hacer, faire, to sigh

I've been spending a lot of time in the artsy's building of campus for to work on my documentary.
The building is silly. It is inhabited by first-name-basis professors, opera singers, string quartets, and playwrights. At certain times of the day 100 people march through with matching sheet music clogging up every stairway. Anytime you accuse anyone of talking to themselves they make the excuse that they're rehearsing, down in the basement I've seen fencing classes, and we're all utterly pretentious because we each personally invented the thrift store.

There used to be a girl who always wore a cat ears headband and a cat tail pinned to her pants.

One third of the building's people are clinging to cameras--the film children all about to tip over under the weight of large camera bags and tripods, the second third of the occupants wear aprons stained with chemicals, and the third third are carrying sketchbooks, weighty sculptures, bags of sand, n'importe quoi* three times larger than them. Like ants.
There are five floors and the lucky studio arts kids get windows to their rooms. I, a film child, have to descend to the second floor and work in a lonely room called The Cave. Tell me you envy me, you liars. Every time I go into the building, I pause before going down the stairs and I wistfully look up at the other floors with their lightness and brightness and their social butterflyness, then I heave a great sigh and begin my descent. The only thing that takes me away from sunlight is the belief in documentary. And if you don't understand how strong my draw to the outside is, you do not understand how much I care for documentary.

*doesn't matter what. pronounced "namport qwah"