“I think everyone must love life more than anything else in the world.”

> >>>>>   “Love life more than the meaning of it?”

“Yes, certainly. Love it regardless of logic, as you say. Yes, most certainly regardless of logic, for only then will you grasp its meaning.

– The Brothers Karamazov, Fyodor Dostoyevsky

It is 3 AM and I am standing at a crosswalk in New York City.

Times Square is quiet tonight.

It is not silent, mind you – no, the “city that never sleeps” could never be silent. It is 3 AM and the gaudy charmer still churns, twists, flashes its vitality of energy and movement – “You CANNOT miss this show! Buy your tickets now!” HSBC M-M-M-M yellow Barclays FOREVER 21 laughter bubbles summer “would you mind taking a picture of us?” girls in pink uniforms flash-dance camera pretzels Mary Poppins Starbucks grande skinny vanilla lattes smoke from cigarettes MAC make-up American Eagle . . .

And yet, Times Square is quiet.

I stand here – in the midst of all the bustle, honking, explosive color and lights – and the world suddenly blurs, its violent contrast abruptly muted to an almost harmonious hum.

And in the pulse that remains along its softened edges, I find what I have been searching.

“There is nothing to writing. You just sit down and bleed”  – Ernest Hemingway

Kivu at the TFF Filmmaker/Industry Lounge

I see a trajectory in the chaos. The need for an answer, the desperate desire for meaning that drives us here and there, in and out of cities, jobs, interests, and relationships in its pursuit. But here in Times Square, at this precise moment, the structure momentarily fades and in the absence of form and projections telling me what to value and what to believe – I suddenly feel meaning.

Standing next to me is Kivu Ruhorahoza. Those of you who follow my blog may remember Kivu.

Five months ago when I was in Rwanda, I met Kivu at Papyrus through mutual friends. A five-second introduction turned into dinner at New Cactus, a couple parties, and a promise to stay in touch. His nomadic lifestyle inspired me – a life of spontaneity and adventure lived for the sake of artistic creation and expression.

When I met Kivu, he was a struggling filmmaker trying to secure post-production funding for his film. He briefly explained to me the plot of his film (an explanation, by the way, that did not do the film justice), but I was more interested in Kivu’s plans to publish a novel. Then, in March, I received an unexpected email – Kivu’s film, Grey Matter, had been selected for a world premiere at the TriBeCa Film Festival! Grey Matter set a precedent not just as Kivu’s first feature film – but also as the first feature film by a Rwandan filmmaker.

VERY, VERY EXCITING STUFF.

A couple emails and gchat conversations later, I had a plane ticket to New York City and a one-week pass to TriBeCa.

Yes, that is Robert De Niro.

During the day, I would follow Kivu around the TFF/Filmmaker Lounge and the Cadillac Press Lounge where he did interviews with The New Yorker, Slant Magazine, radio stations, etc. Then, starting at about 5pm, we would begin attending the cocktail parties, press meet and greets, filmmaker industry parties, Screen Actors Guild (SAG) parties, film premiere after parties, etc. etc.

I’ve never felt so networked-out in my life.

I always get this “WOW” response when I say that I ate with Robert De Niro at the Directors Brunch, or that Adrian Brody and Eva Mendes were also at the Cadillac Press Lounge. And apparently, I met a lot of famous people that I didn’t recognize – like Jay O. Sanders, Denis Leary, Anna Kendrick, Tristan Wilds, etc. – among others.

Kivu at the world premiere of Grey Matter.

Then, there are those on the red carpet just a stone’s throw away – Julia Roberts, Miranda Kerr and Orlando Bloom, Hayden Panetierre, Sean Penn, the list goes on and on.

But honestly, the most remarkable people that I met were not the glitzy glamorous celebrities, but the aspiring filmmakers and struggling writers. I was so impressed and inspired by the artists who traveled from across the world to premiere their films at TriBeCa. For many of them, they brought their life’s work to the festival – creations that have cost years of frustrating labor and fortunes, relationships, opportunities, and maybe even nearly their lives – because they believed they had something worth expressing and communicating to the rest of the world. I admire their nervousness and modesty, the way their eyes light up whenever someone loves their film, the way they despair when others hate it.

Filmmakers Logi Hilmarsson (from Iceland) and Dor Fadlon (from Israel).

Initially, attending all the networking events was a bit tiring and difficult. For starters, I have no connection to the film industry whatsoever. When people came up to me, I always prefaced with a disclaimer “I’m just a friend, no one important – feel free to move on” but I found that people were relieved and talked to me more naturally because I was not another person to impress. The whole thing seemed rather silly – milling about a room with a cocktail in hand, trying to appear as someone “important” so that you can meet and talk to someone “more important” and use whatever skills or connections they can offer to you. In the meantime, there are staff members whose designated roles are to whisper in your ear and tell you exactly who to approach and prep for. The whole thing becomes an evaluation and estimation of people and how useful they can be to you.

Obviously, I wasn’t “important” and wasn’t going to be particularly useful to anyone in the room. Even worse, I hadn’t seen Kivu’s film. So naturally, after admitting my unimportance, I dreaded the second and third questions: “Who is your friend?” and “What is his film about?”

“Uh … that’s him over there – Kivu Ruhorahoza. And … haha … I actually haven’t seen his film.”

Awkward.

Kivu insisted that I see his film at the second screening, which meant that I had to endure three days of networking as the “filmmaker’s-guest-who-has-not-seen-the-filmmaker’s-film.”

When I finally saw Kivu’s film, I had even less to say.

Many people call Kivu a “genius” and say that his film is “phenomenal” “fantastic” “amazing” “powerful” and even (much to Kivu’s dismay) “awesome.” His film has garnered very high ratings from critics and generated a lot of buzz in the press and at the festival.

But these words are so empty, so clumsy, so devoid of meaning.

“What did you think of the film?” Kivu asked me.

How can I explain this to you?

I didn’t respond. I couldn’t respond.

How could I synthesize my reaction to his film in words when every second of the film was so precisely and sensitively selected and executed? The scenes that I remember vividly – the elevator going up and then down, the taxi-moto, the mirrored reflection, the swarming flies, the lipstick, the machete catching on the fabric, the mini-skirt – do not adequately represent the meaning that I absorbed and that I continue to process.

It was the first time I had watched a film and known its maker.

Every scene became a creation and extension of the artist, and the film felt that much more intimate and captivating. I entered the story knowing that I was entering into Kivu’s imagination, his memory, his experience and his pain. The characters communicated so much more than what they verbalized and I sat in the cinema mesmerized by all that I watched, experienced, and learned. Two thoughts came immediately to mind as I watched Kivu’s film: 1) I really need to stop watching so many crappy films when there are films like this out there, and 2) Damn, I’m going to need to re-write my thesis.

But the true impact of his film is something that I continue to probe and process.

How do I respond to Yvan? Here is a character whose pain and torture is so far removed from everything I know, and who is himself distanced from the horrors that he imagines, and yet his experience is so unbearably personal and resonant. I watch him suffer from demons he cannot control and, as a viewer, I am also helpless as I watch the cycle unfold. The insanity of a madman and the silent, almost-invisible struggles of two siblings communicate the trauma of genocide with far greater precision and truth than graphic images of violence and killing. I grasp the “Cycle of the Cockroach” and its explicit tie to Rwanda and to Africa, but I feel uneasy with its implications – not just for the characters in the film, but also for the parallel reality that the characters represent. What does it mean to make a film about a cycle? The “Cycle of the Cockroach” implies no end to pain and suffering, but like the characters, I continue to ignore its inevitability and hope that things will get better.

Kivu accepts an award at the TFF Award Ceremony.

The camera pans out on the struggling filmmaker as the film ends, and I feel no hope. But I do not think that is what you are trying to say.

What do you want me to know?

Overnight, Kivu transformed from a struggling filmmaker to a celebrity. His film, Grey Matter, won two awards – a Special Jury Commendation for Best New Narrative Director, and also, the award for Best Actor. So many doors seemed to open that night, but it was humbling to see how Kivu took all of the film’s success in stride and continued to prefer a quiet dinner and evening stroll over the clamoring press, distributors, producers, etc that all suddenly wanted to be his best friends.

Which leads us back to Times Square.

So much has happened since our five-second meeting in December.

How can I explain this to you?

I’m not sure that I can.

But as we stand here in all of life’s vitality, energy, and promise – in Times Square, but also in Kigali, Chicago, Texas, Brussels, Paris – I sense meaning in the moment. Who knows why things happen and why we meet the people we do?

Life is terribly predictable and unpredictable in turns, but I know that every second of all of this – this tenuous, finicky, messy battle/race/journey we call life – matters.

And perhaps it is this embrace of all of life’s minor details and random encounters, that leads us to a better comprehension of life’s meaning.

I cannot explain this to you.

But I hope you understand.

Links to interviews with Kivu about his film, Grey Matter:

TriBeCa’s interview with Kivu: http://www.tribecafilm.com/festival/features/Kivu_Ruhorahoza_Grey_Matter.html

New York Times: http://artsbeat.blogs.nytimes.com/tag/kivu-ruhorahoza/

Film Review by Slant Magazine: http://www.slantmagazine.com/film/review/grey-matter/5464

Every end has a beginning.

Every beginning has an end.

We often associate endings in life with great pain and heartbreak, but sometimes it’s the moments that are neither ending nor beginning that are the most agonizing.

For the past few months, I’ve meandered along a familiar path. Even when the road became rocky and the potholes forebode a dangerous end ahead, I persisted. Occasionally, I hesitated and wondered whether I should take heed of the warnings, but the moments of sunshine or occasional flock of butterflies kept me to the trodden path.

Sometimes our fear of the unknown leads us to embrace the comfort of familiarity – even when that familiarity is toxic. However, as the path continues it becomes more and more apparent that the promises of novelty and excitement from the beginning do not lie ahead. The longer I remained on the path the more I regretted not abandoning it long ago when I could at least have left with sunny memories of beauty and warmth.

By the time I reached the cliff, it was too late to go back. I stood on the precipice like a fool with only doubts and regrets to keep me company. Why did I ever take the path? Were the moments of sun and happiness worth it? Or even worse – was there ever happiness or sun, or were those just constructs of my wishful mind?

Senior year thus far has seemed to either align with long stretches of aimless monotony or unexpected loss.

The periods of limbo – periods of doubts and uncertainties about people, purpose, and existence – seem to be prevailing themes. I am stuck in the middle of spring quarter senior year with no clue about what comes next. Or rather, I have clues but I’m not sure that they are the clues that I want. I have been waiting for months and I’ve taken many paths that have led to closed doors and others that have led to open ones, but I’m wary and hesitant about the options currently available.

So, I’m still waiting.

Don’t get me wrong, some of the open doors are amazing opportunities – how could I forget to mention:

I GOT A GRANT TO GO BACK TO RWANDA THIS SUMMER!

I will be returning to the Rwanda Multi-Learning Centre to start “Vocation for Education” – a program that will pair students at the school with part-time internships. The hope is that if students accompany learning in the classroom with experiential learning, they will accumulate the work experience necessary to find jobs to support the continuation of their education.

I’m still waiting to hear back from another grant before I officially launch the project. But can you believe it was only a year ago when I started this blog and prepared for my first trip to Rwanda?

I digress…

I guess I am currently more concerned with what comes after summer and where I’m ultimately going with my life – what happens next?

In addition to confusion, the sense of loss, too, has grown more acute in the past few weeks. Last quarter, it was the loss of a kindred spirit – a confidante and beloved friend. It was a loss that defied comprehension in its unexpectedness and tragedy.

This quarter, the loss is even less tangible. It is the loss of silly puckered faces, of barley soup, missing hairpins and earrings, undesired vegetables, a warm gray scarf, and half-watched movies. It is the loss of carefree laughter and spontaneity. Five months can disappear into flashes of memories. The most mundane moments become the most memorable. Small gestures – pinkie promises on sunny days, broken promises on dark days, laughter during tragedy, tears during hilarity – become the character of what once was.

But can you really lose something you never had?

Whispers lead to doubt. Perhaps more difficult than loss is the acknowledgment of questions that will never be answered. Was it painful? What does this mean? Why did it happen? What if…?

Sometimes these questions find answers after time, but more often than not, they remain unaddressed and we must accept the lack of resolution.

I guess the good thing is that we never end up exactly where we started. Each time we fall, we learn new lessons on how to avoid another fall. Sometimes this means that we take a longer time to get up and sometimes we even tell ourselves that we will never try again, but so much of who we are as people is defined by the bruises, scars, and broken bones we have sustained in the messy race we call life.

The scrapes from the most recent fall still sting.

I’ve had worse injuries, but it has still been difficult to get back up and remember how to walk again. Sometimes I still look back at the path and I wonder how its natural turns and slopes led to this. However, I’m starting to realize that while the destination was not ideal, the sun-drenched warmth and random rainbows along the journey still outweigh the ultimate denouement.

As F. Scott Fitzgerald once said, “Vitality shows not only in the ability to persist but the ability to start over.”

Here’s to endings and new beginnings.

A voice message from my sister on Saturday, February 26, 2011 at 05:30:15 PM. “Hi. Lydia? [pause] It’s me. I think you should know … that an hour ago a policeman came to Joseph’s house … and asked him to go to Cayuga Medical to identify a dead body. [pause, heavy breathing] Which they think is Victoria. It’s all the information we’ve got. When you get this message, you have to pray, okay? That hopefully it’s a miracle. Hopefully, it’s not Victoria.”

A text message on Saturday at 05:51:17 PM: “Body is confirmed to be victorias. No more details now. Kat is going to prayer meeting and will tell me more after

On Saturday, I pulled my easel out from behind the heater.

It has been two years since I sat in the same corner of the room and scripted, blotted, and splotched my pain onto canvas. Then, the absence of meaning drowned words with Twombly-inspired pink carnations. I pressed the pink and watched black rivers run down white. Once-precious words rewritten by that red fountain pen and then distorted by carnations in bloom, words washed into meaningless rivulets of ink. I saw love run black as promises and dreams flowed off the page into a pool of discarded liquid.

And yet, when I pull out the canvas two years later, I find that the messages are still there – pressed into the canvas by the metal tip, absent of substance but impressioned remains just as haunting.

Since Saturday, I have been painting on a new canvas.

I am trying to find the right colors, lines, and shapes to communicate loss. I’ve had trouble breathing as of late. Memories choke me, and my strokes strike the page with desperation, slashing slices of blue, burnt orange, and red across the white – as if the turmoil within can be released through violent color. But sometimes, when I dwell on your gentleness and I remember the sun, I begin to make sense of the mess and I start to find shapes within the disorder. I follow the guidance of grief to discover an embrace, my final message and ode to you. Instead of words, I have your scarf draped over my easel – an inspiration of bright purple infused with memories of a Christmas not too long ago.

God, why was there nobody to walk you home?

A press release by theithacan.org:

Freshman Victoria Cheng was found dead outside an off-campus residence early Saturday afternoon. Residents of 380 Pennsylvania Ave. said they first noticed a body lying in the snow on the side of the house when they looked through an apartment window. Deputies responded to an unresponsive female report on Pennsylvania Avenue at approximately 12:40 p.m. Saturday, according to the Tompkins County Sheriff’s Department. The Ithaca City Fire Department and Bangs Ambulance soon followed to assist.Cheng, 17, was pronounced dead at the scene.

You were my mini-me.

A girl that I have known, played with, mentored, and loved for over ten years. I was eight and you were four when I moved to Ithaca. I can still see those bouncing pigtails and that poofy white dress you used to wear to church. Remember the games we used to play during those long Wednesday prayer meetings? We would get in so much trouble for creating them and leading all the kids to squeal and clamber over the floors and furniture to keep balls of paper in the air.

But it was so worth it.

As the years passed, you became less of a protege and more of a confidante. You were my partner in crime at church when we didn’t want to listen to the sermons and we spent our Sunday mornings doodling caricatures on church bulletins. You cut your bangs and taught me how; you also introduced me to Sun-in Spray. Ever since then, I’ve had bangs and brown hair. Just like you.

But most importantly, you loved me – and loved me without judgment.

When nobody else cared to listen, you did. You embraced me with all of my flaws and my weaknesses, and loved me despite them. We shared our guilty pleasures, our temptations, our disillusionment, our secrets, our frustrations, and our hopes. We were the ones who aspired to break the mold and explore all of the options and possibilities out there.

You understood me.

I didn’t always agree with what you did or how you handled situations, but I never held your actions against you. I wonder now whether I should have been harsher. I discouraged you in high school when you told me about your first encounter with alcohol, but you laughed off my rebuke and assured me that it was just a trivial experiment. I never thought that it would lead to this.

It was much too soon.

Someone once told me “Never waste your grief.” Black brings out the meaning in the painting – there is something pacifying about a tangible product of sadness.When I first heard the news, my heart froze and I was lost in the familiarity of my own apartment. I spoke matter-of-factly to others about your death – as if hearing the words aloud would make the reality hit. It wasn’t until I had finished the final black stroke at 4:00 AM Sunday morning that I broke down and wept long and hard.

I miss you so much, Vic.

Forty-eight juniors at Highland Park High School now know your name. I shared with them the history of our friendship and the circumstances of your passing. Through that lesson, I introduced to them the terms of argumentation and persuasion, but also gave them a window into my life and a message about responsibility to oneself and others. This is an excerpt of what I read aloud to them:

Life is about making choices. Sometimes we make good choices, sometimes we make bad ones. It’s all a part of being human. However, what I do want to communicate is that all of our choices have consequences – consequences that don’t just impact our lives, but also the lives of others. When we make decisions, we often only see the immediate implications in our own lives. I want to take this opportunity to remind you of how our decisions impact the lives of others.

I am not asking you to abstain from alcohol (although I sincerely hope that you will), but I am asking for you to be responsible – to know your limits, to make sure there are others there to take care of you. Not only for your sake, but for the sake of those who care about you – your family, your friends, your loved ones. Remember that your pain is not your own, but it is shared with those who care deeply about you.

This past weekend has taught me about the importance of faith, family, and friends. The Cheng family has been an emblem of resilience and inspiration of faith, lifting up others even when their own hearts are bleeding. From a distance, the family looks small and worn from the tragedy, but the words of comfort and hope that they offer to others and the warmth of their embrace demonstrate a capacity of love that is difficult to comprehend. Joseph did not waver once when he stood at the pulpit and entreated students not to “flirt with alcohol.” Sarah held me up when I felt I would splinter into pieces.

I hope you can see how much your parents love you and how much you have touched all of our lives.

Plato once said, “Be kind for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle.”

You lived by this philosophy, Victoria, and now I will try my best to follow.