Orion Carloto - Film for Her

Also by Orion Carloto Flux Film for Her copyright 2020 by Orion Carloto. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of reprints in the context of reviews. Andrews McMeel Publishing a division of Andrews McMeel Universal 1130 Walnut Street, Kansas City, Missouri 64106 www.andrewsmcmeel.com ISBN: 978-1-5248-6841-3 Library of Congress Control Number: 2020938396 Editor: Patty Rice Art Director: Holly Swayne Production Editor: Margaret Daniels Production Manager: Carol Coe Digital Production: Kristen Minter ATTENTION: SCHOOLS AND BUSINESSES Andrews McMeel books are available at quantity discounts with bulk purchase for educational, business, or sales promotional use. For information, please e-mail the Andrews McMeel Publishing Special Sales Department: . DEAREST READER When poetry is written, beneath the folds of every word, images unravel.

That never made much sense to me until I began discovering stories in my own photographs. Existing between comfort and desire, you dont realize how valuable a moment is until the years have passed and time slips in between your fingers. Theres a special kind of pleasure that comes with appreciating the mundanethe highs and lows begin to feel useless compared to all the in-betweens. Funny how nostalgia shows up in different forms the older you get. Film for Her is a reflection of all the instances in my life where I found beauty in the most ordinary places. A storybook of people, places, and memories captured on film.

An ode to my youth, a supercut of dreams, and a homage to growing up. In a world where we have become so obsessed with trying to survive, I hope these words serve as a gentle reminder that its okay to simply live. xx Orion 2,221 GROWING PAINS My mother moved to Miami by herself when she was just shy of eighteen. She left Honduras with the American Dream in mind and a hundred dollars to her name. My father, on the other hand, left Portugal to immigrate to Connecticut with his entire family when he was only six years old, so America is all hes ever known. And somehow they crossed paths and met in a small town in Georgia after each of their previous failed marriages and five kids between the both of them.

Hearing this story as a child fascinated me to no end. I was plagued with hopeless romanticism from the moment I was born, so the idea that two people from very opposite ends of the world could find one another felt too good to be true. To be fair, it wasnt exactly love at first sight, but instead a slow infatuation between a hard-working waitress and a restaurant regular who couldnt keep his eyes off of her. It wasnt long before they considered this to be fateor so they thought. The weeping willow that my parents planted together back in 1996 has been cut down since my last visit home. When I turned sixteen, my parents mutually decided to get a divorce, and, out of spite, mom requested that the tree that once stood proud met its end, too.

I get my pettiness from her. My parents bought the house back when they found out mom was pregnant with mea fresh new start, as the young co-parenting couple considered it. And soon after that came the weeping willow. They wanted this budding seed to symbolize my own growth; it was the first real thing they were going to share together. I think thats the most romantic thing you can do with someone you love. My childhood home sat quiet in Bethlehem, Georgia .

Insert biblical reference here . My parents were no Mary and Joseph, but they sure did raise me to believe I was Jesus. A miracle, a blessing! theyd say. Or, for lack of better words, an accident that they werent planning on having. Well discuss this in a later story. Anyway, the home in which I spent all my years was always dear to me.

The front door that was painted red, the hallway that turned into a memory lane of photographs, the wonky doorknob in the kitchen, the hideous forest-green carpet in the basement, and the river that flowed loudly in our backyard. It was waking up on Sunday mornings to mom playing Bachata from the kitchen; it was being a room away from my sister and putting my ear up to the drywall to hear her late-night phone calls; it was taking my dads ladder when he was at work so I could climb on top of my roof to watch the sunset; and it was running across the street, careless and barefoot, to barge through the door of my neighbors house, who just so happened to be my best friend. My parents took the unconventional approach when it came to raising me. As two immigrants raising a first-generation American daughter, youd presume that they would have been a lot more strict in making sure that I didnt turn out to be a fuck-up. But instead, it was always the opposite. Im not sure when in my childhood I earned the trust of my parents, but from a very early age, they never seemed to lack confidence in me.

They always believed in this moral compass I carry and, strangely enough, they always knew I was bound to be an artist. It just took some time for me to recognize that in myself, too. My parents never really expected me to take the traditional route; it was always drilled into my head as a child to perfect my talents and follow whatever it is that ignites my lightno matter how unrealistic it may seem. That kind of freedom at such a young age is terrifying, but there was no one more fit for that suffering than me. To think anyone could make it out of that town after graduation seemed impossible. It had rarely been done, and if it was, it was usually through a full ride to the University of Georgia or lazily moving to the town next door just so they could feel like theyve escaped.

But I didnt want to be traditional; I didnt want the small-town Winder life no longerthe thought of that bored me to a degree of disgust. Thats where you find me today: writing my second book, living out a life Ive made for myself in my home in Los Angeles, California. A girl who used to be so ashamed of her southern roots now reminiscing on them five years later. Its funny, these realizations you experience the older you get. The things that used to seem so mundane strangely enough begin to feel more sacred to you. Everything you thought you hated actually just came from a place of deep-rooted love.

You may not feel it now, but you will one day. Two thousand miles away from home, I write this homage signed with warmth, hugs, and a great deal of growing pains2,221 to be exact.

ATLANTA Sometimes I still find myself reading your poetry. I never told you, but I envy it. Four years will do a number to someone, and in that time Ive seamlessly watched you age through the lens of an Instagram filter. New York looks great on you, by the way.