Waste Land

Today, I woke up with the idea that I was living the only way that anyone should ever live. It resided in the back of my mind, without me even noticing what I had created for myself- the thought that I was alone in the world.

Then I watched a documentary. 

It was called Waste Land. 

The story of a modern Brazilian artist, Vik Muniz. He traveled to a landfill in Rio de Janerio, named Jardim Gramacho, to create portraits out of the trash he finds there. People work there. People die there. But most importantly, people live there. They don't just exist, earning money to support drug addictions or to augment their wages from "prostituting themselves". They live there, with difficulty and dignity intertwined into the chaos of being a picker. Yes, a picker. A picker, if you can imagine it, of recyclable items. They go every morning to the landfill, dressed in gloves and hardhats (sometimes). They go through thousands and thousands of tons of trash. At the time that this documentary was filmed, Brazil did not have an recycling program. People would just throw all their waste away into their trash bins and dump it, diapers and milk cartons and rotten food and aluminum cans and melded together into a cacophony of residue. That's where the pickers come in. They throw themselves into that sea of garbage and they dig and sort and look and pick. They pick the items, recyclable items, that are worth the most money that day. It's the "stock market of recyclables". They then sort it, bag it, and sell it. They go home well after the sun has set, to the makeshift huts where they stay. And the cycle of the sun coincides with the cycle of their lives. It happens everyday. 

"It is not bad to be poor. It's bad to be rich at the height of fame with your morals in a dirty shame," says Valter, shortly before his death of lung cancer. To most of Brazil, if not all of it, these people are seen as lower than the garbage that they work with (if seen at all). They are what the rest of the country, in essence, have thrown away. Vik gave them a chance to tell their story, through the portraits that he created of them with the materials that they sort through everyday. At one point in the film, as they are looking through aerial shots of Jardim Gramacho, Vik's assistant says to him, "This is the first time that I can say that the place of you work looks better closer up than it does from far away. It's the human element that makes this such a beautiful project." Later on, as he looks out over the prominent city of Rio, Vik mutters to himself "It's not a pretty place unless you look (from) very far away." So, the place that is known, the place that is rich, the place that generate the garbage... That is the place that is the worst to be close too. That is where truly where the stink originates. Things are not always as they seem, for good or otherwise. Rich, or poor. 

Life in a combination of moments. Whether it be moments searching through trash or relaxing in your mansion, throwing away your recyclables, it's a collection. If we focus on those moments, one by one, it makes no sense. Lean back. Look at the whole picture. Are you making art with your moments? 

"I don't see myself in the trash anymore."

"Sometimes we see ourselves as so small, but out there, people see us as so big and so beautiful."

There are so many ways to live.

Click here to see the trailer. Watch the movie. It's on Netflix. Just watch it. 

This Post Terrifies Me.

"The more scared we are of a work or calling, the more sure we can be that we have to do it." -Steven Pressfield. 

What are you most scared of doing? Not in general, not in your lifetime, but today? What frightens you most today? What is it that you know, without a doubt, you cannot do? And what makes you think that? Who convinced you of that lie? 

All questions aside, I think you're scared because it's time. It's time to truly start becoming. It's time to cast aside rationalization and doubt. Tear it out of your notebook, ball it up, jump shot it into the trash can. Don't use the wall as a backboard-you can do this on your own. That fear? That nagging, unending fear? Let it motivate you. Let it push you. Let it remind you of why you need to do this certain thing. It is time. 

So begin. Ready, set, go.

I'm going to be a writer.

Today. 

It starts today. 

Normalcy

You look at her, and what you see is a girl. A human being without frills or fluff or anything extra. Freckles are splayed across her face, an endless game of connect the dot. You can envision her little brother penning it on her arm in church, dot to dot to dot to endless dot. Countless potential pathways, kissed onto her skin by the sun. You see her hair. It is not long. It is not short. It hangs until it stops, that is all. It has no color, in that it has every color. It cannot be classified as red or brown or blonde, or even something in between. It just is. It is her hair, and that does not define her.

            Her eyes. Another pathway, yet this one leads to the depth of her existence. Fluid and real, dancing with an eternal and unblinking honesty. They speak more than she ever does, for they cannot be ignored.  You catch yourself staring, just a bit, and look away hurriedly, embarrassed to have seen something so personal. You promptly leave, join your friends and your life and your routine, and forget about the girl who is nothing else. Just a normal girl.

            As you walked away, another path was penned, and another brief but meaningful journey was made to the confines of her soul. Your image was driven by the lanes of fulfillment or friendship. It sped past the less traveled road of confidence and swerved around the path of contentment. The passage you indented is one that has been ventured time and time again in the soul of this girl. Disappointment is now deeper, loneliness accentuated. Subconsciously, your views became more aligned in her vision of herself. She’s just a normal girl.