Looking at the gorillaglass.

When I look at my screen I see myself in a mirror. The gorillaglass is showing two sides of myself. My mirrored image with a deep longing in the eyes and that other image of me standing on top of a mandir. Strong, proud and self assured and above all happy. The longing in my eyes in the first image reflects the desire to be that other me in that other image. The first me is not really unhappy because she knows she’s just living in a temporary space, an interbellum. She knows she’ll be that other person again sometime and if she’s lucky she won’t have to wait too long for that. She knows she’s working hard to become that other image again. That image of the traveling writer and journalist. That woman who is not scared of the society she moves in and who is doing what she does best, connecting people and making photos and films. Writing books.

The first woman is struggling to survive her life and although she’s almost drowning frequently she stays strong, reinvents herself almost every day and with a smile as her best make up she challenges others. To understand, to support, to engage. And sometimes the others do. Most of the time they don’t. She’s fighting with the words in her book that although finished constantly asks for her attention because there’s always a line that is not perfect, always a little error to be discovered. She’s fighting with images and sounds to build a film in her own way. With feelings straight from the heart because she really does care about the people she filmed. And because both book and film bring her back to what that second woman has lost constantly on a daily if not hourly basis she has to struggle even more. She determined and she will, no matter what, finished it off.

The two images will merge one day soon. Working together on another book, on another film, in the world where she really feels she should be. Far away from the troubles of the crazy life women one is living. And when they close their eyes they smell the smell of the curry that is made on in the houses and the food that’s being fried on the little carts on the street corners. She smells the smell of a ripe mango even when it’s not there and behind her closed eye lids the fireflies fly in the early night. She walks in between the fields of rice and along the dusty roads where the school children in their uniforms come and go. Namaste mem, namaste! The sound of the riksha passing and ringing it’s bell frequently echoes in her ears just like the shouting of the farmer with his oxen in the watered fields. A bus passes and people look at her, she waves her hand. They wave back.

Her skin feels the sun warming her and drops of sweat travel along her backside. Her muscles become weary of the long walking in the heat of the midday oven that the landscape has become. At a stand she buys a can of badam. Cold and sweet, refreshing on this hot day.

Than, all of a sudden a tram passes by and I’m back. Wrong time, wrong place, again.

Alice © 2012