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The project asked for us to write 50 pages, but to also challenge to idea "to write" considerably. To approach this project literally, i thought about a subject i could write 50 pages about, and only one topic really came to mind: the separation of my parents when i was 17 and the profound feeling of loss unity within a family unit that had been assimilating to a new American society after immigrating from Iran.

To truly understand what i mean, you must first read the story below, then view the product of this project: 50 consecutive shots unfolding like faint memories of the past. Or, if you please, scroll down to the very bottom and press PLAY to simply view the film, then read the narrative below.

The grueling summer day in Austin was long and uneventful. The merciless heat had left me slumped over on the couch in front of the TV in my suburban home watching long hours of mindless talk shows. This became routine in the summer of 1997. The day would waste away until the summer night arrived, and nature could be bearable to co-exist with.

After an unhealthy mixture of bread and snack bars, I would sweep up my long blonde-tinged hair from my tanned shoulders, slip on the dusty sandals, and leave to a friendÕs house, hoping that the night air would bring relief to the static ways of my summer days.

I would drive to a friendÕs house, indulge myself in long, humor-filled conversation, and watch re-runs of 80Õs shows until I felt like my family was antsy back home, waiting for my arrival. I would slowly finish my Ògood-byeÕsÓ and Òsee-yaÕsÓ to my little 16-year-old friends and let out subtle Òcall-meÕsÓ a I left.

One particular night of my daily routine, after watching movies at a friendÕs house, I decided to return

home and write about how my life was unraveling. I had admitted to myself that I constantly left the house to escape a familiar scene within my family, and that I needed to express the bitter thoughts on paper.

As I drove home, things seemed overwhelmingly stale. I listened to the same boring Òmall-ternativeÓ radio station that I had to unfortunately resort to but that had become bearable. I thought about the parties I went to as an American teenager, filled with nothing but herds of pre-generation X-ers who spent their weekends getting wasted at pasture parties, thinking it was them against the world. Driving back, I was thinking about these things.

I was in constant objective thought about who I was, and the American culture I had been adjusting to after 10 years of being away from my homeland, Iran. My whole family had been adjusting for 10 years, and we seemed to be living a happy life in American suburbia. We took vacations in the summer to Disney World and the Grand Canyon and Las Vegas and took pictures next to wax figures of Wayne Newton and Marilyn Monroe. We took road trips to the beach and to amusement parks and bought cotton candy and cheeseburgers. We had a cat and I was in pep squad and my dad bought cowboy boots.

We had been slowly adopting all the superficial yet enjoyable qualities of an American life, while being a family in love with each other. We seemed to be living a happy, strong life in American suburbia, together, as a strong family who had escaped a country that could not provide us with the opportunities we had to potential to receive.

But I knew of the sight I was to encounter as I arrived home that night. It was a sight of disconnection and detachment between family members that had remained so close through the whole adaptation to a new lifestyle. I reached the slight hump of the driveway and parked.

Slowly, I walked to the door, humming the song that I had heard on the radio three times during the day, and annoyed at the fact that it was chiseled into my conscience. Walking through the front door, reality was immediately painted before me like canvassed images. I glanced toward the living room to notice a tranquil glaze of candles and aromas of African incense, made alive by a petite figure, dancing gracefully among a setting of vintage Persian paintings and artifacts. The figure whose gentle hue completed the image was that of my mother, who gave a joyful greeting to me as I closed the door. I was immediately revived of my cultural life, like I was living in a fantasy world where reputation and society had no comment, no opinion, no value. The emotion and warmth that emanated from my mother was ever-so-present. I glanced to my left to be faced with another familiar image.

The small slit of yellow light was visible at the end of the gray-toned hallway. The sound of a fan and fingersquickly but awkwardly hitting a computer keyboard had become a nightly song in my ears. I walked down the hallway, leaving my world of maternal warmth and opened the door, greeting another figure sitting on an ancient brown desk chair. No one could bring themselves to dispose of the chair, for itÕs cushion was comfortable for long chats with strangers in another world of circuits and email. The figure that greeted me was my dad, with his unruly mustache spilling over a forced yet comforting smile on his face, leaving his world of electronica for a brief moment to focus on me. I chatted shortly with him, telling of my night, then closed the door.

As I closed the door, I felt the disconnection vibrate within me. I had to face that my mother and father were no longer in love. They had lost any motivation to hold each other, kiss each otherÕs lips that had kissed for 20 years. My mother was searching for her soul, and my father was searching for someone he could talk to. Their eyes had drifted apart from each otherÕs gaze, and I had to accept that the fate of their separation had been sealed.

As I stood in the empty hallway, I felt lost. I felt no pleasure, nothing sensory. Only pain. Pain and a feeling that one day I would not be able to come back to a home where all immediate family members are present. Pain of losing my innocence at a time where my being had not developed to a point where I could be let go. And pain of the memoriesÑthe smiles of yesterday as they stared at me in the photographs of the pastÑa past that is gone and finite.

The memories still resurface within my conscience. That night, I wrote.

I sense such heavy losses They scratch at me

To begin to think about them Brings the tears to my eyes

And they roll down, slow yet thick Burning my cheeks with a toxic anguish.

I taste the grief of the moment-

In thought about the family vacations once cherished

that have dissolved only into memories that I strain to rememberÉ

Where did those vacations go? Wide-eyedface against to rental car windowÑreminiscent of new car smellsÉthe smell of my motherÕs McDonaldÕs coffee she had bought at a pit stop on the way to our grand destination. And if I spilled ketchup on my jeans she would hand me the McDonaldÕs napkin she had insisted on keeping a hundred miles backÑwhy let a perfectly good napkin go to waste? she would sayÉmy mother is EarthÕs child.

And in those drives we would take around the city of our vacation I remember the rhythm of my dad biting the shells of sunflower seeds open with such a consistency that I chewed my paradise punch Bubbilicious gum with the same beatÑit was that chip inhis front tooth he used to hold each seed before biting it openÑsometimes he would spill the seed remains on himself and on the floor of the car- and I would just think that the rental car people would be mad because their vacuum wouldnÕt be able to reach the shells lodged in between the seat. As he drove he would almost fall into a trance, eyes focused on the road and on his sunflower seeds, changing lanes without the blinker, and I would scream ÒBaba!!Ó in a voice of agitation, but I would always give a little chuckle afterward to reassure him that I knew everyone makes mistakesÑI scared myself when I got mad.

After awhile when the objects outside fleeting by began to blend into the sky, my eyes not able to keep up, I would slip the headphones on-hitting play on the walkmanÑand ÒGroove is in the heart! Ha-ah-ah-art..Ó flooded my ears. I had learned the words, and to this day every tiem I hear that song I think of that day. The tape was my sisterÕsÑwho sat next to me. Sitting in the back of the car with Bahareh in our world of laughing at the world is something I will always missÑlike when she was eating the banana she had taken form the continental breakfast of our Holiday InnÑand she chewed the bits of banana in her own funny way that we only found funnyÑand we would start and stop laughing at the very same time because thatÕs how well we knew each other and how well we mutually knew the styles of our humorÑ

a mutual understanding of each other and of the silly thingsÑwhat no one else could ever understand.