-
Unity 3:170:00/3:17
A Safe Embrace
By Candace Yogini
Spirits chimed in
Pasts acknowledged and released
Running hand in hand in fields so green
We are free
Guided by the stars
Now guided by our hearts
In perfect synchronicity
One beat
This looks brand new
But you know me and I know you
You stoke the fire inside
And bring out all the woo
Neatly woven into my life
I am safely embraced by you
This love is all consuming
Lifetimes deep, pure and true
Candace Yogini
Forbidden Love
Forbidden Love
So strong, so raw, gripping me tight
You came up and through me, one big gust of wind
‘Untouchable’ rang true
Yet there was a pursuit
Diving deep below the surface
Unsure when I would take my next sweet sip of air
In your arms I didn’t care
We entangled ourselves in the most unethical way
Our own little secret, for a period of time anyway
Lingering in the shadows of my mind
Tears in the shower to hide my lack of power
The highest of highs and the lowest of lows
Filling my heart with dread
Nothing could have prepared me for what would grow
A dark cloud that haunted me and sliced my Soul
A mirage keeping me up at night, You plus Me, We
Nightmares beyond compare
You sucked up
My Identity
My Vitality
My Safety
The internal fight struck me time and time again
Wanting something Untouchable
Trying for something that was Unchangeable
Drown my sorrows by the seaside
Wishing I could be taken along with the tide
Crying out for Release
Trembling, holding my sweet shattered heart
The calm only came when I cried out your name
When I allowed my heart to speak freely
My hand to translate a decade of weight my body had carried
Deeply and Divinely, Cracked Open
The day I honoured my heart
Was the day I let you go
No longer an untouchable, unruly, Forbidden Love
Candace Yogini
Candace (she/her) (@candaceincreation on Instagram) is a Mama of many passions and expressions. Inspired by the polarities in life, she rhythmically communicates her deepest intentions and understandings through creative writing, while embracing Mother Nature as her muse and greatest teacher.
A teacher herself- an accredited Montessori teacher for nearly a decade and a Certified Meditation Teacher by Toronto’s Hoame Meditation Studio, Candace thrives within the student-teacher dynamic. Candace thoughtfully creates spaces to connect virtually by guiding live mindfulness meditations and poetry readings, where the foundation of her offerings are gratitude, honouring uniqueness, and freedom of expression.
“Your world in a book”
By Jimena Yengle
Before “Roma Enamorada”, I believed that writing a book was just another canvas, inside an art museum. The curiosity to live that experience called me aguishly. I decided to go through the process of writing a book, as when you decide to take a train. Making the decision was exciting and easy, but getting into the action was beautiful and emotionally difficult.
What does the process of writing a book involve?
Drag your toes across each stage.
Cry out loud when understanding the anguish, repression, or frustration of a character.
Fall into an abyss of interpretations, of all colors.
Smile inevitably, at the connection suggested by more than one thought.
Bring discernment to the highest point of imagination.
Get angry with that character who does not fulfill your wishes.
Fall asleep meddling in the depths of an idea that defines an event.
Read each word, hoping it resonates in your spirit.
Sing with emotion imagining people feel what alters the outcome.
Freezing time, wanting to introspect.
Dedicate time to your mental processes.
Add value to that voice that crosses your mind without asking permission.
Giving depth to the banal.
Acclimatize until you lose your steps in history.
All that meant writing “Roma Enamorada”
Since she was little, Jimena Ramos Yengle has dedicated herself to art. Jimena started painting at 4 years old and at 6 she exhibited her first work publicly. At the age of 19, she published her first book, a romantic novel called “Roma Enamorada” which is available on Amazon.
Jimena Ramos Yengle also has an active YouTube channel where she uploads content related to cultural events, interviews, covers, and original songs.
She is currently pursuing two professional careers – physical therapy and rehabilitation and psychology. In addition, she is in an actor training school and studying performing arts.
Instagram: @jimenaramos_y
YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCopBc6KjDVx2YlXNEaOusiw
Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/-/es/Jimena-Sofia-Ramos-Yengle-ebook/dp/B08VQDDWQ4
Middle-Aged Creatives Rise
By Artistry of Pe
Some time ago while on social media, I scrolled to a middle-aged artist page and read a lot of disparaging comments in part to the artist having gray hair. The comments ridiculed this “middle-aged” artist-creative, encouraging him to “Stop!” On his page! Reading the comments, I could not believe the ignorance aimed at an artist who, after thirty years, sounds incredible. Many comments reverberated around his weight and that he is a “has been”. I researched a few haters to discover that they had no noteworthy talent to consider. Thinking about what I read, I thought when did art creation and participation gain an age limit? As if insulting me, I realized that I am a “middle-aged” artist, songwriter, producer who spent years studying my craft. I am supposed to stop because my hair and beard are graying? Not a chance!
As a middle-aged creative, I, too, have heard disparaging comments regarding my music. Statements such as: “This isn’t what the industry is doing,” or “Your drum sounds suck,” or “Music is a young man’s game.” Bul!@#$! No one is immune but so unnecessary.
Being a middle-aged artist, I am disappointed that those of us with graying hair are experiencing age discrimination in the arts. Anyone with intelligence should see getting gray is cool. It is not a guarantee that anyone will live long enough to experience such a turn of events. And getting gray is an event and a blessing. You are endowed with greater creative choices because you have lived and have learned from life.
It is mind-boggling that middle-aged creatives are encouraged to accept obscurity, considered unmarketable for an industry that preys on youthful ignorance. Foolishness! And I believe that this incredible middle-aged artist received hate because his undeniable talent, voice intimidated the egomaniacs hoping to build careers.
As a middle-aged artist, I grew up in the Golden Age of Music and learned from the most influential icons of all time. Considering the lessening need for talent and micro-wave trends of the present, could it be jealousy? Yes, I believe this. Every generation has its time to shine but that does not mean the sun has set on those who came before. Middle-aged artists have merit and are valuable. We are teachers, innovators, influential, and are marketable despite the ignorant judgment of others.
As middle-aged artists, we have as much excitement about creating art as in our youth. But by societal, industry, and feeble-minded standards, we are supposed to stop. Again, not a chance! What makes older creatives powerful is that we understand the power of creating art that endeavors to change and advance culture while dismantling erroneous mindsets regarding aging. We are the children of technology who ushered in its profound impact and influence on the world.
As creators, we do not require millions of likes as a confirmation of our gifting. We create to leave a legacy, evergreen content, and building platforms for others eager and willing to engage with us. Think about it? Our wisdom is life’s endowment. With consistency and hard work, we can create incredible things to advance culture, and a great many of us will.
It is a wonderful time being a middle-aged creative. Technology has not silenced age-discriminating gatekeepers nor removed all barriers to entry, but the walls are crumbling. For middle-aged creatives, graying genius, innovators, the glass is full, allowing us to create things that inspires and reflects our experiences.
Speaking for myself as a middle-aged creative, I am excited, liberated, knowing that my creativity can touch people even if “haters” abound. Artistic integrity, spurring socio-cultural change that destroys stereotypes, rooting out ignorant thinking regarding age, as well as, teaching a younger generation is a great reward, too.
In closing, I do not write these words from a bitter place; I do not write to criticize or belittle younger creatives. I am writing to my gray-haired compadres, reflecting on the love of creating art while cruising towards the twilight of our lives. In truth, and if fortunate, aren’t we all?
I write these words as a confirmation that middle-aged creatives can dream, can build platforms, leave an artistic legacy, and give our work to all who are willing to engage us. I write to encourage being an exception to ignorant rules about age, creativity, and marketability. Being a liberated middle-aged creative is awesome! Being inspired and making things to share matters at every age and far outweighs petty thinking, unmerited insults, and wanton beliefs about others based upon appearances. Being a middle-aged creative is living in a remarkable place, powerful and evergreen.
Iustitia
Artistry of Pe’ is an award-winning writer and author from Indianapolis, Indiana. His first book “Burning Candles In A Storm” is scheduled for independent release in the fall of 2021. He is also a singer-songwriter, producer, musician, and avid photographer. He resides in Atlanta, Georgia.
Don’t Surrender
By Onder Deligoz
I am the most wretched pressure cooker in all the world. Don’t ask how it could be otherwise. Please, just listen to me. I will tell you a strange story, never told before, of how I met fire in a bathroom. Yes, you did not hear wrong. The guy who had never opened the door of the kitchen cabinet where I was imprisoned for three hundred and twenty-one days, took me up to the bathroom. The bathroom!
As he was so anxious, I wondered if something bad would happen. At that moment I only thought: If only you cooked something in me at least once, if only you saw what I could do, you would drag something else into the middle of the bathroom floor. Not me. Unfortunately, I don’t have a mouth that speaks. I only have a steam vent to whistle the aroma of the food I cook into the air, but he did not hear it even once because he never cooked with me.
He leaves, and I tell myself that it’s my destiny to wait in the middle of the bathroom floor. As I wait, I hear some weird, repetitive shuffling and banging sounds. His phone rings nonstop at the same time. He, who spends almost all of his time on the phone at home, now ignores the phone? Not a good sign. I can’t imagine what I will witness.
Suddenly, he reappears and seems to be even more anxious. Ashen, too. Maybe he’s tired from all the books he carries? He tosses the books on the floor and disappears again. His actions surprise me. But now I know what that shuffling and banging is all about.
Even though I’m usually imprisoned in the kitchen cabinet, I overhear everything that happens in this apartment. For instance, once he was angry with his friend just because she folded the corner of a page to more easily find her place in the book she was reading. He scolded her: Respect the book and use a bookmark! A sensitive person, even for a page just throws a bunch of books to the floor in front of me! Now I know something’s wrong. I imagine that very bad things would happen here this evening—and that I’m going to be a part of this nightmare. But I don’t know what my role is yet.
He returns holding a lighter in one hand. Saying Are you crazy! I work on the kitchen stove was going to be nonsense. At least I’m not stupid enough to think he’s going to cook a book in me. However, I can’t read his facial expression anymore, even now when he sits next to me. His face is even paler than the white T-shirt he wears. If not for his blue shorts, he would look like a ghost. Is he angry? Scared? Going to cry? Or all of these? I can’t understand, but I sense his soul is shattered.
He mutters under his breath as though he is swearing at someone. He lifts my lid suddenly and throws it between the toilet and the wall. The loud echo of the heavy lid hitting the tiled bathroom floor hurts me and also scares him. “Good job, idiot,” he says to himself, “why not wake all the neighbours?!” He extends his hand to stop the lid from spinning. And the bathroom is quiet again.
He grabs a very thick book and puts it into me. Honestly, I don’t like to boast about my abilities, but I have to tell you that I’m as famous for my huge capacity as much as for my cooking ability. That thick book fits easily inside me. I am proud of myself, but I forget that pride when I see the fire from his lighter. I’m shocked. My owner is a freak who has purchased a pressure cooker for the purpose of burning his books.
Several times he tries to burn the book in me with the lighter. Maybe the book is thicker than I thought because he can’t manage to set it on fire. Besides, he burns his fingers each and every time he tries, blowing on them until the pain subsides. He doesn’t give up. Stubbornly, he takes the book out of me, holds it in the air with the pages fanning down and fires the lighter again. He succeeds this time. Pages catch the flame and begin to burn. He places the book in me again, careful this time not to burn his hand.
As he watches the book burn, I wonder if he plans to burn all those books in me. If only I could ask him why he chooses to burn his books instead of giving them to someone or donating them to a library. Or a school? Why not just throw the books into the garbage if he really wants to get rid of them so badly? Frankly, he isn’t in any mood to answer my questions even if I could ask. Are those tears running down his face from the fire smoke, or is he that sad? I gaze into his face. Yes, he cries. Yes, he looks so sad. Now I wonder if he will cry while he burns all those books in me. Oblivious to my own pain, I take pity on him. How can I find another way to get rid of the books that won’t make him cry?
After a while, the flames go out, but the book is only charred, not burnt. This thick book resists being reduced to a handful of ash. He grabs the book by its corner, raises it in the air, and fans the pages. He flicks the lighter, trying to burn the pages again. Instead, this time he seriously burns his fingers. He drops the book in me and stands up. He immerses his fingers under cold running water, watching his face as the pain lessens. Loud and angry, he repeatedly screams, “Sons of bitches.”
When he steps away from the sink and sits down next to me on the floor, he sees that the flames are dead. As he reaches into me to take out the charred book, his wrist touches me. He moans with pain because the flames of the book are dead, but I am still burning hot. Too hot to touch. After all, I’m a cooking pot made from heavy stainless steel that is designed to retain heat. I don’t know how he doesn’t realize that fire would make me hot. And now my soul is in turmoil.
He gives up trying to burn the thick book in me and tosses it onto the floor. He blows on his wrist as he chooses a different book from the pile, thinner than the previous one. He raises the book in the air, fanning its pages. In the moment just before he fires the lighter, a bookmark falls from the book into me. I can only try to describe the beautiful image I see on the bookmark—a regal black cat sitting on the edge of a crescent moon, watching the stars and waving its elegant tail.
He picks up the bookmark and studies it for a while. He tries to put it in his pocket, but his shorts don’t have pockets. He looks at the bookmark again, puts it down on the sink, and begins looking through the thinner book he holds. He turns the pages, searching for a specific part in the book. Finding what he seeks, he reads that part aloud:
I needed a miracle to jolt me back to life, and back to writing, something that would stir the creative juices that had grown still in the dark cave of my soul. I was dead to the world, and no one knew. Writing would bring me back to life.
He stops reading and starts sobbing. I see tears rolling down his face. I am not affected like him by the words in this book. I am, after all, a pressure cooker, not a passionate writer or reader. But the name of the book, Endgame, touches my soul. Despite being a stainless steel pot, you all know by now that I have a soul. I also remember the day his sweetheart gave him this book with a lovely kiss as a birthday gift. Perhaps he cries because he must burn this book, and along with it, his memories and dreams.
Some of those tears rolling down his face are shed for Ahmet Altan, the book’s author. I’ve heard my owner praise Altan’s fiction and journalism. So, why does he want to burn a book written by an author whose writing he admires?
He puts his glasses on the top of his head, rubs his eyes, and dries his tears. After a while, he raises the book in the air and fires the lighter again. Once the pages catch fire, he puts the book in me. Now it’s my turn to cry, if only I could. In spite of my strong body, I feel so weak and desperate. I want to have my lid on me to express my feelings with my steam vent. I would whistle that my owner and I are going through a very hard time. Unfortunately, my lid lies in the corner of the bathroom, where it fell when he threw it.
There is nothing I can do to stop him. Frankly, I would never try to stop him, even if I had a chance. I know he only tries to protect himself. He repeatedly sets the book on fire, and each time the fire goes out. Although he is determined to burn it, Endgame resists the flames. Finally, he gives up. He removes the charred Endgame from me, tossing it to the floor next to the first book he tried to burn.
Frustrated, he throws his glasses. They hit the side of the washing machine with such force that one lens flies next to me, and the lens remaining in the frame, breaks. Now I’m scared that he will harm himself. He leans forward, his face in his hands, and weeps like a child.
Suddenly, he stands up, grabs the books one by one, and throws them in the bathtub. Does he have a new plan? He throws Endgame in the bathtub last. I think he’s going to set them on fire in the bathtub. But, no, he grabs the stopper and plugs the bathtub drain. I hear him swear again right before he turns on the water tap. The books are getting soaked, and I am shocked again. The books he tried to burn in a pressure cooker just a couple of minutes ago are now swimming in the bathtub. What a contrast! What a contradiction! What desperation!
He stares at the bathtub, grief-stricken. I see a man who’s watching as the coffin of a loved one is lowered into the grave. He looks like he’s being lowered into the grave with the coffin. I feel like I’m being sucked down into a whirlpool. Thankfully, his phone saves us both. Instead of ignoring the call, this time he rushes to the living room to answer. I am all ears, straining to listen. I want to know what’s going on here.
—What else can I do? I tried to burn them, but I couldn’t. Now I’m soaking all of them in the bathtub.
I reckon that the person he talks to doesn’t understand, so he continues explaining in an angry tone of voice.
—I’m burning all the books by authors who are on the detention list, including mine. You must also destroy your books if you don’t want them used as terror evidence against you. You know as well as I do, this is new Turkey.
I’m confused. How on earth can a book be evidence of terror? What kind of lunatic person would think that? I mean, how can Endgame be evidence of terror? While I try to figure this out, I hear something even more puzzling.
—Don’t you know that people are detained just because their fingerprints are found on a book in the garbage? If you don’t want to be detained, don’t throw your books in the garbage without soaking them first.
The most extraordinary thing for a pressure cooker is a cooking explosion in the kitchen. However, I am having an extra-extraordinary experience. I wonder what more can possibly surprise me now?
He returns to the bathroom holding black garbage bags. He quickly puts the soaked books in the garbage bags. The floor is soaked now too. He carries the large bags out of the bathroom without tying them. I guess the books are heavier now because he sweats so much. I hear the apartment front door open and close, then silence. I imagine he’s gone outside to throw the books into the garbage bin. I don’t hear the elevator, so I assume he takes the stairs, which is wise because his neighbors might notice him if they heard the elevator in the middle of the night. I know he doesn’t want to be spied on by his pro-government neighbours.
It has been over thirty minutes. I worry about him. What if he is caught by someone before he gets rid of the books? I pray he’s not handcuffed on his burnt wrist. You don’t need to be human to pray, nor have a God to pray to! And I am even better than humans at praying because he comes back safe and sound. My happiness is doubled when I see the empty garbage bags in his hand. Even though he soaked the books to prevent leaving his fingerprints on them, the garbage bags worried me. I wanted to tell him to bring them back. Thankfully, despite his devastation, he brings them back. Yes, he looks exhausted but unstoppable. He grabs my lid and brings us together. Once I am folded in his arms, I think we are going back to the kitchen. I am wrong. He puts me into the bathtub, and I’m soaking wet in two seconds. I suspect from that moment on that I, too, will meet my end. However, I’m not angry with him. Rather, I feel sorry for him because I know he’s more anguished than I am.
He lifts me out of the bathtub with a towel so he doesn’t touch me. Cradled in his arms, he carries me out of the bathroom and puts me on the floor inside the apartment front door. I am about to leave to my death, but I’m not afraid. My soul has turned to cold metal, yet I want to see everything one last time before we go.
I like the cat painting I notice on the wall. Oh my God, there are even cat images on the frame of his wall mirror. I swear at the universe for maltreating him because cat lovers deserve nothing but beautiful smiles.
I see words affixed to the right door of fawn-coloured shoe cabinet. They are so familiar. I read them several times, trying to remember where they came from. Finally, I remember the source is the Game of Thrones television show that he watched while making a salad—he tends to eat junk food at least three days of a week—and I was waiting in my kitchen cabinet to be used. Arya, the little girl in the show, was being trained by a wise swordmaster.
—There is only one God, and his name is Death. And there is only one thing we say to death: Not today!
This scene was memorable for me even though I could only hear it. The scene must have also been memorable for my owner. Why else would he post these words so prominently on his shoe cabinet, where they would be easily seen inside his apartment front door.
I so want to talk to him now. More than begging him to not put me in the garbage, I need to tell him: Don’t surrender to the enemies of books. To them you must say — Not today!
Toronto-based journalist and writer in exile. Worked as a reporter, editor, and executive producer in various newspapers and Tv channels in Turkey. Author of the novel Love After You Have Gone. Writes short stories and works on his second novel.
Twitter: @onderdeligoz
Charlie
Interview with filmmaker, Lava Buckley
- What was the inspiration behind writing Charlie and how did you find out about her life:
About 5 years ago, I was working in a casting office and we were working on a western. After seeing yet another western wanting all white people, I asked, was everyone in the old west all white (and men)? The casting director totally thought so. Which I found that hard to believe. So I started researching when Asians migrated to the United States. That’s when I stumbled across a lot of great stories about Chinese Immigrants during the 1800’s and found the story about Charlie. I could only find bits and pieces about her story. What I did find, she felt like such a brave and strong woman that I wanted to share with others.
- The striking scenery seems to hold a unique meaning. Can you share the significance of the landscape:
The location we filmed Charlie is an area I have gone on walks with my dog for the past 8 years. It’s usually quiet and peaceful. There is a plaque in our downtown area dedicated to the Chinese Rail workers that built the tracks in our town! Most of the tracks I used have been destroyed for a new development, so I felt a little urgent to make Charlie on the these tracks before they are gone. It was convenient the tracks are not live, are historical, had vast desert and a canyon area. So with no budget, it was idea to keep the filming locations to have very little company move for each scene. We just kept moving in order of the script! It was perfect.
- What message do you hope the audience comes away with after watching Charlie:
The second day we filmed, was the day after the Atlanta Spa shooting. My cast and crew told me how they were so upset and how creating Charlie felt important to them. Sometimes, we don’t know what to do as individuals in a time of tragedy, and maybe creating art to send a message is the best we can do. It felt like it was really the time to tell Charlie as an awareness piece. Asian Women are resilient and tolerate a lot of bullshit. Racism towards Asians is not new.
Also, that when it comes to the Western Genre, there is diversity and different perspectives of the old west that have not been told. It’s a genre dominated by one voice and one perspective.
- As a filmmaker can you speak to the process of how to honor your characters, yourself and the intersectionality, if any, between all:
I had a previous white male actor that was cast, he overstepped his role by wanting to be a producer and to rewrite the whole story. He wanted to be a hero saving a younger sexier Chinese woman. Which ok, I get, he didn’t want to play a character that was ignorantly racist. However, the white man lines are things I’ve heard. It’s my perspective of being an Asian American in this country. I can’t speak for the community, but I can portray what I know for myself and how I have seen family treated. It’s uncomfortable, but at the same, I felt it was important to protect what I felt is an authentic character. A lot of racism I have experienced has not been how many white people consider obvious. John KD Graham was cast after I realized I could not work with an actor who did not support the story. John understood the importance of maintaining his character as it was written. He also brought layers to SEAN that I really wanted: that playing drunk is not obvious and that racists typically are aware of their racism. If I would have changed the story to accommodate a white man’s discomfort, then I would have compromised the story. I’m at the point that I don’t cater to White Fragility or to be silent anymore. And if that means CHARLIE is not selected for a single film festival, then so be it. I accept the film will make some white people mad or flare their fragility. Altering reality of the treatment of Asians only further hurts our community and not helps.
As for Charlie, it was important Charlie stood up for herself. Recently a study was done and it found that 50% of Asian roles are used to be the punchline. Or that Asian women are fetishized. I did not want to have a submissive and passive Asian woman character. The actress I cast, Kitar Haiyan Chen, did a fantastic job playing Charlie’s complex layers, she spoke both Chinese and English and really connected to the feeling for Charlie.
For the costumes, I researched and found clothing online that were styled after that time period for Chinese Laundry workers and Railroad workers. The only small note, the scarf Charlie wears is a traditional handmade Isaan scarf. Which is my culture. I wanted one small element to represent my culture in the film. It is a style of fabric used for many generations in Asia.
I’m super proud of the cast. They really honored the truth for their characters beyond what I hoped for. And I couldn’t have made any of it possible without my amazing DP Rebeca Durán, Sound Recordist Phil Duran, Producer John KD Graham, Editor Lex Benedict, and Still Photographer Pablo Pedro Durán. I was surrounded by a supportive team.
- Can you share a day in your life as a filmmaker/photographer:
I start my day listening to Theravada Morning Chanting, enjoy some coffee, review my messages, take a walk with my boyfriend, dog (s), and cat, then either I’m editing video footage, writing out shots to film, posting social media marketing for my films/photography, studying Thai, practice my ukulele and watching my online documentary grant writing course. Usually, I take photos near sunset.
- When directing and filming, what do you watch or listen to to refresh your mind’s palate:
Cartoons. Seriously, I love watching old Marvel and Studio Ghibli cartoons. It’s a fun way to be entertained and let the brain decompress.
- Where do you draw your artistic inspiration from:
From real life. I really enjoy true stories.
- Do you have a work practice such as creating/filming/writing daily or do you wait for inspiration to strike:
It’s important for me to not just be in filmmaking mode all day every day. I believe in balance. My day consists of Morning Chanting (with Thai Monks), meditation, Qi’Gong, walks, and ending my night reflecting on gratitude. This helps my inspirations to come when they do! And I must admit, I have a mountain of stories lined up. I get too much inspiration! So I do keep a list of film To-Do’s (editing, writing, research)
– Where can we find more about Charlie and other upcoming projects:
www.instagram.com/lifewithlava
Thank you / ขอบคุณค่ะ !
Lava Buckley is an award-winning Asian American filmmaker, with an invisible disability, based in Albuquerque, New Mexico. She is driven to create films for her community that encourage overcoming challenges and identity journeys. Lava has worked as a Production Coordinator and Casting Director for studio productions, but during her free time, she directs stories she has written. Although Lava did not have traditional film schooling, she learned about filmmaking while working on sets. Lava was fortunate enough to have a vast career working on studio productions to gain insight into how film projects are made. Regardless of limited resources, in 2016 Lava participated in the 72 Hour Shootout with the Asian American Film Lab. She created a short film, “Call Me Mary”, that won Top Ten and Most Original Use of Theme. Her second film at the 72 Hour Shootout, “Same Same”, won Most Original Use of Theme in 2019. 2020 she won Most Outstanding Female Film Maker. Currently her short documentary “The 3 Day Nun” has won awards in various film festivals around the world. When not creating films, Lava loves spending time off the grid in a camper van and taking photos of her dogs.