in english.

She lays limp in his arms and he begins to drag her away, towards the train station and out of my sight. Slowly I begin to walk away. But I look back. Once. Twice. Then I stop. I notice the crowd is thinning. People begin to cross the street. I begin to hear the cars again. I begin to hear other voices. Voices that don't belong to those two. Voices that aren't yelling. I turn around and head off in the direction I need to be going.

When did we become immune?
When did we become accepting?
When did we become inconsiderate?
When did we become tolerant?

When did we decide it was OK to keep on walking?