Я поэт, писатель, сценарист и режиссер проживающий и работающий во Франции. The Opposite of Indifference — мой первый роман. На данный момент пишу второй. В свободное время, играю в шахматы и пишу песни.
I am a poet, writer, screenwriter and director living and working in France. The Opposite of Indifference is my first novel. At the moment, I am working on the follow–up. In my spare time, I like to play chess and write songs.
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As children, we are always told that is we stare too long into the sun; we will inevitably be blinded by it. Perhaps, if we allow ourselves to be blinded and stare into it a little longer, we will overcome the light and be able to see through it. That which doesn’t kill us only makes us stronger, or so we learned from Nietzsche.
I find it to be the same with dreams and desires. The more we want something, the more that desire blinds us. We strive and crave and implore to a point of loosing track of what is really important. And then, blinded by our own appeal, weakened by the very lust that empowers us, we learn to walk yet again and find the road we could not have seen previously. I take comfort in that thought, for nothing in this world has weakened me more than my own desire, and nothing has ever made me stronger.
Growing up in the hazy confusion of immigration, I never had any real aspirations. I blocked out the concept of time, and was absolutely convinced of the fact that only the now existed, because to me, only the now made any real sense. Until the age of twelve I was certain of the fact that I will likely die no more than fifty meters from where I was born. By the time I turned thirteen, I was more or less certain that nothing could be further from the truth.
So, I made no plans, harbored no illusions, but rather buried myself in the mundane task of learning English and fitting in with those who were alien to my breed. It was neither haughtiness nor conceit, but the literal truth that the people that now surrounded me spoke a different language, a language that I desperately struggled to acquire. And, thus no promises were made to myself that I would later in life struggle to keep. My self had been stripped of any real importance. At least, for the time being.
Then, something happened that challenged my perceived lack of imagination: I went to college. For all the emptiness of formal education, there was one thing that college provided was a greater variety of humans, and, even more importantly, a forced interaction.
Shy as I was, in my school years away from the land of my birth, I was able to disappear into the crowd of the big city, run home and immerse myself in either the written word or the spoken one from the electronic glitter of the television set. And in more ways than one, it was that immersion that saved my frail body from potential beatings and my unadjusted soul from severe loneliness, for one is never as lonely alone as in the crowd.
However, by the time I matured into the frame and heart of a seventeen-year-old freshman, I had grown enough in confidence to speak and enough in judgment to refrain from judging. Yet, judge I did, but as did the hundreds of other undergraduates frolicking around the campus, I learned to put my arbitration aside in favor of a singular stimulus that would drive me for the rest of my life: women. But, a simpleton that I was in the matters of the heart, it took me exactly thirty seconds to fall in love and I fell hard.
It was a balmy Saturday afternoon, late August, one of those days when the sun takes the form of a sauna bath and drenches every inhabitant of the planet in sweat. My parents and I had little trouble finding the campus, but the moment we stepped out of the air–conditioned Honda into the sub–tropical heat that northern New York never fails to propose in the summer, I felt my shirt stick to the back of my neck. We were collectively out of breath, the three of us, but all for different reasons.
I had never been away from home for more than a month at a time and even that was many years ago and in the country that had been, for the time being, our home and would always remain the country of our birth. Now, I was about to part for four long years of formal education in a city three hours and several lifetimes away from my parents’ Brooklyn apartment. Though, I would not admit it, I felt both joy and fear. I could not admit to the joy, as I was decidedly apprehensive about hurting my mother’s feelings. As for fear, I was a seventeen-year-old man. Or, not quite a man, yet.