Last Friday, almost a week ago, I was going to blog about my progress on my final project. Sadly, there was none. But I had a conversation that helped me to get my project narrowed down to an specific topic. I also had some kind of revelation in the words that I heard. I wasn’t going to publish this but since no one really reads what I/we write here I feel free enough to discuss my own life issues on this post.
How I wish that the classes I am taking didn’t require to write. I wish grades weren’t too dependent on papers and written projects. The fact that I am able to write a 2000 word paper or cite in APA doesn’t mean anything. If I am not able to write and hit the expectations of the prompts doesn’t mean that I am not capable of critical thinking, maybe I just don’t want to do it the way you’re asking me to do it. Lately I simply don’t feel like writing. Words are not my thing. Ask me for something else. Ask me for pictures, for a drawing, for a sculpture, or a song, just don’t ask me for a paper that will reflect nothing transcendental about me.
“What is that that you want to do?
I don’t want to do anything”
But at this point I have to do something.
I tried to blame it on the sources. I don’t know. I’ll see what kind of sources I find and then I will take a decision.
But even if I had the best sources for every option I ever thought of, I still have to take a decision on what I want. What I want? I don’t know, to talk about films or something.
Why do I make everything so dramatic? He’s talking about books and I interpret it as a life metaphor. Then I give it the biggest meaning and I go outside again thinking that I can do something. But in the end I just go back to my room and I get under my blankets, sleeping all my ideas away.
“Participatory Culture” he said.
(I would have remembered it if I didn’t write it down, I swear, and the name Henry Jenkins too)
I wrote it in my notebook and I looked for sources. Thanks to Jenny, I found some. I checked out the books. But I also stumbled with one big book which happened to be a photography book. I was lead for some magical reason to the section of the library with over sized books and I found the most beautiful book of photography. The cover is made out of soft fabric, with a tacky print though … I wish I could keep it. I wish I could steal all of those books. The Elliot Erwitt books, principally. But I can’t, they’re too many, too heavy. Easily more than two hundred, can’t fit them in my backpack. While I looked at them I though “I wanna make my own book.” I wanna make my own photography book, I should just do it out of cardboard and cheap photographic prints, and put it all together with with scissors and glue, and a ribbon on the edge.
What do I want? I don’t know, I have the sources, I have the mediums and the ways to go wherever and do whatever I want but I don’t know what I want. I want to take pictures, I guess, and film stuff. Films. Films are good.
Henry Jenkins, and, Participatory Culture, that’s what I am talking about for my final project.