True Stories

Random memories mesh together to create a character. This one happens to be real; a 26-year-old Israeli boy studying film in NYC. (As with anything, it's best to start at the beginning. Go to the archives...) Copyright 2006

Tuesday, May 02, 2006

True low stories

My ego has been punched in the talent more than once. More than punched, it’s been battered and raped. I’ve tried to harness pain like a farmer, transforming shit into fertilizer and growing something good out of it. Writing has been a way of doing that. When propelled from a low to a high it's comforting to believe that the low was a necessary pit stop. Autobiographical writing facilitates the romanticizing of the story-like structure of life.

In January of 2003 a screenplay of mine was making its way towards production in Israel. The producer I'd sent it to was extremely enthusiastic about it, and she'd attached a promising young director to the project. He was a skinny and excitable gay man in his early thirties, fresh out of film school and motivated to prove himself. He made me watch Atom Goyan films and discuss film philosophies while he chain-smoked in my face and occasionally stood on his chair. We'd gone through several drafts of rewrites. I was lost at the time, neither hopeful nor desperate.

In the beginning of a week in mid January I discovered that I'd been fired from my part-time security guard job. My boss hadn't even bothered to tell me I'd lost my job. I showed up for my shift in uniform and found another uniformed guard sitting behind the desk. I called my boss, who told me in his cigarette voice "Oh, yes, our relationship has reached its end." In a way I was relieved.

The next night I spoke to the producer again. She was more confident than ever. "Have you seen the shit on television these days?" She told me. "I have no doubt your script will be picked up. No doubt whatsoever." I knew she was playing games with me, but I believed that the fact that she found it worth her time to butter me up was good enough for me. The next morning she woke me up with a phone call. She said "They said no. And frankly I can't blame them. Your script is sophomoric, it's juvenile. It might be made into something passable, but it'll definitely take a lot of work. Do you want to give it a try?" I mumbled "Sure, sure."

The next day I met with her and her new producing partner, a suave Tel-Aviv character with a shaven head who wore sunglasses indoors. I listened for a couple of hours as they made suggestions that made no sense. I never grew infuriated since deep inside I knew my screenplay was sophomoric and juvenile. I had been hoping to sell it, but realized at that moment that I had never believed in it. I had never believed in me. I had merely believed in a world of randomness and low standards. I smiled and said nothing.

The following evening, a friend of mine showed up a day early from India. He'd been gone for a few months after his army service, and had been extremely reluctant to come back to Israel. I was reluctant to stay as well, being out of a job and out of any prospects I had no reasons to stick around and nothing to look forward to. We walked around my neighborhood that night, he talked about his low and I talked about my low, and within three weeks we were sitting together on a plane headed for LA, without a plan.

If I wanted to paint the trajectory of my life in a clearly defined line, I could say that it was that low that propelled me towards the USA. And I've been here ever since. Now I have to ask myself, where will this new low propel me to next?

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