Vague Thoughts, Incomplete Stories & Random Ideas

I had to wake up at four in the morning to fly across the ocean. As always, I slept uncomfortably, tossing and turning, certain I would hardly get any rest because that’s what happens when I know I have to wake up early to do something important. Then, as always, I fall asleep about an hour before I have to wake up, which makes it even harder to then get up when the alarm goes off.

Often I dream in that hour of sleep which feels more like five minutes. This time, I had a meta-dream. I dreamt I had to get up at four in the morning because I had to catch a flight, and I couldn’t sleep, in the dream. As I began to doze off, in the dream, I got thrown out of bed by a couple of cousins who were passing through and wanted to say goodbye. Suddenly, my house was filled with family members, all of us thrown out of bed to accommodate my cousins’ whim to bid me off on such short notice.

The only one not to be rudely awakened was my grandfather. He always woke up at dawn. I often wondered what he looked like when he woke up in the mornings. I couldn’t imagine him yawning or struggling to climb out of bed. The table was set, and the whole family was gathered eating in silence, most of us sleepy as hell.

Finally, I commented on how at least I got to have breakfast with my grandfather, something I’d never managed to do before. And as he sat eating ravenously, he corrected me with an air of indifference. He said it was actually the third time we had breakfast together. I thought of how beneath his hard shell he kept count of something he was trying to pass off as an insignificant fact.

Up in the air, over the ocean, leaving my homeland behind, I thought of how dreaming takes you beyond the limits of life. You can spend time with someone you thought you’d never see again. Maybe it’s even possible to travel in time, and change the past. In fact, my grandfather was wrong, I had never actually gotten up early enough to have breakfast with him, not even once.

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The End

To him, art was about the ending. A definite, often dramatic one. Whether it was a love story or a novel, or a film. Usually, someone or something had to die, at least metaphorically, in order for him to find that special sense of immortality and art that some of us can relate to.

That’s why his stories often ended that way. With a death of some sort. That’s why his relationships often ended with him obstinately insisting on the impossibility of those relationships. He would tell her something like “If you only knew how much I’ll miss you…”.

He needed to feel like life was larger than a simple collection of events, which could unfold one way or the other, based on choice or common sense. Life simply had to be more stirring, so he sought many, smaller grand exits to counter the larger, more terrifying end that was normality.

He became a storyteller, and he also made up stories within his real life so that it would feel more electrifying. And he also wrote stories about fictitious characters who made up stories in their real life, so he wouldn’t have to fully admit to himself he was this character.

But that’s the beauty of art, he said. That blurry line between fiction and reality, where imagination enriches an average life, and where a work of fiction reminds the average thinker of how grand life could be… or perhaps really is after all.

God called the other day

The other day my phone rings and it’s God… or at least that’s what the guy claimed. Apparently, everything is under control. The world, I mean. I asked him how he could say that with all the hunger, overpopulation, war, 2012 thing, etc., and he said it was all part of some master plan.

Anyway, the point of his call was that he had nothing else to do, because he had just finished setting everything up, and from that point forward all would pretty much run on by itself. He had called a few other people before me, just to chat, because he was getting bored.

So I thought I should ask what the point to life was, but I figured it wouldn’t have been too original of me. I therefore just asked him about the weather (he was right about the forecast, btw), then we chatted about women and such other things that men talk about to pass the time. He seemed like a pretty cool guy.

Acaluma

This is my first short film, and what started my journey into filmmaking,
self-discovery, and perpetual unemployment.

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