Destino

“Destino” Spanish for Destiny, is a short film released in 2003 by The Walt disney Company.

Its production began in 1945 and was only completed after 58 years. The project is a collaboration between Walk Disney and Salvador Dali, and features music writer by Armando Dominguez. It was storyboarded by Disney’s studio artist John Hench and Salvador Dali.

The project, then, ceased due to Disney’s financial crisis during the time of World War II.

After that, in In 1999, Walt Disney’s nephew Roy E. Disney, while working on Fantasia 2000, unearthed the dormant project and decided to bring it back to life. Disney Studios France, the company’s small Parisian production department, was brought on board to complete the project. The short was produced by Baker Bloodworth and directed by French animator Dominique Monféry in his first directorial role. A team of approximately 25 animators deciphered Dalí and Hench’s cryptic storyboards (with a little help from the journals of Dalí’s wife Gala Dalí and guidance from Hench himself), and finished Destino’s production. The end result is mostly traditional animation, including Hench’s original footage, but it also contains some computer animation.

Destiny tells the love story of Chronos and his love for a mortal woman named Dahlia…

Via: Allison Benedikt, Chicago Tribune

Towards Colors

She would walk towards everything with colors, with her black coat and leather boots. She’d grab your hand and pull you with her to stop and stare at the insignificant artwork hanged in the bathroom of a three-star-hotel restaurant. You’d tell her it looks beautiful, although you must be thinking “What was the artist thinking when he drew devil horns to Mickey Mouse?”

She would grab your mobile and gasp to the colors of the elephant in the background image, and she’d tell you how your presence paints the greys in her life just like that.

And casually while you are talking, she’d tell you how you soothe her, like a sunrise.

The problem is that she asks you to love the stars as much as you love her, because she believes she’s half star. She’d want you to remind her of how beautiful she looks when she wakes up and how her kiss feels like a 3 a.m breeze.

“Make it stop” she’d tell you when thunder strikes, and you’d laugh because you’d be lost in the child she beautifully contains within her.

At some point in her life, she understood that love is not supposed to hurt. And it should not be begged for.

Girls like her learn the value of things, she learned that she deserves flowers and midnight calls. She knows she deserves more than a confused man and empty conversations.

There’s something about colors and her; it seems like the rain speaks to her in a language we don’t understand, and it told her to love herself enough to let go of who is incapable to love.  The rain seemed to contain her tears whenever she cried, “you are beautiful” it would tell her, and she’d smile. And that is exactly why she is always distracted when it rains.

So the next time you see her looking at the horizon, distracted from your plans for your mother’s birthday or responding coldly when you say “I love you,”

something is wrong.

The problem with girls like her is that, they are interstellar. They are tired of fighting for recognition. If you cannot expose your soul to them and talk about love, about life and about what lies ahead, then you better leave.

The problem with girls like her is that when they are before the choices of either to cry or walk away, they’d simply walk away,

away and towards the colors which you failed to give.

© 2015 ALIA SULTAN

Serendipity Part 1

It was a cold and rainy night when it all started and I was by the window listening to the music composed by the journey of raindrops from the sky to the ground, and I needed a sign of love, not necessarily romantic love but just pure love. That which colors the horizon and watches over the trees.

“Where is it?” I wondered to myself, it was a question I frequently asked but still could not grasp the answer. One thought lead to another as the rain orchestrated my heartbeats as I curled up and fell into the world I created; my dreams.

My friend invited me over for breakfast the next day and I have the habit of taking all the time I need to get ready when I wake up, so I knew that when she told me to come at 7 a.m she really meant to say she wants to see me at 10 a.m. It was a weekend so I wasn’t worried about being punctual.

I wore my boots and sat on a chair, doing absolutely nothing while my thoughts wandered. “Coffee” I realised, that’s what I needed. So that was a motive for me to rush to her.

I took my time walking, steady steps, clear mind.

We were already on our way to a coffee shop that was a 10-minute walk from her house. I ordered black coffee. There is something heartwarming about bitter coffee that I could not put into words.

“My research is due after three days and I’m not half done.”  she said

“I’ll help you work on it as soon as we get back, don’t worry, the whole world can change in three days, the entire world!”

As I was getting ready for my speech to make her feel better and not panic so I won’t panic as a result, I saw a girl walk by the cafe’s window who looked so much like my classmate in fifth grade, so I ran out to say hi but she seemed to be in a rush. The reason I wanted to greet her was her unforgettable kindness towards everyone around her as a child, she was the kind of child who was obviously showered with love which made her, therefore, reflect it. She was heading to the left side of the cafe. As I was walking behind her before calling her name, a man in a black beautifully-tailored suit stopped me and gave me a cookie in a transparent bag with a post it on it saying “you are loved.” He looked me in the eyes for about three seconds after handing it to me, smiled and continued giving out those cookies.

I held it in my hands as I was looking at the yellow post it in the middle of people walking by, I laughed. “Timing,” I thought, “It’s amazing how things work around it”

I ate the tiny cookie and walked back to the cafe as I kept the note in my pocket.

You know what they say? Just ask a question and let it vibrate around the world without expecting an answer, and all the events that surround you will work their way to give you an answer, as long as you open your heart.

So where is love? And how does it surround me?

The moon soothing the night and the nocturnal souls below it, without expecting anything back, seemed to answer me…

© 2015 ALIA SULTAN

The Soul of Inspiration

Inspiration is unexplainable; how it takes shape out of nothingness and forces you to create something out of nothing and make it so beautiful, or ugly enough to be beautiful.

“Begin to write” the creature of the void whispered in her ear at 3 a.m as she was in the middle of the strangest dream where there was something in her brain that felt like electricity spreading throughout her body and the sound of an ambulance and everything that did not make sense in a dream, it was as if her body was a city where everyone was loud and busy.
“Begin to write” the voice whispered closer, as she woke up covered in sweat and shivers to the sound of thunder and raindrops making music.
Half conscious, she began to type;
“Who am I and what is my soul made of?”
She drank a glass of water as she glared at her typewriter, wondering, asking questions it cannot answer with the echoes of raindrops.
She stared at what she wrote long enough until it seemed to answer itself; sometimes no answer is an answer.
“Who are we, really?” she smiled, as if a secret was disclosed upon her, making its way through her cells at 3 a.m.
“Begin to write” she listened, more relaxed in her body, she did what she was supposed to do; she listened to the creature of the void in all his nonsense and non logical times when he’d ask her to do things; to create and write and become. She listened carefully to him and to herself until there was nothing else left to be said.
Then she went back to sleep, anticipating his splendid return.
© 2015 ALIA SULTAN

Nabokov’s Letters to Vera

Vera, was the wife of one of my favorite writers to ever exist; Vladimir Nabokov. She was also his editor, assistant and secretary, as well as a source of inspiration of many of his literary works. With Vera by his side supporting his work, Nabokov published 18 novels between 1926 and 1974 (both in Russian and English).

In July of 1923, a little more than two months after they met, Vladimir writes to Véra:

I won’t hide it: I’m so unused to being — well, understood, perhaps, — so unused to it, that in the very first minutes of our meeting I thought: this is a joke… But then… And there are things that are hard to talk about — you’ll rub off their marvelous pollen at the touch of a word… You are lovely…

[…]

Yes, I need you, my fairy-tale. Because you are the only person I can talk with about the shade of a cloud, about the song of a thought — and about how, when I went out to work today and looked a tall sunflower in the face, it smiled at me with all of its seeds.

[…]

See you soon my strange joy, my tender night.

In November, he wrote:

How can I explain to you, my happiness, my golden wonderful happiness, how much I am all yours — with all my memories, poems, outbursts, inner whirlwinds? Or explain that I cannot write a word without hearing how you will pronounce it — and can’t recall a single trifle I’ve lived through without regret — so sharp! — that we haven’t lived through it together — whether it’s the most, the most personal, intransmissible — or only some sunset or other at the bend of a road — you see what I mean, my happiness?

And I know: I can’t tell you anything in words — and when I do on the phone then it comes out completely wrong. Because with you one needs to talk wonderfully, the way we talk with people long gone… in terms of purity and lightness and spiritual precision… You can be bruised by an ugly diminutive — because you are so absolutely resonant — like seawater, my lovely.

I swear — and the inkblot has nothing to do with it — I swear by all that’s dear to me, all I believe in — I swear that I have never loved before as I love you, — with such tenderness — to the point of tears — and with such a sense of radiance.

nabokov_vera_letter1923

Vladimir’s letter to Véra from November 8, 1923

Most of all I want you to be happy, and it seems to me that I could give you that happiness — a sunny, simple happiness — and not an altogether common one…

I am ready to give you all of my blood, if I had to — it’s hard to explain — sounds flat — but that’s how it is. here, I’ll tell you — with my love I could have filled ten centuries of fire, songs, and valor — ten whole centuries, enormous and winged, — full of knights riding up blazing hills — and legends about giants — and fierce Troys — and orange sails — and pirates — and poets. And this is not literature since if you reread carefully you will see that the knights have turned out to be fat.

I simply want to tell you that somehow I can’t imagine life without you…

I love you, I want you, I need you unbearably… Your eyes — which shine so wonder-struck when, with your head thrown back, you tell something funny — your eyes, your voice, lips, your shoulders — so light, sunny…

You came into my life — not as one comes to visit … but as one comes to a kingdom where all the rivers have been waiting for your reflection, all the roads, for your steps.

In a letter from December 30 to Vera, he writes:

I love you very much. Love you in a bad way (don’t be angry, my happiness). Love you in a good way. Love your teeth…

I love you, my sun, my life, I love your eyes — closed — all the little tails of your thoughts, your stretchy vowels, your whole soul from head to heels.

Vera and Vladimir Nabokov, 1968 (photographer: Philippe Halsman) via: http://www.brainpickings.org/2014/12/03/letters-to-vera-vladimir-nabokov/

Vera and Vladimir Nabokov, 1968 (photographer: Philippe Halsman) via: http://www.brainpickings.org/2014/12/03/letters-to-vera-vladimir-nabokov/

References:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Véra_Nabokov

http://www.theatlantic.com/entertainment/archive/2014/04/the-legend-of-vera-nabokov-why-writers-pine-for-a-do-it-all-spouse/359747/

http://www.brainpickings.org/2014/12/03/letters-to-vera-vladimir-nabokov/

© 2015 ALIA SULTAN